How to Lead a Life of Crime (18 page)

“Listen, I know you’ve got the brains of a blintz. So let me explain something to you. Things have changed around here,” I tell him in a perfectly calm voice. “I don’t give a shit what the ratings say. As of this morning, I am top dog. It doesn’t matter how frightened you are of Gwendolyn. Right now you should be ten times more worried about me. So. Rusalka.”

Ivan nods. “Rusalki are mermaids.”

“Mermaids?”

“They are very beautiful.”

“Get to the point.”

“They come out of the water at night to seduce men. Then they drown them.”

“Why did you call Gwendolyn Rusalka the first time we saw her?”

“That’s what my father called her.”

The Butcher of Brighton Beach? “Your father knew Gwendolyn?”

“No, he read about her in the paper. He showed me her picture.”

“Which paper? The New York Times?”

Judging by his reaction, Ivan has never heard of the New York Times. “What? No. The Russian paper. In Brighton Beach.”

I feel like I’m interrogating a dimwitted donkey. “Gwendolyn is from Brooklyn too?”

“No. I think she lived somewhere in the north. But she killed a Russian man from Queens. That was why she was in all the Russian papers.”

“The man who tried to molest her?”

Ivan grins. “She told you there was one man?” Suddenly I’m the idiot.

“How many were there?”

“Eight. Maybe more. They all paid to touch her.”

“They paid? Who did they pay?”

“Her. It was a business. She posted pictures of herself on the Internet. Made dates with men who like little girls. When they came to her house, she took all their money and bled them like pigs. Then she and her mother threw the bodies into a river. Rusalka. My father always said she was a genius.”

I can’t help but grimace. “The mother must have made her do it.”

“That’s what everybody thought. Then the cops checked out the security tapes from her mother’s favorite bar. The old lady was there almost every night until four o’clock in the morning. Maybe she helped hide the bodies, but she didn’t kill anyone. The men all died right after they got to Gwendolyn’s house. Usually around eight at night—when Gwendolyn had been home alone.” Ivan shrugs. “But who is going to cry for a bunch of guys like that? She would have gotten away with it if they hadn’t matched her teeth to the bite marks.”

“Bite marks?”

“On the bodies.”

“She bit them?”

“She was only thirteen years old. I’m sure she knows better these days.”

“Thirteen? She’s seventeen now, and she told me she’s been at the academy for three years,” I say, doing a little math out loud. “So she must have been in juvie for a whole year before Mandel found her.”

“She never went to juvie. They put her in an asylum. They thought she was crazy.”

• • •

It’s ten after eight in the morning. I’ve just stepped into the cafeteria when a Wolf races up to deliver the news. Ivan is dead.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DESTRUCTION, TERROR, AND MAYHEM

G
wendolyn and I have a beautiful relationship. She tells me everything. And I haven’t killed her yet.

We spend our free time alone in the Wolves’ Den. All of Gwendolyn’s old friends have been banished from the tower. The lesser Wolves keep a wary distance from both of us. It was number 11 who discovered Ivan’s severed head in the lounge. Gwendolyn had positioned it on one of the coffee tables so that Ivan’s glassy, lifeless eyes would greet the first person who came through the door. I’m sure she hoped it would be me.

Only Gwendolyn and Mandel know what she did with the rest of Ivan. But I’ve heard that the landing outside the lounge was flooded with gore. It flowed down the staircase and seeped under the door at the bottom. They cleaned it up before the Androids got spooked, but if you look closely, you can still see traces of blood between the floorboards.

I only had one question for the killer. “Did you bite him?” I asked.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “I’ve grown up,” she sneered.

Either that, or she’s been well trained. Her self-restraint seems quite impressive these days. Without it, I might not be able to keep my crazy little princess trapped in our tower. And there’s no doubt about it anymore—Gwendolyn is officially deranged. The first thing I did after I heard about Ivan was head straight up to the lounge. The head was gone, but the Mac PowerBook 100 manual was still there. I took out the Hare Psychopathy Checklist and gave Gwendolyn the test. She got a 36 out of 40—a score that would make any successful serial killer proud.

Pathological lying Check!

Lack of empathy or remorse Check!

Promiscuous sexual behavior Hell, yeah.

Superficial charm Fooled me.

Criminal versatility She’s the Dux!

Delusions of grandeur She’s the Dux!

Juvenile delinquency She cut off Ivan’s head (and I’m not sure she used a knife).

I’m no trained psychologist, but neither was the kid who typed up the checklist and scrawled the purple note at the bottom of the page. You’re the crazy one, you redheaded freak. I think I know which redheaded freak he was addressing. I should have figured it out a long time ago. The Mac PowerBook 100 was sold in the early 1990s. Lucian Mandel would have been in his teens back then, and he told me he’s been studying the academy’s students since he was my age. His obsession with predators must have begun while he was in high school. I can just see the arrogant little bastard administering the test to Wolves his own age. Then one of them decided to turn the tables. If his score is accurate, Lucian Mandel is more dangerous than Gwendolyn.

