by Mona Cox
I saunter through the lobby like a woman with a purpose and head toward the elevators; I summon one of them and wait until a crowd gathers around me. When the elevator doors slide open, there’s some confusion as everyone hurries inside, and I take that opportunity to turn around and walk down toward the back of the lobby.
Erica’s already there, waiting for me. Her sunglasses are perched on her forehead, and she’s tapping her heel against the tiles on the floor impatiently. “There you are, finally!” She cries out as she sees me, sighing in exasperation. “What’s this all about, Stacy? You text me out of the blue to meet you here, and you don’t even explain what’s --”
“Just help me out, okay?” I say, trying not to waste any time with useless explanations. I grab Erica by the crook of her elbow and start dragging her toward one of the exit doors that lead to an alley on the back of the building.
“Where are we going?” She asks me as we step out into the street, the lively New York City atmosphere hitting us like a brick. Squinting her eyes at the morning sunlight, she rests her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and turns to me, my reflection on the two lens.
“You know, you ask a lot of questions, Erica,” I sigh, walking down the alley. There’s a moment of silence, but then I hear the click of her heels as she chases after me.
“Hey, you’re the one acting all weird,” she protests as we finally step foot on 6th Avenue and start going around the Rockefeller Center complex of buildings.
“I’m just trying to figure out something about Sanders, you know?” I start, walking as fast as I can without making it seem like I’m in a rush. Although, to be honest, I am.
“Like what? It seems like you have it all figured out, girl…” She says, her final words trailing off into a teasing whistle. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t told the girls about Sanders’, uh, prowess. They’ve been teasing me about it mercilessly.
“Oh, shut up, will ya?” I stop dead on my tracks before I’ve finished speaking, and I extend one arm to the side to stop Erica as well.
“Ouch,” she cries out, bumping her boobs against my arm. “What now?”
“There he is,” I tell her, pointing to the end of the street where Sanders is. He’s still standing in front of the main entrance to the Rockefeller Center, looking from one side to the other as if he’s appraising the crowd drifting all around him.
“You know this is a bit creepy, don’t you? I mean, spying on the man you’re sleeping with… That’s crazy-girl territory.”
“I know,” I sigh, lowering my tone of voice until it becomes just a whisper - even though Sanders is so far away that I doubt he’d hear us if we started shouting at each other.
“Then what the hell are we doing here? Do you think he’s cheating on you? Oh my God! He looks like a rascal, that’s for sure. Any idea on who the bitch is?” Erica is just like that: whenever she finds anything remotely amusing, she latches onto it and goes off in a tangent.
“It’s none of that,” I whisper again. I keep my eyes trained on Sanders, not wanting to lose him out of sight; I’m so focused that I don’t even blink, and I start feeling the tears stinging my eyes.
“Oh,” Erica says, sounding almost disappointed. She’s one of these girls that live for drama, I guess. Well, to be honest, we all love a little bit of drama, don’t we? As long as that drama doesn’t touch our personal lives, that is.
“Okay, seriously now,” Erica continues, “what in the hell are we looking for?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. But there’s something he isn’t telling me. There’s something off about him, you know? And I need to figure out what that is.”
“I see what you’re talking about. There’s something abnormal about a guy that can endure a four-hour long sex marathon,” she whistles into the air, bumping me with her elbow teasingly. “Look, Stacy, maybe you’re overthinking a bit. Maybe he’s just a bit weird, you know?. Some people are just like that, little quirks and all, doesn’t mean they’re bad,” she says with a bored shrug.
“Look… Maybe you’re right. But, thing is, I don’t want to risk getting my heart broken. There’s something going on and… I don’t know, Erica, but I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I have a broken heart. So, whatever it is, I need to know. I need to make sure.”
“Broken heart, uh?” She turns to me, pushing her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and looking at me over their rim, a flicker of curiosity on her eyes. “You know what all that crazy talk means, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, and --”
“It means you’re falling in love with him,” she states matter-of-factly, the expression on her face one born not out of concern but out of amusement. Thankfully, this is precisely when Sanders decides to turn around and start walking down the street, head lowered and hands on his pockets.
“Look, he’s moving,” I whisper and, grabbing Erica by the arm, start hurrying down the street.
It’s time I find out what Sanders’ all about.
14
Sanders
It’s been twenty minutes since Stacy entered Rockefeller Center, which means that by now she’s already at the studio. I glance at the endless river of New Yorkers flowing through the street once more and, satisfied that I don’t see anything out place, I blend in with the crowd.
Reaching for my back pocket, I take out a folded grey baseball cap, straighten it out and then place it on my head. I turn my back to the Rockefeller Center and I cross the street, making my way down the block. It’s only a short walk to 51st and Park Avenue - only three blocks away from where I am -, and so I’m not in a hurry.
I get there right on time and I cross the road briskly, making a straight line toward one of the grey office buildings flanking the intersection. I check the address on my phone and, sure that I’m in the right place, I dial the number I’ve been given.
