That has me tugging at my bindings again. “Practice much lately?”
The question gets me a full-on smile. “A lady never tells.” Yeah, well a guy can get really pissed off when she doesn’t.
I glance at my alarm clock and see that it’s past two in the morning. Ignoring her non-answer for now, I ask, “How’d you get away from me so easily earlier today? And give me an answer other than you have mad getaway skills.”
She playfully pouts. Damn, I missed her. “Well, it’s true. But I guess it won’t hurt to let you know. After I laid you out on your ass,” she stops to smile smugly at me. I grunt in response then she continues, “I ran out of your apartment.”
“And I chased you, taking the stairs pretty damn fast, dripping blood all over the place, so I don’t understand how I didn’t beat the elevator.”
“Yes, well, you assumed I would go down. I went up.” With another thud, her black boots hit the wood floor and she stands up. “Went up to the roof, watched you spin around down on the street looking for me, then took the fire escape down the back of the building. Sucked doing it in heels.” She throws me an irritated glare like it’s all my fault.
“I went to hotels all over Manhattan looking for you,” I tell her slowly, hoping she’ll unthinkingly give up information.
“I figured,” is her only response.
“I love you,” I use a soft, soothing tone.
Three seconds later, she’s standing on the right side of my bed, holding a knife to my throat. “And that misconception is what I’m here to clear up.”
Deciding I have no reason to fear the blade, I raise my eyebrows. “Kill or cure? Are you going to bleed it out of me? At times it has felt like an illness, but will you at least put on a hooker nurse costume for me first, Annabelle?”
She rolls her eyes, trying to hold back a smile. “You’re impossible.”
With a flick of her wrist, the blade is closed and she moves away from the bed with her back to me. I don’t mind her turning away. I missed that cute ass of hers. Is it my imagination, or is it even more squeezable?
She pulls me out of my leering thoughts when she begins speaking. “I thought about just getting on a plane tonight, maybe letting Jackson finish the contract and taking a vacation down south somewhere, maybe Rio. But I don’t like leaving unfinished business.” She relaxes back into the recliner. “Personal business included.”
It never ceases to amaze me that the whole world is Anna’s playground. Down South to the average person in the United States is Texas or Georgia. Down south for someone like Annabelle is Brazil.
“Is that what you’re here to do, finish it? Finish us?” I ask warily, thinking of a way to get the upper hand and coming up with nothing. The whole being tied up thing can be a hindrance.
“Yes, but first I want to tell you a little story.” She waves her hand in a gesture of introduction. “A love story.”
“Is it about us?”
“No.” She looks at me sharply, as if annoyed by the interruption, or maybe the question made her uncomfortable. Touchy, touchy.
“I love you, Annabelle.”
Ignoring me, she starts her tale, “This story begins with Jacque Blanc, who rose from being a member of a minor street gang as a teenage boy, to being the right-hand man of a Paris mob boss by the time he was thirty. In came Isabelle Lane, CIA agent by way of the FBI, whose job it was to get close to the mob boss’s right hand man, Jacque Blanc, in the hopes of learning any information that may have been useful to the United States government.”
“They were your parents,” I say more as an observation than a question. The dead parents that she’s never talked about.
She doesn’t answer, but continues with the story, “Things didn’t turn out so well for the CIA, but they turned out very well for Jacque and Isabelle. So well, that they fell in love.” Then she quietly adds, “For a while, at least.” I stay silent while she pauses. Her eyes meet mine again. “Isabelle Lane became Isabelle Blanc and said ‘adios’ to the CIA. Jacque also cut ties with the crime world of Paris.” I wonder what the wistful smile on Anna’s lips means, but don’t want to interrupt her again.
“Isabelle had an old CIA contact, Simon, who was connected with a network of assassins. And so a new career began for both of them. Some may say it was irresponsible of them, but over the following years, the couple decided to start a family. Jackson was born, then Annabelle two years later. Their good friend, Simon, was named godfather to both of them. With the help of a very dedicated and loyal Syrian nanny named Adala, the proud parents were able to continue with their work. Never did they take a job where they killed an innocent. ‘Saving Lives by Taking Lives’ was their personal motto.”
