THREE

Private Eyes

I squint through the viewfinder of my camera and adjust the focus on the man walking into the Pack N’ Ship. The plate glass windows allow me a great view of the interior of the building, and I hold my breath as I wait to see if he collects mail from box number 621.

He doesn’t.

Dammit.

I’ve logged over fifty people coming in and out of the building in the past four days, but there’s been no sign of anyone collecting mail from Mister Romance’s box. It’s convenient that there’s a cafe right next door, so I can survey the area in relative comfort, but still ... I was expecting to find something out by now, if not hear from the man himself. God knows I spent enough time filling out his required questionnaire; the damn thing was twelve pages long. It seems our industrious escort wants to know everything about his clients, from boyfriends during high school and college, to favorite movies, music, and books. There was even a personality test. Why on earth he needs all that information is beyond me. Surely, all a fantasy boyfriend needs to know is what women want from him. And yet, nowhere did he ask about my romantic fantasies. What’s that all about? Does he just choose the fantasies for which he owns the costumes?

Apart from using a fake name, I was truthful while answering the questions. I figure that when he takes me on a ‘date’ it will be easier to remember the truth than lies, and I’d hate to lose his confidence over factual inconsistencies. Of course, I had to pretend I was way more financially blessed than I am. Can’t have him knowing I grew up dirt poor while Mom worked two jobs. It wouldn’t really fit with my society lady cover.

I’m tracking another dead-end package picker-upper when a shadow falls over me. I look up to see my waiter.

“Oh, hi. Perfect timing. Could I get another espresso?” I’m on my seventh for the day. I may be a little wired.

“Sure,” he says as he hands over a thick envelope. “And a guy asked me to give you this.”

Puzzled, I take the envelope and look inside. It contains my thousand dollars in cash, along with a typewritten note on thick paper:

 

Dear Ms. White,

Thank you for your inquiry, but I’m afraid I’m unable to take you on as a client at this time.

Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Warmest regards,

M.R.

 

I look around the cafe then turn to the waiter. “Who gave you this?”

He shrugs. “Some guy. Tall. Dark glasses.”

“Where did he go?”

He points down the street. “That way. But you won’t catch him. He slipped me a twenty to wait fifteen minutes before passing it. He’s long gone.”

I lean back in my chair and sigh.

Dammit! This is not how I saw my master plan going down.

How the hell did he know I was here? More importantly, what the heck do I do now?

“You still want that coffee?” the waiter asks.

“No. Just the check, please.”

“You got it.”

As he leaves, I rub my eyes. There must be another way to play this. I just need to think of it.

I call Toby and tell him about the new development.

“Well, crap,” he says. “That sucks.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Can you find out who the box is registered to? Maybe I can track him down that way.”

He sighs. “More crime? My God, lady, you’re a bad influence.” I hear rapid key tapping in the background.

“But you’re doing it anyway?”

“Eh. It brightens my otherwise dull day. Stretching my hacking muscles is always kind of exciting.”

“Will this take long?”

“Maybe. Some of these private companies have more security than others. I’ll call you when I have it.”

“Cool. Thank you, Tobes.”

I hang up and examine the note once more. He signed it M.R. Seriously? He even refers to himself as Mister Romance? Man, that’s cheesy.

I write up some notes while waiting for Toby to call me back.

Why is M.R. so paranoid? Is he just concerned about protecting his clients? Or himself?

Why did he reject me? And how did he know I was here today, watching for him? I assume he’s onto me, but how?

My phone buzzes with a text from Toby:

<This is going to take an hour or so. Multi-stage firewall. Chillax for a while, so I can work my magic.>

The waiter deposits my check, and I throw down some cash before shoving my computer into my bag and checking my watch. It’s only 3pm. Might as well head to the gym while I’m waiting.

I grab my stuff and head toward the subway.

I need to do something to work off all of this caffeine in my system, or I’ll start bouncing off the walls.

* * *

Led Zeppelin blasts through my ear buds as my feet pound the rubber of the treadmill. Even though sweat is streaming down my face and my lungs are burning, this is the part of my workout I like the best. My adrenal glands have switched into overdrive, and the resulting rush is making me feel more than a bit high.

