caregiver; she’s wearing a tight skirt and a half-shirt that shows off a belly ring.
“Archie! He’s up!”
So I made it here after all. I remember throwing that Lincoln book—thanks for drawing another bullet, Mr. President—and I have images of a fat finger pointing me toward daylight and a cab barreling in reverse—but everything else bleeds together like Polaroids shuffled in a deck. I wanted to make it to a pharmacy and get the things I needed but I was slipping in and out of consciousness and didn’t have a choice. I thought about Archibald and I must’ve made that decision but I don’t remember doing so. I have no idea if I drove, walked, or crawled here. I’m vulnerable now, and I’m indebted to a man who knows how to exploit vulnerability, but I’m not sure I had another choice.
My side is throbbing, but what really bothers me, what my mind keeps turning over and over as it blocks out the pain is the play Llanos made. Archibald had warned me she had picked up my scent in Chicago, and so I went to a public library with a perfect view of my surroundings. Yet, she still took her shot there, even though her chances of finishing the job were limited. Then she kept after me, long past time when she should’ve retreated. The only reason she would do that, I imagine, is the third assassin, the Czech named Svoboda, is also here. She wanted to collect the kill fee before him, or she was worried he’d come after her first. Either way, she tried to force a low-percentage play. I’m going to make that decision come back to haunt her.
Archibald pokes his head in the room and I have to squint from the glare off all those teeth.
“Back from the abyss.” His voice is as bouncy as the girl’s step. “I must say I thought it’d be a while before you knocked on my door again. I guess something up in the universe got us tied together on the same string.”
“Thanks for the patch-work.”
“I got a surgeon who likes cash money and doesn’t like paying malpractice. We got what the Nature Channel calls a symbiotic relationship.”
“You got a mirror?”
“This face? I got a house full of ’em.”
He moves off and the girl smiles at me. “Archie tells me you’re the best he ever worked with.”
“Archibald talks too much.”
“Been that way since we were five. He had half our school working for him. The teachers too. Only one he couldn’t keep up with was our mother.”
“I’d like to have met her . . . just to complete the picture.”
Archibald steps back into the room, holding a hand mirror. “That old lady taught me everything I know.”
“She’d roll over in the grave to hear that.”
So Archibald—Archie—has a sister and he thinks we’re square enough to let me in on that secret, even after I got to the Webb brothers through their mother. It’s a calculated move on his part. I showed up at his place completely helpless, exposed and dying; in return, he exposes himself, personally, to me, tying us even tighter together. Maybe the universe really does have us dangling on the same string.
I take the mirror and hold it at an angle to get a look at the wound in my side. Peeling the gauze and bandage back, I’m impressed with Archibald’s surgeon. The wound is clean and the stitches are tight and even.
“I told you,” Archibald says from the door.
“Yeah, pretty good.” The pain is awful now, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I don’t want to know what it’s going to feel like if I cough.
“You need some Tylenol or something?” the sister asks.
“I’ll take some if you got ’em.”
“Not a problem.” She turns to go, then stops. “I’m Ruby, by the way.”
“Columbus.”
“I know who you are.”
I’ve got a laptop in bed with me, and I’m chasing down the name Alexander Coulfret. Nothing on Google except an article from 2003 listing the victims of a Paris bus crash. An Alex Coulfret is among the dead, the tragedy taking place when a train leaving the
“Archie! He’s up!”
So I made it here after all. I remember throwing that Lincoln book—thanks for drawing another bullet, Mr. President—and I have images of a fat finger pointing me toward daylight and a cab barreling in reverse—but everything else bleeds together like Polaroids shuffled in a deck. I wanted to make it to a pharmacy and get the things I needed but I was slipping in and out of consciousness and didn’t have a choice. I thought about Archibald and I must’ve made that decision but I don’t remember doing so. I have no idea if I drove, walked, or crawled here. I’m vulnerable now, and I’m indebted to a man who knows how to exploit vulnerability, but I’m not sure I had another choice.
My side is throbbing, but what really bothers me, what my mind keeps turning over and over as it blocks out the pain is the play Llanos made. Archibald had warned me she had picked up my scent in Chicago, and so I went to a public library with a perfect view of my surroundings. Yet, she still took her shot there, even though her chances of finishing the job were limited. Then she kept after me, long past time when she should’ve retreated. The only reason she would do that, I imagine, is the third assassin, the Czech named Svoboda, is also here. She wanted to collect the kill fee before him, or she was worried he’d come after her first. Either way, she tried to force a low-percentage play. I’m going to make that decision come back to haunt her.
Archibald pokes his head in the room and I have to squint from the glare off all those teeth.
“Back from the abyss.” His voice is as bouncy as the girl’s step. “I must say I thought it’d be a while before you knocked on my door again. I guess something up in the universe got us tied together on the same string.”
“Thanks for the patch-work.”
“I got a surgeon who likes cash money and doesn’t like paying malpractice. We got what the Nature Channel calls a symbiotic relationship.”
“You got a mirror?”
“This face? I got a house full of ’em.”
He moves off and the girl smiles at me. “Archie tells me you’re the best he ever worked with.”
“Archibald talks too much.”
“Been that way since we were five. He had half our school working for him. The teachers too. Only one he couldn’t keep up with was our mother.”
“I’d like to have met her . . . just to complete the picture.”
Archibald steps back into the room, holding a hand mirror. “That old lady taught me everything I know.”
“She’d roll over in the grave to hear that.”
So Archibald—Archie—has a sister and he thinks we’re square enough to let me in on that secret, even after I got to the Webb brothers through their mother. It’s a calculated move on his part. I showed up at his place completely helpless, exposed and dying; in return, he exposes himself, personally, to me, tying us even tighter together. Maybe the universe really does have us dangling on the same string.
I take the mirror and hold it at an angle to get a look at the wound in my side. Peeling the gauze and bandage back, I’m impressed with Archibald’s surgeon. The wound is clean and the stitches are tight and even.
“I told you,” Archibald says from the door.
“Yeah, pretty good.” The pain is awful now, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I don’t want to know what it’s going to feel like if I cough.
“You need some Tylenol or something?” the sister asks.
“I’ll take some if you got ’em.”
“Not a problem.” She turns to go, then stops. “I’m Ruby, by the way.”
“Columbus.”
“I know who you are.”
I’ve got a laptop in bed with me, and I’m chasing down the name Alexander Coulfret. Nothing on Google except an article from 2003 listing the victims of a Paris bus crash. An Alex Coulfret is among the dead, the tragedy taking place when a train leaving the
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