“No,” I answer. “Not face-to-face.”
A grin spreads across Woodard’s heavily cracked lips.
“Do you even know his first name?”
I don’t answer, but I imagine the confused look on my face does that for me.
“That’s what I thought,” Woodard says.
He’s feeling much more confident now about this whole situation. I, on the other hand, have surpassed the feeling of anxiousness about getting back to Cassia in time, and am now more concerned about the things Woodard is telling us.
Dorian shoves the barrel of his gun into Woodard’s chest and forces him back into the chair.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull?” Dorian demands. “Marion Callahan has been reporting your stubby ass up the chain of command. Our boss knows what you did. If Callahan was the leader of another organization, why would he be messing with you at all? Why not just go to the source and take out our boss if he’s such a ghost?”
“Because Callahan can’t get to our boss,” I say, pulling Dorian by the shoulder to move him away from Woodard. “He’s trying to get in the old fashioned way, by working his way up that chain of command, gaining trust by pretending to weed out traitors.”
“OK, but since when do bosses go out in the field and get their hands dirty like that?” Dorian brings up a good point. “Why risk himself by putting himself out there? Why not just get one of his men to do it?”
“Because the best place to hide is in plain sight,” I say. “And if it was me and I wanted to take out another leader, I’d probably do it myself, too.”
Woodard nods at me as if telling me he couldn’t have said it better.
Even Victor Faust is guilty of this, wanting to be the one to take out the leaders. It’s like another badge on his shirt, a trophy, and completely understandable. When Victor sent me to France to get the key to the deposit box in New York from François Moreau, he didn’t send me there to kill their leader, Sébastien Fournier. He insisted that he’d be the one to take Fournier out.
“There’s one thing to prove before anything you’ve said can be taken into consideration.” I sit down on the ottoman in front of Woodard again, making sure he has a good view of the needle dangling from my fingers in-between my knees. “The information on those drives that you sold to Marion Callahan.”
Woodard’s chin jiggles again as he nods rapidly.
“It can be verified,” he says putting up his hands in surrender. “I swear it.”
I glance at Dorian still standing at my left. “Looks like you’ll be babysitting tonight,” I say and he looks instantly argumentative. “I’m going to get in contact with our employer after I leave here and tell him everything that was said here tonight.”
“Fuckin’ A, man, you can’t be serious,” Dorian contends, waving his gun hand out beside him. “I can’t fucking stay here. It smells like cough drops and…,” he wrinkles his whole face, “…cheese.”
I get up from the ottoman and dig in my pocket for the protective cap, slipping it back on the needle.
“If his story doesn’t check out,” I say as I start to walk past Dorian, “then you can shoot him,” I add with my hand on his shoulder.
Despite knowing I’ll never hear the end of this from Dorian later, I leave him there with James Woodard and set out to do what I have to do. First, I call Victor and tell him everything about our visit with Woodard. He instructs me to wait until I receive word about what to do next, which thankfully got me out of doing anything else about it for the rest of the night.
Now I can focus on Cassia.
My teeth are on edge, my throat is dry, my head is spinning with scenarios, all of which begin with a brutal interrogation and end with Cassia remembering more of her past and more about Seraphina. But I’ve waited too long as it is. I have no one to take back to interrogate.
Feeling defeated and angry about how wrong this night has gone, I slam both hands against the steering wheel. The back of my neck is sweating. I’ve been grinding my teeth so abrasively on the drive back that my jaw hurts.
Just when I think it’s over and that I’ll have to wait another week or two before I get another interrogation job, I accept in my mind that returning to my old ways is all I have left.
And so I make a sharp U-turn in the split in the road and head east to find a man I’ve had on my backup list for times just like these, when I have no other choice.
Chapter Seven
Cassia
The man’s screams fill my ears with terror, like hands reaching for me out of an inferno and it burns too hotly for me to pull them out. All I can do is cover my ears with the palms of my hands and hope to deafen them. I don’t want to look, but my subconscious forces my eyes open every few seconds as if a part of me can’t resist. I sit on the floor, curled in the fetal position with my back against the wall. My favorite corner. The one farthest away from the enormous television screen protected behind a thick piece of Plexi-glass. The television feeds live video of the other side of the basement, the side that has been closed off by a brick wall, and a single wooden door so thin that I don’t really need the volume up on the television in order to hear the sounds coming from the other room.
“Please…please…I can’t…I can’t take anymore,” the man says from the ominous chair that often haunts my dreams. “I’ve told you everything! I can’t tell you what I don’t know!” Blood spews from the man’s swollen and busted lips. Fredrik beat him before he started pulling out his teeth.
Why did Fredrik beat him? He never resorts to that.
I’m frightened.
Have I angered him?
I swallow what’s left of the saliva in my mouth and shut my eyes as tears seep between my lids and down my chapped cheeks. My arms are wrapped around my bent knees, pressed tightly against my chest. I’m shaking all over. Every inch of me trembles so terribly that I feel like I’m going to fall apart. I rock myself back and forth, weeping.
