by Holly Hart
I sighed heavily, and felt the now familiar driving drumbeat of panic beginning to rise in my throat. I bit down on it. If anything was going to help get me out of here, it sure as hell wasn't giving up entirely. I wasn't that kind of girl, and I wasn't going to start now.
I pulled open the top drawer, only to reveal twenty odd pairs of identical black boxer shorts. I was beginning to sense a theme. Unless there was another room somewhere else in this joint, this was a guy's place. A very particular guy, it seemed by the painstaking choice of clothing. I pushed it back in slightly harder than I'd intended, pausing for a second as the wooden drawer clattered. My entire body tensed as I waited for someone to storm in, slap me around the face and tie me to the bed.
It didn't happen.
I pulled open the next drawer. Socks. Christ.
There was one left. I crossed my fingers and held my breath, just in case someone up there was looking out for me – not that I'd seen much evidence of that so far. I pulled it open.
Cash. Thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars of cash, all bundled up in stacks, and tied with holographic paper bands which read "$10,000". There must have been hundreds of them, all brand-new, piled up almost to the top of the drawer.
"Holy Shit," I mumbled under my breath, briefly forgetting that I was supposed to be staying quiet. It was more money than I'd ever seen in my life, and probably more than I'd ever see again. I asked myself the question for the second time.
What the hell's going on?
Still no answer, not that I was expecting one. I stuffed five or six of the bundles into the jogging pants pockets, just in case. Almost two years salary, and tax-free to boot. Whoever's place this was, they must have been into some crazy shit. Normal people just didn't have tens of thousands of dollars in cash lying around for a rainy day. No, normal people used banks. There was only one explanation for anyone to have a stash like this on hand – crime. I'd spent the last decade investigating exactly this kind of behavior for the Alexandria Herald, but now that I was plunged in the middle of it, it just felt surreal.
I stood back up, and I was about to make the door when I noticed something… Unusual.
The shiny, mirrored back of the closet seemed to be loose, almost as though it had been knocked ajar, or like a bathroom closet that had been improperly closed. Whatever the reason, it didn't fit, especially in a room that was otherwise so carefully manicured to perfection, without so much as a charcoal gray suit out of place. I pulled back, and it swung open and outward easily, revealing a secret cupboard. My breath caught as I opened it, revealing what seemed like a small arsenal of ammunition. As the first few inches of the closet came into sight I was overjoyed, thinking I'd found my ticket out of there. But as the mirror swung backwards to completely reveal what it had been hiding, my stomach fell through the floor.
Sure, there were plenty of bullets, in boxes and scattered around, and dozens of fully-loaded magazines.
But no actual guns. There were clips where perhaps half a dozen handguns might once have rested, but the weapons themselves were gone, as if the ammunition was just there to taunt me.
As if I needed it, it was another reminder of exactly how dangerous the situation I found myself in. I needed to tread carefully. I walked over to the door, grateful that the thick cream carpet soaked up every single wave of sound that I made. I tried the brass handle, and just like the closet door had been, it was well-maintained and recently oiled, and opened without so much as a click. I pulled the door back carefully, peeking through the crack to make sure I didn't find a nasty surprise waiting for me. But there was none.
I stepped out into the corridor, tense, jumpy and ready to run at a second's notice. I couldn't believe that I'd been left unattended. My mind was still casting around for the reason why I'd been taken in the first place, and not coming up with much in the way of answers. I could only think that it had something to do with my job at the paper, that perhaps someone thought I knew something, and wanted to silence me. It wouldn't be the first time a thing like that it happened in Alexandria, that was for sure.
I wished they'd just checked with my doctors, though, it would have saved everyone a whole lot of bother. I could barely remember a thing before my accident, and I definitely wasn't in a fit state to write a hard-hitting report on police corruption, or whatever.
Accident. Something niggled in my brain, as though it wasn't the right word, but I shook it off. My mind had been playing up enough recently, to the extent that sometimes I barely knew what was real and what wasn't. The nurses all said it'd go away in time, if I rested. I don't think they expected a situation like this.
The bedroom's carpet gave way to rough, unvarnished wooden floorboards, and the corridor was strewn with the detritus of recent construction: pots of paint, loose screws and nails, and enough sheets of plasterboard to build a house. All in all, it was basically an obstacle course. I trod carefully, like a misbehaving child breaking out of their bedroom late at night, and walked as close to the walls as I could, so that I didn't disturb a loose floorboard. The last thing I wanted was for an errant creak to give me a way to my captor.
The apartment, if that's what it was, was a helpless mishmash. It didn't feel like a block of condos, more like someone had found a warehouse and decided to turn it into a home. It had an old, middle of the century industrial vibe, with old brick walls and original wooden rafters poking from the material.
I froze.
There was a man lying on the couch, a huge man, perhaps six foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds of lean muscle, though it was hard to put a precise figure on his height lying down. I held my breath and didn't move, didn't even put my foot back on the ground in case it made a sound. I watched the man carefully, and saw that his chest was rising and falling gently. He was asleep. At least, I hoped he was, because there was only one way out of the apartment, and it was past him.