I don’t know if he still engages in “promiscuous sexual behavior.” (I shudder at the thought.) But Mandel has certainly got “manipulation” down pat. If he didn’t, Gwendolyn would have ripped out my throat with her perfect white teeth by now. I’m guessing he once told her to help me in any way that she could—and that the order has not been rescinded. So I force Gwendolyn to sit silently beside me as we tackle our homework at the end of each day.

It must make for a pretty picture—the blond beauty and her handsome beau. We’re just two ordinary American teenagers inventing new ways for businesspeople and politicians to screw the whole world. Every night before we head to our rooms, I grab Gwendolyn, bend her over one of the balcony railings, and kiss her. And every night I almost vomit—but the gesture must be made. I want to remind Gwendolyn how little effort it would take to toss her over the side. The message couldn’t be clearer, but she always kisses me back. That’s what she’s been told to do.

I have no allies here—only enemies. I couldn’t care less if the other students hate me. I only want them to bow down before me. The trick—just a little something I picked up from Caligula—is indulging my every whim. I keep the academy’s plastic surgeons busy by practicing new Hand-to-Hand Combat techniques on Caleb and Austin. I delight in finding novel ways to destroy Leila’s precious computers. (Yesterday at lunch, I took a leak on her latest model.) Whenever Julian’s crew cut grows long enough, I shave obscene designs into the side of his head. It’s been a while since the Wolves have done anything to provoke such abuse. That’s the whole point. There’s no such thing as cause and effect anymore. There are no rules. There’s just me.

Maybe the switch has been flipped and I’ve become Mandel’s monster. Or maybe I’m just pretending. I don’t think anyone knows for sure. The person I once was might be hidden away somewhere inside my head. But I’m like an old lady who buried her treasures in the backyard—and then forgot where she dug the hole. When I found out number 53 was dead, I felt nothing. An Android in my Fundamentals of Business class said that Frances swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol. He didn’t seem to realize that the official story was ridiculous. Students aren’t even allowed to have bottles of vitamins in their rooms. Any potentially fatal drug would be kept under lock and key. But the Android needed to believe it was suicide because the truth was too horrific to contemplate. All I could do was laugh.

“Who’s next?” I asked Gwendolyn when I took my seat next to her in the Art of Persuasion.

She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “That’s it,” she told me in a hushed, angry voice. “We can’t have fewer than fifty students.”

Thanks to Ivan’s untimely demise, a Ghost was spared. But that’s not justice. It’s only dumb luck.

• • •

It’s the beginning of April, and I haven’t seen Mandel in about five weeks. The semester is almost over, and new rankings will be posted at the end of the month. I have no real competition—academic or otherwise—at this school anymore. Even Gwendolyn has fallen far behind. But Mandel must want to keep me on my toes because he’s decided it’s time for another pop quiz. I think he’ll find that I’m 100 percent focused. I’ve got my eyes on the prize, and nothing’s gonna keep me from winning it. Whatever Mandel wants me to do, I’ll do it with a smile. And whenever I have the opportunity, I’ll thank him for framing that picture of Jude and hanging it up in my room. It’s really helped me set my priorities straight. I don’t care about Ghosts or girls anymore. I don’t give a damn about proof. This monster is just waiting for a chance to kill its creator. One way or another, I’ll get out. And then I’m going to destroy him.

Mandel’s latest test will take place today. The top three students in the Art of Persuasion have been chosen to receive additional “off-site” training. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and we’ve just been pulled out of our first-period classes for a meeting in Mr. Martin’s office on the ground floor of the academy. It’s Gwendolyn, a fifteen-year-old Wolf named Percy, and me. I wonder if the other two realize that they’re only here to make the charade seem legitimate.

The office is a dump. Whatever Mr. Martin’s skills may be, organization clearly isn’t one of them. Stacks of white boxes circle his desk and climb the walls. Many are missing their lids, and the labels slapped on their sides are written in an illegible hand. The box closest to me contains an empty bottle of prescription medication, a pair of women’s underwear, and a wig. Once we take our seats, our beloved instructor maneuvers the obstacle course to the other side of his desk. Its surface is strewn with paper coffee cups, yellowing newspapers, and multicolored towers of folders. Maybe Mr. Martin thinks the clutter makes him look professorial. All I see is opportunity. A mess like this is a godsend to a thief.

He pulls out a black leather briefcase, sets it on the desk in front of him, and begins dialing the combination lock. He acts like he’s some kind of CIA operative, but if that’s his idea of security, he needs a refresher class. Leave me alone with that briefcase, and I’d have the lock cracked in less than a minute. I probably won’t get a minute, but the idea still burrows into my brain.

I can’t see into the briefcase from where I’m sitting on the opposite side of the desk. I watch Mr. Martin’s hand disappear inside and emerge clutching three thin files.

“Gwendolyn.” She rises and leans over the desk to accept her file. Mr. Martin is in a jovial mood this morning. I haven’t seen him this happy since Lucas’s trial by polygraph. Someday I’ll smack that smile off his face, but right now I can’t afford the indulgence.

“Flick.” As I reach for my file, I knock over one of the coffee cups. Clumps of mildew ride a thick brown river that flows around the papers on Mr. Martin’s desk and drips down onto his chair.

