Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  “I will pay you the remainder of your fee when the passports are finished.” She paused. “When should I return?”

  The Frenchman looked up at her as if he’d forgotten she was in the room altogether. He raised an eyebrow in a confused expression. “Thursday?”

  Although taken aback by his confused air, she nodded in agreement. “I will be back Thursday afternoon. The passports will be ready then?”

  Vincent moved his head up and down, grunted, and resumed his work. Alexa saw herself to the door.

  She felt energized in a way she didn’t wholly understand. She found excitement in leaving her pain behind, embracing her romantic fantasy of fugue state, and moving toward a future in which her ideas made sense. She basked in her accomplishment and repressed the dark voice in her subconscious that whispered it was the veil of deceit that enticed her. Too giddy to walk, she skipped carelessly back toward her hotel.

  CHAPTER 17

  She skipped a few blocks when she realized she was both very far from her hotel and from her goal of killing Castro. She’d forgotten about obtaining the cyanide. That could possibly prove to be the biggest hurdle of all.

  She had gone without her smartphone ever since the cab accident, and, given her desire to change her identity, she canceled the service. Alexa popped into an Internet café to borrow their search engine. She typed in the words pharmacy and apothecary and waited for the Internet to answer her questions. Her online search brought up a small French apothecary three short blocks away. She doubted whether the trip would prove fruitful. They sell medicines, not poison. I doubt I can find cyanide. But maybe they sell the manufactured antidote kits I saw online.

  She tried to invent a believable lie to establish her need to buy a cyanide remedy, but nothing she rehearsed seemed plausible. She considered turning around and quitting the plan altogether. But she was already so close, and she figured the worst thing that would happen is she would be rejected. If the situation became difficult, she figured she could fall back on American ignorance. She headed to the apothecary.

  The store was combined with an even smaller stationary shop. She was greeted by a white-haired woman who looked to be about seventy with an upbeat “Bonjour!” in a high-pitched voice from behind a long granite counter. The jingle of the little silver bell tied to the front door echoed the pitch of her voice. The woman peered at Alexa through thick-lensed glasses that magnified her pupils out of proportion to her other facial features.

  “Parlez-vous Anglais?” Alexa asked in her broken French, and waited patiently as the old woman nodded repeatedly.

  Alexa wasn’t sure if the woman had heard her or not. She repeated the phrase louder and more clearly.

  “Yes,” the woman responded abruptly as her head continued to bob ever so slightly.

  Alexa took a deep breath and let the words flow slowly. “Do you have a cyanide remedy kit?” She tried to sound nonchalant. The woman held a crooked smile without response. Perhaps the woman isn’t just hard of hearing — perhaps she isn’t all there. Alexa guessed the bell on the door was an attempt to alert the old lady that a customer had entered to store, but it seemed more than a bell was needed to bring this woman back to reality.

  “Cyanide?” the old woman said suddenly, and with an air of excitement.

  “Well, yes,” she stated, without clearly knowing if the woman thought Alexa was asking for cyanide or the cyanide remedy kit. Either way, her answer was yes, so she went along.

  The woman paused and raised her left index finger high in the air, like she had an idea. The wrinkled finger trembled. Then she turned and shuffled to the end of the counter and behind a curtain at the back of the apothecary, leaving Alexa standing alone.

  Alexa glanced around the store. She looked at a shelf filled with tiny bottles of serums and eye creams. Next to this was a shelf filled with bags of clay powders used for facemasks. Plagued by a shelf filled with beauty products, she wondered if she were in the right place. Across the aisle she recognized anti-nausea concoctions and urinary tract infection remedies. The medical names were similar to the English derivatives even in French, due to their shared Latin roots. Another more risqué shelf contained French versions of the morning-after pill. As the minutes passed, Alexa became agitated. The white-haired woman peeked her head through the curtain.

  “Cyanide?” she questioned again. Alexa nodded stiffly in frustration.

