The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  His eyes, distressed, faced her from above the glass while he sent the shot down his throat. He swallowed as if it were water, barely bothered by the excessive alcohol and the other mixed flavors in that altered whiskey of Georgia’s.

  “Now again.”

  Georgia, this time, gave him the canteen, who accepted it not quite politely. Anthon filled the cup again, under Georgia’s aim, who didn’t offer him enough proximity to try an attack, but also was not that far to get confused while shooting. It would still be a sure shot, with deep damage.

  When Anthon repeated the act for the fourth time, the canteen got empty and he was already starting to feel the effects of the reinforced, poisoned drink. First the alcohol would take charge, just then he would feel the tranquilizer dissolved in there. No, Georgia hadn’t used from the same medicine as before, she only wanted him to be slowed down, weakened out, she wanted him more susceptible to her suggestions.

  “Where’s Monica?” His groggy voice asked, while Anthon tried to find Georgia behind the gun she pointed. “What did you do?”

  “What did you do, Anthon. Tell me,” She fluttered the gun, suggesting him to move. “when you raised your hand at me, was it the first time?”

  Anthon abruptly shook his head, trying to focus his sight while moving. His steps were uncertain, she could notice the doses of her old antidepressants were starting to act on his body.

  “What… how?”

  The crystal glass fell onto the carpet. Georgia, with the gun and eyes fixed on Anthon, moved down with ease and recovered the small object, placing it on the rack again, beside the canteen and her purse. Georgia grabbed the big black bag and put it on her shoulder, she would need the contents from there soon.

  “No, Anthon, because you’re not aggressive. You know how the body exams are done in victims, you know where signs would be found. You act here.” She pointed her own head with her left hand in a second, back to holding the gun with both hands. “Here’s where the effect is stronger.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Maybe. That wouldn’t be the first time I heard that when I simply try to talk.”

  She indicated him the bathroom doors with a nod, following his slow steps. The detective staggered a few times, his attention torn between keeping himself up and the gun pointed at him. Georgia tried not to think she had no intentions to use that gun, for the last time she did it, it ended badly.

  Anthon pushed the door, that opened with a clang after his badly managed impact of drugged hands. The light inside the bathroom blew, enlightening the dark room and drowning both of them in an almost hospital light.

  Georgia waited, standing behind Anthon with the gun aiming the back of his neck. The detective took a while to canvas the whole room and understand what had happened, his head showing difficulties on trying to keep stable and still above his neck.

  And when he saw his wife’s body in the tub, he fell on his knees in a crash that startled his captor. Georgia took a step back, watching as he melted into tears in a controlled cry, that typical masculine cry with few expression and a lot of suppressed pain, after all men do not have permission to cry.

  “You killed her.” He almost whispered, just like a teenager in a desperate cry. “You… Monica.”

  Anthon dragged his body until he reached the bathtub, where he grabbed the woman’s cold and idle hands. Monica was still the same way Georgia had left her, the neck now tilted to the right shoulder and the eyes facing nowhere, the beyond.

  The detective, at the peak of his desperation, grabbed Monica’s hands and tried to wake her up, rubbing his hands on her face, trying to kiss her, showing the love he had never shown to her in life. Georgia allowed him the moment while she put the bag, hanging on her shoulder, on the sink.

  “You killed her!”

  He jumped up and Georgia didn’t even need to remind him she had the gun. The sudden coming up made his blood pressure decrease, aggravated by the drugs and the alcohol, and he stumbled backwards, falling hard against the bathtub’s side. Sitting again, as an ordinary drunk man who cannot even put himself up for a shower, Anthon cried, the hands lying on his frozen legs, while his shoulders bounced strongly.

  “We would try, I was going to…” He lamented, while his tears ran hard across the face, dropping onto his white rumpled shirt. “I loved her and you killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Anthon. She only came here because of you.”

  “What did you…”

  “When I found out,” She moved down, almost sitting beside him. “you were the detective in charge, I started to investigate. Imagine my bewilderment by learning you were married to Monica Gilled, the woman whom I met in a support group.”

  Anthon shook his head and turned to her, dazed, his eyes sparkling with tears.

  “Support group?”

  “For women who were or feel abused.”

  “But… I never…”

  “Raised your hand at her? No, you never hit Monica. But all your lies, the silencing, the terror you created throughout the last years because of the money? Reducing a woman to a lifeless bag of dollars?”

  “I loved her.”

  “No. When you love someone you don’t sleep around with unknown women you met on streets. Can you imagine how surprised I was when I discovered about this scandal Monica and her money kind of covered up when this underage girl accused you of rape?”

  “She wanted it!” He growled, raising his voice the most he could.

  “It doesn’t matter, Anthon. Hadn’t you been the shitty husband you were, Monica would’ve never sought refuge in a support group. Without her, I wouldn’t be here. It only took us a couple hours for me to understand who you were and all I needed to disappear for good.”

  He straightened his head, as if coming to another conclusion. He calmly turned, his lips trembling while the snot of his nose met his drool.

  “Disappear… no…”

  “Yes, Anthon. And they said you were the best. Do you know how I found you?”

