I have never been to Seattle before. As soon as I step out of the taxi, I knew I liked it.
It beats Forks any day.
Even though I have never been here before, I am confident that I will not get lost. Parkes gave me some written instructions, you see, and a map of Seattle.
I take this map out of my pocket and study it. The taxi driver has left me on Krause Street; I must go north until I find a place called 'Roxannes'. It is a cafe, rather dull, it sounds. But it is not the cafe that Parkes wishes me to find his documents.
It is the upstairs room where his papers are hidden.
Parkes warns me in his hastily scrawled note that there are a number of security guards on duty at this time; apparently the cafe has been broken into before. Also, according to Parkes, there are several security cameras and even a guard dog out the back.
I smile grimly. No amount of security will keep me out. If I must, I will smash the cameras and fill the guards' bodies with bullets, perhaps even the dog as well.
I do not like that last part. I do not like killing animals, especially if they have not done anything to me.
But this job is important. I must not be weak, or else I will be caught.
I had thought Roxannes' would be hard to find, but it is not. It sticks out like a sore thumb, with its lurid bright green walls and hot pink trim. I shudder delicately. This Roxanne, whoever she is, has got no taste when it comes to colour. The colour, however, does not seem to deter customers; the cafe is nearly full of chattering, eager people.
Roxanne must be a good cook.
I push open the front door; the bell at the top gives a merry little tingle as I step inside. The inside is almost as bad as the outside; it is green and pink in here as well. The walls are green, the tables are pink, and the chairs are a mixture of both. I nearly gag at the sight. It is overwhelming, so much so that I start to feel dizzy. Roxanne turns out to be a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, with hair like fire. It seems to float away from her head, and towards the (green) ceiling. She is wearing a light pink minidress and orange roller skates.
I frown. I thought all this was over. That it went out of fashion years and years ago.
"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" Someone whispers in my ear. I jump, startled. The speaker is a young man of about twenty, with floppy blonde hair.
I smile at him. "Yes, it is," I say.
The man grins back at me, his eyes straying down to check out my body. I am used to people checking me out; until I get married, it will continue to be this way. I do not wish to get married, however; I enjoy being by myself. "Roxanne loved the seventies," he says now, dragging his eyes back up to my face.
I pull my fly sunglasses off and give him my full attention. "I can tell," I note, glancing once more at the disgusting walls and rolling my eyes.
The man seems a little offended. "Hey, it's not that bad," he says, a note of hurt in his voice. I snap my eyes back to his.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I did not realise that you like this sort of thing."
I am in a hurry to put my sunglasses back on. I have spotted the security camera; it is positioned above Roxannes' head, her flyaway hair nearly obscuring its vision.
The man follows my gaze. "It's not on," he tells me, eyeing me suspiciously now.
"Oh, I know," I reassure him, now looking out through the darkened plastic, "I just saw my reflection in the camera lens and I look dreadful."
"No, you don't!" the man exclaims.
I smile at him. "Why, thank you, sir."
"Call me Bryce," he says shyly. I notice his eyes are the oddest colour-they are a strange shade of violet. Bryce seems to notice and looks away.
I glance at the tacky clock perched above an equally tacky set of table and chairs. It is now half past one.
I now only have five and a half hours before I must meet Parkes.
"I am sorry, but I must talk to Roxanne now," I tell Bryce.
"Oh...okay," he mumbles, still not looking up at me. "...Bye."
"Goodbye," I say. I hurry away from Bryce and march up to Roxanne. "Excuse me," I say politely. I cannot falter here. It is clear that Roxanne is the owner of this building. I need her help to get upstairs without arousing the suspicions of the security guards and Bryce. I do not trust Bryce enough to know whether he is lying about the camera or not; I made a stupid error when I took off my fly sunglasses.
Roxanne looks at me with bright green eyes and a surprised expression. "Yes?" she asks, a snooty tone in her voice.
I smile angelically. "Please, I was wondering if you could come upstairs with me. I'm the new worker here, and someone told me the uniforms are upstairs. But the security guard doesn't believe me and he won't let me in."
Roxanne is cautious. "Are you Cynthia Kraus?" she asks.
