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One Dead of Stroke After Theater Panic
Nadir read the bold printed headline twice before tossing the newspaper into the seat next to him. The wind was as cold as ever, and another round of flurries had already begun to float down from the sky. Taking a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup, he leaned back into the seat and continued his wait. The empty theater stood in front of him.
Without a doubt, he knew that Erik was responsible for the mess during the previous night. The elaborate disruptions were a trademark of his masked friend, and the Iranian had seen variations of them many years before. If not for the expert work of electricians and firemen, the whole theater would have gone up in flames. Only one person had died, likely of overexertion while trying to escape the sweltering building. They were really lucky that only one fatality had occurred.
But now what? Where had Erik gone this time?
The previous night, after Nadir had finally left the chaotic scene, he at first had no other mission but to find Erik again. Then, he had come upon a frightening realization. While standing outside the theater, he had seen Christine's friend looking around the area. The young man had appeared extremely concerned, but Nadir had brushed it off as anxiety over the theater evacuation.
Looking back, he realized that the young man had been searching for someone. Somehow, Nadir knew that the young man had been looking for Christine. Nadir hadn't seen the blonde girl gathered with the other members of the cast and crew that night, and he suddenly had a sick, sinking feeling that she was gone. He hadn't been able to warn her in time.
Now, Nadir was back to endlessly searching for a man that could never be found, only this time an innocent girl might be in danger. Not knowing what else to do, he had dialed number after number that morning, trying to get in touch with someone from the theater. Perhaps they had an address or telephone number on record, as "Christine Daae" hadn't been in the phonebook. Finally, he had gotten into contact with an executive director, a Mr. Gregory Ramirez. They were supposed to meet there that morning while Mr. Ramirez brought some men to look over the electrical wiring. He hadn't sounded exactly thrilled about the meeting, but Nadir had assured him it was a matter of extreme importance, an issue of public safety.
With relief, Nadir saw a dark blue car pull up into a nearby parking space, soon followed by a white pickup truck. An older man in a neatly pressed suit climbed out of the first car. Two younger men in work clothes and with toolboxes climbed out of the truck and trailed behind him. Nadir immediately met them at the front of the building.
"Excuse me, sir!" the Iranian exclaimed. The older man turned and nodded. "Mr. Ramirez?"
"That's me," he answered grimly. "Mr. Khan?" Nadir nodded in confirmation. "Let's get out of this weather and into the building. I want to get these men started on their work. Then, I'll talk to you. It's going to have to be brief, though."
Nadir quickly followed behind, waiting impatiently as Mr. Ramirez directed the electricians into the building and toward a back utility room. Only emergency lights continued to illuminate the theater, as it was still deemed unsafe to turn on the electricity. The Iranian noticed with interest that the structure was much more complex than it appeared on the outside. Some parts of the walls and sidings appeared more worn than other parts. "Was this building renovated?" he casually asked when Mr. Ramirez emerged from a back room.
"Yes. It's been slowly fixed up over the last decade. Why?"
Nadir shrugged. "Just curious. Those rooms go far back."
Mr. Ramirez gave him a suspicious look. "Yeah. I like to keep the utilities out of the way. It keeps people from playing around with them...or at least it did." He shook his head in disgust. "Now what did you want to talk to me about? This is rather a bad time."
"Yes. I will be brief. I was wondering if I could get someone's phone number from you. One of the young actresses here may be in some trouble, and your help would be greatly appreciated. If you don't have it, I would like to ask you a couple of questions." Nadir at once realized how ridiculous the request sounded, but this was the only lead he could think of. For all he knew, Erik was out of the country.
Mr. Ramirez frowned and folded his arms. "I don't just hand out personal information. Even if I did, I have no time to access it now. Unless you can prove you're with the authorities, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Nadir glanced around before taking several steps closer. "Mr. Ramirez," he whispered. "I'm sure you're very aware of the strange occurrences going on at your theater. It would be very wise..."
"Nothing is going on at my theater," the middle-aged man snapped back. "My theater was fine until those idiots from New York got here with their scam of a charity. That's when all the trouble started. Whatever is going on, take it up with Mr. Moncharmin and Mr. Richard! They'll never set foot in this theater again, that's for goddamned sure."
