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Marci looked up. The cab was slowing on a familiar street, beside a dark car.

She’d arrived.

*****

“Blythe?” It was the Editor.

“It’s me,” she answered, noticing a taxi pulling up behind them. Her heart drummed rapidly and her palms broke into a sweat.

“You need to get out of there. Fast. But, and you have to trust me, take the girl in the cab with you.”

The taxi waited silently behind them, the headlights reflecting on rearview mirrors. She couldn’t tell what was happening.

“What’s going on?” Ramone asked, shifting to look behind them. “Is that a cab? Is it Sue? Sue,” he repeated with a groan, as though remembering.

Well, it wasn’t news to Blythe that he had a wife. But who did this Editor think he was? “Trust you?” she laughed, starting the Lexus. “What girl?” As she said it, a girlish silhouette approached the driver-side window.

“She’s harmless, and, I’m a little responsible for her. She’s been watching Ramone’s feed. We need her.”

“For what?” Blythe asked, nearly shouting.
Blythe. Losing your cool? That’s not you. But I’ve never been in these circumstances before! Who knows what I am with the screws tightened
. “I came here for one reason. Don’t start dumping passengers on me.”

“Passengers?” Ramone asked. “Blythe, who is it? Let’s go. Please. Who is that?”

A knocking at the window made Blythe jump in her seat.

“Just trust me, Blythe. Let her in, and drive. I’ll be calling you again.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but—hello? Hello? Son of a—” the persistent knocking began again.

“What’s going on, Blythe? Who’s that girl? Do you know her? Oh hell, I need to call Sue and warn her,” Ramone leaned forward in his seat, clenching the tire iron, suddenly on edge.

Blythe gave Ramone her phone and turned to the girl in the window. Straight, blonde hair framed a small, heart-shaped face. It was carefully straightened, though, not scraggly and thin, but formed into perfect petal-like layers to accentuate high cheekbones. There were both dark and red streaks amidst the blonde. Her lips were full and pert. She might have a sharp tongue or an attitude with a mouth like that. That was the most Blythe could make out in the faint light of the streetlamp. She was toting a carry-on wheeled suitcase and a slate, with one ear-phone winding up to her left side, disappearing beneath the perfect umbrella of her hair.

“Can I help you?” Blythe asked as soon as her window was down halfway. She left it there.

“Blythe. It’s me, Marci.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before,” Blythe said, politely, if sarcastically. She wondered if this girl would detect it.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Sorry. I feel like I know you, that’s all. Kind of weird. Anyway, you better let me in and let’s get out of here before that psychopath wakes up.”

“Blythe, don’t let her in. We don’t know her. She might be . . . one of them, for all we can tell,” Ramone said, leaning slightly across the center console to get a look at the girl.

Blythe wanted to turn her away. She wanted to tell her to get in the stupid cab and go back to where ever she came from. But Ghosteye’s words rang in her skull like a foreboding knell. What if they did need her? He hadn’t explained what he meant. What
did
he mean?

“Get in, be quiet, and if you do anything stupid, Ramone will knock you out,” Blythe said, gripping the steering wheel tightly, perhaps hoping to feel at least the semblance of being in control. This was madness. And it wasn’t getting any better. The back door opened. The blonde grunted as she lifted her suitcase in, “Don’t scratch the leather,” Blythe instructed, irritated that the girl hadn’t put her luggage in the trunk. It was Blythe’s fault, really, since she hadn’t told her as much.

“I’m not daft. My father has five cars that cost twice what this one cost,” the girl said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Oh great,
Blythe thought,
she does have a smart mouth.

“Blythe,” Ramone hissed, sitting back. It was the last thing he needed, probably. But they had no idea where they were going, or what they were doing, and the Editor who had shown them what was going on was, so far, their best guide. He knew the ins and outs of the system. He’d been a controlling force in the system, and what were Blythe, Ramone, and the girl, Marci (a horrible name)? They were rats in a maze, and they couldn’t see the shape of it.

“Call Sue, Ramone. Make sure she doesn’t come back to your house.” She said it coldly, speeding away from the curb into the darkness, the lights from the Lexus cutting a swath through it.

