How to Lead a Life of Crime

chapter NINETEEN



DESTRUCTION, TERROR, AND MAYHEM





Gwendolyn and I have a beautiful relationship. She tells me everything. And I haven’t killed her yet.

We spend our free time alone in the Wolves’ Den. All of Gwendolyn’s old friends have been banished from the tower. The lesser Wolves keep a wary distance from both of us. It was number 11 who discovered Ivan’s severed head in the lounge. Gwendolyn had positioned it on one of the coffee tables so that Ivan’s glassy, lifeless eyes would greet the first person who came through the door. I’m sure she hoped it would be me.

Only Gwendolyn and Mandel know what she did with the rest of Ivan. But I’ve heard that the landing outside the lounge was flooded with gore. It flowed down the staircase and seeped under the door at the bottom. They cleaned it up before the Androids got spooked, but if you look closely, you can still see traces of blood between the floorboards.

I only had one question for the killer. “Did you bite him?” I asked.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “I’ve grown up,” she sneered.

Either that, or she’s been well trained. Her self-restraint seems quite impressive these days. Without it, I might not be able to keep my crazy little princess trapped in our tower. And there’s no doubt about it anymore—Gwendolyn is officially deranged. The first thing I did after I heard about Ivan was head straight up to the lounge. The head was gone, but the Mac PowerBook 100 manual was still there. I took out the Hare Psychopathy Checklist and gave Gwendolyn the test. She got a 36 out of 40—a score that would make any successful serial killer proud.



Pathological lying Check!

Lack of empathy or remorse Check!

Promiscuous sexual behavior Hell, yeah.

Superficial charm Fooled me.

Criminal versatility She’s the Dux!

Delusions of grandeur She’s the Dux!

Juvenile delinquency She cut off Ivan’s head (and I’m not sure she used a knife).



I’m no trained psychologist, but neither was the kid who typed up the checklist and scrawled the purple note at the bottom of the page. You’re the crazy one, you redheaded freak. I think I know which redheaded freak he was addressing. I should have figured it out a long time ago. The Mac PowerBook 100 was sold in the early 1990s. Lucian Mandel would have been in his teens back then, and he told me he’s been studying the academy’s students since he was my age. His obsession with predators must have begun while he was in high school. I can just see the arrogant little bastard administering the test to Wolves his own age. Then one of them decided to turn the tables. If his score is accurate, Lucian Mandel is more dangerous than Gwendolyn.

I don’t know if he still engages in “promiscuous sexual behavior.” (I shudder at the thought.) But Mandel has certainly got “manipulation” down pat. If he didn’t, Gwendolyn would have ripped out my throat with her perfect white teeth by now. I’m guessing he once told her to help me in any way that she could—and that the order has not been rescinded. So I force Gwendolyn to sit silently beside me as we tackle our homework at the end of each day.

It must make for a pretty picture—the blond beauty and her handsome beau. We’re just two ordinary American teenagers inventing new ways for businesspeople and politicians to screw the whole world. Every night before we head to our rooms, I grab Gwendolyn, bend her over one of the balcony railings, and kiss her. And every night I almost vomit—but the gesture must be made. I want to remind Gwendolyn how little effort it would take to toss her over the side. The message couldn’t be clearer, but she always kisses me back. That’s what she’s been told to do.

I have no allies here—only enemies. I couldn’t care less if the other students hate me. I only want them to bow down before me. The trick—just a little something I picked up from Caligula—is indulging my every whim. I keep the academy’s plastic surgeons busy by practicing new Hand-to-Hand Combat techniques on Caleb and Austin. I delight in finding novel ways to destroy Leila’s precious computers. (Yesterday at lunch, I took a leak on her latest model.) Whenever Julian’s crew cut grows long enough, I shave obscene designs into the side of his head. It’s been a while since the Wolves have done anything to provoke such abuse. That’s the whole point. There’s no such thing as cause and effect anymore. There are no rules. There’s just me.

