“Tell me what’s troubling you,” Sebastian said.
“Are you the person in charge?”
“What’s the problem, Miss Flores?”
“How dare you lock me inside here like a prisoner? Do you know who I am? How much I paid?” She glared at the one-way mirror—at him—demanding an answer.
Sebastian had to shut down her attitude right now. He picked up the small microphone and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I’ve got this recurring dream,” he told her. “It always starts out with me sitting at the head of this really fancy banquet table, right? All the food and booze I could possibly want, and there are—”
“I don’t give a shit about your dream. What I want is—”
“What you want, Miss Flores, is immaterial. What I want is all that matters, and what I want is for you to stop acting like a spoiled brat and to show some manners. A woman such as yourself should know better.” Sebastian paused, pleased when he saw some fight go out of her eyes—not a lot, just some. “Now, I was in the middle of telling you a story. An important story. May I continue?”
She didn’t answer—although she clearly wanted to, her nostrils flaring, Sebastian watching as she swallowed her words. Sebastian continued.
“Okay, so, the dream. Like I said, the banquet table is full of food and booze, and there are, I dunno, a dozen or more chairs around me, and they’re full of dead people. I’m not talking Hollywood dead, with makeup and good lighting; I’m talking real-life dead. Rotting flesh and missing limbs and eyes—everything. I don’t recognize a single one of these people, or any of the ones standing behind them, because their faces are, well, you know, gone. But I’ve got an idea of who some of them are because of the clothes they’re wearing. Can’t remember their names or why I killed them, yet most times I remember what they were wearing when they died. Does that make me crazy?”
Isabella Flores didn’t answer. His story, which was 100 percent true, had taken a bite out of her self-absorption. He had her full attention. “The other crazy thing about the dream?” he said. “Flies and maggots everywhere. On the bodies, the food. I know it reeks to holy hell in there, but I can’t smell anything because it’s a dream. Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Smelled a dead body?”
She swallowed, indignant. “Why would you ask me such a horrible question?”
“I’ve been around a lot of dead bodies, and it’s the single worst odor on the planet—the kind that hits you in the stomach like a fist. The only thing you want to do is to run from it, find a place to throw up. But in the dream? I just keep on eating like it’s no big deal.”
Sebastian chuckled. “But that’s not the crazy part. That happens when I wake up. Every single time I do? I’m hungry. Not ‘Let’s go downstairs and grab a glass of milk’ hungry. I’m talking about eating-the-entire-contents-of-the-refrigerator hungry. Crazy, right?”
Her eyes cut sideways, to the door.
“Oh no,” he said. “No, no, no. This isn’t some shitty movie where you’re going to escape. No one’s coming to rescue you. This is real—this is happening—so I need you to focus, and answer my question.”
“What question?”
“About the dream. What do you think it means?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“You seem like a smart woman. Surely you have some insight.”
“I don’t know,” she said, but this time her tone was softer, less hostile. She was ready to play ball.
“But you’re smart enough to understand that being rude to me, my staff, acting ungrateful—such behavior isn’t exactly in your best interest. You’re here as my guest. If I were so inclined, I could let you starve to death, or if I were feeling more generous, I could simply make you disappear. Sure, there would be an investigation, but the fact of the matter is, nothing would come of it, because nobody knows where you are. You see my point?”
Her lower lip trembled. “Yes.”
“Anything else you’d like to say?”
She nodded, chastened. “I’m sorry for my behavior.”
“We’ll chalk it up to pre-transfusion jitters. This is your first one, correct?”
“It is. How do I know I’m really getting Pandora and not some . . . imitation or substitute?”
“Is that what’s making you nervous, Miss Flores?”
“That and a few other questions I have.”
Sebastian decided to indulge her. He had plenty of time until his next appointment, in Pacific Palisades, where he’d be showing a house. His real job—his cover—was in real estate.
“How about you take a seat and I’ll answer every single question you have until you’re completely satisfied? How does that sound?”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
She sat on the side of the surgical chair, looking a bit cowed, and gripped the edge with both hands. Her arms trembled a bit and her knuckles were white.
“Now, you asked about Pandora—specifically, how do you know whether or not you’re getting the real thing?” Sebastian said. “Great question—and one that we get asked a lot. The answer is, you don’t know. There is no FDA seal of approval or anything along those lines, for reasons I don’t have to explain to you.”
“So I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
“Yes.”
“The medications you mix into your carrier blood—”
“All perfectly legal, all perfectly safe.”
“What are they?”
Wouldn’t you like to know? Sebastian thought with a grin. People would have been surprised to discover that his winning formula consisted of a generic diabetes drug and a generic used to prevent organ rejection. Well, those and one special ingredient. Sebastian had the medications smuggled into the US from Canada and other countries so he wouldn’t raise suspicion with any of the federal watchdogs and agencies here in the US.
“It’s my right to know what’s going into my body,” she said.
“Think of me as Coca-Cola. I can’t give away my secret recipe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“True, but it’s the only one you’re getting. I assure you the medications are safe, with few to no side effects.”
His answer, he saw, did little to mollify her.