Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (28 page)

The car is parked in a lot. I stop to pay a bleary-eyed attendant and walk over. It’s an unremarkable Toyota. I’ve been ordered to keep a low profile.

I hate driving this thing. The old city is dead at night. Last call was over an hour ago and the tourists get scared of the dark. It’s one of the safer areas but all cities are the same. I fucking hate cities. Too much chain link and concrete and neon, not enough trees. I don’t belong here.

Turn on 3
^rd
onto Market, catch I-95. It’s a straight run now. I obey all posted limits and traffic signals.

Have to. I’m on parole, after all. I wouldn’t want to get pulled over on my way to steal a car.

Driving gives me a lot of time to think. My knuckles go white. The wheel creaks in protest.

I’ve had plenty of time to think.

That’s what prison is. The punishment isn’t confinement. They put a roof over your head. It’s not isolation, either, unless you get sent to solitary. I never did. It’s not following orders, it’s not the shitty therapy groups, either. (Evidently, I have an anger management problem.) No, the punishment is
time
. Time to think, time to brood, time to plan. When you’re out in the world all you want is time. People say “there aren’t enough hours in the day” and try to stretch them out.

In prison, the bars just keep you in. It’s the time that punishes you.

Time has come today.

The drive takes almost an hour, out to Lancaster County, the very eastern edge. This is an old place. Everything around here is old. Old for the United States, anyway. I went to Europe once, went on a tour. Saw lots of history. Thousand year old buildings that just go about their business like buildings do. They’re just
there
. Around here anything older than a century or two always goes behind velvet ropes. We think it’s so special.

Europe. I was sixteen. There was good coffee and better company, but I can’t think about that. If I try to hard I can’t remember half the girls’ names. I was never good at that to begin with. There was a time in my life when there were so many girls I’d have to take notes to remember who I fucked when. Then one day there were two girls. The one, and all the rest just kind of lumped together.

The windshield wipers tick away the seconds, minutes, an hour and a half or so. Take it easy in the rain.

From the mist, the high chimneys and glowing lights fold into existence, vague shapes growing more solid as I approach. It catches in my chest.

This is my home. I am going home.

Except I’m not. Now the high walls with their jagged glass tops and wrought iron spear points are there to keep me
out
, not
in.
My home no longer.

One of the oldest continuously occupied homes in the entire state, the Amsel estate is sprawling expanse of almost three hundred acres.
Kolonie,
my great-great-insert-more-greats grandfather named it. It’s the German word for rookery. The family name, Amsel, means Blackbird. The house sits far back from the road, so far back, in fact, that in the deep gloom of a cloudy moonless night the only thing visible is the windows, like the distant lights of Xanadu or that green light in
The Great Gatsby.

I didn’t pay any attention in high school English, but I used to know somebody who cared a lot about that shit, and it meant I started caring about it, too.

If I keep driving half a mile there will be a break in the ancient brick wall that surrounds the wilds of the estate. The trees peel away and there’s a huge wrought iron gate, almost fifteen feet tall, overtopping the wall itself by five feet. I’ve been casing the place for a while now. The new owners patched some broken places in the wall.

My ancestors coated the very top with broken glass, and the wall is also adorned with six inch long wrought iron spikes, each wickedly sharp. When they built the walls there was a real possibility the house might actually be attacked.

On top of the old school security system, there’s all the modern conveniences. Motion sensors, cameras, and a pack of dobermans running on the property. Silent sentinels. I’ve always liked dobermans. They don’t fuck around with barking, they just rip out your throat. If you toss them some sausage they’ll eat it after they finish with you. Good, loyal, no nonsense dogs.

The place is a fortress, and with good reason.

It’s old, though, and old houses have secrets. They start to love their families.

I could go on and on about my family. It used to be a huge extended network, all over the East coast. Distant relatives of mine fought on both sides of the Civil War, and both sides of the Revolutionary War, but only on one side of the French and Indian War. I can trace my ancestry back to a Hessian mercenary who switched sides and married into the family and took the Amsel name for himself, as the current patriarch at the time had only daughters. They did things like that back then.

