Killing Sarai

by J. A. Redmerski

  “In the closet,” Victor says, pressing his body against the struggling man, “there’s a briefcase on the floor with a gun inside. Get it.”

  I nod rapidly and run back into the closet behind me to search for the briefcase, finding it in seconds. I take the gun out and rush back inside the room.

  He frees one hand and I give it to him.

  Victor shoves the gun against Arthur Hamburg’s temple and releases his body. He gasps for air, making desperate choking sounds as he tries to regain control of his breathing. Then Victor pats him down, checking for weapons. When he’s satisfied there are none, Victor reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pair of rubber gloves and tosses them to me, indicating for me to put them on.

  I do so quickly.

  “Now here are how things are going to happen,” Victor says to Arthur Hamburg. “Unfortunately, you get to live. If it were my choice, I’d of killed you last night at the restaurant, or any other Friday night before that. But you get to live.”

  What. Is. Going. On? I can’t wrap my mind around this unexpected turn of events.

  “If you didn’t come here to kill me,” Arthur Hamburg says, his voice shaking with fear but laced with amusement, “then what the fuck are you here for? Money? I’ve got plenty of money. I’ll give you anything you want.”

  Victor shoves Arthur Hamburg onto the floor and keeps the gun trained on him. Sweat is pouring from the man’s face and neck, soaking his white dress shirt. Then Victor reaches inside his hidden suit jacket pocket and hands me a small yellow envelope.

  “Open it,” he instructs.

  As I’m doing that, Victor turns back to him.

  “The death will be ruled as a suicide,” Victor says and I’m growing even more confused. “She left a note signed by her hand. All you have to do is wait one hour after we leave to call it in.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Arthur Hamburg snaps, despite a gun being pointed at him.

  I can’t decide who to look at more, the sick man on the floor or the poor woman lying on the cot.

  Suddenly she looks up at me with sad, weak, tormented eyes and a chill runs through my body.

  “Victor we have to help her.” I start to move toward her.

  “No,” Victor says. “Leave her be.”

  “But—”

  “Remove the contents of the envelope,” he interrupts.

  I take out a folded piece of paper first, trying to grasp the feel of it through the tight rubber gloves sealed to my hands.

  “Read it,” he says.

  Carefully, I unfold it and look down into the pretty handwriting in a blue ink flourish. And as I begin to read the letter aloud, I start to feel queasy and my heart hurts.

  My Dearest Husband,

  I can’t do this with you anymore. I’ve shamed my family, our children, we’ve shamed ourselves, Arthur. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t love myself. I don’t love anyone because I can’t. I haven’t been able to feel a valid emotion in twelve years of the thirty I’ve been married to you for. I can’t live like this anymore. So many times I wanted to seek help, maybe get on medication. I don’t know, but after so long, after years of wanting to get help I started not to care.

  I am so sorry that you had to see me this way. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t come to you for help. But I didn’t want help. I just wanted it to end.

  And that’s what I’m doing.

  I’m ending it.

  Goodbye, Arthur.

  Sincerely,

  Mary

  The man can’t take his eyes off his wife. His flabby chin vibrates as he tries to hold in his tears. But I still don’t feel a shred of remorse for him. Not only because I’m still struggling to figure out why this has happened, but because I know he’s a sick man and doesn’t deserve remorse.

  “Why are you here?” he asks, his husky voice shuddering.

  Victor looks to me. “Give me the SD card,” he says.

  I pull the tiny square card from the corner of the bottom of the envelope and place it into Victor’s free hand. He holds it up to Arthur Hamburg wedged between his thumb and index finger.

  “All of the information on this card has already been transferred to my employer. The names on your extensive client list, the locations of your underground operations, the video evidence that your dear wife recorded that you knew nothing about. It’s all here.” He throws the SD card onto Arthur Hamburg’s chest. “If anyone comes looking for me or Izabel for the death of your wife and it’s not ruled a suicide, all of that information will be released to the FBI. We are to walk out of here unharmed and as welcomed as we were when we walked through your front doors. Is that understood?”

  I’m shaking I’m so confused and nervous and unsure. Unsure of everything.

  Arthur Hamburg nods, sweat still dripping from his chin and eyebrows.

  The woman reaches out her hand, but then it drops back to her side. Two syringes lay empty near her legs. She’s heavily drugged. My eyes sweep the rest of her, seeing that the bends of her arms and around her ankles are painted by needle marks.

  I can’t help it anymore, I rush over to her fully intent in helping her up. But Victor reaches out and grabs me by the arm, stopping me. He looks fiercely into my eyes, the gun still pointing at Arthur Hamburg.

  “She is the target,” he says to me, pulling me closer to him. “Go into the room to the nightstand on the side of the bed where the window is. There is another gun in the drawer. Bring it to me.”

  I want to say no, that I won’t do it, but the stand I take only goes as far as my mind. I do it because a part of me still trusts Victor as much as the rest of me wants to stop this before it goes too far.

  “OK,” I say and run back into the main room. I find the gun right where Victor said it would be and I pick it up nervously by the handle and carry it so carefully back into the hidden room it’s as if I’m terrified it’s going to explode in my hand. Maybe it’s because I know what he’s about to do with it. It feels heavier, deadlier, more ominous than any gun I’ve ever held. Even the one I used to shoot Javier with didn’t feel like this.

