Page 21 of Vicious Hearts

“Dr Rand Holloway works out of Mercy General. They were together two years, and by all accounts, he was Miss Moore’s first serious boyfriend. On the night in question, she was at the hospital to see her boyfriend and she found him in a compromising position with one of the nurses. There doesn’t appear to be a nurse at Mercy he hasn’t been through, all while he was in a relationship with Miss Moore.

She moved out of their apartment and into a shared apartment two suburbs over to avoid seeing him. She’s a struggling journalist; her rent alone is beyond her means. She doesn’t have many friends, although she is close to Nina Tyler and Michael Archer, whose house she was leaving when you picked her up. That timeline coincides directly with Miss Moore’s ex becoming engaged to a woman that’s not a nurse and has no ties with Mercy General.”

I set my phone down and wonder at the timing of everything that’s happened. It’s unbelievable to me that we have a brief chance encounter before fate steps in and throws us together again for another chance encounter. It’s unfathomable to me, because I’d never been to Mercy General before. And I’d been delayed multiple times before I got there. The fact that I happened to be walking in as she was walking out is too much to comprehend. And I still don’t believe in coincidences. I analyze the facts as presented. Could it just simply be a case of right place, wrong time?

17

ARIADNE

Ipick and choose what I send Hinky. Partly because I don’t trust him not to turn his back on me and print the publication himself. And partly because I think whatever Caleph’s waiting on – what he promised would come in good time – will be the thing that ties this whole thing together. He’s promised that what he has to give me will literally make the world forget his name and concentrate on a web of lies and deceit much greater than anything I could give them about him.

I’m not sure why, but I choose to trust him. It’s not like I have much of an option, but I do this knowing everything could blow up in my face, but at this point I have no choice but to follow the leader.

I’ve since learnt that the yacht we’re on is a three-hundred-foot super yacht that cost a few hundred million dollars. Pocket change to some. Absurd to others. More money than I’ll make in several lifetimes. This information I gleaned from the captain, who’s been navigating this yacht ever since Caleph purchased it four years ago.

I watch as Caleph climbs a ladder and steps on board the upper level of the yacht. He makes it a morning ritual to swim in the ocean before breakfast, and again in the late afternoon. I’ve taken to watching him as his huge arms tackle the water, pumping through the air as he glides seamlessly above the waves lapping at the side of the vessel. He’s a good swimmer. I’m a crappy swimmer and couldn’t swim to save my life if I had to.

When he lifts himself onto the deck, I’m waiting with a towel, which he wraps around his torso, covering up his wet trunks. The man’s body is hard and rigid in all the right places, something which would not have been achievable without countless hours dedicated to extreme sessions in a gym. It’s a good thing he has one on this yacht.

“If you watch me enough, maybe you’ll get good enough to save yourself next time you decide to jump overboard,” he says, giving me a smirk. Smart ass.

“I think I’ve almost got everything for the article,” I say, squinting at the sun as it suddenly bursts from behind a storm cloud. “But I have to ask you something.”

He looks down at his towel, knots it before he walks to a bench and sits down, his breathing shallow. Not like he was just raging against the sea. I follow him but I don’t sit. I could so easily get used to sitting beside him.

“Ask.”

“I want you to reconsider a picture.”

I rush to explain my idea as he tries to cut me off and shut me down. He’s adamant he doesn’t want his picture out there, and although that only adds to his mystique, I don’t know that I can successfully publish another article about him without a picture.

“I understand where you’re coming from, I do. But how about a side profile? Not even – just a little turn of your face, in black and white, in shadow? You will not be recognizable if you walked down the street, but it will legitimize my article.”

He seems to consider this, giving me a thoughtful look, before he looks down at his bare feet, sighing. There is water dripping everywhere from him, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Legitimize, huh?” he laughs. I nod quickly. I think he’s coming around. “One condition,” he says finally.

I shrug; I’ll do anything he asks to get that one shot, no matter how impossible it may seem.

“No photographers,” he says. “You take the picture yourself – one picture – on a phone camera. And I have to approve it.”

I see what he’s doing here. He doesn’t want a photographer walking around with a whole bunch of stills he can use later. And using a phone camera, even with all the advanced technology today, means I’ll end up with a grainy ass result once the image is blown up. But if that’s all he’ll give me, I’ll take it.

* * *

In my mind,I can already see the image I want to capture of him. I can literally see the way this plays out and I can’t wait to see the finished product. He has insisted that no identifying factors be present in the picture, meaning he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s on a boat. Which is fine by me. As long as I get my picture.

He takes me to a room at one end of the yacht that’s devoid of any furniture but a huge TV on one wall. All the other walls are done in a dove gray, which I know is not customary for water vessels, and there is only one porthole in this room. There is a lone stool in front of the TV, and it seems such an odd thing to have. One stool. One big screen TV. And nothing else. But I don’t ask him any questions as he lifts the stool and carries it toward me, asking where I want it. I look around the room, pick a spot where the camera will capture only wall space and tell him to sit sideways.

He’s wearing a dark gray suit, and the contrast between that and the light grey walls is striking. He doesn’t wear a tie and his white shirt is unbuttoned at his neck, giving him a smart yet sporty look. His thick black hair is brushed back, not a strand out of place.

We go through the motion of changing positions and angles several times; if he’s only going to allow me one picture, I have to make it count. I settle on an angle where he is sitting with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his forearms resting on his thighs, hands steepled in the space between his spread knees. He is looking straight ahead, head turned slightly to the right, and I am standing to his left.

I have to stop and catch my breath before I start snapping. I don’t know who to compare him to. I rack my brain through the history books, but no one comes to mind. He reminds me of a Roman Emperor with his aquiline nose. Or a Viking with his focused stare.

I start to snap away on the phone he’s given me. Six different shots with me standing in different angles. I stop, flick through the pictures, and my heart almost stops. The porthole throws a shaft of light across the room to Caleph’s right, giving us the precise sort of lighting required for our little project. You can’t see much of him, yet the light makes him look somehow bigger, larger than life. You get just enough of him without getting anything. And there is enough contrast between light and dark to bring to life the angle I’m aiming for – the confluence of good and evil.

18

---