James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

It was a ten-seater. We were the only two passengers.

“Railway station,” I said. “Venezia Santa Lucia.”

“Cinque minuti,” the driver said, not moving the boat. He pointed to the eight empty seats.

“What’s going on?” Katherine said. “Why aren’t we moving?”

“He wants to wait five minutes till he gets more passengers.”

I could see cops storming into the hotel. Katherine and I had registered in our own names, so it wouldn’t be long before the local police were looking for us. When they didn’t find us, they’d widen the search. We had to get out of Italy before our pictures were posted at every border crossing.

“Waiting is not an option,” I told Katherine.

She clasped her hands together and looked to the heavens. “God, my boyfriend’s been a little crazy lately,” she said. “Please don’t let him ask me to swim.”

I kissed her on the forehead and turned to the water-taxi driver. “Siamo in ritardo per il nostro treno,” I said.

Katherine looked at me.

“I told him we were late for our train.”

The driver shrugged. “Gli Americani sono sempre in ritardo,” he said.

“He says we’re always late. Quanto?” I said. “How much?”

“Novantacinque euro.”

“Ninety-five euros. How much for tutto? ” I said. “The whole damn boat. Immediatamente!  ”

“Seicento.”

I dug into my pocket and peeled off three two-hundred-euro notes. The engine turned over as soon as the bills left my hand.

“Siete Americani?” our taxi driver said as we cut through the water past the Palazzo Ducale.

“No, we’re not,” I said.

He shrugged again. He had all the money he was going to get out of me. No small talk required.

Katherine leaned into my chest and I wrapped my arm around her. “Just in case you were wondering,” she said, “I’m petrified.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t exactly what I had planned.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Paris was amazing. Venice is inspiring. Except for that blond bitch who shot at us, it’s been a heck of a vacation.”

I kissed her.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“Amsterdam.”

“What’s there?” she said.

“Beautiful canals, great nightlife, and incredible art — the Rijksmuseum has all the Dutch masters. Rembrandt, van Gogh, Vermeer — you’ll love it.”

She stared at me. Her gray eyes were steely now. “Matt, cut the travelogue bullshit. The Italian police are looking for us, and instead of racing back to New York, we’re on our way to a museum in the Netherlands? What happened to Trust me? ” she said. “So let me repeat the question. What’s in Amsterdam?”

I leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “People who buy diamonds.”

IT TOOK FIFTEEN minutes to get to the train station. I was eager to come clean to Katherine, but just in case our six-hundred-euro captain had a better handle on English than he had let on, we just sat and enjoyed the view.

The next train to Milan was leaving in forty-five minutes. From there we could catch the overnight train to Amsterdam. Flying would take only two hours, but that meant going through airport security, and I had decided to hang on to Marta Krall’s gun.

I bought two first-class train tickets to Milan and reserved a sleeper car for the second leg of the trip.

We sat down to wait at a little coffee bar. I ordered a cappuccino. Katherine had a caffè con panna, which is basically espresso topped with sweet whipped cream.

“Do you remember what we were talking about in our hotel room before we were so rudely interrupted?” I said.

“Do I remember? First you nearly gave me a heart attack when you showed me what was inside your little doctor kit, then you said something like — but wait, that’s not all. You were going to tell me another big secret, when the door crashed in.” She sipped her espresso. “Are you going to tell me now?”

I nodded. “Walter Zelvas — the guy who got killed at Grand Central — was a professional killer,” I said. “He worked for the Russian mob. Among other things, they run a global diamond-smuggling operation, and Zelvas was taking off with a bag full of diamonds that he stole from them. They found out, and they hired another hit man to kill him. Zelvas didn’t die from a bomb blast. He was professionally terminated.”

Katherine put her hand up to her mouth. “You’re…you’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I swear.”

“But how do you know? How did you find out?”

“I’m the person…they hired to kill Zelvas.”

Her body started to shake. “No. No. No. It can’t be possible. No.”

“Katherine, first of all, it’s true,” I said. “I can’t expect you to understand, but I love you too much to keep it from you. And after what happened in our hotel room, you have to know. That woman’s name is Marta Krall. The people who hired me to kill Zelvas hired her to kill me and get their diamonds back.”

“This can’t be happening,” Katherine whispered. She was staring at the floor now, not at me. She couldn’t look me in the eye.

“I think I know what you’re going through,” I said. “The night I got out of the Marines, my father told me that he’d been a professional hit man. He made it sound almost all right. Logical. He only killed bad people, he said. It was like being an executioner in a prison — a really well-paid executioner. He wanted me to think about doing it, too. At first I wouldn’t even consider it. But eventually he turned me. I kill evil men like Walter Zelvas. And the money I get paid lets me follow my dream — it lets me paint.”

Katherine was in shock. Her face looked tortured. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t believe it. You kill people? For money? And your father was doing it before you?” She paused, and then she hit me with the same question I had asked my father. “Did he ever tell your mother?”

“Yes,” I said. “He said it took her years to get used to it.”

“Well, I’m not your mother,” she said, sobbing. “Good-bye, Matthew.”

She stood up, grabbed her bag, and started walking.

I jumped up and followed her. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you. There’s a bus that goes to the Venice airport. I’m buying a ticket and flying to New York. I’m going home. Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Ever.”

I ran after her, took her by the shoulders, and spun her around. “Please, Katherine. Don’t leave.”

I stared into her eyes, but the eyes that looked back at me were empty, lifeless. My mind told me to let her go. She would be safer in New York. But my chest was heaving, my heart was breaking, and the emotions I’ve always managed to keep bottled up inside began spilling out.

“You know how much I love you?” I said, my voice cracking. “Please don’t leave. I’ll change. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

“Take your hands off me,” Katherine said. “Or I’ll scream.”

My hands dropped to my sides. “Katherine, what I do…what I did…it’s a job, like being in the Marine Corps was a job. But it’s not who I am. You know the real me. Nothing is more important to me than our relationship.”

“You’re wrong, Matthew. I never knew the real you. And our relationship has been built on a mountain of lies. Good-bye.”

She turned and walked off.

I stood and watched her disappear into the crowd, feeling something I can’t remember ever feeling before.

Abandoned.

THE TRIP ACROSS the northern Italian countryside took almost three hours. The train stopped at Padua, Vincenza, Verona, and other cities steeped in the history of the Venetian Republic, but without Katherine to appreciate them with me, I barely looked.