The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen (53 page)

Quinn wasn’t exactly proud of what he was doing with his life, though he’d come to terms with it. The paper paid him a base salary of $30,000 and ‘bonuses’ for photos it published in print or on its website. When he first started working there after graduating from Dartmouth, he’d spent two months chasing down a story involving the Russian center for the Lakers, Arvidas Karielinko. ‘Arvi’, as he was known to everyone, was born in Chechnya, and Quinn, through countless hours of painstaking research and several nights hiding out in the shrubs across the street from Arvi’s mansion (during which he fancied himself an actual investigative reporter) discovered that Arvi had ties to Muslim extremists. After two weeks of sixteen-hour days at his computer, he produced a Pulitzer-worthy article—at least in his mind—which he proudly submitted to his editor, expecting praise, money, promotions and the more discerning women in the office to instantly fall in love with his brilliant mind.

His editor’s response after reading it: “What the fuck are you doing, you fucking idiot? You think you’re working for the
Wall Street Journal
? Get rid of this shit and go help Nicole. She’s working on something hot.”

The
hot
story Nicole was working on had turned out to be an exposé on why no one had recently seen the reality TV personality Cassie Studebaker in high heels. Nicole had a source who claimed that Cassie, who had regularly worn five-inch stilettos while she was eight months pregnant, couldn’t wear heels anymore because she had bunions. So Quinn had spent the better part of a week examining digitally enlarged photos of Cassie Studebaker’s feet to determine if she had any bony enlargements near her big toes.

Quinn never discovered any bunions, but he did discover that Cassie Studebaker had the brain capacity of a zoo monkey. He also discovered she was hauling in forty million dollars a year. Quinn, on the other hand, was a Rhodes Scholar semi-finalist with a 184 IQ, and his career path had led him to inspecting some idiot celebrity’s feet for toe bumps. Quinn’s parents had brought him up to believe that America was the great meritocracy, a country that rewarded intellect and cleverness with wealth and status—and maybe even fame. But no. It was all an insidious lie. The symbolism of the bunion hunt hadn’t escaped him, and it heightened his disgust for a society that worshipped vapid narcissists like Cassie, while leaving geniuses like him to live insignificant, meaningless lives.

After that, Quinn decided he would never again feel guilty about invading a celebrity’s privacy for financial gain. It was just like the situation with Lucas Mayer.
Summer Slumming
was being renewed—he knew a guy who knew a guy who was a grip for the production company. And the word from this grip was that each cast member would be making $75,000 an episode. It was infuriating. The ‘Summer Slummers’ as his paper sometimes called them, were relative nobodies, a million levels removed from the pantheon of the Hollywood elite, and they were set to make more in just
one episode than Quinn had ever made in an entire year.

He scrolled down the screen, comparing the pictures. “Guess this is the one,” he said with a sigh. Lucas’s eyes were slightly bulging in the photo, making it look like he’d been caught in the act of doing something highly suspect. The girl he was kissing—Caitlin—was short enough to pass for someone much younger. He even had a headline in mind, something blunt and without irony or wit, something your
Average Joe
and
Average Jane
could latch on to without worrying about taxing their middle-of-the-road brains too much:
Minnesota Mayer Caught Kissing Fifteen-Year-Old
.

“I’m actually partial to the one just above it,” a voice said. “It’s much more intimate. More romantic.”

Quinn froze. The voice—a deep, rumbling voice—came from behind him. Slowly, he swiveled his chair around.

The man standing in his kitchen was at least a foot taller than Arvi Karielinko. And much thicker. He looked out of place, like an adult playing in a child’s toy house.

Quinn screamed, his insides turning to water.

The man was holding a bottle of beer in his hand. The bottle looked tiny, like one of those single-shot bottles of booze Quinn was planning to get loaded on during his flight. He smiled and took a swig. His teeth were gold. And pointy.

Quinn screamed again.

“Do that again, and I’ll dig your eyes out with my thumbs.” The man’s voice was pleasant, devoid of malice.

