Page 21 of Antihero
A frown, a brief look of panic. “He’s the press?”
“Mm-hm. Anyway, enough about him. Tell me about you…”
***
Needler
The security guard, about five minutes after she enters the booth, decides I’m still not far enough away and comes to throw me out entirely. I’m guessing Paige had something to do with that.
I got a good look at the man she’s targeting—another older rich type, as expected. This one is half-bald, with liver spots on his head. Jesus Christ. How do these men see absolutely nothing suspicious about a beautiful woman being interested inthem?
It doesn’t matter. Once I’m kicked out back into the crisp, fresh air on the surface, and supposing she doesn’t find a way to strangle him inside the club, all I need to do is wait.
The entrance to the Bunker is an unassuming concrete building the size of an outhouse that leads directly to the stairs. A wide space around it has been cut out of the stunted forest. A dozen or so others, shivering in heavy fashion coats over their club gear, smoke off at the edges, toeing their cigarette butts into the layer of snow. Up the hill to the south, the ring road of theisland passes by the clearing. There’s a handful of cars parked off to the edge of the narrow strip of tar, most of them hired out to the rich types who came here by boat. Bicycles have been ditched among the trees, most of them bent and rusted.
I take the time to consider. She’s not going to stop, though that’s hardly surprising. As I’ve said myself, the Wraith is attacking people she feels have wronged her. But until I know what those wrongs are, it’s going to be hard to figure out who her next target is. I was already wrong tonight, expecting her interest to be in Nick Pastryachi, the from-a-distance owner of the asylum, since she’d been targeting his nephew—Declan—before I killed him first. Her other targets have been people in authoritative positions on the island, too. But the man she was cosying up to wasn’t Nick, and I didn’t recognise him from any of the island’s historic photos, either.
Whatever he did, it’s my mission tonight to stop her from murdering him. It’s likely he owns one of the cars parked up by the road, and I’ve already scoped out a nearby bicycle left without a lock, that I’ll steal to chase them. The road won’t take them very far anyway, since the island can be crossed even on foot in a handful of hours. It’ll be just far enough for Wraith to get him alone. That’s her plan.
Then she’ll strike. And I’ll be there.
An hour later, she emerges. She looks amazing, even in the huge fur coat that covers her up now. I can picture the sight of her in the club, so much smooth skin exposed, her hair falling in soft ringlets. So different to how I’ve seen her before, even if I preferred her those other ways, natural and rugged up, with cute beanies and frilly scarves. Maybe it’s weird, but I like to unwrap.
Of course, she’s not alone. Her victim follows her out, and that hulk of a man behind him. I stick to the shadow of the short trees and follow them up towards the road, trusting the old guy will dismiss his guard.
Which he does. The minute I see him waving away the big guy, I dart over, snatch up the bicycle and climb up through the trees to the road’s edge, just ahead of where the car pulled out.
The break lights are still close, heading east, the opposite direction to town. I jump onto the bicycle and follow in the dark.
I lose sight of them several times, around a bend, or mountain ridge, as they head further and further east, away from witnesses. The land drops away on my right, the south edge of the island butting up against the road and turning to a sheer drop. There’s a half-moon tonight, and I can see well enough by it. The red brake-lights dwindle ahead, and I press more power into the pedals.
Only for one of them to snap off. I curse as the bike chain unloops and the whole bike subsequently falls apart underneath me. I hop free of it, casting it off the road into the wide dirt gutter. A glance ahead again—the car has disappeared.
“Shit,” I swear, and set off at a run along the road. There hasn’t been another car in sight this whole time. By the time I reach the next curve, I’m panting in the cold, thin air, cursing Paige’s name. I’m going to be too late.
I spot the car, dark and empty, pulled off onto the roadside gravel. Without stopping, I follow my instincts and run for the cliffs. The southern edge of the island has jutted away from the road here, and a scant path leads towards a viewpoint. We’re near the eastern tip, the trees and brush falling away for stone and that hardy lichen that grows thick over rocky ground. To my right, another half hour’s run in the distance, the moon reflects off the ocean to silhouette the hulking black ruin of the old orphanage.
The sound of crashing waves rises to meet me, the cliff edge coming close, higher and sheerer here than outside the asylum. Jutting stone monoliths that tower off the island’s edge break the whistle of the wind.
As I creep low around a rise, I spot them.
They’re precariously close to the bluff, and I’m under no delusion that she hasn’t lured him to the precipice for some purpose. He probably thinks she’s into the danger, not questioning anything while he thinks he’s about to benefit from it.
His hands are inside her heavy fur coat. He’s hunched, pathetic, practically eating her neck. I almost want to kill him myself.
Running again, knowing what she’s about to do, I spot her say something, her voice lost in the wind. He turns, taking off his jacket and laying it on the ground eagerly. Like he thinks he’s about to be ridden on it. The idiot.
That’s when, with his back to her, as he faces the east and the orphanage, her hand slips against his shoulder, the other one coming against his neck and catching the thin black line. In their silhouettes, I see her brace against his back as he shoots bolt upright, like he’s being reined in. His hands scrabble at his neck, but she keeps him locked.
Shit. She acted fast. Probably knew I’d be following.
I’m within close enough distance to hear his grunts, then he’s down. The Wraith slips something shiny off his wrist—maybe a Rolex—and then, just as efficiently, rolls him off the edge, throwing his jacket after him. I change my course slightly, and balance on the escarpment several metres from where he went over.
He didn’t fall all the way, but rather a ledge three metres down has caught him. Bloody and not moving, but maybe not dead. I curse. I could’ve stopped her back when I was certain who she was. Now, every murder she succeeds in is at least partially my doing.
How long did I think I could avoid being the one to pull the trigger on Cass? How many people died to Cocooner, for my delusion then? I can’t be making that kind of error again.
For now, Paige, having seen me, has bolted. I look back down at the man. Save him first, make her pay later.
