How to Lead a Life of Crime

chapter EIGHTEEN



RUSALKA





One day, when I was ten years old, my school held a special assembly. Every student between the ages of seven and thirteen was in the auditorium that afternoon when a pair of police officers took the stage. We all knew what they’d come to say. Over the previous month, two townie boys had been kidnapped on their way home from school. A monster was loose in Connecticut.

They never used words like pervert or scum, but I heard the disgust in the officers’ voices when they warned us to keep an eye out for “strange” men. A grown-up lurking around the school playground or lingering too long in a public restroom. I left the assembly feeling certain that I’d know the monster the moment I saw him. And when his mug shot made the papers a few weeks later, he looked just like the loser I’d sketched in my head. A pale, skinny shut-in type. They said he showed no remorse for the horrific crimes he’d committed. One of my teachers called him a psychopath. I heard a television reporter refer to the guy as a sociopath. Years later when I finally learned what the terms really meant, that man’s picture was still lodged in my head.

I never would have used the word sociopath to describe my own father. When I was a little boy, he seemed like a god. Six foot three, a full head of chestnut-colored hair, a brilliant mind, and the dimpled chin of a movie star. Wherever he went, people gravitated toward him. He was worshiped by ladies and lesser males. As I grew older, I saw how he toyed with them. He fired loyal employees—then destroyed their reputations for sport. He seduced most of my mother’s friends and never attempted to hide his affairs. Humiliating his wife and the other women’s husbands must have been part of the thrill. When boredom set in, his mistresses were cruelly cast aside. I remember arriving home one afternoon to find a woman weeping on our doorstep while my own mother attempted to comfort her.

In the world of business, my father’s coldness was legendary. Even the Wall Street types who most admired him said he was a man without blood in his veins. But every act of professional sadism was rewarded by a bump in his company’s stock price. My father was a leader—a man who did what had to be done. He didn’t have a heart to hold him back, and that’s why he always won.

If only his colleagues had seen him at home—when the party was over and the ice sculpture started to melt. He’d stalk into his study and slam the door. An hour or two later, he’d emerge. My father never showed any outward signs of drunkenness. He never stumbled, slurred his words, or got red in the face. He’d be quiet for hours. And then he’d explode. Jude was the only one who could cool him down.

I hated my father, but I would have argued to the death with anyone who’d called him a sociopath. Because sociopaths don’t have any feelings. And I was always convinced that my father loved Jude. Which meant that, as much suffering as he may have inflicted, he wasn’t inhuman. That was my first mistake. My father never really loved anyone.

Mandel’s theory makes perfect sense to me. Not the loony crap about preserving the “ecosystem” and saving mankind. But I have little trouble believing that there are two types of humans. It doesn’t matter what labels you give them. There are monsters in this world. The Mandel Academy used to train them. But if Lucian Mandel proves there’s a gene, it could soon be a factory that makes them. And if he’s right about me—if I’m really a hybrid—there’s no telling when the switch might take place. It feels like I’m blindfolded and strapped to a bomb. I can hear the timer ticking away, but I can’t see how many minutes are left on the clock.

I can’t stay. Mandel knew no reward could keep me here. I don’t care about his “proof” anymore. So he tried to take away all hope of escape. But he didn’t succeed. There may be a way to break free, but I’ll need to act fast. And if I get out, I’ll take down the academy, just like Lucas would have wanted.

Mandel escorts me back to my room. I can see he’s done a little redecorating. The yearbook page that I’ve kept in my drawer has been framed and hung on the wall. Peter Pan is pointing his sword at me. It gives me an idea. I look down at the clock. It’s twelve fifty-five. Five minutes to lunch. Perfect. I can get started immediately. As soon as Mandel’s out of sight, I grab a pillowcase and begin filling it with supplies. The first thing that goes into my bag is the electric razor that’s been charging in the bathroom. Then I use a pair of blunt-tipped “safety” scissors to cut the cord off my alarm clock. That’s dropped into my bag as well—along with a red Sharpie and the two bottles of water that the invisible cleaning people always leave on my bedside table.

I sit at my desk until a quarter past one, and then I strip the bandage off my arm. There’s still blood seeping from between the three stitches.

The crowd in the cafeteria greets me with reverential silence. I have returned from the underworld. They don’t know what I’ve seen or how it has changed me. They don’t know what I’ll do. I have a mysterious bag in my right hand. Three thin streams of blood are trickling down my left arm. Everyone can see that my tracking chip has been removed. I’ll let them draw their own conclusions.

I head straight for the Wolves. Just as I hoped, they’re all sitting in their regular spots. I walk between the two filled tables. One is occupied by lesser beasts. The elite have all gathered around the other one. And as luck would have it, Ivan is sitting on the stool that would have been mine. I’m going to do my best to make this my last day at the Horror Hotel, but there are a few people who deserve to be punished before I check out.

When I reach the wall, I turn to face them. Gwendolyn leaps up and wraps her arms around me. “What happened?” she whispers. “They said you were with Lucas when he slit his wrists.”

