Evil Without a Face

Seventeen-year old Nikki Archer knelt on the floor inside her dark closet, rolling another T-shirt to stuff into a canvas duffel bag, her hands shaking. She’d drawn the thick drapes of her bedroom to block the enduring daylight common this time of year and chose to work by a meager light. The darkened space gave her the illusion of privacy and the solitude she desperately needed. Still, she strained to listen for the familiar creak outside her bedroom door, an early warning signal she had unwanted company.

The closet door stood open a narrow crack. She needed the light, but in case her mom came looking for her, the partially closed door would give her time to react and hide what she was doing. She worked until she couldn’t take the shakes anymore. The dim light from a distant lamp on her nightstand seeped in to find her. Its pale glow cast a steady luminous ribbon across her arms.

The reality of her intentions had closed in, seizing Nikki with a rush of guilt, and she stopped and clutched the handle of the duffel to steady her trembling fingers. But it wasn’t enough. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and upper lip. Feeling light-headed, she found a corner at the back of her
closet and cowered deep into its shadows. In the cramped space, her heartbeat echoed and her breathing filled her ears, muffling everything except the nagging doubts that had surfaced again. Part of her wanted to stay put, burrowed into her clothes and mementos with the faint scent of her favorite perfume in the air. But she had made up her mind more than a week ago, and the final details would be worked out tonight.

This time she had a plan. She had somewhere to be. And she knew her mother would never understand.

Her computer sounded a ping. With the noise, her heart leapt. She knew who it would be. She shoved out of the corner and rose to her feet. After doing her best to hide the duffel, she slowly headed for her computer, closing the closet door behind her. Her eyes fixed on the monitor across the room. When she got close enough, she recognized the Instant Messenger name on the screen.

SnowMaiden

Her friend, Ivana Noskova from Chicago, was of Russian decent and loved the bittersweet tale of the Snow Maiden. In the story Ivana told her, the fifteen-year-old maiden in the popular Russian fable was the daughter of Spring Beauty and Grandfather Frost. As the maiden grew, she yearned for the companionship of humans in a nearby village, particularly a young shepherd boy, but her heart was incapable of affection. Her mother eventually took pity on her and gave her the ability to love. But as soon as she did, the maiden’s heart warmed and she melted. Love and her yearning for something more had destroyed her.

A sad story, but in her own house, Nikki knew this never would’ve happened. Her mom and pity were complete strangers. Yet she
could
identify with the maiden’s wish for more than she had.

SnowMaiden: U there?

Until she moved the cursor, the chat box blinked its bluish light into the murky room and onto her sweater as she sat at her desk. Nikki knew the conversation they’d have next would set wheels in motion. She took a deep breath, but before she answered, her eyes found a framed photo next to her monitor, shoved to the back of her desktop. She reached for it and wiped a thin layer of dust from the glass with her fingers.

A remembrance of her thirteenth birthday, the day she officially became a teenager.

On a bright perfect day, she grinned and squinted in front of The Moose Nugget. The sun had made a rare appearance, making her feel even more special. Her mother had an arm around her shoulders, and Uncle Payton held up two fingers behind her head with his signature goofy smirk on his face. He always made her smile. Even now. Even with everything as it was.

Her family. All she had left, anyway.

But her grin faded when she touched the glass, running a finger down the face of her mother. They started fighting for real that year, and it hadn’t let up since. Her mom instigated most of their yelling matches with her ridiculous and smothering rules. Nikki clenched her jaw, the rage still fresh from their last argument. A friend had given her a belly ring that she proudly displayed once too often. With small-town gossip, word had gotten back home and the great debate over body piercing began.

Nikki slammed the photo facedown. Her mom would believe this all had something to do with the ongoing friction between them. True, it started there, but now she had her own reasons for leaving. She grabbed the mouse and positioned the cursor to answer her friend, then pulled the keyboard closer.

