The Nines (The Nines #1) (5 page)

I’m an information collector of sorts. For example we have the so-called honor of having the governor’s son attend our fine institution of higher education. I already have a large dossier of rather incriminating information on him just waiting for that moment when he decides to follow in his father’s footsteps and run for political office. I’m sure there will be plenty of bidders willing to pay top dollar for video of him taking women into the rape room in his secret fraternity’s house. 

Apparently FANGURL finally figured out that I entered the online forum because I hear a ting and a private message pops up.

FANGURL:
Where did you disappear so fast last night?

ME:
I had things to do.

FANGURL:
Ha, ha. Like what? You’re in the online forum as much as I am.

ME:
I have a life.

FANGURL:
Okay, sure. Whatever you say.

ME:
Shouldn’t you be in class?

FANGURL:
Not until this evening. Why aren’t you in class?

ME:
I take my classes online.

FANGURL:
I don’t like online classes. Too much typing.

ME:
Funny coming from someone who spends most of her day chatting in an online forum.

FANGURL:
That’s different.

BOBBLEHEAD and DOPE are still going back and forth about the meaning of their dreams. Not a discussion I want to get into with anyone. On those rare occasions when I actually can sleep I nearly always dream about my life before the bombing. I was such a carefree and lucky bastard back then and I didn’t even appreciate it.

There’s a lot of truth to the old adage that you don’t appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone.

I was really hoping that AMERICNWOMN would be in the forum. She’s the person who I’ve had the deepest connection with. I enjoy the easy banter between us. It’s like I’m flirting without the hassle of having her actually see me. And we’ve also had some deep and serious conversations about life, the universe and everything. I truly enjoy her virtual company.

I just hope I didn’t scare her away when she asked about the masked man. I guess I just panicked. I know I’m the topic of gossip around campus, I just didn’t expect to hear her bring up the subject.

I consider trying to change the current topic of discussion in the forum, but I still have a lot of work to do on the Chinese project so I bid FANGURL adieu and log out.

My morning routine after choking down a scrambled egg and toast is to scan through as much of the news as possible and add anything of significance to the database files I have set up. It’s not that I have great interest in what’s going on in the world. I’m interested in collecting any and all information that I might use as ammunition in the future.

The emails of the secret fraternity are always a fan favorite of mine. And the guys aren’t careful about what they broadcast on their fraternity Listserv, or electronic mailing list. They’re more interested in looking cool to their brothers than thinking one iota about the future. I’ve got over a year’s worth of written confessions for drug dealing, assaults, rapes and destruction of property. And these guys are proud of their accomplishments. Especially the rapes. Those disgusting emails seem to get the most positive reinforcement from the other guys in the fraternity.

Today I notice an email from the Delta Omega Gamma fraternity president that’s gone out to all of his frat brothers. The SUBJECT LINE is SURPRISE ME.

To all my fellow DOGs-

It’s that time of year. Pledging is just around the corner and we obviously want the cream of the crop to pledge DOG. I’m not going to lie. There’s a lot of competition for the best guys. That’s why we have to convince them that being a DOG is something special. Something that only the most worthy guys can achieve. That’s why we need to make a splash. We’ve already got a reputation for being the rogue fraternity and for being the bad boys of the campus. But we need more. I want more. I want us to be the frat that guys will do anything to join. So I want to see you guys do something that will give us an even bigger and badder reputation. I want everyone at the university to know that we own the school and no one can mess with us. I want you all to up your game. I want you to make your mark and let it be known that we have the power. Do something big. Surprise me.

Brotherhood Above All

Luc

Not very much bothers me, but the not so subtle message behind this email makes my stomach clench. These guys are already bad seeds who have done some nasty shit and gotten away with it. They have status, wealth and power and they think they’re above the law. They have a sense of entitlement coupled with a lack of responsibility for their actions.

So when their leader tells them to do something
big
and
surprise him
my mind goes in all sorts of sickening directions. Evil people can think of a lot of evil things to do. I do work for a lot of evil people and I know the damage they can wreak.

I file the information away because I’m not sure what else to do with it.  Even if I knew exactly how the frat boys were going to surprise their president I’m not sure what I could do to stop them.

But I decide to keep a close watch on the Listserv just in case.

I spend the rest of the morning working on the Chinese hack. It’s a simple job, but I’m still one of the few hackers in the world that can pull it off without attracting attention.

I’m so caught up in my job that I don’t realize until it’s nearly four that I haven’t eaten lunch. And now it’s too close to dinner time to bother with it. I decide to settle the churn in my stomach with more coffee.

The liquid energy seems to be my solution to everything. I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff. I’d seriously consider a coffee IV drip, if I didn’t hate needles and if just the thought of an IV didn’t remind me so much of the agonizing months I spent in the hospital trying to recover from my burns.

My burns
. That makes me sound like I own them. Believe me they’re the last things on Earth I would ever want. When other victims of tragic events give motivational speeches and talk about how their injuries were like a gift, and made them stronger and made their lives more meaningful, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs that it’s bullshit. I can understand wanting to make the most of a shitty hand you’ve been dealt, but at least admit that you’ve been dealt the shitty hand in the first place.

Having half of the skin on my body burned off was not a gift. It was not a blessing. It did not make me a better person. Being burned ruined my life and turned me into a recluse. And it didn’t make me want to help other people. I can’t even help myself.

