Dangerous (35 page)

Koishi

I had started to type a question about Tyler, but backspaced it into oblivion—better to ask her in person. I hit SEND.

To my astonishment, I received an almost instant response, in the form of another haiku:

rolling into sky
the blackened remains of wealth
becoming honest

-- V

§

Expect instructions
, she had said. The more I thought about that, the greater my sense of unease. Those two simple words were a chisel in my mind, chipping away at the joy I was saving for her return. Val had a history of coming back from stressful business trips with a sharpened appetite. The tenor of her last message only increased that anxiety.

But she’d given no clue as to when I should expect such instructions, so I left my computer running that day, with an audible alarm set for incoming emails.

The day turned out to be a wash. I lazed about, watched television, even tried to lose myself in a book, and failed. I ate half a carton of English toffee ice cream before napping off the ensuing sugar crash. Finally I went to see
Iron Man
at the theater, desperate for anything to take my mind off Val’s message.

That evening I considered asking Paul out to dinner, but guilt stopped me. I’d have been terrible company anyway.

And no word from Val that whole day.

§

My computer chime woke me from a restless sleep, just past 1am Tuesday morning. Val’s instructions. What timezone was she in, anyway?

It read:

My little koi,

Tonight you will dress well; that little black dress from the jazz club should do nicely. A car will fetch you at seven o’clock. No need to bring anything with you. Do exactly as you’re told.

If for any reason you cannot make this engagement, email me as soon as possible. Otherwise I expect you to follow my instructions to the letter, and behave in a way that reflects well upon me.

—Val

Again, with the cars.

I felt a familiar roller-coaster drop in my gut. And a closer reading failed to find any hint suggesting she’d even be there, wherever
there
was. Her wording actually suggested the opposite.

It was galling. Just when I thought I’d won a beachhead in her heart, she lay new obstacles in my path. I yearned for the inner Val, the little betrayed girl, not the woman of stone. How long could this continue?

Unexpected tears traced cool tracks down my face. Nothing had changed. Everything was for naught.

I didn’t want to go. I
wouldn’t
go. But neither could I bring myself to send her a refusal.

§

All that day I dithered, and waited. When the time came, I found myself on the couch in that little black dress, all made up for the third time, tears having destroyed the first two attempts. In my hand I clutched a little beaded purse with only my keys inside.

The intercom buzzed, and I rose to answer it. A man at the front gate said, “Your ride is here, Miss.”

“I’ll be right down,” I said and switched off the intercom. I smoothed my dress, feeling more than a little afraid.

I locked the door and carefully descended the steps in my heels, as if to an execution.

27     
masks

A WHITE LIMO with dark windows waited for me at the gate. The driver offered polite greetings as he opened the rear door and helped me in, before hustling around the car to get behind the wheel.

Through the tinted window I caught sight of white-haired Mr. Murphy watching from his second-story balcony in unit 3. Even when I caught him ogling me, the creep never bothered to avert his gaze, as if old age entitled him. A hot breeze stirred his thin hair. With those dark eyes and papery skin he resembled a featherless hatchling in its nest, waiting for mommy bird’s next partially-digested meal. Disgusting.

I wasn’t terribly surprised when the driver turned in his seat and handed me a blindfold, the kind people wear when they sleep during the day: a soft black raccoon mask with no eye holes, held in place by an elastic band. The driver’s kind yet firm expression left no doubt about my compliance. He appeared to have done this sort of thing before. Well, so had I. This was a favorite game of Val’s.

Still, I hesitated to put it on, partially out of fear Mr. Murphy might somehow see me though the tinted window. Just to be safe, I turned my face away from the window as I slipped it over my eyes.

The engine started and we pulled away from the curb, as cold air began to blow from an air conditioning vent. It raised goosebumps on my bare arms, until I found the vent with my fingers and closed the vanes.

I knew my neighborhood well. Judging by our stops and turns I guessed the driver had taken the eastbound 101, the direction away from Val’s house. In that case I had no idea where this car was taking me.

We traveled at a good clip for a few minutes, before hitting slow-and-go traffic that might have been the 405 interchange. He didn’t take that ramp, but continued eastward. Higher speed, then another slow patch, and ten minutes later we descended from the freeway to wait at a light, before turning right. Probably somewhere in Studio City. I didn’t think we’d gone as far as North Hollywood.

Next came five minutes of surface streets giving way to a gradual rise, with twisty turns. Coldwater Canyon Avenue, or maybe Laurel Canyon. Both roads snaked up and over the hills before descending into Beverly Hills or Hollywood, respectively.

But we never made it that far. After several minutes of winding roads at the top of the hills, the car made a final turn before coming to a halt. The engine stopped. The driver said, “A moment please, Miss,” and got out, opened my own door and helped me stand.

