A Penny's Worth (The Cephas Bourdon Series) (19 page)

“Em?” my dad muttered from across the room.

“Dad!” I shouted, turning violently in the other direction. The pain in my head was unbearable. It felt like lightning split through my skull
.
I had never experienced such a horrible headache. I let out a small yelp.

“Em
—
are you okay?” my dad whispered. Worry, doubt, and guilt were all evident in his voice. He still lay helplessly in a pile on the floor.

“So glad you could join us, Mr. Brickard,” the man in the chair began.

“How
—
how do you know my name?” my dad asked from his slumped position.

“Don't burden me with trifles, Mr. Brickard,” the man said, standing from the chair where he sat. He stood to full height, probably taller than Cephas. His face was very pleasantly formed, accentuated by his perfectly combed hair: it looked similar to the English man's. I sat staring at his face, although I couldn't have turned my head if I wanted to. The pain was so unbearable. I saw my finger flinch: I was beginning to lose paralysis.

“You're going to help me, Mr. Brickard. Do you think you can do that?” the man said sternly.

“Why would I help you?” my father spat. “While you are a very gracious host, I'm going to have to pass.”

“You will help me
—
if you value your daughter in any way,” came his reply. A small laugh escaped his lips. “And with your wife gone, she's all you have left, isn't she?” His voice was bitterly sarcastic.

“Killing my daughter wouldn't benefit you in any way. Then I would do nothing for you,” my dad argued, still lying on the ground.

“Precisely, Mr. Brickard. You're catching on. We wouldn't kill her
. T
here are, however, many ways to inflict pain on an individual, which methods we are more than prepared to employ.”

“Don't you dare touch her!” my father yelled. I could feel a tear of fear run down my cheek. This was like some awful horror film, and I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared that I couldn’t even begin to think of a way to escape.

“Oh, how t
horoughly predictable you are, s
ir. I was very much hoping you would feel that way. So you'll help us?”

“What do you need me to do?” my father asked feebly. The man began pacing across the cement floor, his feet clicking slowly on the hard surface.

“You may recall a machine you designed years ago,” the tall man stated. He spoke without much care, pacing across the small room as if he were rehearsing his day at work to his wife. “It proved to be a very useful device. You gave the designs to a friend, who sold the design to us. He built the machine himself
—
very smart man. Though I think you might be smarter,” he commented, turning towards my father. He looked thoughtful for a moment. I was watching Cephas out of the corner of my eye. He sat in his chair, his face a stone. He sat motionless, except for his hands, which held a cloth. He was rubbing something in the cloth between his fingers.

“However, after he found out what was really going on, he was smart enough to lock us out of the system.”

“You mean he didn't know about the betting?” my father asked from his newly acquired sitting position.

“Oh, no. He knew about that. His morals weren't that straight. No
—
he wasn't very happy with our management. He found it to be . . . unnecessary.” A cunning smile split across the man's face, his right brow raised in mocking Sinicism. His own self
-
admiration was disgusting. I was becoming more and more confused by the second. What betting were they talking about, and why did my dad seem to know about the immoral goings
-
on?

“But alas, whether it was necessary or not does not matter. He locked us out of the machine, and we can't get into it. Now he's dead, and we need you to hack into the machine,” he said matter
-
of
-
factly.

“But I didn't set a security device on the machine. I don't know how to break in.”

“Oh, but you're one of the best brains in the world, and you did, after all, design the machine. I think you can figure it out.”

“Why me? There's a handful of people who can do what I can do.”

“Ah, yes. But, you already know what
we're
capable of doing. Using you meant we could skip a step. You don't need
—
what shall we call it? Persuading? We'll give you three days, Mr. Brickard.”

“Three days!” my father exclaimed. “That's completely ridiculous.”

“Cephas, why is this man still sitting on the floor? What did you do to him? The girl already has full control of her arms, doesn't she?” he asked, ignoring my father’s berated reaction.

“Yes, s
ir. The tranquilizer had an adverse effect on Mr. Brickard. He should gain contr
ol in about four minutes . . . s
ir.”

“Cephas,” I muttered, paralyzed from shock if not from the tranquilizer. I hadn't meant to speak, but his voice was so familiar, which I thought wo
uld set some hope into my heart.
H
owever, it only made the situation so much more painful. The tall man turned toward me, a delighted smile on his face.

“Well, now, you remember Cephas, don't you?” he asked, victory evident in his voice. “In fact, you were dancing just a moment ago, weren't you?” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Never fret, my dear. You had no way of knowing. We don't have the best working for us for nothing.” He turned toward Cephas.

“Cephas, would you come put this man in a chair? I'm tired of looking at him, all slumped in such a helpless manner.” He walked back and forth across the room, an exaggerated sigh leaving his chest. Cephas stood up behind the desk, kicking his chair backward. He walked slowly around the desk, tossing the rag on the table top and shoving something in his pocket. He walked slowly over to my dad, looking rather dashing in the tuxedo he still wore. My breath caught in my throat as he walked past me
. H
e glanced down at me with deep blue eyes. His usual smirk was missing; instead, his grim expression destroyed any hope I may have had at the sound of his voice. He held my eyes captive for half a second, then broke his gaze from mine and continued on toward my dad. He kicked a chair toward him and began picking him up off of the floor. It wasn't a very difficult task
. H
is muscles flexed and my dad was in the chair, leaning against its back. Cephas looked around, then walked to the corner and picked up a piece of rope. He began tying my father to the chair.

