JASON STARR - Panic Attack

“Yeah, I know, I figured you said something totally innocuous like that. But can you believe how pathetic Darren is that he’d actually make something like that up?… Is it hot in here?”

“I don’t think so,” Xan said. “Have some more soda.”

Marissa drank some more, then said, “I feel a little dizzy.”

“Want me to open a window?”

“Yeah, can you? Maybe it’s talking about Darren, it’s getting me sick.” Xan opened one of the windows. The breeze felt good.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Marissa said. “I knew it was ridiculous, but I just wanted to tell you.”

“I’m not upset at all.” He sat back down next to her. “Feeling any better?”

“No, not really. I didn’t eat yet today, that’s probably it.”

“Drink some more soda, that’ll help.”

She took a few sips, then said, “It’s so weird.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know.” She felt very disoriented. “Just how my father and Darren are picking on you, of all people. You’re the best thing in my life right now. Honestly… I don’t know what I’d do without you… Wow, I feel really dizzy.”

“Here,” he said. “Lean on me.”

It was hard to see clearly. She wasn’t sure where she was.

She was looking at a painting. It was very red.

Everything had been going great for Johnny until that damn dog started barking at him. He couldn’t believe it when he left the house with Marissa and saw the woman walking the mutt. She had to be walking it right then? What were the odds? He was hoping the dog wouldn’t notice him, but no luck there. As soon he saw Johnny, he went after him, like he wanted to bite his head off.

The woman struggled, pulling on the leash with both hands like she was trying to win a game of tug- of- war. Walking away down the sidewalk, Marissa said to Johnny, “That was so weird. I’ve known Blackie for years and I’ve never seen him get like that before.”

“I know, it’s always been that way for me with dogs,” Johnny said, trying to make it into a joke. “I think they think I smell like a cat or something.” He was hoping that Marissa would forget about the whole damn dog thing and that no one else would make any connection about it either.

But what was that old saying, bad things come in threes? Well, number two was when she got the phone call from her father. She went into the kitchen area to talk to him, but Johnny, sitting on his couch, heard the whole conversation- well, her part of it, anyway- and it was enough to tell him that something else had gone wrong. Her father wouldn’t have gotten suspicious about him for no reason, and it sounded like the police believed her father, which was even worse. Johnny wondered if there was something he’d overlooked, some evidence he’d left behind or something.

Johnny wasn’t about to take any chances. He wasn’t going to just hang out in his apartment and hope the cops didn’t show up to bust him. No, Johnny wasn’t a gambling man, especially when it came to the safety of his own ass. He knew he wasn’t above screwing up and getting caught, and he was smart enough to know that sometimes shit happens that you can’t control, which was why he always had a backup plan- and not just a plan B. He had plans C, D, E, and F, too.

It was a good sign that Marissa hadn’t told her father where Johnny lived. The name Xan Evonov wouldn’t help the cops out, and it would probably take days for them to figure out that his real name was Johnny Long; by then he’d be long gone, living under a new name, somewhere far away from New York. Although he would have to give up the fantasy of living in the Blooms’ house, he could still get all the money and still watch Adam Bloom die in pain. Hey, like Meatloaf says, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

When Marissa ended the call with her father, Johnny made sure she’d turned her phone off. It was an iPhone, and he knew those had GPS. He didn’t know how badly the cops wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t want to take any chances that they’d try to track him down by tracing Marissa’s phone. Next, he needed to subdue Marissa, so when he poured her a glass of Coke he slipped a roofie into it. Johnny occasionally had to drug the women he hustled, so he always had plenty of Rohypnol and chloroform on hand. He only used drugs to rob women, though, never to rape them. Every woman Johnny had ever seduced had gone to bed with him willingly. Johnny knew that rape was the worst thing you could possibly due to a person; murder was a favor compared to rape. When you kill somebody, they’re gone, they’re done feeling pain. But when you rape somebody, the pain goes on and on. Besides, he didn’t want to scar his record as a Casanova. Someday, when somebody wrote a book about him, or they made a movie, or movies, when Johnny Long became a legend, he didn’t want to be like those athletes who were caught using ste roids. He didn’t want there to be any doubts about his achievements.

When Marissa passed out, Johnny carried her to his bed and tied her up and taped her mouth shut. Yeah, he had the rope and tape ready- you always had to be prepared. He made sure her nose wasn’t covered by the tape and she was breathing. He needed to keep her alive, for a little while anyway.

He went out, stole a Toyota, and parked it in front of his building. He’d been gone less than an hour, and Marissa was still unconscious. He went around his apartment and packed a backpack with clothes, toiletries, and whatever else he could fit into it. He was bummed that he’d have to leave his Bloodworks behind. He hoped when the landlord cleaned out the place he was smart enough to save the paintings, or at least give them to some gallery or art dealer. When Johnny Long became the world’s most famous Casanova, how much would those pictures go for? A few hundred thousand each? More? Yeah, probably.

When it got dark out, Johnny untied Marissa and removed the tape from her mouth, she moaned when he did this but remained unconscious. Then he walked her- well,really carried her- out of the apartment and down the stairs to the street. It was perfect because if anyone noticed it would look like she was drunk and he was helping her get home.

He had her in the car, ready to go, but he couldn’t bear to leave the paintings. He rushed back up and took all six of the Bloodworks. They wouldn’t fit in the trunk but were just barely able to fit in the backseat area, thank God. He couldn’t think of anything else he needed and, with Marissa passed out next to him, he headed happily out of the city.

Adam must’ve tried calling Marissa fifty times, and he still couldn’t get through. He’d left a few messages, but the other times he ended the calls as soon he heard her voice mail greeting.

“Something awful’s happening,” his mother said. “I know it is.” Adam was getting sick of his mother and her psychic hunches. He knew that if he were alone he wouldn’t be nearly as panicked, but with his mother lurking nearby, on the verge of hysteria, it was impossible to stay calm.

“Call Clements again,” she said.

“I left a message for him ten minutes ago.”

“Maybe he didn’t get it.”

“He got it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he did, okay?”

“Maybe he found out where Xan lives. Maybe he knows something.” “If he did he would’ve called us.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he-”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Adam said. “Let’s just calm down.” Unconsciously he called Marissa again, reached her voice mail, and clicked off, then said, “The problem is we’re too caught up in this, okay? Chances are none of this has anything to do with Xan and we’re getting hysterical for-”