“Sit down for a second,” I tell her. “Not there,” I order when she begins to return to her seat next to Leila. “At the other table.” Something in my tone makes her obey.

“What’s in the bag, Flick?” Caleb drones. “Did you bring us some souvenirs?”

“It’s a surprise,” I tell him. I take out the two bottles of water, remove the caps, and place them both on the steel table. Then I crouch down by the electric socket on the wall between the two tables.

“What in the hell is he doing?” Austin drawls.

Leila sniggers.

I plug the alarm clock cord into the socket and stand up with the frayed end in one hand—and my electric razor in the other. Then I knock the two water bottles over, flooding the stainless steel table.

“Don’t move,” I tell the Wolves as I dangle the electrified cord over the wet table. “Or I’ll fry all five of you.” I have no idea if it would actually work. But neither do they. And that’s all that counts.

“Flick?” Gwendolyn says.

“In a moment, darling,” I respond without taking my eyes off her friends.

“Cute,” Caleb sneers. “What do you want?”

“A little silence if you don’t mind,” I say. “I need to concentrate here. I’ve never given anyone a haircut with one hand before.” I turn on the razor and take my place behind Julian.

“You’re not going to let him . . .” Julian starts.

“I wouldn’t fidget if I were you,” I say. “You might make me drop the cord.”

“Sit still,” Caleb orders Julian. I doubt he’d bother to help if he could. At the Mandel Academy there are no friends. Just competitors. “You needed a trim anyway.”

The guy has a lot of hair for a pixie. It takes almost a whole minute for the razor to cut its first path through. The rest goes more quickly. When Julian’s head is covered in nothing but stubble and the table looks like it’s grown a fur coat, I hand him my pillow- case bag.

“I’ve got a present for Caleb too,” I tell him. “Take it out and pull off the cap.”

Julian obeys, and I slide along the wall to the other side of the table.

“Your forehead, please,” I tell Caleb.

“Why?”

“Don’t argue, Caleb,” Julian snaps. “Whatever he does to your face will be an improvement.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say as I use my red Sharpie to draw a giant F on Caleb’s forehead.

“Ivan?” He gets one too. Then I step back to admire my work.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have a branding iron handy. If you wash off the ink before I give you permission, I will find a way to etch my initials into your skin. Every time you look in the mirror, I want you to remember that you belong to me now. I had plans for Lucas, and you f—ed them up. If you ever question my authority again, I will slaughter every person at this table.”

“Why me?” I notice Leila is twitching like a Pokémon character that’s about to explode. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“I just don’t like you,” I tell her. “I don’t like any of you. So consider yourselves banned from the lounge for the rest of the semester. And if any of you f— up in any way, I won’t hesitate to kill you all.”

I yank the alarm clock’s cord out of the wall and march out of the cafeteria. I can hear someone rushing after me. Gwendolyn catches up at the elevator bank.

“Flick . . .”

“Feel like a little fresh air?” I ask blithely.

I don’t say another word until we reach the Wolves’ Den.

“Open the window,” I tell her. “Let’s go outside.”

Gwendolyn is surprised—and not pleasantly so. Which means she’s passed the first test. She doesn’t know I was here for a “private chat” with Mandel.

“Who told you about the roof?” she asks.

“Guess,” I say.

When we step outside, I don’t feel the cold, but Gwendolyn’s teeth start chattering. I wonder if that will make it any harder for her to lie.

“So what other secrets have you been hiding from me?” I ask. I keep my tone neutral. That’s the rule from now on—give nothing away.

“Secrets?”

“I’m offering you a chance to come clean, Gwendolyn. I suggest you take it. Tell me what you know. What happened to Lucas?”

“He killed himself. But you already know that! They said you were there!”

“I was. I watched Caleb and Ivan murder him.”

She gasps. Those big blue eyes widen and five pretty little fingers fly up to her open mouth. She looks horrified. She looks exactly how I’d want her to look. Which tells me it’s all just an act. She knew all along.

This is how it feels to lose your last hope. To stop treading water. To unplug the life support.

Mandel wanted me to find out this way. I bet it was always part of his plan. I knew Gwendolyn was one of them. I knew it, but I couldn’t quite believe it. Until this very moment, I thought there might be a chance that Mandel hadn’t made her a monster. If Gwendolyn was capable of loving me, she might be willing to save me. But it would have taken a miracle. And now I finally see. Only idiots pray for miracles. You might as well believe in Peter Pan.

I don’t care enough about Gwendolyn to be angry. But I will punish her anyway.

I let a little tremor creep into my voice. “Lucas is in a morgue downstairs. So are all the other kids who’ve been ‘expelled’ this semester. That’s what happens to Ghosts, Gwendolyn. They don’t leave. They die!”

“Does Mr. Mandel—”

“Of course he knows!”

Gwendolyn throws herself into my arms. “Oh my God, Flick! What are we going to do?”

I take her by the shoulders and hold her at arms’ length. I want to see her lovely face. I want to watch the tears flow from her eyes. “Do you love me?” I ask her.

“Yes!”

“And you trust me?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Because I want you to come with me. There’s no way to escape, Gwendolyn. So I think we should jump.”

