Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Forty-Six: Ice Pick
Firstly, I would like to express my thanks to everyone who reviewed my Phantom of the Opera story. Yes, that's right, I went ahead and started it. I couldn't help myself. :D; So, thank you to everyone who commented. Moving on, now, you all remember, hopefully, how Lyn told Zebbidy their plan in Chapter Eleven? She said something along the lines of "All of us are playing Cowboys and Indians and you're the one who's going to lure those no good savages out of their ivory towers." Well, the gang's doing battle with the Mafia in this chapter, hence the title. Also, I was watching a Johnny Depp movie when I got the inspiration for Lynné's scenes in this chapter. Props to anyone who can guess which movie it was :D!
"Monsieur Fusco?" Joséphine echoed hollowly, her eyes growing wide in disbelief.
"Yeah," Sands replied offhandedly. "What about him?"
"Il est un traître!" (He is a traitor!) she cried at once. "Il n'a fait rien pour arrêter les deux agents qui sont venus pour recevoir Mademoiselle Lynné!" (He didn't do anything to stop the two agents who came to get Mademoiselle Lynné!)
"Agents?" Zebbidy repeated, sounding confused.
"What're you getting at, kid?" Sands demanded, though he tried to maintain a hold on his calm.
"Deux personnes de votre agence!" (Two people from your agency,) Joséphine tried to explain. "Ils sont venus à la maison. Ils étaient ceux qui a pris Mademoiselle Lynné!" (They came to the house. They were the ones who took Mademoiselle Lynné!)
"But Poisson said he had her," Zebbidy said, more puzzled than before. "He confessed to it."
"Doesn't mean a thing," Sands murmured quietly, almost to himself. "Agents'll turn rogue in a minute if cash is involved." He turned his head sharply towards Joséphine. "It was Fusco and who else?"
"Un homme a appelé . . ." (A man named . . .) The little girl paused, thinking hard. "Harrington? Oui, c'était cela. Et aussi," (Harrington? Yes, that was it. And also,) she breathed quietly, "une femme. Je ne sais pas qui elle était . . ." (a woman. I do not know who she was . . .) At once her eyes lit up with sudden realization. "Mais c'était la femme qui a appelé mon grand-père! Celui qui faisait des plans avec lui! Souvenez-vous?" (But it was the woman who called my grandfather! The one who was making plans with him! Remember?)
Sands nodded vaguely, distracted by his own thoughts.
'Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?'
And then he knew.
It took a while, but eventually Joséphine calmed down enough for Sands and Zebbidy to take her out of her bedroom. Unbelievably, her terrible, ringing sobs had not given them away. No mobsters came barging into the room, guns raised. All was quiet. Feeling slightly relieved, Sands wasted no time in depositing the little girl into Zebbidy's arms – without the woman's consent. Ignoring Zebbidy's confused objections, Sands led the way out of the bedroom and down the hall.
The little girl clinging tightly to Zebbidy's back, her fair arms encircling her neck and her young legs wrapped securely around her waist. Zebbidy shifted slightly, so as to make the child more comfortable (and to hopefully save herself from the backache she would surely be suffering from the next morning). It was strange walking through the pitch-black hallway with only Sands' shadowy outline as her guide. If she was not careful, she could trip, sending Joséphine and herself falling to the ground, which was not where she wanted to be if the Mafia found them.
Zebbidy twitched her nose, desperately wanting something other than the vague shape of Sands leading her into dangerous territory. If he replied, she could follow the sound of his voice. That was simple enough. Clearing her throat quietly, Zebbidy spoke up.
"Where did Vincent say Lynné was?"
"Basement," was the agent's short response.
"Cachot," (Dungeon) Joséphine muttered bitterly.
Zebbidy thought she saw Sands nod in agreement, yet in the darkness she could not be sure.
This was it. The end – her end. And there wasn't any 'happily ever after' that came before it. There never would be, because by the time anyone found her, she would be long gone. Not dead. Oh no, that would be too kind. That would be merciful. That would be the decent thing to do. She was truly insane if she thought her torturers were about to let her die quickly.
So, this was it. The end. Goodbye cruel word – for it was cruel if it was letting her go like this: strapped to a fucking table, waiting for hell to freeze over. Yes, goodbye cruel world. Tata, adios, cheerio… Au revoir, Paris; we barely knew ye. Sayonara, everybody, Sands, Liam, the CIA . . . She wouldn't concern herself with them. By the time they found her, she would have already sung her swan song. So, adieu to everyone and everything she was giving up: Drinking, the Company, shoes, traveling, driving, her brother, her mind… So long, farewell, alviderzehn . . . goodbye.