Maybe the switch has been flipped and I’ve become Mandel’s monster. Or maybe I’m just pretending. I don’t think anyone knows for sure. The person I once was might be hidden away somewhere inside my head. But I’m like an old lady who buried her treasures in the backyard—and then forgot where she dug the hole. When I found out number 53 was dead, I felt nothing. An Android in my Fundamentals of Business class said that Frances swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol. He didn’t seem to realize that the official story was ridiculous. Students aren’t even allowed to have bottles of vitamins in their rooms. Any potentially fatal drug would be kept under lock and key. But the Android needed to believe it was suicide because the truth was too horrific to contemplate. All I could do was laugh.

“Who’s next?” I asked Gwendolyn when I took my seat next to her in the Art of Persuasion.

She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “That’s it,” she told me in a hushed, angry voice. “We can’t have fewer than fifty students.”

Thanks to Ivan’s untimely demise, a Ghost was spared. But that’s not justice. It’s only dumb luck.

• • •

It’s the beginning of April, and I haven’t seen Mandel in about five weeks. The semester is almost over, and new rankings will be posted at the end of the month. I have no real competition—academic or otherwise—at this school anymore. Even Gwendolyn has fallen far behind. But Mandel must want to keep me on my toes because he’s decided it’s time for another pop quiz. I think he’ll find that I’m 100 percent focused. I’ve got my eyes on the prize, and nothing’s gonna keep me from winning it. Whatever Mandel wants me to do, I’ll do it with a smile. And whenever I have the opportunity, I’ll thank him for framing that picture of Jude and hanging it up in my room. It’s really helped me set my priorities straight. I don’t care about Ghosts or girls anymore. I don’t give a damn about proof. This monster is just waiting for a chance to kill its creator. One way or another, I’ll get out. And then I’m going to destroy him.

Mandel’s latest test will take place today. The top three students in the Art of Persuasion have been chosen to receive additional “off-site” training. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and we’ve just been pulled out of our first-period classes for a meeting in Mr. Martin’s office on the ground floor of the academy. It’s Gwendolyn, a fifteen-year-old Wolf named Percy, and me. I wonder if the other two realize that they’re only here to make the charade seem legitimate.

The office is a dump. Whatever Mr. Martin’s skills may be, organization clearly isn’t one of them. Stacks of white boxes circle his desk and climb the walls. Many are missing their lids, and the labels slapped on their sides are written in an illegible hand. The box closest to me contains an empty bottle of prescription medication, a pair of women’s underwear, and a wig. Once we take our seats, our beloved instructor maneuvers the obstacle course to the other side of his desk. Its surface is strewn with paper coffee cups, yellowing newspapers, and multicolored towers of folders. Maybe Mr. Martin thinks the clutter makes him look professorial. All I see is opportunity. A mess like this is a godsend to a thief.

He pulls out a black leather briefcase, sets it on the desk in front of him, and begins dialing the combination lock. He acts like he’s some kind of CIA operative, but if that’s his idea of security, he needs a refresher class. Leave me alone with that briefcase, and I’d have the lock cracked in less than a minute. I probably won’t get a minute, but the idea still burrows into my brain.

I can’t see into the briefcase from where I’m sitting on the opposite side of the desk. I watch Mr. Martin’s hand disappear inside and emerge clutching three thin files.

“Gwendolyn.” She rises and leans over the desk to accept her file. Mr. Martin is in a jovial mood this morning. I haven’t seen him this happy since Lucas’s trial by polygraph. Someday I’ll smack that smile off his face, but right now I can’t afford the indulgence.

“Flick.” As I reach for my file, I knock over one of the coffee cups. Clumps of mildew ride a thick brown river that flows around the papers on Mr. Martin’s desk and drips down onto his chair.

“Dammit!” Mr. Martin bellows. He roots through a trash can and pulls out a handful of napkins that must have come with yesterday’s lunch.

“Sorry!” As I scramble to rescue documents from the flood, I position the corner of a thick envelope on the lip of the briefcase.

“Don’t touch anything! Just sit down!” Mr. Martin orders me, and I obediently drop back into my seat.

He tosses the sopping-wet napkins into the trashcan and wipes his palms on his pants. “Get up and take your file,” he snaps at Percy.

I don’t know if my ruse will amount to anything, but at least I’ve spoiled the bastard’s good mood. He swats down the top of his briefcase. It might look closed, but I didn’t hear the lock click. This could be my lucky day.

Mr. Martin glances at his wet chair and curses under his breath. He kicks a box out of the way and squeezes back around the desk to address us.