And then I begin to sing. I don’t know this song, but it feels so familiar. I know the words, yet I’m not sure how I know them.
With my hands pressed over my ears, I sing louder as the man’s screams amplify.
I sing louder….
Fredrik
I stop abruptly, the bloody pliers suspended in my hand just above the head of Dante Furlong, heroin dealer from the West Side. Even his blood stinks, not like normal blood which smells metallic and harsh. Is it possible to smell the evil in someone like a canine might scent a tumor?
I wonder if my blood smells as disgusting as his.
His wide eyes look up at me, partly petrified, partly questioning. He knows the beautiful voice is what made me stop, is what saved him from further suffering. But for how long, he wonders. It’s what I’d wonder if I was the one in the chair.
“W-What is that?” he asks with a lisp, unable to set his tongue right in his mouth now that his front teeth are missing. “Where is that coming from?”
His long, dirty fingers grip the ends of the chair arms, still trying to break his hands free from the leather restraints tight around his wrists. But at this point I doubt he realizes he’s doing it anymore. It has become instinct, a way to deaden the pain, and his body doesn’t want to let go just yet.
I look out ahead where the video camera is hidden in the wall, knowing that Cassia is looking back at me through the flatscreen in her room just on the other side of the brick.
Suddenly she stops singing Where the Boys Are by Connie Francis. Just when I was beginning to get lost in her voice, she stops and forces my mind back into the moment.
It’s for the better.
I get back to work.
“Fuck! No! Please! You crazy motherfu—,” the rest of Dante’s words come out in garbled, choking sounds.
I twist the pliers back and forth to the sound of bone crunching in my ears. The tooth pops out and I drop it in the silver tray next to me with the other six.
Dante chokes on the blood draining into the back
of his throat. His body shakes violently like a fish dropped on the shore just inches from the water. His beady pale blue eyes open and close from exhaustion and pain. But he hasn’t felt pain yet. I’ll pull out his fingernails next.
“I-I’ll stop selling!” he spats. “I fucking swear it! I won’t sell anymore.” His mangled words begin to roll out amid sobs. His curly black hair, covered in filth and oil, glistens under the bright floodlight clamped on an IV stand at the back of the chair.
I hover over Dante and look into his eyes.
“You’re a liar,” I say in a calm, dark voice. “You’re a fucking liar. A shit stain in a pair of underwear. Men like you never stop. You’ll beg and plead in the face of pain, but the second I let you out of here, you’ll be selling heroin to little boys in abandoned houses.”
“Little b-boys? Man, I-I don’t sell to little boys!”
I grab his blood and spit-covered chin vigorously with my latex-glove-covered hand, wrenching it still, digging my fingertips into his unshaven cheeks. “How many little boys have you given drugs to for a blowjob? Huh?” I squeeze his face harder.
“W-W-What tha’ fuck are y-you t-talking about, man?!”
“HOW MANY?!”
I dig my fingers into his cheeks so deeply I can feel the outline of his lower jaw. He struggles in my grasp, his head secured to the chair by a leather strap like the ones on his wrists, ankles and torso, it fights to move side to side. But I hold him immobile.
“HOW MANY?!” I glare into his terrified face.
He tries to speak and I loosen my grip on his jaw enough to let him.
“I-I-I don’t k-know! A few. I don’t know! But they weren’t children! Teenagers, maybe! But not little b-boys! I swear on my life I’ll never sell again! I-I won’t sell again!”
Without blinking, I bury the pliers inside his mouth and work on the next tooth. His body goes rigid in the chair, his filthy fingers curling in on themselves, his thighs covered by faded blue jeans hardening like blocks of cement. His eyes screw shut so tightly that a hundred deep crevices form around the corners of them.
Cassia starts singing Connie Francis again.
I try desperately to ignore it, pulling harder on Dante’s teeth. One by one, I rip them out mercilessly as if the more aggressive I become the more of her voice I’ll be able to block out. I’m never this sloppy, this angry. I pride myself on keeping full composure in the face of my victims, not allowing them to see that anything is bothering me. But Dante must know. He has to know probably just by the look in my eyes as I stand over him, that she’s getting to me.
I choke back my tears.
I step away from him, the pliers dropping from my fingers onto the concrete beside my shoes. My breathing is heavy, deep. The tears are burning the backs of my eyes.
Why is she doing this to me? How could I have ever let her do this to me?
I bring my arm up and wipe my tears from my face with the back of my shirt sleeve. Tiny smears of blood stain the white fabric when I pull it away.
I’m never this sloppy!
The singing stops when Dante’s pain stops. It’s a pattern now, I realize. She was singing to block out his screams.
I hurt her.
And I hate myself for it.
But what’s worse, I hate myself for giving a shit.
I snap the latex gloves off my hands, making sure not to get any of the blood on my fingers, and drop them on the floor by the pliers. And then I storm through the door into her side of the basement to find her sitting on the floor in the corner, crying into the palms of her hands.