Toodle-oo! the voice called cheerfully. Ciao! Partings are such sweet sorrow!
Don't know why you're so excited, Lynné thought darkly. By the time this is over, you'll be gone.
The voice laughed. Empty threats, Lynnie, empty threats. You only wish I'd leave, which, I'm afraid to say, is impossible.
Oh, I wouldn't say that, she mused thoughtfully. I'm sure I could drown you out just fine with a bottle of wine or some Acapulco Gold. Or a good ol' fashioned lobotomy. That'd do the trick, too.
The voice's teasing came to an abrupt halt. It sounded almost as though its breath had caught – if it ever breathed, which Lyn doubted.
What the hell are you saying? it demanded, its tone harsh and ragged.
They're going to destroy my mind, she told it sullenly. That bitch is planning on taking every goddamn shred of dignity I have left. And the only thing that's keeping me from crying my fucking eyes out is the thought that I'll never hear you again.
You would be lucky, the voice snorted in disgust. Though it tried in vain, it failed to hide a single, panicky note. Lynné heard it, and she felt a surge of triumph. The voice knew that she was right and as much as it despised her, it prided itself in being her permanent tormenter. If Lynné lost every single grasp she had on reality . . . if she turned into a dazed, drooling vegetable with a glazed look in her eyes . . . then what would she have left? No feelings, no thoughts of her own . . . and the voice would cease to exist.
Smirking broadly, Lynné relaxed her body, feeling the tension that had filled every one of her muscles fading away. She was surprised she had been able to keep her body ridged at all. The sedative Ajedrez had injected into her veins was supposed to have put her at ease, softened her brain up for the big showdown, yet she had been on edge ever since the bitch had entered the room.
Speaking of the bitch, Lynné thought dryly. Ajedrez's caramel colored face loomed above her, and spread across it was a smile. It was the very smile Lynné detested so much; the smile that, she imagined, had been one of the last images her brother had seen on the Day of the Dead. She hated it more than the cartel heiress herself. So smug and so knowing . . . That smile, as Sands had once described to her, was like a poor imitation of the cool smirk that Lynné often wore.
Gazing up into Ajedrez's smoldering, rust-colored eyes, Lynné had to fight the boiling desire to spit right in her pretty face.
Ajedrez had noticed Lynné's look of revulsion and her smirk widened. Sitting on the chair beside her, Cat wore a similar expression as she absentmindedly picked at her cuticles. Turning her sights back to Ajedrez, Lynné nearly jumped when a shiny object caught her eye. In the cartel heiress's hand lay a long, slender instrument, it's sharp, needle-like tip reflecting in the dim light. Squinting up at it, Lynné could not hide her surprise and disbelief when she realized what it was.
Holy shit . . . is that . . . an ice pick?
"An ice pick," Ajedrez pronounced, noticing the agent's confusion. "Did you know," she began slowly, "that from the 1930s through the 1950s, these were all the rage? They were a particular favorite of physicians. They were used throughout the world to perform a simple yet popular procedure – one I'm certain you're familiar with."
Lynné hid her discomfort. She had a sick feeling about where this was headed, and the fact that she knew exactly what Ajedrez's lecture was about didn't help matters.
"You see, years ago, the brain was considered the root of all evil. And for those suffering from mental illness – which included chronic depression, anxiety, homosexuality, and Communism – the brain was particularly nasty."
"Are you inquiring that I'm a little loopy?" Lynné asked, sounding insulted.
Ajedrez smirked. "Tch. You're crazy."
"Borderline," Lynné corrected. She then tilted her head to one side and paused for a moment of consideration. "Although," she said thoughtfully, "it has been a few years since my last psychic eval., so…" she let out a short, quiet laugh and shook her head. "…your guess may be as good as mine."
Ignoring her, Ajedrez continued slowly. "So what doctors would do with their emotionally challenged patients was . . . calm them down."
"And how would they do that, I wonder?" Lynné asked, playing dumb.
She watched as, once again, the infuriating smile formed on Ajedrez's face.
