Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  “I best let you be now,” Mike said. “I’ll swing by tomorrow and check in on you.”

  Alexa nodded as the nurse helped her to her feet. Disoriented, Alexa shuffle-stepped down the hall like the old lady from the apothecary shop. Her gait improved on the return to her room, and at the end of the walk, the nurse offered to remove the urinary catheter. A step toward freedom.

  An hour later, the surgeon who had performed the emergent tracheostomy dropped by to inspect her airway. The doctor was an older American gentleman. “Glad to see you’re awake. We should be able to close this up in a day or two.”

  Her head bounced up and down excitedly. “To-mo-rrow,” she stammered.

  He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “I suppose we can arrange, that Miss.” She pointed to the clavicle. “That one will have to wait for another day; I’m afraid I can’t intubate you until your throat is fully healed.”

  She sensed judgment in his narrowed glance. Realizing this man must have seen her in her dominatrix outfit, he probably thought she was a hooker. Oh no! Everyone at the hospital probably thinks I’m a prostitute, half-strangled by my pimp. It was a rerun of the bouncer from the club the night Jamar died. The nurse probably felt sorry for her. She imagined how embarrassed Mike must have felt visiting.

  After a couple more days of recovery, Alexa could walk, talk, and eat without assistance. Her clavicle remained deformed, and it still hurt to talk and swallow. On the morning of her fifth hospital day, the nurse pulled her IV, and she was discharged by noon. Mike met her at the hospital with a bouquet of flowers — poppy flowers. How fitting.

  He drove her to an upscale hotel in Paris, where she settled in for the night. Her stuff was already inside the extensive suite when she arrived. She put the poppy bouquet on a side table and sprawled out on the sofa in the living area. She had a prescription for pain pills and an antibiotic to prevent infection in her neck. She took the antibiotic and ripped the pain pill script into pieces.

  She spent her first evening out of the hospital in a daze, which continued into the next morning. She felt lost. She forgot to eat, and her sleep was inconsistent throughout the night. She needed direction, but she wasn’t sure where she would find it.

  The ring of the Crackerjack phone interrupted her prolonged meditation. She had forgotten about it altogether, and the sound surprised her. She tried ignoring its cruel ring, but the caller was persistent, and Alexa was forced to locate it if she ever wanted the ringing to stop.

  She found it plugged into a charger perched on the bedroom nightstand. She stared at it with hesitation, knowing it was either Charles or Mike. She groaned internally and answered the phone.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Damn. She shuddered. “Hello, Charles.” Her voice quivered. Her throat still ached.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re recuperating.” His voice was unrightfully cheery.

  “I should congratulate you on your work with Ivan. Not what I expected, but whatever works, Miss Fuguay.”

  His determination to use her alias made her skin crawl. She lost her patience with him. “Do you need something, Charles, or is this your futile attempt to cheer me up?”

  “Do you need cheering, Miss Fuguay?”

  What an antagonizing tone!

  Charles continued without waiting for a response. “I need to meet with you. We need to discuss your future and new possibilities for you.”

  Alexa’s throat itched, a side effect of healing. She needed to clear her throat to speak comfortably, but she couldn’t do that without pain. She forced a few short, dry coughs.

  “When do you plan to meet, Charles?”

  “This evening. I’ll send a car for you. It will be there at six. I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up without waiting for her reply. Her shoulders slumped. She was expected to attend; the invitation wasn’t optional. A glance at the clock on the wall told her she had three hours of freedom until the fated meeting. She decided to drag her carcass off the couch and attempt a run.

  CHAPTER 35

  The run didn’t last long. Her body gave out after a paltry half mile. The tightness in her throat made tedious work trying to suck air in and out. She settled for a walk in the fashion district. Paris had lost a degree of its luster. Yet, her hotel was in one of the more luxurious neighborhoods, and each esteemed step was surrounded by grandeur. The buildings were glorious, the architecture and history lining the street surreal. Alexa slowly inhaled the beautiful scenery; it was intoxicating. She wandered past designer clothing boutiques. Exquisite leather handbags and pristine wool jackets filled the windows. Perfect little pieces of art. Her fingers traced the outline of a jacket she admired. Why can’t my hands create such things?