  He didn’t answer, mainly because he didn’t want to know. He resumed his crying, tilting his head back and facing his dead wife, a beautiful marble statue laying while taking a bath with wide-open eyes.

  “She asked me. Monica wanted proof you were unfaithful, that it wasn’t just her madness. And I promised to offer it to her.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Perhaps. But Monica was becoming insane, too. And I gave her what she wanted. Unfortunately, she had to come here and confront you, and that’s when she realized my interests went further on. And I didn’t want it to come to this point. Anthon, you were the last person I wanted to burn. I owe you an apology.”

  “For…?”

  “For having come to this. You were just a loose end, a wrong name at a wrong moment. I should’ve planned it better, but we can’t control it all.”

  He gasped, breathing and facing the whole truth had become hard. Anthon tried to pull himself up again, but he failed miserably at it, returning to his previous state.

  “I had no option, she was a brave woman, Anthon. And what you did to her was so dee that, even when about to die, she took your side. She took your career and you instead of her.”

  “She’s gone…” He moaned among his tears and painful sighs.

  “Yes. At least she’s free from the manipulative bastard you are. The abuser…”

  “I never…”

  “You called her frigid, even after forcing her into an abortion for considering that not to be the right time. What kind of man imposes his will that way, Anthon, unless he’s the typical controlling, cold-blooded manipulative freak?”

  “Bitch.” He mumbled and she wasn’t sure she had quite understood.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Bitch!” He yelled and she shoved the gun harder against the side of his face.

  “Anthon, I don’t want to shoot you, but don’t push it. You have no idea what I’ve been through. Again, I apologize, but if everythin
g goes right, it will all end soon.”

  Georgia scratched her head underneath the cap, using her gloved finger, and the opening in the wool caused a lock of her hair to escape and fall above her forehead. That sight made Anthon jump on the floor, the impact of the unintended revelation immediately shocking him.

  “You… you’re her.”

  Georgia put on a smile and returned the lock of hair back up, standing up while waving the gun at him.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Take off your clothes, Anthon. And do not force me to do it, I mean it.”

  Anthon propped against the bathtub and thrusted his body up. One of his legs slid, but he soon recovered his strength and put himself onto his feet. He was highly doped, his eyes could barely focus on anything, and Georgia kept on watching him, the gun steady, while he let his coat slide to the floor.

  With distressed movements, Anthon took more than a minute to undo his tie knot and remove it, unbuttoning the shirt with the same recklessness.

  “We don’t have all night long.” She suggested, exchanging the gun between her hands.

  Anthon removed his shirt and his belt, getting rid of the shoes and the black pants afterwards, wearing only his underwear.

  “All clothes off.”

  “What do you… I can’t…”

  “Anthon, there’s nothing I haven’t seen or used. And you should really listen to me.”

  His face was that of someone who feels violated. Embraced by shame and despair, he removed his boxers, completely naked in front of her. By reflex, maybe, he even tried to cover his lower parts, but halted and just waited, struggling to keep himself up.

  “Get in the tub.”

  He vehemently shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Anthon.” She cocked the gun, offering a serious tone to the talk.

  “This… this murder-suicide game won’t… won’t stick. Nobody would believe that…”

  “Just rethink what you just said, Anthon. Who almost caused an accident, accused by his own wife of being insane, almost killing them both?” She held on, while he went back to crying, a defeated smile showing on his face. “Who had a serious argument with the wife in front of his coworkers? Who slipped on a case, committing some rookie mistakes?”

  “They’ll never… the won’t… they…”

  “You took a blood exam, didn’t you? Where?”

  He didn’t want to say. Eyes shut, trembling and crying, Anthon mumbled some words Georgia didn’t understand.

  “Where?”

  “The lab.”

  “And the results, where do they go to?”

  “Pre… to the…”

  “Precinct. That’s such a shame, Anthon, that you lost the train direction.”

  He shook his head again and Georgia took a step, putting the gun against his bare chest.

  “Get in.”

  And Anthon, this time, accepted his defeat and got in. One foot, then the other. Slowly he sat down, the water moving and agitating the blood still at the bottom of the bathtub. The water was not warm anymore and he could feel and show that. He sighed by the pain, intensified by the state in which he was.

  “She was here for you. You sent her here to die.”

  Anthon put his hands against his face, covering his shame and sorrow, trying to prevent his legs from touching Monica’s dead body.

  “Face what you’ve done, Anthon.”

  He swallowed his tears in a second and rid his face from his hands, facing Monica. A part of him knew he had to do it, but another one only did it because his own gun was now pressed against his shaved skull.

  “Now you’re going to get Monica’s hands and scratch your face.”

  “I can’t…”

  “You can, Anthon. Please, I don’t want to ask again.”

  His hands vibrated as in a trance when he reached for Monica’s. Slowly he brought them to himself, leaning to increase proximity. Anthon shut his eyes hard, his face now red, while he scratched her nails against his face.

  “Not like that, Anthon, please! You know pretty well how defense wounds look like in the body of the assailant.”

