Behind the Hands That Kill

  “Don’t be,” I tell her, and take her hand again. Then I swallow, unsure of what I’m about to tell her, but I do it anyway. “I’ve done it before,” I say. “I’ve…”

  Suddenly, the memory coats my mind like the tears in Dina’s eyes.

  I pulled back the plunger, drawing another spoonful of heroin into the needle. Both of my eyes throbbed; the left side of my face felt bigger than the right; I was so angry, so tired of nursing my mother every day, feeding her veins because she couldn’t find them herself anymore; tired of the smell; tired of these men raping me and beating me when Javier was gone. The one that just left, thought it necessary to rape me in front of my mother. And she just laid there on the bed, her back to us, too high to move a hand against him to stop him. So that extra spoonful of heroin, I knew in my heart was too much. I knew her emaciated body couldn’t take another one so soon, that her barely-beating heart would fail the moment the heroin touched it.

  I knew…

  “Sarai, baby,” my mother whispered to me; her body odor, mixed with strong perfume and cigarettes, choked me as she laid next to me on the soiled bed. “You forgive me, don’t you? I never meant for any of this to happen. I just…wasn’t thinking straight.” I saw the whites of her eyes briefly in the darkness as the heroin began to swim through her bloodstream. She smiled euphorically as if she’d touched the Face of God. I set the needle down on the tray at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s OK, Mom,” I whispered back, and loosened the tourniquet from her wiry arm. “I forgive you…”

  I force myself back into the present.

  And I look right into Dina’s eyes.

  “At least you have the courage to ask,” I say to her, the memory lingering on the fringes of my mind, and my heart.

  I kiss her hand.

  “Will you play the piano for me, baby girl?”

  “Of course I will, momma. Of course I will…”

  Victor

  My Boston headquarters was perfect. It was hidden in plain sight, located in the heart of the city, built with just enough levels and rooms for all of my needs and personnel; not to mention, being a juvenile detention center previously, it was equipped with cells that served more than their fair share of purpose since setting up here.

  Perfect.

  Yet, not so perfect, after all.

  It was, in a sense, a fantasy to believe even for a moment that I could stay in the same place for too long, much less run a growing underground organization of my own here, without imminent threat of The Order moving in and taking me down, and everyone in it.

  Empty.

  That is the only word to describe my perfect sanctuary now; it has been stripped clean of every stitch of furniture, every painting, every gun and bullet and blood sample and computer. But more notably, the hum of my operatives—spies, assassins, guards—has been silenced, leaving the walls of the building to whisper the things they have been subject to. I can almost hear them, talking to one another.

  There is an echo in what was once my office overlooking the city; everything produces an echo now that there is nothing in it to cushion the sound. On this day the echo comes from Gustavsson’s dress shoes moving over the floor behind me as he enters the room. And his voice, as he unnecessarily makes his presence known to me.

  “I’m here, Faust.”

  I stand at the barred window, my hands crossed down in front of me, and I take in the sight of the city through a filmy glass: the day in its transition to night, the traffic thinning out as the last few minutes of rush-hour fade from the clocks of over six hundred thousand residents, the bustle of Bostonians living out their lives knowing nothing of the unlawful activities, outside of the usual crime, that play out all around them every single day.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Still with my back to him, I nod.

  After a moment, I turn from the window to face him.

  “I would offer you a chair”—breaking apart my hands, I gesture at the empty room—“but as you can see…”

  “I’m fine standing.”

  I nod again.

  “We cannot operate out in the open any longer,” I begin. “Not until we bring The Order down, and we cannot accomplish this until we smoke out the real Vonnegut.” I walk toward him, slowly, my hands folded again in front of me, and then I stop. “It was a mistake to spend even a fraction of my time and resources on any mission that did not directly, or indirectly, involve taking Vonnegut out. That changes as of today—but do not worry; you will continue to work closely with the government in catching your serial killer.”

  “I appreciate that,” Gustavsson speaks up, relieved, “but isn’t that doing exactly what you said we were no longer going to do?”

  “No,” I answer. “Working closely with them is indirectly moving toward Vonnegut. They want him almost as much I do; they have, as you already know, resources and information that I do not have and very much need. You will continue as you are, but, as always, keep your eyes and ears open; report to me anything, no matter how small, having to do with Vonnegut, The Order, or anyone who is a part of it—directly or indirectly.”

  “OK, but what about everybody else?” he asks. “Niklas, Nora, even James Woodard—not to mention, Izabel.” Obviously, he is very interested, and even somewhat anxious, to know anything he can about Izabel. As far as I know, he still has not spoken to her since Artemis. Gustavsson, as much as everyone else, I am sure, would like to know what is to become of her, whether inside, or outside, of my Order.

  The only problem is…so would I.

  “Kessler will stay partnered with Osiris Stone—the only mission more important to me than Vonnegut, is finding Artemis and Apollo, and there is no one better than Osiris and Hestia to do that. It is an outside job, and they are not members of my Order, but even still, Kessler will be working indirectly on the Vonnegut mission by keeping her eyes and ears open while with them.”

