Ever seen a duck swimming in a pond? How they usually appear so calm and at peace on the surface, but underneath the surface their feet paddle so violently. Well, I guess you get the hint, cause that's exactly what I was; a duck on a pond, while in the study with Master Wade, realizing he had possibly noticed the sudden change in my countenance when he saw me reading the newspaper article about my parents' deaths, how the media had wrongfully accused my mother of murder. While in great panic and also severely overwhelmed with a barrage of conflicted emotions and grief, I tried to appear calm and restrain even the slightest emotions, hence preventing a breakdown.
"What do you think Bee, it's quite the nightmare, isn't it?" he suggested, concerning the house fire homicide article.
"I think it's awfully terrible, sir," I opined, quite hesitantly.
"It is, so much so that most people would find it impossible to believe the things they say she did," he added.
"Do you believe it?" I asked him, mainly out of raw curiosity rather than mere self-preservation.
"Not at all. It just… doesn't add up," he replied.
"Why so?"
"Well, they claim it was a house fire, but in truth it was most likely a grenade explosion, military-grade precisely, judging by the shattered window and collapsed ceilings and walls. Also, one of the victims; her husband particularly, died of not fire burn or suffocation but was impaled by a sharp twelve-inch wooden piece through the heart, most certainly a piece of debris from the explosion. And I heard they had little children too, their bodies were never found," he explained with a degree of enthusiasm.
As I heard what he said happened to my father, I was in so much shock, speechless, utterly devastated.
"As for the lady herself," he continued, "her body was found lying across the street about a mile away from the house with an array of arrows and bullets coursed through her back."
"Yet they say she was the killer," I added, slightly squinting my eyes to feign a curious impression.
"…and yet they say she was the killer," he replied. He sounded like he had just hit a point. "Like I said, Bruce, it just doesn't add up," he replied.
"But… how do you come to know all this?" I inquired in my meekest voice.
He smiled at me like I had just asked a very funny question. "You don't think I could ever be in a position like this and not have a few formal acquaintances at the top, do you?" he answered with his hand placed on my shoulder while gesturing with his other hand. "No great man is ever an island, son," he added.
"The officials lied to the public because they're desperately trying to cover up something, but to what end, what are they so afraid of to the point of throwing such morbid horrendous accusations?" he pondered. "That lady didn't kill her family. My theory is this; a band of military-trained high-level assassins were sent to the victim's home to essentially terminate them; I would say it had something to do with all the witchy witchy allegations going around," he alleged, "but I'm a nonbeliever".
He continued.
"While the poor father was unfortunately caught up in the explosion, probably in his bids to buy more time for his family to escape the killers, his wife escaped with the children and made for the streets, where she was eventually caught and shot dead after a long foot chase; which explains why her body was found on the streets. As for the children, whose bodies were neither found in the house nor the street, I would say they were captured… alive," he explained.
I was for a moment entirely frozen in shock, noticing the weirdly outstanding level of detail he got exactly right in his so-called theory. I couldn't exactly tell if it was just by mere luck or sheer technicality, but it was all highly implausible to me. I mean, among other things, just what are the odds of him theorizing that Father remained in the house to buy us enough time to escape the killers, and it just so happens to be exactly what happened? Not even the killers knew that was the plan, so how on earth could he have guessed that right? My best guess was that he might have some kind of psychic powers like Henry's, as that was the only plausible explanation I could come up with.
"Here, you can keep it," he said as he handed me the paper. I took the paper from his head, muttering a "thank you," almost in a whisper. I didn't want to look at the paper again, at least not while someone was close by, as I wasn't sure if I would be able to hold myself any longer. However, my parent's faces kept on reappearing in my head, over and over again. I could see my father gazing lifelessly into the collapsed ceiling above him, with the long sharp piece of maple wood from the ceiling piercing deep into his chest while lying helplessly on the floor of our living room, amidst the rubble and debris, as his life freely slips from his numb frail grasp.
My lungs stiffened further, and the air in the room felt so much thicker, that I could hardly draw a breath. My panic spiked, I knew I couldn't hold myself much longer. I desperately needed to leave soon before the master noticed my sudden uneasiness, yet I wasn't sure how to excuse myself without being awkward, even though my work there was already over.
"Want more of that biscuit?" he inquired, "I could ask Miss Penny to get some."
"No!" I answered, rather abruptly.
"Excuse me?" he replied, his brows furrowed with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
I realized my tone must have sounded off the wrong way.
"Um… I mean, there's really no need to bother," I explained, "I can go meet her downstairs and get them myself."
"Oh… very well then," he sighed, "Guess you'll be off home afterwards, yes?"
"Yes sir."
"I must say, I've had quite a remarkable time having you company, boy," he acclaimed, "one of these days, you just never know, I could offer to drop you off on my new Audi One Hundred, shame I still don't know where you live," he added.
That was actually his third attempt that day to try and get me to tell him where I lived, but as much as I now felt he was totally harmless, I still couldn't risk telling him anything, not when there was just so much at stake, plus it would mean betraying Henry and breaking our number one rule, and I just couldn't imagine how he would feel about that.
"I've had a great time as well, sir," I replied simply, with a faint smile slightly tipping the corners of my lips as I headed straight for the door.