“The files you’ve been given contain all the information you will need to complete today’s assignments. There are cars waiting for you outside. You will each be driven to your destination—and then driven straight back to the academy. You are not authorized to go anywhere else. I have carefully engineered these simulations to test your unique abilities. I recommend that you take the exercise very seriously. Act just as you would in a real-world situation. But remember: you will be under surveillance at all times.

“Now, if you check your files, you will find a brief description of your assignment on the first page. Take a moment to read it. You’ll have plenty of time to examine the other contents once you’re en route to your destinations.”

I open my file but sneak a quick peek at Gwendolyn’s. I see a photo of a man. A plastic bag with two white pills has been stapled to the inside of the folder. So she’s supposed to drug him and what? Kill him? Take dirty photos? Leave a few bite marks where the guy’s jealous wife might discover them?

“Eyes on your own file, Flick!” Mr. Martin barks.

My file contains a snapshot of a different man. I don’t recognize him. He’s in his early forties. Dark-haired. Handsome. He looks like an actor. He has an iPhone pressed to one ear.

Arriving at 1:50 p.m. on American Flight 3749 from Chicago. Obtain the phone and deactivate password protection. Return to the academy and immediately deliver the device to your instructor.



“Want me to look for anything in particular on the phone?” I ask.

“You’re not very good at following directions,” Mr. Martin says. “You’ve been instructed to bring the phone directly to me. You haven’t been asked to trawl through the contents.”

Ha. That’s like creating a file called secret diary: keep out on the computer you share with your sister. Either you’re incredibly stupid, or you want her to look. Mandel’s not stupid. There’s something on the man’s phone that he wants me to find.

“Are there any other questions?” Mr. Martin asks. Gwendolyn and Percy both shake their heads. “Then get started. We expect you back here no later than five.”

I rise.

“Sit back down, Flick,” Mr. Martin orders as he opens the door and ushers the others out of the office.

“Mr. Martin?” Gwendolyn is gone, but Percy is lingering by the door. “Am I authorized to use lethal force if I’m captured?” He sounds so eager.

“This is just a simulation,” Mr. Martin reminds him. “You aren’t going to get caught.”

Bless that little psycho. He’s given me just enough time. My fingers creep into the briefcase on Mr. Martin’s desk. I’m hoping for a phone but find a wallet instead. Good enough. The briefcase lock clicks, and I’m back in my seat, the wallet safely hidden beneath the folder on my lap.

Mr. Martin slams the office door. “I was hesitant to give you this assignment,” he tells me. “I saw your arm and assumed that your chip had been removed. I didn’t want to be responsible for a student like you going AWOL. However, Mr. Mandel has informed me that your movements are still being tracked. And I’ve ensured that they will be actively monitored throughout the day. I also have a team of observers in position at JFK Airport. If they see any sign that you intend to go off course, the punishment will be severe. You are not allowed to make phone calls or send emails. You will not initiate any unnecessary conversations. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you have any idea how severe punishments can get at the academy?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” I tell him.

“Then off you go.” He waves me away like he can’t stand the sight of me.

• • •

I’m in the backseat of a black Lincoln Town Car. It only takes a few seconds to examine the contents of my assignment file. In addition to the photo and instructions, there’s a plane ticket that will allow me to access the American Airlines gates. The phony name on the ticket matches a counterfeit ID with my picture on it. There’s nothing else in the file. Not a single piece of information on the man I’m meant to rob. I could sit here and guess what the academy has planned, but I have much better things to do.

Mr. Martin’s wallet contains $135 in cash. His real name is Simon Hodenfield. He lives at 45 East 85th Street in Manhattan, just off Park Avenue. The photo on his driver’s license makes him look like a pedophile. Fantastic. Mixed in with a bunch of receipts is a list of names written on a scrap of paper. None of the names rings any bells. I flip the scrap over. Jackpot. It’s the top half of a letter addressed to the parents of Nathaniel Hodenfield, who has been a very naughty boy at school. One more infraction and young Nate will be kicked out of the Browning School for the remainder of his sophomore year. Whatever the kid did, something tells me he isn’t going anywhere. In fact, he’ll probably end up graduating with honors. The six names on the back of the letter look like a hit list. I bet they all work at the Browning School. “Mr. Martin” has probably been digging up dirt on each of them.