“Jump?” The word comes out flat. Finally an honest response.

“You go first,” I insist. “I’ll help you shimmy up the drainpipe on the side of the tower. Once you’re past the fence, just close your eyes and leap. I promise I’ll be right behind you.”

She’s speechless.

“Come on!” I urge her. “We have to act quickly—before anyone figures out that we’re up here!”

I take Gwendolyn by the wrist and begin to pull her toward Mandel’s tower. She stumbles forward two steps before she yanks her hand away.

“There’s got to be another way!” she insists. “I know—we can sneak out of one of the alumni parties. Go to the airport and catch a plane somewhere!”

It’s a nice thought. I almost wish it wasn’t so obvious that my beautiful princess is just scrambling to save her own ass.

“They’ll trace the chip in your arm, darling. Even if I made it to safety, I couldn’t live without you. I’ve thought this through. If we want to be together, there’s nothing else we can do! Please. If you love me as much as I love you, please come with me.”

Lucas was right—I’m a gifted actor. And I’m giving an Oscar-worthy performance. Poor little Gwendolyn is totally convinced that I’ve lost my mind.

“No,” she says coldly. “I’m not jumping.”

I cradle her face in my hands. “Then maybe I should throw you,” I say.

It takes a split second for her to understand. “This isn’t funny,” she growls.

“I haven’t been joking.” I bend down and kiss her cold lips. “If you ever lie to me again, I will toss you right over one of the balconies. And believe me—you won’t see it coming. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She spits the word at me.

“Wonderful.” As I head back toward the tower, I think about the first time I saw Gwendolyn. How she looked just like an angel. Then I come to a sudden stop. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Ivan once called you ‘Rusalka.’ Any idea what that was about?”

The mask drops, and I can see the monster beneath it. The Queen of the Wolves has removed her disguise.

• • •

I catch Ivan between classes. I’m pleased to see that he’s still sporting a giant red F on his forehead.

“Come with me,” I order. I don’t even watch to make sure he’s following. But when I step on the elevator, he’s right behind me. I finally understand why Siegfried and Roy did what they did. It’s fun having a bloodthirsty beast for a pet.

As soon as we’re inside my room, I pull out my desk chair. “Have a seat.” He obeys. “What does Rusalka mean?”

Ivan’s jaw drops. He assumed I’d forgotten. “I can’t tell you,” he says. Of all the responses he might have given, that is by far the dumbest.

“Listen, I know you’ve got the brains of a blintz. So let me explain something to you. Things have changed around here,” I tell him in a perfectly calm voice. “I don’t give a shit what the ratings say. As of this morning, I am top dog. It doesn’t matter how frightened you are of Gwendolyn. Right now you should be ten times more worried about me. So. Rusalka.”

Ivan nods. “Rusalki are mermaids.”

“Mermaids?”

“They are very beautiful.”

“Get to the point.”

“They come out of the water at night to seduce men. Then they drown them.”

“Why did you call Gwendolyn Rusalka the first time we saw her?”

“That’s what my father called her.”

The Butcher of Brighton Beach? “Your father knew Gwendolyn?”

“No, he read about her in the paper. He showed me her picture.”

“Which paper? The New York Times?”

Judging by his reaction, Ivan has never heard of the New York Times. “What? No. The Russian paper. In Brighton Beach.”

I feel like I’m interrogating a dimwitted donkey. “Gwendolyn is from Brooklyn too?”

“No. I think she lived somewhere in the north. But she killed a Russian man from Queens. That was why she was in all the Russian papers.”

“The man who tried to molest her?”

Ivan grins. “She told you there was one man?” Suddenly I’m the idiot.

“How many were there?”

“Eight. Maybe more. They all paid to touch her.”

“They paid? Who did they pay?”

“Her. It was a business. She posted pictures of herself on the Internet. Made dates with men who like little girls. When they came to her house, she took all their money and bled them like pigs. Then she and her mother threw the bodies into a river. Rusalka. My father always said she was a genius.”

I can’t help but grimace. “The mother must have made her do it.”

“That’s what everybody thought. Then the cops checked out the security tapes from her mother’s favorite bar. The old lady was there almost every night until four o’clock in the morning. Maybe she helped hide the bodies, but she didn’t kill anyone. The men all died right after they got to Gwendolyn’s house. Usually around eight at night—when Gwendolyn had been home alone.” Ivan shrugs. “But who is going to cry for a bunch of guys like that? She would have gotten away with it if they hadn’t matched her teeth to the bite marks.”

“Bite marks?”

“On the bodies.”

“She bit them?”

“She was only thirteen years old. I’m sure she knows better these days.”

“Thirteen? She’s seventeen now, and she told me she’s been at the academy for three years,” I say, doing a little math out loud. “So she must have been in juvie for a whole year before Mandel found her.”

“She never went to juvie. They put her in an asylum. They thought she was crazy.”

• • •

It’s ten after eight in the morning. I’ve just stepped into the cafeteria when a Wolf races up to deliver the news. Ivan is dead.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.