She offers me a hesitant smile as she herds her children ahead of her. “Danke.”
Fortunately, the mom lives on the second floor, while I’m walking up to the fourth. The formerly red carpet in the hall is threadbare and filthy and now a rust-hued shade of brown in most places. The building’s interior is twice as dingy as the exterior. I smell stale cigarette smoke and have a strong suspicion there might be a meth lab somewhere within, based on the chemical odor.
Not my problem.
There’s not a lot of noise on the fourth floor as I walk down the corridor to where Elsa’s flat sits, the last on the left. There are no cameras on this floor, as far as I can tell, although there was one inside the lobby downstairs. Except, based on the building, I’d be willing to bet that one’s not even working. Or, if it is, it’s likely not recording to anything, or being monitored by anyone.
I unzip the jacket, take out the nine, and knock with my left hand, being careful not to smash the bottle against the door as I do. I remain mostly turned to my right, like I’m looking through the small, dusty window at the end of the hall. I keep the gun held down along my outer right thigh where others can’t see it should they peek through their viewfinders.
When she opens the door, I shove it, hard, taking her off-guard. Before she has time to respond, I’ve got the gun in her face.
“Don’t,” I whisper in German. I’ve decided to speak German tonight, because the sound of English might raise suspicions and cause people to pay more attention than they would otherwise. I quietly close the door behind me and lock it, and I’m extremely pleased to see she now looks absolutely fucking terrified.
“You alone?” It feels weird speaking German now, like this, especially with her.
Tears roll down her cheeks, but she nods.
I cock the hammer and touch the muzzle to her forehead, even though she likely doesn’t see I have the safety on. “Truth. Someone steps out of the bedroom, I’m killing them, and then you.”
“I’m alone,” she hisses. “I swear!”
The place is a dump and smells like an ashtray. It’s a far cry from the large, spotless, stylish loft she used to rule her small kingdom from. I march her down the short hallway to the living room, make her take a seat on the sagging sofa.
I remain standing.
She’s gained at least a hundred pounds since I last saw her, no longer the thin, angular Dominatrix who could command fear and loathing even while making someone beg for more. Her clear, ice-blue eyes now look rheumy and bloodshot. The perfectly coiffed black hair is now a mousy brown that’s more than half grey, a little oily-looking, and pulled back with an elastic band from her puffy face. She wears a ratty brown cardigan sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her old T-shirt has stains on the chest, maybe ketchup, and her sweatpants have a rip in the left knee. Where her hands rest on her knees, I see blunt, chewed, unpainted nails. On bare feet, her toes are also unpainted.
This is not a woman I recognize from my nightmares. It both relieves me and threatens to allow a tendril of sympathy to take hold.
I remember the sound of the colonel locking the door behind me, sooo many times.
I remember the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I accepted money and stowed it, uncounted, in an envelope for her.
I remember whispering to Eddie the few German phrases I was able to teach him so I could soothe him.
I remember the sounds of Eddie’s tears in the darkness.
I remember the nervous look Eddie and I exchanged at the clinic before I went first so he wouldn’t feel so nervous, a decision that took one of my dreams from me, and thus I remember who,exactly, this woman is.
I remember the countless times Eddie came to me during our years in the desert, the mix of lust and loathing he always wore when I gave him what we both needed.
And thus I yank that tendril of sympathy out by the roots and douse it and the ground beneath it in napalm before mentally setting it aflame.
Burn, baby. Burn.
I stare at her for a long minute, giving her plenty of time to feel terrified, even though I’ve eased the hammer down. “Don’t make me ask,” I quietly say.
She knows better than to try to bullshit me. “I didn’t want to do it!” Even her voice sounds sloppy now, a little slurred.
“Didn’t stop you, huh?”
The needle tracks on her arms are relatively fresh, which validates one of the many theories I’d considered during the flight over.
Not that it was much of a stretch to go there in the first place, knowing what I knew about her.
“I owe someone a lot of money,” she finally admits. “I wouldn’t havereallysaid anything.”
She’s lying. Sheabsolutelywould have gone through with it, and she’s only fooling herself if she believes otherwise.
