by Evelyn Glass
I don’t have to ponder the question. I know the answer. Yes, and I love him just as much.
She shakes her head. “Enough talk,” she snaps.
I close my eyes now and wait for it to come. I can’t fight. My body is exhausted, drained, and there’s nothing I can do but wait for the inevitable to happen.
In my last moments, I go to the turnstile. I walk through the turnstile and onto the field. Roses and daisies and flowers of every color of the rainbow burst around me, their fragrance filling the air and their petals ushering me onto the lush vibrant grass. I walk deep into the field, a smile on my face, more content and at ease than anybody is capable in life. I think, if I am going to die it will not be with her twisted smile in my mind, but my peaceful place, my happy place. I wish I could’ve lived longer, done more, but it seems that isn’t in the cards for me and I have to accept that, have to understand that there’s nothing I can do but be happy, be truly happy for one last time in my life.
I walk deeper and deeper into the field until the turnstile is a pinprick behind me. And then the dogs lope toward me, hundreds of them, their tongues dangling happily between their teeth and their barks and yelps high-pitched and beautiful on the air. They envelop me and when I think it can’t get more perfect, the image couldn’t possibly be more complete, the dogs part and Samson walks down the aisle they make, smiling, arms outstretched.
“I love you so much,” he says. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a killer. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a bad man. I love you and I’ll never stop loving you.”
I fall into his arms and a dozen little dogs wrap around out ankles and lap at our skin, rough, wet tongues sending prickles dancing all over our bodies. Love blooms in my chest and I try with all my effort to imagine that this is real, this is the real world and the world in which there is a gun to my head, in which my brains are about to become crimson patterns on the floor, is fake. That is fake and this is real. I am content, I am safe, I am secure, I am happy.
But then I open my eyes, and River’s grin spreads wider.
“This is it,” she sighs. “I’m almost sad to do it. I’ve enjoyed our little time together. I feel like it’s really helped me come to terms with some things. But, you know, it can’t last forever. I wish it could, but . . .”
She pulls the trigger. I see black.
###
What surprises me most is the lack of pain. I thought there’d be massive pain, pain like I’ve never experienced before. I’d assumed that, for one hellish second, I’d feel the bullet enter my head, feel everything empty out of me. I’d assumed that the pain would grip me and I would scream out, if only for a fraction of a second. But there is no pain, and stranger still, I can feel my eyes, my hands, my legs; I feel the pressure of the floor beneath me and the rising and falling of my chest. And then sound enters this strange world, and I hear River grunting, and, and . . .
Yes! Yes! Samson! Yes!
I open my eyes. I am not dead.
I rise to my feet and watch as Samson wrenches River away from me. My ears are ringing and when I look down, I see the space where the bullet hit, a fine dent in the concrete floor, a fine dent where it ricocheted directly next to my head. The gun went off, but it missed me, missed me by less than an inch. I can hear, but everything is muffled.
Samson tears River away from me, snaps her wrist, and she drops the gun. I dive on it, scoop it up, hold it to my chest. I hold it close and then back away, watching the scene, knowing that there’s little I can do.
Samson is bleeding from his head and his face, blood gushing from his nose, but from the way he moves, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with him. He’s like a machine, I think. He came for me and he’s like a machine. My machine, my man. He saved me! Samson!
River yelps when he snaps her wrist, and then turns and tries to struggle in his grip. Samson wraps his arm around her, squeezing her chest, holding her still as he reaches into his pocket with his free hand and takes out the dart gun. He presses it against her neck, there’s a small pump, and then River’s eyes go slack and she falls from Samson’s grip and to the floor as though she is boneless.
Samson steps away from her, looking down at the dart which protrudes from her neck, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, his gaze turns to me. His eyes are soft, softer than I’ve ever seen them, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I wouldn’t blame him, would never blame him for showing me the softer side of himself.
He steps over River and opens his arms. “Anna,” he says, voice heavy. “Anna, I . . .”
“Hush,” I say, ignoring the thrumming in my ears, just glad that he’s here, I’m not dead, I’m with my man. “Just . . . hush.”
I meet him in the middle of the room, the room I was sure moments ago would be my tomb. Then I fall into his chest and he embraces me fiercely, holding me to him like he’s scared I’ll float away.
“I love you, Anna,” he says. “I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve said it the first moment I saw you. I love you so damn much.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper into the tightness of his chest. “I love you, Samson.”
Then the air is alive with the sounds of sirens.
“We have to get out of here,” he says. “But first . . .”
He backs away from me and takes his cellphone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have to let the police know where to find her. The dart will knock her out for at least a few hours, but if the police don’t know where to look . . .”