“I probably better,” he answered. Surprisingly, the girl was quiet as Ramone took the phone and began dialing. He paused often as he punched in the number. Blythe caught a glimpse of his hands as he gripped the phone. The glow of it shook in his trembling fingers. She considered, for just a moment, giving his shoulder a comforting touch, thought better of it, and slumped into her seat with a sigh as the street with Ramone’s house on it receded behind them.

Chapter 10

Elliot didn’t remember falling asleep. And he didn’t recognize the blank walls surrounding him, or the desk his leg rubbed against. As soon as he moved to stand, the throbbing in his skull reminded him: he’d been knocked out. Not asleep.

The moan turned to a growl as he rose, touching his temple and waiting for the blackness swimming across his vision to dissipate. The old man was gone he saw as his eyes cleared and the room came into focus. Elliot’s tools were scattered in a mess on the floor, across the desk. Turning, he spotted the item used against him: a tire iron. He hefted it and inspected a still-damp bloodstain smeared along one end before slamming it in a furious rage onto the desk with a loud crash.

The emotion left him quickly. Outbursts like that clouded his faculties. For his work, Elliot needed to be clear of mind and focused. He was embarrassed that he’d permitted himself to lash out for even a second.

He’d been betrayed. Or the man’s wife came home, unexpectedly, but then how had she caught him unaware? How had she known? It was unlikely that it was she. A woman doesn’t leave her lover early. At least, that was what Elliot knew of women and he only knew it from the feeds. It was possible something happened to spoil her evening and bring her back.

Elliot fumbled through the house, looking for a bathroom, toting his bag of tools with him. In the bathroom, he found the bloody spot on the back of his scalp using the extendable, magnifying mirror and the vanity mirror. With the needle and thread from his bag, he stitched up the gash, though the process was awkward and difficult. He was used to operating in less than ideal circumstances and finished in twenty minutes. Already he’d lost a considerable amount of blood, but no more. He raided the fridge of fruit and juices before leaving out the front door. Taking long, purposeful strides to the driveway, Elliot activated the implanted communication system, intending to inform his superiors of what had happened, after he talked to Ghosteye, of course.

Why hadn’t someone been sent to rescue him? Ghosteye had seen, hadn’t he?

“Ghosteye, Elliot here. Ghosteye?” He opened the driver-side door, dismayed at the broken window. This didn’t bode well. “Ghosteye? Are you there?” No answer.

Inside the compact car, Elliot set the bag on the passenger seat. When the vehicle wouldn’t start, frustration made his throat tighten, but he refused to let the emotion take over.

Redirecting his call only took a clipped, vocal command. Soon a dispassionate voice spoke in his ear. “What is it, Elliot?”

“Sir, the subject has escaped, my vehicle has been neutralized, and the Editor fails to answer his phone,” Elliot said.

“Get in touch with the center. I’m in the middle of an extraction. This is hardly appropriate. I have a subject halfway through a procedure.” As though to punctuate his claim, Elliot heard the loud wails of someone sobbing in the background.

Elliot could feel the blood draining from his face. Had he made a terrible miscalculation? He thought the subject was a top level security threat and that the director would be most interested. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Someone betrayed me. The Editor, I believe.”

A pause before the director finally said, “What gives you that idea?”

“I’d been struck in the head with a tire iron. I’m not sure how long I was out, but a clean up team never showed up and when I attempted to contact the Editor, there was no answer.”

“Send a team to the Editor’s studio and call in a clean up team. Your subject is married, no?”

“He is.”

“If his wife shows up, take her into custody. She may know something. Or was she responsible for the escape?”

“It’s possible. I would ask the Editor, but he’s offline.”

“Once you have transportation, find him.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Elliot?”

“Yes?”

“If this gets any messier, betrayal or no betrayal, someone will have to pay.”

Elliot’s hands went cold with perspiration. “Of course.”

“My superiors will want to know who failed. When I’m through here, I’ll be looking in on you.”

“Of course,” he answered. The words sounded raspy.