  She pushed the gun against his scalp and Anthon got the message, shoving Monica’s well-cared long nails against the skin of his temples and forehead, forcing scratches and blood to come during the injuries course. Anthon piously cried, perhaps even trying to get himself away from that place in his own disturbed mind. As soon as he finished it, he let go of Monica’s hands, which fell hardly against the water, spraying the liquid all around.

  Georgia lifted a hand and removed Monica’s right arm from the tub, leaving it to hang from the marble side of it. She turned her attention back to Anthon who, bleeding, trying to get himself together.

  “You… you won’t get away. There’s no way…”

  “There’s always a way, Anthon. She moved away, keeping the gun up. Leaning, she put her hand into the handbag on the sink and got a long syringe from there, whose needle was covered by an orange cap. “Your lab friend, did he share what you used to get drugged?”

  Anthon let out a pain laughter, staring at his own submersed hands.

  “Belladonna.”

  “Atropa belladonna,” Georgia corrected, approaching the orange cap to his lips. “Remove it, please.”

  Anthon bit the plastic and pulled it, revealing the long and thin hypodermic needle, and spat the cap inside the bath, his face dripping disgust.

  “The symptoms may vary, often unpredictable.” She continued, placing the gun on the sink and removing from the bag a transparent flask with a metallic lid, filled with a thick and slightly colored liquid. “I couldn’t even find accurate information regarding overdose.”

  She filled the syringe with the liquid, caring too little to check the liquid outflow. She dropped the flask inside her bag again and grabbed the gun, delivering Anthon the needle.

  “Take it.”

  He obeyed, albeit grudgingly, grasping the syringe with trembling fingers.

  “What I’m trying to say, Anthon, it that you’re facing a 50-50 shot. It’s possible they find you in time and you survive, aftereffects aside, unsure of what future might hold. It’s possible you day long before that and it’ll all depend on how fast I can get out of here.”

  He twisted his lips, staring the syringe. Anthon was so weak he could hardly keep it still between his fingers.

  “Who… who are you?”

  “I need you to shoot it up. Shoulder would be interesting. I guess I don’t need to remind you that you have no choice.”

  Anthon stuck the syringe into his left shoulder, injecting the liquid. Not because he had given up, but Georgia kept the gun pressed against his head, now using more strength than she needed, if that was even possible. Finishing the procedure, Anthon used the forces he still had and tossed the syringe away, and it hit the wall and fell, also dead now.

  Georgia didn’t flinch. The movement had been slow, groggy, and she just watched, astonished.

  “Drama. I like that touch.”

  She kept the gun against him, holding on.

  “I must say, Anthon, that it’s incredible this feeling of having someone’s life in your hands. That’s a feeling, though, I don’t want to get acquainted to.”

  “Bitch.” He muttered, trying to keep his eyes open.

  Georgia kept crouching beside the tub for some more minutes, always poking him with the gun, forcing him to be awake the longest he could, until his hands loosened up from the tub sides and fell into the water. Although his eyes remained open, he was almost gone already.

  And then she pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Georgia stood up and removed the clip, empty, from the gun.

  “I never play with loaded guns.” She said, placing the empty clip inside the bag and removing a partially full one, recharging the gun and cocking it again.

  Anthon was almost leaving.

  She took his right ha
nd and lifted it, placing it around the gun, posing an attempt at shooting himself. And then she let the gun drop, slowly drowning, sinking and resting against Anthon’s leg in the dirty and now frozen water.

  From the sink, she also removed the piece of glass she had used to kill Monica and tossed it inside the tub, too, as if preparing a dark recipe. Just as she finished fixing the tub, she turned back to the sink, staring herself at the mirror.

  Behind all the unshaken and cruel appearance, Georgia could feel herself about to cry too, both by the frustration and the anxiety that ate her from the inside. This time, it all should be as planned.

  Inside the sink, a load of burned papers, along with a photo distorted by the heat and the arrow, dark. She put it all inside a small bag and tossed it through the door, the pack landing on the room floor. Georgia walked to the opposite side of the tub, where a small steel bucket was hiding, protecting inside a towel soaked in Monica’s blood.

  With bucket in hands, Georgia grabbed the bag and left the bathroom, closing the doors as she did.

  Now she had to face the hardest part of that plan: organizing the room.

  She left the bag on the bed and grabbed the garbage bag again, now collecting all the cigarette butts she had smoked from the ashtrays, as well as everything else she had touched: towels, toothbrush, even a small plastic comb. She enclosed it all inside the bag and left it at the rack, beside the glass and the whiskey canteen.

  Georgia attentively removed all papers from the bed, including Anthon’s phone and Monica’s bag, placing it all onto the rack too. With ease and tranquility, she removed the sheets, folding them from the edges to the center, preserving its contacts untouched. She did he same with the pillowcases and the blankets, folding them and leaving them at a corner of the room, behind the main door. With the bed now free, Georgia kneeled down and removed the black suitcase from the space under the piece of furniture, zipping it open with dexterity and speed.

  From the countless shards of glass, she removed a small portable vacuum, which seemed to be working just fine. Before entering that cleaning adventure, she gathered everything that laid on the floor: papers, evidence boxes, pictures and more papers, and piled them all up, above the folded sheets behind the door.