I know I’m wretched and I’ll probably always be this way. It’s beyond my comprehension that anything in my life could change those facts or make my life any different.

My first sip of a new cup of coffee is always like a small bit of Heaven. I savor the flavor. These are the small pleasures that make my days tolerable.

Just as I’m about to take my second sip I hear a soft knock on the front door and nearly drop my coffee mug.

I haven’t ordered anything. There shouldn’t be anyone at the door. And I never answer the door when it’s daylight. It’s too big of a risk that someone will see me. Even with my mask on it’s impossible to completely cover all of the damage that the raging fire caused.

When the knocking continues I start to panic. What if the person doesn’t go away and I’m forced into the sunshine?

I take in a deep breath and try to think about the situation rationally. No one can knock forever. The person will have to give up eventually.

As I make my way towards the front door I notice that the knocking isn’t insistent or brash. In its softness it’s more of an invitation or a challenge:
Answer me if you dare.

When I peek through the peephole I’m surprised to see it’s the angel I saw in the street outside my door. She’s returned.

I’m curious to know what she wants, but not curious enough to open the door. As much as I’d like to talk with her, to see if she’s as beautiful a person as she looks, I know it’s not possible.

Maybe I could speak to her through the door.

“What do you want?” I say loudly, hoping it will penetrate the old wood door.

When she doesn’t respond I wonder if she’s heard me. But then she says, “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“We are talking,” I remind her.

“It’s hard to talk with a door between us.”

“I don’t want to open it.”

There’s silence, and it’s almost deafening. I’ve missed having an actual conversation with another person. And I like the way her voice sounds. It’s gentle, almost comforting. I want her to continue to talk. So I ask, “Why are you here?”

After another long pause she replies, “Honestly, I’m not sure. This is probably going to sound weird, but I was almost drawn here. Do you believe in fate or destiny?”

I can’t help but laugh. Was I somehow destined to live a life of horror? For what reason? “I believe in karma,” I tell her. “And justice.”

“Are you the man who wears the mask?”

I knew the day would come when I’d be forced to reveal myself. A person can only hide in plain sight for so long. My neighborhood is transient. Students moving in and out, for the most part. The occasional visiting professor. People don’t tend to stay very long and are usually too busy with their lives to bother with the formalities of getting to know the neighbors.

I could tell her no. I could tell her she’s trespassing and make her leave. But I want her to stay. I want to know why she searched me out. I want to know what she’s doing here.

“I wear a mask,” I finally admit.

“Why?”

How do I even explain what I’m hiding and why? Are there even adequate words to express the pain and torture I’ve endured, not just physically, but deep in my soul? How can I distill everything I’ve gone through into a sentence or two that she could possibly understand?

I realize that I can’t. It’s impossible. So I do the unthinkable. Something I never in a million years imagined I’d ever do again.

I open the door.

The sunlight stings my eyes and I hold up my hand in an effort to shade them from its intensity.  

It takes me a moment to realize that I didn’t hear her scream. And she didn’t run away in horror at the sight of me. When my eyes finally acclimate enough to look down at her I realize she’s studying me.

She doesn’t seem horrified by my appearance in the least. If anything she looks curious about me.

And that makes me even more curious about her.

“You were in a fire,” she says matter-of-factly.

I nod. I’m still having a hard time grasping that she’s still here. And that she’s not completely disgusted by my appearance.

For a moment I allow myself to take her in, everything about her. Not just her outward angelic beauty, but everything about her, her energy and who she is.

She’s no doubt persistent, but she also exudes a warmth and kindness that’s rare these days.

“Why are you here?” When our eyes meet there’s an energy exchanged between us that I’ve never felt before. There’s a certain sexual chemistry there, but it’s more than that. It’s a knowing, as if we’re part of some long lost tribe, and we’re finally discovering we’re both members.

She shrugs. It’s an easy gesture, kind of carefree. And I’m a little envious that she seems so comfortable with herself. I never feel comfortable or at ease in my own body. It’s not that I’ve never felt that way. I was as carefree as they come before the bombing. But since the day I was burned I’ve felt like someone took my mind and put it in someone else’s body. Like I’m just visiting in some foreign land. And I keep hoping that someday I’ll be able to return…to my old body…to my old life. But I know it’s nothing more than a twisted fantasy.

Then she says, “Is the sunlight bothering your eyes? You’re squinting.”

I quickly shake my head. I don’t want this to end. Whatever this is, this small venture back into normality, I want it to continue.

I’m actually talking to another human being, a girl no less, and she doesn’t seem to see the burns, or if she does, she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by them.

I don’t want this to end.

“You’re younger than I thought you would be,” she says.

“I’m twenty.”

She gives me a quick smile. “Very young.”

“And how old are you?” I challenge. She could easily pass for sixteen.

“Eighteen.”

I want her to smile again. She lights up the space around her gorgeous grin. “Would you like something to drink? I’d ask you to go for coffee or something, but I never go out.”

“Never?” She sounds surprised.

“Not unless it’s dark, and then only if I really need to.”

“But why? This is such a beautiful neighborhood.”

I want to say:
isn’t it obvious?
But I also don’t want to scare her away by being rude. And that’s something I’ve become really good at. Especially dealing with criminals on a daily basis. Not that I’m separating myself from the pack. I admit I engage in criminal activity for a living, but for some reason I don’t want her to know that.