by Evelyn Glass
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The bullet took her in the chest, what must’ve been her heart, and I knew for a fact that River wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest.
So she’s dead, I thought, and perhaps I’m not human because I didn’t feel a thing.
There was no question of chasing him. The cases—the money and the drugs—were still on the docks, and the bodies of most of them were lying here. That would have to be enough for my client. Maybe they’d pay me less, but that was life.
With an effort, I climbed to my feet.
She’s dead, I thought again, comparing what I felt when Richard died to what I felt now. A tsunami versus a trickle—not even a trickle.
I limped into the night, teeth gritted against the pain in my leg.
###
I didn’t see the body, I think now, pacing up and down in front of the apartment building. I saw her fall into the boat and I saw the boat drift into the night, but I didn’t see up close, didn’t see that she was really dead. Maybe the bullet missed her heart, miraculously missed her lungs and came out clean without hitting her spine. But if she lived, how did she live? Did she kill the Chinese man and escape? But if that’s the case, why is she only returning now, after all these years?
I have no answers to these questions, but I know for sure now who dragged Eric’s body into Anna’s car. It was River. And last night, the chase and the Taser, that was River, too. I thought it was a man in black. I was wrong. It was a woman in black.
River, a woman who wanted more from me than I could give her, a deadly killer, a woman I left for dead—she’s back. A woman I left for dead is back, and she’s after not just me, but Anna as well. A chill runs down my spine. I’ve seen River work. She’s efficient. If she wants Anna dead, there’s a big chance she’ll be able to do it, with or without my protection. If we stay here, anyway.
I can’t keep her here. I have to move us. I have to keep her out of danger. I feel more for Anna after being with her for one night than I did for River during the entire time we were together. I feel more attached, more loyal, more dedicated. I wouldn’t even run down a walkway for River; for Anna, I would’ve leapt into the icy water, wounded leg or no, and swum after her.
I won’t let her take Anna from me, I think, gritting my teeth so hard there’s an ache in my temples.
I stuff my cell into my pocket and turn to the apartment door. I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s safe.
Chapter Nine
Anna
There’s a knock at the door. I go to it and say, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Samson says. His voice is different, somehow, strained. Not panicky—I find it difficult to believe Samson Black could ever be panicky—but I know that something’s happened without having to ask.
I open the door and he paces into the room. His shoulders shifting from side to side like a man who’s about to be in a fight.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says. “Bolt it.”
I turn the lock, latch the chain, and slide the bolt. Then I go to the couch and sit down, watching as Samson paces up and down the room, his hands tight fists by his sides. He looks scary, the kind of man women cross the street to avoid: a pulsing pack of muscle and rage. I should be scared, I should flinch away, but I’m not and I don’t.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Everything,” he sighs. “We need to leave here, right now.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Last night I was dancing and thinking about my next exam. Last night I was thinking about the turnstile and the dogs and animals and the future. How does life change so drastically so quickly?
“I don’t have time to explain,” he says. “Quickly, get your things.”
He gestures at me.
“No,” I say. I don’t raise my voice, but I speak firmly. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Anna . . .”
“Samson . . .”
We face each other. His jaw is set, but so is mine. I stare into his sky-blue eyes without flinching. “You want me to run away from my life, Samson,” I say. “You can’t expect me to do that without asking a few questions. Something happened out there. I can tell. You’re skittish.”
“I know who put the body in your trunk,” he sighs. He massages the side of his head with his hand. It’s odd to see him do this, as though he really is just a man, as though he does feel stress like the rest of us.
“Who?” I ask.
He tells me everything. Her name is River, she’s an ex-girlfriend, they worked together, all of it, about the boat and the job and that he thought she was dead.
“It could be somebody pretending to be her,” I offer.
He shakes his head and then tells me about the cabin. I blush. I don’t want to think about Samson and another woman.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Absurdly, despite everything, I find myself wishing it was someone else, anybody else. An old client or an escaped target. Anybody but an ex-girlfriend. I tell myself that I’m focusing on the wrong part of it. But I care about it and I can’t deny that. Without thinking about it, I’ve begun to think of Samson as mine. Silly, yes, very silly, and yet it’s the truth. And when I look at him I’m sure he’s begun to think of me as his. An instant connection that is all passion and instinct, with little recourse to logic. I’ve read about connections like this, but I’ve never experienced one until now. What is it, exactly? Infatuation? Attraction? Not love, surely, not so soon.
“It’s okay,” I mutter. “But I have to admit, it makes it worse.”
“I know,” he says.