Quinn sucked in his breath, trying not to make a sound. The face looking back at him was bizarre and terrifying; everything was out of order, confused, like someone had played a cruel joke on Mr. Potato Head by putting the parts in all the wrong places. The man was unmistakable. Quinn screamed. He couldn’t help it. Terror gripped his brain.

He took another drink from the bottle. “Thanks for the beer. And by the way, another scream out of you, and I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you. Comprendes?”

Quinn nodded. He felt his mouth hanging open; the muscles and tendons that held everything together had gone slack. He felt some other muscles going slack.
Please don’t pee,
he said to himelf.
Please.
He didn’t have to restrain the urge to run. He couldn’t run. It was physically impossible. His muscles had frozen solid in fear. And he was afraid if he stood up, his bladder would relax and he would pee himself. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not after what had happened so many years ago as a still immature thirteen-year-old too embarrassed to use the group shower after gym class. The older boys had seized the opportunity, taking his towel from him, leaving him fully exposed. The kids laughed. So did the teacher. He’d stood there in front of everyone, living a waking nightmare. And then the inescapability of the situation engulfed him in hot shame and he’d wet himself. There was no recovery from that. The kids were cruel. Relentless. He’d transferred to a different school, but the sense of humiliation couldn’t be left behind.

“Beautiful. I assume you know who I am?”

Quinn took a deep breath, forcing himself to think. He was intimately familiar with the Faceman: His cross-country rampage had fascinated him and he’d followed the story from the beginning, reading everything he could find on the subject. Now he needed to use that knowledge to his advantage. Quinn didn’t lack self-awareness: He was the proverbial ninety-eight pound weakling on the beach getting sand kicked in his face. He had no illusions about taking on anyone in a physical confrontation unless suicide was the goal. But even if Quinn was the biggest baddest dude around, it wouldn’t matter; the Faceman was gigantic, like some kick ass axe-wielding god-of-war character from a video game.

But you’re a genius. You are a genius.
Quinn repeated the words to himself, realizing, oddly, that he was uniquely equipped for this. Physical gifts were not called for here. Inflated, beach-ready biceps and pecs wouldn’t count for anything against the Faceman. But what Quinn possessed—a dazzling intellect—was the one thing the Faceman couldn’t match. In some ways, this was like a surreal and nightmarish extension of the potholed road he’d been traveling on for as long as he could remember; Quinn’s life had been defined by cleft-chinned jocks looking right through him, like their senses couldn’t recognize a fellow male with so little testosterone, and pretty glossy-lipped girls regarding him with embarrassment and horror if he struck up a conversation or tried to buy them a drink (
Oh God! I hope no one sees this loser talking to me.
).

But you’re a genius.

Those were the words where he found comfort, the words that reminded him he was better than them. His brain—the part of us that meant something, that separated us from less evolved forms of life—ran circles and loop de loops around theirs. His brain was responsible for perfect scores on the ACT and the SAT. His brain had gotten him into Dartmouth. He knew things—
understood
things—that the dumb beautiful people could never understand because they were too busy being beautiful—and dumb.

You’re a genius.

His intellect was his ticket out of here, his survival card. If anyone could outwit a dumb psychopath—
the Faceman had to be dumb, right?
—it was Quinn Traynor. He just had to stay cool and control his fear—because fear, he knew from reading a lot of sci fi, was the
mind killer
.

“You’re Nick Blair,” Quinn said, keeping his voice almost steady. “The Faceman.”

“Bingo! And you’re Quinn Traynor, intrepid photographer and occasional writer for
Hollywood Reality Bites
. It’s nice to meet you.”

Quinn didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded.

“Do you know what I do for a living?” the Faceman asked.

“No.” It never occurred to Quinn that the Faceman made a living.

“I kill people.”

Quinn swallowed hard, his eyes growing wide with horror. “Look, um, Mr. Faceman, I think I know what’s going on here.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I know you served in the military. I know you were some kind of superstar special forces guy, am I correct?”

“You are,” the Faceman replied kindly, a hideous grin stretching across his face. “Go on.”

