Leslie Langtry - I Shot You Babe

Thinking back to the first day I met her didn’t help. All it did was give me goose bumps. I pictured her and remembered what she said. But there was no clue-nothing that made her seem other than how I’d pegged her.

My thoughts reeled back to Miami and how we met there. But no matter how many times I replayed the scenes, I found nothing that tipped me off. Mongolia swam into view, but the memories were too fresh. I felt nothing but pain and embarrassment when I remembered the month there with her.

My scotch went dry as I contemplated how I could have done things differently. The surf crashed against the rocks, and I sympathized. Those rocks were taking the same beating I did. Veronica had gotten under my skin in a way no woman had since Frannie Smith.

I poured another glass, wincing at the name of the first woman who’d played me for a fool. I guessed that all those years my subconscious controlled my desire for a relationship to protect me. And I blew it by falling for Ronnie.

Damn. Did I really just think that? I turned the idea over in my mind, searching for holes. But no, it was too late. I had fallen in love with her. And she made me look like an idiot. I pictured her even now sitting with the handsome Drew, laughing at how she’d played me. Would she tell him that she slept with me? Probably not. The woman was a liar. And I’d saved her life.

Then again, she’d been in danger in the first place only because of her connection to me. I couldn’t really blame her for that. My thoughts turned to my prisoner three floors below. Chances were the staff had fed him. For a moment, I felt kind of friendly toward him. I had no idea why.

The sun set on my gloomy mood, and I nursed the bottle as the sky changed from turquoise to navy. No matter what I did, I still felt worse than stupid. And as I drank, my mood darkened.

Various thoughts popped into my head over the course of the evening. I thought of looking up Drew and killing him, but he wasn’t the real culprit. Isn’t it strange how your mind plays tricks on you? I imagined him making love to her and ended up hurling my bottle into the sea. That sucked, because I didn’t like littering. Veronica Gale had made me look like an idiot, and she made me litter. I hated her for that.

“Are you going to kill me or what?” a tired and bored Arje Dekker asked me an hour later. I sat across from him in the holding room. He was chained to the wall in a way that allowed him to move around a cot, chair and toilet. I was perfectly safe. A little drunk, but okay.

“I just don’t get it,” I droned on for the fortieth time. “How did I miss it?”

Dekker rubbed his eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t know. I thought she was this naive little schoolgirl too.”

I sat up. “I never thought she was naive.” I poured Arje another paper cup half-full of scotch and withdrew to a safe distance.

He drained it in one gulp. That made me sad inside. It was no way to treat such a good single-malt.

“Look, Bombay, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? We’re men of action.”

I giggled at his words and he smirked.

“Men like us don’t get used by women. We use women.”

“I don’t use women, Dekker.”

An ugly smile crossed his face. “Oh, no? Ronnie said you had all kinds of rich-housewife carney groupies. Are you telling me you weren’t taking advantage of their fantasies to get laid?”

“You know,” I said a little too slowly, “your English is really good for a Dutch mercenary.”

“If you aren’t going to take this seriously, then just leave so I can get some sleep before I’m killed.”

I shook my head. “Extra sleep isn’t going to help, my friend.”

“And drinking yourself into a stupor over that little bitch isn’t helping you either.”

“Hey! Don’t call her that!” I rose to my feet to…to do what? I sat back down.

We didn’t speak for a moment. I did refill his cup. To his credit, he drank slower this time.

“I don’t know why you are talking to me about this,” Dekker said quietly. “I’ve got no experience with feelings toward a woman.”

I lifted my glass to the light and turned it slowly, examining the amber fluid. “Well, I guess I just needed someone to talk to.”

He snorted. “And you thought that someone was me? I am surprised. After all, you see me as some kind of genocidal monster.”

I was a little defensive. “I’ve seen your file, Arje. I’ve seen what you have done to women and children. Just for fun.”

Dekker shook his head. “Back to that, are we?”

“Are you denying it?”

That would be stupid. I don’t believe everything I read. But the Bombay network has always been completely accurate. Why would the council lie about Dekker’s history?

“Yes. I am denying it.”

“Well, that’s damned convenient,” I shouted. “Now that you face your death, I’m not surprised that you’d recant.”

“How can I recant something I never said in the first place?” Arje said quietly. “You are the one with the faulty source, not me.”

I started to pour more scotch, but stopped myself. “Let’s drop it. I shouldn’t have come down here.” I stood and collected my bottle.

He looked me in the eyes, causing me to sit back down. “I guess if I was to have any regrets, that might be the big one.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It would’ve been nice to be in love. You got that over me.”

I snorted. “Yeah. And I really picked a good one.”

Arje Dekker got up from his chair, walked over to his cot and lay down on it. “Turn out the lights when you go. I need to get my beauty rest for the execution to come.”

I didn’t want to go. I wanted to talk more. But I did as he asked and left him. I took the bottle of scotch with me. I’m not a total idiot.

Sartre’s shrieks woke me from a dream where Dekker and I were in the Brazilian jungle fighting off a tribe of Amazonian women who all resembled Veronica Gale. Staggering from my bed, I pulled some fruit from the basket on the table and broke it up, tossing it inside her cage. While she jumped greedily on the mango, I had the distinct impression she was pissed off at me for my lack of presentation.

A knock at the door revealed my mother and father holding a platter of scrambled eggs, sausage and biscuits. I wearily let them in. After all, it had been a long time since I’d had eggs. There weren’t many chickens in Mongolia.

“That’s my boy.” Dad smacked me on the back, launching my hangover into overdrive. I excused myself to clean up a bit. One shower later I was clean. Hungover, but clean.

“Your mum says you aren’t yourself,” Dad said with a grin. “She thinks it’s because of some lady friend in Mongolia.”

“I’m all right,” I managed as I finished my second helping of eggs. The food was giving me a little strength. “It’s nothing.”

My parents looked at each other. They’d always been able to read me. I’d been lucky in that they never once questioned anything I did. They seemed just as proud of my decision to become a carney as they were when I got my Ph.D. from Yale. This prying into my emotional affairs was something new.

“Squidge,” Mum started, “I’m a little worried about you.”

“Why?” I’d given them no reason to worry. How did they know?

Mum handed half an orange to Sartre, who was our living centerpiece, before continuing. “You haven’t killed your vic yet. That’s not like you.”