"I don't have all night," I said. "Are you going to give me the information or not?"
Without answering, he turned back to one of the keyboards and typed in a command. A second later, the screen above his head flipped to a new image, showing an empty kitchen.
"Wait a second," I said. "Is that my house?"
"This footage is two months old." Morozov punched another key. The screen switched to the second-floor hallway as seen from above. I saw a pile of laundry outside my bedroom door. The door opened and I saw myself walk out in a pair of boxer shorts. I picked up a pair of socks from the top of the laundry and sniffed them, then put them on.
"Why are you taping my house?"
Morozov blinked. "You paid me to."
"Me?"
"You are the assassin, are you not?"
"Well, yeah." On the monitor screen I watched myself go up to a mirror in the hallway and lean in to squeeze a zit. I remembered that zit. It had sprouted on the tip of my nose for two weeks and seemed never to go away. It had just sat there throbbing like a tiny, angry heart.
"Fascinating," Morozov said. "An assassin with pimples."
"Look ... do you have the information on the last two hits or not?"
He tapped another series of keys. The footage of my house disappeared and was replaced by columns of text. Clicking down, he hit a button. A second later, two sheets of paper spooled out of the laser printer next to his feet.
"Thanks." I reached out for the papers and he grabbed my wrist.
"What is this?"
I looked down where he was already staring at the words stamped on the back of my hand.
UNDERAGE.
"Part of my cover," I said. "It was—"
He didn't release my hand. "What was the name of the first man you killed?"
"Now you want to test me?"
"I do." Now he was grinning, right into my face, close enough that I could smell his eyeballs. "I have decided that I do want to test you. The first man you killed tonight at the 40/40 Club. What was his name?"
Before I could answer, he slammed my hand down on the table, his other hand picking up the butterfly knife. He looked down at my fingers.
"Now. How many lies have you told me?"
I licked my lips. "Listen..."
"Four? Five?" He nodded. "Five at least, I think. Little ones. So we'll start with the pinky."
22
What are the responsibilities of an educated person? (Yale)
The scream that came from the other side of the room sounded like no other sound I'd ever heard. That was because it was actually several screams at once—human and animal mixed together. When Morozov heard it he dropped the knife and let my hand go at the same time. He jumped up, his elbow knocking over the bottle. Vodka went spilling down the side of the keyboard, pooling around a bundle of cables, sparking off the wires.
I looked back. A man was running toward me with an enormous bleeding gash in his upper arm. I could see the shoulder joint through his torn flesh. Behind him, men ran in every direction. I heard furniture tipping over. A Tiffany lamp went sideways with a splintering clink.
Then I saw the bear.
It had gotten loose from the pit and was crashing across the room, still trailing its harness, mauling people as it went. Nobody seemed able to find the exit. I saw a man pull out a pistol and try to shoot at it, and the bear lunged, landing on top of him with its front paws and burying its snout in the man's face. I heard the shots going off, very loud in the enclosed space, and the man's screams became different, soggy and thin and then gone.
The bear sat up, its muzzle dripping red, and let out a chest-shaking roar. Across the room another man stood up from behind a bar with a machine gun. He started shooting. An ellipsis of bullet holes appeared in the wall above my head. The bear howled and pounced. I heard glass explode in front of me.
I ran for the door.
"You're dead," I said.
Gobi didn't answer. We were sitting in a dive bar on Van Brunt Street, six blocks away from the red brick building. It was one thirty in the morning, but the place was still full enough to offer some semblance of urban camouflage. Hipsters and longshoremen and a few lost-looking Manhattanites were sitting on the couches and mismatched chairs that filled the back half of the room. Nobody seemed to notice the kid in the tuxedo and the dark-haired girl in the dress hunched together in the corner over a burning red candle.
"Did you hear what I just said?" I asked.
"Be silent." Gobi flattened the bloodstained pages that I'd gotten from Morozov across the wooden table in front of her, concentrating on what was printed there.
"Morozov said you died three years ago. He said somebody cut your throat. That's why the old man freaked out when you told him your name, right? He was looking at a ghost."
"Lower your voice."
"What's going on here?"
She drew in a breath and looked up at me. "Why does it matter?"
"What?"
"All you want to do is survive the night. Get away from me and never see me again. What does it matter to you what I am?"
"Because—" I didn't know how to finish.
"Believe me, Perry. The less that you know about me, the better."
"Yeah," I said. "I used to think that too. But now I'm thinking knowledge is power."
"Then you are wrong."
"What really happened to Gobija Zaksauskas?"
"You are looking at her."
"I don't believe in spooks," I said, amazed at how much effort it took to get those words out. Even after all we'd been through, I half expected her to give me a look like I'd gone crazy, or even laugh in my face.
But she didn't do either of those things. Instead she reached across the table and took my hand, placing it on the side of her neck alongside the scar so that I could feel her pulse. Her skin was soft and pliant, almost hot to the touch. I could feel the blood tracing through her veins and felt her eyes on mine. It was like she saw something in me that I didn't see, wouldn't see for a long time.