“So, how’d they die?” I ask, anxious for the conclusion to the story, anxious to be untied and given access to Annabelle. If I could just make her see how much I love her, how sorry I am. Her parents’ story is similar to ours, starting out as enemies, and we can overcome the obstacles between us like they did.
Looking completely serious, she tells me, “Love killed them.”
I hold back from scoffing at that, which is thankful, because I don’t think Anna would appreciate it. Love didn’t kill them. I’ve been dying without her, but now that she’s back, I’m ready to live again. I was dead and love has brought me back to life. She really needs to untie me.
Anna gives me a stern look. “I can tell you don’t believe me, but it’s true. After Jackson and I came along, they only took a few jobs a year, enough to live a comfortable life and hide from their enemies. They were working on a job in Lisbon, taking out the head of an organization shipping out arms illegally to rebels of some African country. My mom-,” as her voice cracks, I realize that Anna and I have more in common than I’d thought. Even if she doesn’t remember them, she mourns her parents too.
She clears her throat. “My mom was taken when the organization was tipped off. Simon still doesn’t know who it was, maybe someone in the CIA with a grudge against a rogue agent. Maybe someone from my dad’s past. They had so many enemies, we’ll probably never know.” From the look on her face, I can tell that Annabelle would really like to know. If I could give her that information, would she love me again?
“Even knowing it was suicide to go in after her alone, my dad did it anyways. Simon was in South America at the time and begged my dad to wait until he could get to Portugal and help him. But my dad was too afraid of what waiting would mean for my mom. Jackson was four, and he says he remembers my dad kissing us both goodbye, saying ‘Je t’aime’, and leaving us with Adala at a hotel.”
Anna is quiet for a long while, with her head down. The blade is open once again as she expertly twirls it in her fingers. I wonder what other weapons she has on her and whether she plans to use any of them on me. Giving her time to quietly reflect, I sense her sadness, wishing she’d let me hold her. How hard it must be to not remember your parents.
“Neither one of my parents came back by the time Simon arrived at the hotel in Lisbon. Adala told me when I was a little older that Simon cried that night. Something I’ve never witnessed myself. He had become very close to them over the years, like a brother, and an uncle to us. Of course, being Simon, he also raged about my father not waiting for him. I guess he figured with him there, one of my parents would have lived. He blamed Jacque for getting himself killed and Isabelle for getting caught in the first place.”
She isn’t looking at me anymore, but out the large windows and onto the city lights. I’ve stared out those same windows, at the cars below, the skyscrapers around me, thinking of her. I clear my throat, feeling a knot in it from her sad story. “Do you blame them?”
Anna looks startled out of her thoughts and swings her head back towards me with an intense look. “I don’t blame him or her, Gabriel.”
Not knowing if I want to know the answer, I ask anyways, “Would you do the same for me?”
Laughing bitterly, her expression is hard. “At one time, yes.” She snaps closed the
knife, tucking it into her jacket.
Ouch. I mentally shake off my hurt, wanting to know more. “Then what happened?”
There’s a moment of silence, almost as if she’s debating whether or not to continue. “Afraid that my parents’ enemies had found out about me and Jackson, Simon secreted us out of Lisbon the same night he arrived. He was afraid that any vendettas against our parents would encompass us, with their deaths. He kept Adala on as our nanny for about seven more years, then retired her somewhere tropical. She never really approved of his parenting methods. Jackson and I still visit her from time to time.”
“I don’t approve either,” I state emphatically.
“Yeah well, it’s kept us alive. He taught us how to take care of ourselves in the case that any of our parents’ old enemies decided we should be put down. I mean, even though we were toddlers at the time, who knows what kind of information Jacque and Isabelle had hidden with us. Stuff that the CIA, United States government, and multiple other governments and criminal organizations wouldn’t want to get out. We were our parents’ legacy, Jackson and I.”
