Joe Schreiber - Perry's killer playlist

“Stand with feet apart at shoulder width,” Gobi said, taking the position as she described it. “Bend your knees. Elbows back, fists here. In kendo, this is horse stance.”

“Look, I really don’t-”

Swierczynski went for the shotgun. It wasn’t the most agile move in the world, not particularly speedy or graceful, but he did have the element of surprise on his side, and for a second it almost seemed like he was going to get away with it. Then Gobi’s right foot lashed out so fast that I almost felt sorry for the guy. I heard the cartilage pop in his knee as she swept his leg from the side and dropped him into a pile on the street.

Gobi picked up the shotgun and leveled it at his head. “This will be loud.” Her stance was different now, as if she were already preparing for the recoil. “Get ready.”

Swierczynski lifted his head. “If you kill me,” he said, in his low, heavily accented English, “you will die. Kaya will make sure of it.”

Gobi didn’t move.

“He told me everything.” His lips twisted into an ugly grin, and he pointed to his temple. “He told me the bullet is already in your head.”

Gobi exhaled. Then, without a sound, she lowered the gun, pointing it back at me.

“Walk,” she told me, and we left him lying at the side of the street.

Key questions for discussion at this point:

Who’s Kaya?

Why was the guy following us, trying to take Gobi’s picture?

How come Gobi was killing guys dressed as priests?

“The bullet is already in your head”? WTF?

Who or what did Kaya have that gave him control over Gobi?

Was I ever going to get to wear anything more than a stolen overcoat over a wet hotel bathrobe?

Was this seriously as good as my time in Venice was going to get? Because if so-dude, major disappointment.

Gobi didn’t answer any of these questions, of course, just jabbed me from behind to keep me walking. It was kind of this fun language we worked out: I asked a question, she poked me in the spine with the shotgun. Ever since my abortive attempt at escape across the square, the shotgun was pointed at me exclusively again. It made me feel special.

“Is Kaya the one that hired you to kill the guys who aren’t priests?”

“Kaya did not hire me.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“I am not a hired killer.”

The shotgun pushed me harder. The sign for the Pensione Guerrato hung on the left-hand side of an alleyway leading from an empty marketplace in the Rialto Mercado. Gobi took one look at the surveillance camera hanging above the door and stepped back.

“You push it.” Hanging back from the doorway, she lowered the shotgun and shoved me toward the brass-plated intercom button. “Keep your head tilted down.”

I lowered my head, pressed the button, and waited what felt like a long time until a man’s voice answered through the speaker. “Buona sera.”

“Uh, hello. Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“My name is, ah…” My mind went blank. “. . James Morrison. I need a room for the night.”

The door buzzed and I opened it. It led into a narrow vestibule of varnished wooden walls and a steep, creaky staircase rising upward into what felt like perilous heights. Gobi’s footsteps stayed right behind me the whole time, and I could feel the shotgun ever so slightly against my back, an ugly reminder that we weren’t done here.

We got to the top step. The landing was decorated with antique chairs and statues, lace-draped tables and floor lamps. Bookshelves lined the far wall next to old maps of the city and opera posters. Behind the front desk, a distinguished, GQ-looking guy in his fifties sat next to an iMac flat-screen with a cup of tea.

I stepped forward, trying to clutch the trench coat around my neck so it wasn’t totally obvious that all I had underneath was a bathrobe. “I’m James.” I cleared my throat. “This is my friend Gobi.”

“Yes, of course.” The man smiled and Gobi smiled back, clutched my arm, laying her head on my shoulder. In the mirror across the lobby I saw us standing there together and felt a dull sense of amazement. Especially with the camera around Gobi’s neck, we looked like two weary travelers at the end of a long day who just wanted to tumble into bed together.

“I am Benito,” the man said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He handed us a big brass key on a tassel. “You are staying in room fourteen, right up the stairs.”

“Do you have something more private?” Gobi brought out the wad of euros that she’d taken from Swiercynski, peeled off several large bills, and laid them on the counter. “A suite in another part of the hotel, perhaps?”

Benito’s eyes moved over the money. “Of course, signora. ” He didn’t miss a beat, hanging up the first key and giving us another. “I am certain that I can accommodate you.”

“We enjoy our privacy.” She peeled off another hundred and slid it across the counter. “If it is possible, we would appreciate your complete discretion.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you,” Gobi said, and took the key, nudging me forward toward the stairs.

“You’re seriously tying me to the bedposts?” I asked.

“Only arms.” She tightened the thick braided cords that she’d cut from the curtains, checking the knots around my wrists while I lay there with my arms above my head, shivering. With the wet bathrobe off, I’d been reduced to the blankets she’d tossed over me, with nothing underneath. “I do not want to lose you, Perry.”

“How romantic.”

She shook her head. “Only you would think so.”

“I can’t sleep like this.”

“Try.”

“What happens in the morning when the rest of the guys start tearing this place apart, looking for me?”

“I should be gone by then.”

“Wait, what?”

She switched off the light. A moment later I heard the shower go on. When it stopped, the bathroom door creaked open. I smelled steam and soap, some kind of shampoo and conditioner, and a tiny cell phone screen appeared, the one she’d taken from Swiercynski, floating in the darkness on the far side of the room. I heard her voice murmuring in Lithuanian, soft consonants and s -sounds, just above a whisper. It reminded me of when she was living at our house in Connecticut, the way that I’d sometimes heard her talking through the wall. Back then we’d thought she was calling her family in Lithuania. Who was she calling now?

Despite what I’d told her about not being able to sleep with my arms above my head, I must have dozed off, because at some point, I felt her slip in bed next to me, heard the bedsprings creak underneath me. Although our bodies didn’t touch, I was aware of the warmth of her skin in the cool sheets and the faint, even sound of her breathing. Her bare arm brushed against mine. I could smell leather and the faint ocean smell mixed with whatever she’d used to wash her hair.

“Gobi?”

“What?”

“I seriously can’t feel my arms.”

“I can.” She rolled over and put her hand on my chest. “Your heart is pounding.”

“Pain elevates the heart rate.”

“Is that really what you want to talk about now?” she said. “Pain?”

“Don’t.” I tried to move away, but the cords around my wrists weren’t going anywhere. “I told you…”

Her hand slid over my stomach and farther down. “You are telling me something very different now.”

“That’s-”

“What?”

“. .”

“. .”

She let out a chuckle, patted me on the chest and rolled over onto her back. “Go to sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow is a busy day.”