Chapter Eight
Fredrik
I walk past her and head into the restroom not far from her bed. It’s a clean and cozy room just like the rest of Cassia’s side of the basement. With ivory walls and a fancy marble counter and marble tile flooring. Greta keeps it clean for her. Every day she comes down here and scrubs the toilet and washes out the sink and shower. She replenishes Cassia’s toiletries and makes certain that she has fresh towels. Everything in Cassia’s space is immaculate.
That is until I brace my hands upon the edge of the counter and leave bloodstains on the white marble. I don’t know how I managed to get blood on my hands after being so careful.
I can’t think straight!
I turn the bronze knob on the faucet and water gushes into my hands. Using more soap from the pump bottle than what’s necessary, I scrub them hard and vigorously like a surgeon would scrub his hands before performing surgery. I want them to be clean, but I’m doing it mostly for a distraction. I don’t want to face her. I don’t want to see Cassia crying.
But the singing…she’s never done that before. She has to have remembered something, and as much as I need to know what it is, I still don’t want to face her.
With the water still blasting I brace my hands on the edge of the counter again, sigh heavily and drop my head in-between my shoulders.
Get it together, Fredrik, I think to myself. Get it together. It’s all about Seraphina. Remember that.
I never wanted it to go this far.
When I took Cassia from the shelter the night of the fire—she refused to be taken to the hospital—I never in my wildest imagination thought that what happened, could.
And here I am today, nearly a year later, and not only have I not found Seraphina, but I’ve developed feelings of remorse and sympathy for the very woman I need to help me draw Seraphina out of hiding.
I can’t do this.
I’ve never felt so conflicted about anything in my life before this. I’ve ruined this woman, Cassia, this sweet and innocent and almost child-like woman who wouldn’t kill a spider if it was crawling across her leg. All for the sake of finding my beloved Seraphina. I’ve been using this poor girl to draw Seraphina out like drawing venom from a snake bite. And I hate myself for it.
But it’s the only way.
Cassia is the only way.
Opening my eyes, I see that I’m white-knuckling the counter, all of my fingers clamped down hard against it.
I raise my eyes to the small oval mirror in front of me.
Tiny flecks of blood are sprinkled about my unshaven face. Disgusted, I fill my hands with water and splash myself, two, three, four times before I’m satisfied. I reach out and pull the hand towel from the rod hanging on the wall and dry off. There’s blood on my shirt, I notice, and I strip it off quickly.
How could I have been so careless?
When I finally shut the faucets off, I can hear Cassia crying again without the water to drown it out. And it sears through me.
Goddammit, I was never cut out for this. Not this. Feeling pain and sorrow for someone, anyone, and letting it control me. With Seraphina, I never had to feel it. Not like this. So goddamn unpleasant. We were alike, she and I, like two damaged souls cut from the same sadistic cloth. We thrived on pain. We got off on it. Whether it was our own pain, or the pain of someone willing to let us enjoy theirs.
“What do I do?” I ask myself aloud, looking into the mirror. “Fight it like I have been the past year? Or, do I give in to it?”
I shake my head no. No. No. And pull my fist back and slam it into the mirror. Shards crack and fall into the sink, breaking into even smaller pieces, but leaving my skin unbroken. And when I look back into the mirror, all I see are pieces of myself that are missing. Not the glass, but of myself.
I’ve never been whole, not since the day I was born to a mother who left me wrapped in a shirt beside a public toilet.
I step out of the restroom and look first at the television screen mounted behind the Plexi-glass. Dante is still struggling in the chair. He seems more alert now that I’m not in there with him. He’s scanning the dark, dank room—the only part of this old house I never restored—for a way out, or something to use in which he can free himself. He has no idea that I’m watching. But he’s not going anywhere. Houdini couldn’t get out of those restraints.
“Please, Fredrik, please turn it off,” Cassia says with
a whimper.
I don’t hesitate, despite something in the back of my mind—the dark, malevolent part—telling me to leave it alone. That she needs to see it, to hear it, to smell his pungent blood through the cracks in the wooden door that separates the rooms.
I walk over to the television and take the remote down from a shelf on the wall next to it, pressing my finger on the Power button. Cassia winds her frail fingers through the top of her hair, her face buried behind her knees.
“I’m sorry,” I say standing over her. “I—.”
“Lemme out’o ‘ere! Omeone ‘elp!” Dante cries out in garbled, choppy words.
Glancing back down at Cassia, her fingers begin to tighten in her hair as if she’s trying to pull it out, inflicting pain on herself to block out Dante’s cries.
“Fuck!” I march back across the room toward the wooden door and swing it open, slamming it against the wall.
The whites of Dante’s eyes grow stark underneath the floodlight. Blood, more black than red, covers his face, pouring down his chin and soaking into his T-shirt. His face is swelling; his lips red and purple and puffy.
“Be quiet,” I snap.
“M’beggin’ oou! On’t hurz me ‘ny’ore!”
One of three syringes ready and waiting on the tall silver tray behind the chair is within my fingers in seconds. Holding it up to the light, I gently push on the silver plunger, releasing some of the heroin from the tip of the needle.
“W-What are ‘ou ‘oing?” His head struggles to see me behind him; fear of the unknown saturating every syllable.