I nod vigorously. "Okay," Roxanne sighs. "I'll take my break now and help you find your uniform." She throws a rag down on the counter, looking annoyed, as if she had been interrupted while doing something terribly important, instead of just wiping a few glasses. She skates around the counter, taps another waitress on the shoulder, tells her that she's taking her break, and then takes my wrist in a painful grip. I almost cry out in pain and start to pull away, but the look in her eyes is dangerous.
I do not like it. I may have to kill her when we are upstairs. I have a silencer on my handgun, so there will be no noise when I end her life.
She pulls me toward Bryce and a sour-looking security guard. "This is Cynthia Kraus," she tells him. "She needs to get her uniform. " The guard starts to get up from his pink chair, but Roxanne lays a hand on his shoulder and insists she'll take care of it. The guard sighs loudly but allows Roxanne to pull me upstairs.
As I leave, I notice Bryce is still watching me curiously with those strange eyes of his.
The stairs are narrow and rickety, and more than once I must grip Roxanne so I do not fall. "Watch it," she snarls the second time I do this.
"Well, perhaps you should get a wider staircase," I hiss back. "Did you ever think of that?"
Roxanne does not reply. Once we reach the top of the stairs, she flings me away from her, as though I was something smelly. The room upstairs couldn't look more different to the one below. It was plain, boring, with one dusty window. Spider webs hung over everything. There were piles upon piles of musty boxes strewed everywhere. There was a three-legged table in the middle of the room, with what look like a rusty birdcage atop it. The bird was long dead-only its skeleton remained. And, to my delight, there were several bulky cabinets, just as Parkes said. One of them must have his documents in them.
Roxanne gives me a heavy push. To her surprise, I do not move. I sidestep her next lunge and casually shut the door, pulling my silenced handgun out as well. "Do not move," I say in a bold voice. "If you move, I will shoot."
For the first time since we met, Roxanne is not so angry this time. She appears frightened. "You're not Cynthia, are you?"
I sneer at her. "No. I am not."
"What do you want?" she cries.
I bump the barrel of the gun against her temple. "Some documents."
"I don't know what you are talking about," she insists. I pull the trigger on the gun, but it does not hurt her. I yank it to the side at the last second, so the bullet misses, but just barely. Roxanne begins to weep. "They're in those cabinets," she sobs.
"I am not looking for any old documents," I tell her. "There are certain ones concerning my friend Mr. Parkes. I know you know where they are, so you might want to tell me where they are, before I decide I will not miss the next time I shoot."
"P-Parkes?" Roxanne whimpers. "I do not know the name."
"You do not want to lie to me." I spit in her face. She flinches but does not dare to wipe it away.
"That one!" she cries, pointing with a shaking finger at the cabinet closest to us. That is good; I can keep an eye on Roxanne while I look for Parkes' documents. "Thank you," I say, smiling sweetly. Then I pull the trigger, and this time, I do not miss. Roxannes' brains splatter the door, and blood splashes on the floor, reaching my shoes and soaking through them, down to my socks. I take a step back; I do not wish to leave tracks. Perhaps I will have to take my shoes off before I leave this place.
No, better yet, burn them.
No, I think grimly, I will not burn down this restaurant and kill all those people, just to be rid of my evidence. I will keep them on, and everyone shall live. Except Roxanne, of course. I walk over to the cabinet Roxanne pointed to.
Hopefully she did not lie to me. Otherwise, I may be late for Parkes. I yank open the cabinet drawer. What I see makes me groan. There are hundreds of papers in here, and they are not categorised in any way. I plunge my hand inside the mess of papers and start pulling them out at random. Williams, Bruno, Perne, Petrie, Amorosi, Parker, Parkes...
"Yes!" I shout happily. I believe I have found it.
The paper is quite detailed, with information on almost everything Mr. Parkes has been doing for the last twenty years. Some of it is quite shocking, such as hiring several prostitutes for a 'fun' party, but most of it is quite boring. Parkes seems to have quit with the pole dancers and such about fifteen years ago. I can see why he wanted it. Aside from Mr. Parkes sex life, there was information that I could tell had been withheld from the police-such as murdering his wife and three children one night while he was drunk. Quite possibly the wisest decision is to burn these papers. That would be the wise thing to do. So even if someone blabs, they cannot prove anything. I wonder how much money I will get for this?
A dog barks nearby.
I freeze. The dog has smelled Roxanne's blood, I am sure. It is alarmed. If it keeps barking, someone will surely notice, and then, I will be caught.
