The Blonde

by Duane Swierczynski

  Ana screamed and cried and begged for release.

  Any kind of release.

  Oh how it HURT!

  Kowalski had to take a piss. But he’d be damned if he let the interrogator know that.

  He considered just letting it go, right here, right onto the concrete floor, the body-temperature liquid splattering the interrogator’s shoes.

  “Tell me,” Kowalski, “how you found her.”

  “She came to us,” the interrogator said.

  “What, she had your address?”

  “Hang on, now. We’re off track here. I’m supposed to be asking you questions. You know the deal. You don’t answer, I slice pieces off you and put them over there.” He pointed to a metal bucket, which had been placed in the comer. “You continue to be stubborn, I get to feed you those pieces.”

  “I’m answering your questions.”

  “I know. You suck.”

  The interrogator played with the paper cover of his little Pampered Chef knife.

  “Well, go on. San Diego.”

  “San Diego,” Kowalski repeated.

  “San Diego.”

  “SAN DIEGO!” Kowalski shouted.

  The whole drive down to San Diego, they had no idea. No idea that a third assassin had wiped the garage door handle clean, disabled the explosive tape. Just to fuck with The Surgeon. (Arrogant prick.)

  No idea she was tracking them now, with a handheld device, courtesy of CI-6.

  She was called many things. Assassin. Killer. Psycho.

  But what she really got off on was her CI-6 nickname:

  Bonesaw.

  It just sounded painful. And she liked that.

  Her specialty was the odd, seemingly random killings you hear about on the news every once in a while. Those freaky serial killings. Sure, there was media attention. Once in a while, even a movie option. That was the point. Cops and reporters went hunting for a lone madman. They never thought it was the government.

  Bonesaw liked that, too.

  Oh, she had a real girly name once—Monica McCue. Ugh. Poke the back of her throat, make her gag. She never felt like a Monica McCue. Since she was a little girl, she’d always felt like a ... well, a bone saw.

  It was rare they let her do her thing. Which was why she took it upon herself to push The Surgeon out of the way.

  She wanted to show them what she could do. She had a whole bunch of new ideas. Sitting around last night, she jotted something like forty-two of them down in her notebook.

  Ways to kill people.

  That morning Bonesaw got up, stepped into the brilliant California sunshine, and narrowed it down to a half dozen ideas. She sipped some iced coffee, bit her lip hard thinking about those ideas. A little blood got in the coffee. Gave it a little salty kick. She liked that. And that decided it for her.

  She’d bring a box of syringes with her. She’d have to stuff the box with cotton, because she didn’t want them rattling around in her backpack. The cotton would come in handy anyway.

  They’re not going to stop, are they?” Kowalski looked at her. The multiple of hers. He definitely had a concussion. Even turning his eyes made him want to vomit. So he turned his whole head. Watched the trees and buildings and clouds and vehicles whiz by the driver’s side window. That made him even more nauseous.

  “They sent two,” he said, “so there’s probably a third on the way. It’s never just two. Either one is enough, or they order double backups.”

  “I mean after.”

  “After what?”

  “After we go public.”

  “Depends on what you have in San Diego.”

  Vanessa had told him that before she quit the lab in Dublin, she’d dumped as much as she could into a USB key. She was fairly sure she saw Excel files. Which probably meant financial transactions. If they could financially tie the Proximity nanovirus to CI-6, the fuckers would sink under the weight. Nobody could survive scrutiny like that, no matter how secret or buried.

  You try bankrolling something that winds up infecting most of North America—and, like, can kill on demand via satellite. See how far your career goes then. It’s not exactly something you can hide on your resume.

  Kowalski had held off on rushing to San Diego. Bolting there right away would have raised eyebrows, he thought.

  Now it didn’t seem like it fucking mattered.

  But he hadn’t lied. CI-6 was predictable. They wouldn’t have just sent two killers. What was strange, however, was that they usually tried to make it look like an accident. The first one—random home invasion. He got it. But this second killer just charged at them with a gun. I mean, where the hell was the finesse in that?