Ahhh, yes, come to me, sweet endorphins.

At this time of the afternoon, the gym is mostly empty. It hasn’t yet been inundated with the after-work rush of image-obsessed princesses and muscle-bound posers, and that’s just how I like it. I tend to stick to the treadmill and stair climber, but I hate waiting for machines, and I especially dislike navigating around the Lycra-clad mating rituals that happen when this place is packed.

Overall, I don’t approve of the gym as a pickup place. When I’m here, I want to feel free to be my worst self. That way, after I shower and put on makeup, I can pretend to be my best self. Trying to impress someone when I’m still in my caterpillar phase isn’t my idea of a good time.

Having said that, I’m all for perving on prime pieces of gym meat, and there’s a perfect specimen a few feet away. In fact, the only other person in this part of the gym is the dark-haired hottie running on the treadmill two over. I’d seen him here earlier in the week, and I ogled him then, too. His arms are lovely. Thick and defined. Lightly tanned skin. Muscular chest and legs. And the way his dark hair flops over his forehead as he runs is sexy as hell.

As I head into my cooldown, I sneak glances at him. The way he moves is both graceful and incredibly masculine, and I find the combination mesmerizing. I could watch him all day.

Just as I’m thinking that, he glances over and catches me staring. I immediately look away. He’s not allowed to notice me right now. Not when I’m sweating from every pore and smell like landfill.

On my arm, my phone buzzes with a call. I keep jogging as I answer.

“Tobes! Hey.” Okay, talking and running while trying to breathe is a challenge. “What do you have?”

There’s a small pause before Toby says, “Uh ... is this a good time?”

“Yeah. I’m just at the gym. Why?”

“Oh. Okay, it’s just there was heavy breathing and grunting, and I thought ... well, never mind. So, the P.O. box is registered to Reggie Baker of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I’ll text you his address.”

“Could this Reggie could be our guy?”

“Sure. If this Mister Romance is a sixty-year-old retired teacher.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, that’s unlikely. Does Reggie have a family? Any sons in their twenties?”

I hear keys tapping in the background. “Nope. Reggie and his wife have two daughters, Priscilla and Daisy, both in their thirties.”

I lower the speed on the treadmill until I’ve slowed to a fast walk. “Well, that doesn’t give me much to go on, my friend.”

“I know. Sorry. It would have been nice if the box had led straight to our guy.”

“But of course it doesn’t. That would be too easy. Thanks anyway, Tobes.”

“No problem. I’ll text the address details anyway. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I sign off and pull my phone from the case on my arm. This story is going nowhere fast, so unless I want to lose my only lead, I guess I’ll have to wrap things up here and head over to pay Mr. Reginald Baker a visit. Perhaps speaking to him will yield some results.

I shut down the treadmill and turn to step off it, but due to some weird superpower in human legs that takes over after running in one spot for a while, I launch off the rubber belt with way too much momentum to stay upright. With the girliest squeal that’s ever come out of me, I flail and drop my phone. But just as I’m preparing to faceplant into the concrete floor, strong arms close around me and pull me against a hot, hard body.

“Whoa, there. Ye alright?” Warm male voice. Thick Irish accent. Smooth skin pressing against me as large hands set me back on my feet.

I look up at my rescuer to find my hot, dark-haired treadmill neighbor looking down at me with concern. Of course I do. Because it’s not bad enough he had to witness my uncoordinated pratfall, he’s also doomed to experience my workout stench and gross perspiration pressed against his beautiful, muscled body.

“Shit, sorry,” I say. Embarrassed, I pull back to step out of his arms. “Thanks for the save.”

I expect to see him wipe his hands on his shorts, because honestly, I’m kind of slimy. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he retrieves my phone from the floor and gives it a quick examination for damage. “No problem. I did the same thing the other day. It’s a good thing I was the only one here at the time, so no one witnessed me sprawl on the floor like a baby giraffe.”

“I’m sorry I missed that.”

“You should be. If you’d captured it on camera, you could have made me an internet sensation. How dare you deprive me my fifteen minutes of public humiliation?” Every time he says ‘you’ it sounds like ‘yeh’, and all of his ‘r’s have a slight roll to them, which is sexy as hell. To make matters worse, when he hands my phone back, I get a jolt when my fingers brush his.

