Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  “Keep up with her, how?”

  “It’s not hard for me to find someone. Find out where they live. Where they work. Hell, I can check her credit history. I know she’s doing all right that way. She bought herself a little condo in Atlanta last summer. I was proud of that. She saves her money. That means she’s practical.” He smiled to himself. “She’s got a man in her life. He seems like a good guy, from a good family and all. He’s a college professor. I looked into him; he checked out okay. Maybe they’ll get married. I don’t know.” His voice trailed off. She could tell the small talk made him uncomfortable.

  “You’re a good girl, from a good family. You remind me a lot of her. Lily, that is, my daughter. You had a real nice life going for you. I did my homework on you, too. Then one bad turn of events, and you wind up here. Is this really where you want to be right now?”

  His honesty was almost too much for her to bear. She tried to avoid such questions, but the words bubbled out of her like water from a mountain spring.

  “You know I was a radiologist, Mike. Do you know what that is? The doctor who interprets MRIs and CTs and x-rays?” He nodded. “I was working overnight once in the ER. An internist came down to have me look at a head CT to evaluate for a bleed. We chatted. He asked me how many years of training it took to become a radiologist. I said my residency training was five years after med school, plus an additional fellowship year. I remember the way he rolled his eyes. Medicine is only three years, you see. He told me how he didn’t understand why it took so long. He said radiology was easy — the answer was staring you in the face in black and white.”

  Alexa furrowed her brow. “He was naïve to think the job is easy. People tend to think things aren’t difficult when they don’t understand them. It’s funny to me that what he saw was only black and white, when all I see are shades of gray. That’s how I felt after the Jamar incident. Everyone around me judged my actions so harshly. All they saw was that I killed a man, and they condemned me because killing is wrong. It was different to me. I really saw some good in what I did. I thought taking one dangerous man out of the world would make it a safer place for the rest of us.”

  His eyes locked on hers. Soft eyes contrasted his harsh façade. A gnat buzzed around his ear; he didn’t blink. She continued.

  “Maybe it’s different for those who see the world in black and white, wrong and right, bad and good. The whole thing is a little harder for me to swallow. For years, I devoted my efforts to trying to do what was right for those around me. I helped people, whether they deserved it or not. I’m not even sure that work ever really made a difference. Then, when Jamar died — I was proud for being responsible. I felt like I had changed the world, in spite of others’ condemnation. Putting an end to something so evil seemed right. That’s why I killed Mohammed Ahmed. He took so many innocent lives. He wasn’t innocent; he was cruel. He needed to be stopped. I’m glad I stopped him. Now, I’ll stop Ivan.” She tried to sound confident, but her voice cracked with her last sentence.

  Mike jumped up from the table and pushed away his plate. “You’re not ready for this.” He started to walk away.

  Alarmed, she followed him.

  “But I will be ready. With your help, I will be ready. Maybe I should meet with the other girls — the ones from the photos.”

  “Stop fooling yourself, kid.” His back was toward her, and he kept walking.

  “Talking with Corbin helped. The other girls could help even more, help me to understand him —”

  He cut her off. “Not possible.”

  “I’m not afraid, Mike. You need to know that.”

  He turned to face her.

  “You should be afraid.” His words cut through the air that separated them.

  “But I’m not!”

  “The other girls are dead. Ivan killed them. That’s why their eyes were covered like that. He killed them all. They can’t help you.”

  She paused mid-step and fought the lump forming in her throat. She scolded herself for not recognizing the post-mortem images on her own. His steps away from her grew longer. She hurried to catch up with him.

  “I’m not afraid,” she repeated.

  “Why? Because you don’t think you have anything to lose? You have a lot to lose, trust me. You have a lot to live for.”

  “I’m not afraid because I can do this.”

  “Bullshit!” He seemed more than angry; he was emotional. He’d been stone-faced. She didn’t expect this. There was more to it than he was letting on. It was like he cared about her — but he didn’t even know her, not really.

  It hit her suddenly. It’s his daughter. He said I reminded him of his daughter. That’s what this is about. Mike isn’t trying to protect me; he is trying to protect Lily.

