Samson
We stay in the cabin for two nights, not doing much but being together. We make love half a dozen times and spend an entire afternoon in bed together, holding each other. It’s strange, but the more time I spend with Anna, the more comfortable I become with intimacy. It has never been easy for me, men like me, killers, to share this closeness. It reminds me that I’m human and more often than not, that’s the last thing you want to do when your business is taking people’s humanity. But with Anna it doesn’t scare me. I compare it with my time with River and come to the conclusion that I was not even one-tenth as close with her as I am with Anna. Anna and I are becoming something I never thought I’d experience: a couple. Something simple, and yet secure, something which men like me rarely get to live. One night, I wake up while she’s having a bad dream, rolling, kicking, and muttering in her sleep. I wrap my arms around her, spooning her, kissing her neck, and she settles down. With a shock I realize that I care, truly care, care in a way I never expected to. I have to face it: Anna’s changed me.
I know that Dad and even Uncle Richard would judge me. Richard, a smart man, a man who read much and had more empathy than anyone could reasonably expect from a killer nicknamed Black Knight, never got close to women. He used hookers, or else had short flings which always ended in disaster. I’ve been more successful than the two old men in money. And now I’m more successful than either of them was in love. It’s an odd sensation to outgrow an idol you’ve looked up to your whole life, even after he’s dead. (Richard, not Dad; I never looked up that cruel old man and I hated him before my eleventh birthday.)
On the third evening, we’re sitting in the living room. I sit on the couch and Anna lies down, her head resting in my lap. I stroke her head softly, savoring the feel of her hair, the softness of it. We had sex ten minutes ago and both of us are sweaty, tired and content.
I don’t want to say it, but my plan won’t wait and I know she’s scheduled to dance tomorrow; my plan hinges on her dancing.
“We have to go back to the city by tomorrow,” I say. “River must be desperate by now, really desperate. I bet she’s scouring the city for us. She’ll be watching the arena, without a doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s hired extra eyes and ears, maybe even hitmen to help her along the way. She’ll come after us with everything she has, and we have to stop her.”
“I know,” Anna mutters. “It frightens me.”
“Of course it does,” I say. “And if you don’t want to do it, I can think of something else. But the way I see it, this is the best way to draw her out and get rid of her without killing her. And . . .” I pause, wondering at myself. Is it because she’s a woman? Or is it because it’s my fault she was taken, tortured? Maybe it’s a mixture of the two. “And I can’t kill her,” I go on. “I just can’t. I think about doing it and I sort of seize up. I think if I had her at my mercy again, it would only be the same. Anyway, she won’t let that happen. She’ll be more careful now. She’ll only strike when she’s sure she can get us. So that’s what we have to do: make her sure, when we know she’s not.”
Anna reaches up and touches my hand which rests on her head. “I know the plan,” she says.
“Tomorrow, then,” I say. “And this will all be over—”
Suddenly, a crash sounds from the window. I’m so relaxed it takes me a half-second to understand what’s going on. I scan the room. Broken shards of glass rest upon the floor. The man is holding a knife, a curved machete, and he is dressed in black overalls from head to toe. A mask is pulled up around his mouth and his eyes flitter to me and Anna. Time seems to slow, a half-second becoming much longer, and I watch as he regains his balance, ignoring the glass clinging to his clothes like crystals of ice, and then takes a step forward.
The half-second passes and times speeds up. I don’t think, have no need to think. Like a soldier who has been drilled into action, trained to act without thinking in battle, I too have been trained to react to danger as an animal would. I jump to my feet. “Get behind me!” I roar.
Anna leaps up and runs to the other end of the room. I don’t see where she goes, but I stand between her and the man, and that’s enough. I hold my hands out in front of me, getting a gauge of the man. He passes his blade from one hand the other, his eyes watching. He takes a few steps forward, still out of reach, wielding his machete and ready to strike.
I wait exactly where I am, feet spread shoulder-width, hands opened and ready to disarm, to fight.
There’s a pause, a before-battle pause.
“I’ve been told to tell you River sends her regards,” the man says. “She wanted you to know that before you died.”
I shake my head slowly. “Are we fighting or not?” I growl.
“Rarrrrghhh!” the man snarls, charging at me, machete raised over his head.
He may be a seasoned killer, but I can tell from the way he charges me, letting anger guide his movements, that he’s a seasoned killer of carrion. I doubt he’s ever had to deal with a proper fight in his life. I keep my back straight, standing as though I am going to fight him on my feet—and then at the last possible moment, I dive, throwing the weight of my body at his legs. He grunts, tumbles, falls on his face. Glass crunches beneath him, the crystals crushing into him.
