Fugue State (12 page)

With the sun about to rise, she popped a couple of sleep aids and rolled into bed.

Her dreams were tormented by portions of the day’s escapade entwined by guest appearances by Jamar and Portia. She relived the cab crashing into the concrete guard and splashing into the water. She tried to escape the car. She felt a hand on her arm — Portia’s hand. The child tried to keep Alexa in the car in order to drown them both. Alexa kicked. She screamed. She grabbed Portia’s face, wrapped her fingers around the child’s head, and knocked it against the other window until the water in the car turned red.

Jamar took over where Portia left off. He thrust her head underwater. His strong hands and arms kept her there. He was drowning her.

Alexa woke sputtering and gasping for air — as usual. Her anguish quickly turned to tears. “No! I won’t lose to him!” she yelled. She fought back the tears and followed Britt’s advice once more. She closed her eyes and visualized the dream taking a turn where she could again be the victor. She sat in the back of the cab. Jamar drove. The car swerved hard, and into the river they went. Bodies bounced around in the car, and they both found themselves in the water. Splashes came toward Alexa. It was Jamar. She swam to the bank first. He pursued her, but she beat him to the water’s edge.
I’m faster than you, Jamar.

He tried to emerge from the river, both of his hands on the concrete edge of the canal. He lifted his body from the water, his head even with the pavement. With both hands and all of her weight, she thrust Jamar’s forehead into the concrete.
I’m stronger than you, Jamar.

When his body started to slip back into the water, she grasped his head and thrust it hard into the concrete. She heard his skull break. His body turned limp, and an indentation formed in the front of his head.

Alexa lay in bed a while longer, still unable to sleep. This time she planned to kill him
before
he entered her nightmares. She envisioned the entire event. She waited for Jamar by the library where he stalked Kensie. She packed her handgun into a vintage black Chanel clutch and sat on a bus stop bench across the street.

The man with the yellow eyes smoked a cigarette and drank from a brown paper bag on the sidewalk next to the library. He didn’t see her. He stooped down by a tall hedge and stowed the paper bag and its contents in the bushes.

Alexa stood and crossed the street. She drew her gun when twenty feet away. His eyes locked on hers, and he turned to run. She shot his right shoulder. He stumbled forward. She came after him and pushed him to the ground, landing on top of him. He rolled over to face her.

“Bitch!” he yelled, and spit at her.

Alexa thrust the barrel of the gun under Jamar’s chin and pulled the trigger fast.
I’m the victor, Jamar.
Then she imagined the course of the bullet traveling through Jamar’s submental region, severing his tongue base, passing through his oropharynx, filling his prevertebral space with blood, and shattering his odontoid — sending bone fragments and bullet fragments into his brainstem. She put two fingers to his carotid and waited for his pulse to stop. She imagined the events once more. It brought her a sense of strength and security. Finally, Alexa slept.

CHAPTER 15

S
he slept away the morning and woke in the early afternoon. She had agreed to meet Serge again that night. He invited her to be his plus one at a private party in Paris. Serge mingled in different social circles, including those of high society. Tonight’s event was a birthday gala for some scandalous Parisian bureaucrat whose mistress was one of Serge’s ex-lovers. Although she gave up on the idea of a romance between Serge and herself, she still enjoyed his company. She planned to treat herself with a spa day and shopping spree before meeting him.

She went to a fabulous designer boutique on the outskirts of the fashion district. “
Bonjour, chérie
!” exclaimed the store clerk as Alexa approached. The tall, skinny twenty-something had straight black hair and pale skin. “American?” she questioned with a look of mild disgust.

“
Oui
,” Alexa stammered with all the charisma she could muster. She hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the cold shoulder she received from some Europeans. She often felt embarrassed to admit she was an American transplant, but she knew this woman would forgive her once she opened up her pocket book. The money Alexa planned to spend would be enough to make any contemptuous Parisian feign kindness. She glanced around the store as the black-haired woman eyed her up and down. Alexa spotted a silk, white evening gown with a low back and high slit on the thigh. She carefully examined the high slit. It was on the right side of the dress, which meant only her right leg would be wholly exposed, and the scar Jamar put on her left thigh would be carefully hidden.

