Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  The woman acknowledged Alexa’s greeting with a peculiar smile.

  “You need help?” she prompted in English.

  She must know I’m a tourist. “Yes. Please.” Alexa fumbled in her pocket for the piece of stationary with the note. As her fingers wrapped around the paper, she realized she had no idea what the message said. I guess I’m putting my faith in the old woman. She sighed and handed the note to the eccentric storeowner, wondering if this entire trip was an old woman playing a prank on a foolish American. Alexa held her breath as the lady scanned the paper. The woman grabbed a pair of purple horn-rimmed glasses from the chain that dangled round her neck to better inspect the note. The infinitely long and awkward pause caused Alexa’s heart to flutter.

  Finally, the woman looked up at Alexa with a very serious demeanor. But then her expression changed, and she burst out laughing. Her head flew back, and the purple glasses swung violently on their chain as she let out a bellowing fit of cackles.

  Alexa stopped cold. Her laughter is worse than the silence!

  The Spanish woman grabbed Alexa tightly by the arm and rubbed her shoulder, as if to console her.

  “Querida, pobrecita. He must do horrible thing.” The woman glowed with excitement and energy. Her eyes became alive and moved rhythmically as she spoke. “But I help you, querida. We fix him good. We fix him for good. Do not worry, querida. I fix many men for good. Is easy.” The Spanish woman led Alexa to the back of the store, behind a back door into a small kitchenette area. From behind a cupboard, the woman grabbed a plastic storage container full of little pills.

  “Cyanide, querida. One is good, but two work also. You crush them, yes? Mix with water.” The woman acted out the words as she spoke broken English. She continued, “They beat, they cheat — you poison. No?” She smiled another devilish grin.

  Alexa tried hard not to look dumbfounded as she slowly put together the words she heard. She eyed the now crumpled note held in the smiling woman’s hand. Does that note say I need cyanide to kill a husband or lover who treated me badly? Wow. Okay. Play along, Lex; it seems to be working.

  “I can crush them and mix them in water?” she questioned.

  “Yes.” The store clerk led her back to the cash register. “Must not get caught,” she pleaded. “How many?”

  Alexa held up three fingers.

  “Is forty euros.”

  Alexa paid in cash. As she put out her hand, the woman grabbed it.

  “No ring. You leave him?”

  Alexa hesitated; she was unaware of the details of the lie to better explain it.

  “No. But I told my family I left him.” She said the words solemnly and put her head down at the end. The woman seemed to believe her. Maybe I’m not such a bad liar after all.

  “Go, querida. Give the pills. It will be okay.”

  Alexa grabbed the little paper sack the woman had put three cyanide pills into and smiled weakly on her way out the door.

  Alexa walked through the cobblestone streets heading back to the train station, when she realized she still needed to call Charlie Mac. She checked her watch. Her train departed at two-thirty p.m. She had close to two hours before she needed to be back at the station. She decided not to make the phone call too near the train station. She wanted him to think she was staying in Barcelona — just in case.

  She turned away from the train station and headed in the opposite direction. She hustled through tourists, sightseeing groups, and pedestrians. Her pulse quickened at the new pace. She continued such for about forty minutes before she stumbled across a pay phone. She grabbed the receiver and dialed the number she’d been given. It was early office hours in D.C., and she got a recording that transferred the call to his cell. It rang twice before he answered.

  “Hello?” a stern male voice questioned.

  “Hello, Charles. This is Alexa DeBrow. Justin gave me your number, Justin Hunter. He thought you could help me — or, perhaps, I could help you.”

  The voice on the other end turned softer. “Justin, eh? All right. What can I do for you, Miss DeBrow? And what is it that you think you can do for me?”

  She hesitated while trying to place his accent. Sounds northeastern.

  “Your name sounds familiar to me, Miss DeBrow. Have we met before?”

  “No. We haven’t met. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” I made so many news headlines. Jeez, if he recognizes my name, maybe I should hang up and move on. She pressed forward regardless.

  “I have met someone of interest to you,” she continued. “Mohammed Ahmed. I know the FBI has a bounty on his head, alive or dead. I plan to accept the bounty for the latter.”

