The Thief

Like it had been radioactive.

Or claimed by an evil hand.

* * *

—

Down on Earth, on the shores of the Hudson, Assail slipped free of his bed and pulled a robe on in utter silence. Marisol was naked in his sheets, her body tucked in tight, her now-blond hair on his pillow. She would only be able to stay another hour or so before he had to wake her and send her down to the basement in order that her grandmother would find her in the morning where she should be. But he didn’t want her to leave. He preferred her right where she was.

As he stood over her and watched her breathe, he began to feel like something out of Mr. Stoker’s universe, the vampire hovering, soulless and hungry, above the fragile human life he intended to suck dry.

That was what she was going to think of him if she ever found out what he really was. Indeed, he despised lying to her—which was ironic considering he had quite comfortably uttered falsehoods to both fools and family his entire life—but he feared her reaction to the truth even more.

Troubled by much, he forced himself away and went down the stairs to the first floor, shutting the doors behind himself.

There was another reason for that, apart from wanting to keep things quiet.

As he faced off at his office, ripples of unease tingled through his torso, and it was a while before he entered and crossed the distance to his desk. Sitting down in his padded chair, he placed his hands on the blotter. If he were to turn on the PC—which he did not—he could access his accounts, check his portfolios, look at the rising level of his fortune, and perhaps feel a concomitant buoyancy.

Or perhaps not. His wealth didn’t seem as important to him as it had been.

Bracing himself, he swiveled the chair with his feet and opened the top drawer on the left. Inside was a dark brown glass vial about the size of a Life Savers roll.

He’d had smaller ones at first. Then larger ones had become needed. Toward the end, it nearly had been necessary to pack a suitcase.

Assail’s hand shook as he reached out and picked the vial up. It was empty of cocaine, nothing but a fine residue inside. Not a surprise. During that last week or so, he’d been hitting the coke so hard, he’d put a hole in his septum.

Rolling the circular container back and forth on his palm, he marveled at how an inanimate object with almost no intrinsic value could strip him down to his bones like a grenade going off at the end of his wrist.

He waited…waited…to see if the urge came upon him.

When it did not, he had a moment of euphoric freedom, a soaring sense of victory that he had bested his foe, vanquished the demon—and yes, his beautiful damsel was, in fact, upstairs in his quarters. But then a cautionary sense bettered that delusion. It was easy to resist the temptation when he was at peace and relaxed. The trick was going to be when he was not.

He put the vial back in the drawer and closed it up. He wasn’t sure why he was keeping the thing, and didn’t want to look too closely at that. Was it as a grim reminder of all that he had put himself through to keep things on track? Or as a placeholder for when he fell back into his addiction?

Assail could not bear the answer because he did not trust himself.

And it was upon that realization that he turned on his computer, the blue glow coming up on the monitor like illumination from a fire. His passwords came back to him with ease—which was a relief—and thanks to the bull market, he supposed he was pleased at where things were.

Whilst going insane, he had made money.

Sitting back, he tried to ascertain if he was tired. There was soreness in his muscles, which had grown unaccustomed to movement. He was vaguely hungry, but disinclined to the effort required for a remedy. He was also a little cold.

The silence in the house washed over him, and for some reason, all the quiet seemed oppressive, robbing him of the happy relief he had been feeling ever since he had had the restraints removed from his wrists and ankles.

Ever since he had come back to inhabit his body.

Was this all there was to life now? he wondered. Sitting passively in front of his computer, watching numbers change due to forces he had no participation in nor control over?

He did not want to return to the chaos and mania of his addiction or his illegal business. But with no other options for how to spend his time, he felt an existential version of color-blindness, the world lacking a certain vividness and depth. Of course, as a bonded male, he would live for his female, it was true. But there had to be more than him becoming another piece of furniture in this sleek room.

Marisol would not find much to respect about her hellren in that case.

Assail opened the drawer again. Next to the vial was an untraceable cell phone, and as he went to turn it on, he thought, but of course, the battery had gone dead.

Maybe it was a sign, he thought. After all, if he was out of the business, why would he need to access the phone he had used for it?

An unsettling sense of void caused him to proceed. The charger was plugged into the outlet under the desk, and as he got the cord and gave the phone some juice, he cradled the Samsung flip phone in his hands. It was a while until the thing woke up. And whilst he waited, he considered putting the cell back in the drawer or maybe throwing it away. In the end, however, he opened its lid, and found there were four voicemails.

Putting in the password, the oldest message came up first, and it was one he had long saved.

“I received your message. I am prepared to see you for coffee. Be well, my friend.”

Eduardo Benloise. Responding to the directive to meet in a code previously agreed upon. And when Assail and his cousins had intercepted the man at the appointed location? The assumption on Eduardo’s side had been that it was for the delivery of a million dollars in cash—and as the man was greedy and liked to hide things from his older brother, he had been more than happy to come unaccompanied and without any in his organization knowing.

Except no money had changed hands. Instead, Eduardo had been o’ertaken against his will and placed, with little more consideration than one would use on a parcel post, in the back of Assail’s Range Rover, a lever to be pulled at the right time.

Assail had kept the message as a reminder that he had done Marisol right.

It had been a sad tie to her and their relationship.

The second message was a hang-up from two weeks ago, a misdial. The third as well.

The fourth, however, had been left earlier in the current day, some twelve hours before. And it was a female voice with only the hint of an accent.

“Good afternoon, sir. I am calling from the Benloise Gallery in reference to your purchase dated December twentieth. Our records show that there has been a delay in fulfillment, and we would like the opportunity to discuss this matter at your convenience. If you have already been in contact with us, please disregard this phone call. Thank you.”

Assail frowned and replayed the message. Twice.

Yes, she did indeed have an accent, and was covering it up very well. Her “r”s and the lilt were not quite right.

She was South American.

And to what purchase was she referring?

No number had been provided on the message, but that was unnecessary. It was in the phone’s call log.

“Assail?”

At the sound of Marisol’s voice, he looked up. She’d come down the stairs and was heading in the direction of the kitchen.

He put the phone back in the drawer and shut things as far as he could with the charger still plugged in. Then he got to his feet.

“In here, my love.”

Her footsteps were quick but soft on the turnaround, and as she came up to the open doorway, she hesitated. “Why are you in the dark?”

“I was just checking my accounts.” He indicated the monitor. “I am pleased to report that I can afford to pay for gas and electricity for at least the next year. Maybe the year after.”

“Oh…good.” Marisol coughed a little. “Ah, I was worried when I woke up and you were gone.”

As he held his arms out, she came forward. She had put the shirt he had worn to church on and her bare legs were beautiful.

“You mustn’t worry about me.” He pulled her in close and kissed her sternum, right over her heart. “I am well indeed.”

“Do you want to come back to bed?”

“Hmm…yes.” His hands traveled down to her hips, and before he knew it, he was under the hem of his shirt, her bare skin warm and smooth.