The Kissing Game (20 page)

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s meet Agent Larsen downstairs.”

I follow him as we tread back down the hall to
the elevators and ride down to the fourth floor, where we step off and walk to
the cafeteria. Inside, I find Agent Larsen and twenty other agents, a mix of
plain-clothed and swat-geared officers, men and women. They stand in a tight group
among the many empty tables in the cafeteria. On one table is a small bag of
chips and a Coke. I feel like Pavlov’s dog.

“Come on over. Have a seat, Ms. Stone,” Agent
Larsen commands, waving me over. “Your dinner,” he offers pointing at the chips
as I arrive. “Sorry, stuffed baked potatoes were all gone.”

I notice twenty FBI agents watching me
impatiently. I open the bag and take two bites of plain chips and it’s heaven.
Next, I swig the Coke. After three more bites, Agent Larsen says, “You probably
don’t want to fill up too much.”

“Why?” I ask, still famished.

“You just don’t,” he refuses to tell me. His
relaxed voice makes me feel relaxed, as though heading out with a swat team is
a nightly activity.

I take the bag with me anyway, and the group of
FBI agents and I become a tight throng moving toward the elevator. Most of the
agents talk with each other, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Agent Larsen
asks Agent Silver if I’m prepped.

“As she’ll ever be,” he says apologetically.

The group disperses into four cars and a van.
We exit the underground parking into San Francisco at night, glittering orange like
distant dying stars. At least I’m no longer handcuffed and starving.

Within twenty minutes we arrive at the Chairman’s
house. It looks dead, empty, abandoned among houses full of life and light.
Agent Larsen drives past the house and parks around the corner. He puts a bud
in his ear, and then he and Agent Silver turn around and look at me.

“You ready?” Agent Larsen asks.

“Yeah, I guess.Do I get a weapon or anything?”

He shakes his head profoundly. “The house is
empty. All you need to do is use this key to get into the gate,” he says
handing me the key, “and enter this code.” He hands me the code on a piece of
paper. “After that, just make yourself comfortable and wait. Whoever comes
won’t even get into the house. We’ll apprehend him first.”

“How long do I have to wait?” I wonder, my
palms suddenly sweating.

“No telling. Could be two hours, could be four.
If nothing happens, we’ll ring the doorbell to tell you we’re coming to get you
out. Got it?”

“I suppose.” I’m suddenly terrified, as if a
legion of bad people waits inside to kill me.

“Don’t worry,” Agent Larsen says with a smile.
“We’re here. All those men and women you saw in the cafeteria, all the ones who
followed us out to the garage. They’re all here.” He points in all directions.
“Front, side, back of the house. You’re not alone, I promise. If something
happens, you just tell us. We’ll hear you. You sense movement, whatever. You
tell us. You’re wired. Remember that. Once you enter the code and get inside,
enter it again on the code panel inside the house.”

“Okay,” I say.

Opening the car door, I step out into the
night, my limbs feeling like ice suddenly. After closing the car door, I tread
the sidewalk around the familiar corner. As the San Francisco wind blows in the
streets, I’m grateful for the warm bullet-proof vest. Treading past the
rustling bushes of nearby pristinely landscaped homes, I notice a white van
parked down the street, and two other unmarked cars parked nearby. Above me, the
stars remain hidden behind the fog as I pass the alley where I escaped on that
fateful night. Soon I round another corner and stride across the stepping-stone
walkway of Collin’s front yard, where the ground lights come to life, twinkling
under my feet. Briefly, I imagine where Collin must be now. Jail? I never asked.

I pull the key from my pocket and feel the
raggedness of my breathing. My hand wobbles as I insert the key into the gate.
Just like before, it opens with a creak. I hear nothing from within. Outside,
beyond this house, I smell someone’s fried chicken and hear a dog barking, the
tinking of a tin can, and a child shouting, “I don’t want to read that book!”
Placing the key in my pocket, my hands shake as I enter the code “5335.” The
door clicks open as if by magic and I shoulder myself inside. As a light flicks
on automatically in the entryway, I enter the code again on the wall inside the
house. 5335.

