Chapter #53A Mask Falls Off by: Seuzz   "You're a real son of a bitch, Black," you say. "And I don't want you out at Eastman with me. But I'm a team player. I can set it up."
"Good," he says. "Tilley will thank you for it."
Like I'm going to tell Keith, you sourly think as you trudge away.
* * * * *
You check your face in the rear-view mirror before getting out of the truck; Monique Travers gazes back at you. You dislike the frightened look on her face.
It's all wrong. The situation, the tactics, the whole fucking plan. Monique is still out of town, so she shouldn't even be here. "Here" is in front of the Straussler mansion, where you drove Frank's truck because Monique hasn't got her own car. Monique is a freshman and shouldn't even be driving, since she hasn't got so much as a learner's permit. You'll have to get in and out and away without Jonathan being able to ask how you got here. Even the clothes are wrong. You tug at Joanna's spare blouse and skirt, which you'd had to bully out of the golem when you'd stopped by the Johnsons' after leaving Gordon to pick up Monique's mask.
But it's that or Tilley's scrawny neck. You try not to think about how ugly and stupid he is, because then you might change your mind.
You toddle up to the massive front door and ring the bell; chimes as deep as Big Ben thunder dimly through the thick walls. You shift nervously from foot to foot.
Finally the door opens. "Miss Travers, so nice to see you again," Gerhardt says in that courtly accent that has only a trace of German in it. "Austrian," Jonathan has told Monique. "Call him a German and he'll never smile at you again."
But he's smiling now as he ushers you in. "Is Jonathan around?" you ask.
"I believe he is in the southwest quarter. Shall I show you--?"
"Thanks, I can find it," you say. He bows, and his heels click on the marble floor as he makes for another room.
You pass through a long, huge entryway and through a long, huge gallery, and then down a long, huge hallway. The central parts of the house are like a palace or a museum. Most of the rooms are more intimate, though. If only there weren't so many of them. Part of Monique would love to live in a place like this; the other part would be too freaked out.
She'll never get a chance, though. You nervously finger the credit card in your hand. It's the excuse for the break up. You mean for Jonathan to catch you trying to return it; he'll confront you; you'll confess to stealing it; it'll end her relationship with him.
You hope. Jonathan can be so fucking generous and forgiving.
"Monique?" a voice calls, and you jump like a fawn. Curt Straussler, Jonathan's dad, has stepped out of a nearby room, a newspaper in his hand. He's in pajamas and a thick but tattered robe, and he's wearing slippers. "This is a surprise," he says.
Likewise, you could say; Monique has never seen "the Beast," as Jonathan calls him, outside a business suit. "We got back early, just a little while ago," you gasp. "Drove all night and morning, so I wouldn't miss any more classes."
Puzzlement deepens in his clear blue eyes. "Surely that wasn't necessary," he says.
"I didn't like it either. It was a horrible drive out, so long and boring, but at least I got to sleep during most of it on the way back."
Now his eyes freeze. "Uh huh. Why are you here?" Suspicion tinges his voice.
"I have to see Jonathan. So I'll just--" You point down the hall.
"Monique!" he calls as you turn. He points at the room he just left. "How about you wait in here. I'll get Jonathan."
"That's okay. I just have to--"
"Please," he says, and his eyes narrow. "I insist."
You swallow and shrug. What's this all about? He steps aside as you pass through the door, and find yourself in the solarium.
You think that's what Jonathan has called it. It's big and airy and warm, with a view through giant windows that rise almost three stories. There are even flower beds and some small trees in here, tucked inside a stone patio. A fountain splashes nearby. You sit on a lawn chair. When they want winter in the summertime, the Strausslers go to the Alps; when they want summer in the winter, they can come here.
It's a very long wait, giving you plenty of time to worry about what you'll say. It'll be hard to say it in front of Curt, if he insists on staying-- But maybe that'll make it easier. "The Beast" is the most unforgiving man you've ever met, and that includes Mr. Gelding back at Westside.
The door opens again, but it's only Curt again. He's changed into slacks and a blue blazer, with a natty scarf around his neck. He eyes you closely, and you stand up, your hands folded in front of you. You're perfectly in character as Monique. You'd be perfectly in character as Monique in your own skin, for you're sure you'd be just as nervous and abashed.
