Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  Oh, that’s perfect! I destroyed the evidence. She sighed in relief and followed the floundering crowd trying to flee the building. The swarm of people filed through the exit doors, in spite of the growing sounds of hostility that filled the air behind her.

  She heard members of Castro’s party threaten guests not to leave the room. They yelled their warnings in various languages. The bottleneck of people at the door thrust forward like a powerful creature. Outside, the crowd dispersed into their private cars. Alexa spotted Serge. He waved at her, and she ran to him. He waited by his car, holding the door for the rest of the group.

  Gunshots fired into the air. People panicked. Some cars sped down the street; others were blocked by the surrounding traffic. More gunshots echoed in the night. Alexa scurried into the car, where she found the blond male and female from their entourage. The redhead was absent. Serge yelled at the driver. Their car raced away, unobstructed by the remaining cars still waiting for their owners.

  Alexa questioned Serge, “What happened?”

  He ignored her and spoke with the other man in the group. They started a heated discussion that she couldn’t translate. They spoke for five or ten minutes before Serge finally acknowledged her. He still seemed angry with her. She was not his pet anymore. Her demands had crossed a line.

  “Your proposed lover died tonight.”

  “What? Died? Died how?” Alexa feigned ignorance.

  “Just died. Put his hand on his chest, gasped, and died. Heart attack, maybe.”

  “Heart attack? But I just saw him. He was fine.”

  “On stage, he spoke, then on the floor, dead.”

  Alexa painted a stunned look on her face, and imagined Castro dying on stage. Her fingertips tingled with excitement. She wished she could have seen the skin on his face develop the subtle cherry pink hue that comes with cyanide poisoning. She felt alive. She had succeeded. She turned her face to the window to conceal her look of satisfaction. She needed to tell someone. She needed to tell Charlie Mac. She would call him the moment she left the car.

  The group remained silent the rest of the drive. Hers was the first stop. She let out a solemn “goodnight,” and exited the car. When the car drove away, she ran to her room and dialed Charles’ number. It rang and rang. She got his voicemail. She dialed again. No answer.

  Alexa pulled up her gown and yanked the IV and blood-filled bag from her body. She pressed a wad of tissue against the wound. Hold pressure. The words could have come from a ghost. She dialed again. He finally answered.

  “Who is this?” he growled, and cleared his throat.

  “Charles. It’s Alexa DeBrow. It’s done. He’s dead.”

  Silence.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Ms. DeBrow, what have you done, exactly?” His voice sounded accusatory.

  Alexa became fearful under the hostile air and stuttered, trying to maintain her composure. “I-I told you I was going to kill one of your most wanted criminals, and I did it. Tonight. Tonight I poisoned Mohammed Ahmed. I killed him at his birthday gala in Paris.”

  “When was this? How long ago?”

  She checked her watch. It seemed like an eternity had passed.

  “About twenty minutes ago.” It was only an estimate.

  “Give me the address, now.”

  “I don’t know the address. The closest intersection is Rue Caude Warcoquier and Rue de la Coque, in the northern part of Paris. It’s the only three story building near the crossroads.”

  Charlie rustled with papers.

  “We will speak again, Miss DeBrow. Stay close to this number. I must handle this quickly.” He hung up on her, but Alexa kept the phone to her ear. A void washed over her, drowning out her earlier euphoria and replacing it with confusion.

  Is he angry with me? Did I do the right thing? Should I run? She needed closure. She needed answers. Alexa clenched the receiver until the dial tone changed to a buzzing sound. Dismayed, she sat on her bed and waited for her phone to ring again. But it didn’t. She tried to imagine what was going on in the northern part of Paris. Are U.S. agents storming the building? Will there be a shoot-out? Will they surround the place and throw tear gas inside?

  She assumed Castro’s body and his entourage were still in the building, though they could have just as easily taken the body and abandoned the premises by now. Perhaps the bodyguards had taken guests hostage for questioning. That thought made her stomach turn, and she pushed it from her mind. She refused to acknowledge that innocent people might be placed in danger because of her haphazard actions.

