Mind Games (19 page)

She gazes down at her electric-blue boots. “I am sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I pull my hand off the face. Am I touching it too much? “I know you were trying to make me feel better.”

Helmut comes up. “New hair. Don’t be late for the meeting.” He goes in.

“Men,” Shelby says. “It is enchanting and lovely.”

“My meeting’s starting.” I kiss Shelby on the cheek, her preferred hello and good-bye, and go in.

   Packard’s back in the booth with a group of guys. He very nearly twinkles as I walk up, which makes me think
he likes my chocolaty new hair color, and this pleases me until I remind myself of his crimes against me.

“Hey, guys.” There’s nowhere for me to sit. Helmut offers me his place next to Packard. Instead, I grab a chair from the front.

Packard introduces me to Enrique, a young Latino with a whisper of a fuzz mustache and gold hoop earrings. “Ennui,” Enrique says with a sigh.

“Ennui,” I say. “Wow.”

Wearily, he waves me off. The other man, a blocky football-player type, is named Jay. His light brown hair is peppered with gray, and he has happy, crinkly eyes and dimples and a big jaw.

“Jay is our alcoholic,” Packard says.

Jay smiles, unruffled. He’s the likeable sort who’s friends with everybody. I don’t say hello to Packard himself, and Packard doesn’t say hello to me. Nobody notices because the introductions felt hello-like. Packard and I are so far beyond hello.

The purpose of this meeting is to fill Helmut and me in on the Alchemist, whose real name is Connor, and to teach us sheepshead, Connor’s favorite card game. Jay and Enrique have already infiltrated the Alchemist’s Thursday sheepshead club, and two more spots in the club will open up soon. Helmut and I will fill these spots.

“You ever play bridge?” Jay asks, dealing out cards two and three at a time. I haven’t, but Helmut has. “Bridge helps a little.”

I immerse myself in the conversation, avoiding looking at Packard, but I can feel him all the same; being near him makes me feel intensely alive, as usual. I remind myself that feeling alive is not always a good thing. People feel intensely alive during hurricanes and wars.

Packard gathers his cards. “Your work on the Alchemist
must take place entirely within the context of these Thursday-night sheepshead games.”

Our eyes meet, and my pulse pounds through every nook of me.

“Same as Jay and Enrique,” he adds. “No outside contact. No solo contact.”

The way Jay and Enrique trade glances suggests this has been the source of some discussion.

“There’s no reason why this shouldn’t be a routine disillusionment,” Packard adds, a statement that implies quite the opposite. I catch Helmut’s eye. He senses something odd, too.

Enrique slides down in the booth. “The Alchemist is a chemist, right? He creates and ingests his own drug mixtures, and that’s been slowing us down. Every Thursday I zing him with the highest-octane ennui this side of the Atlantic, and it slumps him for a while, but then he’s back up. I can’t get him rolling.”

Jay nods. “He’s not the greatest chemist in the world. The drugs he mixes for himself … let’s just say some of his mixtures are more successful than others, but it’s been enough to foil us.”

“The key to destabilizing the Alchemist is to get him to start drinking again,” Packard adds. “That’s all we need, and that’s why you’re on this, Justine.”

Enrique tugs on his leather jacket sleeve. The jacket looks like it’s been through three lifetimes of hard use, just like Enrique, even though he couldn’t be older than twenty-one. “Guy’s got a day job as a chemist for a shampoo company,” he says.

Packard turns to me. “I’m convinced the Alchemist will resort to drink if his health anxieties get reactivated and he thinks he’s dying. Helmut will be your ride to and from all functions, and he’ll pose as your romantic companion. He’ll always accompany you.”

“Okay.” Awkward pause. “Is there something I should know about this Alchemist?”

Nobody says anything. They all just look at Packard.

“What?” I ask. “Is he some kind of a rape, torture, murder, chop-’em-up guy?”

