Fugue State (24 page)

She couldn’t shake the idea of injecting an air embolus from her mind.
If I put a sharp needle into the scar, he may not feel a thing
. Scar tissue often lacked sensation after the nerve endings were cut and regressed with healing.
I’d have to be very close to Ivan to pull that off, close enough to touch him.
She winced at the thought. If she let him get close enough to put his hands on her, she doubted she could escape his grasp.
I can’t die like the other girls. It would be like letting Jamar win all over again.

She scolded herself for the sudden feelings of weakness.
Jamar didn’t win,
she forced herself to remember.
Jamar will never win. And Ivan will die
. She repeated the words, letting them become her mantra.

Mike went over other details regarding Ivan’s whereabouts and his thoughts of Ivan’s upcoming agenda. She would meet Ivan in Versailles in three days to confront him. In the interim, Mike would critique her shooting skills and teach her some self-defense tactics.

As their discussion grew to a close, he reached a hand into his jacket and revealed a plastic bag filled with a couple of cards and documents. “I almost forgot. You’ll be traveling under your alias. I guess this is something you and Charlie discussed. He said you had the passport already. I have a few additional things, including a credit card in your alias for expenses.”

Alexa’s eyes followed the card he slid across the table to her. She gasped when she read the name on the card:
Elizabeth Fuguay.
Her stomach flip-flopped. Her teeth gnawed into cheek, too afraid to speak.
If Charles MacDonald knows about Elizabeth Fuguay, he knows too much.
In spite of her agreement with Charlie, she had maintained the belief that she would one day escape all of the tragic events and start anew as Elizabeth Fuguay. But if Charles MacDonald knew of her proposed new identity, she would have to abandon it altogether.
He trapped me.

Alexa reached out for the card and set both hands atop the documents he set before her. She traced the letters with her fingertips and whispered the name aloud. “Elizabeth Fuguay.”
Not what I had planned at all.
Bitter irony burned in her gut. Instead of a new identity bringing her freedom, she had become a different kind of prisoner — one who answered to Charles MacDonald. Hot, salty tears pooled in her eyes, but she willed her body not to shed them.
Tears won’t help.
She suppressed the feeling, placing it where she hid the rest of her pain. When she looked back up at Mike, her blank face proved her emotions were safely locked away. He stood.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Get some rest.”

She said nothing as he walked away.

She slipped into a state of confusion.
What are you planning, Charlie?
You stole my future, my blank slate. Why? So I can be your pawn? Your sacrificial lamb?
Exasperated, she stretched her hands across the table and set her chin on her arms
. Why am I doing this?
She remembered Corbin’s words and her bitterness.
For his victims. I kill him for his victims. Damn you, Charlie for getting me into this.
She forced a deep cleansing breath and told herself she was not a sacrificial lamb; but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

That night over a couple of vodka sodas, Alexa visualized meeting with Ivan and killing him.
Mike had set her up with an escort service near Ivan, but she would have to wait for him to call the escort service. Based on his pattern of behavior, Mike thought he would most certainly call. Once he did, she would go to his hotel room. He’d open the door; she’d enter. The door had to be closed before she could carry out her plan. Mike was adamant about that part. The kill was supposed to be concealed and discreet. They didn’t want to provoke any of Ivan’s allies or cause a scene of any sort. He needed to disappear quietly.

Once the door closed, she would pull her handgun from her trench coat while pretending to undress, and shoot Ivan in the chest. No, she would shoot him in the heart, to be precise. She needed to be precise.

She visualized the events smoothly a couple of times. After the second vodka soda hit her, the details blurred in her mind, and Alexa lost her sharpness. Her imagination ran wild. She pictured herself entering Ivan’s hotel room, and him shoving her to the ground. The gun tumbled out of her coat. They wrestled on the floor. Ivan got the gun. It was too late for Alexa; without a weapon, she didn’t stand a chance.

She opened her eyes in a panic, shut them tight, and started again.

Once more, Ivan shoved her from behind and Alexa hit the ground, the gun tumbling from her coat. This time, she clasped a syringe in her hand and pierced Ivan’s neck scar in the midst of the struggle. She imagined air bubbles winding through the segments of Ivan’s internal carotid artery before swirling around in the Circle of Willis and depositing in his cerebral arteries.