  To her surprise, the woman returned with a handful of items, including a box that looked promising. She dumped the items onto the counter and separated them for Alexa to see. The box that caught Alexa’s attention was, in fact, a cyanide remedy kit. It was slightly discolored, as if it had sat on the shelf a long time. Alexa couldn’t figure out what was inside the unlabeled jar she saw. She pointed at it. “This one?”

  “Arsenic,” the woman responded with a smile. Alexa felt a twinge of guilt and disgust run through her. This woman seems to know I have sinister intentions. She tried to think of a way to dismiss any murderous thoughts in this woman’s mind. She furrowed her brow at the woman and shook her head fervently.

  “No. No. I don’t want arsenic — not at all.” She tried to think up a quick lie to cover her crazy request. “It’s a project I’m working on — an experiment, really. I’m a scientist. I am testing out a variety of cyanide remedies in order to determine the most effective and affordable remedy for cyanide poisoning.” Alexa paused, unsure of how much the woman understood. The woman grabbed the arsenic bottle and tucked it into her apron pocket, then pointed at two small boxes. “Also cyanide remedy,” she explained.

  Alexa examined the smaller boxes. They contained vials of liquid sodium thiosulfate, which Alexa considered as a backup plan. The dose of sodium thiosulfate was twelve point five grams IV diluted, for a total of fifty milliliters in a twenty-five percent solution.

  She also examined the larger box labeled Cyanide Remedy Kit. It contained the hydroxycobalamin she desired. The manufactured kit contained two vials of two point five grams of hydroxycobalamin to be administered intravenously. The smaller volume seemed more feasible.

  The woman had not brought Alexa any cyanide pills. She looked up at the woman, and before she could speak, the old woman asked, “You need cyanide?”

  Alexa smiled weakly. “Yes.”

  The woman went to a stack of stationary on the counter and wrote a note on the pretty pink paper. She handed it to Alexa. She saw an address listed at the top, and a paragraph written in French on the bottom.

  The address was in Barcelona, Spain. Instantly dismayed, her shoulders sagged heavily. Before Alexa could interject, the woman interrupted her thoughts.

  “Go here. Elena, my friend, will help. The note will get you what you need.” The woman pointed to the address she had written. “Take the train.” Alexa digested the information. “Tomorrow. Take the train.” Her firm tone was convincing. Maybe this will work.

  Alexa sifted through the remnants of her cash to pay the lady. She purchased two different cyanide remedy kits and one of the clay facemasks. She watched the bundle of Euros in her purse dwindle. She would need to withdraw more money from her account soon. She planned to transfer money into a second account under her alias so she could spend money under the new identity. She would go to the bank after stopping by Vincent’s. The passport would be necessary to open the account under the new identity. After gathering her bags, she headed back to her hotel. She wanted to change clothes and go for a run before dusk fell.

  A mere five miles into the run her left knee began to throb, and she decided to walk the last mile back to her hotel. She arrived just as the sun began to set.

  Each time she ran down the Paris streets, she tried to find the French café she and Britt had entered the night of levende lys that lingered in her mind. Tonight was another failed attempt.

  Following the run, she applied the clay mask to her face and plunged into a hot bath. She declined a night of dancing with Serge. She still had so much planning to do, and such a sh
ort time to accomplish it all. After the bath, she went back to her laptop, back to the FBI webpage. She needed some encouragement, and chose to read over Mohammed Ahmed’s crimes. She read until she cried, until the horror of it all became real to her. She paused on the reward page again. She put the computer aside and mixed a vodka soda to ease her nerves.

  She lay on the bed and thought about the reward. Is this a bad idea? Should I call someone? Should I tell someone about my plans? Who can I call? Who would take me seriously? Her mind drowned in a sea of questions and alcohol.

