Chapter Three
Watson, perhaps sensing the tension in the room or perhaps feeling constricted by Irene's suddenly tight grip, gave a small meow of displeasure and wriggled out of her arms, landing daintily on the floor before walking quickly into the kitchen directly across from the foyer. Irene didn't know what to do so she flattened herself against the door, pinned in place by Slade's stare like a butterfly on a pin. Her mind couldn't take everything in at once. Waking up in suburbia, getting in serious trouble, and seeing Slade without a mask all at once was too much for one day. She fought the last traces of the nausea left over from the tranquilizer and wracking her brain for something to say. Irene was spared from trying to force words out of her mouth when Slade walked closer, getting within two inches of her face. She looked up at him with wide eyes, tightening the muscles of her stomach so that their bodies wouldn't touch.
"What did you say to them?"
His voice was slow and controlled, with an undercurrent of irritation that got stronger with every word. She swallowed hard, attempting to gather her thoughts in order to form a coherent sentence.
"I said that I was your little sister…that I was visiting you. I didn't tell them my name."
"Fine," Slade said curtly, "As you can probably tell, I've managed to build a decent reputation in this neighborhood, and I would hate to have it spoiled by your big mouth."
Irene couldn't do anything but nod and he stepped further away from her, his eye coldly flickering up and down her body in what felt like a physical assessment. Even without his mask and standard uniform, Slade possessed all the warmth of an angry python. Shuffling her feet and looking down, Irene noted that she'd tracked a few blades of grass on the Persian rug in the otherwise immaculate house. Hopefully he wouldn't notice, and if he did notice, hopefully he wouldn't beat her for it, or worse. Some part of her mind took note of the ridiculousness of seeing him in jeans. Didn't criminals sleep in their uniforms?
"You had a slight overdose of my tranquilizer," he continued finally, "Slight, so go ahead and wipe that look off of your face. There's medicine in the kitchen if you're still feeling any ill effects."
Her frown deepened. A slight overdose? It had taken her almost an hour to wake up, and she'd been knocked out for god knew how long before that. Irene had completely lost her taste for everything but water, and even though she felt thirsty, she was still too queasy to attempt drinking anything yet. Still, she managed to mask her resentment and grudgingly began walking to the kitchen when Slade did. A slight headache was beginning to pulse at the back of her head, as if Slade had willed it there just by mentioning it. Walking into the kitchen, Irene glanced around warily for any signs that a criminal genius lived in it. She constantly expected to find weapons or other oddities that would out Slade for who he really was, but just as her guest room had been sparse and innocuous, the kitchen was ordinary as well. Sun shone in through the wooden blinds, hitting the small breakfast table, brown granite countertops and mahogany cabinets. Sleek, modern appliances were nestled in their proper places.
"Is there a problem?" Slade asked, his aggressive tone suggesting that there had better not be.
"No, I just…no."
She shook her head dumbly, which was quickly becoming her preferred response to Slade's questions. To his credit he hadn't said or done anything particularly evil to her (besides the kidnapping, which she knew was coming anyway) but Irene was still wary around him anyway. She didn't know what to do or how much she could get away with saying, and she certainly wasn't going to admit that she was looking around for guns or other sinister devices. Things were awkward between them, like a date between two people who'd only ever talked over the internet and didn't know how to interact in real life.
"Move," he said curtly to her cat, who had decided to curl up beside the stainless steel refrigerator, "Sit."
His final imperative was directed at Irene and was accompanied by a jerk of his head toward the small table. Slade waited for Watson to get out of the way (She could add "nice to animals" on the otherwise blank list of his positive character traits) and opened the refrigerator. Irene took the opportunity to study his face. He has a strong jaw. She shifted her gaze downward when Slade turned toward her and feigned interest in the texture of the table's wood instead of his single blue eye when her kidnapper moved again. He grabbed a bottle of water and opened up a cabinet above the counter, and pulling out a bottle of Tylenol, he sat both of them in front of her before walking wordlessly out of the room. She stared at the water. It was Great Value brand, and the Tylenol was actually Equate. Perhaps Slade didn't care about labels, or perhaps he had so much money because he was consistently frugal. Irene tried and failed to picture him shopping at Wal-Mart like a normal person. She was only roused out of her thoughts by his return and by the large manila folder he carried with him. Slade pulled out a seat across from her and opened the folder, shuffling several of the papers inside of it as he dug around for what he wanted. To give herself something to do, Irene cracked open the water bottle and shook out two "Tylenol", popping them into her mouth and taking the smallest sip of the water possible.
"We have a lot of ground to cover," Slade began, "Starting with this. Put it on."