He dials a number, lifts the cell to his ear, and then begins talking frantically to somebody named Officer Gomez.
When the call is over, he drops the cell back into his pocket and takes my hand. It’s warm, and strong, and the feel of it embracing mine is almost too much to handle.
“Come on,” he says, leading me away from the room, away from River. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say. I try to laugh. It’s a small laugh, still half-terrified, but the sound of it in my ringing ears is welcome, blissful.
###
We watch from Samson’s car across the street as River and her four cronies are hauled out in cuffs and placed in the back of police cars. River is carried like a baby, but she’s still cuffed, and as we watch the officer who carries her turns to one of his colleagues with a sideway glance. I don’t hear what he says, but I imagine it’s something like, ‘We finally got her.’ As far as I know, the police have wanted her for a while, wanted to catch the psychopathic woman who thrives on murder and pain. She’s placed into the back of the car and the door is shut and locked behind her. When she wakes, she’ll be in a police cell, and then prosecuted for a dozen charges, backdated all the way to the start of her career. She’ll be put away, but she won’t die, and that’s what Samson wanted.
“But I won’t leave it to chance,” he tells me, as the police form a line around the arena. “I’ll give them evidence, enough evidence that she’ll go away for life. There’s no way in hell I’ll leave it to chance and witnesses.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Won’t the police want you, too?”
Samson shrugs and starts the car. “Maybe,” he admits. “But that’s not a worry for right now. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
The engine thrums to life and he turns to smile, a half-smile on his lips.
“Do you regret meeting me, Anna?” he says.
I reach across the car and touch his face, careful to be gentle lest I make the wounds worse. “Never,” I say.
We drive away into the night.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Samson
I take Anna to one of my apartment safe houses in the city. It’s nowhere near as luxurious as my penthouse, but I know for a fact that nobody knows where it is, not the police, my mafia contacts, my fellow killers, nobody. Black Knight was a careful man, in his way. I p
ark the car down the street and we walk hurriedly under the yellow streetlamps and through the misty autumn air. When I open the door, I’m mildly embarrassed by the state of it. Foolish, perhaps, under the circumstances, but I can’t help it. It’s a small one-bedroom apartment with an adjoined living room and kitchen. The couch is old and musty and it’s the only piece of furniture. The wallpaper is yellowed and turning at the corners. The kitchen is devoid of anything but canned goods and a few old pieces of cooking equipment. The bed has a thin mattress and thin sheets. There’s only one picture on the wall, an old life-bitten man holding a small boy on his shoulders, grinning to the camera.
“Who’s this?” Anna says, walking over to the picture as I lock the door behind us.
I stand at her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, stunned that she’s alive. I’m happy, of course, but the happiness is numbed and I realize that part of me assumed she would be dead. Part of me assumed that I wouldn’t be able to get to her quick enough. Now that she’s here, alive, breathing and mostly unharmed, I feel like I am in a dream. I think of the scene over River’s body, when I told her that I loved her. And I feel silly for not saying it sooner. I don’t hold any of the bullshit pride I had before, the pride which stopped me revealing my inner self. If there’s one woman I can do that with, it’s Anna, this gorgeous, amazing, smart, perfect woman standing before me.
“That’s Uncle Richard,” I say, pointing at the man. “And that’s me.” The child in the picture knew nothing of the business. It was before I began to learn the ins and outs of killing, before I lost my childhood innocence and became a tool of the trade. I have only been here a few times since his death. It’s too painful. There’s something tragic about the picture, something which tells me I’ve lost an important part of myself, a part which cannot be reclaimed.
But maybe Anna can help you put that part back, I think. Maybe Anna can cure you of this sickness, this killing sickness.
“Wow,” Anna says. “You look so different. Carefree. Innocent.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I do, don’t I?”
Then the pain of my wounds starts to ache and I stumble back, head trembling.
“Woah, woah!” Anna cries, turning swiftly and catching me by the shoulders. “Silly me. I’m a bit battered a bruised, but look at you, Samson . . .”
She takes me by the shoulders and leads me to the couch. I’m glad to be babied, glad to let my woman take over and tend to me. That’s something I never would have dreamed I would’ve thought. I’ve always seen myself, a lone wolf stalking the night, but with Anna here that seems like a strange outlook to have. Why would I be alone when Anna is here, my Anna, my woman, my love?
‘You’ve changed,’ Black Knight mutters, and it’s almost as if the old man on the wall is speaking to me. ‘You’ve changed more in this past week than you’ve changed in the past decade and a half.’