More weird silence. Finally Packard speaks. “He doesn’t chop them up.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s always drug-assisted. His own concoctions, of course.”

“You’re sure about this?” I say.

Packard nods. “I’ll give you the file. And you can talk to Francis.”

They all watch me to see what I do.

I just laugh; I don’t know why. “Well. Sounds like a good candidate.”

Jay smiles, and Helmut and Enrique look relieved. Packard stares at his little stack of cards.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Justine,” Jay says. “He goes after women at dance clubs. He wouldn’t get his victims from his weekly card game.”

I’m pleased to have such an evil target, though I’ll definitely want to confirm it. My new rationalization is that I’m only a vigilante on a case-by-case basis.

Enrique leans toward me: sharp, dark stare. “One thing, though. The man gets a little clingy after you zing him. Whenever I charge up his ennui, he just wants to complain to me. Fucking tiresome. The man’s complaints are so trivial.”

“Not for long,” I say.

Jay claps once. “Excellent.” He gives Helmut and me cheat sheets with card rankings and explains the play. It’s a game of tricks and trumps and bluffs where queens and jacks beat most kings and aces. “You guys don’t have to be pros at this,” Jay says. “Some players still use cheat sheets. Sheepshead is pretty much only known by
elderly farmers. They were shocked when I told them I had a couple players I could bring in. Shocked.”

Enrique snickers.

I learn the game fast. I love cards, and I love hanging around with my gang, even with Packard there. An hour into it, Helmut and I are good enough that we can play for money.

Helmut’s playing style is methodical: his lips move a lot—counting trumps, I realize. Jay is more interested in socializing than winning hands; he doesn’t make a big move unless he’s sure of himself. Enrique is an astonishingly good bluffer. And the only word to describe Packard’s style is swashbuckling. His throws are sometimes reckless and sometimes brilliant—usually both. He controls the hands no matter what he holds. People eye him when they make a play, and they monitor his reactions when somebody else throws down. This was what he was in life, I realize: a man who did brazen things and galvanized people. And now he’s the prisoner of Henji, the highcap who can murder with a mere thought.

A few hours later, Helmut’s standing and stretching. I can see just a few civilians left out in the dining room. Jay has to go, too.

“Guys,” I say, “I’m on a winning streak here.”

Enrique throws down his cards. “Can’t play with three.”

“Stick around, Justine,” Packard says. “We need to talk diseases for the Alchemist.”

“Can’t you just email me the stuff?”

“No.”

The guys leave and I slide into the booth across from Packard.

He adjusts to his usual sideways sitting position, not looking at me for a long time.

I wait, heart beating a million miles an hour.

Finally he looks up. “It’s fine with me if you don’t want to work on the Alchemist case. You can say no and I’ll say I changed my mind. You’re the only one who’s not here by choice.”

“Is that an apology?”

“No, it’s an option.”

“Don’t treat me different than the others.”

“I’d think twice about sending Helmut after a serial killer who targets men who look like opera singers,” Packard says. “I’d think twice about sending Enrique against, say, a serial killer who targets young, jaded Latinos.”

“You’d think twice, but you don’t let them pick and choose cases. From day one, I was slated for two cases—the Silver Widow and the Alchemist. Have you decided I can’t handle this one?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Then what?” Is he frightened for me? And then it occurs to me that maybe there’s something he doesn’t want me to figure out.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m going to find a way to get free of you. But until then, I plan to be the best goddamn ally I can be to my fellow disillusionists. Those guys need me and I’m going.”

“The more I think about it … it might be a mistake,” Packard says. “Maybe I’m rushing this phase.”

“Wait. You have a plan with
phases?”

“I meant this phase of the Alchemist’s disillusionment.”

I don’t buy it. Something strange is afoot. “Tell me this: who’s the client on this one?”

“The identity of the client is confidential and not germane to our conversation. This is about you and the Alchemist and his victim profile.”