“Did they?” I ask, more than a little curious now.
“Confidential.” Her eyes are shuttered, no more secrets forthcoming.
“Why’d you tell me this?” I know there has to be a point, and I have a few theories as to why. To me, we’re our own love story. Not tragedy repeating itself. Her parents’ tragedy is separate. Our ending will be a happy one.
She stands up again, spanning both hands over the top of the footboard, leaning into it. “You want the moral of the story, Gabriel? Well, here you go, when someone like me loves, it gets them or the other person killed. In my case, it was the person I loved that killed me, at least until the paddles restarted my heart. Simon always said that romantic love was a weakness, to ignore it at all costs.” She strolls around the bed towards me. “Simon was disappointed to learn that he hadn’t trained the ability out of me.” Trailing a finger along my jaw, she leans her face close. “You succeeded where he failed.”
“I don’t believe you,” I spit out in frustration, really hating now that I’m not free. “Untie me, Annabelle.”
“Not. Yet.” Her words are succinct, her face is determined.
“Is there more?” I angrily half-yell.
Very quietly, in a contemplative tone, she replies, “Yes, now I’m going to return the favor and train it out of you too.” With that, she pulls a small object out of her coat pocket and sets it on my bare stomach.
“What’s that?”
“Tape recorder,” she says matter-of-factly, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “Remember when I blew your dad’s brains out? Don’t you hate me for it? And then your poor, pathetic mother went and killed herself because of it. So sad. Guess both of us have parents with sad love stories. Of course, my dad actually loved my mom back. Your father was an unfaithful dog. I put him down like one too. Don’t you want to hurt me, Gabriel? I did kill your parents, after all. Isn’t that why you shot me?”
“I didn’t mean it. I was out of my mind with grief,” I say through clenched teeth, not appreciating her hateful words. I’m over the past. Why can’t she understand? Nothing matters but her and us being together.
She makes a tsking sound twice. “Is that what you tell yourself? Do you want to know what I tell myself, Gabriel? Well, I’ll tell you.” Her voice turns pleasant, “I’ve told myself every day since I’ve been old enough to understand, that if I knew who had sold out my parents to those criminals in Lisbon, I would blow their brains out. Just like I blew your dad’s brains out. Just like your mom blew her own brains out because of it. Just like you tried to blow mine out.”
I’m trembling with conflicting emotions. “I don’t want you dead, Annabelle, never that.”
“I think you do,” she says in a sing-song voice and I’d think she was enjoying herself if that same voice wasn’t trembling.
“I just want to love you, Annabelle,” I say without hesitation. “And I want your love back.”
She rears back as if struck, and with her blocking the light I can’t see her face clearly, but I think I see the shine of tears in her eyes. Angrily she says, “I don’t believe you. I think you’re in denial.”
“And I think you are.” Smugness is only going to piss her off, but I want her rattled. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have felt the need to tie me up.”
She stalks over to the window, staring out, and I can hear her ragged breathing. When she turns back around, she’s collected, her emotions are masked. “I almost forgot to give you your present, Gabriel.” Walking over, she places an index finger on the tape recorder, holding it there. “You can keep this copy, Gabriel. I have one of my own. And in case you’re wondering, I’m glad I killed your dad. I’m a freaking hero because of it.” Tilting her head to the side, she adds, “Do you suppose you might be just like him someday?” Pressing down her index finger, she walks out my bedroom door, calling out, “Max will cut you loose!”
It almost seems as if, since I first met Annabelle almost three years ago, my life has been a series of bad memories, unhappy revelations and horrible experiences. Ranking at the top is when I thought Anna was dead, that I’d killed her. After that, it’d probably be the phone call telling me my mom had committed suicide. Even though we weren’t close, my dad’s death ranks up there too. Having to listen to this tape definitely makes the top ten list of worst experiences.