Oh, God, no. Being attracted to a guy like him isn’t a good idea. My instincts are telling me to withdraw and retreat, but my eyeballs overrule them, so I stay where I am and smile instead. “Well, now I’m really sorry.”

He gives me a satisfied nod. “You’re forgiven. On the upside, I get to make a first impression that’s not based on you laughing your ass off, so there’s that.”

I push at the thick clumps of hair that have escaped my pony tail and are now clinging to my cheeks like seaweed. “Well, yeah. There’s nothing worse than embarrassing yourself in front of total strangers, right? That’s the worst.”

He lets out a low chuckle, and man, if I thought he was sexy when he was running with floppy hair, then the lopsided, appraising grin he’s now giving me is off the charts.

“Actually, I found you falling at my feet quite charming. You didn’t need to go to so much trouble to get my attention, I assure you, but I’m not complaining.”

Jesus, his accent is killing me. Not to mention those sparkling green eyes. The high cheekbones. Those luscious, curvy lips.

I need to get out of here. And yet, I continue to babble. “What can I say? Some girls like to attract men with good looks and a great personality. I prefer to showcase my extreme clumsiness. I think it’s an underrated way of appealing to the opposite sex.”

He nods, and I don’t miss the way he gives my face and body a quick but thorough assessment. “You might be onto something there. I do find you incredibly appealing right now. So, does this tactic work for guys, too? I mean, if I took a tumble down the stairs, would it convince you to let me take you out for a drink later tonight?”

I wince. “Oh, no. You can’t go straight to the stair falling. That’s a rookie mistake. You’ll kill yourself. Start with something small, like tripping over your own feet. Or running into a pole. I might make it look easy, but there’s a big difference between being adorably clumsy and unattractively unconscious. You have to know your limits.”

He nods seriously. “Ah, I see. This is the exactly type of wisdom I need. Not only are you saving me from humiliating self-harm, you also managed to ignore my request for a drink without making me feel like a total loser, which is impressive.”

I grab my towel off the treadmill and pat my face. I didn’t mean to ignore his request. It just took me by surprise. Usually when men approach me, it’s in a bar after they’ve had a few. Or, if I’ve had a few, I’ll let them know I’m interested by inserting my tongue into their mouth.

Men who look like this fine Irish specimen don’t usually notice me, especially at this gym. In my experience, the super-hot guys don’t go for the Plain Janes with angular frames and modest B-cups who work out in baggy T-shirts and non-designer leggings. They prefer the silicon-enhanced Playboy Bunnies who somehow exit the spin classes with perfect hair and makeup intact.

It’s not that I think I’m unattractive; I know I can make myself look good. But considering my face currently resembles a particularly angry hemorrhoid, I doubt my post-workout appearance is showing me in my best light.

“Thanks,” I say, “But I try not to go out with men who’ve been entranced by my clumsiness. It’s not fair to them. I mean, the moment I put on heels and try to walk across the room, you’ll be ruined for all other women forever. You’re young. You have your whole romantic life ahead of you. I’m turning you down because I care.” And because it’s weird being asked out by someone as beautiful as you.

He drops his head. “Wow, clumsy and selfless? You’ve already ruined me.”

Then he hits me with those dazzling green eyes, and without meaning to, I find myself staring back.

“I’m Kieran, by the way. And you are?”

Without thinking about it, I take his hand. It’s warm and rough, and completely envelops mine. “Eden. Tate.”

“Nice to meet you, Eden.”

“Likewise, Kieran.” He steps a little closer as he squeezes my hand gently. The result is that my whole body floods with vicious tingles.

The reaction is so strong and unexpected, I have to step back and take a breath.

Good God, what is it with this man? I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since ... actually, I can’t remember having this kind of reaction before. I usually go for guys who are good-looking but not extraordinary. This guy is definitely extraordinary. Attractive in ways I’ve never really thought about. This is exactly the kind of connection I try to avoid.

Feeling flustered and more than a little out of my depth, I turn back to the treadmill and grab my water bottle out of the holder.

