Pricked (Chaos, Nevada Book 3)

by Liz K. Lorde

  “Well if it helps I don’t think you’re that scary,” I smiled over at him. He gave me the ghost of a smile and a grumble in response. “How long have you been working for Michael?”

  “Bought our company for pennies on the dollar. Never knew all the details, but the rumor was that he sabotaged a number of our operations, causing us to lose clients.”

  “What all do you two… do… exactly.”

  Romero moved over to the passing lane and the engine of his Cadillac roared louder as we sped. “Plenty of things. Shadow clients from a safe distance, make note of who comes and goes from your property. On occasion we’ve had to place trackers on clients; usually a purse, or a watch, or a car. Whatever gets the job done.”

  “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” I tittered. “You’re not going to actually keep track of me 24/7 are you?”

  “No,” he gruffed out, “we wouldn’t do that. We only do what we think we need to, to keep you safe.”

  I wasn’t sure if he could be believed or not. “So, you’re saying your loyalty is to me?”

  “No,” he affirmed, “our loyalty is to the employer first. This the exit?”

  “Yeah,” I told him, noticing the red Chevy in front of us not using it’s turn signal. Asshole. “Get over--” Just as I said that, Romero flipped his blinker and aggressively made his way past a number of cars and lanes, getting us where we needed to be. “Or you know, drive like a lunatic.”

  “You want to get there slow, you ride with Felix,” I think Romero was actually trying to have a sense of humor.

  After Romero dropped me off at the news station, and Felix parked my car, I finished most of my work before lunch. I then made certain to head over to PetWorld. Some creepy guy with a red Cardinals hat kept looking at me while I was there, giving me an uneasy feeling. Still, I made quick work of the trip, eating a tuna sandwich and Cesar salad in the car on my drive home to feed a very happy JB.

  A couple of hours passed, and I wasn’t aware of where Romero or Felix were hiding, shadowing me. Michael had been on my mind in the space between my thoughts throughout the whole day. There was one more thing I had to do before clocking out for the day, however.

  ***

  Back out on the streets of Chaos with my camera man, Roy Elway, we made our way up to the humble and unsuspecting home on Schindler's Street. Roy let out a long and frustrated breath through his nose, plainly tired with the doldrums of the day. He was a gruff, hardworking man. Having just hit 40 years of age, his thick beard of brown was peppered with spots of white and gray. He liked to wear a purple Vikings hat.

  I walked up to the brown front door with Roy just behind me. I turned to face him. "I'll try and make this quick."

  Roy's dark brown eyes locked on me, and he readjusted his bulky camera. "That's what my wife said when she served me the divorce papers." He was a textbook cynic, but still provided for his son and daughter even despite what his cheating wife did to his family. "So I'll believe this damn day is over when I see it," he pushed out another annoyed breath. "If I'm lucky I'll get to drink a tallboy and plant my ass in my chair in time for Wheel of Fortune."

  "Doesn't seem like your kind of show," I remarked, trying to picture him getting excited over some letters popping up on a screen. I turned to knock on the front door.

  "It's the only thing that puts me to sleep."

  Just after he finished that, the door's chain lock rattled, and it opened cautiously to reveal a blond haired woman. Her hair was stylized in a loose ponytail, and her eyes were a soft, bitter green. She wore a look that was all too familiar to me. One of having a specter looming around you at all hours; whispering dark thoughts into your mind, stabbing you with every person you made contact with, ripping at you in the absence of company. "Come inside," she said, soft as a morning's mist. Just what all did she suffer? I wondered then, if there was any way that I might be able to console her.

  Except I knew all too well that words were pretty. And pain was an invisible monument.

  We went inside and she shut the door behind us. The room was dreary with minimal lights; all of the curtains were drawn, and the sound of a clock in another room was steady enough to give me the pulse of this place. Little warmth and life lived in this house.