  “You think Osiris Stone is involved with The Order in some way?” Gustavsson inquires.

  “It is not likely, but possible, and I cannot risk leaving any stone unturned—not anymore. I admit, it strikes me somewhat peculiar that members of Vonnegut’s Order are who found us in Venezuela, in the same timeframe that Artemis and Apollo did. I also admit that, as I have stated, it is not likely that the Stone siblings have anything more to do with The Order than Osiris’s deal with them fifteen years ago. I am simply covering all of my bases, while at the same, doing whatever it takes to find Apollo and Artemis so that they can be…properly punished for what they have done.” Gently, I crack my neck, and pop my jaw; a distraction that I have found recently, helps to calm my blinding anger. My need for revenge. Never have I experienced such feelings of overpowering rage. Never have I sat alone, staring at four walls, imagining a scene so bloody and torturous that it could be taken straight from the mind of Gustavsson himself.

  “And Niklas?” Gustavsson says.

  “My brother—”

  “Is present,” Niklas interrupts, as he enters the room. “You can talk about me with me here.”

  I did not expect to see him—we are still not much on speaking terms, certainly not outside of our jobs. I did extend an invitation to this meeting to Niklas yesterday, but given that his response was, “I have to jack-off at that time, but thanks anyway,” this is the last place I expected to see him.

  James Woodard enters the room seconds later.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, nervously.

  I look at each person in the room, one by one, checking their names off in my head: Gustavsson, Woodard, and then lastly, my brother. It feels incredibly incomplete. But Kessler’s absence has nothing to do with that feeling. Not having Izabel here is affecting me more than I could have ever imagined.

  I swallow, raise my chin, and get to the matters at hand.

  “Until Vonnegut is eradicated, and I am in control of The Order, we will be scattered and divided as an organization from this day forth. We will stay in contact with
one another through secure means, but we will see little to nothing of each other for quite some time. Too many of us in one place is too large a risk—like right now, for example. If one of us is captured or killed, all of us will be, and that will be the end.” I look at Gustavsson. “You will continue with your current mission, as we discussed, but you”—I glance at the others—“as with everyone else, will vacate your current residences, even the cities, and settle elsewhere. And you will need to lay low; either blend in with society and become more a part of it, or stay out of it entirely.”

  “What about everyone else?” Gustavsson speaks up. “The two hundred plus recruits you have working for you.”

  “They will be left in the dark,” I announce. “Only the three of you standing in this room, and Kessler, currently out in the field, have been informed of anything. Everyone else will continue as they are, but you are all to cut off communication with them until I say otherwise.”

  “And what if someone has important information on Vonnegut?” Woodard asks. “Stiles and McNamara in the Second Division have been working on their mission for a year, and—”

  “Is that really the fucking question that needs to be asked here?” Niklas cuts in. He looks right at me, an angry, blameful glare in his eyes. “Do you plan to leave Izzy in the dark, too? You know, I think it’s only the proper thing to do by telling us what happened in Venezuela, what exactly happened to Izabel, and what you intend to do to keep her safe. I know she’s your woman, but quite fucking frankly, you’re not the only one here who cares about her.”

  I step forward, into my brother’s space, and stand toe to toe with him—I crack my neck. “Izabel is none of your business, brother.”

  Niklas grits his teeth, and his nostrils flare as he inhales a deep breath.

  I pop my jaw.

  “You’re the reason,” he says, icily, “she almost died—brother.”

  “There’s no time for this,” Gustavsson says. Then he looks at me and says with respect, “Niklas may have gone about it all wrong, but it doesn’t make what he said any less true—you’re not the only one who cares about her. All we want to know, Victor, is what you’re willing to tell us. Besides, considering the circumstances surrounding The Order, it’s pretty vital, in my humble opinion, that we know who from The Order saved Izabel’s life and set you free; we have a right to know how much they know, and how close they were—or are—to taking us down. It is the reason we will now be scattered and divided, is it not?”

  Satisfied with Gustavsson’s input, Niklas takes a resentful step back. I do the same, not wishing to further this quarrel with my brother.

  “I’d like to know as much everybody else,” Izabel says from the doorway.

  Victor

  Four heads turn in unison to face her; with difficulty, I manage to restrain the enthusiastic swelling of my heart.

  “Izabel,” I say, and for a longer moment than intended, it is all I can say.

  She is wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs tightly to her curves, a pair of black heels, and a black silk blouse, fully buttoned all the way up to the middle of her throat; a sheer black scarf is wrapped around the upper-half, perfectly concealing the wound on her neck. But no amount of fabric can keep the eyes of others in the room from zoning right in on the very thing she seems to want to hide. She is stunning, as always, but I realize that there is something quite different about her. It is not her dark auburn hair, shorter than usual, done up in springy curls that barely brush her shoulders, or the glittery black barrette that holds her bangs away from her face on the left side; it is not the long, black eyelashes that seem to sweep her face majestically when she blinks, or the light glimmer of her rosy cheeks. It is the power in the depths of her eyes, a fearless necessity, a darkness that can never again hinder or blind her, but will forever be her advantage—it is The Change. And it delights and troubles me just the same.