“Well, nice to meet you, Kieran. And thanks for saving me from a broken nose.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. Gotta work to pay the bills.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around? I’m here most days.” He seems so hopeful, I have a pang of regret.

“Yeah, maybe. Bye.”

He smiles as I pass, and again I get a flutter in my stomach that puts me on guard. I’m used to feeling vaguely attracted to men, not whatever the hell he’s making me feel. It’s unexpected and disturbing, and I try to shake it off as I head into the shower.

I’m not someone who experiences these meet-cute situations. They’re for leading-lady types, and that’s not me. If I were in a movie, someone like my sister would be the romantic lead, while I’d end up playing the smart-ass friend who has no trouble getting laid, but is more interested in men as an extreme sport than life partner.

As I finish showering and get dressed, I try to put Kieran out of my mind.

The brutal truth is, it doesn’t matter how hot and sexy he is, if he’s taking an interest in me, then it’s a safe bet he’s some version of asshole-in-disguise. And as much as I don’t mind sleeping with assholes, going on dates with them isn’t my idea of a good time.

Assholes make you feel things then disappear. They make you think you’re the center of their world and one day decide you’re not. Right now, I should be focused on getting my career out of the toilet, not investing in probable heartbreak.

I grab my gear and head to the door, and even when I see Kieran in my peripheral vision and feel his eyes on me, I don’t look at him.

Time to go to work.

* * *

I look up at the giant, filthy building in front of me and dial Toby’s number.

“‘Sup?”

“You sure that address you sent me is right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s not a house. It’s a warehouse, and an abandoned one at that, complete with boarded-up windows and graffiti.” A homeless guy sitting on a set of stairs a short distance away tips his whiskey bottle at me and gives me a toothless smile. “The whole nine yards of derelict chic.”

“Huh. Well, that’s the only address I could find. Want me to do get some background on Reggie Baker?”

“Sure. Couldn’t hurt. Can you also find out what you can about this building? Previous owners ... any tenants of record. Then could you email me when you’re done?”

“You got it. Oh, and just letting you know ...” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Derek has been sniffing around, asking me what you’re up to.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re on the verge of cracking the story wide open. He didn’t seem convinced. He wants you to come in tomorrow morning to give him an update in person.”

“Great. Can’t wait to tell him I have nothing more than he already knows.”

“Well, then, you might want to make something up, because the monthly revenue figures came in yesterday, and he’s been in full mega-dick mode since. Don’t give him an excuse to nuke you.”

“Thanks for the warning, Tobes. I’ll do my best.”

After we sign off, I walk around to the other side of the building, searching for a way in, or better still, something I can use as a clue to find my quarry. All I uncover is that the warehouse is enormous and looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. The one sign of life is a back entrance up a short set of stairs where there’s an eye-catching mural depicting a huge black-and-white face. On the door next to it are the words, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

I climb the stairs and try the door handle. Of course, it’s locked, but among the grays of the mural I spot a shiny high-tech number pad.

Hmmm ... interesting.

The flashy technology is out of place, considering the rest of the building looks like it’s straight out of the depression.

I get the feeling I’m being watched, but when I check the alley, there’s no one around. Except, of course, for the giant mural man beside me, who’s more than a little creepy.

I turn back to the keypad. For shits and giggles, I enter my birth date. Unsurprisingly, the door lets out an annoyed buzz and declines to open.

After jamming some more buttons, I work out that if I hit the numbers in a certain sequence, the tones play Uptown Funk.

I’m in the middle of figuring out what other songs I can make up when my phone rings so loudly, I nearly jump out of my skin.

I answer without even checking the screen. “Tobes?”

A deep, male voice who’s definitely not Toby, says, “Please stop pressing random numbers. Any more wrong attempts will release the hounds, and I can’t be bothered cleaning up the mess when they get a hold of you.”

“What the hell?” A quick look at my screen reveals a number I don’t recognize. “Who is this?”

“You know who it is. You’ve been looking for me.”

Oh, my God. It can’t be. “Uh ... Mister Romance?”

I hear a huff of frustration. “Christ, could you not call me that stupid name? It conjures up an image of a two-bit magician with a top hat and button-hole carnation. Or worse, me on the front cover of a book, all flowing hair and naked chest.”

