by Evelyn Glass
I scoop her into my arms and carry her into the bedroom. She doesn’t wake as I peel back the covers, lay her on the sheets, and tuck her in. She smiles up at me dreamily, muttering every so often. “Samson . . . strange . . . good . . . sleep . . .”
I smooth blonde strands of hair from her forehead. “You scared me,” I say, only able to admit it because she can’t hear me. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She doesn’t reply, so I leave the bedroom, peel off my clothes for the second time tonight, and go to the shower. I wash the blood and dirt from me, murky gray and bright red a maelstrom around the drain, and then stand in the bathroom, dripping onto the tiles.
I wipe condensation from the mirror and look at myself, stare deep into my eyes.
There it is: the killer’s purpose. It’s always in the eyes. A man can be smiling, cheering, weeping with joy, but if he’s a killer you only have to look into his eyes and see it. The primal urge to do damage, to be the strongest, to be the alpha of the pack.
But behind that, there’s something else.
I turn away.
That something else frightens me.
Chapter Seven
Anna
When I wake up, the central heating has timed itself off and the apartment is gripped by an icy autumn chill. I open my eyes onto the darkness, wondering if perhaps the events of last night were a dream. My bedside clock tells me that it’s just past four in the morning. I roll over, almost expecting the bed to be empty. Of course Eric isn’t dead; of course he didn’t try and kill me; of course a hitman didn’t come to my apartment and tell me that I’m in danger. That’s mad, something out of a movie. Not something that happens to vets-in-training.
But when I roll over, there he is. Samson Black, lying on his back, eyes closed. He sleeps how I imagine soldiers do. He doesn’t seem completely at rest. The bottom of his eyelids don’t quite reach the bottom of his eye, so that a sliver of white shows through. I get the sense that if something happened, his eyes would be open in an instant. His body doesn’t seem relaxed. Dormant, but not relaxed. Waiting.
I don’t remember coming to bed, which means he must’ve carried me. Am I a fool for letting a hitman carry me to bed? What if he isn’t the man I think he is? But it’s strange . . . looking at Samson gives me the same sense of calm my safe place does. I think of the turnstile and the field of dogs, and I imagine Samson is standing there with me, and instead of disturbing the scene he somehow makes it more attractive.
As quietly as I can, I climb from the bed and pad across the apartment to the living room. Samson stirs, but doesn’t wake, and I’m sure even in his sleep he knows the difference between a dangerous noise and a safe one. I’m thinking about him in the same way I think about animals, I realize, and I wonder if that’s unfair. But it’s how my mind is trained and, anyway, Samson makes a whole lot of sense if I think about him as an animal. Hitman of the genus, killer of the species, night-stalker of the habitat New York City. His relatives are clients and victims and killers; his tools knives and poisons and guns; his prey bad men and women beaters.
I pour myself a glass of water and pace the apartment, without really meaning to, just pacing up and down, thinking. The night is never truly silent in New York. People shout and laugh and scream into the sky; horns honk and somewhere a few blocks over, music plays loudly. A dog barks and a cat squeals. I drain the water and place the glass on the counter, and then continue my pacing.
It’s not a dream. It’s real. Samson Black, hitman, is in my bed, sleeping. Samson and I had sex earlier tonight. I can still feel the ache of him deep inside of me, proof that it really happened. Shouldn’t I be terrified? That’s the question which returns to me again and again. Shouldn’t I be scared, panicked? He’s a killer, a stone-hearted killer. But maybe it’s that I can’t accept that as a fact. He’s a killer, sure, but stone-hearted, cold-blooded, and all those other adjectives which are routinely hurled at men of his trade? I’m not so sure. Sitting on the couch with him, talking, learning about him, I saw something that wasn’t cold or stone. It was downright warm. Human. And he killed Eric, and he’s protecting me. I’m not scared of him. Confusing or not, that’s the truth.
I slump onto the couch, stretching my legs out on the coffee table. But it’s more than not just being scared, I realize. It’s more than just being comfortable. I’m not just at ease around him. I’m horny, curious, longing. I want him. I like thinking that beyond my thin walls, lying on my bed, is a hitman. I remember Elle telling me once about how she and her ex-boyfriend liked to do BDSM stuff. I never understood it myself, never understood how you would want a man like that in your bed. But I think I understand it now. The danger itself is exciting, and the fact of Samson is way more dangerous than a few whips and chains.
I like it, I think, stunned by myself. I like how strong he is and I like knowing that he killed Eric. I like how in control he is and how he must be able to handle any situation. I like imagining him stalking the streets, stalking his prey. What is he? A wolf? No, because wolves are pack animals. A cheetah, then, or perhaps even an eagle. Soaring through the sky, alone, darting down to sort his business and then ascending once again.
Sort his business.