Nadir's eyes widened. "New York?"
"Yeah," Mr. Ramirez replied with a frown of disdain. "They went back to New York City. I don't know what they were involved it, but they certainly wrecked things around here. My lawyers are looking into it right now." His eyes narrowed. "You aren't with them, are you?"
"No!" Nadir exclaimed, drawing back. "I've never even met them. But you're sure about them being from New York? And you're sure there were no problems until they arrived?"
"Positive. Everything was fine until then."
"Mr. Ramirez?" interrupted one of the electricians, poking his head out from behind a door. "We found some strange things back here. Were you doing work on the sound systems?"
Mr. Ramirez glanced up. "No! Why? What did you find?"
"Just a bunch of wires where they shouldn't be. Someone was definitely manipulating the circuits." He went back in, and a shuffling sound could be heard. "Jesus. I think some of these things are connected to the intercoms. The sound systems were definitely sabotaged."
Mr. Ramirez shook his head. "Wait a second! I'm coming back there."
"Hey!" called out the same worker. "Found the problems with the lighting. It's going to take a heck of a lot of work to fix, though. Your security cameras are also messed up. "
"I said I'd be back there!" shouted Mr. Ramirez, trying to hold onto his last ounce of patience. He shook his head tiredly. "I need to go, Mr. Khan. Please take your problems elsewhere."
Nadir rubbed his chin in deep thought and nodded. "I will, Mr. Ramirez," he said after a moment. "Thank you for your time." He hesitated. "You might want to check your ventilation ducts as well."
Before Mr. Ramirez could respond, the Iranian turned and quickly headed for the door, wearily realizing he had a long drive ahead of him. It wasn't the greatest lead, but it was all he had at the moment. Somehow, Nadir even made sense of the fact that his masked friend would hide himself in the crowds he so despised.
But how the hell was he ever going to find the world's most elusive man in the country's biggest city?
The night was long and restless. For most of the dark hours, Christine remained awake, staring wide-eyed at the lifeless ornaments that decorated the room. Every outside noise startled her, and she even reached for the letter opener on several occasions. She was constantly waiting for him to come in-waiting for him to do whatever he planned to do. When Christine did sleep, she was haunted with disturbing dreams and a horrible feeling of anxiety.
At some early morning hour, as her gaze drifted around the foreign room, Christine began to wonder how she had wound up in this situation. How had she become wrapped up in such a nightmare? After years of organizing her life and maintaining sensibility, she had allowed herself to fall into some sort of fantasy. For the past several months, all reason had left her. Perhaps the pain of Mrs. Valerius' inevitable death had been the breaking point.
Anyhow, it didn't matter how she had arrived there now. She was trapped in some frightening place with a man in a mask. Her survival was the only thing that mattered. The only aspect of the situation that calmed her nerves was the lengths her captor had gone to make her comfortable. He didn't seem like he had immediate plans to murder her. And….what was it he had said when she attempted to leave?
Why not stay where you are protected and loved?
Christine shuddered. Getting up from the bed, she walked over to where she had placed the hand mirror and looked at her reflection. Her blonde hair was a matted mess, and dark circles hung under eyes, contrasting sharply with her pale face. The sweater and jeans she was wearing were wrinkled from sleep. Swallowing, Christine noticed how dry her throat was and realized that she hadn't had anything to drink or eat since before the performance. Her head spun slightly as she made her way to the bathroom.
To her dismay, no glasses were sitting on the marble counter. Cupping her hands, she turned on the faucet and attempted to get a drink, only to find that the water always ended up running through her fingers. Taking a washcloth, she wetted it with cold water and wiped it over her face, feeling the need to clean the grime and sleep away. A shower was beside her, but the thought of leaving herself even more vulnerable to him was unappealing. After brushing some of the tangles out of her hair, she stepped out of the bathroom and looked around aimlessly.
If she stayed in there forever, she would starve to death, and the confining space was starting to make her feel nauseous. Besides, her bedroom was unlocked. If he wanted to do something, he was easily able to enter.