  The woman led us into her living room and insisted that we take seat on the old, brown couch. She sat opposite of us on an equally aged blue cushioned chair; several burn marks from cigarettes peppered it. "I'm glad you could do this for me," she began, and then swallowed, correcting herself. "For everyone. You can call me Sid, but strictly for the record my name is Sidney Elizabeth Hart."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sid." I pointed towards Roy with my head. "I'm sure you can tell what old Roy's job is here today," I gave her a small smile, and noticed that she returned the favor. "I'm Jane Chatworth."

  "I've seen you on the news," she admitted, a few vibrant embers coming forth. "Used to watch you all the time," she murmured, her eyes looking away from me a moment in reflection. "Not so much... anymore."

  Roy put his camera down beside him on the couch and adjusted his hat. "Lovely home you have. Sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you," she replied monotonously, probably having heard it a hundred times before.

  I cleared my throat and adjusted myself on the couch, sending a hand into my blouse to adjust my black bra; the damnable wire of it nipping at my flesh. Even now when I should be in the zone, my mind was equal parts worried about the mob and how I left things with Michael. There was a great unresolved tension in my core. In my head and heart. Just push those things to the wayside for now. This woman had a story that needed to be told. "We'll just be going over what you want to talk about, ask you some preliminary questions, and then when you're ready we can do this for real."

  "Okay," she said, looking towards the floor and putting her hands together on her lap.

  Roy and me shared a quick glance, understanding glance, and I broached the subject further to get her started. "Where would you like to start, Sid."

  The sound of that clock in another room helped me count the beats of time that passed, and for a moment I wondered if Roy was right about getting out late tonight. Finally, she broke her silence. "We had a new intern where I used to work, about twelve weeks ago." She shut her eyes and her lips twisted into a grimace. "He seemed nice. No. No he was nice," Sid opened her eyes. "I say that because it felt genuine. But he's a complete monster, even if his looks make you think otherwise."

  Again my mind went right to Michael. How the mob seemed so sure that he, his company, and his father were corrupting this city. I wanted to believe that he was kind and good and warm; that he wasn't all arrogance and without heart. Sidney continued: "When I first met him, he brought me a cup of coffee, and I can remember his dark chocolate curls of hair. His piercing hazel eyes that seemed to suck you in." She sucked in a breath through her nose.

  "You're doing great, Sid." I hadn't known the full story on what happened, outside of the fact that, tragically, her husband had been murdered. That she claims she was a victim of the Wolf of Chaos, a serial killer that preyed on women, leaving their mutilated bodies in the streets.

  "He asked me a lot of questions about the client we were working with, an advertising project for Simon & Simon Steel. Everything that I answered he soaked up. He was dangerously sharp, and at the time, it gave me respect for him." The words came out of her in a complete disgust for the man, and seemingly, for life itself. This woman had lost more than I could ever know. What else did that sick bastard do to her? "His ideas and work ethics... his charm... it pushed me to meet him outside of work. I'd told my husband about him. About this fucking--" she choked up, her hands trembling through an invisible sea of anger. "Marcus Wright. Don't bother," she scoffed, digging her nails into her thigh now, "I looked that name up before the police. Stolen identity. Stealing is what that psycho does best."

  "When did you find out that something was wrong?" My heart felt restless in my chest, a
nd I wanted to help her, I did. But I knew nothing could be done.

  "When it was too late," she said. "It started with notes arriving at my door, telling me about all the ways that I was going to be... he threatened to hurt me. To hurt my husband." Her eyes began to water. "I didn't know at the time that it was him, I just reported it to the police - and the best they could offer was an 'investigation' and a night-time car outside our home. My home, now," she whispered bitterly. "The day before it happened though, I'll never forget what he said. 'Bonsoir, moncherrie.’"

  "French, right?"