"You may have heard," the drug lord continued, "reference to someone performing a lobotomy with an ice pick and assumed it was a joke." She laughed quietly. "It was not. An American by the name of Dr. Walter Freeman came up with the idea. His technique was to stick an ice pick –" she twiddled the silver tool in her hand for emphasis "— into the brain . . . through the eye socket . . . then hack the frontal lobe free by swirling it around and around."
She poised her treacherous ice pick, raising it above her head, ready to strike at any moment.
"Let's see," she whispered, her voice reduced to nothing more than a soft hiss of steam, "if this time . . . you don't scream."
This was it. At long last her end had come. Lynné knew that, no matter how much she begged, threatened, or coerced, she could not change her torturer's mind. Ajedrez was like herself in the sense that whatever she wanted, she received. And right now she had her sights set on physically attacking Lynné's frontal lobes. In the light of the single watt bulb, Lynné saw the tip of the ice pick winking down at her.
In spite of herself, she tensed, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the moment when she would kiss her mind goodbye.
The blow never came.
At that moment, for the umpteenth time, the door flew open.
In staggered the gaunt, panting form of Liam Fusco. Seeing her partner like this (so disheveled in his rumpled black shirt and tousled hair with sweat trickling down his pink face) almost made Lynné laugh, but the drugs appeared to have cost her the ability of her mouth. Besides, she figured she couldn't possibly look any better.
"What do you want?" Ajedrez demanded, bored and barely acknowledging Liam. The ice pick was still hovering above her captive's head. In return Lynné felt her resentment for the woman grow. True, Fusco had turned out to be a conniving, traitorous leech, but he had manipulated her – her, damnit! – so the little prick deserved some credit. And even she looked at Liam while she was speaking to him.
Liam took in a recovery breath and then began. "They're here. I tried to call, but I couldn't get through to you." He shrugged. "Thought you ought to know."
Delight flashing in her eyes, Ajedrez's lips curled into a diabolical smile. Cool as can be, with no regard for the bruised and bloody agent behind her, she laid the ice pick down – it's steel form creating a loud click as it made contact with the table – and she strode over to Liam Fusco and caressed his shoulder with her long fingers.
"Where are they now?" she purred alluringly, toying playfully with Liam's blonde ponytail. The agent in turn stiffened, making an odd, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he tried not to back away. From her position on the rock-hard table, Lynné rolled her eyes.
Such a ladies' man…
"You and la mujer de gato stay here," Ajedrez commanded, still maintaining a low, seductive tone to her voice, "while I go and give him a proper welcome."
At once, Cat shot up from her chair, looking appalled.
"You're leaving? Now? But – but we were all ready! You were going to perform the frontal lo–"
"As much as I don't want to," Ajedrez said tersely through gritted teeth, "I'll have to postpone the operation. But if you're so worked up over it, gato –" she smirked at the name " – think of this: When I return, there will be a double procedure. Just remember that and do as you're told."
Without another word, she turned and exited the room, hips swinging all the way. A second later, the door closed behind the haughty drug lord with a resounding bang that sent Lynné's head spinning. The moment she regained her stability she moved her gaze from the door to the pair of traitors standing beside it. Completely ignoring Cat, whose head looked ready to explode, Lynné threw Liam a glare with the deepest, most fearsome loathing she could muster.
"You dick."
"Monsieur?" a tentative voice called out. It was soft, barely audible, yet the vast darkness of the mansion that had temporarily rendered him blind made his hearing sharper than ever. He turned around, spying Joséphine's barely visible form draped over Zebbidy's shoulders like a pale, ghostly backpack.
"Monsieur?" the child asked again in the same hushed tone.
"What, kid?"
"Je pense . . . j'ai entendu . . ." (I think . . . I heard . . .)
All at once, Sands was tense. In a single instant, every muscle in his body seized up. His whole body went still as he strained to pick up on a sound . . . any sound. His hearing had been enhanced, so if the kid had picked out something in the darkness, he could too.
Easier said than done, the voice chastised and silently Sands had to agree. The tiniest noise threw his senses into a frenzy. At the slightest din, alarm bells went off inside his head. Every sound, every gust of wind, every creak of the expansive mansion pushed his irritation closer to its limit. A dangerous game to play; his patients were already nearing the end. And the recent news of Fusco's betrayal hadn't helped matters.
And then there's Cat, the voice reminded him with sadistic mirth.
She's not smart enough to be involved with this.
Isn't she? You don't know that for a fact. And even if she isn't . . . The voice paused, letting its words coil around him like heavy smoke. You know Cat. For a little bit of power, money, and maybe some revenge . . . she'll turn into a dog and start performing back flips.