I cannot let that happen.
Stuffing the papers in my pocket, I stride over to the window and peer outside. It is a large Rottweiler, and it is indeed alarmed. It is leaping up at the building desperately, its eyes rolling madly, its tongue lolling out from its mouth, dripping with slobber.
Yes. I must kill the dog if I am to escape here. I open the window, and a cool breeze rushes against my face. It is heaven; it had been extremely stuffy inside the tacky cafe. The dog stops jumping and starts snarling angrily at me; it knows I am the cause of death here. I position the gun carefully, and aim between the brutes' eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut as I pull the trigger. There is a piercing yelp, and then...silence.
I open my eyes and grimace at the mess I had made. The dog is dead; there is no doubt about that. But I wish I had not killed it. But I know, in my heart, that if I had not, I would be the one dead. I had a friend once who was killed by a Rottweiler. Her face was chewed to pieces, and the mongrel had eaten part of her arm and leg. I had to shoot that dog, too.
Shooting animals does not make me happy.
I heave myself through the window with great difficulty; I am by no means fat, but this window was extremely small. But, luckily, I am quite flexible and so I manage. I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I drop to the ground; it is a two-storey building, remember, and when I land, my foot twists underneath me and I crumple to the ground. "Damn," I curse, sitting up and massaging my foot; it has only been sprained, not broken. But I will have to be careful from now on, to stop my foot from being damaged any further.
The day is growing darker, I note, as I lurch to my feet, ignoring the screaming protests of my foot. Grimacing, I hobble out onto the main street. A car narrowly dodges me, as I try and cross the road. An elderly man screams obscenities at me as I flop back on the sidewalk. Across the road was the easiest way to the park I was meant to meet Parkes at. But, since I am crippled, I suppose I will find another way.
I have come too far to give up now.
So I start off down the sidewalk, keeping my head down, limping painfully.
It takes me a long time to reach an intersection. Cars are roaring past, too fast for me to hobble along to the park on the other side. I sigh. I will not get there in time. I know this. I glance once more at my watch. It is six fifty-nine. One more minute. Already I can see Parkes, waiting nervously beside the small pond in the middle of the park. A number of ducks are waddling into the undergrowth on the deeper side of the pond, getting ready to rest for the night. Again and again, I try and cross the road, but to no avail. I cannot cross it, not with this dicky foot. I collapse at the foot of a gutter, my face in my hands. My sunglasses slip off and fall into the storm water drain. I do not care. I have failed Parkes, and myself.
I knew I could do this.
How long I sit there, I do not know. It begins to rain while I sit there, my twisted foot stuck out bizarrely in front of me. The rain is icy-cold and it soon soaks me through. The blood from my shoes and socks washes out and turns the storm water pink. I watch it with defeated eyes. At least one good thing became of my crippled foot: The evidence is flowing away, into the storm water drain.
No-one will never know I was the one who killed Roxanne. I can still see Parkes. He has his briefcase held over his head, glancing worriedly around for me. I wave furiously at him, to try and catch his attention, but he doesn't see me through the rush of cars. I try shouting at him, but he cannot hear me above the roar of car engines and the thundering rain.
He stands there for another minute, then, throwing his briefcase down on the sodden ground, he storms out of the park and runs up the other side of the road. I watch him for a moment, but then he is lost behind a bus. By the time the bus has passed, he has gone.
I put my face in my hands. I have failed him. Dozens of people walk past, but not one of them offers any assistance. I do not care.
I do not need help.
"Hey, you okay?"
I peek through my fingers at who is speaking to me. It is a man of about thirty, with fraying hair. What colour it is, I do not know, for the rain has plastered it to his head and is so dark it could be any colour-except blonde.
"I am fine, thank you," I say stiffly.
The man is wearing a black and gold hoodie and jeans so baggy, it's a wonder they do not fall off him right then and there. The man is wearing a kind smile. "It's okay, sugar. I know your foot hurts."
"How did you know about that?" I ask him, still speaking through my fingers.
"It's not hard to see," he says kindly. "You have your leg stuck out in front of you. It must hurt a lot for a girl as cute as you to not be able to stand up." He is a gentleman. Perhaps I will accept his help.
"Please help me up," I say, removing my hands from my face and holding them out for him to grab.