“Ah, madam. I can help you. It looks your size. Come with me.” The Parisian lady swooped up the white evening gown and motioned Alexa into a fitting room with a luxurious blue-velvet loveseat, floor to ceiling mirrors, and a crystal chandelier that was clearly too large for the space. The French lady disappeared momentarily and returned with a sparkling glass of mid-level French champagne.

“The dress is Claude Montana,” the sales woman said with a forced smile. “He is genius.” Her English was fair.

Alexa stripped down and grabbed the gown. The silky sheer left little to the imagination and left no room for undergarments. The cut was more seductive than most lingerie
— perfect for a scandalous political gala.
She couldn’t help but stare at herself. The slit on the skirt neared the top of her right thigh. She pulled back the fabric to look at the scar on the other leg. She traced the scar up and down its length. It still had a pinkish-purple hue that showed its newness. Serge had recognized this. She’d spent so many months trying to ignore it or hide it; perhaps she’d have the scar removed altogether. Nonetheless, tonight it would be safely hidden beneath the fabric.

“Madam!” the French woman yelled in a singsong voice, and then threw back the heavy velvet curtains of the fitting room and burst in on Alexa just as she released the fabric covering her thigh. “I have shoes for you,
chérie
!”

A beautiful pair of Casadei gold crisscross platform pumps landed in Alexa’s outstretched hands. Alexa enjoyed two more glasses of champagne before paying for her merchandise with a wad of cash she’d pulled from the ATM using her one remaining debit card.

Too tipsy from the champagne to sit still for the hair appointment she’d booked, she rode a cab back to her hotel and took a long hot bath and played rock music in the background. She slowly sobered up and managed a proper get-ready on her own. She slipped on the gold platform heels and paired them with tiered, gold chandelier earrings.

When Serge beckoned, she slid into a cab containing Serge and a friend around ten-thirty at night. Everything started late in Paris, and their destination was another hour away. A red headed voluptuous woman sat in the cab next to Serge. She looked a little older than Alexa, and acted much drunker than her. The woman toted a bottle of Russian vodka, and the cap served as a shot glass. They passed shots of vodka around the car and laughed out loud for reasons Alexa never really understood, but it all seemed hysterical.

The cab made two more stops along the way, picking up other members of Serge’s entourage. A tall blond man with a square jaw that reminded Alexa of Britt scooted in beside her. He didn’t speak much English, but he kept finding ways to touch Alexa on her back or leg that she found creepy. The other passenger was a blonde girl a few years younger than Alexa, who was short and skinny and wore a red sequined gown with a plunging neckline that went down to her navel. The group exchanged shots and sipped wine out of a bottle the man had brought.

They arrived at a large pier lined with several yachts. A long white carpet lined the walkway and the gangplank of the largest yacht. Strands of lights wrapped around the boat illuminated the blackness of the night. Music filled the air. Luxury cars dropped off passengers for the party. Alexa counted four Mercedes and two Bentleys, and her stomach churned of inadequacy when she exited the cab that dropped them off. The blond man paid the cab fare. Alexa followed Serge up the gangplank onto the ship.

She eyed the spectacle. She saw women dripping sequins and trimmed in fur and jewels. Men were clad mostly in tuxes without tails with a sprinkling of navy suits, some with open necks bearing chest hair. An ensemble of Arabian musicians filled the air with song, while belly dancers and fire-eaters covered the dance floor. Sushi and caviar floated around the room on little silver trays, along with glasses of champagne and vintage wine. Scantily clad women perused through the ballroom from time to time while marketing themselves to the men in the room.

Alexa ignored the sex-capades and had another glass of champagne. She mingled with cliques of mixed origins. She spoke with politicians and their wives or mistresses, as well as up-and-coming artists, musicians, and philanthropists. She even met a Parisian fashion designer who once worked under Alexander McQueen.

She found a dance partner in an English businessman who divided his time between Paris and London. The slightly older gentleman had a bit of a paunch and his skills were no match for Serge. She sighed relief when Serge grabbed her arm from behind and stole her for a dance.

He moved wildly, and her long blonde hair whipped around and hit his face. He pulled Alexa tight and kissed her up and down her neck, with long wet kisses where his tongue traveled deep into her cleavage.

