Secret Worlds (82 page)

Instead, a guard passes me a manila envelope. I could probably wallpaper my bedroom from floor to ceiling with as many of these damn things I've been given.

“I need you to bring me that person, Dimitri,” Karl says.

I hate how he says my name. It has the distinct tone like he's commanding a Doberman to fetch.

“I need him alive.”

Great, another kidnapping. I want to ask if he's certain the target isn't deceased already, but I keep my mouth closed. As bitter as I am over the last misadventure, I haven't forgotten who wields the power around here.

Karl leans back in his chair. “This … I … wish.”

Satan starts humming a tune in my head again. I wait for Karl to begin our super fun version of Twenty Questions. No way he's letting go of the missing safe that easily.

He raises his eyebrows at me.

That's my signal to get fetching. Maybe he is over the safe, after all. 

I don't even bother going through the case file on my way out. If I see my abductee is another minor, I'm going to lose it. 

Dimitri Hayes, the cause of lifetime therapy bills across the nation.

Silvia appears out of nowhere. “Taking down another bad guy?”

“Yeah, Silv,” I say, without slowing. “I'm a regular Vin Diesel.”

She catches up to me. “Can I go with you?”

I scoff. “Lay off the blow.”

She matches my pace as we cross the yard and says, “Come on, Dim. Daddy won't let me go into the city alone.”

“Take the infirmary doctor and bring some mouthwash,” I say.

She wrinkles her nose. “You're nasty.”

“You have no idea.” I glance at her, then sigh. She's just going to whine until I either cave to shut her up, or Eileena goes Amazonian on me. “Get in.”

She claps, then bustles into the passenger seat.

“Don't smoke.” I back the car out and turn to head toward the big city.

She pulls down the visor, flips up the mirror, and starts messing with her hair. “Why aren't you ever any fun?” 

“Oh, I'm loads of fun when I don't have the drums of hell in my head.”

She gives me a contemplating look. “That kind of sucks, doesn't it?”

“Nah, it makes for an interesting online dating profile.” I shrug because her concern is a few years too late. “Where do you want to go, Your Majesty?”

She sits straight, though I doubt the reaction was even conscious. She knows who she is; she is multimillionaire Karl Walker's only thriving sperm. 

Mother Nature let her guard down on this one.

“McDonald's,” she says.

“What the actual fuck?”

She smiles, her perky expression matching her tone. “I've never been.”

“Wow, look how neglected you are,” I say. “You want the real drive-thru experience? You know, McDonald's is a delicacy in Japan.”

Her eyes widen. “It is?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

She frowns and stares out the window.

I start to feel bad for being prickish to her. Then I remember she's checking off days on her Hello Kitty calendar until I'm her personal servant, boy-toy, and henchman all in one. The guilt evaporates.

I turn on the radio and blast the usual music so neither of us feel obligated to speak. 

When I pull into McDonald's, Silvia scopes out the exterior like she's considering buying the place. Then again, maybe it is on her to-do list after Karl gets hit by a train.

At the register, she stands like she's part of the Royal Guard while stating her order. The girl would be an embarrassment if I wasn't pressed for time.

I need to hurry through this stupid whim so I can return her to the mansion and get on with the wish before the ticking bomb in my head takes out my brain like Hiroshima.

I order, pay, and hand Silvia the cup. “This is for drinks.”

She narrows her eyes, then flips her hair and stalks to the fountains.

“Hey,” I call after her and follow right behind. “I wasn't sure you had seen one made of paper us common folk use.”

She doesn't look amused as she fills her cup with ice and soda, then takes it upon herself to claim a table. 

I fill my own cup and join her, tossing down straws. “You'll need one of these, princess.”

She snatches up the straw, tears off the paper, and then stabs it through the lid like she's plunging a knife.

“Oh, knock it off.” I slide into the booth. “Stop getting butt hurt over everything.”

She purses her lips and looks across the restaurant, away from me, without speaking. I would appreciate the silence, except she is just stewing. Never know where that will lead.