  She lay in bed a long time letting questions swim around in her mind. Perhaps a local news station was reporting the event. She flipped through channels precariously. She watched multiple news channels, local and international. Nothing mentioned the night’s proceedings. Alexa waited for a response until morning, and still none came. After hours of lying in a void, she settled for a cup of Joe and a hot shower to clear the fog from her head.

  She yearned to wash away the night with scalding water and vigorous scrubbing. Lather pooled in the hollows of her supraclavicular fossae, and she watched the bubbles trickle down her body as the water washed them away. A bruise developed where she had started the IV in her umbilical vein. It looked like someone had punched her in the stomach. The area of ecchymosis was the size of her fist. It felt tender to the touch and sensitive in the hot water. After the shower, she placed a few cubes of ice on the area and rubbed them into the skin until they melted away.

  Alexa pulled back her wet hair, put on a white tank, jeans, and black Roberto Cavalli pumps. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw a murderer looking back at her. A large pair of sunglasses hid the killer from view. Her reflection was as disheveled as her state of mind.

  Charlie’s questions repeated in her head like a worn out soundtrack, and her sleep-deprived state made her fearful. What if Charlie’s after me? What if Castro’s men are after me? Get out, Lex! What are you waiting for? You need to disappear. Paranoia crept in. On a whim, Alexa gathered her designer clothes and shiny little handgun and moved her belongings into a smaller hotel farther down the street. She checked into the new hotel under her alias, Elizabeth Fuguay.

  It wasn’t enough. She needed air. She walked the street in a daze, passing at least one or two cafés before she finally acknowledged one. It sat across from a Catholic cathedral with bells chiming the nine o’clock hour. She couldn’t help but stare at the cathedral. They were scattered throughout Paris, but this was the first time she felt the urge to go inside. Something about those chiming bells drew her in like sirens to fishermen. They tempted her, even if they were a leading her to her doom; she gave in to the temptation.

  Inside the cathedral, she felt more at ease. She and Britt had planned to marry in a similar Catholic cathedral in Austin. A few tourists scattered inside snapped photos while others kneeled on pews. Alexa looked at the walls of the church lined with religious paraphernalia. She saw statues of saints and stained glass windows with engravings of the names of the donors. In the corner, at the back of the church, a group of candles sat beside an iron donation box. She walked over to the candles. She had to come to terms with what she had done. For the first time in a long time, Alexa acknowledged God’s presence. She had put him aside since the incident. She didn’t know how God felt about her actions, but she wanted to find out.

  The last prayer to cross Alexa’s lips was a prayer for the nightmares to stop. This time, she whispered aloud into the emptiness around her. “God, if I have angered you, punish me.” She lit a new candle and stared into its flame. She watched the fire burn bright. Levende lys.

  The rattling of beads startled her. A nun wearing a wooden rosary stood only a few feet behind her, eyeing her shrewdly. Alexa fumbled with a few coins and dropped them into the donation box, hoping to calm the nun’s angry glances. When she turned back to the nun, the holy woman’s scowl remained as bitter as ever.

  Is she angry because my shoulders aren’t covered or
because she sees the darkness in my soul? Alexa wondered how many sins she had committed. She tried to comfort herself with an excerpt from Matthew: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” See, everything is justifiable. Without finding solace, she dropped the senseless moral debate once she reentered the streets of Paris.

  She crossed the street to go the café on the other side. The aroma of espresso lured her in. Alexa ordered a double espresso and a brownie. She devoured the brownie and sipped the espresso for half an hour. She put down her cup and saw a man sporting a chic blue sweater and gray trousers staring at her from outside the store. She let her glance fall back to the beverage for a moment. Then her attention moved to the other patrons in the room. A happy American couple sat by the window and a nanny with two children hovered in the back of the room. The children played with a doll next to a door that led to the bathroom. Her gaze went back to the man outside. He had crossed the street and now leaned against a light post while talking on a cell phone. His eyes remained fixed on her. His stare turned her stomach sour. She stood and made her way to the back of the café. She felt the sudden need to escape. She intended to go to the bathroom and lock the door, but as she neared the bathroom she caught a glimpse of a back door opening through the kitchen at her left. One more look over her shoulder revealed that the man had entered the café and moved closer at a brisk pace.