  A name floated to the surface. Justin Hunter. Justin was a very old flame from college. They had parted on good terms and managed to keep in touch by pure coincidence. They had bumped into one another time and again in the last few years, always meeting in the most peculiar of places. She saw him once in an organic food store in Atlanta when he had just started working with the Navy Seals, and once more in the O’Hare airport on a layover just a year ago. It was on this layover that Justin admitted working with a branch of the FBI that dealt in international affairs. He gave her his card. She had saved his contact information on her laptop.

  Alexa grabbed the hotel phone. Two o’clock in the morning in Paris meant seven o’clock in Washington D.C. With the cocktail in her hand, she figured she had just enough courage in her glass to dial his number. She called the number and waited for Justin to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Justin. It’s Alexa, Alexa DeBrow.”

  “Alexa? Hey, girl. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, Justin. I know it has.”

  “This is a surprise. I didn’t recognize the number. Are you in town or something? Are you looking to meet up? It’s not a good time for me.”

  “Justin, I’m not in town. I need a favor. I need a name, a contact, really. Are you still working in the same place?”

  “Uh, yeah, same place. Hey, Lex — I have a little girl now. She’s with her mom tonight. We’re, um — getting married soon.”

  Alexa blushed. Wow. Does he think this is a booty call?

  “That’s great, Justin.” She tried her best to change the subject. “I’m really happy for you. Listen, I am kind of in a situation now. I need to talk to someone who can help. I’m thinking someone from the FBI can help me.”

  “Um. Okay. I wasn’t expecting this. Hmm, what can I do?”

  “I’ve run into someone. He’s a criminal, actually. I need to let someone know about it. Whom should I speak with?”

  “Wow. That’s pretty heavy shit, Lex. Are you in trouble or something?” His tone changed abruptly.

  “No. Not really. No trouble. I just know things, and I need to talk to someone.” Alexa had no intention of telling Justin the whole story. She just wanted to tell him enough to be sure he would get the appropriate contact for her. She waited on the line in suspense.

  “Okay. Well, there is this guy I know. We’ve bowled together once or twice. The guy’s name is Charles MacDonald; he works for the state department in special investigations and foreign affairs. Cool guy. I just call him Charlie Mac. He can probably help.” Justin rattled off the number. “If you want, I can let him know you’re calling.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll try the number first thing in the morning. If I can’t get ahold of him, I’ll get back with you. Thanks, Justin.”

  “Shit, Alexa. When I gave you that card, I was hoping to meet for drinks, or sex, or something. You know — before my kid came. I never thought you would need something like this. Does it have anything to do with that trial I saw on T.V. a few months back?”

  Alexa winced.

  “No, Justin. I’m fine.”

  “You would tell me if you were in trouble, right?”

  “Of course. I’m fine. Thanks for your help. Congratulations again. Take care.”

  She hung up the phone. She had forgotten that Justin spoke without a filter. Why did he expect a booty call when our relationship was mostly platonic? They had only dated for a month, and that time consisted mainly of a few outings with a couple of good make-out sessions. It didn’t take long for the physical relationship to fizzle, and she became aware of the lack of an emotional connection between them.

  Alexa admired the little note with her new contact’s information on it. Charlie Mac, we will speak tomorrow. She set an alarm to wake her in time to catch the train and fell asleep within minutes.

  This time, she dreamed of losing Britt. He was with her in the taxicab, and he drowned in spite of all of her efforts. She woke with a sense of loss that could only be matched by the reality of losing him in real life. For a moment, she wondered if she would ever get him back, but the notion was fleeting.

  The alarm went off at four in the morning Paris time, which corresponded to ten o’clock at night D.C. time. She would have to wait to call Charles MacDonald. A new thought crossed her mind. She would call later in the day, from Barcelona, where she wouldn’t have to worry about her call being traced to her hotel. What will I say to him? He works for the government; I can’t lie. She had a train ride to contemplate which version of the truth she would disclose.

  CHAPTER 18

  Alexa prepared for the early morning train departure of five-twenty a.m. She arrived at the station by five o’clock. She boarded the train and slumped onto a bench seat, rested her head in folded arms propped against the window, and drifted in and out of sleep. She fantasized about her time with Britt. So much time had passed, the memories became mere fantasies.