He held up a slender, metallic bracelet no wider than her little finger. It was unclasped at the moment, the bare hinges exposed to the elements. Irene stared warily at it before holding out her open palm. She examined it from all sides, but there were no distinguishing markings on the bracelet to tell what it did or where it came from.
"Will it hurt?"
"No," he responded, his face unreadable as he watched her clasp it on her wrist.
It fit perfectly, the clasp seemingly disappearing into itself until the bracelet appeared to be one solid metal line. She smoothed her thumb over its shiny surface and wracked her brain for possible uses. It was too small to be of any use as a weapon. Perhaps it was a tracking device, or something to block a signal with. Irene idly turned her hand over and attempted to remove it by pressing on the thin line where the clasp was. It didn't budge. Her eyes widened and Slade watched her silently struggle with it for a moment before looking up at him with a questioning gaze.
"It won't come off."
"It's not supposed to. The bracelet is designed to keep you in this yard, at least for now. Should you attempt to leave, it will send 50 amps of current through your body, effectively stopping your heart."
His nonchalance was a cinderblock on her chest. She couldn't breathe. Slade continued shuffling through the papers with apparently leisure, not even bothering to watch her reaction to being chained to the yard like a dog. She no longer marveled in her ability to see his facial expressions. Now he just seemed horrid and cruel no matter what he looked like.
"Why would you put this on me?" She choked out, "And—and what happens if I accidently step out of it, like if I have to get Watson? Why are you doing this?"
"People don't handle death well," Slade replied, launching into a seemingly-unrelated topic, "Particularly the news of their own demise, fabricated or not."
"What?"
"While you were sleeping I took the liberty of burning your apartment. I've already read the police report—the official story is that you perished in the fire. Tragic, really, how easily fooled people are these days."
She sat there in a stunned silence, the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears. Slade flicked through his paperwork. Irene had always known that he would come for her. For years he'd lurked in the back of her mind. In some ways he'd made her a better person. Everything she did had seemed to have a finality about it, at least for awhile. Irene had been convinced that he would come while she was sleeping and snatch her away in the middle of the night, leaving her family to wonder where she was. She'd tried hard to be a better person. A better daughter. But she had never been able to reconcile the idea of Slade taking her with the idea that he would have to do something in order to avoid being chased and to avoid having Irene's Missing Person poster plastered all over town and the internet. This was it. His final solution. It was unthinkable, but she should have seen it coming all along. It was a neat, tidy way to ensure that no one would come looking for Irene O'Sullivan ever again.
"This can't be happening," she said, "I…you can't do this! My family, my grandparents…everyone thinks I'm dead!"
"Irene O'Sullivan is dead," he responded calmly.
Slade slid an official U.S. Passport toward her. Irene stared dumbly at the compact blue square, unwilling to open it or even touch it. What had she done to herself all those years ago? She was Faust, signing away her soul to the highest bidder. She was Dorian Gray, a naive teenager so afraid to die and more afraid to really live. Her thoughts were racing out of control but Irene was mute, unable to protest or even fully process what had just happened. The only sound in the room was her own ragged breathing. Her eyes were fixed on the embossed gold logo of the United States, shining softly in the light. In-out. In-out. In-out. She was hyperventilating, faster and faster, and-
"Ah!"
Irene was on the floor before she heard herself cry out. Through her hair she saw Slade's boots inches from her face, and Irene slowly sat up, legs sprawled out in front of her, as red-hot pain smarted on the left side of her head. He'd slapped his captive hard enough to send her reeling, and Irene pressed one hand to her throbbing cheek and stared dumbly up at him, mouth agape. Slade's good eye was narrowed to a slit. Even the broad black eye patch next to it was imposing. Sticking out one foot and sliding the overturned chair away from her, he advanced on Irene, who crawled backward in vain. In one deft move, Slade leaned down and hauled her up by her jacket, throwing her bodily into the refrigerator.
"Listen and listen well, because I will not repeat myself," he hissed, his face so close to hers that she could feel his hot breath against her ear, "You owe me, little girl, and no amount of crying or begging is going to get you out of it. If I see any of your sniffling or hear any of your whining again, I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
Slade slammed her against the cold steel once more for emphasis and let her go, stepping back to survey Irene again with his cold stare. She dropped her gaze to the floor. The slap had taken most of the shock away from her but it hadn't dealt with the emotional pain rolling under the surface. The sound of a phone ringing in another room brought her out of her own thoughts and she warily looked up at Slade again. For a moment he appeared as if he was going to say something else, but then he glanced behind him.
"Memorize your new personal information and be in this room tomorrow at 6:00 a.m.," Slade said coolly, "I'll be back by then."
She stared at his back as he walked out of the room, Watson purring and winding around her ankles. It was only after she heard the roar of a sports car's engine fading down the suburban drive that Irene allowed the first few tears to fall silently down her face.