by Ann Aguirre
He slammed into the floor as she flung the door open, running as I’d begged her to do. Get help, I silently urged her.
“She left you to die,” he taunted. “How does it feel? You need to. They all did. Dirty, worthless bitches.”
My chest blazed with a pain fierce enough to steal my breath. No time to worry about it. He aimed a kick at my head, and I barely avoided the full force. It probably would’ve cracked my skull. I let go of him and rolled away, fumbling for the baton I’d hidden. Michael was jacked up on whatever he’d snorted, all rage as he ran at me.
I had no grace, only desperation, as I dove over the flimsy, pasteboard coffee table. I kicked it at him, and Michael flinched reflexively. That gave me the space I needed to pull the baton out of my pants. I snapped it to full length and waited for him to rush me.
“You think I’m afraid of that little stick?” He was too angry, too enraged, to consider it even slightly. He was Michael Durst. Invincible. Untouchable. It was impossible that a girl from Kentucky could break him step by step. But here we were.
And I was hurting like hell, no question. But if I died, I was taking him with me. I had no intention of wrestling with him over the baton.
As he grabbed for my arm, I stumbled to one side, then smashed the kerosene lantern onto the floor, directly in his path.
Small room, burning carpet. While he screamed and tried to put out the fire that was licking up his pants leg, I slammed the baton against his head as hard as I could. When he dropped, I did it again for good measure.
I went around the house, tipping candles and breaking lamps until the fire grew brighter, burning, burning—
He’ll never get up.
Some people just need killing.
My husband thinks I’m one of them, and maybe he’s right. His first wife didn’t make it out alive. Neither did his second.
I’m the exception.
The flames are everywhere. It’s getting hard to breathe.
We’ll see who dies today.
Smoke filled my lungs, but I stumbled forward, feeling for the door, a window, anything. I can’t see. I can’t breathe.
Michael crawled toward me. Hand on my ankle. “You’ll die with me. We’ll burn together.”
I hit him again. Again. Until his fingers uncurled, limp on the floor. Blood dripped from a cut on my head. My blood on his hands.
How fitting.
Then I dropped to my knees, crawling toward the front window. I was nearly there when a lamp smashed into me from behind, glass shards in my neck and shoulders. Darkness flickered in my head—he almost got you—but no, fuck that. Ariella’s waiting. So are Jenny and Vin.
Gritting my teeth, I held on and rolled into the pain. He was bloody-faced, a beast from my nightmares. With the roaring inferno behind him, Michael didn’t look remotely human anymore. My fingers fluttered on the floor and I came up with a glass shard that cut my hands. No hesitation. As he swung at me again, I sliced one leg, then the other, as deep and hard as I could. His shriek as he fell sounded like a dying pig—and I’d often heard them they were slaughtered, back in the day. When he hit the floor next to me, I stabbed deep into his thigh meat, then pulled the shard out. His blood spattered over me, and he didn’t move as I hauled myself to my feet, using the windowsill for leverage.
With bloody, trembling hands, I smashed the window and dove through it because I feared I would pass out before I could unlatch it. I’m bleeding. God knew from how many wounds, but once I hit the ground outside, the pain reminded me I was alive.
Shivering, I pulled myself to my feet and watched the house burn. He’s dead. Finally. If he tried to get out, I’d push him back into the fire. Michael Durst would burn in the hell he’d made.
The cabin was completely engulfed in flames when the squad car pulled up, an eternity later. Ariella stumbled out even before the policeman, and she hugged me, feeling me up and down. Her hands came away stained with blood.
Mine.
“What happened here?” one officer said. These were local cops who’d responded to the 911 call.
“Nobody could have survived that,” his partner said, staring at the fiery inferno.
Luckily, the police had believed Ariella’s story about my wicked husband and his terrible henchmen. They wrapped us in blankets and took our statements, corroborated by phone calls to Detectives Wilson and Hunter in New York.