My car ride ends in the short-term parking lot at JFK. I hop out and dump Mr. Martin’s wallet in the first trash can I see. I keep only the license and cash. I’m feeling good. It’s nice to have a change of scenery. Then I enter the terminal and find myself sucked into a crowd. Suddenly I’m a zoo animal, and the door of my cage has been left open. The wild half of my brain sees opportunity. The half that’s accepted a life in captivity is insisting that it’s all just a trick.

I haven’t been around this many normal people in months. Is this how they act? Their movements appear totally random, and they’re all talking at top volume. I didn’t think I’d have any trouble identifying the academy’s observers, but every face I examine appears perfectly ordinary. Maybe there aren’t any observers. Maybe everyone’s an observer. Maybe Mandel rented the entire terminal for the day. Maybe this isn’t even JFK. I didn’t pay much attention to the route we took. I need to be alone for a moment. Before I rush to the men’s room, I check the arrivals screen. My mark’s flight isn’t due in for an hour.

In the bathroom, there’s one stall open. The toilet is disgusting. They say you can’t catch STDs from a toilet seat, but I’ve never been sure about crabs. So I stand in the tiny space, listening to the sound of water rushing and bowels emptying. It’s comforting to know that no one can see me losing my shit. What’s wrong with me? I’m in public. I could find a way to phone the police. What would you tell them? I could contact the newspapers. What proof do you have? I could show a reporter the chip in my head. You’d never make it out of the airport. I could call my mother. There aren’t any phones where she is, you imbecile. I could try to reach Joi. You don’t have the balls.

Someone new just arrived in the restroom.

“It’s five days, Skylar. Five f—ing days!” The voice is pure frat boy. I peer through the crack in my stall and see a college-age guy on the phone. It’s forty degrees outside, and he’s wearing shorts. Either the dude’s taken too many lacrosse sticks to the side of his head or he’s heading off on spring break.

“I told you. It’s just guys. Nobody’s taking their girlfriends. Look, I gotta go take a dump. I’ll call you when I get back from Cancún.”

He enters the stall next to mine. I hear his bag drop to the floor. A fly unzips and a toilet seat clanks. I squat down. A duffel bag is leaning against the divider between our two stalls. The top is open, and I can see the corner of an iPhone sticking out. It’s possible that Mr. Spring Break is just an academy stooge, but I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

A little pick-pocketing always lightens my mood, and the paranoia begins to fade as I head for the airport security line. Mandel may be watching, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun. I stop at a souvenir shop on my way to the gates. I use Mr. Martin’s cash to purchase a Yankees hat and an I NY T-shirt. A quick trip to another restroom, and I emerge as a tourist. My own shirt is folded neatly inside the plastic shopping bag. I have thirty minutes before my mark’s flight arrives at one fifty. More than enough time to entertain myself. I don’t even bother to check for observers. Let them catch me in the act. I should get extra credit for what I’m about to do.

There are plenty of seats in the departure lounge, but I pick one in a section that’s being used as a playground by six feral siblings. I take a snapshot of Mr. Martin’s driver’s license with the iPhone. It makes a splendid photo for Simon Hodenfield’s new Facebook page. Then I put together an album using Mr. Spring Break’s pictures, which show bare-chested frat boys in various stages of intoxication. Finally I get to work on Simon Hodenfield’s profile.



Activities and interests:

(N)urturing the youth of today

(A)cting as a mentor to young men in need

(M)aking the most of our time together

(B)uying little gifts for the people I cherish

(L)aughing at those who can’t understand our love

(A)nal sex with high school studs



Favorite movies:

Anything with Taylor Lautner



Favorite books:

Lord of the Flies, the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog

Favorite quote:

You make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream. —Katy Perry



It looks like Simon never taught his spawn how dangerous the Internet can be. His son Nathaniel’s profile is public. I invite all of the kid’s buddies at the Browning School to be friends with his dad. I even send a few special messages:



You have a secret admirer!

I may be old, but I’m a lot of fun!

How about a sleepover?

Sexual predators need love too!