“Please tell me there’s a first-aid kit in this place,” Anna says.
“There is,” I say. “Under the sink.”
If there’s one thing every safe house needs, it’s a first aid kit.
“So this was your uncle’s place,” Anna says, returning with the kit. She lays out the tools, swabs my wounds, and begins tending to me. I hardly feel what she does, don’t worry about it. I trust that she knows what she’s doing, and that’s enough. I would trust Anna with my life. Hell, I’d trust her with more than that. I can’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t trust her with.
“Yeah,” I say, as she patches me up. “I don’t come back here much.”
“Look at this,” Anna says, “and then look at the safe houses you’ve been taking me to. You’ve been a very successful man, Samson.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
I get to thinking, thinking in a way I’ve stopped myself from doing for most of my life, thinking about the future. Before Anna, when I thought of the future, I imagined myself becoming like Richard, growing old in the business and dying alone. I’d be richer, of course, but the bare facts would be similar. I’d be alone, distanced from everybody around me. But now . . .
“Ah,” I grunt, when Anna nicks me. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful,” Anna says. “You’re the one who gets in trouble.”
“Wait a second!” I laugh.
She giggles along with me, and then grows suddenly quiet. “Did you know that River was Eric’s sister? I forgot to tell you.”
“No,” I say, mouth falling open despite the pain in my jaw. “No, I did not.”
I find it difficult to feel anything at the revelation, only that I have to make Anna see something important.
“You know it was never your fault, don’t you, Anna?” I say. “You know that, right?”
She shrugs. I squeeze her shoulder and look deeply into her eyes. “Nothing, not any of it, was your fault. I want you to say that back to me.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do it,” I insist.
“It . . . That’s harder than I thought it would be.” She takes a deep breath, and then says: “It’s not my fault.”
“Good,” I say. “Never forget that, Anna.”
###
I ring Officer Gomez when Anna’s done patching me and herself up. She took a shower to wash off the blood and throw up. Now, she’s curled up on the couch now, a blanket thrown over her, watching me with a sleepy smile on her face. Whatever happened yesterday, whatever will happen tomorrow, tonight we’re okay. That’s what her smile tells me, in this moment, she’s content, and that’s all we can reasonably ask for right now.
He answers after only a couple of rings.
“Samson,” he says, breathless.
Officer Gomez is one of many police officers in New York City who think that men like me aren’t such a bad thing. I’m not like The Butcher or his friends, men who will kill women and children and think nothing of it. He knows that I’ve only ever killed bad men, criminals, men who would go on to do much more damage than I ever could. Because of that, he treats me with respect. And, perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t want to see me go down.
“Gomez,” I say. “What’s the situation?”
“They have all five of them up on assault charges, murder, conspiracy to commit murder . . . well, there’s a laundry list of them, to be honest. But they have you on CCTV, Samson. And the evidence on River isn’t as strong as it could be.”
“Right,” I say, massaging my temple. “Okay, well, we need to meet, then. I can help with the evidence. I have a whole cache of it I can give to you. But what about the CCTV?”
“Money will fix that,” Gomez says promptly. He agrees with what I do and he doesn’t judge me for it, but he needs to eat. The entire force needs to eat. “The detectives know who you are, but as far as I can tell, they’re all willing to look the other way . . . for a fee.”
“We need to meet, then,” I say.
I can almost hear him nodding eagerly down the phone. “Tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah, tomorrow. I’ll bring the money and the evidence. How much, by the way?”
He tells me. It’s a lot, but it’s not more than I expected, and far less than I have in storage.
“Right, fine,” I say. “And that’ll strike me from the investigation, yeah? Oh, by the way, how’s the NBA player?”
“A bit busted up, but he’ll be okay. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I can’t talk now.”
“Okay, where and when?”
He names the time and place. The docks, an old meeting place for us. At noon.
“See you then,” I say.
He hangs up, and I sit on the couch next to Anna’s curled-up legs. Her eyes are half-closed, but she watches me the whole time and I know she wants me to sit here and wait for her to go to sleep. I know that without having to ask her.
I put my hand on her leg and massage it softly, savoring the feel of her, the wonderfully alive feel, the beautifully solid feel. I find it difficult to come to grips with the events of the night. E
verything was so hectic, happened so fast and yet seemed to happen over the course of a long time. It was unlike any other night in my business.
‘Because you really cared,’ Black Knight says, and for once the judgment in his voice is gone. He sounds like the kind man he was before I discovered the business, discovered that he was a killer and that I would be a killer one day, too. ‘You really cared about what happened. It was about more than money.’
