by Selena Kitt
Fuck you, I thought. What was I going to do? I tugged and swore until the wrapping had fallen away completely and I ran my hands over a large, abstract sculpture made of welded bits of farm equipment. Rusty corners caught my numb flesh, and I gritted my teeth. Was there something here I could use as a weapon? How would I even get close enough to use it?
“Shit!” I said. Tears gathered at the corner of my eyes.
“Eight minutes.”
I whirled around, breathing hard. So many sculptures, and I had no idea what to do with them. I'd bought all the time I could...
I reached for another one, hoping it would give me some kind of inspiration, but the packaging came away easily, revealing a ceramic vase painted with naked ladies. I looked inside it, for appearances, but of course there was nothing in it. The thumb drive between my legs poked and prodded me awkwardly. I moved on, ripping wrapping from sculptures and curios, sticking my hands through the gaps, making a show of looking, my mind racing. If I were a shithead, I thought giddily, despairingly, what would I be thinking right now?
I'd probably be enjoying my frustration... but I'd be frustrated myself. Without knowing where that evidence had gone, I would be forever looking over my shoulder, forever wondering when I would be caught out.
My hands mechanically ripped away the plastic covering another sculpture, and my breath caught.
The Rodin.
I'd thought it was by a student of Rodin when I'd first seen it, but now, close up, my hands actually on it, I realized it was the work of the master himself, and my lungs hitched as I had a tiny, artistic orgasm that had nothing to do with the circumstances I currently found myself in.
It wasn't beautiful. In fact, it was pretty weird looking, a bust of an old man all pushed and pulled and warped until the weariness of the world rolled off it, but that was the mark of Rodin. The celebration of the real, of the run down, of the tired and beaten. I loved it. It spoke to me and for a tiny split second the world ground to a halt. The cold air fell away, the high, tight panic in my chest withdrew, the noise of the street outside and Don's impatient sighs faded as I took a tiny moment to enjoy this piece that I'd admired since I'd first seen it.
A ghost of a thought grazed against my brain. Malcolm saw something in me like I saw something in this sculpture. Something strong. Beautiful despite its flaws. Or maybe because of its flaws.
Something expressive.
And heavy, I thought. It wasn't the traditional bronze of a Rodin, but it was plaster. God. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't. I had to, though.
I'd found the bust sitting on the ground, so I hunched my body around it as I tore the paper and bubble wrap away. I gasped, feigning surprise, and behind me Don's shoes ground over the concrete as he stood up straighter and took notice.
I ran my fingers over the sculpture. “I...” I hesitated. “I think I found something. It's here, I think.” I remembered then how I'd grunted and acted weak as I'd lifted the door, and I did so again. A great groan burst out of me as I struggled to lift the plaster sculpture. My baggy artist's clothes made me look smaller than I was, and I stopped trying to lift it, breathing hard, though it was from fear more than effort. “Help me,” I panted. “I think there's something under it.”
The footsteps behind me were hurried, and my stomach drew tighter and harder. He was buying it, but there was no joy in me about that. Not yet. I was so close. My hands were slippery on the plaster, and I frantically wiped them on my jeans. I'd need a strong grip when the time came.
“What's wrong?” he said. He was only a few steps behind me. I felt the oppressive presence of the gun like a weight in the world.
I licked my lips. “I need you to help me lift it,” I said.
He laughed. “You must think I'm stupid if you think I'm going to put down this gun.”
“But I only have five minutes,” I replied. My voice was starting to shake. If I didn't get him at least close to me, I was fucking dead.
“Try again. Just shove it over if you have to.”
Real outrage surged through me. “No! This is a Rodin, it's priceless. It'll break if I push it over.”
He sighed, but it was impatient. “Here,” he said, reaching down for the head with one huge hand, and there, peeking from the sleeve of his jacket, was a small shiny scar, the size of a cigarette.
Time stopped and I stared at that wrist.
Scarred, just like me.
