: Chapter 26

The week following the failed Autumn Adder event, I’m at Mosaic Nail Salon, changing my color from deep crimson to black, waiting for Cynthia Nordstrom to make an appearance. If I’ve timed it right, she should show up just as I’m leaving. I keep my eyes from drifting too frequently to the door, because Neriah isn’t waiting for anyone. In her Melancholy Moneyed Lamb chop world, this is merely a coincidence.

My nails are finished and I’m paying at the reception desk when Cynthia walks in with her Bulgari shades and Gucci trench, as polished and poised as ever. She sees me and a bright smile claims her face.

“Neriah! It’s so good to see you. It’s a shame we won’t be station buddies this time,” she says.

“It is. I have to thank you again for inviting me to the women’s group meeting the other night. It was really inspiring.” Lies. All lies.

She beams and shifts her blonde hair from her face. “We’ll have another next week, if you’re interested? And that weekend there’s a brunch, only a few people attend but I think you’d be such a perfect fit.”

Ooh. If Neriah was planning on sticking around, she’d already be climbing the ladder to lambhood. Too bad she’s got other plans. “Definitely,” I say, shifting my bag further up my shoulder. “I have to run, but I’ll see you next week?”

“Absolutely.”

We head our separate directions, Cynthia to the reception desk and me to the door. Her bodyguard is stationed on the other side and I pass him without a direct glance, heading toward the back of the Praetorian SUV to then cross the street toward Grindstone. But not before surreptitiously sticking a GPS tracker to the bumper.

I have an hour.

I start the timer on my watch for sixty minutes and head to one of my vehicles parked around the corner from Grindstone, an Audi A6 Allroad, and I head toward 656 Toyah Avenue. I stop where I know there are no cameras and check the GPS tracker on my phone to confirm Cynthia is still at the nail salon. Forty-nine minutes.

When I’ve taken over the cameras for the parking garage of her condo building, I head inside. I park as close to her assigned spot as I can, then I gather my equipment and wait.

Forty-four minutes.

Those minutes pass agonizingly slowly. I pull on my tactical vest with my equipment and strap on my Beretta, checking my watch and the tracker repeatedly. My heart thunders. I don’t think I’ve done anything this ballsy since I set the storage barn on fire and chucked Donald Junior’s severed hand at his sham of a father. The excitement has me nearly giddy.

The alarm vibrates on my watch. Forty-four minutes are up.

I keep my eyes on the tracker. A few minutes later, it’s on the move, heading in my direction.

I open my iPad and arm the locks on the doors that access this parking lot, including the vehicle entry. The cameras I installed earlier this week show every access point and the street in both directions. When the Praetorian SUV shows up on Toyah Ave, I’m ready.

I unlock the vehicle entry door. It’s set to relock as soon as it closes.

As the door rolls open, I climb out of my car, staying low and out of sight as I lie on my back and shuffle beneath the car next to Cynthia’s assigned spot.

The engine of the SUV echoes against the concrete walls and pillars, its tires squeaking on the sealed floor. The door rumbles to a close behind it. The smell of oil and rubber assaults my senses as I wait, my limbs nearly vibrating with anticipation.

The SUV slows as it turns into the spot next to me. I’m rolling beneath it as the tires grind to a halt.

Time stretches. Every second feels like a minute. I absorb every detail. The click of the locks opening. The sound of the hinges as the driver’s door opens. The tension in my honed muscles as I roll from under the vehicle when the bodyguard’s back is turned and I fire my taser. It hits him right in the ass and thigh and he goes down with a pained groan. I’m on him before he can recover, injecting enough propofol into his neck to knock him out but not kill him.

Cynthia bolts for the door with a terrified screech but I hit her with my second taser. She screams and drops to the pavement. I inject her with propofol, again enough to keep her from moving but not enough to halt her breathing.

I take Cynthia first, dragging her to my vehicle where I manage to hoist her into the back seat. I remove her phone and purse, setting them on the front seat of the Praetorian vehicle. I pat her down but find nothing else of concern.

