I place my right hand on the table, palm flat, fingers spread, staring at my pinkie with morbid curiosity.Au revoir.
“Yourlefthand,” Van Wyk repeats.
“I’m left handed.” I don’t bother to look at him.
Van Wyk chuckles, glances at Fournier behind me, then shrugs. “As you wish.”
He grips my wrist, pulls my pinkie finger farther away from the others, then waves his karambit before my eyes. It’s nothing more than showmanship; irritating and irrelevant.
Van Wyk places the curve of the blade against my finger, just beneath the knuckle. It’s sharp, pressing into my skin. Idly, I wonder how many fingers it’s severed, and whether I’ll ever get it off him. What I’ll slice off first, if I can.
The image of the man in the gallery with a missing finger flashes through my mind. I had assumed it was the price of failure; maybe instead he also had a wife he didn’t care to share. How many others? How often has Fournier pulled this trick?
DeLuca had all his fingers. Had Fournier taken his night with Maria?
Or is it personal? Am I being punished?
Is it Vicky he wants?
Van Wyk pauses with the knife pressing against my skin, looking to Fournier again.
“Quite sure, Alexander?” Fournier asks from behind me. “Your finger, rather than loaning me your fiancée for one… mere… night?”
“Alex, don’t,” Vicky blurts out. “I’ll… doit.”
“Seems like your fiancée has her own opinions,” Fournier notes, amused. “Maybe she wants me?”
“Get on with it.”
“Very well.” A pause. “Proceed, Lukas.”
Van Wyk’s arm flexes. His weight shifts. His grip tightens on my wrist, holding my hand to the table, and I don’t try to pull away. I want a clean cut.
The blade presses in slow. My skin parts, blood welling. The knife is so sharp it hardly stings, the pain mild and lagging a few seconds behind. Van Wyk is going to draw it out, make it last.
I promise myself he’ll pay for that, too.
He’s watching me, eyes flat. He doesn’t need to see the knife to know what he’s doing. It’s my expression that interests him, and I give him back as little as I can. I wonder how far through my finger he’ll cut before I flinch.
Then he lifts the knife away and steps back. Wipes it on his sleeve. Folds it, puts it in his pocket. Crosses his arms.
Adrenaline surges then fades. I grip the edge of the table, feeling momentarily weak. Then I straighten, turning to regard Fournier.
“And there we have it,” he says, almost wistful. A nod to me. “Walk with me, Alexander.” He crosses the room to an outside door in one corner, and pauses by it, waiting.
I look at Vicky. The gorilla has released her, and she trembles where she stands, staring at me in confusion.
“Don’t worry about your fiancée,” Fournier says. “I give you my word she’ll be quite safe.”
“I’ll take her to Amelia.” Van Wyk makes his way to her and offers his arm, as gallant as he was at the ball.
I hesitate, not wanting her out of my sight, not after this.
“Come now, Alexander.” Fournier’s voice carries his amusement. “Don’t you trust me?”
Vicky meets my eyes, and we exchange a silent communication. A vow of our commitment to each other, to get through this and get out.
Then I turn, face composed, hands relaxed, my finger dripping blood as I walk to where Fournier awaits.
