"Where are you taking us?" Vitus asked.
The man called Hemingway did not answer. He simply dug the barrel of his gun into Vitus' back as they marched down the street.
"You can at least tell us that much, right? I mean, you did arrange a meeting place in the note you sent to our friends," Jenn added.
Still, the man called Hemingway did not answer. Soon they approached a car on the side of street. It was a late model white sedan. The man called Hemingway fished the keys from his bag and tossed them to Jenn.
"You'll drive," he said. "Your boyfriend can ride shotgun. How's that shoulder doing, anyway?"
Vitus looked down at his arm, still bound in the sling.
"I've had worse," he said. He had not had worse. The antique-dealer summoned every last ounce of courage, embracing the sort of manly, sarcastic quips one would expect from a pulp hero caught up in the same ordeal. But the man called Hemingway was not fooled. He could smell the fear in the air, and he smiled, not at Vitus' wit or charm, but at his vulnerability.
"Get in the car," he commanded.
Jenn climbed in behind the wheel. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"Just drive. When you need to make a turn, I'll tell you to turn, but you'll know nothing else. Understand?" said the man called Hemingway. "Just because our last encounter ended on different terms does not mean I am incompetent. I'll promise you this right now: you will not get away from me. I am very good at what I do. You will not distract me or catch me off guard. Not anymore. So if you're expecting a villainous monologue, you are sorely out of luck."
Vitus was disappointed only because he was, indeed, hoping to be on the receiving end of a villainous monologue at least once in his life. He didn't press the issue, though, and instead settled quietly into the seat of the car, staring at Jenn as she began to drive back toward the south.
The ride barely lasted an hour, until they finally came in sight of the wide, beckoning waters of the bay. The man called Hemingway guided Jenn as they approached each and every intersection. After two more right turns and a left, the car pulled alongside the smoldering ruins of Ivanovich's warehouse. Charred, fragmented walls of thin metal still stood, marking out boundaries where there had once been walls. Vitus imagined that the largest pile of ash and twisted metal near the dock was what was of Ivanovich's collection.
"I bet Malcolm's pissed," he said with a whistle.
"Ivanovich is a nobody," said the man called Hemingway, breaking his now-characteristic silence. "Do you think Rasputin honestly cares what you've done here? Ivanovich is a flunky--nothing more, nothing less. It's the big boss you should really be worried about, and he doesn't much care for the word no."
"Great, now he talks," said Jenn.
"Only because there's been a slight change of plans," said the man called Hemingway. He had been reading the screen of his cellular phone, which he then flipped shut and tossed into his shoulder bag.
"What kind of change?"
"Get out of the car," said the man called Hemingway.
Jenn and Vitus complied, though they weren't anxious to find out what would happen next. Vitus straightened his sleeve and sling properly, as if reverting to a not-so-distant lifetime in which he was constantly concerned about his respectable appearance.
"It seems I have a conflict of interest," said the man called Hemingway. He examined his handgun, making sure it was properly loaded and ready to fire at any moment. "You see, I'm employed by Mister Rasputin by way of Ivanovich. We're about to make a trade--the two of you for the settee, but it seems that Ivanovich wants me to kill you after the swap anyway. Not exactly honorable, but let me assure you, I'm more than willing to oblige. Mister Rasputin, on the other hand, would like to offer you a job."
"A job?"
"Now don't get me wrong, I'll be taking the money from the both of them, but, well, I've already told you how Rasputin feels about no. Apparently, he's been watching you quite closely, and he's impressed with your ingenuity and resourcefulness--the sort of qualities he looks for in his employees."
"You're about to tell me about his feelings for the word no again, aren't you?" said Vitus.
The man called Hemingway grinned and held his handgun aloft. "Now you're using that brain of yours. Did I mention you would be taking the position currently occupied by Malcolm Ivanovich? It seems he's been more trouble than he's worth, and, well, I guess you could say he's about to be terminated. He'll be joining us shortly, by the way."
"What about Jenn?" asked Vitus.
Jenn punctuated his question with a resounding, "Yeah."
"She'll be fine as long as both of you do as I say, but at this point, she's nothing more than a bargaining chip. No offense."
Jenn was, in fact, unsure of whether the statement in question was offensive as much as it was horrifying.
