Текст книги "Reviving Izabel"

Автор книги: J. A. Redmerski

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER THREE

Sarai

Dahlia and Eric didn’t come back up to the room until a couple hours later, just after sundown. I had made sure to shower and change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and to leave the lights off in the room to make it appear as though I had been asleep. The second I heard the card key sliding into the door, I leapt into bed and sprawled out across the mattress, the same way I always do when I’m really sleeping. Eric crept in quietly, trying not to ‘wake me’, but I rolled over and moaned and cracked my eyelids open to let him know that he had. He apologized and asked if I wanted to go with him and Dahlia to a nearby nightclub and insisted that if I didn’t go, he wouldn’t, either. But I rejected that idea quickly. I could tell he really wanted to go and I can’t blame him; if I were in his position I wouldn’t want to hang out in a dark hotel room at barely eight o’clock on a Friday night in one of the most active cities in the U.S.

But the two of them leaving was exactly what I needed. I had spent that entire two hours trying to come up with an excuse to tell them about why I was leaving, where I was going and why they couldn’t come.

They solved it for me.

Minutes after Eric leaves, I wait until Dahlia—in her room next to ours—changes out of her swimwear. From the peephole in my door, I watch them walk down the hallway. I count to one hundred, pacing the floor, over and over again. And then I grab my purse and carry it out the door. I walk briskly down the hallway in the opposite direction and make my way to the secret room on the other side of the building.

A little paranoid about getting caught, I fumble around inside my purse, touching just about everything except the key to the room. Finally, I manage to get it into my fingers and I hurry inside, sliding the chain-lock into place afterwards. Throwing open my suitcase on the end of the bed, I take out my short platinum-blonde wig, carefully dragging my fingers through it to straighten the few unruly strands, and then fix it on top of the nearby lampshade so it’ll hold its form.

I get dressed in a skimpy Dolce & Gabbana dress, apply my makeup, dark and heavy and perfect after spending a great deal of time at home practicing the technique, and then slip into my strappy heels. Heels. Something else I’ve spent a lot of time trying to master. My alter ego, Izabel Seyfried, would know how to walk in them and look good doing it, so naturally, I needed to get with the program.

Then I wet my hair and break it into two parts behind me, twist each half and then cross them over one another at the back of my head. Several Bobby pins later, my long auburn hair is fixed tightly against my scalp. I slip the wig cap over the hair and then the wig, adjusting it for a long time until I get rid of any imperfections.

Lastly, I tighten a knife sheath around my thigh and drop the fabric of my dress back over it.

I stand in front of the tall mirror, looking at myself at every possible angle. I feel odd as a blonde. Satisfied, I grab my little black purse and tuck it underneath my arm, the small handgun hidden inside making it bulge somewhat in the center. I reach out for the door handle letting my hand fall back to my side.

“What the hell am I doing?”

What needs to be done.

Why the hell am I doing it?

Because I have to.

I can’t get it out of my head. The things this man admitted to, the people he killed because of a sick, sexual fetish. Every night since Victor left me, when I close my eyes, I see Hamburg’s face, and that chilling grin he wore when I was bent over that table, exposed in front of him. I see the face of his wife, emaciated and sickly, her sunken eyes glazed over with resignation. I can even still smell the urine that had dried in her clothes and on the ratted cot she slept on in that hidden room.

My chest fills with air and I hold it there for several long seconds before letting the heavy breath out.

I can’t let it go. The need to kill him is like an itch in the center of my back. I can’t reach it naturally, but I’ll bend and twist my arms to the point of pain to scratch it.

I can’t let it go…

And maybe…just maybe I’ll get the attention of a certain assassin I can’t force myself to forget, while I’m at it.

The moment I walk out the door I leave Sarai behind and become Izabel for the night.

* * *

Not having thought beforehand about the importance of at least renting my own fancy car, I have a cab drop me off two blocks from the restaurant and I walk the rest of the way. Izabel would never be seen riding in a cab.

“Table for one?” the host inquires after I make my way inside.