The air here was cooler and fresher than it had been down in the Valley. We must have driven south, out from under the long smoke plumes spreading east from the fires. It was peaceful here. Instead of traffic I heard birdsong and the stirring of chimes in a eucalyptus-scented breeze.

The driver held my arm to guide me, still blindfolded, across a cobblestone driveway. He warned me to step up when we came to a landing. Without a another word I was given over to a second set of hands, and helped over a threshold.

A door closed behind me. I was led over a wooden floor into what sounded like a hallway, before we turned right and a door frame brushed my elbow. There was a rug in this room. Quiet baroque music floated on the air; Bach’s Sonata in G.

That person took my purse before guiding me to a sitting position on a chair…no, a couch. The act of sitting down while blindfolded, in a strange place, was scarier than I would have guessed.

“Wait here, please,” the person said. A woman, with a hint of a New York accent. Her footsteps retreated, a door closed, and I was alone. Or so I thought.

Should I remove the blindfold? She hadn’t said. I was desperate to see my surroundings. But I forced my hands to stay in my lap, afraid this was another of Val’s tests. She might be inches away and I wouldn’t know. My feeling of vulnerability was almost unbearable.

I wanted Val, not these games. This wasn’t how normal people reunite after a long separation. They wait in the airport terminal as their lover’s plane arrives, or sit on the porch listening for the car’s approach. They rush into each others’ arms and kiss, say tender things with lips and eyes and hands.

Val had killed these romantic notions with just two words:
expect instructions
. Damn her. Damn her insatiable appetite for tricks and torments.

But I couldn’t abandon the little girl in that photo, sitting grimly on a rusty swing. Not now, after so much progress. And if Val’s trials had grown more difficult, it only meant her defenses were crumbling.

Yeah, right. That hope had carried me far, but it was beginning to unravel.

I slowly took off the blindfold and set it on the cushion beside me. Only then did I risk a look around.

I found myself alone, in a long Edwardian drawing room that spoke of wealth. The walls were ochre, with green-and-gold floral trim around the top. I was sitting on one of two powder-blue couches arranged in an L around a Turkish rug. Much of the wall before me was taken up by a large, dormant fireplace.

A picture window at the far end of the room overlooked a garden rendered in Maxfield Parrish blues and oranges by the lowering sun.

I began to notice smaller details. Oil paintings graced the walls: a landscape, a few portraits. On an end table in the angle between the couches sat an antique lamp, and one of those miniature Zen rock gardens with sand, pebbles, and a toy rake no bigger than a fork.

The door through which I had come stood open. It was the kind which slides into the door frame, instead of turning on hinges. Warm incandescent light spilled from the hallway beyond, and I heard distant voices coming from that direction.

Presently the doorbell rang, followed by hushed greetings and the sound of footsteps on stairs. Where was Val? And what the hell was I doing here?

A minute later a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the room and stood before me. By the rhythm of her walk, I guessed this was the same woman who’d led me into the room earlier. She wore a shimmery white cocktail dress and matching patent heels. The most striking thing about her, though, was the sequined white Mardi Gras mask covering the upper half of her face. Her anonymity, and the line of her thin carmine lips, gave her a fierce but unreadable expression.

I averted my gaze when she noticed my missing blindfold. But she no gave no reprimand, only picked up the blindfold and motioned me to stand, which I did.

“What am I—”

“Shhh. Everyone’s arrived. Put this on.” She gave me a mask much like her own, but purple. When I’d slipped it on, she straightened it with her slender fingers and took my wrist, saying, “Come.” Her own hand was smooth, cool, with perfect French-tipped nails. I felt an old fear, that of a child being called into the doctor’s office.

She guided me out into the hall, to the foot of a large stained wooden staircase, which we climbed. The lacquer on the railing was so perfectly smooth it stuck to my sweaty palm. There was a hall at the top of the stairs, and I was urged toward the first open door, through which could be heard the buzz of lively conversation.

A hush fell upon the scene as we entered, broken only by the sound of our heels on the hardwood floor, and the clink of ice cubes. I noticed the heavy reek of a cigar. This new room was darker, about thirty feet square, with crimson wallpaper suggestive of vampires, and rich velvet curtains that admitted no sunlight.

I saw four people sitting in a rough circle, facing the center of the room. Those four pairs of eyes regarded me from behind masks of different colors. Three well-dressed men sat in armchairs, and a woman in a midnight-blue evening gown reclined on a couch. A covered lamp on the table beside the couch softly illuminated the scene, its light tracing the calligraphic curve of the woman’s bare shoulder.

Far brighter, however, were the halogen spotlights aimed at a rug in the center of the circle. It was here the first woman made me stand, with a whispered command to stay, before moving out of the dazzling circle of light, back toward the door we’d just passed through. I blinked under the glare, and clasped my shaking hands in front.