"Does this feel like a ghost to you?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
I pulled my hand away. "There's nobody watching. You don't have to put on an act."
"What is wrong, Perry? You do not like the way I feel?"
I rolled my eyes. "Give me a break."
"Admit it. This is your fantasy."
"What?"
She brought out a tube of red lipstick and rolled it slowly over her lips. "Ever since you first found out you were getting a female foreign exchange student living in your house you dreamed of a girl in thigh-high stockings who would seduce you, show you things you never knew before, and when she left, whisper 'Au revoir, Perry'...even if she were not French."
"Except with you it's more like Hasta la vista, baby."
"But true, no?"
"No."
"Then tell me the truth," she said.
"The truth? The truth is that right now my life as I know it is basically finished. I'm an accomplice to murder three times over. I might as well just go turn myself in to the cops now, throw myself on the mercy of the court. Maybe I can get my diploma in prison. Lots of guys get their law degree in the joint. I bet there's even a special program I can apply for."
"Perry."
"My dad could put in a good word with the warden. If I just watch myself in the showers—"
"Perry."
"What?"
"I asked you to lower your voice."
"Why?" I said, getting louder. "What are you going to do, shoot me?" People at the nearby couches and tables were starting to look up. "Are you gonna—"
Whap! Her fist cracked me across the jaw. The world erupted in dozens of tiny flashbulbs pulsing on and off throughout my skull, and I stumbled backwards, off-balance, shook it off—and I lunged at her, tripping over a chair leg before I even came within striking distance. "You bitch!"
Gobi grabbed me and swung me around, straight-arming me in
to a shelf of pottery. Little glazed teapots and cups and bowls tinkled to the floor around my feet. The group of pseudohipsters at the sofa behind us gathered their drinks and took a few steps back, getting out their cell phones either to call the cops or snap pictures.
"Now," Gobi said, gripping my collar, "you and I—"
I pumped my arms out and shoved her back as hard as I could. I wasn't particularly strong, but she was light and tumbled farther than I'd thought before colliding with a tray of drinks behind her. Rising up, soaked in booze, Gobi lifted the tray and flung it at me.
I ducked it—my reflexes were still decent—and ran straight at her. Gobi scowled as if she couldn't believe that I was coming back for more, but if there was one thing I'd learned from competitive swimming, it was endurance. As she cocked back her fist and prepared to administer the deathblow, my foot slipped on the wet floor and I went flying, landing hard on top of her with my face between her legs.
"Hey, dirtbag," some guy shouted. "What kind of animal beats up a woman?"
"Shut up," Gobi and I both shouted at the same time, and she took the opportunity to grab me by the ears, pluck my head out of her crotch, and bounce it off the floor. I saw red and tasted white pine, sat up, and pounced on top of her, delivering at least one punch that might have connected, although my knuckles were roast beef. We both staggered to our feet, circling each other warily.
"Just tell me one thing," I said. "One thing you never lied about."
She blew a strand of hair from her face. "Do you remember the time that you helped me with math class?"
"What, you mean that Stock Exchange PowerPoint presentation?"
"Yes. You assisted me."
"Assisted you? I did the whole thing for you the morning that it was due."
Gobi smiled. "I had been in the city all night setting up a weapons buy in the Bronx. I snuck in just before dawn. You saved my life that day."
"So you lied about that too."
"I am telling you the truth now," she said.
I licked a drop of blood from my swelling upper lip. "What about the day you stayed home sick from school, right before Thanksgiving? Did you really have food poisoning?"
"Why, did you suspect something?"
"Well, I wondered why you smelled like WD-40 at the dinner table."
She raised her eyebrows, her smile widening. "You caught on to that, did you?"
"You still had a grease streak right across your eyebrow."
"That was elevator cable lubricant. I had to repel down the maintenance shaft of that building in the Financial District to crack the security system. How do you think I got in there tonight?"
"You know, my sister heard you calling somebody about buying guns one night."
"Annie is a wonderful girl," Gobi said. "She reminds me of..."
"Who?"
She hesitated and shook her head. "No one. You are fortunate to have such a wonderful sister."
"Which is why you planted a bomb in our basement?"
"How many times do you wish for me to say sorry?"
"I should have shot you when I had the chance."
Gobi laughed. "Too little, too late."
"I'm serious. I—"
She swung at me. I took ahold of her throat, spinning and losing my balance. The door bumped open and we spilled out onto the sidewalk.
After landing hard on the concrete, I started to get to my feet, and Gobi grabbed me, pulling me back down on top of her. I jerked myself free, stole a quick breath, and tried to get upright before she could get another punch in.
She leaned up and kissed me. Her mouth tasted like lipstick, blood, and gunpowder. It was also the softest thing that I'd ever felt, and in spite of the pain I felt my mouth opening so that my tongue could flick out to taste hers. The heat came off her face like a furnace. Our tongues moved around each other's, swirling and dueling. Finally she broke the kiss. It was like surfacing after a long, intoxicating dive through a sea of Red Bull.