Despite all this knowledge, it still took her several hours more to finally come out.
Taking a breath, she stepped out the door and into the living area. The room was lit by several lamps, and there was the faint smell of cooking in the air. A digital clock told her that it was just after seven in the morning. She walked around the room, staring at the predator figurines with morbid fascination.
"You are awake early."
For the second time, she was startled by his voice. Her shoulders tensed as she turned to face him. He looked the same as he had the night before, darkly dressed and standing tall. Only his yellow eyes seemed to glow with less intensity.
Christine bit her lip and swallowed. Her parched throat reminded her of why she had emerged, yet she didn't want to ask or depend on him for anything.
"Are you hungry?" he enquired calmly. "You haven't eaten since before the performance."
"I'm thirsty," she finally said with submission. An undeniable look of triumph crossed her captor's eyes. Christine looked down to the wooden floor, feeling angry at him and herself.
"Then I will get you a glass of water," was his simple reply. He turned and left for another room, leaving her to gaze around the living area. Several doors surrounded her on all sides, and she couldn't help but wonder what each contained. Her eyes wandered to the exit, and she decided that the tumult outside would seem less daunting in the daylight. This hope faded as she noticed that the door was still securely locked.
Christine turned back around and saw her captor standing with the glass of water. He had walked back into the room without a sound. Her eyes met his for a moment, and she slowly reached out a shaking hand to take the glass. As her fingers brushed the flesh of his hand, she let out an unintentional gasp and drew back.
He was ice cold.
Deathly cold.
The yellow eyes flared for a second, and he quickly set the glass on a nearby table. She stepped back, but he made no further movement toward her.
"Drink when you wish," he said, before turning around and disappearing again.
Christine stared after him a minute before finally picking up the glass of water. She looked down into the clear fluid, making sure there was nothing suspicious within the cup. As her throat became almost painfully dry, she gave in and took a drink. The liquid was cool and refreshing, calming her shattered nerves somewhat.
He returned several minutes later, showing no remembrance of the previous encounter. "If you are hungry, there is food in the kitchen."
Christine closed her eyes and attempted to steady her voice. "I...I want to go home. Please. I promise I won't tell anyone or get the police. I want to go back. I can't stay here any longer. You can't keep me here." Her voice cracked a little, and she berated herself for sounding so weak.
"Christine," he began in a gentle tone. "You will only be here for several days. I am sure you will find it is an enjoyable place once you allow yourself to settle down. As I have said, you are not in any danger. You are safer than ever."
"But..." She sighed in frustration, realizing her pleading was futile. "How long do I have to stay?"
He was silent for a moment. "A week should be fine. Yes. One week."
A look of dismay crossed her face. The thought of staying there another minute was frightening enough.
"Come. I will show you my home." He made a slight motion with his hand for her to follow him. She reluctantly obeyed, keeping a fair distance behind his towering figure and taking notice of his elegant stride. A burning curiosity was now competing with her fear.
He motioned toward the room adjoining the sitting room, and she glanced inside the kitchen. Compared to the other rooms, this one was surprisingly normal and modern. A functional black stove, refrigerator, and microwave were all present. Several of the strange glass figurines decorated some of the shelves, and the visible dishes had spiraled designs on them. Still, though, nothing too eerie jumped out at her.
Her captor continued forward and placed a hand upon a doorknob. He hesitated for several seconds before finally opening the door with a soft click. "This is my room," he stated. "Do not come in here unless I am with you."
She gazed in and was immediately surprised by how large it was. Christine's eyes settled on the object in the center, and she nearly choked. The structure was obviously a bed of some kind, but it looked like a...a...No! It couldn't be! The black pillows and blankets were strung over a box. A six-sided box.
"My bed seems unusual to you?" he asked with amusement. "I guess it is strange. But it is comfortable. And I don't sleep very often."
"I see," she murmured, tearing her gaze away from the sight. Looking to her left, she saw a polished wooden piano. The instrument had to be many decades old and was engraved with various designs. The rectangular bench had a black, velvet cushion sitting atop it. Sheets of music sat against the tall back frame, some handwritten and scribbled upon in red ink.