“We have many people working for us,” the man began in explanation. “They all have various jobs. Cephas is special, though. Cephas is our
—
” he paused and looked at me. “Management.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “He takes care of any problems that may arise.”

“Problems?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Yes: problems. Your mother, for instance, was a problem. His own father was a problem, but we took care of that one ourselves.” My mother. I began to shake as I realized the implications of what he had said. My mother was a problem. Cephas took care of it. Cephas killed my mother? My body shook more violently as the anger welled up inside of me. But my father had said my mother was killed by a drunk driver. What was going on? Did Cephas really murder my mother? Everything I knew was disappearing. I could feel my arms trembling
—
at least I was losing paralysis. Tears of hate began spilling down my cheeks and I attempted to stand in all my rage. Though my arms had regained strength, my legs had not. I fell to the floor in an instant as a cry of shock escaped my lips. I heard a scuffle in the room and someone was at my side. I glanced upward and saw the Englishman. He lifted me back onto the chair and began strapping my hands to the arms of the chair.

“Did you enjoy the art, my dear?” he asked. His accent added to the sass in his voice, and I shook my head in disgust.

“Sir, is that really necessary?” Cephas asked, finishing the knot on my father's wrist. “Her legs are still paralyzed, and she'll be gone soon anyway.” His voice sounded cold, like it was a bother for anyone to take the time to tie me up. I felt an instant pang of offense
.
I began to realize that everything Cephas had said was a lie. All of it
—
the romance, the fun times, the love
. . .
I was a fool to mistake the rush of euphoric feelings for love. Romance was not love
—
it was a tactic employed by men to get something out of women.

“You're probably right. James, stop that. She can't do anything.” James stood, his body rigid with anger. He threw the rope on the ground and walked away from me.

“So, Cephas. I'm curious. How did you do it?” the tall man continued.

“Do what, s
ir?” he asked as he returned to his position at the desk.

“How did you get Emmaline and her father to come to our little meeting today?” Cephas thought a moment, patiently working with the cloth and the object he had removed from his pocket.

“Oh, it was quite simple,” he said, staring at the small object in his hand. “I made Emmaline fall in love with me, and then it was all smooth sailing from that point.”

“You what?” I asked, indignant.

“Oh, yes. Among other things, Cephas was trained in the ways of romance. Another reason you were the best choice for our plan,” the man said, pointing to my father. “Get to the girl, and the father goes along for the ride.” He returned his attention to Cephas. “But Cephas, how did you make Emmaline fall in love with you while keeping your cover?” The man seemed intrigued, like he was listening to a bedtime story.

“Sir, is this really necessary right now?” Cephas was rubbing the object in between the cloth again.

“Humor me,” the tall man said, his voice revealing an edgy annoyance and a lack of humor.

“Romance is easy, especially between teenagers,” Cephas began, still sitting. He didn't look up from what he was doing. “You see, there's this theory that a person makes morality judgments based on proximity, meaning the nearer physical location of one person to another, the stronger the moral implications seem to an individual. Being that relationships require some sort of moral judgment, I figured the same rule applied. So, whenever Emmaline started to doubt whether I was indeed who I said I was, and was about to, therefore use her moral judgment to decide not to trust me, I would get close to her
—
physically, that is.” I could hear my dad struggling in his chair. I looked at Cephas in utter horror.

“So it was all fake?” I asked breathlessly, not believing what I was hearing.

“No, of course not, dear,” the tall man said from across the room. “It was all real
—
it just didn't mean anything.” He laughed menacingly, the hideous noise echoing through the dark, cold room. “Don't worry, he was just doing his job. And he did it rather well, wouldn't you agree, Emmaline?” I could feel anger building inside of my chest. “All of the other things
—
chance meetings, romantic dates, witty lines
—
he learned from his tutor, Fredrick.”

“Don't give away all my secrets, Dominic,” Cephas muttered from his position at the desk.

“Cephas prides himself on being a romantic,” the man said (Dominic, was it?). Cephas didn't respond, just sat polishing, so Dominic continued.

“Isn't that right, Cephas?” he asked.

“I pride myself on a lot of things,” he stated.

“Like your unwavering ability to kill people?” Cephas grumbled a response without raising his eyes to Dominic.

“But you're not invincible, boy,” Dominic argued.

“No, I'm not,” Cephas replied coldly, like he regretted it.

“Well, then. Emmaline is definitely an enticing, beautiful young woman . . .”
Cephas’
eyes shot up to meet Dominic's. “Were you ever lured in by her beauty? I imagine that would make your job even more difficult.” Cephas looked back down at the rag in his hand.

“No. She's only a girl.”

“But you're only a boy.” Dominic's smile was growing. He must have known how pull his strings, because Cephas stopped what he was doing and glared at Dominic.

“My job does not allow for distraction
—
not even guilty pleasure. Of course she's gorgeous, but it takes more than a beautiful body to keep me from finishing a job.” He returned his eyes to the object in his hands. I felt my breathing increase in indignation. I sniffed to keep my tears away. A beautiful body: that’s what I was to the only man I had ever fallen for, to the man who had murdered my mother in cold blood. I felt gumption pumping through my veins
—
the gumption Cephas had planted in my mind
—
and I felt the urge to spit in
Cephas’
face. Even now, though, my heart lighted at the thought that Cephas considered my body beautiful. What was wrong with me?! How could I have such little control over my emotions? I was flattered when an
assassin
dubbed me beautiful? I was seriously messed up
.
I couldn’t wait to grow up and get away from my teen hormones.