  Alexa focused all of her emotion and energy into sheer force and shoved Mike from behind with all her might. The ox of a man lost his balance for a moment and stumbled two steps forward. That’s all she was capable of — shoving his three-hundred pounds two meager steps. He turned to face her once more. She gathered her balance and shoved him again. He was prepared this time; he didn’t lose a step.

  “I can do this!”

  “No. Not you! We’ll find someone else.”

  “I can do this!”

  They were both yelling now. She reached out to shove him once more. This time, he grabbed both her wrists. His face had turned red, his eyes watery. Although shocked by his teary eyes, she held her ground. She spoke her next words slowly and firmly. “I will kill Ivan, Mike — with your help.”

  “Dammit, girl. Why do you want this so bad?”

  “I don’t know, Mike. But I need to do this.”

  He paused. His lips quivered, and he looked her straight in the eye. “All right. We’ll give it a try.”

  “No. We are not giving it a try. This is going to work.”

  “Fine. It’s going to be hard as hell, though.”

  The tension in her face softened. “That’s why I have you. I need you. You can’t give up on me.”

  CHAPTER 28

  She led him back to the poolside patio. The usually deserted place would be a good spot to devise a plan. They settled at the table with the best view of the sea.

  “Why do you think Ivan killed all of the other girls, but not Corbin?” she asked aloud.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. She was lucky, I guess.”

  “I think it’s because she stopped being afraid of him. I think she accepted death easier than the others. That’s why he spared her. He lost interest when she stopped being afraid. It’s not their pain that fuels him; it’s their fear.”

  Mike nodded. “You may have a knack for this, after all. But I doubt that piece of information is going to help you very much.”

  He’s right. That tidbit won’t save me if things go awry. If Ivan gets the upper hand, no strategy will save me. He’ll take my life without hesitation. She cringed.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing Ivan’s history, distinguishing marks, and patterns of behavior. Alexa took mental notes of the discussion. She even committed the benign details to memory, like the European brand of cigarette he smoked with a white carton and black letters. She saw the pattern of his attire; typically he wore neutral tones, shades of gray, black, or occasional navy. He wore turtlenecks and trousers. Never jeans. He donned dark aviator sunglasses throughout the day, wore his hair short, and appeared clean-shaven.

  In one photo, he lacked a turtleneck, and his bare skinned neck revealed something interesting. She saw a scar on the left side of his neck that lie in a similar location to the place she stabbed Jamar. Alexa interrupted Mike’s update on Ivan’s recent travels. “What’s this?”

  He looked at the photo and shook his head. “Don’t know.” He dismissed the question and returned to his soliloquy.

  She interjected again. “It looks like he has a scar on his neck.” Alexa traced the scar on the blown-up image of Ivan’s face. “It’s right over — his carotid.” T
he resemblance is eerie.

  Mike had been mentioning details of Ivan’s trek through Switzerland last week, but now stared at her blankly.

  “Where is he now?” she asked.

  “Versailles, outside Paris.”

  “How do you propose that I kill Ivan, Mike?”

  “I assume you’ll enter his hotel room just like all of those other girls, and shoot him. I’ll give you a gun with a silencer and make sure you know how to use it. We’ll work on that tomorrow.”

  “And if that doesn’t work, is there a back-up plan?”

  “No back-up plan. I’m your back-up. I’ll be within ten minutes of you the whole time.”

  Ten minutes is too long. I need a plan B — another weapon in case plan A falls apart. I can’t wrestle Ivan, he’ll ki — no. I can’t wrestle Ivan. Alexa’s finger still lay on the scar in the picture. She thought about using a knife. I could stab him, just like Jamar. She imagined her hand slicing through the air. Seems risky. Doubt I can conceal a knife long enough to finish him off.