He walks around the coffee table, reaches down, and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling me gently to my feet. “You need to pack a bag, Anna. Clothes, anything sentimental you can’t bear to leave behind. Make it light, if you can.”
“Do you think she’ll try and . . . hurt me?” I pause partly out of fear, and partly because it seems ridiculous. Why would this stranger wish me harm? I’m tempted to think it’s out of jealously, but she moved the body before Samson stayed at my place, so that can’t be it, can it?
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Samson says.
“But why?”
Samson shrugs. “I have no idea. Maybe she knew my mark was your ex-husband, and she wanted to make a point?” He shakes his head. “But honestly, I don’t know. I knew her years ago. She’s probably a completely different person now.”
“Well, not so different,” I say. “It seems she still knows the business.”
“Yeah.”
A pause, and then Samson nods to the bedroom. “Please, Anna, pack a bag.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m in real danger. Tell me I have to leave. Promise me. Because I don’t want to run from my life, Samson, not if it can be avoided.”
He reaches forward, touches my cheek with his hand, warm, callused and yet somehow soft. “I swear to you, Anna, you’re in danger. I only want to protect you.”
“I believe you,” I murmur.
I take his hand, kiss it, and then go into the bedroom.
I pack clothes, three veterinary books, two novels signed by the authors, the collar of my childhood dog, Skippy, and a folded photograph of Mom, holding me in her arms as a baby, and smiling brightly. I shoulder the pack and return to the living room.
Samson moves around the room methodically with a rag in his hand, wiping down every surface. I wait near the door as he wipes the apartment from top to bottom. Then he joins me at the door, stuffing the rag into his pocket.
“Less than twenty-four hours ago,” I say, “you were just a handsome man at the game. Just a rich handsome man who caught my eye.”
“What am I now?” he asks.
“A rich handsome man who has pulled me into a world I never dreamed I’d be a part of.”
“Still—rich and handsome. That’s not so bad.”
He smiles, a smile meant to break through t
he panic and the mayhem.
I return the smile and stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the lips.
“Not so bad at all,” I agree, and together we leave the apartment.
Chapter Ten
Samson
I call Jack out of Anna’s earshot. It’s not that I don’t trust her—strangely, I do, way more than I should—but Jack can be skittish with strangers, and I don’t want to spook him. He’s damn good at what he does, but he’ll bolt like a startled racehorse if I don’t keep his name out of it. After all, he still has to work here. And so will I, after this.
Maybe, a voice whispers, and I glance over at Anna, at her dark eyes, at her small smile. Maybe. But I haven’t got time to work out what that means right now.
I arrange for Jack to pick us up, and then return to Anna. She stands next to her apartment door, looking up and down the street. “Are we being watched now?” she asks.
“No,” I say. The street is almost empty. Three cars are parked curbside and two more drift on by. The drivers of the moving cars don’t glance at us; none of them are River. And nobody hides behind the parked cars. I can sense it without having to look.
Anna nods. It seems she trusts me as much as I trust her. An odd sensation, being trusted by someone as precious as Anna. I feel responsible, as though a great load has just been placed upon my shoulders. If Anna were to get hurt, I think, I would never forgive myself.
“Where are we going to go?” she says.
“Point Lookout, most likely,” I reply, keeping my voice low just in case. “I have safe houses all over. Better safe than sorry and all that.”
We stand in silence for a short while, and then a tinted-window black sedan pulls up in front of us. I recognize the car at once. It’s the same car that has carted me around New York to and from jobs more times than I can count. Anna flinches and I step forward and put myself between her and the car. Silly, I know it’s safe, but it’s instinctive and only after I’ve done it I realize what I’ve done.
I laugh. “This is my driver,” I say. “Come on.”
I lift up her bag, open the back door, and wave her in. She swallows and looks at the open door, at the open door which leads to an entirely different future. One moment she’s a dancer, now she’s a fugitive. I sympathize with her. It can’t be easy. It’s difficult for me to imagine what it must be like, because running and fighting has been my life almost as long as I can remember.
“I promise you,” I say, “that I’ll protect you, no matter what. I’ll never let anybody hurt you.”
“I know,” she says, stepping forward. “I believe you. I trust you.”
‘Don’t you dare betray that trust, boy,’ Uncle Richard growls, but I know it’s really my own voice I hear. Richard would never have said that. ‘Don’t you dare hurt her.’
She climbs into the car and I climb in after her. A black screen divides Jack from the backseat. Anna looks at me questioningly. I just shake my head. I think she gets the message: Don’t ask.