When he spun her, she lost her balance and stumbled away from Serge. Another man grasped her from behind. She found herself laughing fervidly when she looked at the man’s face. An Arab man in his forties or early fifties with a small mole under his right eye smiled back at her. A party of bodyguards with stern faces quickly surrounded them.

Two bodyguards escorted Alexa a safe distance away and returned her to Serge. He took her arm and guided her outside onto the deck.

“What the hell was that all about?” She sneered through clenched teeth, afraid someone might still be watching them.

Serge threw his head back and chuckled. “Don’t worry, love. You stumbled into one deadly Arabian . . . how you say . . .
hit man
? Maybe that is the wrong word.”

Alexa’s jaw dropped. “What?” she demanded.

“You Americans, so high strung. Relax. This is party!” His hips swayed in time to the music inside, and he reached out for Alexa’s hands.

“Hit man? What
are
you talking about? Is he some kind of Islamic fanatic who goes around blowing things up?”

Serge feigned seriousness now to match Alexa’s tone. “Perhaps, something of the sort. He is dangerous man. He bring death to many people — Americans, even. And you — you watch too much CNN, like all Americans. Do not worry about this man. He will not harm you. The way he stare at you tells me he likes you.” Serge’s face beamed with excitement.

“What? No,” she said. “Islamic radicals
hate
Americans. They bomb our country and attack our people. Why would you say something like that?”

He snickered at Alexa’s remark. “Political hate and political prejudice are not lust. He likes you.”

Alexa recalled the lingering stare she’d received. Yep. This Arabian found her enticing. “Who is he, Serge?”

He shrugged. “They call him
Castro
. He likes party. I see him at these things. No big deal.” He shrugged again.

“Castro? Like Fidel Castro? No. That doesn’t make sense at all,” she pondered out loud.

“No. It is nate name or something.” His brow furrowed in confusion, but he continued to sway his hips to the music.

“You mean nickname?” she asked.

“Ha, ha. Yes. That one.” He grabbed her arm. “Dance with me. Inside.” He led her back to the dance floor.

Her head spun. She couldn’t stop thinking of the man she’d seen. Afraid to look at him directly, she imagined his face when he grabbed her waist after falling into him. Something about that mole under his right eye seemed familiar. She recalled news broadcasts she had seen. She and Britt used to watch the news religiously. Once Alexa had started making news headlines herself, she couldn’t bear to turn it on or pick up a paper.

It hit her suddenly; a CNN special report she’d watched with Britt some two years prior that highlighted various U.S. terrorists throughout the last decade. She’d seen the same man with the mole under his right eye on the news that night. The recollection brought on a wave of nausea. She recalled pictures of families who were killed due to random bombings initiated by that man. She tried to think of his name. “Castro” was an alias he went by.

Serge spun Alexa time and again. She struggled to keep up as her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t stop thinking about that face. The nameless man made the FBI’s most wanted list at one point.
Mohammed. Mohammed Ahmed, perhaps.
He was responsible for everything from blowing up public transit buses, to illegal trafficking of captured American tourists, to piracy in the Mediterranean.

Now Alexa had crossed paths with him in this random aristocratic soirée in Paris.
Yes. Mohammed Ahmed. That is his name.
She abandoned Serge and headed to the ladies’ room. She could no longer contain the nausea. She cleared her stomach of the rich hors d’oeuvres and vodka shots. Her skin looked pale and clammy in the bathroom mirror. She splashed cold water on her face, pinched her cheeks, and applied a veil of bronzer that highlighted her features and brought life back to her pallor.
Much better.

She rejoined the party. Serge and his entourage were looking for her. The red headed girl had left their group to have sex with a Russian businessman. The blonde girl lay passed out in a chair in a drunken stupor. The blond man who had been making flirtatious advances toward Alexa earlier had found a skinny black-haired woman who resembled the sales clerk from the boutique store earlier that day to accompany him home. Her red lipstick was smeared across the man’s lips and chin, and her silk blouse had been unbuttoned and then precariously re-buttoned so that the two sides were askew. The woman’s mini skirt raised so high her crotch played peek-a-boo with every step she took. The man grasped his lady’s hand and glanced over at Alexa with a look that said,
See what you’re missing? This could have been you tonight.
Alexa smiled curtly and headed toward the bar.