Her Instant Messenger name didn’t have much of a story behind it, nothing as interesting as her Chicago friend, SnowMaiden. Nikki had picked a name during the winter months when the sun was a rare commodity in Alaska. Now the IM handle stuck year-round, more in keeping with her mood.

DarkdazeGirl: bak—411?

She typed the code they used—“Back at keyboard. You have the information?” If everything went as planned, she’d probably feel like changing her IM handle real soon. But only if her cyber friend SnowMaiden played her part without a hitch.

Providenija, Russia

The old man sat in his small apartment, hunched at a kitchen table, half listening to the loud argument of a couple down the hall and the grating rumble of a truck outside his window. He’d almost learned to block out such annoyance when he worked. Absentmindedly, he scratched through the gray stubble of his chin, trying to peel the last crusty layer of a scab near his lip. The pungent smell of sardines and onions, remnants of his dinner, mixed with the overshadowing odor of cigarettes. He took another drag of his smoke and jammed the butt into an overloaded ashtray, his fingernails yellowed with nicotine stains. Ashes spilled onto the table, but he didn’t bother to brush them aside.

A slow smile emerged on his face as he typed the last message on his laptop keyboard. At first the cryptic language of the American girl took him a while to learn, but over time he had mastered it. Now his fingers swept across the keys with confidence. No hesitation.

SnowMaiden: dw 143 cus

He punched the keys and hit Send to a message that translated to, “Don’t worry. I love you. See you soon.” In cyberspace he could reinvent himself, become anyone. He’d taken on so many aliases that he now maintained cryptic records to keep his lies straight.

DarkdazeGirl: 143 2, cya f2f ?, bff

The spoiled American girl had replied, “I love you too, see you face-to-face, best friends forever.”

This week would prove to be quite profitable, with another delivery on its way. He preferred to think of the girl as nothing more than cargo. Where there was demand, he filled the need with his bountiful supply at no risk to him. The system worked and allowed him to operate in secrecy, but the anonymity worked both ways.

By design, he knew very little about his contact down the line, except that the man lived in Chicago. The American had let that slip once, but he was much too smart to let that happen to him. His contact only knew him as Ivan Andreyevich Krylov, an alias of his own choosing. The name meant nothing to his capitalist counterpart. The man was probably no more than an uneducated pig.

Known as the Russian Aesop, his namesake Krylov was an accomplished author of satirical Russian fables who died in the mid-1800s. Many of his stories and characters still resonated with the pop culture of his country today.

But the American would not know this.

Still, it made a fitting name for him to use. And he was fond of fables, hence his use of SnowMaiden when he first contacted the girl in a chat room. In truth, she had made the first move. He’d learned it worked better that way, to dangle the bait and linger with patience. He made a re
spectable living from his skill, amidst such rustic surroundings.

The remote seaport of Providenija was nothing more than a crude airstrip and a modest harbor located at the base of a mountain range on the southeast coast of Chukotka Peninsula. The larger landmass projected into the waters of the Chukchi and the Bering Seas. Just under forty miles separated Russian land from St. Lawrence Island near Alaska, part of the United States. In Providenija, housing consisted of tenements and prefabricated metal structures barged into port in the off season when the ice flows permitted. And the main source of income came from the sea and hunting.

Although he prided himself on his enterprising means to rise above such a livelihood, he remained cautious not to call attention to it. Once he had enough money saved, he would move to Moscow under an assumed name as a man of means once more, or perhaps leave the country, bound for someplace warm. That thought pleased him.

He knew from experience that he was only a cog in a much larger wheel. Any message from Ivan Krylov would be funneled down the line. Safer that way. He didn’t care how things worked or why anyone wanted these overindulged children. He only cared about getting paid. He spent enough money to keep him in food and cigarettes, with a roof over his head and the occasional acquisition from the black market when it suited him. Mostly, he saved for the better life he deserved. After all, he had need of comforts, especially at his age.

