James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

The chain lock was on, the lights were off, the window shades were shut. The room smelled of mold, mildew, and a host of other living organisms that she didn’t even try to identify. The sun had set hours earlier, but a laser of moonlight streamed through a small tear at the top of the curtain. Until just then, she hadn’t noticed that the big amoeba-shaped stain on the carpet was actually the color of dried blood.

Her eyes were closing, and her mind wandered. Being so close to all this sin evoked a flurry of memories. She suddenly felt cold, though the chill was from within her. It was like a winter night in Prague, the night she’d parted with her pride. She was just nineteen, a mere teenager, locked in a bathroom she shared with seven other roommates in a drafty apartment.

•

A brutal February wind poured through cracks around the small rectangular window. She was sitting on the edge of the sink, a battered metal basin so cold that it burned against the backs of her bare thighs. It was meticulous work, but she did it quickly. Then she pulled up her panties, buttoned her slacks, and put the scissors back in the cabinet.

The fruits of her efforts were in a small plastic bag. She hid it in her pocket so her roommates wouldn’t see. Three of them were sharing a couple pieces of bread and a bland broth for dinner as she made her way past them. They didn’t ask where she was going, but it wasn’t out of indifference. She sensed that they knew, but they’d chosen not to embarrass her. Without a word, she stepped out of the cluttered apartment, then headed down the hall and out the back door of the building.

A black sedan was parked at the curb. The motor was running, as white wisps of exhaust curled upward in the cold air. A sea of footprints in frozen slush covered the sidewalk. The ice crunched beneath her feet as she headed for the car, opened the back door, and climbed inside. She closed the door and handed the bag to the man in the driver’s seat. It was the same man she’d met in the alley the night her friend Beatriz had been killed at the factory.

“Here you go,” she said.

He held the bag up to the dome light, eyeing it with a disgusting fascination. It was a peculiar fetish among certain Czech men, one that kept many a young Cuban woman in Castro’s work program from starving. There was decent money to be had from a bagful of pubic clippings.

“Too short,” he said.

“It’s only twenty-days’ growth. What do you expect?”

“I can’t use this.”

“Then give me more time between collections. At least six weeks.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?”

He opened the bag, smelled it, and smiled. “I think it’s time we expanded our line of merchandise.”

“No way.”

“Not a good answer.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’d better care.”

“I don’t. This isn’t fair.”

“Fair?” he said, chuckling. Then he turned serious. “It’s like I always say, honey. Everything happens for a reason. No decision is meaningless. We all determine our own fate.”

“If that’s what you say, then you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah. I’ll be sure to make a note of that. Meanwhile, you think about the choices you want to make. Think about your fate.”

A low, throaty groan startled her. It was a man’s voice, definitely not the hooker next door. She focused just in time to see Theo’s eyes blink open.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

He was lying on his back, his body stretched across the mattress like a drying deer skin. Each wrist and ankle was handcuffed to a respective corner of the bed frame. He tried to say something, but with the gag it was unintelligible.

Katrina rose and inspected the big purple knot above his left eyebrow. It was squeezing his eye half shut, and he withdrew at her slightest touch.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” she said. “Next time you try to escape, I’ll have to shoot you.”

His jaw tightened on the gag, but he uttered not a sound.

She returned to her chair and laid her pistol across her lap. “I suppose you’re wondering how long I think I can keep you tied up like this.”

Short, angry breaths through his nostrils were his only reply.

“The answer is: Long enough for me to figure out what to do. See, if I don’t kill you, they’re going to kill me. And then they’ll come and find you and do the job that I was supposed to do. So it’s really in everyone’s best interest for you to behave yourself and let me figure this out.”

His breathing slowed. He seemed less antagonized.

“Now, I’m sure you’d love to lose that gag in your mouth. And after lying here unconscious for so long, you must be dying to use the bathroom. So nod once if you think you can behave yourself.”

He blinked, then nodded.

“Good.” She went to him and stopped at the edge of the mattress. Then she aimed the gun directly at his head and said, “You try anything, I’ll blow your brains out.”

She took the key from her pocket and unlocked the left handcuff. She handed him the ice bucket. “Roll over and pee into this.”

Still gagged, he shot her a look that said, You gotta be kidding.

“Do it, or hold it.”

Begrudgingly, he rolled on one side, unzipped, and did his business. From the sound of things, Katrina was beginning to think she might need a second bucket. Finally it was over. He rolled onto his back, and Katrina locked the handcuff to his wrist.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

He nodded.

“If you scream…” She pressed the gun to his forehead, as if to finish the sentence.

She reached behind his neck, loosened the knot, and pulled the gag free. She offered him a cup of water, which he drank eagerly. When he finished, he stretched his mouth open to shake off the effects of the gag, then winced. The mere use of any facial muscles was a painful reminder of the bruise above his eye.

“Damn, girl. Where’d you learn to kick like that?”

“Where’d you get those tattoos?”

He looked confused, then seemed to understand. “You served time?”

“I think of it that way.”

“What for?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just curious.”

The creaking noise resumed overhead, the steady squeak of the bed in the room above them. Katrina glanced at the ceiling, then shot Theo a look that required no elaboration.

“You were a hooker?” he said.

“No. I refused to be one.”

“They put you in jail because you wouldn’t ho’? I don’t get it.” The squeaking stopped. Theo lay still for a moment, still staring at the ceiling. “To be honest, I don’t get any of this. You’re a government informant. If someone is making you do something you don’t want to do, just go to the police.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Just explain to them that things have gotten out of hand. Someone wants you to hit me or they’re gonna hit you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I go to the police and tell them the fix I’m in, they’ll pull me from the assignment.”

“Exactly. Problem solved.”

“You just don’t understand.” Her gaze drifted across the room, then settled on the brownish-red spot of dried blood on the carpet. “There’s an old Russian proverb,” she said vaguely. “’Revenge is the sweetest form of passion.’”

“What does that have to do with calling the police?”

“If they pull me off the job now, I stifle my own passion.”

He looked straight at her, seeming to understand that somewhere behind those troubled brown eyes was an old score to settle.

“I’m good at revenge. Maybe I could help.”

“This is something I have to do myself.”