“What? I fit a profile? The Alchemist has a specific victim profile that would put me in danger?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“The victims are all very beautiful.”

I roll my eyes. “Get off it.” But honestly, I can barely breathe. Or think.

“It’s true, and you need to know.” He shifts to sit up properly. “And yes, Jay and Enrique have met the Alchemist, but I alone have gazed into his heart. I alone see him for the monster he is. Far more dangerous than the Bon Vivant or the Silver Widow.”

I feel cold. The way he says it, I don’t doubt him.

“You can refuse. I’ll tell the group I changed my mind on tactics. This is only your second target, and I wouldn’t blame you.”

I’ve never seen him like this. Is he feeling guilty? “I’m going. What’s the disease?”

A pause. Then, “Are you familiar with Farthing-Dollop syndrome? Or aplastic spindler neuroma?”

“Neuro stuff. Sure.”

“I see the Alchemist toggling between those conditions. He controls his hypochondria by controlling his thoughts, so he may not have fallen into an attack for years, but the fear is very close to the surface. And here’s something else—he probably hasn’t been to a doctor since childhood, so you’ll be the only medical professional he’s spoken with for eons.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s a loaded situation. Maybe too loaded.”

“It sounds like it’s loaded in exactly the right way.”

He sits up. “You know what? It’s off. I’m not sending you on this one.”

“What?”

“I don’t like it.” He stabs his finger into the table a couple times. “I have made my decision.”

“You can’t pull me off! They’re going to think I chickened out.”

“It’s my decision,” he says.

“I’m going.”

“I’ll instruct them not to bring you.”

I let my mouth fall open. “I can’t believe you’re taking even more choices away from me.”

No answer.

Heat rises in my face. I want to help the victims. And I want to know his secrets. “Okay, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to do a little online research and I’m going to find out Connor the Alchemist’s last name and where he lives—I bet he’s been in the news, and I bet it takes me all of one minute. And then I’m going to hunt him down. And then I’m going to zing him.”

Packard’s cheekbones are pink. “Don’t.”

“What, are you going to stop me? Are you going to come after me?” This is a little mean, I know.

A bemused light dances in his eyes. “You’re not the kind of woman to do something so foolish out of defiance.”

He’s absolutely right, of course. Which enrages me. It makes me want to …

I sit back and smile, mirroring him exactly. “You’re right. I’m not the kind of woman to do something foolish out of defiance. I am, however, the kind of woman who would do something foolish just to prove that you can’t tell me what kind of woman I am.” And this actually
is
the sort of thing I’d do.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I’ve made my decision.”

He gazes down at the deck of cards, eyelashes a deep fringe of cinnamon brown.

I grab my purse and stand. “Try and stop me.”

“Wait, wait.” He glowers up at me and I glower back, twisting my purse strap around my wrist, which echoes the twistiness in my stomach. “Give me your word that you won’t contact him outside the card game.”

“Then let me go to the game as planned.”

He relents. I give my word and sit back down.

“Take heed, Justine. The Alchemist is vulnerable to you, but don’t underestimate him. Walk away if something doesn’t feel right.”

“If something doesn’t feel right? I’m going around as a fake nurse getting people to have hypochondria attacks.”

We both would’ve thought that was pretty funny back when we drank coffee out of the same cup and shared private jokes. When our affections were sunny and uncomplicated. It was just a few months ago, but it seems like another world.

          Seventeen

I
PULL OPEN
the gold-handled glass doors of Le Toile and sashay across the marble floor with an exaggerated frown and crazy swaying hips in one of my famous “Ms. Fancy Customer” imitations I used to do for the girls.

Marnie and Sally just smile and nod and go back to their work behind the counter.

I’m shocked they think I’m a real customer. But then again, I have brown hair now, and it’s been nearly three months since either of them have seen me. I try an inside joke: “Do you have any other Dondi Viva dresses besides these?”

They regard me glumly.