Total Victim Theory (36 page)

But there’s nothing but blackness all around.

What woke me? A sound maybe. A bump or a clank? Or some stealthy insect crawling across my check?

But no—it had to have been a nightmare. The way everything's pounding and sweaty. But apparently the kind you leave behind completely, without a trace in your memory.

Some of the details from last night feel fuzzy. Don't really remember going to sleep. The crack of familiar yellow light beneath my door is the only way I'm sure I'm in my apartment.

Ah, now fragments are coming back . . . the party, Valentine's Day . . . a few pictures from earlier in the night—

Then the rest hits me and my throat tightens.

Love Potion. Dance floor. Darth Vader.

Almost feels like that could have been a dream.

Wish to God it had been.

It had to have been
him
.

At least, I was sure at the time. Bryce and Ronette were giving me so much flak though. Makes me feel a little crazy. But no. I'm sticking to my guns this time. It was him.

But it's all blurry. That makes it feel far away and impossible.

How sure am I really? Just sure enough to be trembling.

But I'm safe. Arms and legs intact. I touch myself to be assured of this fact.

So, if it was him, there's a limit to his chutzpah. He ran away after all.

Now I recall what a mess Bryce and Ronette were. Hope they're doing okay. Maybe tomorrow we can investigate who spiked the Love Potion.

What time is it anyway? I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been crashed out. It could have been an hour or the whole night.

I look to my left. At the nightstand. See the neon numbers of the alarm clock to my left. 4:02 a.m. A faint red glow on the nightstand.

Hopefully I can fall back asleep. I lay back down on my pillow and as I do, my elbow brushes up against something. Hard and plastic. What the hell? Did I tote a mystery object into bed with me by some dim whim of intoxication? I have, admittedly, been known to do this. Once, I woke up next to a half-eaten corndog. Another time, I found myself cuddling an orange construction cone. But surely I wasn't that smashed last night.

I sit back up again and fumble with the lamp on the nightstand. My fingers make a scratchy sound on the lampshade. I finally find the switch and the room is full of blinding light. Once my pupils adjust, I catch sight of something on the nightstand.

The heck?

It's the case for my missing glasses. Just sitting there.

The case was definitely missing yesterday too. That's confusing. Did I find it last night but just can't remember? There's no sign of the glasses though.

Disturbing. Definitely do not remember being that plastered. Flashbacks of freshman year.

Now a second double take—next to the glasses case is my silver arm bracelet. The one with the silent alarm that Ronette gave me. The one I swore I'd never take off, even in the shower. . . .

Jesus, I should cut myself off of drinking until the sting operation is over. The consequences could be a lot more serious than waking up next to an unidentified lump in the bed. Which reminds me—there currently is an unidentified lump in my bed. I turn to have a look. . . .

As I see what it is, a hysterical shriek issues forth from my lungs and I scramble to get out of bed.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

I'm standing here. Staring at it.

Shivering. Shaking. Almost peeing my pants.

No way. No fucking way.

Trying to decide if it's real or a joke, whether to scream or run.

What it is—what's sitting there staring at me like some guillotined harbinger of death from a galaxy far, far away—is the huge black helmet, property of the dark overlord, Darth Vader.

44

Colorado

There's a point when you're so stunned, you just can't register any more surprise. That's how I felt when I saw the Vader mask. So, when Chris steps out of the bathroom, my response is more subdued than it otherwise would be.

Our eyes meet. Nothing quivers, budges, or blinks.

He's still clad in Vader garb, minus gloves and the headpiece next to me, and he’s casually drying off his hands on my hand towel.

He sets the towel down by the sink. “Don't make any noise or I'll kill you.”

On hearing his voice, I throw my head back and unleash a full-on blood-curdling scream. One that will surely wake the agents.

Luke just stands there, stylishly unconcerned. He actually makes that gesture where you look at your cuticles.

I keep up my shriek till all the air in my lungs is depleted.

“You don't follow instructions very well,” he says.

I scream again. Weaker and hoarser this time.

Now a glancing-at-the-watch gesture as he waits for me to finish.