This man, I remembered. He's just like me. Abused. Knocked around. The world had failed him, too. But I would never kill anyone for any amount of money. Why would he?
And then, gently, the question turned on its head.
Why wouldn't I?
I didn't have to be good. He didn't have to be bad. And yet here we were. Was that part of what Malcolm saw in me, the alternate path Don could have taken? Where the wounds turned rage inward instead of outward? Where the disappointment and the fear and the sadness came out in stunted art and a bitter tongue rather than ruthlessness and cruelty?
And then I had no more time to think about it, because his hand was almost on the sculpture, and I thought to myself: What the fuck does it matter?
It didn't.
So I brained him with the Rodin.
I heaved. I was not weak like he thought I was, and the plaster lifted from the floor with just enough effort to give it a deadly heft. He tried to back away, but his greed for the evidence had unbalanced him. He was leaning forward, couldn't correct his course in time. The bust swung up and out at the end of my arms, flew gracefully through the air in a beautiful, aesthetically pleasing arc, and slammed into Don's head with a crunch that sounded like the singing of avenging angels.
I'm not a poet, I'm a painter. But it was art.
Then the statue cracked in two, and the gun went off.
White hot pain speared through my side. I couldn't breathe. The lights shone in my eyes, searing hot. The ceiling, I realized.
I was on the ground, on my back. In slow motion I lifted my head. Don lay across my crumpled lower body, groaning. A dent in his skull was filling with blood. The stench of copper hung around us.
I've been shot, I thought.
Then: Get up.
A heavy weight lay on my chest and shoulder. A piece of the Rodin. For some reason I felt its loss far more than the bullet in my side. With a limp hand I shoved it off me, onto the ground, and I heard it chip. Teeth clenched, pain ripping through me like wildfire, I rolled over, dragging my legs from beneath Don's body. Something shone in front of me, and I squinted, trying to see clearly.
The gun.
I lunged for it, but something was off. My balance. My brain. I couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. At my feet I heard Don gasp, realizing what I was doing, and without thinking I kicked out, sharp and hard. Another crunch and he howled with pain and collapsed to the ground. One last lunge and the gun was in my hand.
It felt good. A heavy, solid weight. Safety. Vengeance. I could kill Don right now, if I wanted to.
I heaved myself to my feet instead.
Agony engulfed me. I couldn't feel myself think. I pressed my left hand to my side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the thick fabric of my hoodie, but there was a lot of it. Sticky, hot, but rapidly cooling. The skin of my face was clammy, cold, wet. I stumbled forward, the gun in my right hand, and crashed through the discarded debris of Malcolm's life.
I walked like the dead. Shambling. Unable to think. I hurt. I don't know how I made it to the front of the warehouse, but I did. I somehow found it in the maze, and when I fell against the door the metal slats clattered so loudly I thought I would fall apart.
I had to bend down to reach the handle. I had to let go of my side.
Dizziness overwhelmed me as I removed my left hand and wrapped it around the handle. I watched from inside my head, trying to figure out what was wrong when I couldn't get a grip.
Red, I thought. Blood, I thought. My hand fell from the door, limp against my jeans, and wi
th supreme effort I wiped it clean and tried again.
Metal screamed, and so did I.
It was almost impossible. It hadn't been heavy before, I had just been pretending, but now it weighed a million pounds. But I had to get out. I had to. I had to get to Malcolm, prove his innocence, or all of this was for nothing.
Red blood gushed from my side. Ruined muscles screamed in pain, unable to do what I asked of them. I panted. My mouth was dry. I wanted water.
Focus. Focus. Squat. Lift with the legs, not the torso. Oh god.
Three feet. That's as far as I was able to lift it. It was enough. I fell to my hands and knees and crawled under the door, into the blinding gray light of the windy March day.
The sound of a car door opening. Wind whipped over my clammy face. I was going to be sick, but I forced myself to look up. The black car we'd taken here loomed like a hulking black beast in the street. On the far side, the driver was getting out, his mouth hard and set, his eyes glowering at me as though I were a naughty puppy. He was huge, enormous, a giant unfolding toward me.