The bodyguard is harder. He’s probably double my weight, so I sit him up against the side of his vehicle and pull a note and a burner phone from my tactical vest, laying them on his lap. When I pull the tracker from the bumper, I’m ready to go.

Within ten minutes, the whole thing is done. I disarm the garage door, park in my spot down the street, disarm the remaining doors, and switch over the cameras. Then I’m on my way to Lake McDonald.

The cabin is not my favorite place for this kind of thing. While it’s set up for murder, it’s not as comfortable as home. Everything is still more geared to Samuel’s preferences than mine. And the deconstruction chamber is really more of a cramped utility room. It performs the same function, but it’s just not as well-appointed.

I set Cynthia up in the living room where I’ve pushed the coffee table aside and set up a chair on thick plastic. And honestly, I’m not so disappointed about the location, because this is such a huge win. I snatched her right from under Caron’s nose, and now I just have to lure him out of hiding.

I’m watching 13 Going on 30 when she finally comes around, and it’s been a painful wait. I’ve been starting to regret dosing her with another hit of propofol on the way home.

“I think I’ve lost brain cells,” I say as Cynthia groans and the cast dances to “Thriller.” “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic comedy.”

A muffled “mmmm” in the rising tone of panic comes from Cynthia’s taped mouth.

“I realized something. My uncle never taught me about love. Seduction, sure. We had conversations about that. But not love. And it’s not like I learned anything about it in the desert. Did you know we weren’t even allowed to use the word ‘love’ unless it was toward Xantheus as he was the self-proclaimed messenger of God?”

“MmmmmmMmm,” Cynthia whines.

“So I thought I should watch some rom-coms for educational purposes. This one seemed popular… Why though?” There’s a long pause as I watch the cast continue to dance. “I don’t get it.”

I sit up from where I’ve been lying on the couch and observe Cynthia’s tear-streaked face and wild eyes. A melody of wordless pleas streams from beneath the duct tape. I enjoy moments like this, trying to discern the thoughts of prey. Some individuals are desperate and narrow-minded. Some are furious and defiant. Some are creative, even hopeful. Cynthia Nordstrom has navigated the whims of a phantom cult leader for years, rising to the top of an organization whose public face hides a reclusive and duplicitous private existence. I’m so curious to see what she’ll come up with that I waste no time in ripping off the tape.

“Please, Neriah, let me go,” she begs as soon as her lips are free. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I swear. Please.”

“Begging will not have the intended effect,” I reply as I remove my blonde wig and the cap beneath it. I smooth my hand over my pulled-back hair and sigh with relief. “You have something I want.”

“Anything, I’ll give you anything you want, I promise. Just please, please don’t hurt me.”

I sit on the couch and lean back. Cynthia is not so well put-together as she was earlier today. Her blonde bob is knotted. Her coat is streaked with dirt and oil from where I dragged her across the parking lot. The pulse surges in her neck. Death waits in the shadows with a whisper.

“I want Caron Berger,” I say.

Cynthia’s eyes press closed and her head drops. “You’ll never make it into the compound. It’s heavily guarded.”

“I know. I want to draw him out, and you will do it.”

“He might not come for me.”

“He will. Something makes me think that Caron Berger doesn’t like being on the losing end of anything.”

I stand and approach as Cynthia trembles against her bonds. She’s crumbling apart next to me, the stress of this encounter eroding her mosaic of success. She begs me not to harm her as I tape her mouth and head to the dining room to set up my laptop. When it’s booted up, I type my message for the burner phone I left with the Praetorian guard.

When the message is sent, it takes five minutes before I receive an affirmative response and provide the number for a landline that will forward the call to a burner phone in my possession.

I set a timer on my watch and return to the couch to watch the rest of 13 Going on 30, though I’m ready to gouge out my own eyes. I’m partway through Friends with Benefits when the alarm goes off and I return to my laptop to open the text-to-speech program. By the time the burner phone rings, my heart is hammering nearly as hard as when I attacked Cynthia in the parking garage.