Sands said nothing in return, but in his heart he knew that the voice was right.
Rosa Hernandez had long since learned her place in the world. She had grown up the daughter of a chef who owned a grubby little butcher shoppe that made just enough money to get by. And sometimes the meager wages were not enough to supply everyone in her large family. Her mother – a name always spoken with scorn at her hacienda – had been a prostitute, plain and simple. She had died young – shortly after giving birth to her daughter, in fact. But the death had never had much of an impact on the young Rosa. It wasn't as though her mother had been around long enough to leave any kind of maternal impression on her child. She had grown up in her father's smelly butcher shoppe with her him, seven siblings, both grandparents, and no mother.
Growing up poor – that had had an impact on her life. Her life had been gurgling, cruel, and unfair. She had been mistreated whenever she walked the streets as a child, looking for lost change or peddling the poorly made trinkets she and her siblings had crafted. Once, when she was ten, a group of boys – only a few years older than her – had jumped her, demanding the small amount of money she had managed to accumulate. Unable to fend for herself, Rosa had no choice but to watch them walk away with satisfied smirks on their faces and all of her hard earned cash in their pockets.
Funny how, eleven years later, she would find herself underneath those very same boys. Only this time she would be the one walking away with a healthy sum of money. Shamefully, when she had reached the age of seventeen, she had chosen a life of prostitution – the same disgraceful path her mother had walked. Her father had been furious at the thought of his daughter selling her body, but his yell and curses had quieted somewhat when he saw just how much bread Rosa was bringing home.
Eventually, she had created quite a name for herself. It was not a name she was particularly proud of, but it brought in enough cash for her to live a comfortable lifestyle. Instead of tending to the "needs" of somewhat wealthy business men and making a living off of their salaries . . . she was suddenly giving pleasure to rich (far richer than the business men) drug lords and mobsters. That was how she met him, the man who would take her away from her tin box of a home, away from her family, away from Mexico. Adrián had been on top of her, his body gyrating in time with hers, when he had popped the question. It wasn't a proposal of marriage, nor was it really a question. It was more of a request – though it sounded like an order – to join him and his fiancée, Ajedrez (who knew nothing of Rosa at the time) in France.
Puzzled, Rosa had pushed him away, arching her expertly drawn eyebrows in question.
"What do you mean?"
"Ajedrez needs to lay low while in Paris," Adrián had explained before diving in for another kiss. "So do I . . ." He gasped, adrenaline coursing throughout his body as he took her. "But . . . we need someone to get inside . . . so that's where you come in . . ."
"You want me to be your pawn?" Rosa demanded, her blue eyes narrowing suspicion. "You want me to act for you? How much? Being someone's puppet doesn't come cheap."
He swooped down on her again, ravishing her neck and collarbones with his lips, cupping her bosom with his left hand while the other danced through her ebony tresses.
"Adrián . . ." Rosa had growled, letting her impatience show.
"Five hundred a week," he had answered at last. "That good enough for you?"
She remembered smirking coyly. "It's a start."
Since that day, she and her "employer" had had to keep a low profile, making sure not to arouse Señorita Barillo's suspicions. Rosa had always thought the young woman a little haughty for her own good, but was also very conniving and often obtained knowledge that a person would ever expect her to have.
Which was why Rosa was currently hiding behind the couch that sat in Édouard Poisson's immaculate living room. Apparently Adrián's little honey had gotten word that her object of vengeance (a Agent Sands) had finally decided to show his ugly face. A face that wasn't so ugly, Rosa saw as she peered around the corner of the green velvet couch. Even in the abysmal lighting she could make out his finely chiseled face, full lips, and well toned – if slightly thin – body. Pity she would have to put a bullet through that hansom mug of his, but such was life.
Her fingers encircling a semi-automatic pistol, she crouched even closer to the ground, a scowl deepening on her pretty face. That stupid child had heard her. How? She knew it was said that the blind had exceptional hearing, but Rosa had barely made a sound, if any sound at all.
No matter. She knew she would have to come out of hiding eventually. This was simply a little sooner than she had originally anticipated. She flipped her dark, silky hair over her shoulder, wanting to look her best when she presented herself to the trio of enemies. She slipped her index finger through the trigger of the gun. Readying herself to shoot, Rosa pulled the hammer back and it let out a click. The noise was soft, nearly inaudible, but in the silence of the room the click rang with all the fanfare of an orchestra constructed of nothing but bellowing trumpets. Rosa looked up and found herself staring into the black, merciless cavity of a .22 rimfire.
