The Manolo Matrix (7 page)

Carson. It was about helping himself.

JENNIFER

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Iknew from Mel that the real-life game was played almost exactly like the Internet version. And even though I’d disliked the online version intensely, I’d played it a couple of times, so I knew the basic rules.

Knowing the rules, however, didn’t mean that I knew strategy, and, in fact, the few times I’d played I’d lost badly.

On that encouraging note, I scooted my chair closer to the desk. Now was not the time for negative thinking. Success is ninety-eight percent attitude, right? And I’d beaten the pants off my brothers in

Nintendo dozens of times.That was a victory I could focus on.

The bottom line was that I knew how the game was played. Three roles: a target, an assassin, and a protector. The target is the one who, like the title sounds, is the “target.” The one the assassin is after.

The game starts when the target receives the first clue, also called the qualifying clue. Until the target solves that first clue, the assassin has to just sit tight. But once the clue is solved, all bets are off. And then the target has to follow clue after clue until—finally—the last clue is solved and the assassin is called off.

(Or the target dies, but we won’t go there.)

But what, you might ask, is there to keep the target from just ignoring the clue altogether? If the first clue is never solved, then the assassin can never hunt.

Yeah, you’d think that would be a good plan, wouldn’t you? So would I. But I know it’s not. I just can’t rememberwhy not.

Clearly, the first order of business was to get in touch with this Devlin Brady guy. My initial instinct was to call the FBI and just ask for the man. They’d know how to find him, wouldn’t they?

But about the same time, I realized that I probably had Agent Brady’s phone number right there on my computer—DB_Profile.doc. The file that the game had sent to me. I wasn’t crazy about going back to my computer—at the moment I blamed it for my predicament—but I didn’t have a choice.

I opened the file and saw that I was right. Everything was there: Devlin Brady’s name, address, phone number, occupation, hobbies, previous employment. Even a photo. A candid shot, with Brady turned slightly from the camera.

We’d met once, and I remember thinking that he was pretty hot, which the picture reflected quite well.

He had dark, unruly hair and a firm jaw. But what really got me was his eyes. Clear and blue.

Very sexy.

At the moment, though, I wasn’t particularly interested in sex appeal. I was much more focused on the fact that Agent Brady had a solid, capable face. And, from what I could tell, he had a decently muscled body under that suit. He looked like a man who could watch his back and mine. And under the circumstances, that was more appealing than a kissable mouth and a sultry grin.

I snatched up the phone and dialed the number listed for his home. The phone rang three times, and as it did, I drummed my fingers on the table, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t, and I found myself faced with his answering machine and absolutely no idea what to say. In person, I could just tell him the truth.

Page 28

But to leave a message like that on a machine? I guess I was afraid he wouldn’t call me back.

You could have driven a truck through my silence, and just as I was about to speak, the machine beeped and the line went dead.Damn.

I redialed. This time, I was expecting the message: “You’ve reached Devlin Brady. Please leave a message.” I did as asked and said, “Um, hi. Agent Brady? My name is Jennifer Crane. You, um, might

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

remember me because we met once about a year ago. Actually, you confiscated my laptop, remember? I

was Melanie Prescott’s roommate? Anyway, I really need to talk to you. Can you call me back right away? It’s urgent. Thanks.” I left my home and cell numbers, then called his cell phone and the number listed as his direct dial at the FBI. I got dumped into voice mail in both cases. I hate that.

I left my messages, then hung up, feeling (rightly) like I hadn’t accomplished a thing. More, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I hang out and wait? Should I go to his apartment? For that matter, was it safe for me to leave my apartment?

I paced from kitchen sink to bathroom, running these questions over in my head. In response to pretty much all those queries, I decided I should give him an hour to call me back. My reasoning was that for all

I knew, he already knew about the game, knew who I was, and was on his way to my place. That’s what FBI agents did, right? Rode to the rescue of damsels in distress?

The other reason was that I wasn’t really a damsel in distress (though I had to keep reminding myself of that). Sure, I was in deep doo-doo, and there was a definite possibility that I wouldn’t get out of this situation alive (with that thought, I had to remind myself to breathe), but I wasn’t the target. This may seem like a technical distinction given the overall fucked-up-edness of the situation, but I was clinging to whatever good news I could find.

Once I hooked up with Agent Brady, not only would I not be the focus of the assassin’s bullet (or whatever), I’d also have the added protection of a Fibbie at my side. I can’t say that I thought this rendered the situation ideal or anything, but having someone else shoulder the burden was a definite step in the right direction.

While I waited, I tried Mel again. Still no answer, which made me concerned about the state of national security. If an NSA employee isn’t answering her cell phone, that seemed to me to be very bad indeed.

About five minutes into the “wait an hour for Agent Brady” plan, I began to have second thoughts. I

wasn’t good at waiting around. I wanted to be out doing. Possibly even running. Mexico sounded appealing, I could use a tan and a fruity alcoholic beverage, and that was an option I very specifically intended to discuss with the elusive Agent Brady. At the moment, getting the hell out of Dodge sounded like a mighty fine idea.

Since I still had fifty-one minutes to go, I busied myself by zipping my laptop in its Neoprene sleeve and shoving it down into my tote. Then I rummaged in my closet until I found my favorite light jacket, along with the pair of Nike Airs I’d bought during my brief fascination with jogging in Central Park. My enthusiasm had waned after, oh, about seven minutes, and I’d shoved my running shoes into the closet, vowing to devote myself to Pilates at a women-only center.

Now, I’d get my money’s worth out of the shoes. Running, I figured, was very likely in my future.

Other than that, I didn’t know what to take with me. My lovely Marc Jacobs tote was plenty big enough to double as an overnight bag, but I wasn’t heading out on a typical overnighter. I mean, I had a complete list of what to take on a first date—everything from makeup to emergency
Page 29

tampons to emergency condoms—but what to take on a deadly scavenger hunt through the city?