  She became distracted by a glimpse of her own reflection in the store window. The juxtaposition of the beautiful accessories hanging in the storefront and her own dreadful reflection disturbed her. She frowned at the sight. Her eyes fell to her hands on the glass. Instruments of death. She shuddered without understanding why. Regret? Remorse?

  Her ability to discern right from wrong was fading. Every act she had performed within the past year seemed muddled in a sea of gray somewhere on a spectrum in between right and wrong. She evaluated her actions, her decisions, every move, and found herself in a quandary. She wrung her hands, tangling her fingers in knots. The things I’ve done. Why? She couldn’t remember. Did she ever really know? How could she move forward if she wasn’t sure she’d chosen correctly in the past?

  In the store window, Alexa could distinguish the beauty of the fashionable art from the ugly appearance of her sallow countenance. She looked at the deformity of her clavicle, the healing scar on her neck, and the hollow look in her eyes and cheeks. She felt ugly inside and out. She sighed out loud, causing a tickle in her throat where the whistle used to be. I want to be beautiful again. I want to bring beauty into the world, since I failed to bring good into it.

  A clock chimed above her, and her digression was interrupted by a sudden awareness of the time. Oh no! I have to meet Charlie soon. Although apprehensive about the meeting, she didn’t have a choice. Mr. MacDonald cannot be stood up. If he wanted to meet her, he would find her. Alexa knew better than to piss him off. She tore her eyes away from the store window and headed back to her hotel.

  She had no desire to pretty herself up for Charlie. She felt ugly, and she made no attempt to hide it from him. She wore her workout attire and sneakers, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She stepped out of the hotel and found a private car waiting outside. It took her to another hotel about eight blocks away, where she was guided to an empty conference room in the back. He sat alone at a dark mahogany-stained table.

  “Hello, Charles.” She spoke first. He stood and motioned for her to sit.

  Charlie was dressed casually compared with their first meeting. He wore a gray knit sweater and khaki pants, while Alexa sported spandex capri pants and a tank top.

  “You look well, Miss Fuguay,” he bluffed.

  Alexa squirmed in her seat when he said that name. She diverted her glance from his just long enough to manage an eye roll.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she jeered. Her hand reached up and rubbed the healing scar on her throat, a nervous habit she’d acquired.

  “We should talk about your recovery and — um, when we can get you started on the next project. I have plans for you —” His words cut off abruptly, as though he had lost his train of thought. He looked older than she remembered. She saw the age in the creases around his eyes and the discoloration of his teeth. His hair seemed grayer and duller than before. It was as if the life had been washed out of it long ago. He looked weary, and for a moment, she wanted to feel sorry for him. She fought the emotion and tried to remain stone-faced.

  “What plans do you have, Charles?” she asked, trying to speed up the conversation.

  “We have another opportunity coming up. Given the success of your last assignment, I’m considering you for the positio
n. Of course, we have to make some adjustments before you can proceed.” He waved his hand in the direction of Alexa’s clavicle. “We need to get that fixed. It’s unsightly.”

  She narrowed her eyes. You don’t like my battle scars, Charlie? Imagine how I feel.

  “We can have that taken care of for you — if you’re interested in continuing this line of work.” He paused and his gaze burned into Alexa’s eyes, as if he were trying to look past them and peer directly into her thoughts. She almost broke under the pressure. She tried to contain her emotions, but a lump rose in her throat, which brought her attention back to it, and she found herself rubbing the scar again. Is he giving me a choice? Is he offering a way out? She was too timid to ask Charles these questions aloud. She could only hope he knew what she was thinking.

  “Do you want to continue this line of work?” His soft tone and slow speech disarmed her.