I cock my head to one side and look upon him with a hint of annoyance. “Is that a problem? Am I not allowed to enjoy a meal by myself? Or, are you hitting on me?” I smirk at him and cock my head to the other side. He’s getting nervous. “Would you like to eat with me…,” I look at the name embroidered on his jacket, “…Jeffrey?” I step closer. He takes an uncomfortable step back.

“Ummm,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, ma’am—.”

I step back fully and snarl at him.

“Don’t ever call me ma’am,” I snap. “Just take me to a table. For one.”

He nods quickly and gestures for me to follow. Once I’m at my small round table with two chairs situated in the center of the restaurant, I take a seat and set my purse aside. A waiter walks over as the host leaves and presents the wine menu. I reject it with the brushing movement of my fingers.

“Just bring me water with a lemon wedge.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, but I let it slide.

As he strides through the room and away from me, I start scoping the place out. There’s one exit sign to my left, far off near the hallway. Another one to my right, close to the stairs that lead to the second floor. The restaurant is much like it was the first time I came here: dark, not-so-populated and fairly quiet, except this time I hear the light volume of jazz music playing from somewhere. And while I’m looking around the place, I stop abruptly when I see the booth where I sat with Victor when I came here with him months ago.

I get lost in the memory, picturing everything precisely the way it happened. As I look across the room at the two people sitting there, all I can see is Victor and myself:

“Come here,” he says in a gentler tone.

I slide over the few inches separating us and sit right next to him.

His fingers dance along the back of my neck as he pulls my head toward him. My heart pounds erratically when he brushes his lips against the side of my face. Suddenly, I feel his other hand slip in-between my thighs and up my dress. My breath hitches. Do I part them? Do I freeze up and lock them in place? I know what I want to do, but I don’t know what I should do and my mind is about to run away with me.

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” he whispers onto my ear.

His hand moves closer to the warmth between my legs.

I gasp quietly, trying not to let him know, though I’m positive he definitely knows.

“What kind of surprise?” I ask, my head tilted back, resting in his hand.

“Are you going to have anything this evening?” I hear a voice say and I snap out of my reverie.

The waiter is holding a food menu in his hand. My water with a lemon wedged on the rim of the glass is already waiting in front of me.

A little flustered at first, I just nod, but then shake my head instead. “I’m not sure yet,” I finally answer. “Leave the menu here. I may order later.”

“Very well,” the waiter says.

He sets the menu down and leaves me alone.

I gaze up at the balcony and the tables perched alongside the extravagant railing. Where could Hamburg be? I know he’s upstairs because I remember Victor saying that’s where he sits. But where? I wonder if he’s already seen me and the second that thought crosses my mind, my stomach ties up in nervous knots.

No, I can’t look nervous.

I straighten my back against the chair and take a sip of my water, curling my fingers around the slim glass, all except for my pinky finger which makes me look that much wealthier, or just snootier. For a long time I watch the guests come and go, listen to their pointless conversations and find myself wondering which, if any, of the couples here tonight might end up in Hamburg’s mansion this weekend making a lot of money to let him watch them fuck.

Then I look down at the reddish-purple flower arrangement sitting in a small glass vase in the center of my table. Reaching inside my purse, I pull out my cell phone, pretend to dial and then gently place it near my ear so no one will think I’m talking to myself.

“This message is for Arthur Hamburg,” I say in a low voice, slouching forward a little so the mic hidden in the centerpiece will pick up my voice. “Surely you remember me? Izabel Seyfried. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Carefully I look to the left and right of me, expecting to see a burly man or two in suits coming toward me with guns.

“I’m not here alone,” I go on, “so don’t even think of trying anything stupid. We need to talk, you and I.”

Gazing up toward the balcony floor I try to get a sense of where he might be, hoping that he’s even here. A few tense minutes pass and just when I start to think this night has been wasted and I really have talking to myself, I notice movement stirring on the balcony floor just above the south exit. My heart is drumming rapidly as I watch the tall, dark figure emerge from the shadows and descend the stairs.

I remember this man, broad-shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair and a dimple in the center of his chin. It’s the manager of the restaurant, Willem Stephens, who I’ve met here once before.

