Chapter 53
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
To Do:
- Find the professor
- Bring him down
They stepped out of the car a block from the hotel. Luke locked the vehicle and Claire grapevined her way to the sidewalk.
It was strange to not have her gigantic purse. How did men even get by with just their pockets? What if they needed a bottle of water, or an aspirin, or a breath mint? Going out like this was wildly irresponsible.
The hotel loomed down the block. Her heart pounded, but the panic stayed at bay. Maybe there was something to this whole medication thing.
She set her shoulders back and lifted her chin. She could do this. All she had to do was sneak into the convention, infiltrate one of their obscene presentations, and then maybe if there was time she would casually track down the professor, follow him to his hideout, give the information to the FBI, and make a big batch of popcorn while they brought this organization down.
“Okay. Let’s go over the ground rules,” Mindy said. “Mandatory check-in from you two every five minutes. Green check emoji if all is well.”
Sawyer nodded. “Code word platypus if there’s trouble. And if you find the professor?”
“We follow him,” Brianna said.
“Be careful. I’ll be watching the perimeter,” Sawyer said.
The air shimmered with possibility as she clomped down the sidewalk, Luke at her side. Dr. Taylor was the first domino. Was today the day? Would ESA finally pay for what they had done to her life over the last year? If they caught him, could the FBI crack the professor and bring the whole thing down?
A rhythmic chanting reverberated off the storefronts around her. She turned the corner by the hotel and came to a full stop. In front of the hotel, dozens of women were protesting. Some held signs, others had microphones. One girl was wearing a pink, uterus-shaped hat.
“Equality, not patriarchy” was written on one sign. That was going to piss off the convention-goers. Claire bit her lip, and the adhesive on her mustache tugged at her skin. How was she going to sneak inside without crossing the picket line? Drawing a bunch of attention to herself in the midst of a crowd of angry feminists that she would frankly like to join was not a great idea. Maybe there was a service entrance somewhere.
“Hey,” a gruff, masculine voice said from behind a tree.
Claire jumped. Was someone about to try to sell her drugs? Alice had warned her about this since middle school. She peeked around the tree. A skinny man with cheekbones like the top of a shovel pulled a cigarette out of his mouth and nodded at her.
“You guys here for the convention?”
“Yeah,” Luke said in a deeper voice than usual.
“There’s another entrance around the back. Crazy fuckin’ women,” the man said and spat at Claire’s feet. She fought the urge to kick him and instead muttered a quick thanks.
There it was. A service door propped open by a trash can. A suitable entrance for such a shady gathering. They exchanged a look and walked down a long, beige hallway, passing the kitchens and housekeeping closets. Finally, she emerged in the foyer and spotted a sign for the convention center. She beelined toward it.
Damn it. Dozens of men were pouring out of what looked to be the main conference room. They had missed the opening remarks. She scanned the crowd. Greasy guy, greasy guy, ancient guy, probable Neo-Nazi. Men streamed past her, some cracking jokes, others staring darkly at their phones. How many of these men were in ESA? Was her abductor here right now? She shuddered. She was going to have to make a donation to a women’s shelter after submerging herself in this toxic stew.
Luke nudged her and pointed his chin at a large board. They approached together. A list of speakers and topics littered the board.
There were three lectures scheduled for the same time slot—Involuntary Circumcision: Male Genital Mutilation and You, Reclaiming the Male Space in Your Home and Beyond, and Restoring the Balance: Taking Women Out of Power. She didn’t recognize any of the keynote speakers. Which one would the professor go to? Which one would Luke go to? Taking women out of power seemed to be the organization’s primary goal. But who was to say he wouldn’t want to learn about man caves or foreskin? Time was running out. She needed to choose.
“I’ll take Restoring the Balance,” she whispered to Luke.
“Man caves it is.” He looked at her with an intensity in his eyes, and she hesitated. Would he be recognized? He could only hide so much under a fedora.
“See you later,” he said with a fist bump.
Claire took a deep breath and moved toward the conference room, but something on the wall caught her eye. Posters ran the length of the hallway.
What the hell? Smack in the middle of the posters was a picture of Brianna. “Dangerous Feminist” was branded above her headshot. A description below listed her upcoming movie and how it furthered the “feminine agenda.” A dozen other posters with similar women covered the bulletin board around her. Tingles ran up and down her spine. She studied each name and face. These women were bound to be ESA targets. Would anyone notice if she took pictures?
She took her phone out and surreptitiously snapped a couple of photos. Jack couldn’t be too mad at her for going to the conference if she identified some future targets, right?
The next set of lectures was about to begin. She made her way to Conference Room C and settled into a seat in the back row on the end.