"What was that for?" I managed.
"I am beginning to like you, Perry."
I shivered out a breath. "You've got a kooky way of showing it."
"Have you ever felt more alive?"
"Once or twice, yes."
Gobi was still looking at me, lips half parted, eyes searching the depths of whatever was inside me. She looked lost and young and totally uncontrolled, a reflection of how I felt now, in a place that I'd never been before, somewhere that nobody would ever think to look for me. I had the sudden, ridiculous, absolutely compelling vision of chucking everything—school, music, my family and friends—and running away with her, away from the rest of the world.
I figured we'd last about a week.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"My head hurts."
"Is the lipstick," she smiled. "There is a mind-control drug in it. You are now completely under my power."
"Uh-huh."
"Kiss me again."
I didn't move. "Somebody sold you some faulty goods."
"The drug is slow-acting but very potent." She leaned forward again, whispering, just brushing her mouth against mine. "By dawn you will be mine."
"Just promise me you won't hurt my family."
She went serious. "Families get hurt, Perry. There are no guarantees this side of the grave."
"You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I never denied it."
I swung at her. She caught my fist.
"Too slow."
I let myself tilt forward just enough for our foreheads to touch, then reached for her neck and put my fingers on the scar, tracing the thin curve of raised tissue.
"What happened there?"
Her gaze shifted away. "A painful memory."
"Like what, getting your throat cut and coming back from the grave?"
Gobi straightened up. The mood didn't just break—it shattered into a million sharp and spiky pieces that lay all over the sidewalk like dragon's teeth.
Then she shuddered and fell still.
"Gobi?"
She leaned forward again, and I caught her. For a moment we just stood there together in front of the dive bar, and when I felt her legs starting to give way, I lowered her back down the front steps. A couple of people came out the front door and walked around us, staring at us but not saying anything.
A few seconds later, Gobi raised her head, her eyes foggy but already starting to clear.
"Perry?"
I nodded. "I'm here."
"We have to go," she said. "We have to ... get a car."
"Maybe we should just wait here a second."
"No, now." She didn't look at me. "It's time to finish this."
23
If you were to look back on your high school years, what advice would you give someone beginning his or her high school career? (Simmons)
A half-hour later we were rolling down East Eighty-Fifth Street in a stolen BMW F10, which I could only presume was Gobi's idea of keeping a low profile. It had taken her less than two minutes to crack the steering column, disable the antitheft system, and hotwire the ignition, using only a pair of wire cutters and a screwdriver that she'd found in the trunk. Whoever owned the car had terrible taste in music, and Michael Buble serenaded us on the sound system, doing his best to cheer us up. It wasn't working.
"The Upper East Side," I said.
"Stop up here."
I pulled up in front of a fire hydrant, removed the screwdriver that she'd jammed into the ignition, and allowed the engine to shudder to a halt. We got out and stood in the middle of the silent street, eyeing the disapproving rows of residential brownstones on either side of us.
"That's the one," she pointed. "Right there."
I hesitated. The massive four-story building towering overhead had tall, rounded windows and black double doors protected by wrought-iron curlicues that looked as though they could deflect a missile attack. It was a fortress for someone very dangerous and rich, where they could pretend to be civilized. Ivy ri
ppled across its brick face, thick and out of control, smothering the surfaces. It made the building look diseased, as if it had some kind of architectural gangrene.
In the glow from the streetlight I saw Gobi loading bullets into a clip and sticking the gun into her dress. She reached down into her boot and flicked out a straight razor, inspecting the blade, and slipped it away again.
"Come on," she said. "Time to go to work."
"Nope."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not helping you kill anybody else. It's just not happening. I'm done."
"What makes you think you have a choice?"
"You know why? I'll tell you. Because we were just kissing in the street, and deep down, I don't believe you could actually blow up my house or kill my sister. I just don't, and she's probably not even in the house anymore anyway, so if you want to go in there and shoot somebody, fine, but you're on your own."
Gobi paused, seeming to consider all of this. "What is it that you want to hear from me, Perry? Do you want me to tell you that these are bad people that I am killing tonight? Because they are. They are very bad people. They deserve to die, each and every one of them."
"Nobody deserves to die."
"Oh, really?"
"Okay, I mean, maybe people like Hitler and Pol Pot ... dictators, tyrants, African warlords who starve their people into submission ... but that guy at the bar wasn't an evil man."
"How do you know? Because he had drinks with Hemingway?"
"I just know."
A car appeared at the end of the street, cruising slowly by. We both froze and watched it pass.
"It is not safe out here."
"And it's safer in there?"
"It is safer with me."
"Forget it," I said. "I'm still not going in."
"Then you are being very stupid."
"I got twenty-two hundred on my SATs," I said. "How stupid is that?"
Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick Page 9