I accept the call.

“This is Caron Berger.” His tone is smooth, calm. Deep and rich, not anything like his appearance.

I type my response.

“How can I be sure?” the computer-generated voice says in reply from my laptop.

“You can’t.”

“There is one way, Gabriel. Tell me your real last name.”

There’s a long pause on the line, the silence between us filled with Cynthia’s whimpering. “Kaplan,” he finally says.

“Tell me your brother’s name.”

“Elijah.” There’s no delay this time when he answers, but there is a drop in the pitch, a darkness in it. He’s irritated. Good.

“Do you want Cynthia Nordstrom back, Gabriel?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll meet me in ten days, alone. I will provide the address. If you attempt to track this number, Cynthia will no longer remain unharmed.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Abigail Ramos,” I reply. I don’t really give a shit about Abigail Ramos, I just know it’s a name he’ll recognize.

I hang up the phone.

And now I wait.

I watch the rest of Friends with Benefits as Cynthia whimpers and whines. I try to learn something from it, but honestly, it’s a fucking challenge. Really, I just want to finish up here. I’m leaving for the interviews the day after tomorrow and I took extra time off to “clear up some loose ends” before the trip, or at least that’s what I told Eli. But does it mean I want to stick around here longer than I have to? Not really.

I shouldn’t complain. The timing of this couldn’t be better. I’m a little nervous doing something this big without Samuel in the background, so heading out of town for a few days is wise. If I mess something up, I’ll know. I’ll be watching from a distance, and it’ll give me time and space to regroup. The thought lingers on the periphery that I could run, if I had to. I could disappear. But I know I can’t leave Eli behind, just as much as I know he wouldn’t leave with me if I asked.

…Shit.

That realization is like being hit in the face with Dick Piston’s fist.

Eli loves me, or he thinks he does. But would he give up everything to be with me? Would I want him to? Would I even deserve to ask? After all, I’ve got Cynthia here, tied to a chair, with the full intention of using her to get close enough to catch a ghost. I’m going to enjoy it too. I always do, always will. It’s who I am, and I’m not sure I can change that and still be me.

Maybe I can try. Maybe when I catch Gabriel for Eli, I can become someone else.

I’m flicking through these thoughts and worries when the alarm sounds from my laptop.

My adrenaline spikes. I rise from the couch with a little happy clap.

“This is going to be so great,” I say to Cynthia as she wriggles and cries in her chair.

I bring up the screen for the cameras aimed at another of my lairs, a small, rundown farmhouse set back in the woods away from any roads and neighbors. A Praetorian SUV parks on the long driveway a distance from the house and three bodyguards exit the vehicle, guns drawn. One of the men I recognize, the one from the restaurant. He and his colleagues fan out and stalk toward the building.

“I might be able to change once I catch him,” I say to Cynthia, finishing my earlier thoughts as I ready a phone I’ve labeled with a red number four. “But today is not that day.”

The men creep closer to the house, checking a vehicle I’ve left near the entrance as a decoy. There’s nothing there for them to find aside from some fake papers belonging to another alias I’ve created.

They continue on to the house.

One man heads to the back, checking the windows as he goes. The other two creep up the front porch. The man from the restaurant turns the handle of the front door, slowly, carefully, then pushes it open. They enter at the same time as the bodyguard at the back.

I told him not to trace the phone. Caron and I aren’t off to a trusting start here.

When all three men are near the center of the house, I use Phone Four to detonate the hidden charges. The cameras surrounding the structure vibrate with the explosion. All I can see is fire and smoke and dust.

I text the burner phone I left with Cynthia’s bodyguard.

I watch the dust settling on the cameras and laugh. I’m having a blast. A blast, get it? I’m still giggling as I sit back in my chair and look toward Cynthia.

A pound of flesh.

I take Phone Four and open the web browser.

Average is 409.6 g or 0.9 lbs. Close enough.

