Playing Chess
By Silent Stalker
DISCLAIMER:This belongs to me. Christopher Masters, Jazmine Walters, and Agent Jakes are mine. Kat and Anne Riley are their own people. Do not steal this story, my sweat and blood went into it.
WARNINGS:Uhhhh. . . It's a bit weird. I wrote it for an english comp class a while back. I didn't like it too much, but my classmates did.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:C�mon folks, do you know what kind of ego trip us authors get when you review our stories? How hard is it to type: it sucked OR where�s the sequel? That�s all we�re asking.
The day Christopher was arrested came as a shock to us. Not that he was arrested; we had all been placing bets for the day the police would haul him away, but how. We were sitting in the Student Center at Tacoma Community College when it happened. Aaron Rock, one of the ASTCC Senators and one of the biggest officials on student government came over leading 2 cops and 3 coats.
"That�s him," he said, pointing at Christopher. One of the coats flashed a badge. It read 'Agent Jakes, FBI' across it. Christopher nodded, perplexed. Sergeant Jakes motioned to the cops. "You�re under arrest," he continued.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . ." One of the police officers started rattling off the Miranda Rights, while yanking Christopher out of his chair and beginning to handcuff him.
"What the hell am I under arrest for?!" Christopher screamed.
Jakes looked at another one of the trench-coat wearing FBI agents, who shrugged. He turned back to Christopher. "For the kidnapping and possible murder of Jazzy Walters."
That revelation left us kinda shell shocked, even after the police were gone. None of us had known that something was wrong with Jazzy, even though I called myself her best friend. She hadn�t been to school in about two weeks, but we did know that right before she quit coming, she told us she was going on a short vacation to a friend�s house. Jazzy wasn�t known for lying, so we didn�t question it.
I went over to Jazzy�s house that night, to talk to her parents. I had to know what happened. Her mom, well, step-mom, answered the door. We went into the living room, where her dad sat, stone-faced and staring at his computer screen.
"Mrs. Walters . . ." I trailed off, having no idea where to start on such a delicate subject.
"It�s okay, Kitty dear. You can ask us anything you want." She said calmly. But she gave off the aura that she really didn�t care.
"What happened?" I blurted out. Hey, I never was one for tact.
"Well, you see, about 2 weeks ago, Jazzy told us that she was going to stay with some friends. She had been acting odd of late, so we let her. The next thing we know, the police are banging on our door, saying Jazzy�s blood, hair and the clothes she was wearing the Friday we saw her last were found in the car of one of her supposed friends."
"Oh. Was that friend Christopher Masters?"
"Yes, I believe it was."
"Mrs. Walters, did Jazzy indicate that she was afraid of Christopher or anything? That she knew something was going to happen?"
"No," Mr. Walters spoke up for the first time. "Jazmine liked playing with fire and she got what was coming to her."
I couldn�t bear to be in that house one more minute. That her own parents could be so callous that their daughter was dead was beyond me. Before I left, Mrs. Walters had one more thing to say.
"We�re going to throw away, give away or sell all of Jazmine�s things. If you would like to keep any of it, for memory's sake, please take it with you now."
"Wait!" I said, spinning around. "Just wait two days. I�ll come get what I want by Sunday. I promise. Just wait two days." They agreed and I went home.
That night, dreams of Jazzy and her being murdered by Christopher haunted me. I woke up from nightmares at about midnight and couldn�t go back to sleep. I resolved to go demand an answer from Christopher tomorrow. Not that this thought comforted me at all, and I stayed up the rest of the night.
The next morning was Saturday, so I attempted to sleep in a bit, just until 9 am. I ended up getting up at 7:30. I hadn�t told my parents, or my little sister, Anne, what had happened last night, so I told them at breakfast. To say they were shocked was an understatement. Anne wanted to personally kill Christopher with her bare hands. Not that I blamed her. Anne and Jazzy were really close.
At about noon, I went to see Christopher at the Pierce County Jail. Seeing him behind bars was odd to say the least. He looked haggard and as if he hadn�t slept all night. He probably didn�t. I wouldn�t, with Bubba, the prisoners� best friend, sleeping in the bunk across from me.
I got right to the point. "Why�d ya do it, Chris?"