As I went out of the master's study and down the stairs, I had a strange feeling of relief, as though a huge weight had just been lifted off my chest. Finally, I could breathe freely again, but I desperately wanted a moment alone to let out all the emotions I was repressing within me. I didn't even wait to have dinner, or at least take some biscuits from the kitchen as I was told to. My only thought at the moment was going home.
I was finally out of the Wades compound, now striding along the busy streets of Calea Victoriei; that's The Victoriei Avenue. This was where all the communist elites and wealthy Bucharesters lived; the Wades included. The street was lined with so many beautiful buildings with stunning architecture, upscale shops, and restaurants. As I walked along the street I was momentarily carried away by my thoughts. Barely aware of my surroundings, I unknowingly bumped into some passerby. I immediately returned to my full consciousness, when all of a sudden I found myself seated on the bare ground, unable to explain how on earth I got there until I heard his voice.
"You okay lad?" asked a deep guttural masculine voice.
"I'm fine," I mumbled weakly under my breath.
"You should pay attention where you're going," he suggested, effortlessly hoisting me back up to my feet.
I looked up at him, and suddenly, he froze up like he had just seen a ghost, his sharp hazel eyes wide with horror, his bushy ginger brows arched with intense shock, his grip on my arm firmer. I felt a cold chill run down my spine.
"Let go!" I barked as I forcefully yanked out of his grip.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, his expression suddenly back to normal. I found that quite strange, yet I just ignored him and continued on my way.
I looked over my shoulder as I went and saw him still standing there staring at me. I quickly looked away. Who the heck was he? I had never seen him before, and I had no clue what might have made him behave the way he did. I just wanted to go home. I tried my best to ignore him, but after some time I felt that prickly feeling of unrest, and again I curiously looked over my shoulder to see if he was still standing there and staring at me, only to find out he was now walking my way instead of continuing in the opposite direction he was headed before I bumped into him earlier. "Could he be following me?" I wondered.
I was starting to feel really worried and uneasy at this point, so I doubled my pace. I was high on my guard, I couldn't tell if I was being followed or not, and that was the scariest part. At a point I tried slowing down to see if he would walk past me or just divert to somewhere else, yet peeking over my shoulders it still seemed like he was following me. My panic doubled hysterically at every step. I thought of crossing over to the opposite side of the road to confirm if he was actually following me or if I was just being paranoid. After I did, I looked back again, and surprisingly that confirmed he wasn't really following me. Apparently, he hadn't crossed after me, he was totally out of sight. I stopped and took a moment to observe the mass of passersby walking along the sidewalk across the road, but there was no sign of him. Heaving a sigh of relief, I casually shrugged it off and quickly headed towards a trolley bus that had just stopped close by to pick up passengers. I climbed in and quickly went to the closest vacant seat.
"That was weird," I thought, as I sat on my seat. Hopefully, he had branched out at some random building or restaurant, I couldn't really tell.
I sighed. "Guess I was just being paranoid after all".
While I waited for the bus to move, I decided to keep myself occupied with the old newspaper I got from Master Wade's study. The drivers liked to get as many passengers as they could at the bus stop before they could get their trollies to move, as they don't usually stop along the way to pick up people. Soon most of the seats were occupied, the bus was ready to move now.
"Finally," I sighed.
Just as the door was shut, and the driver started the engine, someone started knocking and tugging on the door handle insistently.
"Door is closed fella, beat it!" roared the boorish Irish conductor at whomever was at the door.
I wasn't paying much attention, I was just there in my seat, minding my business. Nothing else was heard following that, from either the person at the door or the conductor, though I just heard the door open again shortly after. Now a bit concerned about what was happening at the door, I looked up, someone had just stepped onto the vehicle. My heart leapt. I immediately recognized the face the second I set my eyes on him. It was the same man I had bumped into on the road earlier that evening, the same man whom I instinctively felt was stalking me, but later after he just sort of disappeared out of sight, convinced me that he wasn't. He was here now in the same vehicle with me, which made me now undoubtedly convinced that I never was paranoid in the first place, to suspect he was following me, and that he was, in fact stalking me. I felt a cold chill run down my spine as my entire body instantly went numb with panic. I immediately bent my head over and brought the newspaper closer to my face, in hopes not to get noticed by him. He walked straight towards where I was, then sat on the empty seat right behind me. I couldn't tell if he had seen me or not, yet I was so uneasy I could feel his wild poignant eyes prying down at the back of my head, like a pair of arrows on a strained bow. I was shaking with intense trepidation, I could feel my heart thumping within me with so much intensity, that every beat felt almost like a rupture. I wanted to get off the bus, but it had already started moving. It was too late. There was nothing else I could do but sit still and hope for some saving miracle to come. I knew I was vulnerable, and I hated it, I hated every millisecond of it. Part of me wanted to open up to someone about my current dilemma, get help, maybe. The only problem was how to explain to them why I thought I was being followed. I thought they would find my reasons quite ridiculous, even though I had a pretty strong conviction that the ginger-haired man was stalking me. I knew my gut instincts were right that I was not safe, yet however, there were still so many questions running through my mind, like who the ginger-haired man was, and what his motives really were.