And I close the door behind me. 

Without a mission, a pursuit, I feel both
terrified and ridiculous. “Hello?” I call out, as if to tell whoever I’m here.
I flick on the lights in the atrium and look at spiral staircase that winds
around it, the black intricate railing, the plants at the bottom, a small
waterfall \and pond with two small Koi fish, little of which I noticed on my
first break-in. The waterfall makes a plinkling sound. Beyond the winding
staircase, out the massive window and down the street, I see the black
silhouettes of agent Larsen and Silver step out of their car. Larsen puffs on
his electronic cigarette.  

Last time I was here, while standing in this
same spot, I contemplated taking the time to walk through the Chairman’s house
to discover how the rich people live. From looking above and below, I see the
house consists of at least three stories, but traipsing around it seems about
as fun as running from a pack of hungry wolves. Instead, I remain planted in
the spot, my hands on the cold railing overlooking the small pond at the bottom
of the atrium below me, the water plinkling out in a continuous stream, the
door only five paces behind me in case I need to run.

 Just as before, I think of Robert. I consider
how mistaken I had been about him, how I constantly chose to believe his
actions were nothing but cruel, when in reality, Robert is a product of the
world he comes from. Had I known his story, I would’ve judged him with a softer
eye. Since he grew up motherless, was shipped from home to home before finding
stability as a teenager with Mr. Spencer, Robert’s callous shell seems a safe
and strong place to hide. In light of his past, it’s a miracle that he achieved
so much success. And again, I feel a hot twinge of guilt at having cost him his
job. But then my thoughts shift elsewhere. I think of Robert kissing me in his
house. I cannot wait for this little job to be over so I can see him again. The
thought makes me feel as though prickly cacti races through my veins.

For a long time, I stand there, leaning over
the railing watching the fish in the small koi pond, partially contemplating
Robert and partially the mess I’ve created.  For several minutes, the bulletproof
vest pinches at my stitches and I have to wrestle with it.

The more time passes, the more I feel as though
I’m just house-sitting rather than being bait. Nothing happens.

 Feeling somewhat bored, I wander into the
kitchen and look out the windows onto the neighboring house. Only a fence and
two feet on either side separate the two structures. High hedges stand on both
sides of the fence. And I see the neighbor, a shadow of a man looking out his
window on the second floor.

For a split second, my heart shudders, but he steps
away, and I look out toward the street, where an old VW Beatle chugs up the
hill and a couple walks their golden retriever. The night is otherwise dark,
motionless, and sleepy. Leaning over the sink to get a better view out the
window, I see the neighbor again, this time in his side yard, making his way
through the hedges toward the fence. I wonder what he’s doing. Emptying the
trash? There are no trash bins nearby. And then I see the fence open, and the
neighbor steps through into Collin’s yard.

“Someone’s coming,” I say loudly enough so that
Agents Larsen and Silver can hear. “Someone from the next door house. He just
walked through the fence. What should I do?” I say, as if they can tell me,
even though they can’t. Something about the way the neighbor moves seems
familiar, like seeing a stranger in a train station and trying to place that
face.

Next I hear the distinct swish-and-click of a
door opening and closing somewhere in Collin’s house. Looking out the
greenhouse doors, where ferns sit with winged arms, I contemplate heading to
the balcony to jump again. But then I look left and consider racing out the
front door. Just as I decide the balcony and take four paces toward the
greenhouse doors, a figure rises out of the darkness in front of me.

I can’t see his face, but he knows my name.

“Caroline,” he says.

It’s such a familiar voice that I almost feel
the urge to cry at the sound of it. My psyche wrestles with the possibilities
even though it already knows the answer. The truth feels like buzzards plucking
at my heart. I feel an aching at the back of my throat.