The old man pulled up the Web page to Globe Harvest, a site with a note that it was under construction. The notice had been there for as long as he remembered. He hit the keystrokes to open the site, a predesignated arrangement. An ID and password box flashed onto the screen. He typed his unique code and hit Enter. After a few seconds a mailbox appeared. No emails waited for him, but he sent one of his own
to
[email protected].
He typed a simple message and embedded it into a digital photo of Alaska he’d taken off the Internet. Another agreed-upon security measure.

Delivery from AK on its way to Chicago as agreed. ETA two days.

His American comrade might not know who Krylov was, but he would know what to do when he got this message. The old man got to his feet and stretched his back. After lighting another smoke, he trudged across his kitchen, heading for the toilet down the hall. The onions had soured his stomach, and his bladder required attention. He reached for the newspaper thrown onto a bookshelf near his apartment door and tucked it under his arm.

But a ping sounded, calling him back. His computer. When he returned, the old man glared at the screen.

GR8OZ: Hey man how r u?

The chat box blinked. A young flamer from Calgary, Alberta, in Canada, full of tattoos and both ears pierced. The blond-haired, blue-eyed gay boy had sent photos of himself last week. And his ears weren’t the only places he had punctured. Perhaps the boy thought to entice him with his provocative and depraved ways. He reached for the prints he had made and glared at the young man’s nakedness. It had taken time to earn this one’s trust, but now that he had it, he knew what to do. It wouldn’t take long.

Perhaps in some small measure he made a living from fishing after all. The old man stared down at his flashing laptop, blowing smoke from his nostrils. A smile strained the contours of his face.

Yes, there was little doubt. Money would be good this week.

South Chicago
9:50
P.M.

The cheap motel room reeked of cigarettes, stale beer, and pizza. The best thing Charlie Swain could say about the four walls that closed in on him now was that a heat wave kept his AC cranked. And he had the TV blaring to cover up the sound of sex from the next room. The woman was a real screamer.

He loved sticking it to a woman who knew how to scream, but having to listen to someone else do it left him frustrated, with no options except a five-finger spankfest. He raked fingers through his thinning hair and lit another cigarette, pacing the floor.

This dump had been his home for five days, but for the last two weeks he’d lived out of a suitcase, moving from place to place. While he waited for new ID and a gig with a connected dealer up North, he’d severed all links to his old life, including giving up his wheels. Buses had become his new mode of transportation, to stretch his limited funds. Fake ID would cost him serious coin.

But Charlie knew boredom would be the real test. When his cell phone rang, he wanted nothing more than to answer it, breaking up the monotony. Instead, he let it roll to voice mail, cautiously screening his calls. He finished the last of his warm beer and sat on the edge of his mattress until curiosity needled him into retrieving the message. He didn’t recognize the phone number, but the caller had left a message.

A woman’s voice. Crying. Cursing. The melodrama made him chuckle until he heard a familiar name. The message was intended for his ex-girlfriend, the bitch. He replayed the call, trying to make out the words between the curses and sobs.

“Leave my Danny be…he got me pregnant…and when I find out where you live, Annie Rae Miller, I’m gonna…What the hell kind of name is that?”

He might have found the whole thing entertaining, except that Annie had dumped him before his life went into the crapper. And now everything made sense. That whore had been cheating on him with Dan the Man.

“Shit.” He threw the beer bottle across the room, shattering it against the wall.

When his cell phone rang again, he looked at the display and recognized the number. The same woman was calling back. This time he answered it.

“Yeah.”

The woman didn’t say anything at first, but he heard her crying. In a soft voice, she finally spoke.

“I’m sorry. I m-must have the…wrong number. Do you know wh-where I can find…Annie Rae Miller?”

“I got your last message,” he offered. “You think your man’s with her now?”

“Hell, yeah. I know it for a fact. That’s why…”

Rage flooded through him like water hitting a fast boil. He didn’t even listen to what the woman said. “What’s your name again?”

“Sophie.”

“Well, Sophie girl, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but please…come and get me. I don’t have a car at the moment, but I know where you can find that bitch,” he pleaded. “But you gotta come pick me up first.”

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