The phrase lingers in my mind. Business. That’s the crux of it, I think. It’s business. Not pleasure or sport or survival, but business, which means money. A question occurs to me I feel silly for not thinking of before. Who hired Samson? Somebody must’ve hired him. He’s a hitman, and hitmen don’t work for free. No, someone out there gave him a large sum of money to dispose of Eric. I try to imagine who that might be, but I draw a blank. It might even be someone I don’t know, someone who had their own gripes with Eric. But Samson told me he killed him to stop him from hurting me. He was bragging about it in prison. Which must mean that whoever hired Samson didn’t want Eric to hurt me.
I shake my head, shaking the thoughts away. I’m tired, dreary, and I tell myself that the question can wait until morning.
The important thing is that I’m safe and Samson is here.
But I will ask him about it at some point, I resolve, just not now, not at four o’clock in the morning.
I return to bed and lie down, the covers draped over me. For a long time, I close my eyes and try to sleep, but after around half an hour of lying there, without sleep, I grow restless. I look through the darkness at Samson, sleeping contentedly, and wonder: Do all killers sleep with such clear consciences?
Then I roll over, take his arm, and wrap it around me. He groans softly and pulls me close to him, his body protecting mine.
Spooning, I fall asleep in minutes.
###
I stand at the bedroom door. Eric is before me and Dad is behind me. Dad sits on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The smell is potent and I can see it; it curls into the room like smoke and spreads around him, smoke-hands extending toward me. He grins like a gargoyle. Eric is naked, his body big and cruel and looming. He, too, grins at me.
I don’t know where we are, but I know it’s not real. Even as I stand here, I know that somewhere, a woman just like me sleeps in the arms of a killer. But right now it does not seem to matter so much. Dad and Eric, two men who, in their own ways, have taken chunks out of me. Dad with his words and Eric with his fists.
“Are you joking?” Eric laughs. “Are you fucking joking?”
“What?” I grunt. “What do you mean?”
I try to run, but then I look down and see that my legs are welded to the floor. I panic and strain my foot up, but it doesn’t budge. I twist my body and see that Dad is laughing silently at me. When I turn back to Eric, he is standing over me, his body impossibly huge in the dream, bigger than it ever was in real life, the body of a monster.
“You want to go to college?” Eric spits. The saliva spatters against my face. I try to remember when this happened, but I draw a blank. It’s more of an amalgamation, I guess, all those confrontations with Eric coalescing here, now. “Why in the name
of Christ would I let you do that, Anna? We’re married, we have a duty to each other. You need to work, not mess around with animals. Come on, really, do you think you’re ever going to be a vet? You have to be smart to be a vet, Anna, really smart. And let’s face it. You haven’t got the brains for it. It’s ridiculous. Am I clear? Nod, right? Nod but don’t speak. I don’t want to hear you speak.”
I almost nod, almost give up my life to this man. In reality, I did nod when he asked me this; I nodded countless times. I nodded and I hated myself but I nodded all the same.
But in the dream I look up into his face. “No,” I say. “I want to be a vet. I don’t care if it seems stupid to you—”
His fist crunches into the side of my head. I can’t fall back because my feet are welded, so my body flops violently back, and then springs forward, my bones cracking, breaking. I want to run, but my feet, my feet . . .
I turn to Dad, but he just sits there, grinning.
“Don’t look at me now,” he says, whisky dribbling down his chin. “You’ve always chosen men against my wishes, Anna. You’ve always been a whore. And now look at you, beaten and defeated and pathetic. A waitress at the beck and call of a monster. And you look to me for help? Stupid, pointless girl. Your mother’s death was your fault, you know.”
This is a ridiculous statement. Mom died of cancer. But still it wounds me. I see it in the man’s eyes. He believes it. On some level, he truly does blame me for Mom’s death.
“You’re useless,” Eric says. “You’re a useless whore. Dress like a whore, act like a whore. We’re married now, okay? Right? So I own you. The second you get that through your stupid whore head, this will get a hell of a lot easier.”
“I want to be a vet,” I say. It seems like the only retort I have. A dream which I can hold onto no matter what happens to me. Eric can hit me as much as he likes and Dad can insult me as much as he likes, but if I can somehow hold onto this one thing, something of me will survive.
But then my mouth opens again, against my will, and I say: “It’s okay. I suppose I don’t have to be a vet. I suppose . . .”
Eric smiles, rubs my head, moves his hand down . . . down . . . and I let him.
Dad nods. “Whore,” he sighs.
It’s too much. The past is too heavy. I tear my feet free from the floor and scream, scream as loud as I can, my neck straining with the effort, my throat sore. I scream and scream and scream—
“Woah, woah.” The voice is a man’s, New York accent, steady and strong. Arms grip me. Eric’s?
I struggle, and the man takes my hands and holds them in his.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s okay, Anna. You’re safe. Nothing will hurt you now. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I promise you that.”
“How can you promise that?” I murmur, once the light of the morning sun becomes clear to me, the clothes spread over the floor, the paperback novel on the side table. I’m not with Eric or Dad. I’m with Samson, and that’s infinitely better.
“Because if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll kill them,” Samson says.