  Maybe the third killer would be just as obvious.

  He hoped.

  “I just keep going south on 5?”

  “Wake me up when you see signs for Solana Beach.”

  “If I don’t get us into a massive collision.”

  “Wake me up if that happens, too.”

  Now it’s time for the interesting part,” said the interrogator. ”Come on, on your feet.”

  “What?” Kowalski asked.

  “Pain time. Remember? The bucket? Little pieces of you on the menu?”

  “Hey, I’m telling you everything.”

  The interrogator smiled. “I know you’re not telling me everything. And I know you’re not just going to sit here and piss away the only card you have left. Not this easy.”

  The word “piss” reminded Kowalski. He wouldn’t be able to keep his bladder on clampdown too much longer. He needed to get this moving.

  “So c’mon then,” the interrogator said, pushing his chair back. “Let’s get you on the hook the easy way, okay? You’ll want to save your strength for the main event.”

  “You want to know what was on the USB key? I’ll tell you. I’ll even write it out for you.”

  The interrogator stood up, looked down at the tiny knife in his hand, then back up at Kowalski.

  “You know, this isn’t fucking fair. They told me you’d be impossible to break. Can’t you just play along?”

  “What can I say? One look at you, and I’m ready to spill everything.”

  Kowalski locked his eyes on one of the surveillance cameras. “The man who authorized the purchase of Proximity was a spook named David Murphy. First payment was sent July 12, bank routing number 4987B ...”

  “Oh you’re no fun at all,” the interrogator said.

  Nobody tried to kill them outside the Westin Horton Plaza. Nobody flinched when they went to the front desk and asked for a package for “Mary Kate.” Nobody tried to stab them in the elevator. Nobody was hiding in their closets or in the shower. Nobody even noticed when Kowalski filched an Apple iBook from a portly dude in a black T-shirt.

  Once they were inside their room, Vanessa decided she needed another shower.

  “Got to wash the boot print off my tits.”

  Kowalski couldn’t argue with that. He wished he could wash the boot print off his skull, but it seemed to be permanently stamped there. Once he knew what was on this USB, maybe he’d have the luxury of some real sleep in the near future.

  “Anybody breaks in and tries to kill us,” she said, “just knock on the door three times.”

  “Enjoy your shower.”

  Kowalski suspected she went in there just to be alone, and to cry. She showered a lot.

  He used to do that, too. Right after Katie.

  He fired up the computer and looked for Excel files. There was a lot of junk on this USB key. All he needed was a name he recognized. Come on, come on. Give me something to work with, baby.

  Something pinched his neck.

  “Ow,” he said, and reached up to feel his neck. Or at least, he thought he did. But his hands remained frozen over the keyboard.

  “Shhhh, now,” said a voice at his ear.

  Oh fuck.

  Hello, third killer.

  The shower water pummeling tile made for nice, soothing white noise in the backgroun
d. The voice, which was female, was almost as soothing.

  “I put a needle in your spinal cord. You’re paralyzed from the neck down. I’m going to push it in a little further now, and that will freeze everything else. You might be able to blink. But that’s iffy.”

  “Wait ...”

  She did.

  He was lucky. He still could blink. That was something.

  The woman set him up in a chair in the corner so he faced the rest of the room. He heard the ripping of tape. She was probably using some to keep the needle in his neck in place. As if he could someone how blink hard enough to make it wobble and fall out of his spinal cord.

  She leaned over him as she worked. Her tits were in his face. She smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol.

  She crouched down in front of him. “I’ve been asking myself, who would be the victim? I think it has to be the redhead. You’re the one with the scarier background. She’s only been killing for a short while.”

  How do you know about her? he wanted to ask.

  Of course he couldn’t.