  “It’s good to see you,” Gustavsson says, beaming at her.

  He makes his way over and takes her into a hug, in which she happily returns.

  Woodard does the same, moving more gracefully these days since he became determined to better his health.

  “I-I hope you’re not offended I didn’t try to see you in the hospital,” he says, pulling away from her. “I-I just thought you might want time alone.”

  She smiles faintly, and shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, then glances at the rest of us with quiet reprimand. “Actually, I appreciate the gesture.” She examines Woodard with a curious and impressed sweep of her eyes. “You’re looking good, James. I’m proud of you.”

  Woodard smiles giddily. “Aw, thanks, Izabel.” He pats his stomach with his palm. “Lost nineteen pounds already.”

  Izabel smiles, close-lipped.

  Then she turns her attention to Niklas; she walks toward him. I—and Niklas, judging by the look of expectation on his face—thinks she is going to say something to him, but she passes him up and comes my way instead.

  “Have you told them yet?” she asks.

  I pause, thinking. “Told them what?”

  She glances back at everyone else, and then her eyes fall on me. “About the bounty on my head.”

  “No,” I say, “but I planned to.”

  “What about the bounty?” Niklas says, stepping up closer. “We already knew there was one—we all have bounties on our heads.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but things have become more complicated.”

  “How so?” Gustavsson asks.

  Niklas narrows his eyes, chews on the inside of his mouth; I will never get used to my brother looking at me that way, as if everything is my fault, as though I am the Devil in a suit.

  Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am.

  I leave them all, Izabel included, and make my way toward the window again. I can feel their eyes on me from behind, the anticipation, the impatience, and the resentment from my brother.

  I inhale deeply, and fold my hands together down in front of me again. “I will tell you all about the bounty, the surprising and…concerning possibilities surrounding it. But first, I will tell you how Izabel’s life was saved.”

  I do not have to think back to that night too deeply to remember—I will never forget it for as long as I have breath in my lungs.

  Venezuela…

  Bullets ripped through the air; I could hear them, but only in my subconscious; I could hear boots hitting the stones in fast succession; the firing of another gun blasting in my ears. I saw bodies falling around my cage. But I did not move. Or blink. Or flinch when a bullet zipped past me and dinged the cell bar inches from my head—I was disappointed that it missed.

  More shots rang out, echoing off the tall stone walls of the building.

  “The key!” I heard someone shout. “Victor, where’s the key?”

  Still, I could not find the will to move, or to understand—what key? Who was this woman screaming at me about a key? I was sitting on the floor with Izabel in my arms; we were covered in blood, but…I thought…it was mostly hers.

  “Victor!” shouted a man’s voice this time. “We need to know where the key is. Snap out of it, man, or she’s going to die. And I can’t be having that.”

  I blinked, and raised my eyes to place a face with the familiar voice—Brant Morrison, my mentor from The Order. I knew I should be concerned that he was there, but I was not. Take me if you must, Morrison, put me out of my misery if you would grant me a dying wish, but do it quickly.

  “The key! WHERE IS THE KEY?” he shouted.

  It took a moment for me to understand, to pull my mind from the drowning sea of my despair, but finally I answered absently, “…Artemis…she has the key.”

  The woman—something was also familiar about her—crouched in front of the lock on the cage door. She set her gun on the floor beside her and fished a lock-pick from her boot.

  “Is she still alive, Victor?” Morrison asked.

  I glanced unsteadily down at Izabel; I moved one arm from around her a
nd brought my fingers to her nose, feeling for air coming from her nostrils. At least I thought that was what I was doing…I did not know; I felt like I was in another place, very far from there, but could still hear and see and feel everything. My other hand remained tight on the side of Izabel’s neck, trying to control the flow of blood; somewhere in the depths of my muddled mind I was still trying to save her, even though in my heart I knew she is dead.

  “I should have done it myself,” I said absently, looking at no one. “I should have done it a long time ago…spared her all of this.”

  “Snap out of it, man,” Morrison told me again. “If she’s still alive, there’s still time to help her.”

  I looked right at him now, and for the first time since he entered the building, I was fully aware of his presence. But I did not care an iota that he was here, or who he was, or what he planned to do with me.

  “I want her dead,” I said aloud to myself about Artemis, my teeth crushed together in my parched mouth. “Both of them—I will kill them both!”

  “Calm down,” Morrison said; he pointed at Izabel. “Victor, keep pressure on the wound.”

  I realized my error quickly and threw my hand back on her neck; her blood covered me, slippery and warm and final.

  Finally, the strangely familiar woman picked the lock on the cage and pushed the door open; she dashed inside the cell; I did not even notice until afterwards that she checked Izabel’s wrist for a pulse. “She’s alive—Brant, we have to get her to the nearest hospital; she won’t make it to the Safe House.” She gestured for him with one hand. “Hurry!”

  Morrison ran into the cell and crouched in front of me; he reached out to take Izabel; instantly my grip tightened around her, and I pulled her closer—they were not taking her anywhere.

  “If you want her to live,” Morrison said, encouragingly, “you’re gonna have to snap the fuck out of it and let us take her.”