Unmistakably, it’s my father’s voice telling of his bad deeds and, unmistakably, it’s Anna’s voice asking him the questions, prompting him. Obviously my dad was trying to buy time by going along with her demands, probably hoping that his outside security men would come. Instead, I came. To watch as Anna executed him for his crimes.
The image of it all turning out differently than it did flashes through my mind. The image involves a bodyguard walking into the office, shooting Anna in the back of the head and her dead body being the one in a puddle of blood on the floor. I shudder, relieved that it turned out as it did. Choosing between my dad and Annabelle, she would always win out.
When the tape has run out, confession over, I think back to what happened next. I walked in on the scene in utter disbelief. Anna seemed confused, as if debating whether or not to follow through with her intentions. The moment she killed him, my heart stopped, for more than one reason. I remember the dark red blood, kneeling over his body, then everything going black as she knocked me out. I remember waking up in the blood and my stunned state-of-mind while going through the motions afterwards.
Finding out that my dad was an even worse person than Anna had hinted at is painful. Even if he was a monster, it still hurts because I loved him. Knowing that my mom’s death was one-hundred percent his fault just leaves me angry at him. Love may be a weakness for some people, like my mom, but I think it makes others stronger. And Annabelle and I are stronger together.
Hero? Maybe so.
Killer? Definitely.
The woman I love? Always.
When Max finally comes into my room a long while later, he flips the switch for the overhead lights. I squeeze my eyes shut before slowly opening them to sudden brightness. He uses a pair of scissors off my computer desk to cut through the neckties.
He seems anxious. “I followed her, Gabriel. I don’t think she noticed me. I think she was crying. She’s staying at The Waldorf.”
Rubbing my wrists together, I contemplate my next move. As much of a pain in the ass my baby can be, the chases she leads me on are always thrilling. She’s in denial and subconsciously wants me to come after her. Otherwise, why else did she come here tonight? She can pretend it was to scare me off, but deep down, she can’t let go any more than I can.
Chapter 39
Annabelle
Tying the belt of my black satin trench coat, I give Jackson an exasperated look. “You act like this is the first job like this, Jackson!”
“This one seems more dangerous, that’s all.” He’s pacing back and forth in f
ront of the door of our stately hotel suite, wearing leather pants and a black shirt. With his hair dyed black and ice blue contacts, he would probably look menacing to anyone else. But he’s my brother, and all his panther-like pacing makes me want to do is trip him.
Tilting my head, I give him an ‘oh really?’ look. “My first kill was a pedophile porn king. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”
“But I was there, Annabelle, and I had it all under control,” he tries to argue.
“And you’ll be there tonight. Why don’t you admit what’s really bothering you?” I egg him on, using it as a way to alleviate some of my own anxiety.
He gives me a dirty look. With an agitated gesture, he points to the city outside our windows. “Fine! I don’t like him knowing you’re here!”
Playing with the belt of my coat, I shrug as if unconcerned. “It’s a big city. It’s not like he knows where I’m staying at.”
“He’s rich. He’ll hire people to find you just like before.” Jackson has a point there, but I plan to be gone before I can be found.
“I took care of him last night.” And I’m happier for it, I assure myself. Never seeing Gabriel again is not a problem for me.
“Are you sorry for what we did?” He looks genuinely concerned. Not the first time he’s wondered if his actions two years ago hurt me more than they helped me.
I give him a firm, “No.” But when he still looks worried, I go on, “Jackson, you did what was right. I even told you so when I woke up in the hospital. Never have I questioned your decision. At that point, what else could we have done?”
Looking suspicious, he asks, “And at this point? What now?”
Throwing my hands up in the air, I march over to my little black satin purse, snatching it up. “At this point nothing! It’s over! Time does not heal all wounds.”
As I edge around him to open the hotel door, he puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “I still don’t like this job, Annie. I’ll be ten minutes behind you.”
Before slamming the door shut in his face, I make sure he hears my snide remark, “And I still don’t need a babysitter, Jackson.”
Young Love Murder Page 33