He looked at me as if I had grown another head, which to the best of my knowledge, I hadn�t. "I didn�t," he replied.
"Christopher, the Walters� said that Jazzy�s clothes and blood were found in you car! How can you say you didn�t do it? Do you think I�m stupid?"
"Kat, I swear, I didn�t do it!! Look, police confiscated my car on Thursday. They had a warrant, but they didn�t tell me why. But I had just cleaned my car on Wednesday! I had the outside washed and the interior vacuumed, including the trunk! I didn�t do it!!"
"Yeah, right, Chris. I hope you rot in Hell. Jazzy was my best friend." With that, I left. I really couldn�t stand Christopher and could care less if they gave him the death penalty.
Later that night, I called Agent Jakes. He had left his card and badge number at TCC. If anything, I figured he could give me peace of mind (and probably more nightmares) by telling me how she was killed.
"That is classified information, Ms. Riley." He told me straight out that he couldn�t tell me. Not yet anyway.
"Please, Officer Jakes,� I begged. �Jazmine was my best friend in the whole world and I would sleep better knowing how it happened and if she was in a lot of pain or not.�
�Ms. Riley, this is not a Nancy Drew novel. I simply cannot give out that information. You will find out at the trial, if you attend.� That was the end. The stupid bastard had hung up on me.
All of what had happened today did not bode well for a good nights sleep. I wondered if I would ever get a good night�s sleep. How does one recover and learn to deal with a friend�s death? At the hands of anther less then friend, nonetheless.
The next day was Sunday and I rolled out of bed with a groan. I remembered that I had promised the Walters that I would come get what I wanted from Jazzy�s room today. This would not be a good experience. It almost felt like I was stealing from Jazzy. But Jazzy was dead and I just wanted some things to remember her by. And I knew some of the things in her room she would be furious if they got thrown away.
Mr. Walters let me in just fine and I was happy to see that they had kept their word and not touched Jazmine�s room yet. Being in the room was weird on it�s own, but it was even odder, with Mr. Walter�s looking over my shoulder. I guess he had a right to know what I took, but I didn�t like the man. I never had. So I shut the door in his face and stood in the room alone.
I just sat there in Jazzy�s room, on the bed she would never sleep on again. The thought chilled me, so I shook my head and began to inspect everything. It was really surprising that her parents even let me be in here alone, I guess they cared even less then I thought.
Jazzy�s room was messy, at best. She loved to write, both poetry and stories, so both papers and dirty clothes littered the floor, along with her stuffed animal collection. Anime and sci-fi posters painted the walls and electronics like her Game Boy, computer and TV peeked from under the clutter.
It made Jazzy�s room seem overwhelmingly small but lived in. Then again, Jazzy never was a neat freak. She cleaned and organized about once a month or two. I picked up a paper from the floor and glanced at it. It was a poem. Entranced, I began to read:
Chess Games
By Jazmine Mae WaltersContemplation
Manipulation
Moving pieces across the board
You move your rook,
Opponent has to move their queen
As is the way of chess
You and your enemy, vying for title
Of King Manipulator
You move certain pieces
To make sure they move theirs
The way you want them to
After all, Chess is just
Contemplation
Manipulation
Weird. Jazzy never said she had a chess passion. I knew when she was in sixth grade, before I met her; she was on the junior chess team at Hunt Middle School, where we both attended. I put the poem down and looked around some more. There, on the wall, over shadowed by the two Gundam Wing wall scrolls on either side, was a small picture, in a frame. I took it down and gazed, spellbound.It was a small, 3x5� black and white photo of the chess team. Jazzy sat in the middle, a grin on her face and a chessboard on her lap. She seemed so happy and carefree. I went to put it back on the wall and thought better of it. Jazzy wouldn�t want that destroyed. Her dad chose this moment to interrupt my thoughts and poke his head in the room.
�Are you just about done yet?� He demanded. �Vicky and I are going out and we don�t want to leave you here alone.�
�Jackass,� I thought. �Yeah,� I said out loud. �Just a few more minutes.�
Once he was gone, I put my backpack on the bed. Inside, I put the chess team photo, Jazzy�s favorite teddy bear (the one she had had since she was born) her diary and photo album, and her story and poem collections. The thought that these were eventually going to be destroyed hurt to think about. So they would go with me.