Later on, the owners of the house were abolitionists, and the estate was a stop on the Underground Railroad. That’s where I’m headed now.

I’m not sure who owns the farm that borders my family home, but the dilapidated barn is still there, edging up to the wall. I pull the Toyota off the road, bounce and jounce down a dirt track, and pull it right into the barn. I’m going to leave it here. It’s not mine anyway, and after today I won’t need it anymore. Four-thirty in the morning, now. Plenty of time, plenty of time. I leave the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked.

Dad showed me this tunnel once. It still stands. In the barn, in the back corner, the half-rotted floorboard lifts up. The tunnel is dark, and barely tall enough for me to stand, bending my head a little. I take a flashlight and a stick. It’s always full of spiders. I fucking hate spiders. Suffer not the arachnid to live. I think that’s in the Bible somewhere.

If it’s not, it should be.

The tunnel is sixty feet long, shored up with old timbers that are so hard they may as well be stone. It looks like a mine shaft in a cowboy movie. When I was a kid, I was terrified of this place. Of course, it’s November and it’s freezing cold at night, so the few times I have to knock down the web the one that made it is already dead, spindly legs curled up on themselves. I didn’t need much encouragement to stay out of here when I was a kid but Dad made it very clear I wasn’t ever to travel the tunnel alone; once he was younger then I was the first time he showed it to me, he found a nest of black widows and it was just luck that he didn’t put his foot in it and get bitten half a hundred times. Probably would have killed him. Adults can usually survive the widow’s bite, but not
that
many.

When I emerge from the other side I’m covered in dust and a little dirt and my stick is coated with filmy old spider silk.

I toss it aside and cut off the flashlight, then take a few minutes for my eyes to adjust.

I make it about twenty yards when the dogs show up.

They fold out of the darkness on silent legs, black specters with bobbed tails and cropped ears that make them look like silky black devils. I stop and they surround me, staring, silent. One by one they bare their fangs.

One of them is older than the others, gray hairs silvery on his dark face. He pads over, the stump of his tail twitching as he tries to wag. I crouch down and offer him my hand. He sniffs, and gives me a friendly lick as I scratch behind his ears.

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I wish I could remember which one you were.”

The others take their cue from the leader, surrounded me and sniff at me and I pet them one by one. They’d rip out an intruder’s throat and leave his rotting carcass to be found by the groundskeeper in the morning.

I’m not an intruder. The intruders are inside, sleeping in my
fucking
house.

One step at a time.

After I pay my respects to the dogs, I move silently through the grounds. This section is wooded, kept wooded to conceal the movements of runaway slaves and the new owners have let it run wild. There are oaks here that stood before the United States was the United States. Hell, the ivy growing on some of the trees is older than that. It’s like walking through some ancient forest. Dobermans hadn’t been developed yet but my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather probably walked these woods with a pack of hounds, just like I am now.

There used to be a path here but the stones are worn down smooth and covered with loam. I used to walk here all the time with my mother and father. When you’re a kid, Mom and Dad are just
there
. Only now with both of them gone do I realize how I miss them both so fucking much. I can see them in my mind’s eye on this very path on a warm autumn day, walking hand in hand. Dad was built like I am- tall and heavily muscled, but he kept his coal black hair closely cropped.

That was so long ago.

The garage is big enough to be a house on its own. A long, long time ago, it was a stables, but my grandfather, or maybe great grandfather, had it converted and rebuilt into a garage. His car, a lumbering Packard, is still in the furthest bay, or was when I was last here. I went for a ride in a few times. It’s big and slow and ponderous to drive and I’m not here for it.

I’m here for my Dad’s car. Technically, she’s mine. They’re holding her hostage here.

The garage is in sight, but so is the house. The lights are on on the second floor.

I shouldn’t. I should go nowhere near it, not yet.