Taking a step back, I bump into the counter in
the kitchen. It feels like a cold knife against my hands. Jutting my eyes left,
I look through the darkness to find the other passage through the hallway to
the front door, but I feel disoriented suddenly, as if someone has blindfolded
and spun me around. Even so, my legs ready themselves to run, and my heart
feels like a scattered, twisted mass.

“Caroline, I’m sorry,” he says. “Don’t run. Let
me explain.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say, my eyes welling. “It
can’t be you, God, of all people. Tell me you have nothing to do with this.”

The tall figure steps forward in the dark. The
shadows from the ferns in the greenhouse blacken out his handsome face. There
is a distinct illness in the room. And I think about how wrong people always
are in their judgments of others, how those judgments become revolving doors of
conclusions based on events, but that no one really knows anyone else. We’re
all just strangers to each other. We’re all just Clint Eastwood on a horse
riding through a western film, deciding who to shoot and who to let pass on by.
Who can you trust? No one. If we live by Clint Eastwood creed. No one.

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to
say,” I utter, my hand sliding along the counter as I inch left toward escape.
What’s taking the agents so long to bust through the doors? I can run faster
than that. Shouldn’t they be here by now?

            “Collin saved me, utterly, from a
terrible life,” he says in that familiar voice. The voice I know so well.

            At his words, my brain coils with a
thousand jarring thoughts. I inch my feet left, my hand reaching.

            “I was basically an orphan,
Caroline. As a child, I had no choice but to do this business, just to stay
alive. There was no place for me, aside from those who would occasionally offer
me a rug to sleep on. Collin gave me a chance at life, a chance I never thought
possible. He gave me a life, Caroline. As long as I …” he trails off.

            “As long as you what? As long as
you slept with him?”

            “I was young then, only a child,
yes, I slept with him. But it was better than being a prostitute on the
streets. Now he and I, what we do is good. We save children in the Philippines.
We bring them to the United States, and set them up with rich men in the
states. They only have to be with rich men, one man per child. Do you realize
how much better their lives are because of us? Do you realize how much good
we’ve done in the world? We’ve taken poor, abused children and given them a
chance at a normal life, a chance at the American Dream.”

            “You mean human trafficking?” I say
feeling the urge to be sick.

            “Call it what you want, but it’s
better than the life these children had before. I’ve seen them, mangy children
riddled with fleas and scabies and track lines on their arms. I’m not ashamed
of what I’ve done. I’m a good person. I’ve brought only goodness into the world
through this work. Ask any of the children. They will tell you.”  The tall
figure steps closer to me and I see a long metal object in his hand, and I
think I might just die of a shocked heart.

 “How? How did you do it?” I ask, buying time
to inch out of the kitchen. The metallic beast of a refrigerator growls in
front of me.

“I knew how to deal with the people in the
ghettos to make the transport happen. I knew who to contact in the Philippines.
I even knew some of the first kids. Once we got it started, it was easy. I
became the liaison.” He points out the window with his knife. “That’s how I get
to live in that beautiful house next door. You never came to this house before
for a reason. I never wanted you or anyone else at the firm to see where I
lived. Then you’d know. But how else do you think I could afford all my
clothes, all my luxurious living. Collin paid me through the firm.”

He steps closer and the light from the street
shines on his face, on his beautiful Asian features. I can see why Collin
would’ve wanted him.

Todd.

“No todo es vero lo que suena el pandero.”

Not all is true that is played on the tambourine.

“What’s the knife for, Todd?” I ask, the metal glinting
and quivering like a long celestial body in his hand. Todd’s dark eyes glare violently
at me, his face like stone. Only the shimmering lights of the city outside the
windows offer grave light in the dim kitchen.

Todd doesn’t answer my question.

“For a thin little thing, you sure know how to
cause a lot of trouble,” Todd says instead, his lip twitching. “And with Collin
going to jail, your trouble leaves only me to fix things, to run our whole
operation. I have to deal with all that and you, too. And your snooping around,
getting Cory and Henry involved. You’re such a freak about it, like a pit bull.
You just chomp down and won’t let go. This whole ordeal with Robert was
finished the minute you put that tape in the mailbox. Why can’t you just stop?
What do you care if some paper-pushing asshole doesn’t have a job?” he says, a
strange intensity in his voice.