“By the way,” he says. “I took the liberty of sound-proofing the windows while you were passed out—if that information is of any use to you.”

I look over and see that there's some sort of steel wool cloth covering both of my windows like curtains. It looks like the cloth is held in place with electrical tape.

“It probably wasn't necessary,” he says. “Neighbors aren't
usually very helpful in situations like this, and your roommates . . . well, I wouldn't count on any help from them.”

“What did you do to them?” I gasp.

He looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Without being too graphic, their souls are but a little way above our heads.”

I spring to my feet, grab a book from the nightstand—
Fathers and Sons
, from Russian lit class—and hurl it at him. Then I grab the lamp—toppling over a glass of water as I do—and fling that at him too. As it leaves my fingertips, there's a look of mild curiosity on his face. An arched eyebrow. The sound of water dripping on carpet.

The throw wrenches the cord from the outlet. The room goes dark again. Things bump and thump and brush against walls. I hear him utter, “Ouch."

I’m on my feet, lunging toward the closed door. He won't be expecting this, so my hope is to bypass him in the dark. Plus, I know the layout of the room and his guard's down. I’ll be through the door and halfway down the stairs by the time he finishes wrestling with the lampshade.

Lots of sounds fill this half-second time span. Huffing and puffing. Cloth rustling. A groan or two. I’m sure I’ve made it. But then, somewhere in the darkness, the world tilts, goes topsy-turvy and my legs are no longer beneath me.

Being lifted up. Swept off my feet, as it were. The way strong, silent types used to do to their slighter love interests in old movies. My sincerest flailings amount to mere theatrical gestures in the strength of his arms.

Now a turn and a release. Then a free-fall and a springy bounce against a soft surface.

The lights come on. My eyes blink. I’m back on the bed where I started. He’s by the door, his finger withdrawing from the light switch.

I'm seething. Terror. Panic. Rage—if he's really hurt Bryce and Ronette, I'll kill him.

I grab the Vader helmet and hurl it at him with all my might, but he deftly catches it, as if I’d passed him a basketball.

I look around for something else to attack him with, but see nothing more lethal than a perfume bottle or a clock radio. Why didn't they give me a gun? I could have blown him away before he
was done using my hand towel.

Then I remember the silent alarm bracelet.

All I do is push the silver button and in five minutes the cops come. That's what Ronette said.

There it is on the nightstand. Just got to get to it.

“I was pulling your leg about the agents. They’re fine. They're just tied up right now. No pun intended.”

“Where?” I say.

“Out in the garage.”

“We don’t have a garage,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes.

“I mean, in the laundry room. Sorry, I'm bad with rooms.”

“They’re dead, aren't they?” I'm losing it. Or did I lose it before?

“Do I look like the kind of guy that would harm a federal agent?”

I stare at him in disbelief.

He sets the Vader helmet on the floor. “That's really hurtful, Nicole. I have a lot of respect for the executive branch of government.”

How could he have known about Bryce and Ronette? Their undercover status was supposed to be top secret. Could he know about the bracelet too? Either way, I've got to get over to it. It's my one chance—if he's here to do what I think he's here to do. I'm just about to shift over to it so it will be in arm's reach when suddenly he steps over and sits down beside me on the bed.

I freeze. Glance at his hands. Think how he could kill me with those hands. Think how ridiculous it would be to be murdered by a guy in a Darth Vader costume.

“Nicole, I promise you your friends are okay,” he says, sincerely. “I promise you that with all my heart. Okay?”

I glance over at the bracelet. This close, he'd guess what I was up to, wouldn't he? Pushing a button on a bracelet is a very out-of-the-ordinary thing to do. If he figured it out, he might do me in straightaway, when I otherwise might have made it till dawn.

I take a deep breath. The only way I’m getting out of this is to stay calm. I walked away before—it can happen again. “Okay, I trust you.”

“Dishonesty is one of my weaknesses. I've been trying to work on it. It means a lot that you'd believe me.” He puts his hand on my
shoulder.

I do my best to suppress a cringe. “No problem.”

