by Camilla Monk
In part because I need a way out of that intimate trap, but also because I do worry about the immediate future of the poor dude we carry in the trunk, I change the subject abruptly. “The guy in the trunk . . . how are you going to kill him?”
March’s eyebrows draw together. “Island, we’re not going to—”
“Are you going to shoot him? Or is it Isiporho who’s going to do it?”
The latter glances at me in the mirror. “We need to hear whatever he can tell us about Erwin’s plans first.”
A welcome rush of anger overpowers my fear as I remember March’s words, back at the cabin. “You’re going to question him? Like you questioned that man in Rio?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “It was a different situation.”
“Is that what you tell yourself—”
“Dominik.”
March’s sudden bark startles me. I turn around at the same time that the Mercedes comes to a stop on the side of the road. I barely have time to see March’s face before he steps out of the car, but I feel his anger, something in the air between us that doesn’t need any words and bites into my skin.
Within seconds, the trunk snaps open. March pulls out our unfortunate traitor none too gently and rips off the tape from his mouth and around his wrists and ankles. My pulse picks up, and my hand hovers on the door handle, frozen. Deep down though, I already know where this is going.
The guy tumbles into the brownish sludge with a frightened groan, likely convinced he is living his last moments. My shoulders jerk when the trunk slams shut. Isiporho shakes his head with a sigh, and Dominik sends a pointed glare at March’s silhouette in the mirror. Neither comments however when he climbs back in the car. Outside, the Romanian clambers away in a state of shock while the engine starts.
We resume driving in stifling silence, inches away from each other. In spite of myself, I’m focused on March’s breathing. I listen, trying to gauge his mood. Maybe I should say something. He did let Brutus go, after all . . .
I risk a peek at his profile. He’s staring straight ahead, like a wax statue. “Thank you,” I mumble.
At first, I’m wondering whether he heard me, but after a couple of seconds, his posture relaxes, before he shifts to look at me. In his eyes, the ice has thawed, and that lingering sadness is back. I wonder if it ever leaves him. “Anything for you,” he says softly.
And just like that, he rams through my defenses all over again. I have no snark left in me to fight him, so I nod and return to my contemplation of the window. Surely with enough self-conditioning I can convince myself that those butterflies in my stomach are because I’m hungry.
•••
All around us, the décor has changed. We were driving through deserted streets lined with decrepit concrete buildings, some of which looked ready to collapse, and then elegant stone mansions started popping up, one after another. Now there’s a waterfront, a quiet road lined with wrought-iron lampposts, and a . . . castle?
I stare at the building’s intricately sculpted façade through the window, my mouth open in a perplexed O. I gather that’s the casino March was talking about—since that’s clearly where we’re headed—but it doesn’t look like one. More like something out of a Disney movie, with all the columns and arches and that giant shell-shaped window overlooking the frozen promenade. On the walls though, the paint is chipping badly, and plastic sheeting hangs from one of the four turrets, dusted with pure white and billowing like a ghost in the wind. The whole thing feels like a twisted fairy tale setting, maybe in some long-forgotten kingdom awaiting to be freed from an evil spell . . .
“We’ve arrived,” March says, when Dominik parks in front of the building.
I step out, dwarfed by the fifteen-foot arched window I gather is the main entrance. Lots of plastic sheeting here too, by the way—to conceal the inside from prying eyes?
“What is this place?” I ask. I’m probably getting a stiff neck later from all that staring, but it’ll be worth it.
“It used to be a casino in the nineteenth century, but I think Viktor is turning it into a dental center,” March explains.
“So he’s restoring it?” Now that I’m getting a better look, I do see some scaffolding running along the casino’s side, all the way to the seaside turrets.
Absorbed in my contemplation, I didn’t notice that Isiporho is already walking away. He waves without turning back, and Dominik answers my question before I can even voice it. “You do your thing here. Porho and me, we’re gonna see if we can find where they’re keeping Dries.”
March ducks his head in agreement. “Be careful; our little friends are remarkably obstinate.”
