The Devil Makes Three (5 page)

“What do I have to do?” I asked, fighting to keep a breathless quality out of my voice. I hoped fear caused it, rather than lust.

He reached for my backpack, lying on the floor. Fishing through it he found my cell phone and flipped it open. For a few moments he played with buttons then flipped it closed and tossed it to me. “You’ll know when I call. I’ll give you directions and you do as you’re told. Everything will work out fine and you’ll get a cut of the profit.”

“How big a cut?”

“Two percent.”

“Two percent?” Cheap bastard. The least he could do is make it worth my while.

“Two percent, in most cases, is significant enough to surpass your economic endeavors in the dirt.”

“And how will you pay me?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. You’ll get your money.” His fist flicked open and the necklace swung in his grasp. With deft fingers he latched the catch behind my neck then traced the chain down to the charm with a long finger, grazing my skin as he went. “You can consider this a good faith payment.” Leaning in, he whispered in my ear. “Don’t sell it again. I like the way it looks on you.”

He turned and walked towards the door, but I called him back. “Hey, wait a minute.”

“Yes?” he turned with a questioning gaze.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Corbin.” And with that, he disappeared out the door.

I collected myself slowly, unsure if I had taken a breath since he had latched the necklace around my neck. Sitting down on the couch I put my head between my knees and sucked air, trying to come up with calming thoughts.

None came.

By the time I ventured out of the office I found the funeral home empty. The front door’s lock held tight and the gate blocking the driveway stood like a sentinel guard. How he had gotten in or out I didn’t know, but I went around the building checking windows and doors anyway, making a mental note to keep the alarm on whenever I finished my financial escapades for the night.

Once certain I was alone again, I went to my computer and looked up my e-bay account. Scanning back through past sales I found the one in question. I had sold the emerald necklace to a buyer with the user name abc456. After some more checking, I found the person’s name listed as John Doe. The e-mail address attached to the user name read [email protected]. Cutting and pasting it into a new e-mail, I simply typed a question mark in the regarding field and pushed send. Moments later my account flashed that I had new mail.

Clicking on my inbox, I waited while the list of mail loaded. The only unopened item came from my mail manager, stating the e-mail address I tried to contact was invalid.

With a disgruntled sigh, I deleted the notice then shifted over to my sent file. Scanning through the e-mails, I looked for the notice of shipment I had sent the buyer. Finding it, it annoyed me to see it went to the same e-mail address, and it had gone through successfully.

So how did one go about closing an email address? I wasn’t even aware such a thing was possible. I just thought the server deleted them after they became inactive for a period of time, but this account certainly didn’t qualify.

So how had he done it?

Going back to the original sale's receipt, I looked at the shipping address and noted the zip code lay at the dead center of Jamestown. Writing the address on a scrap of paper, I grabbed the keys to one of the funeral home vans, and headed out into the night.

#

I had to stop at a gas station and ask for directions from the pimply attendant, who stared at me like I’d just asked him if the Pope lived nearby.

“You want 227 Denver St?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“I don't think I would have asked, if I wasn't,” I said.

He shrugged and pointed down the road. “It's the Main Post Office about a block down. You can't miss it. It's a big building with a huge gate in front. But I'm pretty sure they're closed at this time of night.”

Refusing to give up, I drove by the post office anyway. Just as the attendant had said, it was indeed closed.

So where did that leave me? Corbin could work at the post office, but it wasn’t likely. It seemed way too low key a position for him. Besides, I couldn’t see him taking any guff from the postal supervisors. Then again, maybe that was his job. He dished out the crap famous for pushing mailmen over the edge. That I could see, but only to an extent. Perhaps he didn’t work there at all. After all, he did have a job at the university. What if he rented a post office box inside? I felt fairly certain that wasn't the case, either, since the address I'd shipped it to was the post office itself, not a specific box number.

“Why me?” I muttered to myself, putting the van in gear. “Why, when I finally get attention from a man, does he have to be a crazy?”