He steps up to my table with absolutely no emotion on his face, his big hands folded together down in front of him, his back straight, his chiseled chin solid.

“Good evening, Miss Seyfried.” His voice is deep and ominous. “Where, might I ask, is your owner?”

I smirk up at his looming height, take a casual sip of my water and place the glass back on the table, taking my time. Every part of me is screaming, telling me how stupid it was for me to come here, and as much as I know that to be true, I don’t care. It’s not fear making me tremble underneath my skin, it’s adrenaline.

“Victor Faust is not my owner,” I say calmly. “But he is around. Somewhere.” A faint, sly smile touches my lips.

Stephens’ eyes move subtly to scan the area before he looks back at me.

“Why are you here?” he asks, dropping the sophisticated manager act down a notch.

“I have business to discuss with Arthur Hamburg,” I say with confidence. “It will be in his best interest that he arrange a private meeting with me. Here. Tonight. Preferably now.”

I take another sip.

I notice Stephens’ Adam’s apple move as he swallows, and the edges of his strong jaw as his teeth grind together. He glances up at the area he came from and I notice a tiny black device hidden inside his left ear. It appears he’s listening to someone speak. Hamburg would be my guess.

He looks back at me, his dark eyes cold and hateful, yet he retains his unemotional demeanor as flawlessly as Victor always had.

His right hand unfolds as he holds it out to me and says, “Right this way,” and only when I stand up do both of his hands drop to his sides.

I follow Stephens through the restaurant and up the stairs to the balcony floor.

And either this will be my first night as a killer, or my last night alive.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sarai

“If you touch me,” I say to the suit-clad guard standing outside Hamburg’s private room, “I’ll put your nuts in a meat-grinder.”

The guard’s nostrils flare and he glances at Stephens.

“You requested a meeting with Mr. Hamburg,” Stephens says from behind. “It’s only proper that you be searched for weapons before we allow you inside.”

Dammit!

Calm. Just keep calm. Do what Izabel would do.

I breathe in a heavy breath and sneer at both of them menacingly. Then I throw my little black purse at the guard. He catches it as it hits his chest.

“I think it’s safe to say I couldn’t hide a weapon wearing a dress like this unless I put it up my cunt,” I snap, looking back at Stephens. “My gun is in the purse. But don’t even think of touching—”

“Let her in,” a familiar voice says from the door.

It’s Hamburg, still as porky and grotesque as he was before, wearing an oversized suit ready to bust at the buttons if he inhales too deeply.

I smirk at the guard glaring back at me with murder in his eyes. I know that look, I’m all too intimate with it just the same. He takes the gun from my purse and hands the purse back to me.

“Mr. Hamburg,” Stephens says, “I should remain with you.”

Hamburg shakes his double-chinned head. “No, you mind the restaurant. These people aren’t here to kill me or else they wouldn’t be so obvious. I’ll be fine.”

“At least leave Marion outside the door,” Stephens suggests, glancing at the guard.

“Yes,” Hamburg agrees. “You stay here, let no one interrupt our…,” he looks at me once coldly, “…meeting, unless I ask for an interruption. If at any time you no longer hear my voice for a full minute, come inside the room. As a precaution, of course.”

He smirks at me.

“Of course,” I mimic and smirk right back.

Hamburg steps to the side and gestures me in with an opened hand, palm-up.

“I thought this was over, Miss Seyfried.”

Hamburg shuts the door.

“Have a seat,” he adds.

The room is generous in size with smooth, rounded walls seamless from one side to the other. A series of large paintings depicting what appears to be scenes of a biblical nature are set near a large stone fireplace, mounted inside enormous glass shadow boxes with lights beaming upward from the bottom like spotlights. The overall lighting is low, like it is in the restaurant, and it smells of incense or maybe scented oil of musk and lavender. On the far wall to my left is an opened door leading into another room where the blue-gray light from several television screens glows against the walls. As I walk in closer to take the leather high-back chair in front of Hamburg’s desk, I glimpse inside the small room. It’s just as I thought. The screens show different tables in the restaurant.