The mental image of a Fabio-esque dude makes me smile. I assume my mysterious caller actually looks like those cover models on romance novels and not Danny DeVito. I mean, I doubt women would spend their money on a DeVito lothario, but you never know. Everyone has their kink.

“It’s not funny,” the voice says, and even if he’s as ugly as a bag of rocks, he could make a fortune just dirty talking to women. That voice is sinful as hell.

I clear my throat. “So, what should I call you?”

“If I had my way, nothing. But considering your refusal to take my subtle hint to leave me alone after I gave you back your money, you can call me Max. And shall I call you Bianca White? Or Eden Tate? Which do you prefer?”

On my application, I’d called myself Bianca White. How the hell did he found out my real name?

Prone as I am to nervous fiddling, I once again bring up my finger to the keypad.

“I told you not to touch that,” he says, voice tinged with frustration.

I look up, but can’t see a camera. Then, I whip around and examine the wide alley. Shadows flash as people hurry past the mouth of it on their way home, but none of them stop.

“Where are you?” I ask, feeling more nervous every second. The sun’s going down, and the widening shadows do nothing to make me feel safer.

“Good question. Where do you think I am?”

I turn the other way. There’s a dark figure standing a dozen yards away, staring at me. He’s backlit, so I can’t make out any features, but I immediately reach into my purse and bring out my can of mace.

“Okay, that’s creepy as hell.” I grip my phone tighter. “Is this your Bruce Wayne impersonation? Because honestly, I’ve seen better.”

“If you don’t want strange men to confront you in dark alleys, Miss Tate, I’d suggest you stay out of them.”

“Wise words. If I try to leave, will you let me go?”

“You believe I’d hurt you? I’m insulted. Do you think I’m some kind of thug?”

“Of course not. I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice psychopath. But FYI, if you take a single step toward me right now, I’ll scream so loudly they’ll hear me back in Manhattan.”

A low chuckle comes through the phone. “As intrigued as I am to witness the full extent of your vocal range, calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The dark figure turns away, and a loud belch echoes off the walls of the alley. “That’s Charlie, the local wino. He’s harmless. Well, he could probably talk your ears off about what a bitch his ex-wife is, but other than that, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I look around again, searching for another man, maybe crouching behind the line of dumpsters. “How are you seeing this? Are you here?”

“Look up to your right.” I glance up. Set back into the wall and camouflaged by the mural is a tiny security camera. “Smile, Miss Tate. You triggered my security system when you tampered with the keypad. I’m watching you on a live feed through my phone.”

“So, you’re not here?”

“No.”

“Pity. I’d very much like to slap you for scaring the crap out of me.”

“Actually, Charlie scared you. But by all means, go slap him. I think he’d be into that.”

My heart’s still beating double-time, and I lean against back against the door. “Do you get your thrills teasing innocent women? Or is it just me?”

“Innocent, Miss Tate? Is that how you’d describe yourself? At your request, your friend Toby has been engaged in all kinds of illegal activities over the past week. And now, here you are, trespassing on private property. If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I’d have already called the cops, but I’m giving you one more chance to do the right thing and walk away.”

“How did you find out who I am?”

“Your friend isn’t the only one with computer skills. Do you honestly think I don’t vet all my potential clients? I’m disappointed you made it so easy. I would have expected the woman who successfully infiltrated a secret society on her college campus to create a more resilient cover story. It was like you weren’t even trying.”

That stings. I was trying. I chose the name of a girl with whom I went to high school, who’s now married to one of the heads of Wall Street’s most prestigious brokerage firms. We weren’t friends, but we looked enough alike that we were often mistaken for sisters; unlike me and my real sister. Anyone Googling Bianca White would find a rich socialite with my approximate features and money to burn. How the hell did he get from her to me?

“Okay,” I say, “so my cover is blown. What now?”

“Nothing. You get the hell off my property and forget you ever heard about me.”

I laugh. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. You may have delayed me finding out who you are, but I’m a firm believer in the theory that a determined drop of water can wear down a mountain.”

“And in this scenario, you’re the water, and my identity is the mountain?”

“Bingo.”