I’m about to ask what he means by that when Dominik glances at the street running parallel to the promenade. His lips curl into a wry smile. Not all cars are covered by snow: one just parked right in front of the casino . . . Dominik responds with an equanimous shrug before he strides away to catch up with Isiporho.
“Wait,” I call. “The car . . . won’t you need it?”
He turns around one last time, a youthful, almost boyish grin on his face. He extends his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “Cars, cars everywhere!” And off he goes, to steal some unsuspecting Romanian citizen’s car.
Meanwhile, I didn’t notice that someone turned the lights on in the casino’s hall. Through the transparent plastic, I glimpse a debauchery of chandeliers and mirrors, painted walls and so much stucco molding I’m expecting everyone inside this place to wear period costumes and frilly wigs.
They don’t. Framed by a pair of burly bodyguards in blue uniforms, the guy who opens the door wears a red Adidas tracksuit and must be around the same age as Erwin. Interestingly, all of his hair migrated down from his skull to his chin to form a thick, curly white beard. I’m simultaneously reminded of Yul Brynner and Santa.
He whispers something to his goons, and they walk away with a wary glance in our direction. Once they’re gone, Santa Brynner scans us with keen gray eyes. “Where is he?” I gather he means Dries . . .
“It’s been a long night,” March replies.
The answer seems to satisfy the guy, who opens the doors wide, not without a bit of a struggle and lots of creaking. “Welcome!” He puffs his chest. “To Viktor’s Dental Palace.”
He invites us in, one hand scratching a round and hairy belly under his sweater. A grin cracks through his beard, revealing yellowed teeth that could benefit from whatever it is that he does in here. He waves a dismissive hand at March. “I already know the favorite disciple. But you”—he tilts his head—“you’re Island, right?”
I nod hesitantly.
“Good . . . very good. Do you want me to give you a little tour?”
No . . . Okay, maybe. I am kind of intrigued by that hall, the pink walls, and gilded moldings—like a little Versailles, but with fresh paint and plastic sheeting on the floor, and a half-finished white desk that looks like a space ship that warp sped its way into the middle of this rococo galaxy.
Behind me, March shakes his head. “Thank you, Viktor. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time . . .”
The culprit gives a heavy sigh. “So, straight to my office?”
“Yes, please. By the way, did you receive—”
“That bag from your assistant? It’s up there.”
“Excellent.” March’s expression softens when he tilts his head at me. “We have some fresh clothes for you.”
“Thanks . . .” But I wish he wouldn’t have.
Santa Brynner cuts through our exchange with a pat on my back. “Come, come. I want to see that brain.”
A lump builds in my throat, and I inch away from Viktor . . . der Butcher. “Wait . . . wait. What kind of doctor are you?”
“What kind of doctor did you expect?”
“Well . . . a neurosurgeon?”
He pumps his chest and attempts to tower over me, but it’s not very effective because he’s not that tall in the first place. “Petrozavodsk State University
, neurosurgery, psychiatry, and a little microbiology too—I’ve always loved that.”
I wince. “But your license has been revoked, and now you’re a dentist?”
As soon as I’ve said this, Viktor’s face falls, bushy eyebrows lowering into a conspiratorial expression. “Don’t worry, golubushka; I’m not really a dentist.”
“Actually . . . that’s worse.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I’m a businessman! I hire the dentists, and we make money. I’ll show you on the way to my playroom.”
I don’t know if I should worry more about the fact that Viktor appears to cultivate loose medical ethics, at best, or him calling his office a “playroom.” I feel March’s hand on my back, both a reassurance and an encouragement to follow our host. He leads us up a monumental flight of stairs and to what looks like some kind of concert hall. Here, the paint is finished, and on bright-orange walls, delicate floral moldings have been painted in white and gold. It’s a bizarre contrast to the two rows of perfectly identical dentist cubicles facing each other in the middle of the room. A medical scent floats in the air that overpowers that of old stones.
“We’ll get rid of the stage,” Viktor notes, gesturing to the tall arch showcasing an ancient wooden stage and worn red-velvet curtains. On the left, I recognize that incredible shell-shaped window taking up most of the wall, like a gate to another dimension. Time has made the glass foggy, and through it, Constanta looks like a cluster of blurry orbs glowing softly in the night.