Hamburg closes that door, too.

“No, it’s far from over,” I finally answer.

I cross one leg over the other and keep my posture straight, my chin raised with confidence and my eyes on Hamburg as he moves through the room toward me. I reach down to pull the end of my dress fully over the knife sheathed at my thigh. My purse rests on my lap.

“You’ve already taken my wife from me.” Indignation laces his voice. “You don’t think that was enough?”

“Unfortunately, no.” I smile slyly. “Wasn’t it enough that you and your wife took one life? No, it wasn’t,” I answer for him. “You took many lives.”

Hamburg chews on the inside of his mouth and takes a seat behind his desk, facing me. He rests his sausage-like hands out in front of him across the mahogany. I can tell how badly he wants to kill me where I sit. But he won’t because he believes I’m not alone. No one in their right mind would do something like this, come here alone, inexperienced and reckless.

No one but me.

I just have to make sure he continues to believe that I have accomplices until I figure out how I’m going to kill him and get out of the room without getting caught. Hamburg giving the guard one minute of not hearing his voice before he can burst into the room has further put a serious wrench in the plan that I never really had to begin with.

“Well, I must say,” Hamburg changes the tone in the room, “you are stunning no matter what kind of wig you wear. But I admit, I like the red one better.”

He thinks my dark auburn hair was a wig. Good.

“You’re a sick man, you know that, right?” I tap my nails against the chair arm.

Hamburg smiles creepily. I shudder inside, but keep a straight face.

“I didn’t kill those people on purpose,” he says. “They knew what they were getting into, that in the heat of the moment, control could be lost.”

“How many?” I ask demandingly.

Hamburg narrows his gaze. “What does it matter, Miss Seyfried? One. Five. Eight. Why don’t you just get to the reason for your visit? Money? Information? Blackmail comes in many forms and this wouldn’t be the first time I was faced with it. I am a veteran.”

“Tell me about your wife,” I say, stalling, pretending to be the one still holding all the cards. “Before I ‘get to the point’ I want to understand your relationship with her.”

A part of me really does want to know. And I’m incredibly nervous; I can feel a swarm of bees buzzing around in my stomach. Maybe pointless talk will help ease my mind.

Hamburg cocks his head to one side. “Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I loved her very much,” he answers reluctantly. “She was my life.”

“That is love?” I ask, unbelieving. “You let her memory die with the image of her being a drug addict who committed suicide just to save your own ass and you call that love?”

I notice a light move across the floor underneath the door of the surveillance room. There was no one inside before, at least not that I could tell.

“Like blackmail, love comes in many forms.” He rests his back against the squeaky leather chair, interlocking his porky fingers over his big stomach. “Mary and I were inseparable. We weren’t like other people, other married couples, but because we were so different didn’t mean we loved each other less than anyone else.” His eyes lock on mine briefly. “We were lucky to find each other.”

“Lucky?” I ask, baffled by his comment. “It was luck that two sick people found each other and teamed up to do sick things to other people? I don’t follow.”

Hamburg shakes his head as if he’s some old wise man and I’m just too young to understand.

“People who are different like Mary and I were—”

“Sick and demented,” I correct him. “Not different.”

“Whatever you’d like to call it,” he says with an air of surrender. “When you’re that different from society, from what’s acceptable in society, finding someone just like you is a very rare thing.”

Absently I grit my teeth. Not because he’s angering me, but because I never imagined that anything this disgusting man could ever say to me would make me think about my own situation with Victor, or that anything he could say I would actually accept.

I shake it off.

The faint light underneath the surveillance room door moves again. I pretend not to have noticed, not wanting to give Hamburg any reason to think I’m anticipating another way out.

“I came here for names,” I blurt out, having not thought about it thoroughly.

“What names?”

“Of your clients.”

A change flickers in Hamburg’s eyes, the shifting of control.

“You want the names of my clients?” he asks suspiciously.

Oh shit…

“I thought you and Victor Faust already had possession of my client list?”