It was not her shifting that had given her away. Nor was it her sighs of impatience. It was that single, soft, yet resounding click that sealed her fate.
Hahaha! I didn't expect to have this up today, either! Oh, the next chapter is gonna be good; I know it. There's a scene in it that I have been planning for some time now. I find if very amusing and hope you all do, too. Oh and don't be shy to check out my Phantom of the Opera fic; I encourage it, actually :D
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Cat's return is never one to be anticipated, at least I hope not ;D But I'm glad you liked the bit with Sands showing some (dare I say it?) kindness towards Josey.
morph: I can tell that there were many questions going through your mind while reading the last chapter, so I hope this one answers each of them very well :) Good to know that somebody knew the Phantom has a name aside from 'Opera Ghost' and 'The Phantom,' no thanks to Andrew Lloyd Webber on that part -.9 Sorry, it's just that was pretty much the only thing that I didn't like about the musical. Like you I was audibly sympathizing with Erik while watching the movie "Oh, poor Erik…" And I was trying (not very hard, mind you) not to crack up whenever he had caught Raoul in his noose at the very end. Was it just me or did he keep pulling the rope almost every time it was Raoul's turn to sing? XD And I've always had a thing for spooky people, too (pretty much bad guys in general 9.9;) so don't worry. Aww, it so sweet that you were responding in French. And, yes, Sands of all people should have thought twice before telling a blind person to look. Admittedly, it took some serious consideration before I finally decided on having Sands pick Josey up. Like you, I just couldn't picture it. But I figured that, if the situation was hurried and dire enough and he really had no choice, that he would just pick up the kid and go. And he handed her off to Zebbidy, anyway, so it wasn't like he was holding on to her the entire time. I've yet to see a Christina Ricci movie that I didn't enjoy, so I'm rather confident that she would make a good Lynné. Glad to hear you agree :D
Lynx Ryder: Calming people down has never been one of Sands' strong points, let's face it ;) Zeb's one of those people who's willing to do anything for someone, even if they aren't the nicest person in the world (namely Lyn). And I assure you, Sands will not lose his sight again – not if I can help it, anyway ;) Pleased to hear you think I have Ajedrez down, especially since she's not the easiest character to write. Josey's a tough kid, despite her frail appearance, but sometimes emptions get to be too much and she can't hold them back any longer, poor dear. As much as he dislikes kids, I'm fairly confident that Sands wouldn't do anything to harm Josey.
Sands: Not intentionally, anyway. u.u
Sidney-.9 (choses to ignore that and moves on) I'll agree that, even if it was in just a figurative sense, Sands should have known better than to say 'look' to a blind person, especially if they were in as distressed a state as Josey was. Normally, I think he would just leave her where she was, but if things go awry then there may not be a chance to go back and recover Josey and escape as well. So I figured that Sands would figure it would be simpler just to bring her along. And I don't mind if you melt as long as you don't mind if I join in ;D
Sands: Glad to know I still have that kind of effect on people.
Sidney: 9.9 Cat seriously needs to be taught not to piss around with Lyn or her brother. Luckly, in a few chapters, she most likely will :D And I cracked up at you calling Liam a little worm. Cuz he is one. Totally.
Liam: (hiding under the desk) I'm a worm with good reason!
Sidney: 6.6 Try telling the reviewers that, why don't you? Although I doubt you'll get to say much before they castrate you…
Liam: (does the pleading 'Be-Sad-For-Me' look) 8'(
Sidney: (arches an eyebrow but, other than that, remains stoney-faced)
Liam: (grumbling angrily) You've been hanging around Sands too much…
fanfiction fanatic: There will be much action and some pain on Liam's part in the next chapter, rest assured. :D And I encourage you to go see PotO. It is an excellent film u.u
LadySparrowJack: So relieved to hear that Sands seemed in-character – you know how much I worry about that ;D Just everything you said in your review was very reassuring. I think if you checked out the PotO fanfic board, you'd definitely see that you and I are not the only ones who sympathize for poor Erik :) Sadly, I have yet to obtain a copy of Susan Kay's Phantom, although I hear nothing but good things about it. My PotO story's up, by the way, if that interests you at all :)
o