Viggo, a disgraced cop, spent a little under a decade in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Now, he's out for revenge. Once upon a time, Nyssa was his friend. Now, she has to decide whether she will help him.
To know more, read Chapter 1.2.
Russ reached for some pasta.
One of those big packages adorned with the Italian flag. Nyssa gently tried to
insert, “The red ones are…”
“Shut up.”
It hadn't come out with
animosity or anything, it was just a casual display of authority on his part.
She shut up and meekly bowed her head. God knew that it hadn't gotten easier
with time. Or maybe it had. He threw the pasta he wanted in the cart, and she trotted
down the aisle behind him. A woman almost bumped into him. He winked at her,
and the stranger blushed, smitten.
Handsome bastard. Russel was
in his forties, with an abundance of wavy black hair and dark eyes. He was tall
and muscular with a dancer's poise and expensive European suits that showcased
his sleek body. When he was in a good mood, Nyssa vaguely remembered how he
used to get her all hot and bothered at one point. But he hadn’t been in a good
mood in a long time.
The other women were welcome
to him, for all she cared! Maybe sensing her rebellious thoughts, he put a hand
on her elbow. His touch looked tender, but his fingers dug in her skin, tight,
punishing. So, it was one of those days. She much preferred those when he treated
her like a forgettable appendage and pursued fresher preys. Those were the safe
days.
His nearness sickened her, his
cloying perfume, spice and aftershave. She heaved a harsh, relieved breath when
his phone rang. He let her go, propelling her forward with a little tap on her
ass. That too, she hated. She abhorred the casual touching.
But she gritted her teeth,
rubbed her elbow and walked away. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched Russ
take the call. She read his anger and fear with the ease of someone who
depended on her instincts to survive. She nudged her earphone in place,
furtively activating the phone's hidden functionality.
Russ's voice rang in her ear,
“…get away?”
“The whole prison went down.
We hadn't seen an earthquake like that in decades. People say the buildings
wouldn't have collapsed like that if they had been up to standards.”
“Fuck standards! What are you
doing to catch Carlsen?”
“Marshals are on it, but chances
he reached the mainland are close to zilch. The coast is, like, a two miles
swim.”
“Carlsen's father was a
fisherman, you moron. He could swim before he could walk.” Russ swore some
more, making a point maybe. “The man was my partner. Believe me when I tell you
he reached that shore. You’ve got any idea where he’s going?”
The man on the phone drawled,
“Actually, detective, we were kind of hoping you'd help us with that.”
“How would I know where he's going?
I haven’t talked to him in years! Nobody has that I know of. His girlfriend
from back then, ADA Angela Macdenn, got married last year and moved to the East
Coast with her husband. His family and friends are done with him. Frankly, his
fellow inmates probably know more about him than I do.”
“Well…Trouble is, they got
squashed during the earthquake, so we really haven't got anybody else to ask.”
“Hell,” Russ growled. “Does
the Sheriff Department need the SFPD's help on that one? Folks down here
haven’t forgotten Helen Defoe.”
Helen Defoe. How did he dare
speak her name?! Nyssa clenched her fists, focusing on the rows of yogurts.
Russ liked them plain, so she took those.
“No, detective, we can handle
it. As I said, due to the staggering death toll, it's not the biggest prison
break we've had to handle. I'm sorry, I've got to go. The Marshals are there.
Call me back if you get any information on Carlsen – any at all.”
“Will do, Sheriff. Keep me
apprised.”
“Sure.”
There was no 'detective' this
time, the sheriff didn’t sound like he intended to call in reports to Russ.
Nyssa balled up her ear-buds and turned into the dairy aisle as if she had
never eavesdropped on her boyfriend. It wasn't easy.
Viggo was out! She was almost
more shocked than she was happy. They had failed to account for the possibility
of an earthquake in all the plans they had contemplated, then discarded. It was
just the miracle they needed.
Did life get any better?! Could
her life get any better?
Someone had to be smiling down
on them. It terrified her. She loathed her current life, but, at least, there
were no more surprises. What was going to happen now? She couldn’t trust Viggo
to protect her from the unknown, that was for sure.
In the last few months, as
their correspondence had picked up, she had come to realize that the man she
had once known, the good cop, the nice person was gone. The new and improved
version of Peter 'Viggo' Carlsen was blunt, ruthless. He had a caustic sense of
humor and no remorse, no compassion – no cruelty either, which somehow made up
for the rest.
The transformation was visible
to the naked eye. The lazy purposefulness was gone, he always seemed to be
moving lightning-quick, sharp and deliberate, like a reptile. His body had
grown lean and wiry, his face had hardened.His iceberg-blue eyes had always had the uncanny ability to pierce right
through her. But he had cared. Now, he stared right through her, as if she was
made of glass, as if she was nothing.