Refusing to listen to that little voice that says
you shouldn’t
is probably how I ended up in prison for five years, but old habits die hard. I run across the grass, hoping I don’t set off a motion detector or end up on camera. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I could end up back in prison serving out the rest of my term for this, plus interest, but I have to see.

I did this a dozen times when I was a kid. The back of the house is a huge terrace, with a roof supported by massive columns of real marble. They’re so worn from age and acid rain that it’s easy to shimmy right up. The pockmarks are like handholds, like the stippling and grippy spots on a climbing wall.

I was twelve when I did this the last time, but I’m in the best of shape of my life. Lots of weight lifting and constant body weight exercises in my cell, you see. It’s easy to get up to the terrace roof, though I go on all fours where I used to run when I was a kid. Work my way across to the wall. A ledge runs all the way across the house, and these brick buttresses jut out from the sides. They’re slick from the rain, so I take it easy, and work my way down the ledge, using the brick handholds. My old room is four windows down. The light is on inside. I stop by the window and lean over.

Evelyn walks out of the en-suite, wrapped in a towel. It’s a creamy white towel, but it’s darker than her skin, as pale as milk. When I first met her I thought she was an albino, but she’s not. Real platinum blonde hair cascades to her hips in a perfectly straight fall. The water turns it green when she gets wet. I remember seeing that the first time, first time I ever saw her go swimming. She loves to swim.

She sits on the bed and takes a blow dryer to her hair, never once glancing at the window. She’s more delicate than slender. I remember holding her wrists in my hands, feeling her long fingers lace through mine. I could stay here for hours and just watch. After running the hair dryer she starts brushing out her hair. I’ve never seen a shade quite like hers. It’s what they call platinum blonde but it’s almost silver, only a hint of gold in the right light. The only color is in her eyes, a striking blue. There’s power in those eyes.

Eve is my stepsister. Her father married my mother when I was nineteen years old.

Then he sent me to prison and stole my life.

Now she sleeps in my bed.

I edge away from the window, carefully make my way across the roof and down the column. She’s up early, but then, she was always an early riser. The light is still on, but the sun is coming up, bruising the eastern sky. I’ve been here too long, took too much of a risk.

I had to see her. It’s been five years.

She stole my life, along with her rat bastard father. She eats my food, lives in my house, sleeps in my bed.

…Still.

I’m here for the car. That’s my opening play. I sprint over to the garage. There’s ten bays, the car is in bay four. It was always in bay four. My father treasured this automobile, did all the work on it himself and taught me everything he could; he died when I was twelve, so it wasn’t much but I built on it as much as I could. I have more interest in being a mechanic than running a multinational business, but a man once wrote that what men want does not matter. Or women, I guess. The bay doors aren’t locked. I roll up the door, and there she is.

They knew how to build ‘em back then, Dad always said. She’s a ’70 Pontiac Firebird. She was born stock, but Dad did a load of work on her himself. All new running gear, topped off with a twin-turbo on a big block crate motor, four hundred cubic inches. State of the art disk brakes, all new steering, ivory pearl paint and a massive, multicolored screaming chicken decal on the hood. She’s a beauty. Just touching the cool metal of the fender brings me back. I remember screaming my head off when Dad drove me in this car. Once I even overhead Mom joking with him when I wasn’t supposed to be awake.

Yeah, that’s right. I was
conceived
in the back seat of this car. It’s as much my home as the house, if not more so, and it is mine.

Nobody bothered to lock the doors. Or drive her for a long time, from the dust in the interior. I flip open the glove compartment and pull out the registration.

Yup, VICTOR AMSEL. The address is wrong, but it’s my fucking name. This is my car, legally, free and clear.

A quick trip over to the key box and I perform the only breaking of this breaking and entering operation, shearing off the rusted old padlock with some bolt cutter I find lying around. I take the key and the spare and slip back inside. The seat still fits me like a glove. They must have just dumped her here. Gas tank is empty, of course. Fortunately the garage has its own supply. I twiddle my thumbs until the tank is full, then finally get back in for the third time.