"So you drove all night to get here," he says. "Did you see anything interesting on the way out?"
"No, we just drove straight to Rock Springs. You know, that's where my grandfather lives. Lived." You pretend to wipe a tear.
"Hm." He draws up close to you. "Rock Springs, yes. That's where Robert said he'd be setting down. They have an airport there."
"Robert? Oh yeah. That's one of your pilots, right? Um--" A trickle of sweat forms on the back of your neck. "Why did he have to go to--"
"I just talked to him. He said you had a very pleasant flight out. He told your father he anticipates a very pleasant flight back tonight."
"But why is he--?"
Curt's arm shoots up, and an incredible pain slams through your body.
* * * * *
Your limbs tremble as you sit up, and a headache rings through your skull. You wince and squint and look around.
You're laying on a couch in a small, bare room. The floors are tiled and the walls are white. You rub the side of your head and get to your feet, stumbling a little until you fall against a thick metal door. It's locked.
You bang on it. "Hey. Hey!" The sound is so muffled you wonder if it is soundproofed. You scratch your head and look around some more. Nothing to look at except the couch and yourself.
You glance down. You have a cock.
You don't have any clothes, and you have a cock. You grab yourself and fall back onto the couch. You recognize those legs, those feet, those arms and hand. You recognize the thatch of hair when you clutch it. This is your body.
But when you came out here, you were Monique.
You try to think dazedly through your headache and confusion. You came out to the Strausslers' in Monique's mask. You were talking to Curt.
And somehow he got the mask off you?
Patterson ...?
The door opens, and you draw your knees to your chest. Curt Straussler, now in a suit, enters. A fat man with Asian features, clad in cheap jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, follows. Curt glares at you. The other man cocks his head quizzically and smiles.
He looks familiar, but in your dazed state you can't place him.
Until he snaps his fingers and grins.
"I know you!" he exclaims. "Yeah, you come into my shop, hang out with Christian and them. Wait, don't tell me!" He thinks hard a minute, then laughs softly. "Nope, can't get it. But you know me, right? Eric, from King Kong Komics?"
"Oh. Yeah." This is very strange. He waits expectantly as you stare at him. "Uh, Will. Will Prescott."
"That's it! Will, dude!" He sticks out a hand, and numbly you take it. He pumps it enthusiastically. He grins a bit more before dropping your hand.
Then he snaps his fingers, and Curt hands him something. It's a mask.
Eric chuckles over it. "Pretty damn weird, Curt. You say he was wearing this?" He turns it over. "Monique, huh?"
"He looked just like her," Straussler says. He glowers at you. "Talked just like her. Knew a lot. If he hadn't slipped up about her travel arrangements--"
Eric shakes his head, and his eyes gleam. "So tell me, Will, how does this thing work?"
You bite your lip.
"It's not one of your Fane toys?" Curt demands. "Like the, uh--"
"The dissuo?" Eric bubbles with laughter. "How 'bout that, the dingus worked on something it wasn't even designed for. No." He hefts the mask. "I'm pretty sure this isn't one of ours." He cocks his head. "Cat got your tongue, Will?" You remain silent, and his smile fades a little. "Get him some clothes, Curt."
* * * * *
It was a rough drive, with you pinned to the backseat of Curt Straussler's BMW between two burly men; it had an anticlimactic end, with you now locked in the back room of Eric's comic book store. Why does it have to be lined with steel? And what's with those electrodes in the corner?
You don't want an answer to that question.
The door opens, and a slim figure gets thrust through. Your knees buckle.
It's Will Prescott. "Whoa, dude," he gasps.
Eric follows. "I assume you guys know each other?" You really don't like his grin anymore. "Let's a have a little--" The bell to his front door rings, and he looks over his shoulder. "Fuck. I'll be right back. Get your stories straight, so I can have fun breaking them." He exits, locking the door behind.
You and Will stare at each other. But you're not seeing him. You're seeing the face of the guy you hope is under his mask. If Patterson was to put the real Joe Durras anywhere, it would be here. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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