  What if I didn’t use a knife? What if I used . . . a syringe . . . filled with air? Air embolism to the brain was a risk associated with numerous medical procedures. She had seen an air embolus once in a male carotid endarterectomy patient in his late seventies who had his vessels “cleaned out” from atherosclerotic plaque buildup. Air accidentally leaked into the artery that led to the brain, causing a stroke, and the patient coded on the table about twenty minutes into the procedure. Alexa had read the emergent CT scan of his head. A peculiar little collection of gas gathered in his Circle of Willis — the place where all of the arteries to the brain converge. Only a hyperbaric oxygen chamber could save him, but it was too late; he died on the scanner.

  She couldn’t shake the idea of injecting an air embolus from her mind. If I put a sharp needle into the scar, he may not feel a thing. Scar tissue often lacked sensation after the nerve endings were cut and regressed with healing. I’d have to be very close to Ivan to pull that off, close enough to touch him. She winced at the thought. If she let him get close enough to put his hands on her, she doubted she could escape his grasp. I can’t die like the other girls. It would be like letting Jamar win all over again.

  She scolded herself for the sudden feelings of weakness. Jamar didn’t win, she forced herself to remember. Jamar will never win. And Ivan will die. She repeated the words, letting them become her mantra.

  Mike went over other details regarding Ivan’s whereabouts and his thoughts of Ivan’s upcoming agenda. She would meet Ivan in Versailles in three days to confront him. In the interim, Mike would critique her shooting skills and teach her some self-defense tactics.

  As their discussion grew to a close, he reached a hand into his jacket and revealed a plastic bag filled with a couple of cards and documents. “I almost forgot. You’ll be traveling under your alias. I guess this is something you and Charlie discussed. He said you had the passport already. I have a few additional things, including a credit card in your alias for expenses.”

  Alexa’s eyes followed the card he slid across the table to her. She gasped when she read the name on the card: Elizabeth Fuguay. Her stomach flip-flopped. Her teeth gnawed into cheek, too afraid to speak. If Charles MacDonald knows about Elizabeth Fuguay, he knows too much. In spite of her agreement with Charlie, she had maintained the belief that she would one day escape all of the tragic events and start anew as Elizabeth Fuguay. But if Charles MacDonald knew of her proposed new identity, she would have to abandon it altogether. He trapped me.

  Alexa reached out for the card and set both hands atop the documents he set before her. She traced the letters with her fingertips and whispered the name aloud. “Elizabeth Fuguay.” Not what I had planned at all. Bitter irony burned in her gut. Instead of a new identity bringing her freedom, she had become a different kind of prisoner — one who answered to Charles MacDonald. Hot, salty tears pooled in her eyes, but she willed her body not to shed them. Tears won’t help. She suppressed the feeling, placing it where she hid the rest of her pain. When she looked back up at Mike, her blank face proved her emotions were safely locked away. He stood.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Get some rest.”

  She said nothing as he walked away.

  She slipped into a state of confusion. What are you planning, Charlie? You stole my future, my blank slate. Why? So I can be your pawn? Your sacrificial lamb? Exasperated, she stretched her hands across the table and set her chin on her arms. Why am I doing this? She remembered Corbin’s words and her bitterness. For his victims. I kill him for his victims. Damn you, Charlie for getting me into this. She forced a deep cleansing breath and told herself she was not a sacrificial lamb; but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  That night over a couple of vodka sodas, Alexa visualized meeting with Ivan and killing him. Mike had set her up with an escort service near Ivan, but she would have to wait for him to call the escort service. Based on his pattern of behavior, Mike thought he would most certainly call. Once he did, she would go to his hotel room. He’d open the door; she’d enter. The door had to be closed before she could carry out her plan. Mike was adamant about that part. The kill was supposed to be concealed and discreet. They didn’t want to provoke any of Ivan’s allies or cause a scene of any sort. He needed to disappear quietly.

  Once the door closed, she would pull her handgun from her trench coat while pretending to undress, and shoot Ivan in the chest. No, she would shoot him in the heart, to be precise. She needed to be precise.

  She visualized the events smoothly a couple of times. After the second vodka soda hit her, the details blurred in her mind, and Alexa lost her sharpness. Her imagination ran wild. She pictured herself entering Ivan’s hotel room, and him shoving her to the ground. The gun tumbled out of her coat. They wrestled on the floor. Ivan got the gun. It was too late for Alexa; without a weapon, she didn’t stand a chance.