“Dammit!” Mr. Martin bellows. He roots through a trash can and pulls out a handful of napkins that must have come with yesterday’s lunch.

“Sorry!” As I scramble to rescue documents from the flood, I position the corner of a thick envelope on the lip of the briefcase.

“Don’t touch anything! Just sit down!” Mr. Martin orders me, and I obediently drop back into my seat.

He tosses the sopping-wet napkins into the trashcan and wipes his palms on his pants. “Get up and take your file,” he snaps at Percy.

I don’t know if my ruse will amount to anything, but at least I’ve spoiled the bastard’s good mood. He swats down the top of his briefcase. It might look closed, but I didn’t hear the lock click. This could be my lucky day.

Mr. Martin glances at his wet chair and curses under his breath. He kicks a box out of the way and squeezes back around the desk to address us.

“The files you’ve been given contain all the information you will need to complete today’s assignments. There are cars waiting for you outside. You will each be driven to your destination—and then driven straight back to the academy. You are not authorized to go anywhere else. I have carefully engineered these simulations to test your unique abilities. I recommend that you take the exercise very seriously. Act just as you would in a real-world situation. But remember: you will be under surveillance at all times.

“Now, if you check your files, you will find a brief description of your assignment on the first page. Take a moment to read it. You’ll have plenty of time to examine the other contents once you’re en route to your destinations.”

I open my file but sneak a quick peek at Gwendolyn’s. I see a photo of a man. A plastic bag with two white pills has been stapled to the inside of the folder. So she’s supposed to drug him and what? Kill him? Take dirty photos? Leave a few bite marks where the guy’s jealous wife might discover them?

“Eyes on your own file, Flick!” Mr. Martin barks.

My file contains a snapshot of a different man. I don’t recognize him. He’s in his early forties. Dark-haired. Handsome. He looks like an actor. He has an iPhone pressed to one ear.

Arriving at 1:50 p.m. on American Flight 3749 from Chicago. Obtain the phone and deactivate password protection. Return to the academy and immediately deliver the device to your instructor.

“Want me to look for anything in particular on the phone?” I ask.

“You’re not very good at following directions,” Mr. Martin says. “You’ve been instructed to bring the phone directly to me. You haven’t been asked to trawl through the contents.”

Ha. That’s like creating a file called secret diary: keep out on the computer you share with your sister. Either you’re incredibly stupid, or you want her to look. Mandel’s not stupid. There’s something on the man’s phone that he wants me to find.

“Are there any other questions?” Mr. Martin asks. Gwendolyn and Percy both shake their heads. “Then get started. We expect you back here no later than five.”

I rise.

“Sit back down, Flick,” Mr. Martin orders as he opens the door and ushers the others out of the office.

“Mr. Martin?” Gwendolyn is gone, but Percy is lingering by the door. “Am I authorized to use lethal force if I’m captured?” He sounds so eager.

“This is just a simulation,” Mr. Martin reminds him. “You aren’t going to get caught.”

Bless that little psycho. He’s given me just enough time. My fingers creep into the briefcase on Mr. Martin’s desk. I’m hoping for a phone but find a wallet instead. Good enough. The briefcase lock clicks, and I’m back in my seat, the wallet safely hidden beneath the folder on my lap.

Mr. Martin slams the office door. “I was hesitant to give you this assignment,” he tells me. “I saw your arm and assumed that your chip had been removed. I didn’t want to be responsible for a student like you going AWOL. However, Mr. Mandel has informed me that your movements are still being tracked. And I’ve ensured that they will be actively monitored throughout the day. I also have a team of observers in position at JFK Airport. If they see any sign that you intend to go off course, the punishment will be severe. You are not allowed to make phone calls or send emails. You will not initiate any unnecessary conversations. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you have any idea how severe punishments can get at the academy?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” I tell him.

“Then off you go.” He waves me away like he can’t stand the sight of me.

• • •

I’m in the backseat of a black Lincoln Town Car. It only takes a few seconds to examine the contents of my assignment file. In addition to the photo and instructions, there’s a plane ticket that will allow me to access the American Airlines gates. The phony name on the ticket matches a counterfeit ID with my picture on it. There’s nothing else in the file. Not a single piece of information on the man I’m meant to rob. I could sit here and guess what the academy has planned, but I have much better things to do.

Mr. Martin’s wallet contains $135 in cash. His real name is Simon Hodenfield. He lives at 45 East 85th Street in Manhattan, just off Park Avenue. The photo on his driver’s license makes him look like a pedophile. Fantastic. Mixed in with a bunch of receipts is a list of names written on a scrap of paper. None of the names rings any bells. I flip the scrap over. Jackpot. It’s the top half of a letter addressed to the parents of Nathaniel Hodenfield, who has been a very naughty boy at school. One more infraction and young Nate will be kicked out of the Browning School for the remainder of his sophomore year. Whatever the kid did, something tells me he isn’t going anywhere. In fact, he’ll probably end up graduating with honors. The six names on the back of the letter look like a hit list. I bet they all work at the Browning School. “Mr. Martin” has probably been digging up dirt on each of them.