Young Love Murder (44 page)

Jackson yells, “English!” at him and they start conversing. The man is a guest at the hotel and a doctor who was in the lobby when Jackson called to be put through to emergency services. The doctor is going to work on Anna until paramedics arrive.

The grim set of the doctor’s face and his sympathetic eyes when he looks at me lets me know how hopeless the situation is. The doctor puts a mask over Anna’s face and starts pumping air through her mouth, he also cuts open her shirt to look at the wound. With Jackson and me helping him, he works over her.

The next few minutes pass in a whirlwind of Swedish when paramedics arrive and move Anna onto a gurney. I have no idea what they’re saying as they wheel her body to the elevators.

Crashing into Jackson at the entrance of the stairwell to meet them in the lobby, he pushes me and gives me a look of pure hatred. “Get the fuck out of here, Gabriel, unless you want to end up in prison or dead!”

Letting him go ahead of me, I rush down the stairs behind him. By the time we enter the lobby, it’s in time to see the elevator open and the gurney being pushed out. Following them out into the bright sunshine, the ambulance is waiting in front of the lobby doors. As the ambulance doors are closing behind them, I see one of the paramedics use a defibrillator on her chest and Anna’s body jump in response to the shock of the paddles. 

I don’t even notice Jackson standing next to me until he says, “Her heart stopped.” Then his fist flies at my face, knocking me out. 

Waking up, I groan at the pounding in my head. Opening my eyes partway, I see that it’s dark outside and I’m in a moving car. Turning my head to the right, I see that Jackson is behind the wheel. There’s a hard set to his jaw and he doesn’t look my way even though he must know that I’ve gained consciousness. A sense of determination is radiating off of him. Weird, that he was somehow able to load my passed out body into this car. Which I’m pretty sure is stolen since it isn’t the one we rented when we arrived at the airport in Sweden.

I clear my throat, “Are we going to the hospital?” 

It’s a long moment before he answers me, “We already stopped there.”

Okay. “Where are we heading?”

He grounds out, “Airport,” before finally looking at me. “You’ll want to change your clothes. Bag’s in the back.”

Choking on her name, I ask, “Anna?”

There’s another lengthy pause before he says, “Dead.” His eyes water, but he manages to blink back the tears.

At first I feel nothing, shock. Then the dam breaks and I start to sob uncontrollably, moaning, “Oh god,” over and over again.
Anna
. When Jackson reaches into the backseat and drops my carryon bag onto my lap, I numbly pull out a shirt and pants. Pulling off my bloodstained sweater and slacks, I’ve finished getting dressed by the time we pull up to the passenger drop off point of an airport terminal. Jackson hands me something and I automatically take it. It’s my passport. I glance at the time on the dash. The private plane should still be waiting. 

Not getting out, just sitting in silence, I wonder what’s going on in Jackson’s head. “Why are you doing this, Jackson? Letting me go and not killing me?”

He doesn’t answer until I look at him. I see the hatred in his red-rimmed eyes, along with a sheen of unshed tears. He swallows hard. “Because she loved you. She wouldn’t want you dead.” Jackson reaches across me to grip the door handle and push open my door. “Now get the fuck out before I change my mind.”

Stumbling out of the car, I’m at a loss, feeling only agony.
Anna
.

Somehow, an hour and forty-five minutes later, I’m staring out the small plane window. Looking down as the city lights of Stockholm disappear below, I think about all of my dead loved ones. Within a half hour of taking off, I’m drunk off my ass and tearing apart the cabin.
Anna! 

I finally pass out drunk and when I wake up, there’s no more shock, no more, “Oh god.” Just self-hatred, intense despair and pain. So much pain, more than I’d ever imagined. She’s dead. Just like my parents, but for her death I can blame no one but myself. Why didn’t Jackson just kill me? Really, he’d be doing me a favor. I’m sure wherever Anna is right now she’s not wishing me well. If I were her, I’d be wishing me as dead as she is.
What have I done?

Two days later, I’m standing at my mother’s grave as dirt is being tossed onto her casket. Max and Aunt Lucy are on either side of me, each holding one of my hands. As much as I’m grieving for my mom, I have to wonder if Anna is being put to rest at this very moment too. 

Did she get a proper burial with a beautiful white tombstone like my mother? Or does a girl-assassin who never really existed on record anywhere get an unmarked grave? Will it have one of her aliases on it? I don’t even know which country she’ll be buried in. I can’t even put flowers on her grave. She deserves flowers.

I tried calling Jackson’s cell this morning, desperate to at least know where her body will put to rest, or if she’ll be cremated, but it’s already been disconnected. Then I tried getting a hold of Marie Perrot, but she isn’t accepting my calls. If she knows what happened in Stockholm, I can’t say I blame her. 

As I walk across the grass, away from my mother’s grave, I think about what a waste it would be to plan a future for myself at this point. Not that I want one. Jackson may have let me go in Sweden, but I don’t think he’ll be able to hold onto that idea for long. Just as I went after Annabelle for revenge, he’ll eventually be forced to come after me. His hatred for me will demand it. 

I guess I do have one plan for the future. Sit and wait. Wait for my own death at Jackson’s hand. 

I deserve nothing else. Oh god,
Anna.