"Another one of my prized possessions," he proudly stated, following her gaze. "That is where much of my time is spent when I'm here."
"It's very beautiful," she said quietly as she walked toward it. She softly brushed the smooth wood with her fingertips. The music sitting above the keys was unfamiliar and disorganized. The red notes were scattered about with no identifiable rhythm, and she could barely tell where each measure ended and began.
Looking around the rest of the room, Christine saw that it was a contrast of modern objects mixed with antiques...the normal mixed with the grotesque. A small television sat next to a blue vase decorated with crimson scorpions. Two black speakers were placed next to a pair of miniature gargoyle statues.
"Do you like it?" he asked, placing his hands behind his back.
"It's very...different," she replied, gnawing at her lip. "But nice." Christine stopped and looked twice at the wall on the other side of the room. Several moments passed before she realized that another door was built into it. The doorknob had been torn off so that the doorframe almost blended in with the wall. Only a slightly gray hue differentiated it from the white paint.
"Stay away from that," he stated, obviously annoyed at her discovery. "It contains personal possessions that are for no one's eyes. Do you understand?"
She immediately nodded, unnerved by the malice in his voice. After a moment, the eerie silence began to grate at her. "Do you...write music?" she enquired.
"I do. I am working on a composition at the moment." He gestured to the piano. "My masterpiece."
"Can I hear it...Erik?" she asked, using his name for the first time. Anything that would get his attention off of her would be a blessing.
"No. It is not for your ears, Christine. The pain of it is for me alone." The yellow eyes blinked, and Christine shifted awkwardly. She hated never being able to see his expressions, never knowing whether he was mocking her or being serious. Only his eyes gave any clue to his emotions, and she felt uncomfortable looking into their piercing gaze. The solitude of her personal room was starting to sound pleasant again.
"However," he began, causing her to look up. "I think that I would like to hear you sing. Yes. That is why you are here in the first place, isn't it?"
"I...maybe you could play something first," she softly replied, knowing anything she sang would come out a garbled mess. She could barely even speak or think without flying into a panic.
Erik nodded. "Fine, then. Classical? Or would you prefer something current?" He asked the last question with disdain.
"Classical is fine," she quickly replied.
He nodded in what she took to be appreciation. "I think you will enjoy "Solfeggio," he stated, pulling out a sheet of music before positioning his hands over the piano.
As his fingers began to fly and glide across the keys, Christine suddenly remembered why he had entranced her during those months. His voice, when speaking from so high above, had truly sounded divine. Now, his ability with the piano was drawing her in with the same effect. He played the rapid piece with astounding ease. She followed along through the notes, almost forgetting her earlier fears. Reflexively, she turned the sheet over as he came to the end of the page. Christine closed her eyes and listened to the fast notes and varying dynamics, opening them only during the final forte.
Erik looked up at her as he finished. "Did you enjoy it? It's a bit simple, I suppose."
"No! It was wonderful!" she exclaimed, emerging from the stupor. Those two eyes stared up at her with an emotion she couldn't discern. Who was this man? How could his talent be kept in isolation? What did he want with her? "Will you play something else?" she asked.
He eagerly nodded and launched into the familiar "Moonlight Sonata," as if knowing that it was one of her favorite classical pieces. A relaxed smile played across her lips as the smooth melody reached her ears and filled the room, hypnotizing her. Still playing, he looked at her once and seemed to take satisfaction in the look of pleasure on her face. As he came nearer to the ending line, she again reached out to turn the page.
Christine's hand hovered in the air for a moment. Her captor was still in deep concentration, and she realized he probably knew the piece without even looking at the notes. The music sheets were there for her benefit alone. Fascination and intrigue filled her. Who was her instructor? He had to be some kind of genius.
Immersed in the melody, Erik gave a slight nod for her to turn to the next page. Her curious gaze remained on him, though, and her hand veered away from the sheets of music. She had to know the face of the Voice. Taking her thumb and index finger, she plucked the mask off in one quick motion.
The shattering of the black porcelain into a billion tiny fragments marked the untimely ending of the sonata.