“That still doesn’t give you a story. Even if you track me down and expose my entire client base, there’s no story without testimonials from my clients or an interview with me. And I’m here to tell you, the ladies who use my services will never talk to you. Neither will I. What’s the point of continuing to pursue this?”

“What can I say? I hate mysteries. Always have. And you, Max, are one giant mystery wrapped in an enigma. At the very least, I need to figure out your celebrity client list.”

He goes silent for a moment then says, “Why?”

That takes me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you have to figure it out? I’m offering something to women that makes them happy. We’re all consenting adults. No one is getting hurt, so why ruin that? If you expose my clients, all you’re going to do is cause pain and misery to people who don’t deserve it, as well as depriving me of my only source of income.”

“Am I expected to feel sorry for you and your super-rich clients? Drop the story out of sympathy?”

“That would be nice.”

“Not going to happen.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “You know you’re infuriating, right?”

“Yes. I also know that when I set my sights on something, I tend to achieve it, so you’d might as well grant me an interview and save us both a lot of time and effort.”

“Honestly, Miss Tate, I’m not that interesting. Your readers would be bored.”

“A man who brings women’s fantasies to life? I know at least half of the world’s population would find that fascinating. Including me.”

I can almost hear him grinding his teeth. I’m a little appalled by how much pleasure I’m deriving from pushing his buttons. He may think he knows women, but he doesn’t know me, and I’m going to take him down, while possibly winning a Pulitzer in the process.

“Miss Tate, what you’re asking is impossible. The only way I can continue my work is by maintaining strict confidentiality about my clients. I’m not going to jeopardize that by talking to you.”

“What if I guarantee to protect your clients’ identities?”

“You expect me to put my trust in a reporter? I’m not stupid.”

That much is clear. Any other interview subject would have been tracked down days ago. “Look, Max, the way I see it is you have two options. One, you agree to meet with me for a no-holds-barred interview, and I’ll draw up a water-tight non-disclosure agreement about whatever elements of the story you need hidden. I’ll create aliases for all of your clients and protect their identity fully; yours, too. Or, you can stonewall me, and I when I eventually track you down, and you know damn well I will, nothing will be sacred. I’ll lay out the whole mess for everyone to see. Confidentiality be damned.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I hold my breath in anticipation. I’ve never been a great card player, because I’m useless at bluffing, but I must admit that sounded damn intimidating, even to me.

The silence goes on for so long, I worry we’ve been cut off. “Max?” He doesn’t reply. “Are you still there?” Still nothing. “Okay, well, guess I’d better go and do some more research then –”

“Stop.”

“Oh, so you are still with me.”

“I was thinking. I don’t like being given ultimatums, especially ones that could affect people other than myself.”

I can feel him wavering. “Max, I understand that you’d rather I hadn’t found out about you, but I did, and I can’t just drop this story. It has the potential to make my career. But that doesn’t mean it has to be the end of yours. If you agree to my terms, I’ll be careful. I’ll protect you.”

“And if I don’t agree, you’ll destroy me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it in such Bond-villain terms, but yeah.”

He sighs. “I’ll think about it, Miss Tate. It’s not a decision I take lightly. I need some time.”

“Okay. You have forty-eight hours. After that, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”

“That sounds pretty Bond-villain to me.”

“Yeah, well, you started it. I need your answer by Friday.”

“You’ll have it. In the meantime, can I trust that you’ll halt your investigations?”

“Sure.” I don’t know if he can tell I’m lying, but he doesn’t call me out.

“Fine. Goodnight, Miss Tate.”

“Goodnight, Ma–” I say, but he’s already hung up.

I take in the door with its creepy mural and high-tech keypad and snap a few pictures for my research file.

I’ve barely grabbed what I need before my phone buzzes with a message.

<If you don’t get off my property within thirty seconds, you’ll find out if I was joking about the hounds.>

I laugh, but when I hear dogs barking nearby, my blood runs cold. I get another message.

<Twenty seconds, Miss Tate. They haven’t been fed today. I’d start running if I were you.>

I run/walk to the end of the alley and cross the street as quickly as I can. It’s only when I step onto the subway car ten minutes later and the door closes behind me, that I stop waiting to be mauled by a hungry pack of dogs.