Chapter Eight
Samson
I hold Anna longer than I’ve held a woman before. I’m not a holder, a hugger, a close-and-personal type. The only time I get close is to kill, and the only time I get personal is for blood. But now, sitting on the bed with Anna in my arms, I feel something I haven’t felt since I was a young boy who knew nothing of the business, whose father was just a drunk and whose uncle was just a kind-faced man. It must be hope, I reflect. Hope for what, though? I’m not sure. But listening to her breathing, which gets slower and more calm as I hold her, I know it’s hope for something.
But beneath the hope I can’t get rid of the image of that fleeing man in black, the aches in my body from his goddamn Taser, and the shame of being outplayed.
“I have to check outside again,” I tell her.
She nods shortly, and leans away from me. “I’m okay now,” she says. “I’m fine.”
I don’t know if I believe that, but I’m not experienced enough with women to know what to say. I stand up and pull on my clothes, still dirty from the night before. Soon, I’ll have to change them. But there are more important things to worry about at this precise moment. Maybe the man from last night has gotten cocky; maybe he’s back here, watching.
“Samson,” Anna says, when I’m about to stand up.
“Yeah?” I turn and face her. Her face is red, but not bright red, and her lips no longer tremble. She looks at me and her almost-black eyes are holding more pain than I can imagine—waves of pain crashing against the blackness of her eyes.
“I want you to know. Last night. It wasn’t because I was drunk or scared or anything. It was because I wanted to.”
“Me, too,” I say. “And I want to again.”
My voice becomes thick, animal-like, but I can’t help it. Sitting there in her tight-fitting pajamas, her body outlined perfectly, I can’t fight the animal desire inside of me.
She smiles, shy and playful. “So do I. But don’t you have business to attend to?”
I groan, stand. “Lock the door behind me,” I say.
Anna follows me to the front door, I open it, and for a few moments we just stand there, looking at each other. I guess she’s thinking the same thing as me: how? How can we feel this way about each other after so little time? How can I feel so protective, and how can she feel so protected?
I smile at her, and she smiles back. “This is kind of an adventure, isn’t it?” she says.
“I suppose it is,” I say.
We hold gazes, but neither of us speaks, and after half a minute or so I leave.
###
I scout the street quickly with my eyes, taking it all in. The sky is clear, but the sun is pale and dim. Even so, the street is lit up with sunlight. It reflects just as the moon did on the wet sidewalk. The bar at the end of the street is closed and shattered glass covers the space around it. Cars drift by slowly. There are fewer cars parked on the street, people going to work or school. I scan the cars, listen, but I don’t see or hear anyone. I stand just outside the apartment door, unwilling to leave it again, just in case this Whoever Man decides to trick me again.
I take out my cellphone from my jacket pocket and dial Jack. Jack Weiss is one of those men the army often creates: disillusioned and generally angry at everything, but the world especially. He was in Iraq and now he’s an associate, a driver, and sometimes a killer for one of the biggest crime families in New York. It’s the same crime family I do a lot of work for, but I’m a free trader. So is Jack, when I want him to be. We’ve worked a few jobs together and he respects me in an oddly devout way, as though I am his officer.
He answers as he normally does, with a gruff: “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” I say.
“Oh.” His voice drops an octave. “Heard you went into hiding.”
“Not hiding. Working. Eddy, anything in the air about me? Any rumors?”
“No.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“We all know about the NBA hit, but nobody knows who hired you, and hardly anyone even knows it was you, and they’re only guessing because of the poison. That’s your favorite method, after all.”
“Cleaner,” I grunt. “Is anyone taking credit for it?”
“The hit? No.”
“Not the hit itself. Putting the body in the car.”
“Oh.” He pauses, and I can almost hear him filing through his memories with methodic efficiency. “No, everyone thinks that was you. Seemed strange to me, actually, so I asked around, checked if there were any former players in the mix. You know, people who might want to hurt you.”
“Good man,” I say.
He smiles; I hear it in his voice. “But there’s nothing, nobody. No former players, no enemies, nobody back on the scene. None of the families are taking credit for moving the body, which is strange, ‘cause they would if their objective was to make
a point. You know, rattle you. Whoever’s doing this, they’re freelance. At least, that’s how it seems.”
“I met the fucker last night,” I say, and then quickly tell Jack about the chase.
He chuckles. “Bet that hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“You bet right,” I sigh. “So no leads at all?”
“Nada, but I’ll keep my ears pealed—or is it eyes?”
“Do both, and you’ll be doing be a favor.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Bite me, Jack,” I say, and then hang up the phone.
Nothing, nobody.
I lean against the wall near the main door to the apartment building, tossing my phone from one hand to the other and scanning the street—always scanning. That’s the killer’s life, in many ways, constantly spreading invisible hands into his surroundings, constantly questioning if there is someone close by who may do harm. But I see and hear nobody, and I’m forced to conclude that whoever was here last night is gone now. Maybe they’re gone forever; maybe they’ve learnt their lesson. I want to believe that, but it’s difficult. Whoever dragged a corpse—a heavy corpse—across a parking lot and stuffed it into the trunk of a car has something to say.