If he gets me, I thought, it'll be all over.
I lifted the gun and fired.
A look of surprise flashed across his face, as though I'd just grown a clown nose. Then, silently, he folded up and slumped over.
I didn't even bother to check if he was alive. I crawled along the narrow sidewalk. A chain link fence on one side of me, and I reached out and pulled myself to my feet before I staggered onward.
A corner. There were always people at a corner. Stores. Human beings. I had to get to a corner. If I could get away from Don, I would be okay.
Well. Malcolm would be okay.
Help me, I begged silently, and then I was stumbling down a long tunnel toward two men. Dark faces, dressed like me. They were staring. They'd heard the gunshot, and as I staggered toward them they backed up. I realized they were afraid of me.
I looked down and saw the gun still in my hand. I dropped it. Mercifully it just fell to the concrete and didn't go off. I looked up again, peering down the tunnel.
They were still there. Not running. Thank you.
I reached out, but my vision was blurring, the world tilting. The wind nipped and bit at me, cold against my skin, but nothing compared to the dark void opening up inside me, blooming like a black rose.
I remember their faces. One looked scared, the other horrified as he lunged forward to catch me, but, as though from far away, I saw myself hit the pavement, crumpling, and then I closed my eyes and turned inward and fell into the blackness.
Chapter Seventeen
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital. White and cream and blue and sterile. Felicia sat by my bed, staring at her phone, a line of worry between her brows as she restlessly scanned the screen. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but a bone deep exhaustion filled me and my mouth was dry as desert sand.
I wheezed, but it wasn't even loud enough to catch her attention. I let my eyes close.
* * * *
I woke again, this time as nurse bent over me, her perfume overwhelming my nose. My stomach heaved and I choked on vomit. She took one look at me and slammed a button on the wall.
Doctors and nurses and interns flooded the room. Tubes fed down my throat, sucking the vomit out. This time I felt pain, but it was far away, happening to someone else.
It must suck to be that chick, I thought, and fell asleep again before they even finished clearing my airway.
* * * *
When I finally woke up for real, Malcolm was there.
If I could have commanded my lungs to sigh in relief, I would have, but the pain that had been at bay suddenly reared up and struck, and I could hardly breathe.
Malcolm noticed my eyes opening almost immediately, and in a flash he was at my side, his large, sweet hands running over my forehead, stroking down my cheeks, his thumbs running against my temples as he leaned over the hospital bed and kissed my brow, soft and gentle, over and over again.
Warmth spread through me, chasing away the pain. Malcolm, I thought. Malcolm, you're free. I must have done it somehow. They must have found the files. He must have proved his innocence.
I did it, I wanted to say. I freed you. But I couldn't talk. My mouth had the sticky, bone dry feel of too much morphine, and I tried to lick my lips to wet them. It didn't matter. It was like my tongue was plastic.
“Wait, don't strain yourself,” Malcolm said. His voice rumbled through me, the sound painful in my head, but burrowing deep into my aching heart, and I subsided, willing, at last, to let him do what he wanted, completely and totally. I closed my eyes, and I drifted into a snap of sleep before I felt the sting of cold on my lips and I opened them again.
Malcolm stared down at me, his face so tender I thought I would shatter. I need to be handled roughly to survive. Be kind to me, and I break.
His warm hand landed on my throat, his thumb coaxing my chin down, and when I opened my mouth he slipped a chip of ice into it. It hit like a balm from heaven.
Patiently, Malcolm fed me ice until I fell asleep again.
* * * *
That was how it went for a while. I would wake, and Malcolm would be there. With each waking I felt a little stronger. Doctors and nurses came and went. Felicia and Anton fluttered in and out. Friends appeared and disappeared.
But Malcolm was always there, slipping ice onto my tongue like a sacrament, and with every kiss he pressed to my brow I crumbled a little inside, my armor breaking under his tender assault. I learned later that it was only about twelve hours between my vomiting incident and the first time I was able to speak, but it felt like a year. Ten years. A lifetime.