Soon I was in the back of an ambulance with EMTs treating my various injuries. Ariella sat next to me, intermittently crying and cussing me out.
“That was your plan? You’re insane.”
“Probably. But I’m still here, as promised, and so are you.”
“Thank you, Marlie.”
I didn’t ask what for; I knew. Closing my eyes, I let myself drift and woke to more hospital treatment, somewhere in Pennsylvania. I bet I’ll see the detectives soon.
Sure enough, they arrived by late morning, wearing apologetic smiles. Detective Wilson said, “I’m so sorry. The prosecutor pushed for no bail, but the judge didn’t see it that way.”
“I’m alive,” I answered.
It felt like a boast rather than a statement, a verbal way of spitting on Michael’s grave.
“The coroner has identified Durst’s charred remains from dental records. No open casket for him,” Detective Hunter joked.
I smiled. He’ll hate that. “I intend to have his ashes scattered. And not in a good place.”
She nodded. “After what you’ve been through, I don’t blame you. I can guess what happened, but I need to take your statement. For the record?”
See that, Michael? The winner decides what is fact and what is fiction.
I told them. How he abducted my sister as bait and I went to meet his minions to save her. How he tried to murder both of us in that terrible cabin and how in the subsequent struggle, Ariella got away. He beat me. Again. In his wild rage, he knocked over a kerosene lamp. I pushed him and ran. He nearly kept me from escaping when he broke a glass lamp on my head.
I almost died in the fire, after all. Glass slices on my front and back, bruises all over my back. Split lip, knot on my head where his hired goon had punched me. Damaged palms from self-defense.
“I hate cases like this,” Detective Wilson muttered. “I’m sorry he nearly got to finish what he started.”
“I’ll heal,” I said softly. Then I asked, “Did you ever find out anything about the person he hired to shoot me?”
Detective Hunter sighed. “Apparently he’s some impossible-to-catch hit man, goes by the name of Ghost. There are at least five cases where he pops up, but nobody’s even gotten him on camera.”
“He’s never let a target live before either,” Wilson added.
I pleated the white sheet with my fingers, regarding them with the wide eyes that photographers—and Michael Durst—used to love. “Dextrocardia. Dumb luck.”
I did this for revenge. I did it for money. Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?
Outside, it was noisy as hell. The reporters had found me. I can only imagine what the papers say. Something like SOCIALITE HOSPITALIZED AFTER HUSBAND FAILS TO KILL HER FOR THE SECOND TIME.
Idly, I wondered if Joanna had completed the takeover. She must be pleased with how things had turned out. I should send her a flower basket, I mused, perhaps a nice selection of cheese and wine. There was no card for this occasion.
“You look tired,” Wilson said. “We’ll be in touch, but this looks like a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense.”
“I’ll make sure they leave a couple of officers on the door for a day or two at least,” Hunter added. “You need time and space to recover.”
The pain is worth it. Even the scars will fade. This triumph never will. Fuck Michael Durst and his prenup. I wonder how much I can squeeze from his estate.
I offered
my hand to Detective Hunter, who took it with a warm smile. She must have gotten over me investigating Vin’s disappearance without her. “Thank you so much for everything,” I said. “I couldn’t have made it without your help.”
“Our pleasure.”
The cops left and I switched on the news, discovering that I was the top story in this little town. A pretty brunette with a page-boy cut gave the play-by-play of my story, the abridged version.
I wonder if I can sell movie rights? Smiling, I leaned back against the pillows.
I’d stalked Michael Durst for months before I met Del Morton. I learned Durst’s preferences and became that girl, one in need of Svengali’s touch. Then I plotted his downfall, and now …
Michael Durst was a smoldering mass of ash and bone.
Now that it was finally over, I contemplated one final, burning question: was it still murder if someone really needed killing?
swan song
one year later
I pack a single bag. The rest of my belongings, I drop off at donation boxes. My lease expires in twelve days, and I leave a cutoff order with the utility companies for that date as well; Anton will handle the final bills. He works for me now, like the clever Swiss mercenary he is. Late that evening, I board a flight to Berlin.