“So you sent Collin to my apartment?” I ask,
suddenly noticing the decorative overhead light hanging down like meat hooks in
the shadows.

“Collin did that all on his own, but it was
going to have to be him or me. One of us was gonna have to stop you. Do you
realize how much money you’ve cost us these past weeks? More than you’ll make
in a lifetime. We’ve had to shut down since you broke in. I tried to calm
Collin down: I told him you had nothing to do with those photos in his mailbox,
but he wouldn’t have it. He thinks you’re looking to take him down. Caroline’s
not clever enough, I told him, but he didn’t buy it. And now look at you. Here
you are. Why’d you come? Collin’s not stupid enough to leave evidence lying
around.” He sounds as though he’d like to spit on me.

The pulse of the universe beats in my neck as I
think about the knife in his hand and the fact that human legs were made to
run. Even back in the days of early man. They were made to escape from
prehistoric beasts, to dash blindly through tall grasses while hunting wholly
mammoths. Even in the cowboy days, they were meant to dismount horses and run
afoot in stone crowded marketplaces while men with guns chased. Yet mine have
lost their will. My mind feels blind as I force myself to slide sideways, feeling
my fingers along the kitchen counter in the dark.

“To be honest, Caroline,” Todd adds while he
takes a small step toward me, “I never understood how you got Robert to kiss
you. I’ve never found you all that attractive, with your curly hair, your
freckles, your pale face. I never thought your little plan to get Robert fired
would work. I thought he’d rather vomit than kiss you, even if he was
intoxicated.”

I’m not so much offended by his comment as
disturbed by the whole ugly scenario. Todd tosses the knife into his other hand,
as if he juggles knives in his spare time. As bits of blackened shadows hit his
face, the floor seems to tremble. I slide sideways again and contemplate my escape,
at the same time praying for the feds to burst through the door. What are they
waiting for? More confession?

“Look,” I say, stalling. With my palms up, my
back against the counter, I try to reconcile the quivering in my voice. “We’re
rational, you and I. I’m not a threat. It’s just me, Caroline. I can just walk
out of here. You can go on your merry way. I’ll just forget everything. Like
you said, I just wanted to get Robert’s job back,” I say. In reality, I’m
already contemplating Todd in prison fatigues, how much I’d like to see him
behind bars. Orange would be a terrible color on him. He’d be totally washed
out, and he’d seethe in prison knowing I was responsible for this travesty.  I
glance to my left again, my only escape at this point. Toward the front door. It’s
utter gloom since the automatic light in the entryway has gone out. Something
hammers in my ears. Outside a car rattles by.

Meanwhile Todd is a snake ready to strike, and
the room smells of carnage suddenly. My mind wrestles with the reality of it
all. I can’t picture Todd killing anyone. Then again, it never would’ve crossed
my mind before that he could be involved in anything like this. My thoughts briefly
venture into Todd’s past, the kind of life he must have been living. I imagine
how he must have spent his evenings, the children he’s victimized. The images
repulse me. My stomach becomes acid while my hammering ears listen hopefully
for any sign of the feds bursting through the door.

Edging myself along, I feel my elbow tapping
something on the counter. It wobbles.  

 “I knew the minute I saw you in this house on
my security playback that there was only one solution for you.”

“But, Todd,” I choke, as if we’re still best
friends, “you don’t kill people. You’re a nice guy.” I sidle sideways. The
counter edge feels icy on my sweaty palm. “You don’t hurt people.”

He sniggers. “How could you think that in my line
of work I never had to hurt anyone? Are you really that naïve? There’re always
the uncooperative ones. And what did you think you’d uncover here in Collin’s
house? Some more evidence you could use against him?”