Viktor grins at us, his arms akimbo. “So what do you think?”
“Very impressive,” March concedes.
“The décor, the history: that’s the kind of thing the international clientele want,” Viktor explains. “With my palace, I put the tourism back in dental tourism.”
I cringe. “Dental tourism?”
Undeterred by the hesitation in my voice, Viktor raises a victorious fist toward the monstrous chandelier glimmering above us. “It’s booming right now! Too expensive to get your crowns done in America? Get them done in Romania for a third of the price, complete with a stay in a registered historical monument.”
That raises March’s eyebrows. “And you obtained the authorizations to turn it into a dental clinic?”
Viktor shrugs. “You ask me that? The killer who became an honest man, and the honest man who returned from the dead? Net nichego nevozmozhnogo.”
“I suppose, indeed, that nothing is impossible,” March admits with a half-smile.
Viktor doesn’t bother with a reply: he’s already moving on, crossing the room toward a small door by the stage. We follow into a brand-new elevator—they haven’t even removed the plastic film protecting the brushed-steel walls yet.
“We have fifteen rooms, and I set up my little den under the roof. Very nice.”
“They’re rooms for your patients, like a hotel?” I ask, trying to conceal the tinge of suspicion in my voice.
“Yes, they’re for people who come here to get a lot of work done. Afterward, they just lie there, with their face swollen like a Botero.” Viktor lets out a breathless laugh and mimics the effect with his hands as we step out.
Here too, the smell of fresh paint and detergent is overpowering. We’re standing in a surprisingly modern hallway, almost like a regular hospital. The angled white walls are the only indication that we’re indeed under the casino’s roof. Hearing footsteps, I notice a couple of young women in turquoise scrubs strolling a perpendicular hallway. Viktor’s employees work late . . .
“Come, come. It’s this way.” Viktor leads us toward a set of padded doors he shoves open to reveal a spacious office, complete with an examination table and what looks like a CAT scan room behind a window wall.
I send a worried look at March, who guides me toward the two transparent-plastic chairs facing Viktor’s long desk. Before we sit down, he bends to whisper a soft reassurance in my ear. Maybe it’s the effect of the stress, but when his lips brush my hair, the shivers dancing across my skin are . . . not all that unpleasant.
I nod and focus my attention to Viktor, who settles in an ample leather seat across from us, like a king in his throne. He smiles at me, but I get the feeling that it’s no longer so warm—rather clinical, analytical. “What’s the last event you remember before waking up after the dome’s collapse, Island?”
NINETEEN
HARMLESS FUN
Somehow, I allowed myself to believe that Viktor was just this weird guy with a shady past and a tacky tracksuit who runs a bizarre dental center. Now that he’s gazing at me patiently, his arms crossed on that mile-long glass desk, it’s like I’m sitting in front of Bentsen again. I recognize the false kindness and genuine curiosity, the way he’s trying to read my reactions while acting the part of the old friend I can trust . . .
March is watching me too but rather with a kind of contained febrility, something that flutters on his face but doesn’t translate in his rigid posture.
I stare down at my hands on my lap. “Maybe . . . the water and Mozart . . . the Queen of the Night’s aria. Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” I recite.
Viktor raises an eyebrow, and March leans a little closer. His fingers rap on his jeans nervously, but he curls them into fists.
“The first time I woke up at Ingolvinlinna, I thought I had been dreaming, and I couldn’t remember the dream, but it was the only thing I remembered, and I thought it over and over. I couldn’t remember the rest of the aria either, so I kept thinking about that line until it drove me mad.”
“Do you know what that means?” Viktor asks.
“Yes. It means hell’s vengeance seethes in my heart.”
“Would you say it’s an automatism, or would you understand something else in German if you heard it?”