I shuffle my feet. “Hey, did you know that it used to be illegal to import avocados?”

She meets my gaze, scowling. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know,” I say with a shrug. “Something I heard. So why won't your dad let you come into Phoenix anymore?”

“He says the crime rate has spiked.”

I resist commenting that it would help if he stopped using murder as his upper hand.

Our order comes up. I go get the tray and set it down on the table.

Silvia takes her food, but her expression is still sullen. I slide back into my seat and unwrap my hamburger.

She says, “I can't wait for you to come live at the mansion.”

“I don't want to live at the mansion,” I say, doing my best not to sound horrified.

“So you plan to drive out to see me every day?” She flutters her eyes. “That's stupid.” 

She sets to work on her chicken nuggets and fries.

I stare at her, dumbfounded. As many times as I tell myself Silvia is driving with the engine off, she knows exactly where this vehicle is headed. Her father gets everything he wants, and her parents have been grooming her for next-in-line. Her wish is going to be my command.

A strange feeling settles over me as I realize mixing bloodlines just might negate them once and for all.

***

My head is playing a solid little ditty by the time I get back home from dropping Silvia off at the mansion. I wish she would pick better times to want to hang out, but it's not like I swing by when I haven't been summoned. Those days ended as soon as Karl made me his pet.

I swap out wallets and, with a resigned sigh, drop into my computer chair. I swivel back and forth as I browse through the case file and acquaint myself with my latest target.

His name is Robert. He's twenty-eight, lives local, and is working on his PhD in archeology. He likes spelunking, scuba diving, and skydiving. I bet he also likes alliterations.

No wife, no girlfriend, no offspring. Volunteers three weeks over the summer at a kids camp for underprivileged youth. 

I study his picture and the accompanying description. Brown hair, brown eyes, large front teeth, six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty pounds.

“Well, gonna need benzos for this one.” I toss the papers onto my desk and head to my on-suite bathroom. I pull open the medicine chest. It's empty. 

When the hell did that happen? Who knows. The days kind of blur together sometimes.

I slam the door shut, grab my loaded jacket and the case file, and head out to my car. 

Time to replenish my supply.

***

I knock on Jesse's apartment door, unable to tell which sound is my fist and which sound is the bam-bam-bam in my brain. My vision wavers in and out. 

Entertaining Silvia has put me behind schedule as it is. Now I have this detour, and I'm already anticipating Jesse wanting to talk about Call of Duty and Warcraft and whatever else he does during his limited time spent conscious. 

He finally opens the door. “Dimitri, my man! Come in!”

I step into his living room. Fast food containers are spread across every table. Someone has been sleeping on the couch, and a cat has been using a pile of laundry as a litterbox.

Looks like he cleaned up the place.

He disappears into the kitchen, then returns and hands me a Pepsi. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” I say, but the word barely escape. 

My stomach is churning. I have to get going. Stocking up on benzos doesn't count as enough intention, not after this long. I need to start the hunt so I can get some relief.

He exits down the hallway. I stay rooted where I am. If I move, I'll probably fall over.

He returns a few minutes later.

“Cool, now I can get my X-Box out of pawn,” he says, messing with some vials and syringes and why the hell won't he hurry up?

“Jesse … ” I put out my hand, but my arm is twitching.

He doesn't seem to notice, still busy screwing around with the benzos and talking about some game with explosions and a naked lady. I can't follow the conversation.

I growl. “Can you just give them the fuck to me already?”

His head snaps up. I think he looks surprised. That's what I make out through the haze settling over my sight, anyway.

He's quiet, and then says, “Dude, you're fiending hard.”

“No shit,” I say, because I am fiending. Painfully so. Just not for the benzos.

He shakes his head. “I told you, this shit is mixed way too strong.”

For one moment, I think he's going to pull the sale. Like he suddenly had a change of heart, and he's going to become my fuckin' sponsor to get clean.

For that one moment, I know I would kill him.

Then he hands over the vials and syringes. I pay, place the unopened Pepsi on the end table, and leave.

Time to catch me a wabbit.