First class is glorious with a seat that reclines into a bed, hot towels before meals, and several glasses of wine to let me sleep. I hurry through immigration, collect my suitcase at the carousel, and rush past the NOTHING TO DECLARE sign at customs.
I can’t wait to see them. For the last year, I’ve been so damned circumspect, celibate as a saint. The papers are finally bored with me, and the Lifetime movie has aired. Now I get on with “getting away with it.”
Outside, the cab driver speaks excellent English, but I thank him in German as I get out at the train station; ultramodern steel and glass. Up an escalator, I find the board directing me to the right track. I’ve traveled before, sometimes with Michael’s hand on my neck. I’m acutely aware of the wind on my nape as I melt into the crowds waiting in line for snacks and coffee.
This is why I chose rail travel. Nobody has asked for ID since I cleared immigration, and there will be no border check when I pass from Germany to the Czech Republic. The EU is a wonderful place to get lost in.
The platform is bustling with a scrum of passengers shoving to get into the first-class car. There can’t possibly be sufficient seats for so many people. I swing left, passing through the dining car, then through a storage car where I weave through a maze of bicycles. Just in time, the train is moving, making my progress hazardous.
I have a window seat in a six-person compartment, but first I have to find it. Easier said than done. The train is crowded. A Chinese tourist can’t locate her assigned seat, and an American woman practically challenges her to a fistfight as the beleaguered conductor tries to keep the peace. I slip past, gratified to be so anonymous.
Nobody recognizes me as the infamous Marlena Durst.
Here, finally. I pull open the glass doors. Four of the six seats are occupied already, and two of those people are pretending to sleep, likely so I won’t make conversation. Quietly I lift my bag onto the overhead rack and settle by the window, facing backward. Four hours and seventeen minutes to Prague. I hope to sleep, although I suspect that it’s unlikely. At nine a.m. tomorrow, I have an appointment in Wenceslas Square, near the trolley that’s been converted into a café.
It feels as if I’ve waited a lifetime for this reunion.
Somewhere past five p.m., I reach the last stop, Prague city center. The train station is more modern than I expect, so many shops that it’s practically a mall; I even spot a Sephora on the way out, promoting K-pop cosmetics. It’s a quick walk to my hotel, and I pass a basement pub called the Ferdinanda advertising the best goulash, with dumplings or bread, handwritten on a chalk board. The route to the hotel takes me past Wenceslas Square, past the trolley café.
The Fenix is tucked away past the plaza, up a side street, just beyond a giant sex shop and across from a gentleman’s club. But the place is clean and modern, surprisingly quiet despite the neighbors. Nobody would expect to find a socialite here.
A slim clerk with a bleached ponytail checks me in, warning me that breakfast is not included. “One night only, yes?”
“Yes.”
The key I’m given is strange, an enormous plastic piece with a knob at the bottom. When I touch it to the button that’s been attached to the door, it unlocks, and I step into a small, clean room, satisfactory for such a short stay. No lavish celebrations yet. Leaving my suitcase, I retrace my steps, back across the square, which is too big to be called so.
I breathe in the air, brisk in my lungs but also … sweet. There’s none of the acrid smell I’ve come to associate with other cities. Across the square, I notice a restaurant called Como, which specializes in fancy food and expensive wine, the sort of place Michael would’ve insisted upon. But he’s dead, and I can eat whatever the hell I want. I decide on the rustic charm of the Ferdinanda and head back toward the train station.
I spot the specials board before the restaurant sign and duck inside, going down a few steps to what looks like an English pub, all burnished wood and busy, aproned staff. There’s one free table, so I claim it. A harried waitress offers a menu, but I’m set on the goulash, with steamed dumplings and a dark beer.