Chapter 5

In which Gretchen goes to the library.

The next afternoon I made it to school with only a few minutes to spare and hurried to my first class. Dreams of Martins and psychos with multiple personality disorder made for a restless morning and I slept through my alarm. My first class failed to impress, as classes usually did, and I left the room feeling exhausted from the lack of intellectual challenge. My second class had the same effect. Settling on a bench in the library, I waited for my next class to start in an hour, figuring it would probably keep up the trend and wondering if I shouldn’t take a nap to prepare myself.

My phone began to vibrate and I pulled it from my pocket, eying the caller ID. ‘Professor’ showed up on the screen and confusion sunk in along with a sense of foreboding. Flipping the phone open, I put it to my ear, but said nothing.

“I know you’re there. You’re breathing heavy.”

“To whom, exactly, am I speaking?”

“As if you need to ask.”

“Humor me.”

“It’s your new employer.”

“Why didn’t you label yourself that way in my phone then?”

“If anyone checks your phone it’s a fairly wide open title, especially since you’re a college student. And, as an added bonus, if people happened to see us together, and then see that on your caller ID, they would think he was the one they had seen.”

“He’s a professor. He can’t afford to have rumors like that flying around. It would discredit him. It could get him fired,” I said, hoping to spark some sense of fear in his alter ego. “The university has a very strict policy about stuff like that.”

“Then you better pray you don’t get caught, if you’re so concerned for him.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. But you’re acting like a jerk.”

“Witty. Couldn’t find a better word on such short notice?”

“Why did you call me?”

“Temptress, today is your first day on the job.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But it’s true. Are you wearing the necklace?”

My hand flew instinctively to the jewelry and I clutched at the charm hidden beneath my shirt. “No.”

“You lie. I bet you never even took it off.”

“Do you have a point?”

Corbin laughed softly and the sound made a shiver run up my spine. A good, but very bad, shiver.

“I want you to go to the stacks.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. You do know how to use the stacks, don’t you?”

“I’m a history major. What do you think?”

“Go to the Crim section on the third floor. AJ735.5 EN. You’ll find a red bound book with gold lettering on the binding. Inside it is an envelope. You’ll collect the envelope and hold it until I come to get it from you.”

“That’s all?”

“No. I picked that area for the drop off specifically for two reasons. The first you can probably figure out for yourself considering what we just talked about. The second is because it has low visibility. The chances of someone seeing you are few, but if you find that you are not alone don’t take the envelope. Instead, take a stack of books and settle down on the floor in front of it as if settling in for the long haul. Don’t pick the specified book among them. Avoid that book until you are completely alone.”

“What’s in the envelope?”

“Again, questions that you shouldn’t ask. Let’s just say it’s safer all around if you know as little as possible.”

“Is it sealed? Because if there’s something missing that should be in it, I don’t want to get blamed.”

“It’s sealed, but I’m glad you’re thinking of these things. If it isn’t sealed put it back and walk away.”

“I’ve got classes to think of you know. How often am I going to have to do this?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t work your ill-manicured fingers to the bone. You’ll have plenty of time for study.”

“My fingers are not ill-manicured.”

“Temptress, you dig in dirt for a substantial portion of your income.”

I eyed my fingers and grimaced. My cuticles could use some attention and the nails were cut down to avoid accumulating dirt. “Polish isn’t practical for me.”

“Have you ever heard of gloves? They are marvelous inventions that also keep a crime scene from identifying you.”

“I don’t think anyone will take fingerprints where I’ve been.”

“As long as bodies aren’t exhumed.”

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“Good, because I’ve got work to do.”

“Should I call you when I have the envelope?”

“No. You couldn’t even if you tried. Your phone recognizes the number to identify me, but won’t call me back.”

“That’s bull. If you can call me, I can call you.”

“Technology, Temptress. Learn to love it.” With that, Corbin hung up.

