J. Redmerski: Behind The Hands That Kill

Waving his hands in gesture, he says, “I want to know all that I can about the man behind the hands that kill, the man I hear about in dark corners, the man I think of whenever I eat a fucking pancake”—he points at me with the cattle prod—“I used to love pancakes; had to ruin that for me too.”

“Then your revenge will be that much sweeter,” I say, not trying to provoke him, but surely it does anyway.

A long, deep sigh rattles in his chest; his shoulders rise and fall heavily.

“Yeah, I guess it will,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Apollo turns as a door opens behind him, flooding the dark, dank room with dull gray light from what appears to be a hallway.

I practically throw myself against the bars of my cell, gripping them in my hands, furious that I can go no farther, when I see Izabel, bound and gagged, sweat and blood and grime dripping from her face. Behind her is a woman. Tall and angry. Brown hair pulled into a ponytail behind her. A birthmark underneath her left eye. Breasts bursting out of her blouse. A knife in a sheath around her upper thigh. She looks Latin, with no Haitian roots like Apollo.

Izabel’s eyes find me almost immediately when the woman pushes her farther into the room. She loses her footing; with her hands tied behind her back and no way to cushion the fall, she hits the stone hard. A sharp muffled sound and a painful grunt follows. I grit my teeth, my eyes staring the woman down with purpose and malice, with retribution and threat. She smirks, turns on her open-toed heels and leaves the room.

Izabel raises her head from the stone, and she tries to speak, so desperately, to tell me something, to warn me, I do not know, but her words are muffled and I can make nothing out.

Apollo moves in behind her—I grip the bars harder, grind my teeth together more harshly, wanting to get at him, daring him to hurt her. What am I doing? This will get me nowhere.

Upon realizing I am acting absurd, I drop my hands at my sides and steady my erratic breathing.

“There is no need to hurt Izabel,” I say calmly—on the inside I feel the rage vying for control. “I will cooperate, Apollo; all you need to do is tell me what you want.”

He lifts Izabel to her feet, his hand gripping the rope binding her wrists behind her, and shoves her harshly onto the chair just feet from my cage, close but not close enough. I look only at her; many emotions are well-defined in her eyes, but not one of them is fear. Anger. Vengeance. And desperation—mostly desperation. But for now, nothing will be getting past her lips; a thick cloth has been packed tightly inside her mouth, and another has been wrapped around her head, tied within her dark auburn hair.

Apollo looks at the wall, pauses in some kind of concentration, and then turns back to me, and although I find his behavior peculiar, I focus only on Izabel, and what he intends to do to her.

Izabel’s entire body tenses and her face twists with pain before she falls over sideways and out of the chair; the static sound of the cattle prod rings sharply in my ears long after it’s gone. So it is Izabel who will suffer the torture if I refuse to speak—knife, box cutter, fire, ‘simple’ cattle prod—suddenly there is nothing simple about any of it.

“That’s enough, Apollo!” I grab the bars again, letting the rage have the control, my teeth crushing together so hard that pain shoots through my lower jaw and up the back of my skull.

In my peripheral vision I see Izabel, lying on her side against the stones, trying to catch her breath, but my eyes and my focus remain on Apollo.

He places the cattle prod on the floor behind him, and then approaches the cage.

Yes, that is it—come closer, Dead Man Walking, and give me one opportunity, just one, and I am going to take it.

He stops just shy of the opportunity.

“Let’s begin,” he says, taunting me, “with Safe House One.” His smirk deepens, and my confusion grows.

“Safe House One?” I ask.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“I do not understand—what about it?”

Apollo helps Izabel back onto the chair; she tries to wrench her arm from his hand; words that can only be of a profane nature push through the fabric in her mouth and come out as a series of high and low sounds. But her eyes say everything her voice cannot: “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Her name was Marina, if I remember the way Artemis told the story.”

Marina…

I try not to look at Izabel anymore, but it is difficult to avoid. I just hope she does not see the guilt in my soul.

“So, Artemis told you about Safe House One—how is that relevant?”

“My sister told me everything about you before she died,” Apollo reveals. “She and I were close, being twins and all; she didn’t keep secrets from me.” He seems lost in a memory suddenly, the pain of losing his sister evident on his dejected features. But he shakes it off, looks at me again. “Except your sexual relationship”—he waves a hand dismissively—“I drew the line with that shit.”

“Why do you want me to talk about Safe House One?”

“Marina,” he corrects me.

“Why do you want me to talk about Marina?”

For a fleeting moment, Apollo’s eyes skirt Izabel sitting on the chair.

Ah. Now it makes sense. Now I understand—everything. And my heart stops beating; I feel a crushing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

This is it.

Today, it all ends.

Finally, I make eye contact with the woman I love, still hoping she does not see the guilt, but in my heart I know that she does. There is a brief but distinct flicker in her eyes as she gazes at me; the fact she is no longer attempting to speak is proof that Apollo has her attention.

“Izabel?” I whisper, but not in an attempt to conceal my voice. “You probably know why we are here. Do you know why?”

Izabel nods slowly—she has an idea, but she cannot possibly know what I am about to tell her.

Ignoring Apollo’s amused gaze, I keep my eyes only on Izabel.

I take a deep breath. “We are here because of me,” I say. “And you are…” I cannot finish the sentence; my breath feels like it’s fleeing my lungs; my heart pounds in my ears and in my stomach.

I look away from her, but the sound of her mumbling voice beneath the fabric brings me back, to face her—to face and to accept and to tell the truth.

I owe her that much.

“Izabel…you are going to die today”—my hands begin to tremble and sweat—“…and…and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

I see Izabel’s chest fall, followed by her eyelids; tears seep from their confines and stream down her dirty cheeks. If only I could kiss the tears away, just one more time.

I am sorry Izabel. I am sorry for the day we met, for not taking you back to Javier Ruiz’s compound, for not handing you over to Izel when she came for you in the motel; I am sorry that my weakness has put your life in peril; I am sorry that because of me you will die long before you have had a chance to live your life. A real life. A life untouched by the pain and the horrors in which suffocate me and the only life I know. I am sorry for falling in love with you. I am sorry for everything.

These words I wish to tell her.

But I cannot.

I cannot because…I am afraid.

I look down at the soiled stones beneath my feet as if they can comfort me somehow. But they turn their backs on me instead, leaving me not even a shoulder.

“No need to scare the girl,” I hear Apollo’s voice distant in my ears—mostly all I hear are my thoughts. “You didn’t have to tell her the truth. And I wouldn’t have said anything, bro. As a courtesy. But whatever. Your fuckup, not mine.”