The Swan and the Jackal - Redmerski J. A. - Страница 50
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I stand from the table.
“It means that I might not fit into yours or Victor’s world anymore.”
Izabel stares up at me from the chair; her long auburn hair blanketing the shoulders of her white coat, gathering atop the fuzzy white faux fur around the border of the hood laying against her back.
She rises to her feet, tall in height wearing a pair of tall-heeled bronze-colored boots. Her cheeks are still faintly reddened from the cold outside.
“She helped you kill, didn’t she?”
My heart stops. I glance across the empty room at the barista behind the counter, and then down at the floor.
“No,” I answer. “She helped me find the right people.” I look at her again and continue to speak lowly. “People who were tied to her hits. Those whose death could be covered and accounted for under her Order. They were all people who deserved it and who I knew one hundred percent deserved it.” My eyes fall away from her so maybe she won’t see the shame and guilt hidden within them.
“Who did you”—she looks at the barista once and whispers even lower—“how did you do it before Seraphina?”
My shoulders rise and fall. I sit back down.
“People off the streets,” I say. “Drug dealers. Pimps. Gang members. People few would notice missing. But—.” I stop myself.
“But what?”
Glancing down at my shoes I go on: “A few times—and I mean a few—I’d take an innocent person by mistake. I tortured a man last year. It was around the time you fled Mexico and were on the run with Victor. I…well, like I said, I tortured him. Found out before I killed him that he wasn’t the man I was looking for.” I look straight into her eyes, regret at rest in mine. “I tortured an innocent man, Izabel. A father of two daughters. Didn’t even have a parking ticket.”
“But you didn’t kill him. Right?” She looks hopeful.
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t kill him. If it hadn’t been for those instincts of mine—though they kicked in a little late that night because my head was so clouded by need—I never would’ve stopped. I never would’ve listened to him tell me he wasn’t who I thought he was. I let him go and”—I laugh suddenly—“and as if it would make it all better, like slapping a goddamn Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, I gave him half a million dollars—would’ve given him more if I’d had it, but I hadn’t been paid by The Order in three months.”
“But you didn’t kill him,” Izabel says with a small smile of urgency.
I’m not smiling.
“No, you’re right,” I say. “I didn’t kill him.”
Her face falls just as quickly.
“There was one,” I say with reluctance, picturing the victim’s face. “A woman. Not long ago in San Francisco. She was the sister of one of Dorian’s hits.” Her eyes get bigger now that she knows I was the one who killed the woman because no one knew what had happened to her until now. “Long story short, she claimed she was in on the murder that her brother had been involved in. She confessed while I held her captive in the opposite room while Dorian took care of the brother—she wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m sure you remember the report.” She nods. “But I was in desperate need of bloodshed. It had been a month since my last interrogation. She confessed and I obliged.”
“But she was lying, wasn’t she?”
I nod slowly.
“That explains the look on your face when in the meeting with Victor. When Victor showed you and Dorian the information found on the sister.”
“Yes,” I say with a heavy heart. “She wanted to die and used me to do it for her. I still wonder how Francois Moreau all the way in France, seemingly with no ties to these people, knew about me killing her.”
“Francois Moreau,” Izabel says, “was the client who ordered the hit on the brother.”
Baffled by this information, at first I can’t summon words.
But that isn’t important right now, so I leave it alone.
She reaches into her black purse on the table and retrieves another envelope, placing it in front of me. Leery of it after having just read the news from the first envelope, I only glance at it.
“Anyway, speaking of Paul Fortright and Kelly Bennings,” she says, sliding the envelope closer, urging me to take it but still I don’t, “you were right.”
“About what?”
She nods toward the envelope. “Open it and see for yourself.”
Hesitating at first, I finally do as she suggested. Reading over the paper about Kelly Bennings, it’s really no surprise.
I drop the paper on the table and look at Izabel.
With a shrug I say, “So, why are you showing me this?” finding no connection between it and Seraphina, the reason she brought me here, and quite frankly, the only thing I care about right now.
She glances down at the table, her long fingers tapping against the wood grain seemingly out of slight nervousness. Then she says, “It’s why I asked you if Seraphina helped you to kill. I didn’t know for sure, but from what little I did know, I had a feeling it was Seraphina who helped you with your urges. In some way.”
Still not understanding what’s she’s getting at, I cross my arms over my chest and glance between her and the paper, waiting for her to go on.
“I, umm, well, I thought you might need someone to take your pain out on.” She pauses, unsure either of her words or my coming reaction to them, though probably both. “After what you found out about Seraphina tonight. I know this is hard for you.” She’s becoming more confident, more determined to make me understand. “You can pretend that you can handle it, but—”
“You’re offering me a victim?” I accuse, having a hard time deciphering her intentions. I know that’s what she’s doing, but what is still unclear is—“Wait…does Victor know about this?”
She doesn’t answer.
And she can’t look at me.
“Izabel, Jesus Christ, you’re offering me a victim who’s involved in one of our contracts and Victor doesn’t know about it?” I shake my head and slide the paper back across the table to her, refusing the gesture.
She smacks the palm of her hand down on top of it.
“Look, I’ve never really had a family before,” she argues, “other than Mrs. Gregory, before I met Victor and you—and twist my tits off for saying it, even Niklas.” She pushes the paper back toward me. “You’re family to me and I want to help you. I meant what I said about telling Victor everything. And I will. But I’ll tell him when I’m ready. Right now, I want to help you.”
“I don’t need this, Izabel.” I remove my hand from the table completely and stand up. “I can find my own victims. I sure as hell don’t need you putting your ass on the line for me. Victor will kill you.”
She blinks, stunned, and rears her head back. “Thought you said he’d never kill me?”
“You know what I mean.” I sigh. “Look, Izabel, I appreciate it. I really do. But I can find my own.”
“I want you to kill her,” she hisses through her teeth, as if she had been holding it back the whole time.
I stop in my tracks just as I’m about to leave her sitting there.
“What?”
She stands up beside me.
“I was going to do it myself when I found out what she did,” she whispers harshly. “I was ready to get on a plane last night. I even told Victor I was going to visit Dina—which I would’ve done afterwards so it wouldn’t have technically been a lie, so don’t look at me like that.” She grabs the lapel of my coat and wrenches me closer. “But then James Woodard gave me the information on Cass—Seraphina, and I knew then that killing Kelly Bennings would be a job better off in your hands. You need it more than I do.” She lets go of my coat. “I don’t actually need it. I just want it.”
“Why do you want it so badly?”
Her nostrils flare briefly.
“Because of what she put her daughter and the client’s daughter through, all for a fucking man!” She looks behind me at the barista. A customer enters the store. “That bitch deserves to die, or to at least be tortured—who better to do it than you? Any so-called mother who would risk ruining her daughter’s life because of a man, deserves whatever’s coming to her.” She takes her purse from the table and tosses the short strap over her shoulder.
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