***

Once I'm on the road, the hum in my head lightens. I have every intention to track this endorsement for humanity and bring him back to Karl. The hum is pleased. 

I don't know what Karl does with these people. Sometimes, I wish I cared more but I'm either too busy tracking or too busy forgetting. Besides, caring makes me do stupid things, like convince myself I can do something about this madness. Then I remember who is in control, and it's certainly not me.

This Robert guy is probably a dinglefondler, anyway. I have strong reservations about this “kids camp” past time of his.

At a red light, I shuffle through the case file and find the address. He lives in Surprise. I'm there in twenty-five minutes.

The neighborhood is quiet for a late afternoon. Robert's house is on a corner lot, built in the last five years, cookie cutter style. Phoenix suburban planning is overseen by the Borg. I park to the side on the curb, head up the walk to the front door, and ring the doorbell. 

My plan is simple: force him back with the gun, give him a round of benzos on the house, and wait for him to slump over. I'll bring my car into the garage, drag his ass out, and handcuff him. Then we will be on our merry way.

No one answers the door, so I ring again and follow up with a knock. 

Nothing.

Maybe he's at the park, pretending to feed the ducks. That's where all the perverts hang out, I imagine.

I turn to my car, then stop. A newspaper is laying in the carport. I jog over and pick it up. The Sunday paper.

I'm fairly certain today is Thursday.

The hum's second cousin, Panic, becomes a squatter in my chest. 

I don't have days to wait for his return. My luck, he's on a mission in India or something.

Dammit.

I throw down the paper and storm back to my car. Muttering half-formed sentences, I yank the door shut and slam the car into reverse. I'm back on the freeway, racking my brain for a way to find this guy. Nothing comes to mind. I don't even know his last name.

I need a vacation. Maybe I can convince Karl to give me a guaranteed week off every summer. I would go somewhere with more than a dozen trees and maybe water that isn't a glorified swimming pool. Any place that doesn't feel like Hell's picnic grounds would be fine with me.

That's probably where my jackalope is—escaping the heat. Where would someone like him go? Mexico, maybe. So he can get his spelunking and snorkeling on. Or maybe to that camp.

I nearly hit the brake.

The youth camp Robert volunteers at occurs every summer. 

Looks like I'm getting a working vacation.

***

A little time spent on the Internet turns up everything I need to know. Robert is a counselor at a science and art program in northern Arizona. The camp is in session right now. 

From the website gallery, I gather the camp has a few cabins and not much else. The hardest part will be sneaking around without being caught. Camp clearings don't offer a lot of places to hide.

I'll figure it out when I get there. I always do.

I punch the address into my phone GPS, double check I still have the benzo, and hit the road. Evening will have fallen by the time I arrive. Add on a few hours cursing the woodland trails until I find the camp, and Robert should be nestling down into his sleeping bag by the time I make an entrance.

Except for a pit stop at a convenience store for coffee, I drive straight through. My GPS is better than my intel lately and even guides me along the backwoods dirt roads. I park right before turning into the camp, then trek up the hill and scope out the situation.

Four cabins sit side by side. At either end of the camp stands a building. In the middle, a campfire surrounded by a dozen preteens wearing shorts and t-shirts. They're talking, laughing, bumping each other in the legs. A few nearby counselors put away skewers and hotdog buns, then gather in front of the kids.

“Time for songs,” a man says. 

He's not Robert. I haven't even seen Robert yet, but he has to be here.

I can't fail twice in a row. That's just not going to happen.

Since I have nothing to do until the happy campers are nestled into bed, I sprawl out in the pine needles on the ground and stare up at the dark sky. Stars are much brighter outside of the city. Syd probably knows why.

The kids begin singing. I tuck my hands behind my head and close my eyes. The voices sound so young. When I was this age, I found out my life belonged to Karl. I didn't even know what that meant, but I was scared of him for all of two weeks. Then life went back to normal.

When my turn came, I wanted to tell someone, talk to someone. There wasn't anyone. Not even Silvia—especially Silvia—could relate.

I grew to resent the loneliness.