  She opened her eyes in a panic, shut them tight, and started again.

  Once more, Ivan shoved her from behind and Alexa hit the ground, the gun tumbling from her coat. This time, she clasped a syringe in her hand and pierced Ivan’s neck scar in the midst of the struggle. She imagined air bubbles winding through the segments of Ivan’s internal carotid artery before swirling around in the Circle of Willis and depositing in his cerebral arteries.

  In a moment of satisfaction, her eyes popped opened, and the corners of her lips turned upwards. Yes. I will bring a syringe the day I meet Ivan. Maybe I should discuss it with Mike.

  A ring from the special phone Mike had given her interrupted her meditative state. The cheap little thing looked like a plastic toy from the bottom of a Crackerjack box.

  “I need you dressed and downstairs in the lobby by seven a.m.” Before he hung up, he added, “It’s best you learn to lay off the booze.”

  What? How does he know that? I’m under a microscope for Mike and Charlie to scrutinize. She was like a teenage child being berated by an overprotective parent. I should have another drink just to spite him. Her mind danced in its tipsy state as she searched for the vodka bottle. No. She frowned. He’s right. I don’t need anymore.

  She sulked on the bed, curling her knees into a fetal position while unanswered questions reverberated in her skull like laundry on the spin cycle. Why did Charlie ask me to do this? Why do I have to be a female escort? Can’t some man just shoot Ivan in the street? Do I really want to kill Ivan? Will it be satisfying?

  She focused her thoughts on what she knew was true and absolute. Ivan is a horrible man, and the world will be a safer place without him. It’s just like Jamar and Castro. Yes, Ivan’s death will be satisfying. His death by my hand will be satisfying. The swirling thoughts slowed, and she drifted to sleep.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mike picked her up in the morning at her hotel in his black SUV and drove her to a barn outside the city. He wanted to watch her shoot and teach her a few combat maneuvers. He confiscated her licensed handgun and replaced it with an unlicens
ed one. This gun was a larger model that came with a small silencer. He told her what it was called, but she quickly forgot the name of the fancy model. She learned to assemble and disassemble the gun, how to load and unload it. After dissecting its parts, it didn’t seem as fancy.

  He gave her tips on shooting targets while moving and strategies to conceal her weapon. He even taught her to shoot in reverse utilizing a hand mirror. Alexa thought her abilities would impress Mike, but he said very little. He had a lunch packed for them both, and they chatted some while they ate.

  “I think you’ll do all right after all, Poppy girl.” It was the second time that day he had referred to her as Poppy. The first time Alexa dismissed the remark, assuming it was a slip up meant for someone else. The second time, she knew it was a new nickname he was trying out on her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how it originated. Is Poppy somehow related to Lily, his daughter’s name? Mike must have a thing for flowers, she mused.

  “Mike, I couldn’t help but realize your new nickname for me.” He looked up at her, and their eyes met in an awkward moment. “Why Poppy?”

  Mike spoke with his mouth full of food and bits of sandwich moved in and out of his teeth. “Poppy — just seems fittin’, I guess. You’re pretty, you know, like a flower.”

  Confused, she pressed, “Okay, why not Rose or Petunia?”

  He smirked. “Poppies are different. Their seeds are used for opium, found in drugs like morphine and heroin. You’re that kind of pretty. It’s addictive to a man, like a drug. You’re addictive, and dangerous — and, with my help, deadly. You’re a poppy — a beautiful, deadly flower.”

  She appreciated the sentiment; she hoped the nickname stemmed from a growing confidence he had in her. His confidence was all she could ask for. In the back of her mind, however, she feared the nickname stemmed from the poppy flowers referenced in the poem “In Flanders Fields,” where red poppies grew over the graves of the fallen soldiers. From those words, the flowers became memorial symbols for soldiers who had died in battle. Somehow, the remembrance poppy seemed more fitting for Alexa, seeing as how she had a very real chance of falling in her upcoming battle. A chill crept over her and lingered at the base of her neck.