I don’t have an answer. In my peripheral
vision, I map my exit. To the left. Run fast. Get out the front door and
scream. What if I can’t see in the dark? What if I fall? What if he runs faster
than I do? What if he stabs me in the back or throws that knife at me?

His eyes seem to say
We might as well get
this over with
, and I feel a sudden jolt of fight or flight, so I take my
opportunity to dash out of the kitchen toward the front door, seeing only utter
blackness as I run, my legs feeling like they’re swimming through heavy water
as I go. Behind me I hear Todd scrambling and feel the swift clutch of his hand
on my hair. I totter backwards and the ceiling tilts as Todd swings the knife
around toward my throat. Instinctively I elbow him the in stomach with both
arms, feeling the solid tension in his abdomen. The action causes him to knock
over a display dish on the kitchen island, and it smashes on the floor in a
crescendo of clattering. As I run I hear him puff and stumble before hurdling
at me again.

Several steps ahead of him now, I dash past the
atrium, the outdoor lights though the grand window guiding my steps. I nearly
fall while loping around the corner in the dark, my hair hitting my face like a
whip. As I take three long leaps toward the front door and grab the handle, I
imagine the havoc of blood that death by knife leaves behind. The body is made
of five liters of blood. Five liters. Twisting the handle, I realize the door
won’t budge. Fuck! I slam my fingers on the keypad to enter the code again, but
my hand pauses. My mind stops. Suddenly, I can’t remember it. Seven five or
five seven. Nine something? It’s gone from my memory. I turn to see Todd
walking around the corner. Tall, handsome, model-like Todd. He stands there
utterly unrushed, his hair still perfect in the light hitting the side of his
face. The automatic entry light clicks on, and we’re both instantly
illuminated; only I’m the piece of meat ready to be sliced, the unfired clay ill-equipped
for burn. With a knife in his hand, Todd looks like a different person, some
stranger I’ve never met.

“You should’ve jumped off the balcony again,”
he says. “Naturally, Collin and I rigged the security to lock people inside.
You’d be surprised how often that comes in handy. The whole place is sound
proofed. Even the windows have triple panes. You could scream for hours and no
one outside will hear you.”

I should’ve jumped off the balcony. Yes. He’s
right. As he walks to me, I think I should’ve also grabbed a knife while I was
in the kitchen. Definitely. And then I wonder if bullet proof vests are
impervious to knives as well as bullets. I wish I would’ve asked Agent Larsen
about this. It seems like a relevant question right now. I should’ve done a lot
of things differently, throughout my whole life, from the moment of birth until
now. And I should’ve guessed something wasn’t quite right with Todd. How could
he afford all his nice clothes, expensive scarves, named-brand sunglasses, and
shoes on an assistant’s salary? I should’ve been more observant. If you’re not
observant, you’re vulnerable. I look around the entryway for a weapon. Anything.
I see nothing but a tall blue vase on top of an entry table. It looks expensive.
It also looks as if it weighs a thousand pounds. To my left, I notice a bright
red button on the alarm keypad. I hit it.

Nothing happens. Not a sound. No flashing
lights or blaring alarm.

“I always thought it was cute, you know, the way
you couldn’t handle things, the way you cried over Robert, like a little
meanness would kill you. Like a sweet, defenseless kitten. There were always
good qualities about you. It’s just your persistence that ruined everything,”
Todd says. He twirls the knife as if preparing to throw it at me. And then he
looks at it in his hand. “It’s my weapon of choice,” he says. “Less noisy.”

With my eye on the weapon, I raise my hands.
“Just wait a second,” I choke. “Just wait.” He wouldn’t kill a friend, would
he? “I’m your friend, Todd. We’re friends. You wouldn’t kill a friend, right?
How long have we known each other? Two years? We worked together, friends for
two
whole years
.” My voice sounds mousey to me.