"Sure thing, sugar," he says, taking my hands and pulling me up. He is strong. And his hands are rough. I do not like them. They remind me of murderers.
"Thank you," I say sweetly, yanking them out of his grip and starting down the sidewalk. The man's hand lashes out and grabs the back of my hoodie. "Get your hands off me," I spit.
"Now, don't be like that, sugar," the man croons. His other hand slides into one of my pockets. "What do we have here?" he asks. I reach for him, to perhaps break that terribly large nose of his, but I cannot reach. He finds the documents, the ten dollars, and my switchblade.
The papers he drops in the storm water. He pockets the money and the switchblade.
"Give those back!" I scream, kicking out wildly; I do not get him though. He laughs softly and searches my other pocket. He finds the hand gun. I expect him to pocket this, too, but he does not. He throws it in the gutter and it is swept into the drain. "No!" I shout, struggling madly.
"What's a cute babe like you doing with a gun and a knife, huh?" he asks me now, throwing me back on the ground. My ankle shatters upon impact; I let out a terrible scream of agony.
"So I can kill assholes like you," I say. The man thinks I am funny. He laughs like a hyena and slaps his leg as he does so.
"Do you think you can kill me, babe?" he asks. "You ain't got any of your party poppers anymore, sugar. Seems to me like you aren't going to be killing anyone. You're helpless."
I consider. He is right; of course, I am helpless, without my weapons and my ankle shattered into a million pieces. "Maybe you're right," I say.
"Damn right I am," he says. He steps closer to me; I can smell alcohol and cigarettes on him. He is drunk, very much so.
For the first time in five years, I am afraid. I cannot do anything to him, and I am afraid that I may die. I used to think of myself as invincible, when I had my weapons with me, but now that I do not have them, I am afraid.
"No," I whisper. The man's expression hardens, and he kicks me in the face. My nose breaks, the blood fills up my mouth, and I spit it out, whimpering in pain. He kicks me again, this time in the stomach. I bring up my breakfast, and it goes all over his shoes. He yells in disgust and keeps kicking me. I feel my ribs shatter beneath his foot; one of them, I am sure, pierces my lung. I gasp, and it is pure agony, feeling my rib in my lung, feeling my blood leak into my lungs, and it is getting hard to breathe. Blood bubbles up, over my lips, and dribbles down my front.
"You don't go sayin' no to me, honey," the man says, grinning. He grabs my left arm and twists-it breaks into two pieces, and fresh blood is spilt; the second half has pierced the skin, and is poking out, covered in blood and strands of muscle. I scream and scream, but no-one seems to hear; even I can barely hear myself anymore.
All I can hear is the man's laughter, as he gloats over my broken body. I try and take a breath; my throat fills with blood instead, and I end up choking on it. I cannot believe I am going to die here.
The man has something silvery in his fist; I realise, with horror, that it is my switchblade.
He plunges it down into my right thigh. The blade goes through cleanly, and the tip comes out red and dripping on the other side. I try and scream, but I cannot. Not anymore. All that happens is that blood fills my throat, my mouth, and I gag on it.
"Hey-leave her alone!" The voice of an angel cries out.
I see dimly that another man has joined the fray. I brace myself, waiting for more pain. But there is none. All I see is a tall, lanky figure grab the man's head and twist it. I hear all the bones in his neck break, and he slumps down, dead. My saviour drops his body, and kicks it away, disgusted. The he kneels next to me.
"Anastasia," he whispers. I struggle to focus on him. He has blonde hair, which is plastered to his head. His eyes glow in the darkness. They are crimson. I scream through the blood. "Ssh, you're okay, its okay now," he whispers, taking my head in his hands. "I dealt with that filth."
I have heard this man's voice before, I am sure of it. But how did he know my name? I have never told anyone, and the people I did tell are dead. I had to kill them. No-one must know my true name. No-one.
"Who...?" I choke out, more and more blood dribbling down my front. This seems to unsettle the man.
He draws back slightly. "It's me," he whispers, and now I know who he is.
It's Bryce.
"Br..."that is as far as I get before blood fills my mouth again.
"Ssh..." he says, laying a finger on my lips. "I can save you, Anastasia. Do you want to live?" His question puzzles me. Of course I want to live. I nod. "Okay," he says. "I will save you."
And, just as my vision fails me, I felt him press his lips to my neck.