  “Alexa DeBrow. Yes, I’m sure I’ve heard that name. No worries, the reason will come to me. Now, what did you say? I’m not sure I heard correctly. You’ve come across one of my most wanted men? Hmm. I hope he didn’t cause you harm in any way.”

  “No. He didn’t hurt me.” His questions were distracting.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “I can’t answer that. I’m sorry.”

  “Then tell me why it is that you want him dead, exactly? As you said yourself, the bounty is dead or alive. Wouldn’t alive be easier for everyone?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Her words flowed slowly, as if she was inebriated, and her thoughts began to muddle. “Capturing him alive is riskier. Giving you his whereabouts is also a little risky. I need to know for sure that he is dead. It’s safer for everyone.” Why so many questions? He sounds just like Detective Marcum. She fidgeted with the phone cord, feeling as if she had returned to the trial.

  “Why do you say that it is safer?”

  Alexa weighed the question carefully, afraid of hanging herself on the short rope he dangled in front of her.

  “Because . . .” she took a deep breath, “letting a man like that run around freely puts the rest of us at risk. We’re all in danger while he’s still breathing.”

  “Danger?”

  “Yes. Danger. You know better than I do about how many innocent lives he has taken.” Not just words, but feelings were pouring out of her lips, and she put a hand to her mouth to try to stop the flood. Don’t get emotional, Lex.

  He paused. “It’s Dr. DeBrow. Isn’t it? That’s why you sound familiar. I remember your story. Is that why you took his life — that man who attacked you? You were afraid he put the rest of us at risk?”

  She couldn’t stop the hot tears from collecting in her eyes. She had failed Charles MacDonald’s interrogation. She didn’t know how to defend herself anymore. Her courage abandoned her, and she was only left with anger.

  “No,” she hissed into the receiver, pounding her fist into the glass wall of the phone booth. “There was no time to think when I killed Jamar Reading. I stopped him from killing me. It was all I was capable of. But I am glad I killed him, because that means he’s not around to hurt anyone else.”

  “When you kill Mohammed, how do you plan to do it?” Charles never lost his cool.

  Alexa paused. “Machiavellian strategy.”

  “What?” MacDonald scoffed.

  “I’m an opportunist, Mr. MacDonald. I plan to make use of the opportunity I’m given.”

  “Are you trying to woo him with your charms, Miss? As I recall, you’re aesthetically pleasing, but I’m not sure that strategy suits you.” He was flamboyant with mockery.

  “No.” She hesitated. “I plan to distract him with cunning manipulation, until I can get close enough . . . to poison him.”

  “Poison?”

  “It’s clean.”

  “You mean cleaner than a knife to the neck, Dr. DeBrow?”

  His taunts gave her chills. Livid, she wanted to curse and scream.

  “Jamar’s death wasn’t planned. Understand that.”

  “I do, Dr. DeBrow. I understand justice isn’t always pretty. It’s my job, and it certainly isn’t a pretty job. All right, Miss, we’ll play things your way. If you want to take out one of America’s most wanted, I won�
�t try to stop you. Are you expecting compensation for you efforts? Or is this an act of human decency?”

  “It’s why I called you, Charles.”

  “I suppose that’s fair. If you carry out your end of the agreement, I can make sure you receive the appropriate compensation. I must warn you, however, Miss DeBrow. It isn’t an easy task you are attempting, and I strongly recommend you reconsider. You are dealing with a murderer, and I guarantee you he has no concern for the loss of another life. He will kill you if he can, or he will have one of his employees kill you for him. Regardless, you should know your life is at stake. If you die in your attempts, our agreement will no longer exist. Understand that.”

  “Agreed,” she murmured.

  “You will need to contact me immediately if you are successful. We will speak of compensation if you survive. Tell me where you are.”

  “In time.”

  “All right. Have it your way, Miss DeBrow.”

  “Charlie?” Her voice turned small and childlike.

  “Yes, Alexa.” His words turned softer as well, to match her tone. He almost sounded parental.

