The Virgin

“Yes,” John said. “It would have stopped me.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you I was a virgin.”

Elle stood up and opened the junk drawer where all the random things she pulled out of the nuns’ habit pockets ended up. The drawer was filled with thimbles and keys, half-used packages of tissues, small tubes of hand lotion, small prayer books and worn-out rosary beads. Elle pulled out a pen from the jumble and removed the cap. At the top of the first page of her story she wrote the title. At least it would act as the title until she thought of something better.

THE VIRGIN

By Eleanor Schreiber

A moment later she crossed out her own name and changed it.

By Elle Schreiber

27

Haiti

GÉRARD RETURNED AND Juliette returned to him. Kingsley did nothing but lie on the beach for one entire week after she left him.

He wasn’t grieving.

He wasn’t mourning.

He was planning.

It would be easy. He knew his way around the house. He could stage a break-in at night, shoot Gérard and get Juliette off the island before they even found the body.

Or he could fuck Juliette. He’d spent a whole week fucking Juliette and he’d got very good at it. And he could do it under Gérard’s roof and time it so that he saw them together. It could drive Gérard into a rage. Kingsley had been trained to kill a man with one well-aimed punch to the Adam’s apple—asphyxiation would ensue—or a sudden hook to the jaw could break the neck if sufficient force was applied. If Gérard attacked him, then anything Kingsley did after that would be considered self-defense. Juliette wouldn’t have to know it had been Kingsley’s plan all along.

Then she would be free.

Violent fantasies consumed Kingsley. Once plotting to kill had been all in a day’s work. His ability to plot an assassination remained as keen as it was in his days doing his quiet cleanup work for the French government in Russia and Eastern Europe. His skills were just as sharp. If only he could get his conscience out of the way so he could go through with it.

The men he’d killed in the past had all warranted his intervention in their continued existence. He’d killed killers. Gérard wasn’t a killer, though. His crime was taking advantage of a scared fourteen-year-old girl trying to save her mother, using her love for her mother to hold her hostage, and to deny her children, the one solace she’d begged for. It was a crime. A crime that needed punishing.

And he would. He could. For Juliette he could.

On the night of the seventh day of his plotting, Kingsley went for a long swim in the ocean to clear his mind and focus his attention. He would go to Gérard’s and watch, only watch. When did Gérard wake up? When did he go to bed? What was his routine? What rooms did he frequent? Did he drink heavily? When did he like to fuck? Morning? Noon? Night? All of them? He wouldn’t let Juliette know he was there. No one would know. And once Kingsley knew everything he needed to know, he would do what he had to do, anything he had to do as long as Juliette was his by the time he was done doing it.

Kingsley dressed in dark clothes and sandals. He’d need to be barefoot in Gérard’s house. Silence was the difference between life and death. Life for Juliette. Death for Gérard. He drove to the house and parked far away, hiding the car well out of sight of any passersby. He didn’t bring any weapons with him. He didn’t need them. Gérard was a politician. He’d never even served in the military. He might be tall and strong and handsome, but tall and strong and handsome would be no match for a trained killer on a mission.

Once near Gérard’s home, Kingsley walked its perimeter. He stayed hidden behind the trees and ornamental gardens that surrounded the estate like a green wall. Gérard no doubt saw himself as untouchable on this island. Here he was—rich, powerful, from a white French family that had been here for three hundred years. They’d come before the Revolution and stayed long after many French colonists died or returned to the old country. He had diplomatic immunity, a house like a castle and enough money to buy his way out of any problem.

He wouldn’t buy his way out of this one.

Kingsley entered the house through a sliding glass door using his elbow to open and close it. He stood in the dark room, a small office or library, and let his eyes adjust to the interior light. At the door he listened and heard voices in the house. More than two. Gérard had company.

When the sound of the voices dimmed, Kingsley eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. He stayed close to the wall and took note of every door, every window. If he were caught by anyone other than Gérard, he’d have to escape quickly.

He turned a corner, walked up a short flight of stairs. A door at the end of a hallway was ajar and light streamed through it. Kingsley crept to the door and peered inside. He saw Juliette. She was alone, and appeared to be packing or unpacking someone’s suitcase. In the lamplight she glowed with quiet beauty. She wore a white dress with a long white scarf in her hair trailing over her shoulder. She looked serene as she bent over the open suitcase and sorted through the contents. When finished she walked to a large wooden birdcage hanging in the open window and whistled at the little yellow bird inside who danced on its little legs for her and fluttered about the cage.

He shouldn’t let her see him. She shouldn’t know yet he was there. He needed to watch, to wait, to assess the situation before acting. But he couldn’t look away from her.