Jeremy 18
You can break many men with psychological torture. You can break most men with physical torture. But, in both these instances, you should keep in mind that the human body has an amazing capacity for self-preservation. It’s just a matter of time before the individual either regresses into a dissociative state or loses consciousness in order to protect himself from the ongoing trauma.
Okay, what if you want to avoid those little physiological loopholes? What if your goal is not to manipulate or to extract information, but rather, simply, to inflict as much pain as possible. In this instance, because you have no material motive, there is nothing that the victim can offer up in exchange for relief. There is no amount of begging or bargaining that might convince you to spare him or her. In this instance, you are only governed by your own weakness; your capacity for mercy. If such a thing exists in you on any level, you aren’t wired for this sort of activity.
So, let’s assume you have the constitution to execute this scenario. How do you proceed, if not using the old standby’s like sleep deprivation, beatings or electric shocks? The answer is easier... and closer than you might imagine. As close as the people who surround us every day. What most people fail to realize is that we are most vulnerable through the people we love. As much as a target may be able to endure, as resilient or determined or brave he happens to be, there is absolutely no relief from the agonizing knowledge that someone close to you is in pain because of you.
Simply put, the most effective method for destroying a man’s psyche, by far, is to cause his loved ones to suffer on his behalf, with no ability to assuage their torture. It’s not just the knowledge that your loved one is in trouble, it’s the knowledge that she is suffering and you are helpless to do anything about it. Spouses, children, parents and even pets make a person vulnerable. I keep this forefront in my mind as I start to assemble a plan.
I’ve been slowly boiling in my rage since I left for Detroit. It was a fine gig, but it wasn’t the one I wanted. I should have had my pick of any job in the country. I should be the youngest tenured faculty member at Juilliard by now. It should be me with the new CD and touring schedule. Julia and Matthew stole my life and I’m going to make them pay for it.
The first item on my list is anonymity. It won’t do to have someone from McInnes spotting me on the subway and calling Julia. So, I find my way to one of those swank salons downtown where I tell the girl with the purple hair, pierced eyebrow and nose ring, that I want a whole new look.
She seems to get what I’m after, and assures me my own mother won’t recognize me by the time we’re done. So, I sit still as she paints paste onto my hair and wraps it in tin foil. When she unwraps me a half our later, she launches an assault with tiny, sharp scissors. I’m starting to feel like a fucking topiary by the time she’s finished cutting. But if I thought that was going to be it, I was wrong. She blasts my face with a hairdryer strong enough to peel the paint off the walls, brushing my hair this way and that. Back and forth and back again. She follows it up with a straight-razor shave.
At last, she stands there staring at me and nodding her approval of my new look.
“You ready to see it?”
“I guess,” I mutter unenthusiastically.
The stylist spins the chair around so I can see the ‘new’ me in the mirror. And I’ll be fucking damned. This little girl has brought my dark brown hair to a much lighter shade, threaded with golden highlights. My usually shaggy-but-neat haircut has been tailored into a style that looks professional without being stuffy. I can’t stop staring at myself. I should have done this years ago. I give her a big tip and take her card for the next time I need to hide in plain sight.
The next item is proximity. I have to be close to my targets in order to study them, so I close up my Detroit house and take a ridiculously overpriced sublet close to the Strathmore Building in New York, where Julia and Matthew live most of the time. I have cleared the big white wall in the studio and covered it with large swaths of butcher’s paper. This is where it all begins, my blueprint for revenge, my declaration of war. I call it my War Wall.
With the help of a private detective, I have a glossy stack of candid photos of Julia, Matthew, Brett and Maggie as they make their rounds throughout the city. They were easy enough to track and capture on film. The nanny, though, she’s another story, though. Natalie Hughes gave my PI quite a workout as she pushed that goddam stroller all over midtown, in subways and taxis, on the LIRR. She takes the brat to any of a dozen different parks all over Manhattan, never visiting the same one twice in a row.
I affix the pictures of all of them on the wall with notations about their schedules underneath. I have the rehearsal, touring and concert calendars for both the Walton String Quartet, which covers Julia and Brett, and the Gotham Chamber Players, which takes care of Matthew. Where the two ensembles overlap in their schedules is where I can find Miss Natalie Hughes.
Okay. Time to get boots on ground.
****
I’m all for a leggy bitch but this girl is ridiculously tall. At least it makes it easier to track her as she pushes the stroller through midtown Manhattan. This is the third time I've followed her, and my PI was right, she never does the same thing twice. Different parks. Different museums. Different parts of town. When she’s not working, Nanny Natalie shares an apartment with two other girls in the Flatiron District. And when she’s not at home, she’s in the law library at NYU. Now, as I sidle up to the bench she is sitting on, I realize she’s quite attractive. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.
“Which one is yours?” I inquire, taking the empty spot next to her.
She gives me a sidelong glance that lasts so long I’m convinced she recognizes me. I’m sure Julia and Matthew have prepped her with pictures of me. But then the long moment passes and she points to the sandbox.
“Little Carrot Top, over there.”
My eyes follow her finger to the child grabbing fistfuls of sand and cramming them into a bright yellow pail. I can’t help but notice how much bigger he’s gotten since the day I held him in the hospital.
“He’s cute,” I mention casually. “How old?”
“Toddler going on teenager,” she replies vaguely. “Is that one yours?”
She’s pointing to a boy in denim overalls. I saw her talking to that one’s mother earlier, so she knows damn well the kid’s not mine. Obviously, it’s a test. Smart girl. But I’m smarter.
“No. I’m waiting for my ex to drop off our daughter,” I say and glance at my watch. “She’s late, as usual.”
She nods but doesn’t offer comment.
“Nata! Nata!” the brat yelps from the sandbox as he holds up a plastic shovel for her to see. She smiles at him and waves.
“Nata?” I wonder with some curiosity.
“His version of Natalie.”
I fake a chuckle.
“Nice to meet you, Natalie. I’m Kyle,” I offer.
She gives me a curt smile and a nod of acknowledgement, but nothing more. Damn, she’s a tough nut to crack. I don’t think my Plan A, hitting on her, is going to fly. Time to move to Plan B.
“Hey,” I say, as if just thinking of something, “I’ve been looking for someone to have play dates with my Kyla. She’s about the same age as your little guy, maybe we could arrange to get them together sometime?”
Natalie turns to face me fully now, and I can feel her taking an inventory of every square inch of my features.
“Why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll clear it with his parents?” she suggests.
It’s a reasonable request, and one that I wouldn’t think twice about if it were coming from anyone other than this bitchy baby bodyguard. It’s plain enough to see that she’s suspicious, and I’m certain she just wants to get my fingerprints or DNA for some CSI shit. Not gonna happen, baby.
“I was thinking of something more casual, just some sandbox time. Are you here every Tuesday?”
She smiles and stands up, preparing the stroller for action.
“Sometimes. We’ll keep an eye out for you and … I’m sorry, what did you say your son’s name was?”
Nice try, bitch.
“Daughter,” I smile up at her. “Her name is Kyla, after me, Kyle.”
“Sweet,” she says without a hint of sincerity. “We’ll see you around, Kyle.”
Within a matter of seconds, she has the kid out of the sandbox, strapped into the stroller and sucking on a bottle.
“Yes, you will,” I mutter as I watch them roll down the path and out towards 59th street.