  “I will be successful. I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope so, for your sake, my dear. Enjoy Barcelona.”

  “Goodbye, Charlie.”

  She hung up the phone and contemplated their discussion. He traced my call. Despite MacDonald’s jeering, she was glad she called him. She needed someone to confide in. The conversation had been emotionally taxing, however, and her anxiety materialized in the tears that fell from her eyes.

  She wiped the salty liquid from her cheeks and checked the little gold Rolex on her wrist. She needed to hurry if she was going to make the train. She jogged back to the station in time to board as the final passenger. Another hot tea and a granola bar sustained her until she reached her hotel.

  CHAPTER 19

  Alexa lay in bed thinking of Charlie Mac. She wanted to like him; she wanted to trust him. But she feared him. Who knows what he has in store for me? Perhaps he’s on his way to find me now and arrest me. Had she committed a crime? Not yet. Perhaps my intentions are criminal. She wasn’t sure. She feared she had overstepped a boundary today, and she fell asleep disillusioned.

  When she awakened, it was early morning and still dark outside. Restless, she went for a run before breakfast and an espresso. Thursday. Time to pick up my new passports from Vincent. She hoped he wouldn’t be cross with her. After suffering Charlie Mac’s questioning, she didn’t want to deal with Vincent’s sarcasm and sharp tongue. They had agreed to meet in the afternoon, but she planned to go early so she could stop by the bank before it closed.

  An uneventful cab ride brought Alexa to his shop. She pressed the buzzer three times with no response, then knocked hard on the metal door. The door squeaked open a crack, and thick cigar smoke billowed from the doorway. Vincent’s pointy nose peeked through the opening. Alexa couldn’t help but think that everyone in Paris had a pointed nose and a pompous air. The thought brought a sense of humor to the situation that helped diffuse her fear, and the tension in her shoulders eased a bit.

  “You have my money, eh?” he sneered.

  She nodded. He opened the door further, and she followed him inside.

  It seemed darker than she remembered. The curtain of cigar smoke stifled her. Someone else was in the room with them. A young girl wrapped in nothing but a white sheet sat quietly on a chair away from them. Concern pricked Alexa’s conscience as a wave of goosebumps rippled over her flesh. But the girl didn’t look afraid. In fact, she seemed calm, bored even.

  “Don’t mind the girl. She wants to be model.” He said the word with disgust. “Stupid girl, like stupid American.” He gestured to Alexa, who glanced back at the girl. The girl managed a half-smile, as if she recognized the word model. Alexa frowned; she couldn’t be over eighteen.

  Vincent handed Alexa the faux passports. She flipped through the pages quickly. They look genuine. But what does my opinion matter? Will the authorities and police inspectors believe they are authentic?

  She took a deep breath and, with a leap of faith, handed the money over to Vincent. He proceeded to count it, then gave another hand gesture to shoo her away. Alexa cast a final wary glance at the teenage girl as she exited the shop.

  The air outside was cool and fresh. Alexa breathed it in heartily. She headed to an international bank she had passed a few weeks earlier. Time to test the quality of Vincent’s handiwork. She knew if her passport didn’t pass the bank’s inspection, there would be consequences.

  She planned to set up an account under her new identity, Elizabeth Fuguay. If successful, she would head to a second bank to transfer funds from her current account to the new account under the false identity. For the first time, Alexa realized embracing a new life meant condoning deception. She would be living a lie. It’s a necessary evil, she told herself. But she suddenly felt very similar to the youth shrouded in sheets at Vincent’s, who could be thinking the same thing.

  Struggling with finding a way to accept the deception that came with her plan, she forced herself to remember that she came to Paris to forget Alexa DeBrow and to forget the pain of her former life so she could embrace a new life. After everything she had experienced, didn’t she deserve that much? It’s not really a lie. More like, a transformation. Yes, a transformation! She could endure that.

  Perhaps Elizabeth Fuguay can be an improvement on Alexa DeBrow. She can embody the courage and composure that I lack. Elizabeth can retain strength where Alexa faltered. The transformation meant possibilities, and finally, Alexa felt optimistic. Hope spread across her face like a ray of summer sunshine.