“I still understand German, French, Afrikaans, or even Japanese, and my procedural and implicit memory is mostly intact, if that’s what you’re getting at. But my long-term memory is shot, and I can’t remember how I acquired these skills or my personal history before I was brought to Finland. For example, I still know how to code, but I can’t remember going to college or what I learned there. But the code makes sense when I see it. My automatisms are still here,” I explain with a defiant frown.
A humorless grin cracks through his beard. “Well we have a smartass here.” He nods to March. “She’s a smartass.”
Something that could be a smile tugs at the corners of March’s lips but doesn’t quite spread to the rest of his face. “She never ceases to amaze me.”
I avert my eyes, a foreign pressure building in my chest at his compliment.
Unfazed, Viktor goes on. “Do you ever have . . . flashbacks, or dreams you believe might be memories?”
I gulp, and I can tell my ears are getting red. Hopefully my hair will conceal that. I make sure to avoid March’s gaze as I say, “Maybe . . . I sort of guessed . . . that I knew March.” Ignoring the jolt of his eyebrows, I soldier on. “I think I dreamed of him. When I saw him, I didn’t know who he was, but at the same time, I recognized his eyes. They were giving me meds to make me slow, but after I started throwing them up behind Stiles’s back, I was sharper and the dreams were . . . different.”
The subject of my fantasies tilts his head in an effort to make eye contact. I stare at my lap harder.
Viktor raises a bushy eyebrow. “How so?”
I shrug, praying that my cheeks don’t look as hot as they feel. “Just different.”
A conniving grin cracks through his beard. “Well, you see, not everything is fried up there. Now strip, smart girl,” he orders casually.
His words send a wave of goose bumps rising across my skin. “Wait, uh . . .”
Viktor tips his head to the scanner room. “We’ll take a look at that fascinating device in your head.” Without waiting for my answer, he presses a button on the phone sitting on his desk and mutters something in Romanian to a girl he calls Nadia.
Moments after, a blond woman in turquoise scrubs enters the
office, whom I recognize as one of the two we passed earlier in the hallway. She’s holding a folded exam gown, and she smiles at me. I bet she’d smile just the same if she’d shown up with a foot-long catheter . . . She gestures toward a white screen I didn’t notice in a corner of the room.
I dart anxious eyes at March, finding in his gaze a hesitation that mirrors mine. Then again, if I don’t take that scan, I’ll never know for sure if there’s really something in my head . . . With a final look his way, I go to change behind the screen. I pull up my sweater, grimacing when the tang of dried sweat hits my nostrils—nothing worse than smelling yourself. On my sternum, the butterfly still rests, warm and a little heavy. I tear it off and throw it on a chair along with the rest of my clothes. I know I should, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away, maybe because I don’t want to forget what Anies did to me, or maybe because it’d feel like killing the butterfly a second time . . . I’ll decide what to do with it later.
I know they can’t see me, but I’m wondering if they can make out some sort of shadow. I feel so naked, so aware of their presence. I rub my arms to fight the chills coursing through my body. When the camo pants and my jeans underneath hit the floor, I cringe at the sight of my legs; they’re a little bony—nothing new here—but the day’s adventures have left a trail of bruises all the way up to my hip.
The white gown fastens like a kimono; I tighten the string and smooth the front, like style still matters. I leave the relative intimacy of the screen to find that Viktor’s colleague is already preparing a syringe for the IV contrast. I’m tempted to ask if she’s a dentist, a nurse, or even a neurologist of the shadows like her boss, but I come to the conclusion that I prefer not to know.
“Normally, I’m supposed to ask you about allergies and medical history, but obviously . . .” Viktor trails off with a shake of his head. “No problem. Never seen anyone die from that anyway.”
This . . . I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of approach that cost him his license. March follows me into the scan room, looking equally circumspect. After Nadia has helped me lie on the table, I stare at the ceiling and clench my teeth. When I close my eyes, I see the dark room again, Pirate Morgan’s sunken and scarred eyelid. It takes everything I have not to move, not to cry when she plunges that needle in my arm. I breathe fast as the heat of the dye spills in my veins, up to my neck and then my head. March’s gaze trails on me one last time, lingering on the bead of blood where the needle pricked my skin, before he leaves the room with her.