Men slowly filtered in. Some looked perfectly ordinary, in suits and ties. Others wore what looked to be pajama bottoms and T-shirts featuring cartoon character with references she didn’t understand. Still others dressed in regular street clothes and hunched over in their chairs, staring at their phones. One man dressed in baggy jeans and gold chains took a seat in Claire’s row. The scent of his cologne was overpowering—cedar and balsam. She could practically taste it. He slouched down in his chair, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. A couple of the men turned around to look at him. Great, he was probably some idiot celebrity.
She decided to ignore the potential celebrity and shifted her attention to the rows in front of her. Two men in suits began a loud conversation about the opening remarks and the dangers of putting a woman in charge. Claire stiffened but kept her mouth shut. Her life may depend on her silence.
The speaker took the podium, and her breath hitched. Holy shit. There he was. Professor Taylor. His salt-and-pepper hair had been dyed jet black, and he had grown a handlebar mustache, but there was no denying that menacing sparkle in his slate-colored eyes. She hadn’t seen it since he had handed back her last term paper in business class. The same class she shared with Barney. He nodded at someone in the audience. The poorly dressed man next to her with the chains nodded back.
Her heart thumped against her ribcage. Cologne guy was definitely in ESA. Measured breaths crawled out of her. Thank god she had taken her meds earlier.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and sent a quick green check emoji to the group. Should she text Jack now? But what good would it do for the FBI to catch him here? If she could follow him and find out where he was staying, they could watch his house to see who came in and out. Either way, Jack was going to want a picture.
Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, she rested her arm on the back of the chair and dangled her phone in her hand like she was just holding it. She opened the camera app and triple-checked that silent was on before snapping a quick picture and closing the app. It was sideways, but better than striding to the front of the room and capturing him in portrait mode.
She snapped one of the guy in her row too. The more faces she could provide, the better.
“Gentlemen. Thank you all for being here today. Today I’m going to talk about a subject that’s more important than anyone realizes. For decades now, women have been forsaking their divine duties and flooding the halls of higher learning in order to ‘better themselves,’” he said, throwing up air quotes.
“Did you know that women currently make up almost sixty percent of total college students? The balance is shifting, my friends, and we need to be very worried.”
Several of the men in the audience shifted. One was staring at him, open-mouthed. It wasn’t that crazy of a statement, but okay.
“Women haven’t stopped there, though. Let’s back up a bit. Let’s say, to the decades following World War II. Unsatisfied with their sacred duties of homemaking and child-rearing, women started demanding jobs. Instead of applying their nature-given abilities in the home where they’re meant to be, suddenly they were in the workforce. Sure, some moved into appropriate careers, like nursing or waitressing.”
Her ears perked up. He was talking about the acceptable five!
The guy in her row shifted, and he pulled something out of his pocket. A second later, he was doodling on his program with a pen. A very familiar pen, in fact.
Her breath caught in her lungs. That was absolutely an ESA pen. Silver, weighty, expensive-looking. She still had the one she had found in the woods in a drawer at home. She slunk down in her seat and adjusted her suit jacket. If he recognized her as one of their failed targets, it was game over.
The professor’s droning crept back in. “And we applaud those women for wanting to contribute to the household income. But suddenly, women were moving into inappropriate roles. Instead of changing diapers and cooking dinner, they were answering office phones and making presentations. They were making decisions and taking clients. And finally, slowly but surely, they started to take jobs away from men who need them. Promoted above their male peers. Above men who are the head of their household and need to provide for their families.”
A man in the front row harrumphed.
Dr. Taylor folded his arms on the podium and stared into the audience. “Having a woman in charge is incredibly dangerous, friends. They are fundamentally, hormonally unstable. They take months off at a time to care for their newborn children, expecting others to pick up and shoulder the burden of their work. Instead of leaving things the way they have been proven over decades to work, they come in and change things. They bring dangerous new ideas, and worst of all, once they’re in power, they promote more women. And then you have companies like Grenfell, whose entire advisory board is made up of women. Can you imagine that place one week out of every month?”
Several of the men laughed. Claire’s fingernails bit into her arms. Who had emasculated this tool so badly that he was lumping every single woman with a job into the same category?
“As men, it is our right, it is our obligation, to work,” the professor continued. “To be the heads of our families. Just as it is the obligations of our wives to stay home, tend the house, and raise children. Now that model doesn’t always work for every family. Sometimes a supplemental income is needed. Women have a proficiency in certain careers, that much is true. But should they be leading Fortune 500 companies? Can they be trusted to run a hospital or a bank? Will they be able to make the hard decisions and sacrifices?”
Several men shook their heads. Claire’s hands balled into fists. The coppery taste of blood stung her tongue. This motherfucker needed a swift punch in the dick.
“How many of you in here know a woman who has a job opportunity that she hasn’t earned?”
