Authors note: Yay, I am on a roll here, chapter 3! Not bad ey? Anyways, feedback is greatly appreciated:)
REVIEWS? PLEASE?
.
When the sea turns crimson
Chapter 3
.
-Auburn Correctional facility, New York, 2002-
The door closed behind us with a resonating bang. I could feel the sound vibrating in my chest, ring uncomfortably in my ears. The other boy was staring at me, eyes narrowed in a combination of contempt and menace. Much like me he was angry, even though I had nothing to do with his predicament. The thing is that when you are all alone, and no one will listen to you, anger is the closest to humanity you get.
"Hello….roomie", he sneered, storm grey eyes narrowed to mere slits.
He was smaller and slighter than me, and he looked unhealthy. Like all the inmates here he was deprived of sun, love, and all other positive enforcements. His hair was long and unkept, and his eyes were flickering uneasily around. He looked unstable, frightened, although he was doing his best to hide it.
"Hn".
I didn´t dignify his greeting with a proper response, he clearly wasn´t worth my time. Instead I looked around, taking in the cell with mixed emotions. It was larger than my previous one, probably because we where sharing, and it had two large windows. I liked that; being able to look outside for once. The stranger chose this moment to launch himself at me, and my broodings were abruptly interrupted. We ended up in a messy heap of arms and legs, sprawled across the floor. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, sweaty hands closing around my neck. Then he lifted one arm, hand balled into a fist.
"Ha! Take that you moron!" He seethed, his fist connecting with my jaw.
It hurt, and with a low growl I threw him off, taking a hold of his left arm and throwing him into the wall. A sharp crunch was heard as his head smashed into it, and he slid to the floor, tears pouring from the corner of his eyes like there was no tomorrow. Suddenly he wasn´t so tough anymore, he just looked lost. He was clutching his arm with the other hand, low sobs causing his shoulders to tremble. I spared him a cool glance, proceeding to sit down on the bed that was the closest to the window. Outside the sun was shining, and if I craned my neck I could see green treetops on the other side of the outer fence. The other boy staggered to his feet, clumsily making his way over to the other bed, a couple of meters away from mine. His nose was bleeding, and he slowly lied down, arms resting behind his head, watching me guardedly.
"I am Tyson, Tyson Granger", he said, brushing one lock of blue-grey hair behind his ear.
I spared him an uninterested look.
"Kai Hiwatari".
He nodded gravely, lifting one hand to wipe the blood away from his nose. It had stopped bleeding, but he still looked a mess, blinking away tears as he continued to stare at me, almost like he was in awe.
"I am sorry I punched you".
A silent moment of understanding passed between us. Two lost souls, finding common ground in their shared misery. Somehow I knew that there was not a bad bone in his body, not really. He was just lost, like me. Perhaps all he wanted was a friend.
"Likewise", I responded.
We lapsed into silence for a while, the both of us staring longingly outside. The glass of the windows were protected by pastel coloured steel bars; no escaping that way. Sometimes I wondered if I would spend the rest of my life like this, confined, living by other peoples rules. The thought frightened me. It had been such a long time, 9-10 years. The idea of ending it for good was something I had often pondered. But then the rage always came at the last moment, ruining it. Death did not frighten me, and when it came I would welcome it, but first I wanted to see them suffer, all of them.
"What are you in for?" Tyson asked me, quickly crawling further away when my gaze hardened.
"If you don´t mind me asking", he hastily added, looking at me with wide eyes.
I turned to face him fully, jaw clenched uncomfortably. What could I say. If I ever wished to get out of here I couldn´t say what I wanted to, what was the truth. Previous sessions had taught me that if I wanted to achieve anything in the future, I would have to tell them what they wanted to hear, at least at the present. Otherwise they would only accuse me of lying again, and so long as I did not make any progress my chances of leaving were slim at best.
"They call me a compulsive liar", I said diplomatically, voice neutral.
Tyson looked at me, one eyebrow quirking upwards. His expression almost made me smile; he looked utterly unimpressed.
"That doesn´t explain why you are here, at a maximum security correctional facility", He said, sympathy evident in his eyes.
I shrugged, sending the security camera a withering look.
"No, I suppose it does not".
.
.
.
-June 2012, present time-
Tragedy and scandal it seems, have unique way of clarifying peoples priorities. The clip I was watching was from December 1994, two days after the death of my parents. It was slightly grainy, the colours uneven at the edges. A man was looking confidently into the camera, face serious. He was wearing a police uniform, and his brown hair was slicked back. His name was Boris Balcov, a high profile FBI officer. He looked professional, responsible, the kind of character people admire for his integrity and undeniable good guy image.
"It is with regret I acknowledge that the downing of flight 997 was indeed founded by Vladimir Hiwatari. This man has tricked us, lured us into believing that he was an innocent. He is not".