Keep a straight face. Don’t lose composure. Shit!

“Yes, we do,” I say, “but I’m referring to the ones you never kept a record of.”

I think I’m going to be sick. My head feels like it’s on fire. I hold my breath hoping I saved myself.

Hamburg studies me quietly, searching my face and my posture for any signs of faltering confidence. He rounds his heavy, double-chin.

“What makes you think there’s a ghost list?” he asks.

I breathe a partial sigh of relief, but I’m still not out of the woods.

“There’s always a ghost list,” I say, though I really have no idea what I’m talking about. “I want at least three names that aren’t on the list we have a record of.”

I smile, feeling like I’ve regained control of the situation.

That is until he speaks:

“You tell me three names that are on the list you have a record of and then I will oblige.”

I have officially lost the control.

I swallow hard and catch myself before I look ‘caught’.

“What, you think I carry your list around in my purse?” I ask with sarcasm, trying to stay in the game. “There will be no negotiations or compromise, Mr. Hamburg. You’re hardly in any position to be cutting any deals here.”

“Is that so?” he asks, grinning.

He’s onto me. I can feel it. But he’s going to make sure he’s right before he makes his move.

“This isn’t up for debate.” I stand from the leather chair, tucking my purse underneath my arm, more disappointed than before about relinquishing my gun.

I press my fingertips against the mahogany desk, holding my weight up on them as I lean over just slightly toward him.

“Three names,” I demand, “or I walk out of here and Victor Faust walks in to blow your brains against that pretty painting of the baby Jesus behind you.”

Hamburg laughs.

“That’s not the baby Jesus.”

He stands up with me, tall and enormous and intimidating.

While I’m running through my mind trying to find the source of how he knows I’m full of shit, he is a step ahead of me and announces it like a kick in my teeth.

“It’s funny, Izabel, that you’d come here asking for names that don’t appear on a list that you…,” he points at my purse, “…don’t keep a record of, because then how would you know that the names I gave you weren’t already on it?”

I am so dead.

“Let me tell you what I think,” he goes on. “I think you’re here all alone, that you came back because of some vendetta against me.” He shakes his index finger. “Because I remember every little fucking thing about that night. Everyfuckingthing. Especially that look on your face when you realized Victor Faust was there to kill my wife instead of me. That was the look of someone blindsided, who had no idea why she was there. It was the look of someone unfamiliar with the game.”

He attempts to smile softly at me as if to display some kind of sympathy for my situation, but it just comes off as sardonic.

“I think that if someone was here with you, they’d already be in here to rescue you by now because it’s obvious you’re in a load of shit.”

The door to the main room opens and the guard steps inside, twisting the lock on the door behind him. For a split-second, I had hoped it was Victor coming to save me right on cue. But that was just wishful thinking. The guard is looking across at me with spiteful, grinning eyes. Hamburg nods to him and the guard starts to take off his belt.

My heart falls into the pit of my stomach.

“You know,” Hamburg says walking around his desk, “the first time I met you I remember a deal being made between Victor Faust and myself.” He points at me briefly. “You remember, don’t you?”

He smiles and places his chunky hand on the back of the chair I just abandoned, turning it around to face me.

My whole body is shaking; it feels like the blood rushing through my hands has become acidic. It charges through my heart and into my head so fast I feel momentarily faint. I start to reach for my knife, but they’re too close, closing in on me from two sides. I can’t take on both of them at the same time.

“What do you mean?” I ask, stumbling over my words, trying to buy myself some time.

Hamburg rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, Izabel.” He twirls a finger in the air. “Despite what happened that night, I was really disappointed that the two of you left before fulfilling the deal.”

“I would say that after what happened, the deal was void.”

He smiles at me and sits down in the leather chair. I see him glance at the guard, indicating a demand with just the look in his eyes.

Before I can turn around fully the guard has both of my hands pinned behind my back.

“You’re making a huge fucking mistake if you do this!” I cry, struggling in the guard’s grasp.

He forces me over to a square table and shoves me on top of it. My reflexes can’t act fast and my chin is stung by the solid marble. The metallic taste of blood springs up in my mouth.