“Collin was
my
best friend, and now he’s
in jail because of you.” At that statement, Todd lunges, and I don’t know why
I’m surprised. For a moment, I hoped he didn’t have it in him. Ducking out of
his clutch, I slide along the wall and scamper toward the massive vase.
Grasping the neck with both hands, I heave it. It must weigh thirty pounds and
my wounds pinch like string pulled tight. Grunting, I watch the vase fly at him.
With one hand, he gracefully stops it, and it hits the tile floor, pieces
flying. While I flee toward the atrium, my left hand smacks the lights on the
wall, lighting up the whole atrium in a gaudy gold. Undaunted, Todd dashes
behind me. My stitches now shriek, the wounds feeling hot and wet. I don’t look
behind me, I just move, but then feel Todd’s hand outstretching like that of an
itinerant magician. He fists the back of my shirt. With momentum pulling me
forward, he yanks me back, and I stumble on the stairs, falling face forward
and hitting my head on the metal step.

Together, we become rolling beasts on the
stairs. Todd’s energy feels inextinguishable, wholly primal, devoid of order. I
can’t see the knife, but I hear my shirt fabric tear as the blade slices a hole
in my blouse. Like a mad creature provoked out of a tomb, Todd lifts the
gleaming metal while I drive my knees and hands into his chest trying to push
him away. I think this is it. It’s happening now. And I deserve it. Don’t I?
Like indefatigable karma, the bad that I’ve done persists in the shape of a
knife blade. I feel the pressure of sharpness pierce the bulletproof vest and
puncture my skin below, like a heavy needle. The vest bows inward, and the
pressure concaves against my chest. So I’m not knife-proof after all. With
blood rushing to my exerting face, I remind myself that muscles exist
throughout the entire human body, none of which seem to be effective at pushing
Todd away. Cords of his black bangs hit my face. With one thumb, I jab at his
eye, hoping to push it into his brain.

“Mother fucker!” he yells, just as his knife
hits some obstruction in my vest. Todd palms his eye as he raises the weapon
again, some destiny prefigured in his aghast face, ready to give it another go.
I waste no time in propelling myself out from under him.

 “Help!” I scream while scuttling up the stairs
on both hands and feet like a dog before I’m upright, dashing two steps at a
time to the next floor of the grand house, not stopping to glance towards the
window where Agent Larsen and Silver must see me out in the darkness somewhere.
They must, right?

“Must you be such a freak?” Todd asks, now straightened
and gliding up the stairs.

As soon as my shoe hits the landing of the next
story, I hear Todd gaining speed and mumbling expletives as if multiplied efforts
anger him. I run for the first door I see, but when my hand grabs the knob, it
won’t budge. Locked. I look down the hall, but all I see are closed doors and
utter night in the hallway. I run for the next door and the next. All locked. With
no other option, I decide to turn face him, my hands going up again as I turn
around. He stops several paces away from me gripping the knife and panting
wildly. He walks slowly, like a man who knows I have no way out on this floor. His
right eye is blood red. I want to concentrate on punching him or kicking him or
gouging his eyes out, but all I can concentrate on is the knife in his hand.
The gruesome metal, a dab of red on the end. Around us, the massive house would
otherwise look beautiful and grand with the long garish twinkling lights of the
cascading chandelier that hangs from the high ceiling and dangles eye-level in
a golden tumble over the koi pond below. I contemplate leaping for it and
making a grand exit by falling into the koi pond, but I think I’ll break my neck
if I do.

My mind working like a tattered felon, I
consider self defense and recollect the class I took in college before dropping
out and taking health class instead. My instructor discussed defending against
an attacker. The first principle was to run. The second principle was to have a
well-targeted strike, but with that knife in Todd’s hand, I seriously doubt
this idea. The third principle was something about redirecting the energy of the
opponent, but I wasn’t really paying attention because I was contemplating
dropping out. The last was something utterly ridiculous, like having a positive
mental attitude. I reconsider the strike and feel like an imbecile as I step
toward Todd, readying myself to hit him with the only move I learned. The
sidekick. Even as I prepare, I know it’s useless, but what else have I got?