Two dark shadows fall across the table, and I glance up. The two people I want to see most, and expected to see tomorrow, have arrived together, dressed in matching pinstriped suits. I can’t decide whether to laugh or kiss them. Standing, I take Jenny’s mouth first, soft and deep and full of longing. She pulls off the hat that gave her an androgynous look and her beautiful hair spills free. I stroke the glossy strands, earning a wicked grin from her. Vin has a few new scars, and I trace them with careful fingertips before coming up on tiptoe to press a lingering kiss to his lips.
“You’ve lost weight,” Jenny says.
I quirk a brow, repressing the smile that would illuminate her like a spotlight. “Have you been watching me?”
“Like a guardian angel. We’ve had eyes on you ever since you left the train station.”
“Sit down,” I invite them.
The waitress takes their order, more goulash and beer. And I watch them across the table with the hunger I haven’t let myself feel for twelve months. From the looks I get in return, it’s going to be a delicious night, and I’ll be wrecked in the morning.
“Can’t believe we did it,” Vin says. “Sorry about shooting you, love.”
I grin at him. “All part of the plan.”
“Easy for you to say.” Jenny reaches for my hand, pulls my fingers to her mouth and bites them. “You got to beat Michael Durst. I had to let the two of you get hurt.”
“It had to be convincing,” I say. But she knows that. She just wants to complain, and I’m delighted to listen to it, since it’s been so long.
“How much did you get for the condo?” Vin asks, taking a pull of his beer.
“Almost four million. Anton got me most of Michael’s assets, everything that wasn’t tied up in the business. We’re looking at a grand total of thirty-eight million with all properties liquidated.”
“Joanna cleaned up too,” Jenny notes.
I laugh softly. “She holds a grudge like you wouldn’t believe. Michael crossed her ten years ago, bought some land she wanted. I swear she was waiting for someone like me to come along.”
I’ll never forget how beautiful it was when he burned.
“Too bad we couldn’t play Durst’s game. Imagine how much we could’ve gotten in life insurance payouts.” Jenny’s tone is wistful.
I shake my head. “Too risky. Life insurance is motive, and we were so cautious.”
“Too cautious,” Vin grumbles. “You insisted I had to be abducted, but you’re not the one who la
y for hours bleeding on the cold cement.”
Frowning at him, I say, “It worked, didn’t it? The police never even asked you for an alibi for when I was shot. And that was the point.”
He sighs. “Fine, fine. But I expect you to make all that pain up to me.”
“Oh, I will,” I purr.
Our food arrives, and the goulash is as good as the sign promised, deep and rich. I take a few bites greedily, envisioning where we’ll go from here. We’re still discussing our options, but I want a place in Cyprus, lemon trees, grapes grown wild on the wall, maybe a grove of olives, with ancient steps leading down to the sea.
“What did they say about Ghost?” Vin asks.
I laugh. “Still uncatchable, apparently. You and Jenny did a stellar job laying his tracks, confusing the cops. I felt slightly sorry watching them chase their tails.”
The greatest trick the devil has ever pulled is convincing people he doesn’t exist. And neither does Ghost, the legendary hit man Michael Durst hired to kill me.
“Does anyone suspect?” Jenny asks.
“I don’t think so, though I did hear Detective Wilson say it’s strange Michael left so much evidence. Maybe you overdid it when you dropped the files on Durst’s laptop.”
I stroke Jenny’s hand when she bristles. She does not take criticism of her computer science skills lightly. “Don’t start with me,” she says.
“Anyway, it’s not enough to make them reopen the case. The coke I planted when I moved my things out of the condo helped. Last I heard, they’re speculating that he had a drug-induced breakdown when his empire began to crumble.”
“Perfect.” Jenny touches my thigh beneath the table, and my entire body trembles.
“You handled the mess with Ariella exceptionally well.” Vin smiles. Raising his glass, he offers a toast and I click my mug against his. “How is she, by the way?”