In a moment of satisfaction, her eyes popped opened, and the corners of her lips turned upwards. Yes.
I will bring a syringe the day I meet Ivan. Maybe I should discuss it with Mike.

A ring from the special phone Mike had given her interrupted her meditative state. The cheap little thing looked like a plastic toy from the bottom of a Crackerjack box.

“I need you dressed and downstairs in the lobby by seven a.m.” Before he hung up, he added, “It’s best you learn to lay off the booze.”

What? How does he know that? I’m under a microscope for Mike and Charlie to scrutinize
. She was like a teenage child being berated by an overprotective parent.
I should have another drink just to spite him.
Her mind danced in its tipsy state as she searched for the vodka bottle.
No
. She frowned.
He’s right. I don’t need anymore.

She sulked on the bed, curling her knees into a fetal position while unanswered questions reverberated in her skull like laundry on the spin cycle.
Why did Charlie ask me to do this? Why do I have to be a female escort? Can’t some man just shoot Ivan in the street? Do I really want to kill Ivan? Will it be satisfying?

She focused her thoughts on what she knew was true and absolute
. Ivan is a horrible man, and the world will be a safer place without him. It’s just like Jamar and Castro. Yes, Ivan’s death will be satisfying. His death by my hand will be satisfying.
The swirling thoughts slowed, and she drifted to sleep.

CHAPTER 29

M
ike picked her up in the morning at her hotel in his black SUV and drove her to a barn outside the city. He wanted to watch her shoot and teach her a few combat maneuvers. He confiscated her licensed handgun and replaced it with an unlicensed one. This gun was a larger model that came with a small silencer. He told her what it was called, but she quickly forgot the name of the fancy model. She learned to assemble and disassemble the gun, how to load and unload it. After dissecting its parts, it didn’t seem as fancy.

He gave her tips on shooting targets while moving and strategies to conceal her weapon. He even taught her to shoot in reverse utilizing a hand mirror. Alexa thought her abilities would impress Mike, but he said very little. He had a lunch packed for them both, and they chatted some while they ate.

“I think you’ll do all right after all, Poppy girl.” It was the second time that day he had referred to her as
Poppy
. The first time Alexa dismissed the remark, assuming it was a slip up meant for someone else. The second time, she knew it was a new nickname he was trying out on her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how it originated.
Is Poppy somehow related to Lily, his daughter’s name? Mike must have a thing for flowers
, she mused.

“Mike, I couldn’t help but realize your new nickname for me.” He looked up at her, and their eyes met in an awkward moment. “Why
Poppy
?”

Mike spoke with his mouth full of food and bits of sandwich moved in and out of his teeth. “Poppy — just seems fittin’, I guess. You’re pretty, you know, like a flower.”

Confused, she pressed, “Okay, why not Rose or Petunia?”

He smirked. “Poppies are different. Their seeds are used for opium, found in drugs like morphine and heroin. You’re that kind of pretty. It’s addictive to a man, like a drug. You’re addictive, and dangerous — and, with my help, deadly. You’re a poppy — a beautiful, deadly flower.”

She appreciated the sentiment; she hoped the nickname stemmed from a growing confidence he had in her. His confidence was all she could ask for. In the back of her mind, however, she feared the nickname stemmed from the poppy flowers referenced in the poem “In Flanders Fields,” where red poppies grew over the graves of the fallen soldiers. From those words, the flowers became memorial symbols for soldiers who had died in battle. Somehow, the remembrance poppy seemed more fitting for Alexa, seeing as how she had a very real chance of falling in her upcoming battle. A chill crept over her and lingered at the base of her neck.

Mike also went over various physical maneuvers, both offensive and defensive. In spite of the confidence her new nickname ensued, he focused mainly on defensive maneuvers, with both of them knowing if the fight turned physical, she would need a means of escape. He wrapped his thick arms around her neck and torso and instructed her how to escape. She became a contortionist, pushing or pulling to counteract Mike’s forceful movements, fearing her bones would break under the pressure. Alexa held a constant grimace while writhing under her captor’s hold.
Weaker sex, indeed. I don’t stand a chance against Mike, and I won’t stand a chance against Ivan if it comes to this.