So after a lifetime I opened my eyes and saw him curled over the edge of my bed, sleeping. He looked exhausted, the same way I'd seen him when we'd first met, when he'd resolved to die, except now the dark circles under his eyes were almost black with the beautiful tan he had obtained on the sea. His shaggy blond hair, now sun-bleached and far messier than it had been when we first met, fell across his forehead, and I had the urge to reach out and brush it from his eyes.
I got as far as lifting a hand before I realized it was stuffed full of needles and tubes, and I remembered I'd been shot.
Damn.
I drew breath, meaning to say something, but I started coughing. It hurt like hell. I gasped as I coughed, feeling as if I was going to rip apart at the seams, and Malcolm woke up at the first expulsion.
“Sadie?” he said, panic coloring his voice. He sat up immediately and moved to the head of the bed, his beautiful artists' hands reaching for me.
I stopped coughing and gave him a weak smile.
“Hey,” I said.
“Sadie,” he replied, and his cherry wood eyes filled with tears. He started shaking his head, leaving me confused. Was he upset I was awake?
I couldn't even get beyond the next thought. I felt like complete ass. It was hard to rally my brain into a coherent pattern, and when I tried to lift my head the room dipped and swirled around me.
Warm hands landed on my shoulders. “Shh, shh,” Malcolm murmured. “Just lay back and rest.”
“I got shot,” I said.
His face became lined with concern. “I know,” he said. “Shit, I'm so sorry, Sadie. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have been so stupid...”
I felt my brows moving into some position or other—probably frowning—but I was still high enough on morphine that I could hardly tell what my face was doing. My confusion must have showed, though, because he drew his lip through his teeth, clearly upset.
“I mean I treated it as a game” he tried to clarify. “I didn't think Don would be that ruthless. I have no idea how he thought he could get away with it, but people backed into corners do crazy things. I should have known he would do whatever it took. I played with your life, all of your life, just to feel something other than emptiness or pain. I'm so selfish... I understand if you won't ever forgive me.”
He is crazy, I thought to myself,
vaguely amused. It wasn't like I hadn't known what I was doing, trying to throw myself in front of a man hell-bent on self-destruction. I'd done it before, and got a lot less out of it for my trouble. But there was something special in Malcolm, and I felt an answering spark in me when we were together. Those days on the boat, dancing closer and closer together, had been some of the sweetest of my life, and I couldn't have born the thought of never having that again. So I'd fought hard to save it, and now that was done and Malcolm was here beside me.
Worth. It.
“Sadie?” He seemed to be waiting to hear his fate.
I gave him a little half-shrug, more that I couldn't really move rather than out of any insolence on my part. “Nobody's perfect,” I rasped at him.
“But... I'm so sorry...”
I managed a tiny smile. “Just don't do it again.”
The sheen of tears disappeared and he smiled at me. A real smile. It took my breath away. Then he lowered his face and buried it in my shoulder.
“You need to rest, Sadie. You have to recover.”
I licked my lips. “Don?” I managed to say.
“In jail, as is his driver and one of my lawyers... I couldn't trust my legal team, so I had to rely on you, and I wish I hadn't. I should have found another way...”
I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it from where he had buried his face. “No big deal,” I managed to tell him.
He lifted his head. “Yes, big deal. You could have died.”
I closed my eyes. His warm hands moved up my throat to my face, smoothing over my cheekbones, covering my brow. “Sadie...” he said.
I fell asleep, just happy to be with him.
* * * *
The bullet had torn through my side, but miraculously had missed most of my major organs, though I'd been nicked in the liver. The blood loss had been the worst of it, and I learned I'd malingered for a day or so until I was able to be stabilized. It still felt totally wretched, but I got off easy. The driver of the car hadn't been quite so lucky with a bullet bursting a kidney. He'd live, but when I learned about it I felt awful. He probably hadn't known I was going to be killed.