  Alexa darted into the kitchen area, passing by a barista and a pastry chef, then headed through the back door that led to daylight. She heard a ruckus behind her and knew he was following her. She needed to escape, but she couldn’t outrun him. Once outside, she stood next to the heavy metal door and waited for him to follow. In a second or two, the door swung open. Alexa used all of her force to slam it back, hard. The heavy metal door hit him in the face before he had time to stop it. Alexa heard the thud of the door and the crunch of his nasal bones breaking.

  She ran before she could see his face. She turned a street corner and looked back. The blue sweater, gray trousers, and bloody face pursued her.

  She didn’t get far before her left heel gave way. She stumbled as it broke under her weight, but she didn’t fall to the ground. She lasted a few more steps before the other heel gave way. Again she didn’t fall, but she became more handicapped trying to run in broken shoes. She could hear his steps close to hers as she leaped into traffic. She weaved in and out of cars, heading toward a river tour boat that was slowly pulling away from the shore about twenty yards ahead of her. She felt a bumper on the side of her thigh at one point, but it only nudged her. The bloody-faced man wasn’t so lucky. He ran in front of a taxicab that didn’t have time to stop. His body rolled across the front of the car and left a dent in the hood.

  He had the agility of a stuntman, however, and the injury only stunned him. Alexa didn’t stop to see him make it to his feet. She kept running toward the boat. She darted through grass, over a sidewalk, and onto a small pier. The boat had left the pier and started to take up speed. Alexa hoped her momentum would carry her aboard when she jumped. But she lost traction in her broken heels. Her feet missed and landed in the water, about a foot shy of the boat. Her face almost made contact with its rear. She lifted both hands to protect her nose from the impact. Her arms smashed hard into the bottom of the boat. Her feet slid underneath it. She became caught in an undercurrent. Taking advantage of it, she grabbed the back pontoon and managed to climb up the back of the boat one hand at a time.

  Once the top half of her body was safely out of the water, she turned back toward the shore. The man with the bloody face didn’t follow her into the water. The boat sped away from the shore, and they were already a good thirty yards out. He would never be able to catch them swimming. She hoisted her body onto the floor of the vessel. She lay quivering in a puddle of water for a moment. She’d boarded a tourist boat, but thankfully, no passengers sat near her and no one seemed to acknowledge her spectacle.

  She took a few seconds to regain her composure. Then she stood and headed for a bathroom where she could clean up. In spite of everything that happened, her predominant thought was to get the stench of the river water off her body.

  The bathroom odor paralleled that of the river. A commode resembling the toilets seen in planes sat against one wall. The other had a small sink, and a makeshift mirror composed of some sort of unbreakable glass. Alexa saw her pitiful reflection, with rivers of mascara streaming down her cheeks. I have angered God, and he is punishing me.

  She plunged her hands into the cool running water and doused her face repeatedly. Undressing in the private bathroom, she washed herself and her clothes with the hand soap on the wall. She braided her wet hair down her back. She redressed in her freshly wrung clothes and stared at her left shoe with the broken heel. The right one had fallen off in the river when she hit the water. She buried the remaining shoe in the bottom of the small wastebasket next to the toilet then opened the door to face the world again.

  The cruiser seemed peaceful, filled with happy tourists floating down the river. She sat near the back, hoping to catch a breeze and some sun to dry her dampness. No one seemed to notice her disheveled appearance. They were too distracted by the sights to pay any attention to the barefoot American in the wet clothes.