At the end of the long afternoon, they sat and drank water out of canteens. The cool liquid felt good on her lips, and Alexa let it drip from her mouth, down her chin and onto her chest. It left a wet spot on her white shirt right at the level of her cleavage. Alexa watched Mike avert his eyes. She fumbled with the canteen top, moving it between her fingers. She tried to suppress the one question that hovered in her mind. Just when she thought she had quelled her desire, the words tumbled from her lips.

“Do
you
think I’m ready, Mike? Ready for Ivan, that is.” She needed his words of confidence to fill her ears.

He nodded a few times, as if he were answering himself before he answered her. “Yeah, Poppy. You’re ready. We’re all ready.” He mustered a faint smirk, and his hand fell to her shoulder. She thought it would feel awkward, but it didn’t. She felt comfortable. His presence seemed familiar.

“Will I see Charlie again — you know, before Ivan?”

His expression turned dry, and his eyes moved away from her.

“I don’t think so.” His voice became hollow. The words disappeared into the wind but continued to echo in Alexa’s ears.

She wanted to ask him what he thought about the syringe idea. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure Mike would understand her logic. She lacked the confidence to withstand his rebuttal. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself because the words seemed silly. Yet, every time she closed her eyes, she saw the scar on Ivan’s neck.
It seems like an easy enough target.
If I were only close enough.
She shivered. She equated physical contact with Ivan with red poppies on her grave.

“All right, Poppy girl. This is where we part ways. Tomorrow is your well-earned day of rest. I suggest you spend an hour or so in the hot tub. You’re gonna be sore. Give your mind and body a chance to heal.” He spent the next few minutes going over the travel arrangements. Versailles lay just west of Paris. She would take a train tomorrow afternoon and arrive late that night. A private car would take her to her hotel.

Alexa nodded as he spoke, admiring the bruises developing on her forearms. “Mike, how do you know what day I will meet Ivan? Isn’t he supposed to contact me via this escort service? How can you know when someone is planning to call an escort service?”

His look of consternation warned her he might be withholding information.

She repeated the question. “How do you know when he’s going to call?”

He took a deep breath. “He’s a predictable sort of man, that way. He behaves himself for a while, but he can’t go for too long. He hits his max at about three weeks before he feels the urge again.”

Urge to kill, you mean?

“We may have to wait a bit until Ivan makes the call. When he does, you gotta be ready. I’m heading to Versailles, as well. I’ll be around in case any shit goes down. Don’t worry yourself.” He slapped her on the back before departing.

Back in her hotel room, Alexa poured a vodka soda to ease her nerves. She didn’t drift off to sleep peacefully, though. She slipped into some kind of limbo where she wasn’t fully asleep, but her mind started to dream anyway. She walked on a little brick path, surrounded by a field of red poppies, like in the Wizard of Oz. The field stretched as far as she could see. She hummed as she walked. A little ways ahead of her, she saw a bare mound of earth. A short line of people formed behind a stone next to the pile of dirt. She only saw the backs of the figures. They carried in their hands freshly unearthed poppy flowers, with clumps of dirt still entangled in their roots, and tossed them in a heap in front of the stone. The stone was a gravestone etched with her name.

The vision startled her, and her consciousness returned when she heard her own voice muttering peculiarities aloud.
Stupid vodka.
She had used it as a crutch to escape reality, but lately it was taking her to an uncomfortable place where she was neither awake nor asleep, nor in control. Mike’s words resonated in her head.
Lay off the booze
. She couldn’t ignore the practical advice. Alexa pressed her fingertips into her temples and massaged little circles into her skin.
Maybe I’ll cut back a little
.

She wondered who the faceless figures in her hallucination could be.
Who would come to my funeral?
She created a list of potentials. In spite of their differences, her mother and father would attend. Britt’s father would come.
What about Britt?
He still loves me, like I love him. But I can’t see him at my funeral. He wouldn’t want to remember me like that. He would mourn in private. He would say goodbye while looking through a box of keepsakes, reliving cherished memories, imagining me in his arms, and indulging in a glass of wine — by candlelight.