  She reached into a backpack which was by her feet. Kowalski hadn’t know it was there. Shit, he hadn’t even known she was there. Where didn’t he check? The drapes? Fuck. He was better than this. It had to be the concussion.

  Yeah, sure, blame the concussion.

  Admit it. You’ve gotten sloppy, monster.

  Otherwise, you wouldn’t have received the concussion in the first place.

  “Guy like you,” she continued, “killer virus in your blood... It could make anyone snap.”

  She showed him a white cardboard box, raised her eyebrows. She was actually strikingly beautiful. Even when she opened the lid and showed him what was inside.

  Many, many syringes.

  “You freaked out, Kowalski. You thought you could save her. One vial of blood at a time. If you could take enough blood out of her veins, you could help her get rid of the virus. Isn’t that right? You kept drawing more and more and more blood until she fell asleep. You stuck the full syringes on the wall over there, and you made the shape of a heart, because you know, during these past few months, you’ve fallen in love with her. And that’s why you’re trying to cure her. Because you love her, Kowalski. You love her don’t you?”

  Sloppy, sloppy monster.

  “And then you’re going to realize that your cure isn’t going to work, because she’s lost too much blood now, and she’s gone. And the only thing left to do is sit here in this chair and slice your own throat with a shaving razor. You’re a trained professional. You know exactly how deep to cut.”

  Inside the bathroom, the shower water turned off.

  “Of course, that’s after you cut off her head,” she whispered.

  Kowalski had heard stories about these types of CI-6 killers. Pain freaks loved to work with nervous systems, either numbing them to the point of paralysis or exposing them to agony so extreme that few human beings could process it. They were smart people. They had to be. But they were also fucking nuts.

  He watched her position her back to the bathroom wall, syringe in her hand, ready to strike Vanessa the moment she emerged. She’d know exactly where to plunge the needle, too, to paralyze her instantly.

  And then she’d start drawing blood.

  The bathroom door opened. Steam flowed out of the doorway. Vanessa liked her showers hot.

  The pain freak winked at Kowalski.

  And then something white and round whipped around the corner and smashed the pain freak in the face.

  Vanessa emerged, toilet seat in hand, and gave her another mad powerful whack.

  The syringe tumbled out of the pain freak’s hand and stuck itself in the carpet. She followed right behind it. As she fell, Kowalski could see that part of her face had been destroyed. He’d be the last man to see her look so good.

  Vanessa was completely dry, wrapped in a towel. She hadn’t even stepped into the shower. It had all been a ruse.

  “Been curious about something,” she said.

  Kowalski blinked.

  “You’re a professional killer. Why don’t you carry any fooking guns?”

  There was nothing Kowalski could do, except blink twice.

  Which he hoped sounded like, “Bite me.”

  It took a little while for Vanessa to figure it all out. She was all like, What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you moving? Kowalski gestured with his eyes best he could. Look. Look at the back of my neck. See all that tape? No, no. Back. There. Finally Vanessa got the clue, looked behind his head. “Jaysus,” she said. There was a little more one-sided back-and-forth, with Vanessa finally instituting a blink once for yes, twice for no system, and asking questions like, “Are you paralyzed?” and “Is that needle why you’re paralyzed?” and finally, at long last, “Do you want me to pull the needle out?” FUCKING YES, Kowalski wanted to yell, I’d like you to pull the fucking needle out of my neck. Such a move could paralyze him permanently. But that would be fine. He could always blink until Vanessa realized he wanted to be mercy-killed.

  “Don’t move,” she said, leaning over him, and then realized what she said.

  She started laughing.

  “Sorry.”

  There were a few harrowing moments there at the beginning, and Kowalski honestly thought he would be paralyzed for life. But sensation came back, and with it, a dull throbbing pain in pretty much every part of his body that featured nerve endings.

  “Is she dead?” he asked, when he could.

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Grab that box of syringes.”

  You left our three operatives alive,” said the interrogator.

  “Why was that?”

  “Three?”