He leaves his hand on my shoulder. “And do you mind if I suggest something that might be a weakness of yours?”

“I don’t mind,” I whisper.

“I think you might be a little too trusting.”

I stare at him. My hands begin to tremble.

“Just joking around,” he says. “Lighten up, Nicole. You were so funny before.”

“Why are you here?” I demand.

“Yes, why are any of us here? That's the big question. I like your style, Nicole—just get metaphysical and jump right in the middle of it.”

“What do you want?” I repeat.

“With you?

“Yeah.”

“You mean relationship-wise?” he asks. “It’s a little premature to be talking about that, isn’t it?”

I don’t respond.

“But seriously,” he goes on. “If I understand your question, you want to know what I'm doing here in your bedroom. Sorry, I make jokes when I’m feeling anxious.” He crosses his arms. “What am I doing here? I should have anticipated that question. . . . What am I doing here? I don't really know. Here are some options. Maybe, I was just in the neighborhood, or I might have just wanted to fuck with the FBI, or I might just be here because I like your company, or I might be here to kill you . . . any input you have would be helpful. I'm still taking suggestions.”

“God, you really are crazy,” I mutter.

He makes a little derisive laugh. “Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?”

“And why am I crazy?” I whisper.

“That's a question for your psychiatrist, Nicole. I've got my own problems to worry about.”

He looks at me like I'm supposed to laugh.

“No, wait. I've got it,” he says. “The reason I'm here is to get my glasses back. . . . You’ve still got them, right?”

I shake my head.

“Well, where are they?”

“The cops took them,” I say, looking down.

“That's what I was afraid of,” he says. “When I was here earlier I couldn't find them. So I prepared for the worst.”

“You were here?”

“Yeah . . .” he says. “I figured you lost them, so I just borrowed yours.”

Rising to his feet, he reaches into a pouch near the waistline of his costume, pulls out my blue glasses and shows them to me.

A flash of anger fills me. I lunge at him and try to grab them, but he holds them up, like a game of keep away.

“Give me those back,” I shout at him.

He holds me back with one outstretched arm and looks at me with curiosity. “Why? What's so important about them?”

“Because I'm half-blind without them." I glare at him. “Just fucking give them to me, okay?”

“Fine,” he says and hands them to me. “You don't have to freak out.” Finally, he hands them back to me.

I sit back down on the bed and put my glasses on.

He reaches into his pocket again and tosses something shiny on the bed. “Oh, I think these are yours too. You must have dropped them somewhere.”

My keys, of course—which I hadn't even realized were missing.

He looks around the room. “Hmmm . . . what else can you give me to compensate me for my glasses?”

I turn my attention back to the bracelet. Begin shifting over to it through a series of minute scooches—so I'll be ready if he ever looks away.

“Let's see.” He takes a step closer to me. “How about that bracelet?”

When I hear him say this, it occurs to me this might be my last chance. My hand shoots out for it. But somehow, even as my fingers envelope it, it vanishes. I'm grasping a handful of nothing.

I look up.

Chris stands over me. Bracelet in his grip. Plucked up, as if by a magician's sleight-of-hand.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Would that be a fair trade?”

For a moment I can't speak. Trying to judge by his face if he knows. “Not that,” I say. “Please. . . .”

“Oh come on, Nicole . . .
not the glasses, not the bracelet
.
You're being kind of touchy about your stuff.”

“It . . . it was a family heirloom,” I stammer, realizing too late this makes little sense given how new the bracelet looks.

“They don't make 'em like they used to.” He makes a show of inspecting it, like a jeweler appraising a ring. “Was it your grandmother's or something?”

Is he just toying with me? His expression is so serious, I can't tell. “My great-aunt's,” I say, almost in a whisper. Heart pounding so hard. God, that bracelet is my last chance. . . .

“It must have been state-of-the-art at the time,” he says. “It's got these buttons on it.”

He knows and he's been messing with me the whole time. I turn away, tears welling up in my eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“It's almost like something a spy would wear,” he says. “Don't you think?”

“What do you want?” Almost shouting now, tears streaming down my cheeks.