Finally I had the things I didn�t want thrown out. So I picked up my bag, which weighed about ten pounds heavier, and left. Left Jazzy�s old room, her house, her uncaring parents and her old life. Left all of it behind.
Thinking I had some sort of closure was wrong. Again, sleep eluded me. I wondered in the back of my mind if I was becoming an insomniac. It wouldn�t surprise me. Because I couldn�t sleep, I decided to write a tribute and send it out via email to all her friends. First I checked my email and got the shock of my thus far short life. An email from Jazzy�s addy was flashing in my inbox. I opened it to read.
Dearest Kat:
Peering and nosing
Where you don�t belong
You might find the secret
I�ve hid all along
You start by accusing
And laying the blame
Although soon you may find
You�re playing my game
Just like chess pieces
The queen and the rook
You�ll find all the answers
Should you know where to look.
Keep searching dear Kate
Don�t stop the game yet
You�ll find buried treasure
Real soon I can bet.Love, you�re best friend, Jazzy Mae
The date was from just a few days ago. But wasn�t she dead then? The chess references reminded me of the photo, so I got it out and stared into it, hoping for answers.I didn�t know the people in the photo, but I wished I did. Jazzy seemed really close to them, and this picture was only five years old. I wondered if the names were on back and decided to find out. I flipped the picture over in my hands and pried off the back. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor from where it had been wedged between the cardboard backing and the actual picture. On it, was a simple address.
7426 N. Orchard, Apt 12E
Tacoma, WA 98407I wasn�t an address I recognized and I pondered whose it was. It obviously had some importance to be placed somewhere it wouldn�t be lost. Maybe the person at this address knew Jazzy before I did and could help write a tribute. At the very least, they deserved to know she was dead.
My mom and dad had given me a week�s leave of school, to try to get over my shock at Her death. That was just fine with me, so when I got up the next morning, I decided to go straight way to the address. Once at the �PineHill Apartments� I hunted down number 12E. The door, from what I saw, was plain enough. No clue as to who lived inside. I knocked.
And knocked and knocked. No one was answering. Dammit, I wasn�t going to just walk away! I couldn�t say what exactly compelled me to stay at that door and keep knocking, but I did. Finally a door opened. Not the one I wanted, though, but one across the hall, at 12D.
�Are you lookin� fer them that live there, girlie?� It was a little old lady, the ones everyone always assumes constantly meddles in their neighbors business. Well, everyone was right. She did. �They ain�t home. Never are.�
�Who lives here?� I asked.
�Oh, just some girl. She�s about your age, dearie. In high school probably. A man comes past about once a month, but never stays. I don�t know if he lives there or not.�
�Oh.� I replied. �Thank you.� She wasn�t much help.
Once she went back in her apartment, I turned back to the door, and stared at it. A high school girl? Maybe one of the girls on the chess team. I went to go, and accidentally kicked the doormat.
A glint caught my eye, one caused by hallway light reflecting off a house key. I picked it up and looked between it and the door. �This is wrong,� my conscience told me. �Put the key back.�
But there�s no one home right now. And only one person lives here anyway and she�s probably at school! Oh, this was great. I was arguing with myself. I put the key in the door and before I lost my nerve, unlocked and opened it. Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me.
Whatever I was expecting, this wasn�t it. The entire living room was filled with boxes and filing cabinets. File folders littered the coffee table and camera equipment was everywhere. Piles of pictures and poster-sized pictures interspersed this mess. I went in for a closer look and stumbled back in astonishment. This was what she meant by hidden secrets. These were pictures of everyone Jazzy knew. A look at the file folders confirmed my fears. They were files on all Jazzy�s friends. Mine was on top, so I picked it up.
A sound by the front door alerted me to the fact that I was about to be discovered, so I raced down the hall and dove into one of the rooms. This turned out to be her dark room, so I was safe for now. I peeked back out the door.
It was Officer Jakes! He came into the living room, looked around and dropped a large manila envelope on the pile. It was fat and I wondered what it contained. After leaving it, he went away and I was safe to come back out.