Chapter 34

Gabriel

August 24th

Dear Anna,

Max brought me this journal yesterday, saying that I need to get out my feelings somehow, and if I wasn’t going to talk to him or my aunt (or a shrink), that I should at least use this to talk to myself. The problem is, I don’t want to talk to anyone but you. But you’re dead. If I pretend you’re listening as I write in this journal, will you hear me in heaven? Maybe you’re an ethereal ghost reading over my shoulder?

Guess Max is concerned about me going off the deep end. If I could speak about it, I’d tell him that I lost my mind when I killed you. Everything else is just the fallout.

Baby, I killed you. It seems so unreal. 

I love you still.

I’m so, so sorry.

I’ve been waiting in this monstrosity of a house for two months, rarely leaving, rarely seeing any visitors other than my aunt and cousin. Funny, the house didn’t seem as big when my parents were alive. Sometimes, I can still imagine my mom here, flitting from room to room like a hummingbird, making sure everything was perfect. Not to mention the servants, security men and other employees of ours who always seemed to fill the place. And when my dad would arrive home from a business trip, the place would practically buzz with activity. 

I’ve dismissed all of them. Dust collects, rooms are closed up and the guard booth is empty. The lawns and gardens look like crap, but what’s the point?

My bedroom is a cocoon that shelters me from the outside world. When I make trips downstairs to answer the door for pizza delivery, or to the kitchen to fetch something, I quickly hurry back to this sanctuary. With the curtains drawn and my eyes closed, I can imagine that you’re lying next to me.

I’m sleeping with a gun beside my bed, but when the time comes, and he comes, I won’t put up a fight. 

If I die too, will we be together again? My mom’s way out of heartbreak was suicide. That’s not an option for me. My faith taught me that all suicide gets you is a one-way ticket to hell. Although I’m not sure I believe that, I can’t take any chances. Or maybe I’m just a coward. 

I don’t think you’re in hell. Nothing was your fault. Weren’t you a victim as much as me? What kind of sick creep raises a young girl to kill? 

I’ll be patient and wait for Jackson to do me the favor. Then I’ll see you again. Holding on to that thought is all I live for, if you can call this living.

A knock on my bedroom door interrupts my writing and is quickly followed by it swinging open and Max walking in uninvited. Shoving the black journal under my pillow, I shoot him a dirty look. “Jeez Max, why bother knocking?”

If he noticed me writing in the journal, he’s being polite enough to not comment on it.

He shrugs unrepentantly, smirking. “I figured you might need a little warning, just in case you were making love to yourself.” Obviously, he’s comfortable enough to be rude about other things.

Throwing a pillow, it nails him on his big misshaped head. “You’re freaking hilarious, Max, maybe you should skip college and become a comedian.”

With a pitying look, he says, “Well, I feel sorry for you, man, I have a feeling you haven’t gotten any in long while.” He pauses then arches his eyebrows. “Unless you’ve had some call girls up in this tomb?” He still thinks I never found Anna and that my deep depression is for my parents.

“Go away, Max.”

Holding a hand over his chest, his face reflects mock injury. “That hurts, Gabriel. Tomorrow I leave for New York and you’ll regret all this grumpiness towards me.”

Feeling a twinge of guilt, I attempt a smile and fail. “I’ll miss you, Cuz.” 

The playful look on his face disappears. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. Are you going to be all right all alone here?”

Not wanting him to worry, since I don’t expect to be around much longer, I blow him off, “Don’t worry about me. With your mom running the businesses and Pizza Hut feeding me, I’ll be fine.”

He still looks worried and makes one last attempt, “Come on, man. Come with me to New York. It’ll be fun.” The cunning gleam in his dark eyes warns me of what he’s about to say, “Think of all the new chicks we’ll meet.”

I don’t want to meet them. I don’t want anything to do with them or anyone else. Rolling my eyes at him, I say, “Have fun in New York.”

“You need to forget her. It’s been ten months since she disappeared, she’s not coming back, Gabriel.” He doesn’t know the half of it.

“I know.”
But I can’t
. I won’t ever.

When Max shuts the door behind him, I pull the journal out from underneath my pillow. The white skull and crossbones on the front cover add a nice touch and are totally fitting. I’ve become well acquainted with Death. I’ve even taken a couple turns at playing Death myself.

Opening the cover, I reach over onto my nightstand and pick up the picture of Anna and me in Barbados, just weeks before I killed her. Scooting off the bed, I walk over to my black computer desk to scrounge up some tape out of the drawer. Using mailing tape, I use it to secure the picture on the inside cover of the journal. 

Holding it under the desk lamp, I stare at her in the picture. She’d dyed her hair reddish brown a week after we arrived in Barbados. The white cotton dress she’s wearing was a favorite of mine. Closing my eyes, I can still imagine stroking the golden skin on her shoulders that day as I listened to her melodic voice. We talked about everything and nothing, just happy to be together. We were so in love, soaking in each other’s presence. At the time, I’d thought we’d be together forever.

Sitting down in the high back leather chair, I push my laptop out of the way and drop the journal onto the desk. Continuing, I start where I left off . . .  

Anna, do you remember when we went to that touristy restaurant in Barbados and a man came up to our table to take our picture? If we hadn’t bought that picture from him, I would have nothing but my memories of you. Looking at it, your happy face, your shining brown eyes, I think about the way you looked as you lay dying on that hotel room floor days later.