She was shaking under the
onslaught of conflicting, clashing emotions. Then, she sensed Russ's approach –
she had her uncanny abilities as well. She managed to stop trembling and to
shape her face into a neutral, docile expression.
“Leave the cart,” he said. “We're
going back home.”
She bit back a question. He grabbed
her elbow again and led her back to her car. For once, she smiled when he sat
behind the wheel – let him get his prints all over the vehicle.
“You were on the phone,” he remarked
out of nowhere.
Inspiration struck. “Yes. Mom
called. She hurt her back on the stairs yesterday.”
He scrutinized her with those
beautiful eyes. She had no idea what he was thinking, and it made her wish she
could scream her hate and frustration.
“Do you want to visit her?” he
asked.
She didn’t know if she trusted
his tone of compassion. He usually made sure she didn’t get what she wanted,
but there was a faint chance that he would allow the visit this time, playing
benefactor while getting her out of the way.
Cautiously, she replied, “She
wants me to.”
“What do you want?”
She put a hand on his thigh,
simpering. “Whatever you want me to.”
He kissed her, as she had
expected him to. It was a rough, biting sort of kiss. She hated it as much as
she hated him.
“Go help her,” he said.
“Thank you, Russ. You're so
understanding.”
He smiled. The more she
debased herself, the better he liked it. “I'm going to the station. Pack a bag
and leave right away.”
“Alright.”
“Good girl,” he said, patting
her cheek.
She shuddered. He liked to
croon those words in her ear during sex.
They parked in front of his
house, a bungalow in a nice neighborhood of mostly young, married couples. It
was outwardly pleasant, no matter that life there was hell.
Russ kissed her again before he
drove away. She kissed him back with all her pent-up feelings of disgust and
self-hate. He appeared a little dazed when he pulled away. She waved from the
porch. She had spent hours sitting out there while he was at work,
contemplating the idea of death.
Death would have been a
self-indulgence when she had so much to do, when she owed so much to Viggo. “Come
on,” she told herself.
Lots of work ahead. She walked
into the house. So many things to do.
First thing first, the kitchen,
then the bathroom. She had staged both rooms to her satisfaction by
mid-afternoon. She made herself a sandwich and she went into the bedroom. She
turned on her computer and she started filming as she packed up.
“Russ…Geez, it's strange
talking to a computer but I’m too afraid to say this to your face. Hm, sorry…I
know you’re going to be angry, but don’t be stupid, don’t come after me. Don’t…”
A tremor in her voice. “Don’t hurt me.” She took a deep breath. “I know
everything. I know about Crystal Sarasian and some of the others. I know I’m
not the first woman you do this too. You’re sick. Don’t come after me this
time. I know everything,” she repeated in a low voice. “I know about First
National Bank. I know about your dirty money and where it is. I’ve got enough
proof to cause you trouble. Don’t make me use it.” Tears spilled out of her
eyes. “Please, just let me go!”
She closed the laptop,
thinking that she should have done that a long time ago.
It had been something of a threesome
when they had first gotten together: the booze, Russ and her. After Viggo's
arrest, not much had made sense anymore. At first, she had only gotten wasted
on weekend nights – gotten wasted, gotten screwed and woken up feeling even
more wretched. Then, Russ had fallen in the equation, and both the drinking and
the screwing had spilled over on week nights.
There might have been some
dope as well. Her memories of that time were blurry. She remembered making
mistakes and people screaming at her.
The Sarasian case had been her
wake-up call. Levowsky had put her on unpaid leave, advising her to get her
head on straight. She had left. She had been running with no intention to go
back. She had left so twisted a trail that she hadn't been too sure where she
was or where she went until she had wound up in a women’s shelter in Miami.
Russ had found her within two
days of her arrival. He had jumped her outside the shelter, dragged her to his
car, kicking and screaming, and he had raped her right there, in the back-seat.
Then, he had dropped her off on the sidewalk and driven away.
No need to hammer the point
home: he could find her and have her, any way he wanted, any time he wanted. So,
she had gone back home to San Francisco – gone back to work, trying to pretend that
his late-night visits didn't happen, trying to pretend that he wasn't there
every time she turned around. Not turning back to the bottle had taken
everything she had.
She had survived day after
day, week after week of this treatment. Through every small hurt, every ache,
all the time she had spent hating both him and herself, she had contemplated
the pleasant prospect of death. Letting go. Sleeping. Safely.
It had been within hand’s
reach all that time. There was a bottle of vodka in her nightstand – and sleeping
pills. She sometimes took them out for comfort. But she hadn’t let go. Insomnia
plagued her, too many sleepless nights muddled her thoughts. Something stubborn
lingered in her, something that couldn’t seem to give up on life. Plotting out
Russ’s demise had been her life-line. The video would help, and so would
everything else.