I had to get out of here before someone else came back. So I walked quickly back through the living room, pausing once to pick up the envelope and my file. I would inspect them in the safety of my home. On my way towards the door, I was shocking into stopping by the chess set in the dining room.
At first glance, it seemed to be a simple, hand carved wooden chess set. But on closer inspection, I saw the wrongness of it all. The black set was fine, with the exception of the queen, which Jazzy had carved in her own image. I had no doubts now that this was her apartment. The white set was greatly altered, however. All her friends had been carved into the pawns, her parents as the castles and myself as a rook. My piece and her piece were the only ones that had been moved. Both were facing each other in the middle of the board. Thoroughly creeped out, I finally left.
I stared at the envelop for the rest of the day, sitting on my desk in my room. When I wasn�t in the room, it dominated my thoughts. When night rolled around and my family went to bed, I sat at my desk, looking down on it.
It seemed ordinary enough, with JMW scrawled across it. I used a letter opener and slit open one side and dumped the contents on my oak desk. Money fell out first, in clumps of $100 bills. A count proved there to be $4500 there. Next came a packet of papers. I glanced through these and discovered enough black mail material on various Tacoma politicians to make someone, probably Jazzy, very rich. Now I knew what her parents meant by playing with fire. I stuffed it all back into the envelope and put it in my backpack. I would take it back tomorrow.
My file had to be the downright freakiest thing I had ever seen. It had everything from mass amounts of pictures, to copies of my social security card and drivers license, to little journal entries about me, and what I said and did. If Jazzy was anything, she was thorough. That too, went back into my backpack.
The next day was Tuesday, so after Anne and my parents had left the house, I picked up my backpack and went back to the apartment. The key was still under the mat, so I unlocked the door and replaced it. Then I went inside.
Nothing seemed to have changed in the kitchen and dining room, so I went on to the living room. There, on the cleared off coffee table, was a Chinese jade chess set and two cups of tea. The chess set was really ornate, made out of red jade and green jade, porcelain and wood. The front door slammed and I whirled around.
There stood Jazzy, looking little different then when I had seen her last. True, where as her hair had been blond it was now a brunettish-black, almost the same color as mine, but that was all that was different. She wore a small pink t-shirt with a Playboy bunny and �Usako� written across in glittery writing and blue flared jeans.
�Hullo, Kat,� she said, walking around me and seating herself on the other side of the coffee table. �Can I interest you in tea or cookies?�
�No!� I snapped. �Aren�t you supposed to be dead?� I admit I wasn�t thinking rationally at this time. She shrugged.
�Depends on how you look at it.� She moved one of the green jade pawns. �Would you like to play chess?�
�Of course not! This isn�t the time for chess.�
�Oh pooh. It�s always time for chess. C�mon, how can you pass up chess, tea and cookies?�
�I don�t want tea.� I gritted out from between clenched teeth. �I don�t want cookies. I don�t want to play chess. What I want is answers.�
�Well,� she replied, almost in a huff. �Like my good friend Tobias Jakes said, this isn�t a Nancy Drew novel. I don�t just give you the answers when you �capture� me. Real life doesn�t work that way.�
�Jakes? Is he working for you?�
One of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows raised. �Are you deaf? But I suppose I can indulge you. Yes. He is working for me. Can I have my money and file back?�
I practically threw them at her. �What about Christopher, huh? Aren�t you the least bit guilty that someone is going to prison for your framed �murder�?�
�To quote you, honey, �Of course not.� Christopher found some things out about me that I would have liked to keep secret. So he had to be taken out of the way. And I needed out of public light anyway, so I killed two birds with one stone. Are you absolutely sure I can�t interest you in a chess match?�
�NO!!� It was the last thing I said before I was hit from behind with something large and heavy.
When I came to, the apartment was empty. Entirely. All the furniture and files were gone, all the pictures and kitchen supplies and clothes and the darkroom was empty. The only thing left was the jade chess set, sitting on the floor in front of me, on green pawn still two squares forward. I packed up the set and put it in my backpack.
�The game�s just changed, Jazzy,� I told empty air. �It�s my move now.�
End notes: Well, that's it. If you wanna email me about it, go ahead. I'm planning a sequel, but I'm not sure when I'll get it written.