Several hands shot up.
“How many of you have been passed over for a promotion in favor of a woman?” Three or four hands remained in the air.
“Herein lies the problem, gentlemen. These women are not worthy. They have stolen the American workplace from us. And it’s time we take it back.”
Several members of the audience applauded.
Claire unfolded her arms and clenched the seat of her chair until her knuckles ached. And there was another sensation that she hadn’t counted on—the Saran Wrap stranglehold on her torso was squeezing her very full bladder. If she didn’t do something about it, she was going to pee her pants in a room full of misogynists. She crossed her legs and squeezed, then immediately uncrossed them. Mouth-breathing misogynists probably didn’t cross their legs.
Stupid, stupid. She could barely even focus on whatever crap the professor was spouting. Could she sneak out to pee and come back? The professor had been notoriously long-winded at Venor—not even pausing his lecture when a power outage had shut down the entire business building. What were the odds that he would wrap things up quickly during a convention about his favorite subject?
This idiot wasn’t worth a urinary tract infection. Claire rose to her feet as silently as possible. Her slightly oversized shoes caught the corner of a chair and she pitched forward, barely catching herself. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she hurried out the door without looking behind her.
The hallway was empty. Perfect. She pulled up her baggy pants and shuffled as quickly as she could to the bank of bathrooms. She barged inside and finally, mercifully, relieved herself. After sending a quick check-in text, she washed her hands. As she looked in the mirror, her stomach dropped into her butt.
She had waltzed right into the women’s restroom without thinking. At a men’s rights convention. While disguised as a man. Panic fluttered in her belly, and her throat tightened like she was coming down with something. If someone caught her coming out of this bathroom, she would absolutely be stopped and questioned. What if they noticed that the mustache didn’t match the wig? What if they recognized her?
Her stomach was in a vise as she gripped the handle. She pressed her ear to the door. There was a shuffling sound in the hallway. Footsteps thudded outside. Maybe three sets. Shit. If she didn’t get back to that conference room, she was going to lose the professor.
“It’s him. Hartley’s boyfriend,” a gravelly voice said.
Blood froze in her veins. Her heart pounded so hard it ached. Someone had recognized Luke.
“He’s in the last row. Pull him out,” an oily voice commanded. “Do it now. The boss will tell us what to do with him.”
Footsteps retreated.
Claire pulled out her phone, ears ringing in panic. She dialed his number. It rang three times, then went to voicemail. It wasn’t like him to not answer. She dialed again, free hand twisting in the wig that was bobby-pinned to her real hair. The phone rang and rang, mocking her. Back to voicemail. She should have brought her anti-anxiety medication.
There were voices in the hallway. The sound of a struggle.
“Where do we put him?”
There was a pause.
“The pigpen. We don’t wanna be disturbed.”
Her heart rate spiked again. A pigpen? Shit, they must mean the women’s restroom. She threw herself across the room and darted into the handicapped stall. The lock on the door clicked as she crouched on the toilet. The seat wobbled and slid beneath her. One bolt was gone entirely, and the other was almost out. She felt underneath the seat and twisted at the nut that barely held it in place. It rotated three times and fell out in her hand. It was better to have another blunt weapon, even if it was a super gross one.
The door to the bathroom banged open. A shuffling ensued.
“You’re going to regret this.” That was Luke’s voice.
She peeked through the crack between the door and the stall, heart hammering in her throat. Two men had Luke’s arms pinned behind his back. Veins stood out in his neck from the grimace on his face. He twisted violently and nearly dislodged both of them.
Her hand froze on the door lock.
“We need another. Get Barnes. Come here,” the portly captor on the left said. A sheen of sweat glistened in the fluorescent lighting. The portly one and his greasy-haired colleague marched Luke to the end of the bathroom. They pinned him to the floral wallpaper directly outside Claire’s stall.
Panic flared anew in her stomach. They had him. She needed to do something. Her free hand snaked into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out the first of three Tasers. Alice would be upset about Claire going to the convention, but she would have been furious if she had gone unarmed.
Two more men entered the bathroom. Through the crack in the door, she could only just see Luke’s Mountain Dew T-shirt. She ached to touch him, to comfort him. To defend him. Labored breathing came from outside, and it was impossible to tell if it was Luke or one of the men holding him back.
“We can’t hold him,” the gravelly voice from before grunted. “What does the boss say?”
A blow landed, and there was a grunt of pain.
“He said to take care of it,” the oily-voiced man announced. His voice was eerily calm, like he was making a To Do list. What did he mean by “take care of it”?
An unseen gun cocked. Her heart leapt into her throat. Every muscle in her body tensed. Tunnel vision struck, and before she could consciously decide what she was doing, Claire jumped down from the toilet seat and kicked the stall open.