  I feel my heart beating in the bottoms of my feet.

  “Now trade with me,” Victor says.

  He’s wearing a pair of black gloves now.

  I step up to him, wobbling on my shaking legs, and hand him the gun. I take the other one and make sure to keep it pointed at Arthur Hamburg. I can barely hold it straight. I feel like I did when I hid in Victor’s car, the gun so heavy in my hands that I just wanted to drop it and be free of it.

  Victor looks at me, his blue-green eyes intense and faintly empathetic.

  “Do you trust me?”

  I nod slowly. “Y-yes. I trust you.”

  “Plug your ears,” he instructs and I don’t hesitate.

  Without another word he walks over to the wife and leans forward, lifting her from the cot into a slouched sitting position. Her body is so weak and disconnected that she can just barely stay upright on her own. Her eyes open and close seemingly from exhaustion or the drugs as Victor puts the gun into her hand, folding her fingers around the handle and her index finger on the trigger. I feel like I’m going to be sick, but the adrenaline won’t let me.

  Victor positions his body in front of her and shoves the gun underneath her chin and pulls the trigger with her finger. I hear the shot reverberate through the thick-walled room, but my eyes close before I see the blood.

  Arthur Hamburg cries out his wife’s name and then slumps over onto the floor, his oversized body trembling with emotion.

  Victor stands behind me in a way that makes me think he’s trying to shield my eyes from the gruesome sight of the wife. It’s a quiet gesture that I find unexpected and sheltering.

  “You have one hour,” Victor says. “You might want to get your story in order.”

  “Fuck you! Fuck you!” Arthur Hamburg shouts, spit spewing from his mouth. He points at us coldly, barely raising his face from the floor an inch.
“Fuck you!”

  “It never would’ve happened,” Victor adds.

  Then he wraps one arm around my shoulder and walks me out of the hidden room, still shielding me from the sight as best he can. I want to break away from him long enough to run back over and kick the disgusting bastard in the stomach with my heels, but I can’t knowing the woman is lying dead just feet away from him. It’s not the bloody sight of her that makes looking at her so chilling—I have seen too much death to be affected in that way—but it’s the terrible feeling of her being innocent and in need of help that makes it unbearable.

  What has Victor done?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Victor

  I stop Sarai at the doors to the suite and turn her around to face me, my hands on her arms. I shake her. “Listen to me,” I say and she raises her eyes. “You’re still in character when we walk out of here. Act as you did before any of this happened. Do you understand?” I shake her again.

  She nods erratically and then takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  We step out into the hall and I turn the lock on the inside of the suite door before closing it. How safely we get out of this mansion and off this property all now lies in the hands of Hamburg. If he decides he wants us dead more than he wants to stay out of prison and lose his entire fortune, then the next five minutes are going to be complicated. I have one weapon, the gun from the briefcase in the closet. Nine bullets are in the chamber. I’m not entirely confident that I can take out the guards who will be shooting at us with only nine bullets. If I were alone and didn’t have Sarai to protect, I could pull it off.

  “Head up,” I whisper harshly to Sarai on my right.

  She raises her chin and I slip my hand around her waist as we walk casually toward the glass elevator. The two guards who had been positioned outside Hamburg’s room are nowhere to be seen, but there is one at the end of the hall. Like the others, he’s wearing an earpiece. We walk by him casually and Sarai works her charm, smiling a venomous little smile at him. Beguiled by her, he grins like an idiot until the elevator drops us below his floor.

  “Ah, there you are,” Vince Shaw, Hamburg’s assistant says as we exit the elevator on the ground floor. “Are the two of you leaving already? You should stay a while longer. Lucinda is going to play for us tonight.” He stands with his hands folded neatly in front of him.

  I smile and shake my head. “I would love to, but I have an early flight to catch.”

  “But I want to stay,” Sarai says as Izabel and with a little whine in her voice.

  “Not this time,” I say. “You know I always miss an early flight when I don’t get at least six hours of sleep the night before.”

  “Please, Victor?” She lays her head on my arm.

  I ignore her artificial efforts altogether and reach out to shake Vince’s hand.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say.

  “You as well. Perhaps you can enjoy the party longer next time.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I pull Sarai along next to me as we head toward the exit. Just before we make it to the tall double-doors, I hear Hamburg’s voice carry through the mansion from the balcony of the fourth floor and we stop cold in our tracks.

  “Victor Faust,” he calls out over the crowd.

  I feel Sarai’s heart beating in her hand as she grasps mine.

  I step away from the door and back into the light so that I can see him fully. He has cleaned up nicely in such a short time, his dress shirt tucked back inside his slacks, his gray hair that had been drenched by sweat, slicked back over his head likely by his fingers rather than a comb.

  The moment of silence, although only a few seconds at best, is tense. I think Sarai has stopped breathing.

  Hamburg smiles down at us, his hands resting over the balcony railing.

  “I look forward to seeing you again,” he says.

  I nod. “Until then,” I say.