I gently placed my foot back on the floorboard. The last couple of feet before the corridor gave way into the living room felt like a couple of miles, and I made it almost without breathing. The room was surprisingly large, and had a kitchen at one end, and a doorway at the other. The doorway called to me, it was freedom, escape. But as I looked to my left, I saw a row of chef's knives attached to a magnetic strip on the wall, and a wall of rage swept through me.
I didn't know why I was here, I didn't know who the hell this guy was, but I knew that I wasn't just going to let him control my life like this. I had a vague sense that someone had tried to control me before, even if I couldn't remember the details. I cursed my stupid amnesia for holding me back like this.
Whatever the reason was, I did something stupid.
I went for the knife.
I crept towards the kitchen, grabbed the largest knife that I could see, and stalked back to where my captor lay resting on the couch. I stood over him, desperately battling with my breath, trying to get it under control, instead of ragged and hurried. It was a losing battle.
The big man's chest rose and fell, and he turned in his sleep, and suddenly I saw his face for the first time. I'd expected to see, well – I don't really know what I'd expected to see. Perhaps scars, and the hard edges of the killer. But what I saw didn't fit any of that. He looked peaceful, at rest, and suddenly the knife in my hand that was raised up high ready to plunge down into his throat felt like it weighed a million pounds. It felt like a responsibility I simply couldn't bear. Who was I to take a man's life, even if he had taken my freedom?
And then something unexpected happened. The man opened one eye and stared directly at me. His hand shot up and grabbed my forearm, closing around it in a vice like grip.
"Give me the knife, Ellie," he rumbled. I couldn't have even if I'd tried, I was completely shut down with fear, and besides his hand was closed so firmly around my forearm that I wasn't even sure if I'd be able to release the knife at all.
You should have just run. Why did you try to be a hero?
"What," I trembled,
looking at the face of the man I was sure was going to kill me. "What are you going to do to me?"
12
Roman
"Have you ever killed a man, Ellie?" I asked. My voice sounded dead, even to me, and I hated myself for it. I couldn't even sound reassuring if I tried, it wasn't in my makeup. My childhood took that away from me, and so much more. Words have never been kind to me, nor me to them. I'm no good with them, not like I am with a knife, or my hands. One word can mean two things, and I can't handle that. I value simplicity, not complexity. There is simplicity in life, and beauty too.
The muscles on her face flickered in a riot of indecision, as if she wasn't sure whether I was about to reach up and take her life. I'd seen that look before, more times than I care to remember. It's what happens when the body pumps enough adrenaline into a person's system to kill a small animal.
The mind has checklists, instinctual checklists that it runs through. Fight or flight. It's the instinct that carried the human race out from the wild and into civilization, the reason we survived long enough to turn flint and stone into fire, to build walls and homes, wheels and cars. But in the few seconds before the mind makes its decision, all is still. And for a man like me, those few seconds are all it takes to end a life. As I looked up at Ellie's terrified face I saw two things: that she was brave, but that she was no killer.
But I was.
"No," she croaked.
I started talking, but I didn't recognize my own voice. It sounded like someone else was talking, and a cold, dead tone of voice filled the room. It was like my body was merely a puppet, and some other consciousness was animating my brain and limbs. "I have. Never a woman, though."
Her face blanched. I kicked myself. I'd meant to reassure her, but the second the words escaped my lips, I realized what they actually sounded like.
A threat.
I kept going, cursing my upbringing for failing to equip me with the skills I needed to dig myself out of this hole. I wanted to reach up and hug her, but she was more likely to think that I was trying to kill her. I reached up and touched her neck lightly, with two fingers. Her skin was as soft as it looked, maybe softer. It felt like a fine silk, or the best Egyptian cotton. I could have rested those fingers there for days. I tapped her on the neck, either side. "These are your carotid arteries." I pulled the knife out of her hands, transferred it to my left and raised her right with mine to her neck. "Can you feel that?" I asked.
She nodded, terrified, her eyes fixated on the knife. I relaxed my face, desperately hoping to direct her attention to me. I wanted her to see that I wasn't a threat. I cursed my words, they sounded so clumsy, so ineffective, so unequipped to convey my meaning.
"They lie just below the surface." I raised the knife, resting it on Ellie's left carotid with my left hand. It would only take a slip, a sudden movement, and she would die as easily as if I'd shot her in the head. I blinked. I didn't want to imagine her death. "Ninety percent of your brain's blood goes through them. If I made an incision, you'd pass out in two seconds, maybe three. You wouldn't even feel yourself dying. There is no surviving it."
"Please," she begged. "Kill me, or don't, I don't care. Just please, stop."
I let go of her hand, and her eyes flickered to the door. I knew what she was thinking. Fight, or flight. The thing is, if she left, she was as good as dead. Victor's men were all over the city, and with the bounty she had on her head, she didn't stand a chance of surviving. I reversed the knife, holding it by the blade. It was Japanese, made with a high carbon steel, only the best, and sharp too. It's a myth that cooking with a sharp knife is more dangerous. The sharper the knife, the less likely you are to hurt yourself, but a bad workman always blames his tools.