He made a dramatic pause, looking sincerely into the camera, back straight in his pin striped suit. When he looked around his unflattering profile was revealed. He had a huge nose. Of course, this was years ago. 15 years and a few nose-jobs later he looked completely different. Yes, a defender of the people indeed.
"Vladimir Hiwatari has been laundering money for a terrorist organisation, he is a terrorist, and the world deserves to know!".
Boris Balcov made a grand gesture with his arms, mouth set in a grim line.
"Vladimir Hiwatari is responsible for the deaths of 90 innocent people…."
I turned it off, running one hand through my hair with a sigh, scowling. In the Tate household nothing appeared to be amiss so far. The only thing that happened to be of any interest was Thomas Tate, who twice a week told Judy that he went golfing. According to the GPS transmitter in his phone he did not go to the golf course. He usually went in the opposite direction, to a place called the South Fork inn, hotel and resort.
I watched him as he gathered up his golfing gear, proceeding to carry everything out to the car. Dr. Tate gave him a quick kiss on one cheek before she went back to her computer. It appeared half hearted. Well, like any predator, I knew where to go when I smelled blood. A slight smile graced my features, this seemed promising. And that is another thing about the Hamptons; secret relationships are everywhere, and so long as they stay secret people rarely make a fuss. It is when such things become public knowledge that the fuse is lit.
With swift, easy movements I grabbed my phone and car keys on my way out. It was time to engage Kenny. The South Fork in was about half an hours drive away, and I caught up with Mr. Tate´s car just as he turned left into the parking lot. He was driving a Bentley, of course, and I slid my Porsche in a few spaces away from him. That was one part of blending in that I didn´t mind, at all. With a certain eagerness I followed him closely in the rear view-mirror. Unsurprisingly he left the golf gear in the car, strolling purposefully towards the entrance.
A woman was waiting for him there, wearing large sunglasses and a conservative, deep blue dress. Her hair was red, and elegantly cut. She looked powerful, in control. Her name was Emily York, one of the younger socialites in the Hamptons. She was 27, and after a dramatic divorce two years ago she had cashed in about two thirds of her actor ex-husband´s fortune. She was a shark, not on my list, but most importantly not someone I would think twice about involving in my game. I smiled a gratifying smile.
Kenny answered on the first ring, as always.
"I need you to check all the security cameras at the South Fork inn, find Thomas Tate, or an Emily York".
"What? Right now?"
"Yes Kenny, right now", I said silkily, watching as the pair disappeared inside, before exiting the car.
"I need their room number"
I heard him sigh in the other end, as he shouted at someone.
"Personal trainer", he excused, and I couldn´t help but chuckle.
"How personal?"
"Damn you Hiwatari!"
I strolled quickly across the parking lot and around the back, a blue duffle slung carelessly over one shoulder. This should be piece of cake. A row of dumpsters were lined up by the delivery entrance, and I waited in silence behind one of them, intently watching as one of the kitchen donkey´s emptied a trash bin. He looked tired, and yawned a few times before turning, using his key to unlock the door and go back inside. I moved like lightening, grabbing the handle moments before the door closed, and slipping soundlessly inside. Once in the kitchen I was set, quickly putting in an ear piece and slipping my phone down in my pocket. I was wearing a waiters uniform and a dark brown wig, no one even batted an eye over my presence.
"Okay, room 212", Kenny chirped.
"They are getting really cosy in there".
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
With self assured confidence I grabbed a bottle of Champaign from the cooler, quickly slamming it down into a bucket filled with ice. No one spared me a glance. Special delivery of Champaign at one O´clock was nothing new in the Hamptons. With quick measured movements I grabbed a tray and two glasses, expertly making my way through the line of chefs and servers.
Moments later I was out in the lobby, stepping into the elevator. I pressed the button for the second floor. It was empty, and I fished out a small, oval shaped glass contained from my pocket. The liquid inside was clear and tasteless. Mr. Tate wouldn´t notice a thing. I poured the substance in one of the two glasses, quickly slipping the glass piece back in my pocket. Had they only known what was coming their way. I smiled. The elevator doors opened, and I purposefully walked down the corridor. 208, 210, and there, 2012. I knocked.
"Room service".
Someone cursed inside, and the door was opened a fraction, Mr. Tate´s head peeking outside. His hair was messy and dense with sweat, and what looked like love marks were all over his bare chest.
"What is this? I didn´t order anything", he mumbled grumpily, brows furrowed.
"Champaign, courtesy of the house", I responded.