  The doorman swings one side of the door open for us as we exit the mansion. Neither of us feel safe until we drive the length of the two-acre driveway and are allowed past the front gate without being stopped or shot at.

  I drive around the city for thirty minutes before going back to the hotel to make certain we’re not being followed. Sarai is silent the entire time, staring out the windshield. She doesn’t have the look of someone who is traumatized. She’s doubting me. She’s regretting her decision to have taken part in what happened.

  “Sarai—”

  “What was that?” she shouts, her head snapping around to look at me. “Why was that woman the hit? She was harmless, Victor. She needed our help! She was innocent! It couldn’t be more obvious!”

  “Are you sure about that?” I ask, retaining my calm demeanor.

  Sarai starts to yell at me more, but she stops and drops her chin.

  “Maybe not,” she says, second-guessing herself now. “But he kept her in that room. She was drugged. Helpless. A prisoner. I don’t understand….” She looks out the windshield again.

  “It appeared that way, yes,” I say. “But Mary Hamburg was just as deserving as Arthur.”

  “Then who ordered the hit?” she asks, her gaze fixated on me. “Why kill her and not him?”

  “Mary Hamburg ordered the hit on herself,” I say and Sarai’s eyes cloud over with disbelief. “The two of them have been involved in numerous cases of rape and murder, accidental deaths caused by erotic asphyxiation, but murder nonetheless, all covered up by their big bank accounts. They’ve been involved in this lifestyle for most of their marriage. A year ago, Mary Hamburg—according to her—decided she didn’t want to be a part of that life anymore. Her demons caught up to her. When she tried to talk to Arthur about them getting out of it, seeking help and straightening out their lives, he turned on her. Long story short, he got her addicted to heroin and kept her locked inside that room so she couldn’t destroy everything they had. But he loved her. In his own demented way, he loved her. That was apparent to me by his reaction to her death.”

  Sarai shakes her head slowly, trying to take in the truth.

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “I read the file,” I say. “I usually don’t, but in this case I thought it was necessary.”

  “Because I was with you,” she says and I nod. “You knew I’d have questions.”

  “Yes.”

  She looks away.

  “How could he keep her out of the public view for so long? Somebody would’ve had to know something. Their kids. The letter said they had kids.”

  “Yes, they did,” I say. “Two children who both live in Europe somewhere and wanted nothing to do with either of them. And Hamburg didn’t keep Mary out of the public eye entirely. He claimed she was on her deathbed. Terminal cancer. Every now and then, when a public appearance was necessary to keep any suspicion away, he would dress her up, drug her up and wheel her out to sit beside him in a wheelchair for no more than a few minutes. It was enough of an appearance for people to see that Mary Hamburg did indeed look to be dying of cancer because of her weight and the effects the heroin had on her. No one asked questions.”

  I bypass the valet and pull into the parking deck of our hotel and I turn off the engine.

  We sit in silence for a moment, shrouded by the dim blue-gray lighting embedded in the concrete beams above us.

  “But how did she order the hit on herself?” She runs her hands through the top of her hair. “I just don’t—”

  “There were few people allowed inside the room where she was hidden. Maids only. Illegal immigrants. Fearful for being sent back to their country, and likely for their lives, Arthur Hamburg knew they wouldn’t speak. At least, that’s what he thought because it was one of the maids who helped Mary Hamburg set up the hit.”

  “She should’ve just killed herself,” Sarai says. “If it was me, I wouldn’t go through all the trouble.”

  “You would if you couldn’t bring yourself to take your own life. There are
many people like that out there, Sarai. Ready to die, but afraid to do it themselves.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Do you think they’ll come after us?” she asks.

  I open my door and get out and then move around to her side, opening hers. “Right now, no. He would’ve done it before we left if that was the case.” I reach out my hand to her. She places her fingers into mine and I help her out of the car.

  After shutting the door I add, “Hamburg has far too much to lose. But that’s not to say he won’t devise some kind of plan to take revenge on me in some way that he believes he can’t be linked to it.”

  “Or me,” she says and looks at me hopelessly. “He could take revenge on me.”

  I hit the alarm on the key ring twice and the car beeps, echoing loudly through the parking garage.

  This time I don’t respond.

  I walk with her to the elevator and up to our room on the top floor. I don’t think much at all about Arthur and Mary Hamburg or what went down tonight. Mostly I think about Sarai and what she went through with me. She didn’t die, but I feel like another part of her did. And it’s one hundred percent my fault. I knew I shouldn’t have taken her there. I am fully aware of my own actions and how inexcusable they are. I came to terms with it the moment Sarai didn’t back out of the last chance I gave her. It should’ve been me, right then, who put a stop to her having anything more to do with it.

  I chose a different path.

  And I don’t regret it.

  There are a few more things that Sarai and I need to talk about and I fully expect the way I touched her in Hamburg’s suite to be among the first. I prepare myself for it, but when we walk into the room and she kicks off her heels, she stuns me when she says, “I want to kill him.” She sits down on the end of the bed and turns her head to look up at me, resolve at home in her eyes. “That man needs to die, Victor. He needs to pay for what he’s done. He needs to pay with his life. Just like she did.”