J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

I don’t tell her anything else, and thankfully she doesn’t ask. I don’t want to have to lie to her anymore.

“Sarai,” she says softly, “do you remember that day your mom’s boyfriend came to my house looking for you?”

I smile. And then I can’t help but laugh when I picture her standing at the door with her shotgun.

“Yeah, I remember.”

She smiles, too.

“I’da blown his greasy head clean off, and I would’na blinked or felt bad about it afterwards. I’da done anything for you.”

“I know,” I say softly, and pat the top of her hand.

But I’m no longer smiling, because I feel like I know where she’s going with this; I know what she’s going to say next.

Her smile fades too, replaced by something more somber, proving my prediction right.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, baby,” she says, “but have you…made a decision?”

I can’t look at her eyes.

“I know it’s a selfish thing to ask of you,” she says, “and it’s wrong, and terrible, and maybe even unforgivable, but when you peel off those layers and see it for what it really is, you have to know that it’s not wrong, just unbearably difficult. It’s mercy and compassion, Sarai.”

She goes on, pleading her case:

“I’ve lived a long and good life—shorter than I’d planned; I pictured myself with cottony-white hair, a sunken-in face because I didn’t care about having my dentures in anymore, and me sitting in a rocking chair just like my great-grandmother used to sit in on her front porch. Ninety-one. That’s how long I planned to live. I’m a few decades short of that goal, but that’s all right. I’m happy with the time I had.” Her voice begins to waver; I squeeze her hand more firmly. “I-I know I shouldn’t ask you…I’m sorry, Sarai, I’m just desperate. I-I don’t want to be trapped in this body for whatever time I have left, unable to move, to speak—it scares me more than anything. If I could…baby girl, if I could do it myself, I would”—anger rises up in her voice—“I should’ve done it when I when I was able!”

I move my hand from hers and place it gently on her chest. “Calm down, momma; everything’s gonna be all right.”

Moisture coats her eyes, and she manages a fragile smile.

“You are my momma,” I tell her, knowing it’s what made her smile. “You always have been.”

“But what kind of mother would ask her daughter what I’ve asked of you?” Now she’s the one who can’t look at me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I tell her, and take her hand again. Then I swallow, unsure of what I’m about to tell her, but I do it anyway. “I’ve done it before,” I say. “I’ve…”

Suddenly, the memory coats my mind like the tears in Dina’s eyes.

I pulled back the plunger, drawing another spoonful of heroin into the needle. Both of my eyes throbbed; the left side of my face felt bigger than the right; I was so angry, so tired of nursing my mother every day, feeding her veins because she couldn’t find them herself anymore; tired of the smell; tired of these men raping me and beating me when Javier was gone. The one that just left, thought it necessary to rape me in front of my mother. And she just laid there on the bed, her back to us, too high to move a hand against him to stop him. So that extra spoonful of heroin, I knew in my heart was too much. I knew her emaciated body couldn’t take another one so soon, that her barely-beating heart would fail the moment the heroin touched it.

I knew…

“Sarai, baby,” my mother whispered to me; her body odor, mixed with strong perfume and cigarettes, choked me as she laid next to me on the soiled bed. “You forgive me, don’t you? I never meant for any of this to happen. I just…wasn’t thinking straight.” I saw the whites of her eyes briefly in the darkness as the heroin began to swim through her bloodstream. She smiled euphorically as if she’d touched the Face of God. I set the needle down on the tray at the foot of the bed.

“It’s OK, Mom,” I whispered back, and loosened the tourniquet from her wiry arm. “I forgive you…”

I force myself back into the present.

And I look right into Dina’s eyes.

“At least you have the courage to ask,” I say to her, the memory lingering on the fringes of my mind, and my heart.

I kiss her hand.

“Will you play the piano for me, baby girl?”

“Of course I will, momma. Of course I will…”

My Boston headquarters was perfect. It was hidden in plain sight, located in the heart of the city, built with just enough levels and rooms for all of my needs and personnel; not to mention, being a juvenile detention center previously, it was equipped with cells that served more than their fair share of purpose since setting up here.

Perfect.

Yet, not so perfect, after all.

It was, in a sense, a fantasy to believe even for a moment that I could stay in the same place for too long, much less run a growing underground organization of my own here, without imminent threat of The Order moving in and taking me down, and everyone in it.

Empty.

That is the only word to describe my perfect sanctuary now; it has been stripped clean of every stitch of furniture, every painting, every gun and bullet and blood sample and computer. But more notably, the hum of my operatives—spies, assassins, guards—has been silenced, leaving the walls of the building to whisper the things they have been subject to. I can almost hear them, talking to one another.

There is an echo in what was once my office overlooking the city; everything produces an echo now that there is nothing in it to cushion the sound. On this day the echo comes from Gustavsson’s dress shoes moving over the floor behind me as he enters the room. And his voice, as he unnecessarily makes his presence known to me.

“I’m here, Faust.”

I stand at the barred window, my hands crossed down in front of me, and I take in the sight of the city through a filmy glass: the day in its transition to night, the traffic thinning out as the last few minutes of rush-hour fade from the clocks of over six hundred thousand residents, the bustle of Bostonians living out their lives knowing nothing of the unlawful activities, outside of the usual crime, that play out all around them every single day.

“You wanted to see me?”

Still with my back to him, I nod.

After a moment, I turn from the window to face him.

“I would offer you a chair”—breaking apart my hands, I gesture at the empty room—“but as you can see…”

“I’m fine standing.”

I nod again.

“We cannot operate out in the open any longer,” I begin. “Not until we bring The Order down, and we cannot accomplish this until we smoke out the real Vonnegut.” I walk toward him, slowly, my hands folded again in front of me, and then I stop. “It was a mistake to spend even a fraction of my time and resources on any mission that did not directly, or indirectly, involve taking Vonnegut out. That changes as of today—but do not worry; you will continue to work closely with the government in catching your serial killer.”

“I appreciate that,” Gustavsson speaks up, relieved, “but isn’t that doing exactly what you said we were no longer going to do?”

“No,” I answer. “Working closely with them is in directly moving toward Vonnegut. They want him almost as much I do; they have, as you already know, resources and information that I do not have and very much need. You will continue as you are, but, as always, keep your eyes and ears open; report to me anything, no matter how small, having to do with Vonnegut, The Order, or anyone who is a part of it—directly or indirectly.”