To start at the beginning of the story go here.
I had to keep myself from running back to the apartment. A part of my brain was screaming that if the Russians knew I worked at the casino, they could know where Mikhail had taken the car, that maybe they had somehow made the connection between me and Sophie.
All of that, though, was conjecture, my mind filling with increasingly irrational possibilities, images of violence and death. If the Russians came and tried to take Sophie, they might bring enough men that they could. But only after she had made alot them into dead. I tried to keep my brain from wandering into the dark territory of how they’d take their revenge for that. What would men like that do to Sophie? What would they do when they were covered with the still-hot blood of comrades, their hands on the killer? And a woman?
What I did know with certainty, though, was that someone had been following me and I didn’t want to lead them home. So I strangled the voices that were telling me all that could go wrong and kept walking until I was certain I hadn’t picked up a second tail.
Close to the cathedral square, I hopped down a nearby cross street and to the phone booth. I picked up the receiver as I patted its underside, searching for a drop from Atwell.
I found it by its sharp, paper edge, and pulled it out. Unfolding it, it read, “Rotella, 8:00,” followed by a phone number. As Atwell hadn’t included a fourth digit, I couldn’t tell if it meant for me to call the number at 8:00 in the evening or morning. It was early enough that I could probably still call, but I needed to be certain Sophie was safe first.
The tram ride back to the Triaite station near the apartment was interminably long, the slow trundle along the tracks lending the ride a repetitive soundtrack that stretched out every moment. My mind used the space between these to ask every fearful question it could come up with, including whether Mitnick had only been pretending to believe me about Mikhail. If he had believe me, though, or didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shared the building’s address with anyone else. Unless Mikhail shared his destination with the rest of his gang, they wouldn’t know where Sophie and I lived. And if the habitual offenders I had known throughout my life were any indication, Mikhail was likely to keep that sort of thing to himself. Then again, how had they known I worked at the casino? Whip or Brick could have told them that, and either one of the might be holding a grudge. Or Atwell. Or Jasper.
Two blocks from the tenement, I started making my way towards it in a slow, decreasing spiral, trying to watch for both a tail on me and observers in the neighborhood. Like the building itself, Triaite was low-class, with its share of pickpockets and streetwalkers, but it was decidedly French, so I was confident that, much like Pyotr, any foreigners would stick out.
Fortunately, by the time I arrived at the outside of the tenement, none had. The building sat on its own square block, providing at least four observation points on opposing corners, but no good way to surveil all of the entrances with only one person. This gave me room to wander around, walking the perimeter of the building, watching for any new faces taking up space. Out front, there was just the usual group of teens, kids from all along the town’s spectrum of poverty, from Africa to Normandy, shimmying to some obnoxious offspring of bubblegum pop.
I thought about fleeing from this to the corner Arab du coin, picking up a cup of coffee to keep me warm, and watching for awhile longer. But as I stood across the street from the building I felt every heartbeat begin to pull on me like a plucked string, producing a scream or cry in Russian or Italian as shadow puppets in my mind’s eye butchered each other. I knew I should be patient, I knew I should wait until I was sure no one was waiting anywhere, but I felt my feet move anyway, taking me on one final circuit around the building.
In the rear alley, I rushed to the back door, which should have been locked. It wasn’t, of course, having been broken eons ago and never fixed by the drunk of a superintendent. In the lobby, I spun out fast enough that I startled some poor woman, draped over her child’s stroller with fatigue, just waiting for the elevator. Perhaps sensing some possible danger in the outlying dark, her child began to cry, and I bounced off that noise to head up the decrepit stairs. I ran up two flights higher than needed, then took the elevator down to the floor of our apartment, just to confuse whatever phantoms weren’t following me.
I stopped at the end of the hall, under a burned out light. If I was right, no one had followed me, and if I was wrong I had led them right to our home. I held my position as long as my grinding teeth and swelling feet would allow, getting my keys out quietly before moving quickly to the door and sliding inside.
The apartment was quiet. I took off my coat and tried to hang it on the hatrack, dropping it to the floor before I remembered it was broken. I left it there to stalk slowly through the rooms, wishing I had a Benelli to lead the way.
Each of the tiny rooms was empty, only a coffee cup in the sink to indicate that Sophie had been there. Everything else was as tidy as Sophie liked, which told me there hadn’t been any unexpected visitors, no struggle. I told myself she was out, that she was most likely working on her map, that she could take care of herself.
That didn’t mean she was safe. I had no way of reaching her, no way to message or call, so I made a crater in the couch and told myself that she was fine, that she was out working on her own obsessions. Which, a part of me reminded myself, were as dangerous and reckless as anything I was doing. How many different whorehouses could she show up at, pretending to be lost or interested in some kind of party favors, asking questions, determining who ran the joint, before someone suspected something? Before people began to talk and compare notes and realize that Sophie showing up wasn’t some kind of coincidence? That she, herself, was trouble?
I sat in the dark pondering these things until I heard the sound of keys in the lock. I could tell by the gentle rattling it was Sophie and I bounded to the threshold faster than thought.
I yanked open the door, nearly ripping the keys out of her hands. Her hostile surprise mellowed at seeing me. I pulled her into the apartment, spilling the groceries she was carrying. I poked my head out to make sure that there was no one else in the hallway before dodging back inside and locking the door.
Bewildered as she was by my actions, Sophie couldn’t form questions before I hugged her, crushing her to me, all of the imaginary horrors draining away as I held her. The pressure caused her to expel air, the last becoming a laugh, not understanding but not unhappy with the enthusiastic greeting. I don’t think she saw the fear in my eyes until she pushed out of the hug and got a good look at me.
What she saw there caused her bright eyes to narrow with concern. She on me even as I held her, trying to give room to the questions she wanted to ask.
I preempted these with, “Were you followed?”
My question answered at least a few of hers. The pleasure at being swept up on her homecoming gave way to a wary understanding and she replied, “No.”
The relief that brought translated itself into a kiss. Pressing my lips to Sophie’s, it was happening before I knew what it was. It burned as hot as the kiss in the cab was cold, and was as much as a surprise to me. I’m not sure I could have stopped it if I had wanted.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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