I growled at the phone in frustration and flipped it shut then shoved it in my pocket. Angrily gathering my bag and books together, I sauntered off to the stacks to find the proper section. When I found it, I realized how right he was. Not only was the place deserted, but it was creepy too. Not exactly funeral home freezer creepy, but more of a deserted, never seen the light of day or person with a personality sort of creepy.

Finding the proper aisle took no time at all but I circled the area as if lost, searching for people. When I found no one, I proceeded to the area in question. The book sat on the top shelf. Taking a quick tour of the area once more, I searched for a stepping stool, but came up empty handed. I was just going to have to get creative. Grimacing, I stepped up on the bottom shelf and reached for the book. The weight of my backpack pulled me backwards, and I fell before I could touch the binding. Setting my bag on the floor, I tried again, but came up just short of reaching the book. Taking another step onto the second shelf, I immediately regretted it. The entire shelf shifted and the books from the top shelf pummeled me as they observed the laws of gravity. Quietly I swore and jumped down, letting the shelf rock back into position.

Without bothering to wait for library authorities to find me, I snagged the book and my bag from the mess on the floor and darted down the aisle. As I hurried away I flipped it open. Automatically, it went to the center where a light brown envelope – sealed – lay, folded. Taking the envelope out, I stuffed the book on a random shelf and continued out of the section.

I stopped only when I ran smack into somebody.

“Oh, sorry,” I said then looked up to find myself face to face with Professor Collin Cade. At least I thought it was the professor. He wore a Polo shirt, which sort of gave it away. The man could have made a living as a model for Ralph Lauren, Polo or even Armani if he chose. No woman would have objected to anything he suggested. At least not one in her right mind.

“Oh. Hello. Sorry about that,” he said with slightly raised eyebrows. “But I do believe running is off limits in buildings, unless you’re on the track.”

“Trying to make it to class on time.” I held the envelope up to my chest, wondering if I was wrong about the identity of the man before me, and if he intended to take it from me.

He stepped aside, making way for me in the aisle. “By all means, don’t let me hold you back.”

“Thanks. And sorry again.” I licked my lips and edged past him, stuffing the envelope in my pocket.

He smelled like heaven.

And was probably crazier than anybody currently residing in the Jamestown Mental Health Facility.

#

I made it to class on time, but with only moments to spare. The professor had already arrived, set up for the lecture, and handed out the syllabus. I had to fetch one from his desk before planting myself in a random chair, forgetting about searching for an outlet. It didn’t matter anyway. I wasn’t about to focus on anything he said. Instead, I couldn’t help but wonder what I had gotten myself into. It seemed obvious that Corbin did not care for the other two, alternate personalities or not. Or perhaps I assumed wrong. Perhaps they really were separate people. But what were the odds of triplets falling into my life at basically the same time? Pretty slim, I would bet. This brought an uncomfortable clench to my stomach. If this psycho paraded around as three people, claiming to be a different third of a triplet set at the drop of a hat, what had gone wrong in his head? And why did he decide to focus his attention on me?

I’m not that hot, I thought.

Without a possible explanation as to the reasons for the crazy’s attentions, I found myself drawn back to the stacks after class. Slowly I made my way back to the proper section and aisle. Three library employees worked at the shelf, replacing the books one by one in their proper order, and talking amongst themselves about the idiocy of their fellow students. Cringing, I slunk away, trying to ignore the slurs against my intelligence but not quite feeling they were entirely misplaced.

All that mess, just for some stupid envelope.

Stopping mid-step, I considered the offending object for the first time since I had snagged it. Turning from the stacks I made my way to a table that felt inconspicuous, but not obviously so. The only reason people used the tables in the back of the stacks was to sleep, pass drugs or make-out. Instead, I picked an empty table by the circulation desk.

Twenty feet away, two bored university employees tinkered on Facebook. On my other side a group of girls gossiped about nothing I cared about. Neither group noticed me and I slipped my laptop out of my bag and booted up. I placed the envelope on top of the keys and examined it.