  Alexa wasn’t sure where the boat was going to stop, but she was sure by now the man with the bloody face knew where her boat would dock next. How quickly things had changed. Within twelve hours, she had gone from being the hunter to the hunted. It isn’t possible to run forever. Who is chasing me, and how long will I be pursued? She didn’t have any answers. I need a way off this boat.

  In broken French, she managed to find out that the boat made two more stops. The first was near the national library of France in the eastern part of Paris. The second stop returned to where she had boarded, close to the Louvre. Alexa feared her pursuer was waiting for her at the library stop, but she was even more afraid of returning to the scene where she had seen him last. She shuddered and chose to disembark at the first stop. She wished she had a weapon to defend herself with. She yearned for the little handgun Smokey Joe had sold her back in Austin, but it was safely tucked away with the rest of her belongings in Elizabeth Fuguay’s hotel room. At least with a gun, she’d have a fighting chance.

  Maybe the man in the blue sweater isn’t trying to kill me. He could be an undercover officer — Parisian or American. Maybe he wants to arrest me. Yep. That’s the bright side — someone wants to arrest me. She let out a long sigh as the boat neared its next stop.

  Her clothes were drier, and aside from being barefoot, she blended in fairly well with the other departing passengers. She tried to bury herself in the middle of the small crowd as they scampered off the boat. Groups dispersed in different directions, while Alexa darted into a little tourist shop. Inside she found beach gear. She purchased a pair of flip-flops and a large floppy hat with the wad of wet Euros in her jean pocket. She used the hat to disguise her face.

  She scanned the faces outside the store before going back into the street. She wanted a taxicab. She saw a youngster on a bike built for hauling tourists in a little cart. It would serve little as a means of cover, but perhaps it would get her to safer grounds. Alexa jumped into the cart and yelled at the boy, “Eiffel tower!” before he had a chance to acknowledge her presence.

  The boy started pedaling, and they gained speed. She had no desire to go to the Eiffel tower; she just needed a landmark the boy would understand easily because she didn’t have time to chitchat about any details or sort out French phrases.

  She kept the brim of her floppy hat pulled snuggly against her cheeks and tried to mask as much of her face as possible. She continued that way for several blocks, and the number of streetwalkers quickly diminished as they left the waterfront. The boy stopped at a traffic light and turned back to Alexa.

  “Eiffel tower eight kilometers.” It was farther away than she wanted to go. Eyeing a café a few blocks down the street, she pointed at it. He nodded. He stopped at the café
, and she paid the boy with more wet Euros and strode inside.

  CHAPTER 22

  Exhausted, she ordered a bowl of soup and a cup of hot tea and collapsed into a seat away from the door. She peered through windows clad in red and white print curtains that hung too short for the panes. She saw no one. Above the drapes, ceramic knick-knacks lined the walls on a ledge that circled the room. Little candles in red glass votives decorated the tables. There is something familiar about this place. I’ve been here before. She cocked her head toward the window and looked off into the distance, and she saw the Eiffel tower. This was the café where she and Britt had their fight. The night their funny little waiter pointed down to the candle and said levende lys. After all of this time hunting throughout Paris, she finally found it. If only she had the time to enjoy it. She pushed aside the urge to reminisce and concentrated on her next step.

  The man chasing me has sandy-blond hair — not the type of character Mohammed Ahmed would associate with. She hoped Castro’s party was not on her tail. He could be American, and may work with Charlie. Or, perhaps, an undercover French officer, but that seems less likely. If he works with Charlie, his motive could be to kill her, arrest her, or question her; she wasn’t sure which was more plausible.

  Her thoughts switched tracks, like a train derailing. I’ll flee Paris, using my alias! Everyone who knew her in Paris knew her as Alexa DeBrow; only her hotel was booked under her new identity. She hoped that meant she could safely return and gather her things before leaving Paris. I’ll head south, to Nice. Perhaps I can absorb a few glorious days by the beach before deciding where to spend my life in hiding.