That was a new one on me. I pondered for a while, then decided on a toothbrush, deodorant, a clean shirt, and fresh underwear. Then I checked the batteries on my iPod and tossed that in as well. I might be on the run, but

I didn’t intend to be without my show tunes.

All of that took about fifteen minutes, and I was just about to say fuck it and head out the door forty-five

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

minutes early, when the phone rang. I bolted across the room and snatched it up, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I thought it would explode. I’m good at shoving emotions down inside me, but poke even the tiniest crack in my armor, and it all explodes out of me in one big, gooey mess.

“Agent Brady!” I cried. “Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been—”

A long, sustained beeping noise interrupted me, and I realized that I wasn’t talking with Agent Brady at all. I didn’t have a clue who was on the other end of the line, in fact, but I did have a very bad feeling.

Paranoia? Maybe. But it turned out I was right. Like the saying goes: it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

The beeping stopped and suddenly I was being serenaded. The music fromThe Rocky Horror Picture

Show’ s “Eddie” trickled across the phone line, and even though the situation was a bit odd, I couldn’t help but hum along. I’d seen the movie at midnight screenings an embarrassing number of times, and I’d played Janet in two productions and Magenta in another. The music was practically branded on my brain. And this particular song—about poor Eddie who didn’t love his teddy bear—was one of my favorites.

So there I was, filling in the words to the go with the tune, when all of a sudden, the lyrics kicked in, and there was Eddie telling me to “hurry oryou may be dead.”

What the fuck?

The voice had specifically said “you,” which undoubtedly referred to me, because that wasn’t in the song. Even more, that voice—the one who’d piped in for just that one word—wasn’t on the original recording.

I realized I was staring terrified at the phone. Then a voice came on, the sound far away since the handset was no longer pressed to my ear. With trepidation, I pulled it close and listened. One of those computerized voices. The kind that says “please press or say ‘one’ now.” Only this time she said: “Tick, tick, tick. The countdown has begun. Ten tomorrow morning, and your time is up.”

The line went dead, and my stomach clenched. Forget what I’d thought about being a tiny bit safe. I

needed to hurry or, in the immortal words of Meatloaf, I might be dead.

My stomach wrenched and I clapped my hand over my mouth as I raced for my bathroom. The porcelain of the toilet felt cool against my arms as I literally hugged the toilet, emptying my stomach of the coffee I’d had for lunch.

Weakly, I stood, then walked on shaky legs to the sink. I turned on the faucet, bent over, and sucked down two handfuls of water. Then I splashed water on my face and held myself upright as I inspected my reflection in the mirror.

The girl who looked back at me appeared calmer than I felt. And why not? That girl now had a plan.

Back in the living room, I rummaged on the coffee table until I found the card Mel had given me. I’d had no luck with either Agent Brady or Mel.

Page 30

Now I was pinning my hopes on Andrew Garrison.

I dialed carefully, then held my breath as the phone rang twice, then three times.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

On the third ring, I heard someone pick up, followed by an impatient “Hello?”

I almost fainted with relief. “Mr. Garrison? Andy? My name is Jennifer Crane. I’m a friend of Melanie

Prescott. And—oh, God—I really need your help.”

BIRDIE

>>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<

PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

>>>WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER<<<

PLAYER REPORT:

REPORT NO. A-0002

Filed By: Birdie

Subject: Status update.

Report:

Secondary subject located and encounter successfully orchestrated.

Time-release toxin delivered.

Initial message to primary subject in transit.

Warning and incentive message to secondary subject in transit.

Game currently proceeding on schedule.

>>>End Report<<

Send Report to Opponent? >>Yes<< >>No<< Block Sender Identity? >>Yes <<>>No<< I shut my newly-acquired laptop, then get up from the Chippendale writing desk. Almost distractedly, I

pace naked in my hotel suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, my head filled with so many thoughts that I can hardly sort through the noise.

I let my fingers trail over the fine silk upholstery of the love seat, then linger on the lilies and roses that are the centerpiece of the ornate flower arrangement that sits atop the coffee table.

The suite is stunning, resplendent in genuine antiques and fine textiles, and I take it all in, enjoying these amenities as if I were a starved person.

And I have been starved. But I have the game to thank for letting me recover my soul in a bit of luxury.

My reward will be even more satisfying when I complete the game, terminating the target and claiming my victory. But the initial payment is sufficient. Certainly enough to allow me to acquire supplies and enjoy a few of the finer things.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Almost without thinking, I pluck a rose from the arrangement, holding it delicately between two of my fingers. Then I slide the stem down, allowing the hook of the thorn to draw a thin line of
Page 31

blood up from my palm.

Once the soft petals rest inside my hand, I make a fist, thinking about my ultimate victory in this game as

I claim this small bit of beauty as my own.

Silly, I know, but I shiver, experiencing a delight so physically intense that it is almost sexual in nature.

Then again, perhaps that isn’t silly. After all, what is sex but the coupling of two individuals designed to create a rush of hormones and stimulate a physical response of ecstasy? That I can create my own ecstasy is both amazing and thrilling, and only underscores my own superiority over those that I hunt.

And it is through the hunt that I will experience the most exquisite ecstasy. Physical, mental, spiritual.

And, most important, I can exact my revenge.

That pleasure, however, must wait. The game has certain rules. Having set the clock in motion by poisoning the girl, now all I can do is stand back and wait, hoping that the lovely Jenn and the industrious

Agent Brady solve the qualifying clue in time. Until they do, they are not my prey.

Of course, I’m tempted to strike early. In fact, it took all my willpower to not strike when I was in the man’s bed.

But I won’t break the rules. That’smy rule: never break the rules.