  “Yes. Three.”

  “What about the guy who blew up?” Kowalski asked.

  “He made it, too. He’ll probably have a surgery every couple of days until he dies, which may not be too far off in the future. And Ana’s not happy about her kneecap. Nor, Bonesaw, about her face. But my point is, you didn’t go back to finish the job. That’s not the Kowalski we know. What’s the deal?”

  Kowalski thought about it. What did it matter if he told him?

  “Vanessa lost her taste for killing,” he said.

  “Oh really.”

  It was true. Vanessa Reardon may have flown across the United States, killing men for the sin of trying to pick her up, but somehow, she’d compartmentalized it. She hadn’t been Vanessa Reardon then. She had been Kelly Dolores White, and she had been created by Matthew Silver, a man who’d tried to fuck, marry, and then finally, kill her. Kelly White was capable of murder because that was what she knew from birth.

  But now, ever since Silver’s brains had been splattered all over the side of Pennsylvania Hospital in downtown Philly, Kelly White had been fading away. Vanessa Reardon had been coming back. And she was more than a little horrified about what had happened while she’d been gone.

  “So it bothered her to kill people,” the interrogator said, “who had been sent to kill her.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Then explain one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The seventeen people she killed in Mexico.”

  Rosarito was the only place that made any sense. It was not too far over the border, and it was a familiar enough place for Kowalski. He’d spent seven months here in 1995, recuperating from injuries after a field op had gone to shit. It was a fine place to put your mind and body back together. He had rented a small house south of Rosarito proper, right on the beach, for pennies. There were very few ways in, so you could easily see enemies coming. There were enough tourists around, so you never stuck out.

  Kowalski also had a box of plastic-wrapped weapons buried near his old rental house. Right on the beach. Unless someone had dug it up since then.

  Most importantly, Kowalski knew a good cheap Mexican dentist who might be able to put his remaining tooth back in his mouth.

  He wasn’
t ready to give that up just yet.

  They crossed the border at dusk. There were no problems, especially since they’d traded the car with the cracked windshield in for a less conspicuous vehicle. It was another beige Ford Taurus. Vanessa said she’d just gotten the hang of it, and it would worry her to change it up.

  Just over the border she announced she was famished. Kowalski told her they’d be sitting down to real Mexican food in under thirty minutes, but she asked him for a dollar anyway and bought a bag of fried bread from a kid on the street. She regretted the purchase after taking a bite. She dumped the rest in a compartment between the driver and passenger seats.

  Roads in Mexico were much more challenging than I-5 south. Painted lanes? Yeah. Sure. And then there were the potholes the size of kiddie swimming pools.

  “Fooking hell,” she said. “This is worse than L.A.”

  And it had been a while for Kowalski, so he was a little confused as to which road would take them down to Rosarito. Had they moved the roads since then?

  Maybe it was his concussion. Or being paralyzed.

  The darkness didn’t help, either.

  After a while it seemed like they were seeing the same gas stations and shuttered buildings and nonsensical road signs. Kowalski wanted to close his eyes. That wasn’t going to happen. Not for a while, anyway.

  Until he finally saw the sign for Fox Studios Baja.

  James Cameron had built this massive tank down here for Titanic, and since then a bunch of movies involving large bodies of water had been shot here, too. Kowalski had been gone before they built the thing, but he visited enough times to know he was close.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  “Thank Christ,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  “First we have to go to the beach.”

  “What?”

  “You were the one complaining about my lack of fooking guns.”

  The little cluster of houses was still there. Only now there was a guard at top of the road leading down to the beach. Vanessa flirted with him best she could while Kowalski crept down to his old house, which was occupied, of course. He made his way to the spot on his hands and knees, and was grateful that nobody had decided to install a cement patio over the spot. The box was three feet down. The tops of his fingers were raw by the time they brushed against the dark green metal. There was no sound in the house. Just the sound of his own breathing and the waves crashing on the shore.