Jack taps against the glass, twice, our age-old sign which means, where are we going?
I open my mouth, but Anna jumps in before I have the chance.
“I need to go to the clinic,” she says. “I need to take proper leave, give notice, you know. I can’t leave them in the lurch like this. Plus . . .” She blushes.
“What is it?” I urge.
“There’s a rabbit I want to check on.”
I can’t help it. The statement comes from nowhere and it’s so at odds with what’s happening. A killer is after us—an ex-girlfriend killer, a dangerous-as-hell killer—and she wants to check on a rabbit. I let out a laugh before I can stop myself.
She turns to me, eyes narrowed. “Don’t laugh,” she says softly. “I’m not asking for the world, Samson. You’ve stolen me away, disrupted my entire life. I think it’s the least you can do.”
She looks at me sincerely, and the laugh dies on my lips. “Okay,” I sigh. I can’t deny her. She wants it too much. And I want to make her happy. “What’s the address?”
She tells us, and Jack pulls away.
###
“Wait here,” I say.
I step from the car into the autumn half-sunlight: thin shafts sometimes breaking through the sheet of gray clouds. The center is surrounded by a shoulder-high fence, painted blue, spiked at the top. Within the fence are flowerbeds and trees, a graveled path leading to the door. The building itself is squat, redbrick, with artsy photographs of animals hanging from the walls beneath small eaves to protect them from the rain. I make a quick circuit of the building, checking the street around it and the space which immediately surrounds the center. I don’t fear for Anna, back there on her own; Jack is tough and loyal and he won’t let anything happen to her. I finish the scout, see nobody threatening, and return to the car.
“Come on, then,” I say, poking my head in.
Anna smiles up at me. Her smile is magical. It casts a spell on me. When she turns it on me, it’s like I’m not a killer, not the son of a psychopath and the nephew of Black Knight. It’s like we’re a young couple with no worries.
“We can’t stay long,” I say.
She nods, and together we approach the center.
We come to the reception area, with a waiting area adjoined on the side. Inside, the clinic is alive with sounds: a puppy barks, a parrot squawks, a cat meows, and half a dozen other animals call out until their noises become one long musical note. I stand just behind Anna, watching, on my guard. Anna has a quick talk with the receptionist, a slight girl of perhaps eighteen with blue-tinted hair, chewing gum, and then she waves me through. We head down a hallway to the left, away from the waiting area, past examination rooms and to a large office at the back of the building.
The golden plaque on the office door reads, Annabelle King.
“This is my boss,” she says. “I’ll have to go and talk with her.”
“Okay. I can’t really see into the office.” The office has no window, and even the door is thick; the sound of typing which filters through the wood is muffled. I know that the likelihood of River waiting in Anna’s boss’s chair is infinitesimal, but so was her surviving that gunshot, and yet she did. “I’ll have to come in, just in case.”
Anna studies me for a moment, maybe judging how serious I am, and then nods shortly. I get the sensation that she can read me well, much easier than she should be able to, considering we only met yesterday. It’s as if she can look past my eyes and into my mind. It unnerves me, and yet it excites me, too. I have never been understood by a woman. Even River, who wanted more from me, never understood me.
Anna knocks on the door, the typing stops, and her boss calls, “Come in!”
Annabelle King is a tall woman, brown hair in a neat bob, thin-framed glasses perched on her beak-like nose. I’d guess she’s around fifty, judging from the crow’s feet around her eyes, but she’s taken care of herself. Her body is thin, and she wears a white shirt with a business skirt and tights. I see her outfit as she kicks her wheeled chair away from the table. She smiles when she sees Anna, and then frowns as her gaze moves over Anna’s shoulder and she sees me.
“Anna . . .”
“Miss King,” Anna says.
“Who is your friend?”
And there it is, the look I know so well, the look which is so different to how Anna looks at me. There’s none of the understanding in Miss King’s face, none of the real emotion. Just an animal instinct, a perking up, like a lioness in the wild whose tail stands erect when a lion lumbers toward her. I know, just by looking at her, that this woman would come to bed with me without us exchanging so many as a dozen words.
“I’m her boyfriend,” I say, before Anna can answer. The look falls from her face, and I allow myself a small smile. The kind of look she trained on me doesn’t seem valuable anymore, not when I have Anna. Have her, I think in wonder. Have this woman I barely know—and yet know extremely well.
“He’s here because there’s been a fami
ly emergency,” Anna says, and Miss King’s gaze swings back to Anna.
“A family emergency? Is somebody ill?”
“Yes,” Anna says, without flinching.
