Greg Rucka - Walking dead

Before that happened, I needed to take care of Mesick. The houseboat, it turned out, belonged to him. The way I figured it, he'd planned to kill me and then maybe take a little journey by boat to someplace nice and dark and secluded where he would be able to dump my body. I'm not sure he thought he'd get away with it or not, but then again, the way he'd come at me with the knife, he hadn't seemed the type to really think these kinds of things through.

I went through the boat as quickly as I could, starting with the room furthest from us and working back toward the living room we'd entered. The furthest room was the bedroom, and I got lucky in there, finding a roll of duct tape in a bureau drawer, along with some other heavy bondage equipment, including manacles for the wrists and ankles. I bled my way back to Mesick, still lying on the carpeted floor of the living room, and secured him with them, setting his wrists behind his back.

I gathered the two halves of my eyeglasses, took them and the duct tape to the bathroom. It was off the single hallway, to the left, and I stumbled into it, dropped them on the counter, and began yanking out the drawers and opening the cabinets, searching for a first aid kit. The best I managed was a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and it popped out of my grip when I tried to take it, my hands now thoroughly coated with my own blood. I sat myself on the closed toilet and tried to stop the bleeding.

The cut on my right forearm, his initial cut, seemed the worst of the ones I'd received, had split skin and fat and muscle, almost to bone. I could still move my fingers, and I figured that counted for something, that I'd been spared major nerve and tendon damage. The cut across my left palm was messy, but I'd gotten very lucky, and it looked like all that hit was the tip of the blade, and that just barely. A fraction deeper and I could've lost the use of the hand. The abdominal slash I couldn't be sure about, and didn't want to risk the required twisting for a further examination. Nothing seemed to be spilling out of my guts other than blood.

I used the rubbing alcohol first, pouring it straight over my wounds to wash and, maybe, hopefully, sterilize them, at least somewhat. Then I tore strips of duct tape and tried to put myself back together. I had pretty good luck on my arm, able to use my left hand to pinch the wound closed as I lay the strip down, then drawing it tight. It was harder going with my palm and side.

When I was finished, I just sat there, leaning against the wall. The delayed pain had begun creeping in, and for several minutes it felt as if I was doing nothing but sinking in it. Spots of light danced about in my vision, and I knew I was close to passing out, realized I was hyperventilating. With effort, I got my breathing back under control.

There was noise coming from the living room, the sound of Mesick, conscious again, thrashing against his restraints.

With effort and the aid of the bathroom counter, I pulled myself back to my feet. The dancing lights returned as soon as I was upright, and I froze, drawing controlled breaths. They passed faster than they had before, but I took the warning seriously, and when I started moving again, I kept it slow and deliberate.

He was worming his way toward the kitchenette, using his bound feet to push himself along on his back. When he saw me, he froze, shocked, and I knew he'd thought I'd gone, that he was alone.

I stepped over Mesick without a comment, to where I'd set the knife on the countertop of the kitchenette. Then I turned to him and, knowing it would hurt, bent and took hold of the restraints at his ankles, using them to haul him back to the middle of the living room floor. I did everything I could to keep the pain I was causing myself from my face.

I looked down at Theunis Mesick with his knife in my hand and said, "You were wrong about Arzu."

It was a complete non sequitur as far as he was concerned. His mouth worked for a moment, trying to process my English, perhaps. "What?"

"You were wrong about Arzu. You said he didn't give out your name. Remember?"

He nodded, just the barest tilting of his chin. I had him confused, and worried, which was exactly what I was hoping for.

"He gave it to me," I said, running my thumb lightly along the edge of the knife for added effect. It was theatrical to the point of farce, but if I was going to play the part, I figured I'd best play it to the hilt, as it were. "He gave it to me just before I killed him."

Theatrical it may have been, but it sure as hell worked. Theunis Mesick's eyes snapped open enough to give me a generous view of their whites, my blurred vision making them appear to have no iris at all. His mouth worked even more frantically, and he tried the worm-crawl again, pushing himself backward. I smiled while I watched him do it. After a few seconds, I began to follow him, taking my time.

It didn't take long for him to realize there was nowhere for him to go.

"What?" he shrieked at me. "What do you want?"

"I want to kill you," I told him. "I'll settle for information."

"Anything! Anything, don't kill me!"

"Arzu sent you a girl, almost a month ago. A Georgian girl. Black hair, skinny. Young. Fourteen."

"Ja, her, ja! I remember!"

I looked at the knife, made a point of studying its curve in the light. I asked the question softly, loading it with menace. "Where is she?"

"I don't have her anymore! I don't have her!" He looked at me hopefully. "I give you another girl, fine, ja? I give you another girl, a younger girl!"

Still with the blade as before, I stared him into silence.

"I don't want another girl," I told him. "I want that girl."

"She's gone! I don't have her!"

"You know where she went."

"America! I take her there, give her to a man there!"

"Someone you've dealt with before?"

"Ja, for Arzu I have done it before, two, three times! Same man!"

"Then you'll know where I can find him," I said.

Misery crossed the fear in his face. "I don't know where he is! I call a number, get a message where to be meeting, when to do it!"

"You know where you took the girl. You're going to tell me that."

"I can't," Theunis Mesick said. "I can't."

"You can," I told him. "If you want to live."

Twenty-six It was still dark when I reached Schiphol Airport. The darkness had served me well on the way, hiding me in the back of the too-expensive cab I'd hired to take me out of Amsterdam, but once inside the airport, there was no such luxury. I zipped my windbreaker closed before subjecting myself to the lights, and my jeans were dark enough that the blood on them maybe wouldn't look too much like blood.

As a connoisseur of airports-by necessity, if not by choice-Schiphol was one of the best I'd ever encountered, at least where amenities were concerned. The problem was the hour; nothing would open until seven in the morning, which meant a wait before I could resume further repair work on myself. The duct tape was doing a reasonable job holding my forearm closed, but I was still leaking from my side and hand. Of the two, my palm was faring better, but the cut in my side was beginning to really worry me.

I made my way to a very clean and frighteningly well-lit bathroom, locked myself into one of the stalls, and once more found myself seated on a toilet. Using what was left of the duct tape, I tried to repair my eyeglasses, and ended up with something that looked like a nerd cliche. When I put them on, they sat at an angle, and threatened an immediate headache.

With the BlackBerry, I called into the mailbox of the singles' service in London. There was a message from Alena, left in Georgian. They were safely in Ireland, she said, and left a contact number. I did my best to commit it to memory, then hung up and switched to the laptop. Schiphol had wireless available, and the signal, though weak, penetrated the bathroom. I searched up a flight, booked Anthony Shephard on Aer Lingus to Dublin, departing in four hours.