  "Right. The next night, was when it all happened. He broke into our-- into my home." She was shaking her head, not wanting to remember, but somehow finding the resolve to continue. "There was music playing... but I don't know what it was. My husband, John, he grabbed a baseball bat that he had from his teenage years - something he kept as keepsake. He told me to stay in the bedroom and call the police. But everything happened so quick. I should have done more," the last words came out in a regretful cadence. "John went out there to see what was wrong, and after I called the police... I called out for him. But he didn't answer. I went outside of the bedroom and that was when he pounced on me." Water slipped from her eyes, trickling down her face, and my throat tightened. "When I woke up, I wasn't home anymore. I was strapped down on a table, and he was there. He was the first thing that I saw." She looked right at me once more, taking a breath. "Have you ever seen the face of someone that knows they have total power over you?"

  "No," the words came out solemn, "I haven't..."

  "Before then, I thought that people were just... people, you know? No good, no evil. Just shades of gray. But when I saw the way those green eyes-- No. No!” She shouted, shaking her head. “Not green, never green,” she whispered and sucked in a tight breath. “Those eyes looked through me; when I witnessed the way his lips curled into that sadistic fucking smirk." She stopped then, closing her eyes again, and the room became painfully silent. “He was getting hard from it. He-- he was embarrassed by it. When it wouldn’t go down… he had to take care of it before continuing.”

  Roy, usually stoic and uncaring about our day-to-day activities, he looked over to me, an unquestionable hurt etched on the lines of his middle-aged face. He was probably imagining his daughter going through this.

  Once more she found her composure. "He made me watch," she spilled, "he made me watch my husband die. And he just screamed. He begged and he pleaded that he just spare me."

  I rubbed my thumb against my index finger nervously. "What did he do to you? If you're not comfortable--"

  "No," she interrupted, "no you should know. Everyone needs to understand, because I don't want him to have this kind of power over me. Over some other woman." Sid wiped at her eyes slowly. "I tried to convince the police that the seven killings were related. That they were all done by him."

  I didn't want to push her too hard about opening up on what happened. "I don't understand."

  "Seven women in the past seven months, that's what I noticed when I started researching. Three red headed women, three brunettes, and a blond. All of them were sadistically mutilated, though in slightly different ways. When he was ripping that knife into me, slicing and cutting whatever he wanted..." Sid visibly shuddered, gasping briefly. "I kept asking him why. And all he would tell me was: Because of your hair. He said that he wouldn't touch my face... that was about the only thing that he didn't touch with a knife."

  ***

  Roy and I had listened to her for an hour, then had her tell it on camera to help the city become aware like she wanted, keeping the more graphical descriptions of her torture out of the picture.

  But the horror of her story stayed with me.

  "Jane?" Mr. Lambert called, bringing me out of my trance. "Where did you go just then?"

  "Sorry," I automatically replied, raising my eyebrows, "I've just had a very long day is all."

  Mr. Lambert shifted in his chair. "Did you want to open up about Carter?"

  The question hit me like a ton of bricks. Truthfully, it was the last thing I wanted to talk about. But I knew that it wasn't something that I should be hiding from; that healing came from a place of confrontation, came from absolving the power in which that thing held over you. "Maybe not today."

  Mr. Lambert shook his head, his eyes cold and calculating, analyzing how next to pick apart the problems rooted so heavy in my soul. "Your family then," it was a gentle nudge, but still treading fearfully dark and deep waters.

  Opening me up was a fool's game. How can you open a locked door that has no key? Sometimes at night, when the pain of it hit me hardest, I wandered into the shadowy thoughts of believing that there was nothing behind that locked door. It'd been closed for so long. I nervously played with my silver owl earring, "We talked about that before."

  "You skirted around the details masterfully."

  "I guess that's something I'm used to," the reply came out slow and automatic, my mind and heart trying to take refuge in the audacity that was my encounter with Michael Smoak. "Skirting, I mean."

  Lambert nodded sagely. "I do not expect to make leaps," he began, leaning forward in the chair now, his energy shifting from calm, interested, and thoughtful, to something more curious. "But you will put your best foot forward, Jane." There was a subtle aggression. This was me putting my best foot forward.

  "Tell me why you are so uncomfortable talking about your parents. About your home."

  "They were religious," I waxed, overcome with melancholy, "I wasn't. It's as simple as that." It really wasn't.