“Let me go!” I try to kick behind me. “Let me go now!”

Hamburg laughs again.

“Turn her head to this side,” I hear him say.

Two seconds later my neck is twisted to the opposite side and held there, my left cheek pressed against the cool marble tabletop.

“I want to see the look in her eyes while you fuck her.” He looks at me again. “So, we’re going to pick up where we left off that night, all right? Does that sound good to you, Izabel?”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh no, no,” he says, still with laughter in his voice. “I won’t be fucking you. You’re not my type.” His hungry eyes skirt the guard who is pressing against me from behind.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say through spit and gritted teeth; the guard’s engulfing hand pressed against my head forbidding me to move it. “I’m going to fucking kill you both! Rape me! Go ahead! But you’ll both be dead before I walk out of here!”

“Who says you’re going to walk out of here?” Hamburg taunts.

His pants are unzipped; his right hand lingers near the zipper as though he’s trying to maintain some kind of self-control by not touching himself yet.

Then he waves two fingers at the guard, who’s gripping the back of my hair in his hand.

“Remember that,” he says to the guard. “She doesn’t walk out of here.”

I feel his right hand slide out of my hair and move between my legs. As he’s lifting my dress, I use the opportunity to reach back for the knife on my thigh and pull it free, jutting my hand at an awkward angle behind me. The guard yells out in pain, releasing his hold on me as I pull the knife away still wrenched in my fist. My hand is covered in blood. He stumbles backward, holding one hand over the lower portion of his throat, blood gushing between his fingers.

“You fucking bitch!” Hamburg roars, jumping from the chair and coming toward me like a stampeding elephant, his pants falling around his jiggling waistline.

I run straight for him, my knife raised out in front of me, and we clash in the center of the room. The force of his weight knocks me flat on my ass and my knife falls from my hand, sliding across the bloodstained floor. Hovering over me, Hamburg reaches out to grab me but I press my back against the floor and swing my foot out as hard as I can, burying the heel of my shoe in the side of his face. He yelps and stumbles back, his hand pressed over his cheekbone.

“I will cut you up in little fucking pieces! Godammit!” he shouts.

I crawl on my hands and knees toward my knife, seeing the guard splayed out in the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. He’s choking on his blood; gasping futilely for air to fill his lungs with.

I grapple the knife in my hand and roll over as Hamburg comes toward me, knocking the leather chair over onto its side on his way. I spring up from the floor fast and reach out for the table, pushing it into his path. He tries to shove it out of the way but it wobbles on its base and he trips over it instead. His body crashes against the floor belly-down, the table falling down right next to his head, narrowly missing him. I jump onto his back, straddling his thick body, my knees not even touching the floor. I grab him by the hair, pulling his head backward toward me and I press the knife to his throat, rending him immobile in seconds.

“Kill me! I don’t fucking care! You won’t make it out of here alive either way.” His voice is raspy, his breathing fast and wheezing as if he’d just tried to run a marathon. The smell of his sweat and fear rises up into my nostrils.

With the blade against his throat a vociferous pounding on the door startles me. The distraction catches me off-guard. Hamburg manages to buck underneath me like a bull, rolling onto his side and knocking me over onto mine. I drop the knife somewhere, but I don’t have time to search for it as Hamburg scrambles to his feet and charges me. I hear Stephens’ voice on the other side of the door as the door vibrates against his beating hands.

I roll out of the way right before Hamburg can get on top of me and I reach for the nearest object, a heavy rock paperweight that had been sitting on top of the table before it was knocked over, and I swing it at him. The sound of his cheekbone crunching under the blow turns my stomach. Hamburg falls backward covering his face with both hands.

The pounding on the door is getting heavier. In a split second I glance over to see the door moving violently in its frame and I know I have to get out of here. Now. My gaze scans the room for the knife, but there’s no more time.

I run straight for the surveillance room, weaving my way through debris.

Thank God there is another door inside. I swing it open and dash down the concrete staircase, hoping it’s a way out and that I don’t run into anyone on my way.