“Ah!” he mumbles.
I leap onto his back, burying me knee between his shoulder blades, pressing him against the bearskin rug.
But then he swings back with the machete, a movement a gymnast would be proud of. His arm bends at an unnatural angle and the machete arches with a swoosh through the air and the tip of it catches me in the side, nipping me, cutting about half an inch into my skin. I grunt as the pain spikes through my stomach, and then grab the man’s wrist and twist it. There’s a crack and he drops the machete.
Then, with all his strength, he rolls over. He’s a big man, and when he rolls over I’m thrown from him across the room and into the wall. It smashes my face and I reel back, dazed for a moment. The man’s fist smacks into the side of my head. I stumble again, into and over the couch, landing on my knees. His fist smacks me again, again—and then I lift my hand and catch it mid-strike. He yelps, perhaps thinking me already beaten, and I smash his own fist into his nose. Blood showers over me, tinging the air with a metallic smell, and I smash, crunch, smash. He falls backward and I fall upon him, barely thinking. I’m aware of the blood gushing from the wound in my side, but only vaguely.
I manage to get the man to the floor, sitting on top of him, hitting madly. He dodges left; my fist hits the floor. Reverberations move up my arm, bone trembling, and he lifts his legs and kicks me in the balls. I grunt, fall back for a moment, and he rushes me again.
Enough messing around, I think. Damn enough.
I jump to my feet, let him rush me, and then step aside and grip his head in my hands. One swift movement, another crack, and the man’s neck snaps. He falls to the floor as if all the bones have suddenly left his body.
I look down at him for a second, making sure he’s done, and then I sit on the couch, touching the wound tenderly.
I don’t know where Anna is. I look around, terrified that she was somehow hurt in the fray, but then she rushes in from the kitchen holding a knife. She must’ve been gone for only a few seconds, but fights always seem to last longer. She looks to me and then the man, and drops the knife.
“You’re hurt,” she says, rushing over to me. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Under the sink,” I sigh, and she rushes back into the kitchen.
###
“Looks like my veterinary training is coming in handy, after all,” Anna says, as she washes and closes the wound. “He didn’t hit anything vital, which is good. Just a flesh wound. I’ve heard that so many times in movies, it’s strange to say it in real life.”
She talks rapidly, and I know it’s so she doesn’t have to acknowledge the corpse in the room. It can’t be easy for her, sitting on the couch, seeing to my wounds, when there’s a dead man lying not two feet from us. She sews up the wound with skill. The pain that hits me as the needle bites into my skin is horrible, but I can manage it. I’ve dealt with much worse pain before, and maybe before this is over I’ll have to deal with worse pain again.
Soon, she has sewn and bandaged my side. She packs away the first aid kit and carries it into the kitchen, looking anywhere but at the dead man.
River hired him, his words made that clear. I have to think that River suspected I might get the better of him and that’s why she didn’t come herself. I try and think how she found us, but that’s a fruitless endeavor, I know. There are countless ways she could have found us, but knowing it won’t change the fact that she has; she’s acted, and her purpose is clear. Just because I can’t kill her, it doesn’t mean that she has the same qualms. She wants me dead, now. Anna, too.
I stand up, go to the body, and reach down and take the man under the armpits.
“Wait in there,” I call through to the kitchen. “I’ll get rid of this.”
“Uh, okay,” Anna mutters. “Sure.”
I drag the man outside into the icy air, drag him across the yard of the cabin and into the woods, the darkness. I drag him over twigs and stones, the sounds of nature all around me, until I have been dragging him for five minutes and am completely engulfed in darkness. Then I drop him and make my way back to the cabin, leaving him there for the animals. The wound in my side aches, burns, but it’s not crippling; nothing that will stop me doing my job.
I’m more worried about Anna.
When I return to the cabin, she’s sitting on the couch, knees drawn to her chest.
“Are you okay?” I ask uncertainly.
She nods. “Yes, I think so. I’ve just never seen a dead person before. I’ve seen dead animals, of course, but never a person.”
“It won’t happen again,” I tell her, sitting next to her and resting my hand on her knees. “I won’t let it.”
She leans into me and I hold her, but I’m not sure if she believes me. After all, I said we’d be safe here.
“We have to go through with the plan,” Anna says, her voice firm. “We have to sort this out, and then we can . . .”
She lets the sentence hang, but I know what she means. Then we can get on with our lives.
The two of us our bound together, inextricably, bound together like castaways drifting through a tortuous ocean.