  She remembered the day they met. She was running in downtown Austin along a popular running path. Britt’s chiseled build ran toward her from the opposite direction. The sidewalk narrowed, and they both neared a woman struggling between juggling her cocker spaniel and her double stroller. She blocked the path ahead of them. At the last minute, Alexa veered right, and Britt swerved left. Since they came from opposite directions, their bodies smacked into one another.

  Jarred by the brute force of Britt’s body against hers, she stumbled backwards after the impact. She would have fallen onto the pavement if he hadn’t reached out for her. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her body toward his. Their torsos collided once more. Her eyes met his honey-almond eyes, dotted with little flecks of copper. Feeling safe in his grasp, she became lost in his stare. She stopped breathing. She wanted him from that moment. She knew that she would love him, if he would let her.

  Their intimate embrace loosened, allowing for the exchange of apologies and awkward smiles. Brief introductions and casual small talk centered on their running habits followed.

  Her cheeks reddened. “I’m only running five miles today, but sometimes I go farther. How about you?”

  “I’m about eight miles into my fifteen-mile run. I like to run by the water, and sometimes I veer off downtown.” His confident manner and soothing voice warmed her insides like comfort food. “This is my first collision. I didn’t mean for it, but I’m glad I ran into you.”

  Overcome by his good looks, a flash of desire burned in her cheeks and she looked away for a moment. When she turned back, Britt’s eyes were scanning her curves up and down. He lifted his eyes to her face. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

  She flicked her lids playfully. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Well, how about some company on your run?”

  “I was about to head home.”

  “Okay. That works for me. I’ll escort you home.”

  “I won’t slow you down?”

  “You can set the pace. I’ll follow your lead.”

  “All right, then.”

  The two ran toward Alexa’s apartment. They talked about themselves, their families, and their aspirations. She examined their commonalities. He shared her curiosity for everything — travel, history, religion, and literature. Each yearning to broaden their horizons, they had a mutual passion for enlightenment. Britt came from a family of political power, his father a former senator, and he was carefully persuaded to follow his father’s path. Yet
Britt maintained a foothold in the business world, as well, graduating with an MBA from Duke. A natural capitalist, his forte was purchasing struggling companies for low prices, and tweaking them to make them profitable again. She could see he made brilliant business decisions quickly, without sacrificing the blue-collar class workers that were often disrespected by his counterparts. He told her that one of his key strategies for increasing productivity was to decrease the salary gap between blue-collar and white-collar positions, and to give production bonuses to everyone on staff for both individual and group successes. She admired his wit and determination.

  She was roused back to reality when the train brakes squealed and her body jolted forward. The sun rays warmed her face through the glass. She had slept for hours. Frantic, she looked for her watch to check the time. Nine-fifteen a.m. I won’t arrive until afternoon. Alexa eased back against the seat and glanced at the address the white-haired woman had written down for her. I’m going all the way to Spain based on the whim of a half-crazed old lady. Hope this isn’t a wild goose chase. The idea suddenly seemed very silly, and she held back a giggle. A refreshment cart headed down the aisle. She ordered a hot tea and a bowl of oatmeal. Around noon, she managed a second hot tea and a ham sandwich before she finally reached Barcelona.

  She hopped into a cab and handed the address to the driver. A few winding blocks later, she arrived at a small, one-story building surrounded by much taller shops and residential flats. She entered through a little red door flanked by small windows with planter boxes containing yellow and purple petunias.

  Inside, a woman sat stooped over a bowl of soup behind a counter. It looked like another apothecary, and the inside of the store resembled the one Alexa had encountered in Paris. This woman was much younger than the white-haired old French lady, and she was dressed far more eccentric, with colorful make-up and bright colored flowing clothes and scarves.

  “Bonjour!” Alexa exclaimed in a cheery voice to get the woman’s attention. Her countenance shrank when she realized she was speaking French in Spain.