It was getting late. She had
to hurry, Russ couldn’t catch her home when he came back from the station. Still,
she couldn’t afford any mistake at this stage. She wasn’t coming back. She put
on clothes – as many layers as she could, trying to disguise her silhouette.
She added a cap and big-ass sunglasses, packed her trunk with everything she
would need, and she pulled away from Russ's bungalow.
As it shrunk in her rear-view
mirror, Nyssa tried to feel something. Anything would have been good – relief,
hate, regrets, love…Anything. But she was stone-cold. She willed herself to
stay that way, the way Viggo had become to withstand prison. She just wondered
what would happen when the thick ice bubble finally melted.
She drove down a forgotten
dirt-road to a steep rocky beach out of the beaten path. She sometimes hid
there when Russ got in one of his moods. There was a poesy to doing this here.
She stepped out of the car,
got her heavy canvas bag out of the trunk and threw her cell inside, shedding
her electronic leash with maniacal glee.
“Try calling me now, asshole.”
She cranked all the windows open,
switched to neutral and closed the door, then got behind the car, careful not
to leave prints on the trunk as she pushed the vehicle into the ocean. It took
surprisingly little time. One minute, the vehicle was there, the next it had
disappeared in a cloud of bubbles. It had to be found, eventually, she just
needed to make a serious attempt to get it out of sight.
She walked up the trail to the
battered pick-up she had parked and hidden under a low tree, two miles away. She
drove it to a cabin she had rented under a false id, although she was itching
to be on her way. She was worried about Viggo. What if he hadn’t made it to the
mainland? What if he had been injured in the earthquake? What if he was in
pain? What if he needed her?!
But the plan was good. She
needed to stick to the plan.
The cabin smelled of
industrial cleaner and scratchy bedding, but it was neat and comfortable. She
dropped her bag in the nearest armchair and made herself some tea. The owner
had been grocery-shopping, as instructed.
A scalding hot cup of mint-tea
did wonders for her mood. It was only mid-April but the cold draft on the shore
had frozen her to the bones. She didn’t like to think about Viggo out there. Neither
the tea nor the shower that followed were enough to drive that chill away.
After almost boiling the flesh off her bones, she threw away her dirty clothes
and underwear. She deliberately avoided looking at her reflection in the bathroom’s
mirror. She hated the sight of her own body, all knees and elbows. She could
count her ribs and vertebrae. Russ had very much enjoyed that.
Russ had enjoyed a lot of
things he wasn't getting ever again.
She dug a pair of scissors out
of her bag to cut her hair pixy short. It suited her, toning down the hard
edges of her face. She had picked up hair-dye of a brown lighter than her own. Anything
else would have clashed with her natural dark coloring. She kept a deliberately
light hand. She certainly didn't need much to change her appearances.
Russ was forever complaining
about unreliable witness statements. People noticed each other’s size and build
but they didn't worry too much over the details. Slap on some loud, slutty makeup
and a fake identity, and she would be ready to disappear.
She rinsed the chemicals out
of her hair, dried herself and slipped into her shapeless PJs. She was usually
fully-clothed within a dozen seconds of showering – it would take her a while,
maybe it would even prove impossible to shed that habit.
She wasn't hungry. She was too
upset for food. She checked and re-checked every lock. When she felt only
marginally unsafe, she turned off the light. She did better in the dark. She
snuggled up under a blanket in the sofa. She had no intention of making the bed,
she didn’t need one to curl up and pretend to sleep while thoughts of the past
and of the future tortured her.
How could it make her feel so
jittery to finally get away from that man?
An old-fashioned TV-set sat in
an open cabinet. Reaching for the remote, she turned it on. A news channel came
on in black and white. They were talking about the earthquake – about Saint-Paul,
especially. Pictures of the three escapees filled the screen.
Charlie Linred. Serial killer.
Looked like somebody's favorite uncle.
Axel Bernard. Burglar. Rapist.
Young and rabid.
Peter Carlsen. Former SFPD
detective. Dirty cop. Murderer. Flat, harsh face. Eyes like ice-cubes.
People looked at them and they
saw the worst of the worst. She looked at him and she saw the best thing left
in her life. It wasn't saying much because really, he wasn't anyone's prize.
But he was hers for now.
“Viggo,” she whispered, trying
to trick her mind into remembering better times. “Viggo. Free.”
She turned off the TV, closed
her eyes and willed herself to sleep. He didn’t need her all weak and needy. Viggo
needed her to be strong. To be strong, she needed sleep.
So, she slept.
And she dreamed.
To know more about Nyssa and Viggo's past relationship, read Chapter 2.2.
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