“I’m here,” I say as someone picks up on the other side, and the call’s over just like that. No response, but I know that none is needed. I place the cell phone inside my pocket and, knowing that I’ll probably have to wait a few minutes, I lean back against one of the columns around the building’s entry, and take out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from my other back pocket. I don’t really smoke - not since Iraq - but I don’t want to stand around like an idiot. So I do what I know best: I blend in.
“Hey, got a lighter?” I ask a woman in a business suit, cigarette locked between her middle and index finger, and she brings one out from her purse. “Thanks,” I nod, lighting my cigarette and joining her close to the ashtray column near the door. I take one deep breath, feeling the smoke fill my lungs and the nicone slip into my bloodstream just like the filthy bastard it is.
If anyone’s tracking my movements, they’ll probably think I’ve just stopped for a cigarette. And, if instead of tracking me they’re keeping tabs on this place, they’ll probably just take me as someone on his cigarette break. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but that’s a lesson I never managed to forget: being paranoid pays off. Sure, I’m no longer flushing out terrorists from dark tunnels or trying to avoid being blown up to pieces in the narrow streets of Fallujah, but you just never know.
I glance from the corner of my eye to the entrance of the building, and that’s when I see him. Thick grey beard, white hair combed back, and a hard expression on his stately face; he’s tall and thin, each of his limbs like twigs, but the way he carries himself tells me right off the bat that this guy is a veteran. He looks around seventy, which probably makes him a ‘Nam vet.
He doesn’t raise his eyes, but he makes me a beeline toward me all the same. Stopping a few feet away from me, he points with his chin at my cigarette.
“Can you get me one of these?” He asks me in a hoarse voice and I realize that, unlike me, this guy really smokes. Probably more than a pack a day, judging from the smell coming from his jacket.
“Sure, man,” I say, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I hand him the whole thing, and he fish
es one cigarette out from the carton carefully, using his free hand to take his lighter out from his jacket. As he removes the lighter, I realize that he has brought out a small folded envelope as well.
“Thanks,” he grunts, handing me back the pack of cigarettes and passing me the envelope too.
“No problem,” I nod, stuffing everything into my pockets. As soon as I feel the envelope secured, I turn on my heels and get the hell out of there, suddenly realizing that my heart is racing.
I stop halfway down the block and take a deep break, my heart kicking and pushing against my ribcage. What the hell’s wrong with me? All I had to do was pick up the package - I didn’t even need to go through with all that counter surveillance tactics - and now I feel like I’ve just stepped on a landmine. Yeah, like I said, paranoia can be a friend sometimes, but there’s something more to all this.
I take the envelope out from my pocket and just stare at it, turning it in my hand as if it was packed with explosives. Opening it, I’m about to take out what’s inside when I stop. What the fuck am I even doing?
I’m losing my grip.
I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.
Truth is, I came back from the war broken. Except, of course, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. That because, in my head, I wasn’t broken - I was just changed. Stronger. I walled off every normal emotion, forbid myself from love and compassion, and just tried to focus on work. That’s all I’ve known ever since I left the Middle East.
That, of course, until I met Stacy. Something in her woke up a part of me that I thought was long gone. More than that, she made me remember how it feels to be alive - truly alive.
And now here I am with this fucking envelope in my hands, feeling as fucking confused as I’ve ever felt.
“Sanders!” I hear a voice cry out my name, and I feel my blood freezing inside my veins. Not because someone found me out, but because that someone is Stacy. I got careless… I got careless and she followed me here.
Fighting off against the urge to simply blend in with the crowd and vanish from sight, pretend that I was never there in the first place, I turn on my heels to face her.
She’s walking toward me in a hurried step, one of her friends right by her side, the click of their high heels sounding like the rattle of a machine gun.
Here we go.
15
Stacy
I cry out Sanders’ name and start rushing toward him, dragging Erica behind me.
“Oh, crap, this isn’t gonna be good,” she mutters under her breath, but following after me all the same. Sanders just stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at me with a confused expression on his face. He wasn’t expecting to see me here, not in a million years, and I recognize guilt when I see it. Whatever it is inside that envelope, he doesn’t want me to see it.
“Stacy? What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be at the studio,” he asks me, his voice just like always: flat and emotionless… Or, let me just say it, completely unreadable.
“The envelope, what’s in there?” I ignore his questions and make my own, my hands darting to the envelope in his hands - except, by now, there’s no envelope. “Where is it?”
“What are you talking about?” He starts, lying to my face. I notice a beige paper corner peeking from the pocket of his jeans, and I realize that he tucked the envelope in there the moment he saw me coming. He really doesn’t want me to see what’s in there, that much is for sure.
“Give it to me,” I tell him as calmly as I can, although I already feel anger bubbling up to the surface. I point at his pocket, but he just takes one step back, a sorrowful expression on his face.
“I can’t do that, Stacy.” This time, there’s some emotion on his voice. Sorrow, guilt, shame - heck, I have no idea what it is, but I’m glad he’s feeling something. At least I know he isn’t a robot from outer space or something.