Just like that, the director was gone. Elliot’s fingers trembled until he gripped the steering wheel. What did he think would happen? The director wasn’t about to take responsibility for Elliot’s failure. Maybe the old man’s wife would show up. It would save Elliot. If not that, perhaps tracking him down would prove a simple affair. It should. After all, the cameras were everywhere.

Elliot called for a clean up team. As he waited, he searched the feeds for Ramone, hoping against all odds that the man was still being broadcast. If he wasn’t, Elliot would know for certain who the traitor was.

*****

The silence disturbed Marci. How long could they go without saying something? Were they silent because she was there? She would have thought they’d be used to being watched. Everyone should be used to being watched.

“Where are we going?” she asked finally, after they left Ramone’s neighborhood behind and reached the freeway.

“I don’t know,” Blythe answered, quietly.

“Who are you, anyway, and why are you here? Did
they
send you?” Ramone put an emphasis on
they
that Marci understood to mean whoever had sent the man who’d tortured Ramone.

“I don’t think she has anything to do with that, Ramone,” Blythe said before Marci could answer.

“Of course not. I don’t even know if I know who you mean, other than that man Blythe saved you from. I’m a college student. I forget you don’t know me. I guess that’s one of the peculiarities of the feeds.” Ramone snorted at the reference to the feeds. “You don’t like them? Well, you know you’re a hit, don’t you? I wasn’t the only one watching your story. It was one of the number one romantic feeds. But you
should
know. That’s how Blythe knew to come save you, Ramone. Right, Blythe?”

“Enough,” Blythe said, merging into the perpetual nighttime freeway traffic. “Let’s just be quiet for a while, please. I need to think.” Marci could hear the blush in Blythe’s voice. Why was she blushing? Ramone could probably hear it as well. He tilted his head down until his chin touched his chest, and Marci wondered what she had said that disturbed him. Was it the mention of what he’d just gone through? Or the fact that Blythe had seen him like that? Or was it that he caught Sue cheating?

“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” Marci persisted, ignoring Blythe’s request for silence.

“Everything’s wrong, young lady. Can’t you see it? And some of us would like our lives to be private. The fact that a voyeur has shown up claiming to know me is not my life-long dream. I’m sure Ramone feels the same.”

“I am
not
young, Blythe. I’m in my twenties. Please, just call me Marci. I—I know this must be awkward. I’m sorry,” she apologized. She ought to at least admit that it was awkward. Perhaps that would put them at ease. It
was
strange, what she had done. Just showing up like that. “It just happened. And it seemed right. Until this very moment, when I—when I realized you don’t exactly know me, like I know you.”

“Why did you come?” Ramone asked quietly.

“I hardly know how to answer that. It seemed right. That’s all I can say.”

“So no one sent you?”

“I sent myself. But, well,” she said, hesitating and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Was she really going to say this? “Watching you, something changed in me. You’re different from anyone I’ve ever known, in a good way, I mean. And I don’t want it to end—the changing, that is.” She paused, feeling herself blush. It must be contagious. “Anyway, that sounds ridiculous. I don’t even know what I mean. It’s like I’ve been asleep and I’m waking up, and I want to keep waking up. Thing weren’t going well for me where I was, before I came here, so I left. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s enough,” Ramone said gruffly. Marci bit her lip, shocked at the tone of his voice and the suddenness of his response. “You came for the wrong reasons.”

Blythe glanced at him. “So there’s a right reason, Ramone?”

“No. No. I don’t want anyone to come find me. I’m not responsible for anyone but me. Not even Sue.”

Blythe paused before saying, “So he won.”

“No one won.” Ramone looked away from her, out the window at his elbow.

“At first I thought it made you stronger. And better, somehow.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said, a derisive tone in his voice.

“I think you do.”

“I thought I had answers, Blythe. But I don’t.”

“So we’re going to give up?”

“There was never any fight.”

“That’s why she came, Ramone. Because there is.”

“What are you talking about?” Marci asked, leaning forward to interrupt, just like she used to do with her parents when she was a girl. Neither of them answered and Marci fell back against her seat, embarrassed for being ignored.