“Okay.” Quinn paused, wiping his palms on his pants, heart thumping fast. “So when you were in the military serving our country overseas, you were protecting all of us, but you went through some terrible experiences people like me can’t even imagine, right? But then when you came back to America no one understood what you went through over there. No one understood the dangers you faced and how you’d kept all of us safe from terrorists. Instead, your fellow Americans yelled at you, cursed at you, called you names like
baby killer
. And then you couldn’t even get a job. Over there, you’re operating million dollar machines, but here, you couldn’t even find a job washing dishes. Am I right?”

The Faceman nodded, a grave expression crossing his face. Then he slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “Are you doing
First Blood
? Is that Colonel Trautman’s speech to Rambo? I love it. That’s classic. And I love Rambo. I’m a huge fan of the Slyster, but you should know that me and Rambo don’t have much in common. You see, Rambo only killed people when his back was to the wall. I kill people when they disappoint me. When they fail. When they turn out to be Wisps.”

A surge of icy fear slithered up Quinn’s spine, but he forced himself to stay calm. “What’s a… am I a…?”

“A Wisp?” the Faceman said. “It means you’re normal, Quinn. I know you think you’re special, but believe me, you’re not. Which is why I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Quinn held up his hands, begging him to keep away from him. “Please. Please don’t kill me. Just listen to me.” Quinn sat there thinking fast. The Faceman was clearly too deranged for rational discourse.
But everyone needs something,
he thought. He simply had to find out what the Faceman needed and negotiate that in exchange for his life. “I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just don’t kill me.”

The Faceman’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a smile and he gazed down on him with dark, impassive eyes. “So now it’s on to
Plan B
, is it? I can see you’re a brave one. But I’ll take you up on your offer. There is something I want from you.”

“What? What is it?”
This was his chance.
“Anything you want. Just tell me what it is. It’s yours.”

The Faceman seemed to enjoy watching Quinn grovel like a junkie looking for a fix. “I want information.”

“
Information?
Okay. Sure. Sure. What do you—”

“One thing you learn in the military is that when you follow a target, you have to make sure you’re not somebody else’s target. I’ve been watching you, Quinn. I know you’ve been trailing a Portland College student. The one in the photo there.” He pointed at the monitor. “His name’s Lucas Mayer, correct?”

“Yes.” Quinn was trembling like a stray dog caught out in the rain. His stomach felt loose and weak.
Don’t pee yourself. Please. Don’t let him see that.

“Who has Lucas been in contact with?”

“Lots of people,” Quinn croaked. His mouth was dry and his quivering lips struggled to form words.
Fear is the mind killer,
he reminded himself. He had to stay cool and let his brain work its magic. “He’s a college student. He sees hundreds of people every day.”

“Who are his
main
contacts, Quinn. Give me names. And tell me what you know about them.”

“Okay. And if I do…” He hesitated. “Then you’ll let me go?”

“Of course.”

“You… you promise?”

“Sure.”

The only way out of the house was through the front door, and the only way to access the door was from the hallway the Faceman was blocking (
literally
blocking, his impossibly wide shoulders brushed up against both walls). There was another door, a sliding glass door in the adjacent living room that led to a back yard that looked like a war zone, but it was boarded up from the outside. Quinn was abundantly aware that there was no possibility of escape; the only way he was going to extricate himself from this situation was to convince the Faceman to let him go. But if anyone could do it, it was him.

Because you are a genius. You are a genius.

“Okay, well, he mainly hangs out with his roommate and three girls. All freshmen. His roommate’s Felix August. He’s a football player. Tall, serious kid who kind of keeps to himself. The girls are Caitlin DuPont, Allison Jasner and Harper Connolly. Harper and Allison are both extremely attractive. All the guys are in love with Harper. If Brooklyn Decker had a younger hotter sister, it’d be her. Allison’s a little standoffish. She’s got a bit of an attitude. Caitlin’s the bleeding-heart liberal of the group. She’d join a committee to save just about anything if she thought it was endangered.”

“Have you ever noticed anyone else?” the Faceman asked. “Or anything out of the ordinary? Maybe someone hanging around Lucas who doesn’t seem to belong.”