Gritting my teeth, I take one deep breath - I’m not going to go anywhere using just words. Moving as fast as I can, I somehow manage to reach for the envelope and grab it between two fingers, pulling it out from his pocket. The moment I feel it in my hands, I take two steps back, holding it to my chest in case he tries to take it away from me.
“Stacy, don’t --”
“Don’t what? What exactly are you hiding from me, Sanders? Everyone has secrets, but I think yours are just a little over the limit, don’t you think?”
“Please, don’t open it,” he insists, a resignated tone to his voice. He’s asking me, not telling me what to do, and I know he won’t stop me now. Which, in a way, should be enough for me to trust him and hand him back the envelope; but I’ve came too far to let this go now. I’m getting to the bottom of this.
“Stacy, are you sure you want to--?” Erika nudges me with her elbow, lowering her voice as if she’s afraid to step between Sanders and I.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” I say without thinking, opening the envelope and turning it sideways so that its contents slide out and into my hand. I pass the empty envelope to Erica and look down at the stack of folded papers in my hands. “What’s this?” I look up at Sanders, and he just looks at me with an expression that tells me see for yourself, I won’t try to stop you.
And that’s exactly what I do.
Frowning, I unfold one of the papers and let my eyes wander over what seems like a random timetable. Except it’s not random - not at all. A column with large squares on the left marks a specific day of the month, and the smaller columns on the right seem to mark the exact time I leave my home, get to the studio and then back home.
It’s a detailed schedule of my day.
And it’s precise to the minute.
I pass the schedule to Erica and, now with trembling hands, I start unfolding the rest of the documents. The next one includes a list of addresses, phone numbers and other random information; there’s information about the gym I go to, my doctor’s office and, hell, even from the vet I once went to when my cat suddenly fell ill - and my cat passed away three years ago!
What the hell am I dealing with? Who the hell is Sanders?
I feel a sudden coldness taking over my body and mind, and my hands have started to tremble so much that I don’t even know how I’m still holding all these documents. I move on to the next one and then to the next, each glance I take making my heart thump so fast I start feeling lightheaded.
In these documents, there’s my entire life.
There’s information about my parents, about my friends from high-school,co-workers, and pretty much everyone I interact with on a daily basis. Jesus Christ, he even has my immunization cards in here!
I told you so, that annoying voice comes back to haunt me, each word cracking like a whip inside my mind. You got in bed with a super-stalker, Stacy. Maybe he’s even a serial-killer.
Feeling as confused as I’ve ever felt in my entire life, I lift my eyes to meet Sanders’ gaze, and I feel the icy grip of fear taking over my heart. I thought I knew him… I thought I understood him… But now I realize that I had no idea about who Sanders really is.
And I have no idea about what he’s capable of.
“Erica…” I whisper, never taking my eyes from Sanders’. “RUN!” I cry out, clutching the documents to my chest with one hand and grabbing Erica’s arm with the other. I turn on my heels as fast as I can and start running down the street; Erica stumbles as I pull on her, but I don’t let her slow down or lag behind. As far as I know, we’re now running for our lives.
Sanders is a dangerous man, that much is for sure. And I sure as hell don’t want to find out exactly how dangerous - so I run.
I run very, very fast.
16
Sanders
I have been shot seven times during the war, and I have the scars to prove it. Each time I didn’t feel a thing until the adrenaline finally washed away; afterward, it felt as if someone had injected the fires of hell straight into my muscles. But you know what? None of these bullets hurt as much as it h
urts to see her run away from me.
This feels worse than anything I’ve ever lived through.
I’d rather be shot again.
I remain frozen in place for a few seconds, almost ready to just let her go. What good can it do to go after her? It’s over, I ruined it. But, before I even know what I’m doing, my legs start propelling me down the street.
It’s stronger than me.
Stacy and her friend are running as fast as they can, shoving people out of the way almost in desperation. It’s almost as if they’re running away from a serial killer. Which I guess is what Stacy thinks I am. And, really, can I blame her?
“Stacy, wait!” I say as I close in on them. She looks back at me over her shoulder, pure terror widening her eyes, and starts running even faster than before.
Fuck.
“Get away from me!” She screams, and a lot of heads start turning in our direction.
“Stay away from her, you pervert!” Her friend shouts, throwing me a menacing look.
“Let me explain, please,” I continue, once more catching up to them. Even though they’re running for their lives, I can keep up with them with a simple jog. They’re definitely lucky I’m not some crazed serial killer.
Realizing that her escape is becoming more futile by the second, Stacy decides to do something drastic. Without even bothering to look, she makes a sharp turn to her right, pulling her friend after her, and cuts across 51st Street. She throws herself at the mercy of the morning traffic, and I feel my heart shrivel up to the size of a quarter. What the hell is she thinking? She’s going to get killed!
“STACY!” I call after her, but there are so many cars honking right now that I doubt she can even hear me. Not that it’d make any difference, anyway - she’d just run faster.