After I finish, I check the time. I was connected to the Internet for almost twenty minutes. The observers didn’t intervene—though for all they know, I could have been emailing the FBI. There’s something very strange going on here. My skin starts to tingle as the paranoia returns. I sit with the phone in my lap and watch the six budding delinquents pelt each other with caramel-covered popcorn. When I find myself caught in the crossfire, I start to wonder if they might be part of a trap.

Flight 3749 out of Chicago arrives, and I take my place outside the gate before it begins to deboard. My mark is out the moment they open the doors. He must have been sitting in first class. He’s got his iPhone in his hand. He’s making a call.

I step out in front of him and match my stride to his.

“I just got in. . . . Yes, the flight was fine. How are you feeling? . . . I know, but sometimes you just have to force yourself to get out of bed. . . . Maybe you should call Dr. Chung. Do you want me to do it? . . . Well, then have your sister come over till I get home. . . . Around nine this evening. I left the schedule by your computer.”

I’m impressed. Mr. Martin’s simulation is very thorough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the actor was just a regular guy with an exceptionally clingy wife.

“Okay, honey, listen, I have to rush. I’ll call you right after the meeting. . . . Love you too. Bye.”

I give it a second. Then I turn around abruptly. The man rams into me. As we bump chests, the iPhone drops out of his hand. I catch it and slip it into my pants pocket. I keep my thumb scrolling across the screen so password protection won’t kick in.

“So sorry, mister,” I say, handing him Mr. Spring Break’s phone. “I just remembered I left my backpack on the plane!”

I jog past him before he can get a good look at my face. Then I quickly duck into a Starbucks and deactivate the phone’s password protection. I remove my Yankees cap and put my original shirt over the I NY T-shirt. As soon as I’m out of disguise, I begin my investigation. Let’s see what Mr. Martin and Mr. Mandel want me—don’t want me—to find.

The iPhone belongs to an Arthur Klein, and the first few emails I browse are all about drugs. I guess Art’s supposed to be some kind of pharmacologist. Either that or he’s a junkie with an impressive vocabulary. His correspondence is so complicated that it might as well be written in ancient Greek. So I scroll through Art’s photos instead. There are dozens of them. Someone really put a lot of effort into downloading all these images. I click on the first one. It’s just a kid. He’s four or so, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to the guy I just robbed. It seems a bit strange that an actor would get his young son involved in a simulation like this. The next photo shows the little boy posing on the steps of what looks like a temple until I read the name engraved in the marble. It’s the John G. Shedd Aquarium. In Chicago. The attention to detail is absolutely remarkable. I scroll faster, searching for something scandalous. There’s nothing but the same goddamned kid. He gets bigger, less babyish. I stop on a photo of the boy in a scarlet graduation gown and hat. There’s a banner behind him that says Congratulations, class of 2010. Kindergarten. It’s so cute I feel nauseous. I keep scrolling, but there are only two photos left.

The kid is waving to the camera from the top of a playground slide. He doesn’t look any older than he did in the kindergarten photo. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Shouldn’t there be more pictures on the phone? This one must have been taken over two years ago.

Something happened to the kid. This is the last picture his father took of him. This is all that’s left. This is real. This is very, very real.

Suddenly I’m running past the gates toward the exit, weaving around travelers, ignoring their startled faces as I hurdle over rolling suitcases. The only thing I can hear is the sound of myself pleading with any god that might be listening. Don’t let him be gone. Please, don’t let him be gone.

He’s not. He had a bag checked. A large portfolio case. I’m stuck on an escalator, but I see him haul the case off the conveyor belt and lug it out to the center of the baggage claim area. He stops and looks around. He must be expecting a driver to meet him. I see him rooting around in his jacket pocket. He’s going to call his secretary or the car company. When he pulls out Mr. Spring Break’s iPhone, I know what I need to do. I know how this all has to end.

I’m off the escalator. I’m less than a yard away, and I’m already running. I snatch the phone out of the man’s hand. It takes him a few seconds to shout.

“Thief!”

But no one comes after me. And I have to be caught. My plan won’t work unless I’m arrested. Then a little girl with a rolling Barbie suitcase appears in my path. I could leap over her if I tried. But I don’t. I’ll let the kid feel like a hero today. I trip over the bag and go sailing face-first across the floor. When I come to a stop, two Good Samaritans pin me down. My mark gets his phone—and his little boy back. I’m so goddamned happy that I start to cry.