I raised the blade to my neck, angling the point so that it rested gently on my right carotid, and motioned for her to take the handle. "Grab it," I ordered. This was it, the moment of truth. Either this worked or… Or the truth was, I didn't know. I didn't have a plan B.
"What?" She said, as if terrified it was all a trick, like I was a cat playing with a mouse, giving her enough rope to hang herself with before reeling it back in. I could understand that. I'd watched the same movies as her, read the same books, and heard the same songs. But then, I'd lived a very different life to her. Not easier, necessarily, but different. I'd taken lives, hurt people, murdered people. I was the enemy. I was the thing that went bump in the night. The darkness in everyone's soul, but I was there, sitting right in front of her, not in a movie, or the pages of a good book.
"Take it, the knife," I repeated. I held it steady, my hands void of movement. I knew that I would never be up to persuade Ellie that I didn't want to hurt her, not using my words, anyway. I bet if she were in my position, she'd be able to do it. I read her pieces in the paper, I know what she could do with language. And I knew I'll never have that skill. But when you've killed, like I have, you realize that life doesn't hold any value, not in itself. Not even your own.
Ellie glanced at the door once more, and then the knife, as if deciding whether to dash for it or to play my game. I hoped that she wouldn't run. I didn't want to keep her here against her own will, and I wouldn't do it. I couldn't save her life by myself. I needed her to be my partner, not my captive. I pressed the knife into her hands and she took it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
"I won't stop you, if killing me is what you want to do. The knife's sharp, I did it myself. It'll slide in, like a shovel through fresh snow. I won't feel it, and it will be over before you know it."
What I didn't say was that I wished she would kill me. I wished that she would do what I couldn't, take away my pain, and take away the memories of every evil thing I'd ever done. For all the people I'd killed in my life, there was one person I could never hurt. Myself.
The blade trembled against my neck, almost vibrating with Ellie's nervous energy. I was putting my life in her hands, and I fully accepted that it was a toss of a coin. I could see this from her perspective. I'd broken into a hospital, killed people, taken her to a safe house that might as well have been a prison. Hell, if it was me I'd be dead already. I had to hope that Ellie was made of better stuff than I.
"Why?" She croaked, through a throat that was clenched with anxiety. "Why are you doing this?"
I paused for a second, then answered simply, honestly. "Because I can't."
There was nothing holding me to this life, not now, not after everything I'd done. By saving Ellie's life, I'd crossed a line in the sand, a line that could never be uncrossed. Once a hired killer takes a commission, there's only one golden rule – finish the job. If the client ever finds out that he failed, or worse, that he intentionally ignored his orders, then that dereliction of duty was treated as signing your own death warrant – you just get added to the contract. If she killed me, then so be it. All of my pain would be over, and I'd face my judgment in the next life like a man. But if she didn't… perhaps I could find some redemption in this life.
The tip of the razor-sharp kitchen knife pressed against my skin. It yielded slightly, then tore, and a single, tiny droplet of blood started to dribble down my throat. Ellie looked at it, entranced, following its path down my white skin, until it disappeared into the murky blackness of my cashmere sweater. I almost smiled. It wouldn't be the first time my drycleaner had had to wash out the blood. He was a good man. Well, maybe not good, but he was at least discreet.
"Who the fuck are you?" Ellie screamed. It was an inchoate, cathartic unloading of rage, as if every muscle and every cell in her entire body was uncoiling like a squished spring, and all that energy, all that rage was pouring out in the form of a torrent of anger. I held still, absorbing her frustration like the pillar of a bridge parting the river on either side of me. "Why the fuck am I here?" She screamed. " What is this, all a game to you?"
Her words echoed around the high-ceilinged living room, bouncing off the hard walls and the uncarpeted floors. I wasn't worried about her attracting any unwanted attention. This
deep in the Industrial District, life only started to move at night. Still, just for the sake of liveability, I thought, it might be worth investing in some soft furnishings.
"No game," I said simply, and quietly. Ellie had to strain to listen. "I could have killed you at the hospital," I said, fixing my eyes on hers, burying myself in those peanut-butter brown depths. "I didn't. I could have killed you on the way to my apartment. I didn't." I leaned forward, invading her personal space to make a point. She didn't back off, not in the slightest. I liked that. It took a brave girl to show that kind of courage to me. "And I could have killed you when I held that knife to your throat. But I didn't."
"Then why the hell am I here? Who are you?" She said flintily. Her eyes acquired a cold, calculating look, the kind of look I'd seen a hundred times before. It was a shock to see it in Ellie's eyes. "And can I go?"
The three questions had my mind whirling like a hamster ball on a tidal wave. I hadn't wanted to believe it, not after I'd put all this effort into saving her life, but it was true – she had no idea who I was, no memory of the night we'd shared , perhaps even no memory of who she had been. I sat back on the couch and pointed at the door. "You know where the door is," I said, trying to hide my shock. "But if you leave…"