  She diverted the question. “I want to have this fixed . . . first.” She forced herself to move her hand from her throat to her broken collarbone.

  Charles nodded in agreement. “Of course. We can’t have you running around with that hump sticking out.” He frowned when he pointed his long skinny finger at Alexa’s deformity. She realized how self-conscious the deformity had made her. “And we’ll have that other scar fixed, as well.” He motioned to her neck, and her hand reflexively covered the area he spoke of. “For the task we have at hand, you must look your absolute best, Miss Fuguay. You see, it is a similar assignment to your last, and like Ivan, this man has very specific standards.” She bit her lip and shifted in her seat.

  “Are you interested in another assignment, Miss Fuguay?” he continued.

  Alexa’s head shook back and forth. Her subconscious answered no for her, but all she was capable of saying was, “I need some time to think about it — time to recover.”

  The corners of his lips sank in dismay. “I had high hopes for you, Miss Fuguay.” He leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, and Alexa knew she was about to get a patriarchal lecture. “I want you to remember you came to me. This was your idea. No one has asked anything more of you than you were willing to commit on your own behalf.”

  She nodded reluctantly. He was right, after all.

  “Do you wish to tell me what has changed your mind, then?” His tone turned overly charismatic, as if he were trying to cajole a secret from a small child. She didn’t answer. Of course I don’t want to tell you. I’m afraid of the potential repercussions.

  “I’ll remind you of your remarkable success with your last assignment. You should be very proud. With this recent victory comes strength. You are more prepared now than before. You will continue to grow stronger the longer you work with me, Miss Fuguay. I suggest you rethink your decision. You can become something remarkable.”

  “Or I can wind up in a body bag.” The words slipped out, and she couldn’t take them back. Not that she cared. She stared him down. His jaw dropped, but only by a small margin. The moment passed, and he was his composed self again.

  He started to speak, but Alexa interrupted him. “That body bag in the back of the car — it was for me. I thought it was for Ivan. But I was wrong. You were expecting me to fail — expecting me to die.” Her shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug. “Sorry, Charlie; as it turns out, I have a lot to live for.” She stole Mike’s words. He had been right; it just took a while for the message to sink in. Hot tears gathered in her eyes. The salt water burned. It was a good burn; it complimented the anger coursing through her veins.

  Charles stood. He held out his hand for Alexa to shake. Surprising. She didn’t expect to part on good terms. She stood as well.

  “It was a pleasure, Miss —” His words cut off.

  He didn’t know how to address her anymore. The two shook hands before he continued. “You’ve had a desire to change your identity for some time now. You should have that privilege after everything you have undergone. I know your choice was Elizabeth Fuguay. I’m afraid that won’t be an option for you anymore. That name has been associated with too much in our agency.” He reached up with one hand and stroked his chin. He looked Alexa in the eye. “You’re sure you want out?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “All right, then. I’ll need you to tell me what name you want now. It’s up to you. You have the freedom to be anyone you want, go anywhere you want. This is your chance to start over — if that is what you want. We’ll set you up with a new bank account and put your money into it.”

  Alexa contemplated the words Charlie spoke. Freedom to be anyone you want. It was all she had ever asked for, and now he was handing it to her, just like that. This was her opportunity to wholly embrace fugue state and adopt her new identity. She analyzed the events of the past year in her mind. I don’t want to run from the past anymore. She didn’t want to condemn those events. They happened; over and done with. She wanted to embrace the future — her future. After all, she had a lot to live for. What kind of life do I want?

  Charlie passed a blank sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen across the table. “Do you know who you want to be?” Deep wrinkles formed as he raised an eyebrow. “Just write it down for me. I’ll take care of the details. Make it a pretty name. A pretty girl like you deserves something pretty.”

  Her mind was in a tizzy. An unsteady hand reached out and grabbed the pen and paper. The other hand went to the scar on her neck. Who do I want to be? She stared hard at the paper. It’s a blank slate — an empty canvas, waiting to be transformed. She felt a flutter of anticipation run through her, and then calmness as she wrote on the paper:

  Alexa DeBrow.