“I should call Sue,” Ramone said, lifting Blythe’s phone and dialing a number.

Blythe nodded.

With a frown, Marci turned to look out the window, resting her elbow on her luggage. Something important just happened. It was harder to interpret without the feed and the music that often accompanied pivotal scenes. She felt forced to try to grasp it all on her own, running through the interchange again and trying to imagine how it would have been framed by an Editor. What song would have played in the background?

“Sue, it’s Ramone—I’m borrowing it from a friend—yes, I know it’s late, where are you?—good. I’m glad it’s going well.” His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed roughly before continuing. “Listen, stay away from the house. Don’t come home. Something bad has happened—I’m not really sure how to explain it, Sue—yes, I’m serious. Isn’t there somewhere else you can go? Somewhere with . . . with that man?” Marci would have whistled through her teeth if she were more crass. But she wasn’t. And anyway, she felt for him. “I don’t care, Sue, I just want you to be safe. Someone’s after me. And they might use you to get to me—-no, this isn’t a joke. Just listen to me. Please. It might be best for you to get in a car and drive away, for a while—I know hiding is pointless, I know. But just try—I didn’t
do
anything. Do you think you have to
do
something to attract their attention?” Marci shook her head and looked down at the black, empty slate staring back up at her. The velvet soft screen reflected the bright lights lining the freeway shining in through the windows. She wanted to look, to see if they were still being broadcast, to see if she was in the picture now. Would it matter at this point? Even if she was in the feed, she wasn’t really in the picture. Not that way. Not the way she wanted to be.

And Ramone. Even though Sue didn’t deserve it, Marci could hear the undertones in his voice. He loved her still. Maybe he knew her well enough to know that there was still a piece of her that belonged to him. Maybe it was the kind of love she’d read about in that required English literature class—the kind where a person loves someone so much they’ll let the one they love go.

Even though she didn’t turn the slate on and look for Ramone’s feed, Marci felt like she knew what was happening. The darkness stretched through the thick air of Blythe’s car and curled around her heart like a cold fist. Chills went through her and she felt like crying. She was losing something. No, it wasn’t her. It was Ramone. He was losing his anchor. It was like that scene in that old movie, the black and white one (what a sad world, seeing it all in black and white), with the ugly guy with the lisp, the bar owner, when he lets the woman he’s been in love with his entire life get on the plane with the blond guy she was married to. The bar-owner watched her leave and the only thing right about it was the fact that he thought he was doing the right thing, but he was watching his dream walk away. Marci always thought he shouldn’t have done it, and she hated the movie. The right ending was that the old man and the girl were reunited and they finally made the right choice—to be together. They ought to be together. And here was Ramone, sending Sue into the night with explosions going off around them to be with the younger, more handsome guy, away from the danger of the encroaching monstrosity. In the movie it was the Nazis. Who was it now? That freaky torturer. But what did he represent? Marci wondered, listening to Ramone telling Sue to run and hide. She almost thought about telling him to act like he didn’t care about Sue, so the invisible
they
wouldn’t think they could use Sue as leverage. Did Ramone know things like that? Or did he not care?

No, he cared. Too much. He just couldn’t see through his heart right then. He wanted Sue to live. Marci could hear it in his voice. Blythe stirred, shifting uncomfortably in her seat she caught Marci’s eye. The older woman brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.
Poor Blythe,
Marci thought. If Marci could hear what she heard in Ramone’s voice, surely Blythe could hear it too.

“I don’t know where I’m going, Sue. Away,” Ramone was saying, his voice faltering. He gripped the phone tighter and said in a hushed whisper, thinking perhaps that he could prevent Marci and Blythe from hearing him. “I don’t want you to worry about it. Please—of course I’ll see you again, of course. No, no, no Sue, don’t start that—of course I understand. Of course. I’ve been living with it too. We shouldn’t go into this right now. I love you, still—yes, how could I not? Just take care of yourself. And make sure he takes care of you too. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I need to go now—thank you. And please, don’t let them find you.” He lowered the phone and silence filled the air. Blythe’s car sped along quietly. For a moment, the only sound Marci heard was her own breathing.