  He said nothing, simply opting to unearth the devilish artifacts of old with his eyes. In some ways, besides the obvious, they reminded me of Michael; there was an almost mystic persuasion that they held over me. Far, far different from Anna. I really wished that she would just come back.

  I moved then, suddenly uncomfortable in my chair. "Let's just say that... their beliefs were very, very strict. Far removed from mine. It was," I paused then, scrambling to try and remember the last time I truly spoke with them - feeling some shadow of guilt on my soul for just trying to keep sane. "It was everything to them, and I guess it still is. Having a sacred belief."

  His eyes moved slightly, reading the lines of my face like they were the braille to comprehending all that I was. "You are skirting again, but getting closer." Without warning, he abruptly, yet economically, got up from his chair. As I watched him move over towards the end of the rug, I couldn't help but think that he doesn't walk. He glides. He turned to face me, "did they wrong you?"

  Wronging me was an understatement. "Yeah," I said, not wanting to give the subject as much weight as it was worth. The sweet sounds of Fur Elise swallowed up the room, coming from Mr. Lambert's pocket.

  His brows went up and he sent a hand into his pocket, turning off the hauntingly beautiful piece. "Never enough time in a day," he said with a soft smile, signaling the end of our brief session.

  "Sometimes it feels that way," I replied, picking myself up from the chair. "Have you heard from Ms. Fields at all?" The curiosity inside of me was nagging.

  "No. I am afraid she has really kept me in the dark - same time next week?"

  I nodded sagely before picking up my leather purse and heading home.

  ***

  Getting home was a blessing all in itself, the day had long since drained me. It was difficult for me to connect with people, so it wasn't much this little studio that most would find claustrophobic. Kitchen, bed, living room, it all blended together aside from the bathroom. Locking the off-white door behind me, I tried to brush off the day's events. The horrors that Sidney faced, and the dangerous mission I'd undertaken with the mob.

  Reaching up the back of my long sleeve blouse, I hastily dismantled my black bra with it's poking wires. This knitted rose top with it's trendy cowl was something that I managed to pick up in a thrift shop. It seemed to compliment my black Palazzo pants with it's chalk-white pinstripes. Off near the kitchen, I could he
ar the sounds of JB's claws scratching against the linoleum excitedly. Not a second later and a smile was on my face as he jumped up to my waist, sniffing me like he was possessed.

  "Hi!" I squeaked to him several times over, giving his head of gold some pets and his chin some well earned scratchings. Once I fed JB and refilled his bowl of water, I made a trip to the fridge, pulling out a fancy chicken, broccoli, bell pepper and Alfredo mix. I dumped it all in the skillet and set my gas top to medium before moving like a zombie to my bed with the blue fitted sheets. I still had the HIM blanket that I'd bought before college; it was practically the only item that I'd kept from the times that I'd tried so hard to leave behind me.

  Slipping inside the comfort of my bed, with my Christmas LED lights running along the posts like vines, I produced my phone.

  My heart dropped when I noticed a missed call from Michael Smoak. Was he calling to make sure I was safe? His two shadows seemed to be doing a good enough job of that. Still, I made a note to call him back before scrolling through my contacts, dialing Anna Fields.

  There was no answer. Indeed, it went straight to voice-mail. This whole sudden sabbatical was starting to perturb me. Nobody else seemed to be making a fuss about it though.

  Once I'd eaten my dinner, had a fine glass of cheap Merlot, and read a few more chapters of Wuthering Heights, I found the courage to call Michael.

  The cell rang in my ear, and for each moment in between, I felt my heart threatening to burst from my chest. When his velvet smooth voice called out my name, it was like a heavenly breeze against the day's relentless heat.

  "It's me," I said, wishing I'd something clever to say.

  "I haven't heard anything from Romero," his voice was cold, like he was overseeing things of business, but I thought that I heard a hint of concern. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine, I haven't heard or seen anything. They probably have a lot on their plate, or maybe your guys spooked them."

  "I'm not so sure," Michael pushed out a contemplative breath, and I pictured him leaning back in some office chair.