I get up and head outside to the wood pile, returning a few moments later with the hatchet which I clean in the kitchen sink. I don’t want Caron’s crew thinking I won’t take care of my hostage. It astounds me, quite frankly, when I really stop and think about it. I have a hostage. I suppose it shouldn’t be all that different from taking someone like Tristan back to my house with the intention of never letting him go. But it is different. And at this stage, I need to go big and drive Caron out where I can catch him. I can’t leave that to the FBI. They’ve made a shitshow of hunting cults in the past, and the irony that he’s got a better shot at living through being caught by a serial killer than the feds is not lost on me.

I will catch Caron. I will bring him to Eli, and Eli can decide what he wants to do with his long-lost brother.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t punish Caron or anyone who’s helped build his empire on the backs of vulnerable women.

“They fucked up, Cynthia,” I say, my eyes locked to her wrist. She fights her bonds and screams into the unrelenting glue stuck to her mouth. The handle of the ax bounces against my palm. “I’m just taking what’s mine.”

My weight shifts to my back foot. My shoulders roll, my back twists. The ax swings in an arc over my head and comes down in a clean strike just above Cynthia’s wrist. Her hand flops to the floor, blood pattering like rain across the plastic sheets. Cynthia wails and screeches in distress.

I strap a belt around her forearm in a quick tourniquet before taking a recycling bag from the kitchen to pick up the severed hand like a dog shit. I bring it to the island next to my laptop. After double-checking the location privacy settings on my photos, I position the hand so it gives the viewer a middle finger, then I send the picture to the bodyguard with a simple message:

It’s less than a minute before I receive a reply.

I destroy this phone.

Cynthia is still wailing, her cries weakening as her blood leaks across the floor with the galloping beat of her heart. And here’s that moment, that magical moment, distilled to its purest essence. The moment when life and death cling to a choice, where all the possibilities fit in the palm of my hand. I could wrap up Cynthia’s stump and apply a better tourniquet to keep her alive. I could let the belt go, let her bleed out, maybe even take her second hand to hasten the process.

Honestly though? As much as I’m enjoying myself, I also just want to go home. I want to go on this trip to Ogden and come home and catch Caron and live. Be a student. Be a girlfriend. Be loved. Give love, if I can. Maybe be someone different than I’ve ever been, at least for a little while.

I stop behind Cynthia, staying close to her chair, so close she feels my breath and shudders. Death calls in shadowy corners, lurking beneath tables, whispering on the draft from the empty hearth. Hatchet, it says.

I glance at the ax lying on the rumpled plastic, but I don’t pick it up.

“This is kinder, Cynthia,” I say as I brace my arm across her forehead to keep her head in place. My free hand slides across her face, following the slick surface of the tear-streaked tape. She whimpers in wordless pleas as I pinch her delicate nose shut. “And you’re not worth the effort. You’re just a speed bump on my way to Caron. Nothing more than a little rise on the road to my grand destination.”

Cynthia’s throat strains. She begs with her last breath. Her lungs spasm in metronomic desperation. I reach over with my free hand and loosen the belt around her injured arm, letting the blood tumble to the floor.

“When you get to hell, tell Donald Soversky Jr. that Bria sent you,” I whisper with the last beats of her heart.

When it’s all over, when Cynthia’s life has ebbed away, I start the process of cleaning up the mess. It takes a few hours to ensure every step in my process is complete, from rifling through Cynthia’s belongings to setting the pit to start the decomposition of her body. It’s getting dark when I pull away from the cabin in the Audi A3, leaving the A6 I brought Cynthia here with in the garage, just in case. Eli calls while I’m on the way home and I tell him I finished everything early, and he sounds so hopeful when he asks if I can come over that there’s no way I’d say no.

I’m so tired by the time I arrive at Eli’s, so relieved and satisfied, that I fall asleep on his couch as we watch Four Weddings and a Funeral. I wake for only a few moments as he carries me to the bed and we undress, sliding under the covers to fall asleep in each other’s arms.

I can be someone else, I think as I nestle into his warmth and close my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Just not today.