At that his complexion brightened considerably, and he opened the door a bit further, letting me inside. Emily York was standing by the window, wearing a plush, white bathrobe, matching the one Mr. Tate had on. Her previously elegant hairdo was down, and her lipgloss was smudged. I opened the bottle with a soft pop, steam rising from the opening as I poured bubbling, pale pink liquid into both glasses. It was an excellent vintage. I handed Mr. Tate a glass, giving the other to Emily York as he started drinking. Then I expertly positioned the bottle back in the ice bucket, placing it on the living room table. That they would rent a suite just for sex seemed ludicrous to me, but then again what else was there to expect.
"Enjoy your day sir", I politely said, sliding outside without another word.
All I had to do was wait. I sat down outside, across the street from the entrance of the South Fork inn, basking in the sun and enjoying half a glass of white wine. The South Fork inn was one of those up scale places. Voltaire Hiwatari frequented here from time to time, both for business and pleasure. His fate was something I found myself pondering far too often. Exposing an affair wouldn´t interest him. Lisa Tachibana probably knew all about them anyway.
No, to hurt him I had to strike far closer to home. The question was where exactly that was, and before I knew I had to get to know him. I twirled the hand blown glass between two fingers, watching as the straw coloured liquid swirled back and forth. In reality I was not particularly fond of wine, but I had a cover to keep up. The Tyson Granger who had moved to the Hamptons was upper class. He drank wine, drove expensive cars and frequented at charity events and high profile parties.
The real Tyson Granger was of course radically different. He was an orphan; and his parents had died in an actual car crash, unlike mine. He had come from a working class home, and would undoubtedly had ended up living a totally normal life, had it not been for his escapades as a teen. After setting his latest foster home on fire, aged fourteen, he had ended up in Auburn Correctional facility. As an individual he was frail, impulsive and dangerously short tempered. He was one that was easy to lead, or mislead, depending on the situation.
The faint sound of an ambulance demanded my attention, and I looked up, feigning shocked interest as the doors of the main entrance burst open. A man was being carried outside, and the ambulance skidded to a halt in the middle of the parking lot, the crew immediately approaching the seemingly close to death Mr. Tate. I got up in one fluid motion, leaving the rest of my wine behind as I jogged across the street. Emily York was standing in her bathrobe, staring at the ambulance with an open mouth. Her previously perfect hair and makeup was in a disarray, and she looked completely out of it. I slid up beside her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Is everything okay miss? I am sure your husband will be alright." I said sympathetically, smiling down at her.
She looked up, eyes widening in realization.
"I´m…I…"
And then she ran, looking over her shoulder one last time at the ambulance before disappearing in the crowd. I watched her go with mild interest, before turning, picking up my phone as I headed for the car. How I would have loved to see what would happen when Mr. Tate reached the hospital, and my favourite Dr. Judy Tate showed up. This only needed a few more finishing touches, and then there would be no doubt in Dr. Tate´s mind that her husband was indeed cheating on her. And, with a much younger woman at that. I called Kenny.
"Everything set for tomorrow?" I wondered.
"Yup, Mr. and Mrs. Tate are all going, and Hilary Tatchibana is personally seeing to your invitation as we speak".
"Good", I responded, a slight smile settling on my countenance.
"I wouldn´t miss INCs 100 anniversary for my life".
"I am sure you wouldn´t", Kenny commented dryly.
I hung up.
Mr. Tate´s infidelity did not surprise me. After all, what else is there to expect from someone who will condemn the life of a child, only so that he himself can achieve even more money, even more power. Some say that it is the sum of our choices that define us. In my opinion it is not necessarily our choices that define us, but rather our commitment to them. Mr and Mrs Tate had been given 15 years to think on their sins, and yet they had not done anything to erase them. Their commitment to Voltaire Hiwatari and his conspiracy appeared to be absolute, and this is why there is no mercy involved in my actions towards them. That being said this was just the beginning. Even as hurtful as Mr. Tate´s indiscretions would be this was nowhere near enough to quench my thirst for revenge. It was merely a beginning.
Home at the beach house everything was all sunny and beautiful. An elegant, deep blue satin box was resting on my door mat. INC was written in silvery letters on the front, and I picked it up, weighing it in my hands before unlocking the door. Inside there was an elegantly designed invitation, written with blue letters on expensive, beige paper. "We herby invite you to be part of INCs 100 anniversary". I smiled. Hilary had written her name in pink at the bottom, a small smiley next to it. She had done just what I hoped she would, and I patted the box almost gratefully, placing it on the kitchen table. Little miss Tachibana, who knew she had the capacity to invite her newfound family´s greatest enemy into their home. Had she only known.
.
.
To believe that a life is meant for a single purpose, one must also believe in a common fate. Father to son, brother to sister, mother to child. Blood ties can be as unyielding as they are eternal. But it is our bonds of choice that truly light the road we travel. Love versus hatred. Loyalty against betrayal.
A person's true destiny can only be revealed at the end of his journey, and the story I have to tell is far from over.