  She carried her new outlook into the International Bank of Paris. The security officer at the door directed her to an English-speaking accounts manager.

  “Hi, I’m Adam. I see you are an American.” A young college-aged kid with sandy-blond hair held out his hand.

  He’s American! His accent sounded like music to her ears. “Yes. I’m Elizabeth. Elizabeth Fuguay. It’s a pleasure.” She reached for his extended hand. His constant eye contact and persistent smirking struck her as flirtatious. Flirting is a good sign. If he likes me, he might be less likely to question my passport.

  They made small talk. They chatted about where they were from, what brought them to Paris, that kind of thing. Alexa rattled off a story about being from Ohio, going to London for college, then traveling to Paris and staying on a whim. She told him she’d finally gotten her own job and wanted a separate account from her parents’. He bought her untruth.

  Alexa had just over the minimum amount of cash to open an account. The American man happily accepted her money and supporting documentation to open her foreign account. He stepped out of his little glass office to make copies of her identification. When he returned, she was all set to go.

  “We appreciate your business.” They shook hands again.

  “Anytime. It’s good to see another American, for a change.”

  They exchanged smiles, and Alexa walked out the door, giddy as a schoolgirl. “Thank you, Vincent,” she whispered into thin air.

  She left later than she had planned. She would have to save her second bank trip for another day, perhaps tomorrow morning. Friday morning. Friday night was the night of Castro’s birthday extravaganza, the night she planned to kill him. Alexa stored her nerves in the pit of her stomach. She stopped by the drug store on the way back to her hotel to buy a nice big bottle of antacids. She spent the evening hours in her hotel room sprawled on the bed, plotting her attack.

  Serge had told Alexa to meet him downstairs at ten p.m. His cab would arrive at her hotel, and they would make a few short stops to pick up other members of the entourage before arriving at the party. She didn’t know when she would make her move. She would have to play it by ear. After slipping Castro the poison, she needed a quick getaway.

  That’s where it got tricky. She needed Serge to get into the party, but she didn’t know how to flee the scene quic
kly and unnoticeably after slipping Castro the poison. How could she leave safely? With Serge or without him? She imagined the worst-case scenario: Castro dying in front of her eyes and everyone suspecting her, brutes circling her and shooting her on the spot.

  “How can I keep them from suspecting me?” she pondered aloud. How could she fool them into thinking her closeness to him prior to his death was mere coincidence? I will sip the poison first. Surely if they watch me drink from the same tainted glass, no one will suspect a thing.

  Her own idea made her uneasy. Putting that poison in her mouth seemed extreme. It’s not a suicide mission. I have the antidote. But it was an intravenous antidote, and would require a venous puncture for its administration. Moreover, she would have to administer it immediately — and secretly, to prevent causing a scene. Worry lines spread over her face. Maybe I won’t have to drink the cyanide liquor mixture, but I should be prepared either way. I’ll need needles and syringes from the pharmacy.

  Her hand went to the bottle of cyanide pills sitting on the pillow. Each pill was coated a pale yellow color. She hoped they would dissolve in liquor, but she didn’t have a spare to test the theory. So many unknowns make planning difficult. She rubbed the spot between her brows with her knuckle to smooth the tension lines on her face. Relax, Lex. If it becomes too difficult, bail. But she didn’t want to admit defeat. Elizabeth Fuguay wouldn’t bail. The words echoed in her subconscious. Doing this will prove that the world is a better place without Jamar Readings and Mohammed Ahmeds running around hurting innocent people. Their victims need justice. I have to do this.

  She didn’t sleep that night, but she hadn’t expected to. There was no use trying. Instead, she went over a list of items she would need from the pharmacy: IV needles, IV tubing, empty syringes, and a bag of normal saline. She would need to crush the cyanide pills, and she would need a saline-locked IV prior to administering the poison. She would need a vein that was covered by her gown, and tape to hold the IV in place. The list should be easy to acquire at the pharmacy. European guidelines were less stringent than U.S. guidelines.