  Charles stared at the words. He scratched his chin, and after a pause, he looked up at her. “It is a beautiful name; it suits you.”

  Charles mustered a weak hug, both unexpected and rather awkward.

  “Good luck to you. I wish you success in all your future endeavors,” he mumbled.

  Alexa half-smiled, and they parted ways.

  CHAPTER 36

  The next couple of days were a blur. Within forty-eight hours, she gathered her things, settled her affairs with Charlie Mac, and booked a flight back to the States. She was going to New York, where she’d arranged for an orthopedic surgeon in New York City, Jeff Huggins, to fix her clavicle deformity. Charlie would cover the bill.

  Jeff had attended medical school with her. He graduated in the top of their class, right behind her. She knew he might mention the trial, but she was ready to answer any questions he had. Accepting the past was part of being Alexa DeBrow. She couldn’t shy away from the pain any longer if she wanted to move on.

  Before leaving Europe, however, she had to meet with Mike one last time. They met for an early lunch, around eleven before she embarked for her flight back to the States. They met at a casual restaurant near the airport. It was a small place, with only a half a dozen tables. Mike wore a collared shirt and a light wool jacket over light gray slacks, finer attire than his norm. He had a great big goofy grin on his face, the kind a shy teenage boy would give to a teacher he had a crush on. Something about Mike reminded her of Smokey Joe. In a sense, they were the same for her — two separate people playing very similar roles in her life, but in very different ways.

  She returned his expression when their eyes met. He greeted her with a hug, which seemed a little over-the-top for him. Usually, he was reluctant to give a handshake. She avoided Mike’s eyes as his gaze shifted from her clavicle deformity to the scar on her throat. Neither commented on her lingering battle wounds.

  The two splurged with pasta dishes and red wine. Both the conversation and the meal were slow and savory. “What have you got planned in the States?” he asked between fork loads.

  She shrugged. “Just my surgery in New York.”

  “Did Charlie take care of you?” he asked with an air of authority. He couldn’t break away from his patriarchal demeanor.

  “Yes. He set me up an account with all my funds. And he’s taking care of the surgery.” Her accou
nt contained nearly two million dollars. One million was the reward for Mohammed’s death. Her work with Ivan accounted to a slightly smaller financial retribution. Alexa wasn’t in a good position for contention, however, and she accepted the settlement on Charlie’s terms.

  “Gonna miss you, Poppy girl,” Mike said with a nod and a wink. “You gotta know, I’m gonna keep track of you after we part ways.”

  She nodded. “I expect nothing less from you, Mike.”

  “I’m interested to see what you do with yourself.”

  His voice sounded less gruff than she was accustomed to. She nodded to herself. She couldn’t agree more with Mike’s words. He was the one who told her, “You have a lot to live for.” She was ready to figure out what that meant.

  He paid the bill and escorted her to the airport. “Anything I can do for you before you go?” he questioned.

  Without hesitation, Alexa answered solemnly, “Yes. Tell Corbin Ivan’s dead. And burn that damn body bag from the car that night.”

  The two locked eyes. He nodded. They shared a final, quick hug. “Thanks for taking care of me, Mike,” she whispered through watery eyes.

  Mike frowned. “You took care of yourself, like you always do. Now, go conquer the world — if that’s what you’ve got planned.” He placed a hand under her chin and lifted it slightly. She imagined him saying, Raise your head high and go face the world.

  “I’ll miss you, friend,” she whispered.

  During the long flight back to the states, Alexa drifted in and out of sleep. Nightmares haunted her, as usual. She found herself stumbling through a crowd of people. The crowd passed, and she saw the field of red poppy flowers again. This time, atop a mound of fresh dirt lay the black zippered body bag she remembered. But it wasn’t empty. Alexa could make out the figure of a body. Dead and wilted plucked poppy flowers were strewn over the corpse-filled bag.