"So here's what's going to happen," said the man called Hemingway. He checked his watch--a circa 1900 gold pocket watch, Vitus judged with a cursory glance, similar to the ones that had been liberated from Ivanovich's warehouse and now found themselves at the bottom of the bay. "In about ten minutes, Ivanovich will be here to collect you. He personally wants to make the trade with the remainder of your crew. Instead of his original plan, I'll take care of Ivanovich for you. You're welcome, by the way. Then I'll trade the girl for the settee, and you come with me of your own free will. Understand?"
Vitus said nothing. Neither did Jenn. In fact, the both of them were quite tired of all the guns that had been pointed in their general direction over the past few days.
"Oh, come on, where's your spirit? Your girlfriend goes free, Ivanovich is off your back, I don't ruin my new suit with your blood, and you get an exciting new career. We all win, see? So what do you say?"
The man called Hemingway pulled his gun away for a brief second, just long enough to scratch his nose, but Vitus took advantage of the opportunity. He reached inside his sling, pulled out the small derringer he had concealed within, and pulled the trigger. He should have aimed for the head, he knew, if he wanted to kill the man called Hemingway quickly and efficiently, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, the bullet went through the professional's chest, and he stumbled back into and over the hood of his sedan.
"Brutal, too," sputtered the man called Hemingway. "No wonder he likes you." Then he coughed, spraying a film of blood onto the car. He reached out with a finger, smearing the blood into a small dot before collapsing entirely. It was a period--the punctuation mark of his life. The man called Hemingway had written his last sentence. Jenn retrieved his handgun for herself as Vitus immediately set to rummaging through his bag.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
Vitus stared blankly at the small gun still in his hand.
"Yeah."
He was lying. Pulling the trigger was easier than he thought it would be. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd shot a man, but it was the first time he'd killed one. Mentally, he had prepared himself for this moment, but that had done little good.
"He deserved it," she said.
"I know."
Jenn thought back to the night she'd taken a life. There was a feeling that still resonated deep within her, that still hung on like a phantom limb though the act itself had long ended. She knew it was something that would never fully go away. Now she simply had to live with it. Though she was glad someone else could understand what she was going through, she hated that it had to be Vitus--that it had to be the person she loved most who had to pull that trigger and feel the things she had felt. Yet there he was, staying by her side just as she had stayed at his through every shifting state, like two revolving key words in the world's most depressing sestina--changing positions, but always there. Now they had become Vitus Bethel and Jenn Korova, murderers.
"Here we go," said Vitus as he pulled both a handheld radio and a cellular phone from the satchel of the recently deceased man called Hemingway. He passed the phone to Jenn and began fiddling with the dials and settings on the radio.
"No good," she said after attempting to make a call. She'd had no idea what number to dial for help (except, of course, for 911, which would have done them absolutely no good in their current situation), so she'd tried the only other number she knew--the one at Vitus' house, half-expecting to hear an angry Russian voice pick up on the receiving end. But there was nothing. The phone was absolutely dead.
Vitus muttered as he experimented with the radio, trying desperately to remember the exact channel Philip and Hayes often used.
"Philip? Hayes?" he would say as he tried various combinations of the numbers Philip had once given him until he found the correct one. It wasn't exactly the most efficient plan, but it ultimately paid off.
"Vitus?" asked a voice from the other end. It was Hayes.
"Yes!"
"Are you kids all right?"
"We're fine, Hayes."
"And Hemingway?"
"Dead."
"Hell," said Hayes, "I wanted dibs. No matter. Tell us where you are, and we'll come get you."
"Ivanovich's warehouse," said Vitus, his eyes scanning the waters of the bay. A large, white yacht was approaching. "You may want to hurry. It looks like Ivanovich just pulled in."
"Vitus," came Philip's voice across the radio. "Do whatever it takes to keep him there. We're en route. We were headed to the manor anyway, so we can be there in twenty minutes, half an hour tops. Understood?"
Vitus nodded before realizing how pointless that particular gesture is when talking over a radio. "Understood," he said. He calmly placed the radio back into the satchel and handed it to Jenn.
"So what's the plan this time?" she asked.
"You need to get out of here," he said.
"Okay, clearly you've gone crazy. That's a horrible plan. I'm not going anywhere, Vitus."
"Please, just take the bag and run. Find someplace safe and wait for Philip and Hayes to get here. If I'm going to stall Ivanovich, I don't want to have to worry about you."
"You're not getting all overprotective on me, are you? You know I can handle myself. Do you want to see me wrestle a large animal to prove it? Because I swear to God, I will wrestle a bear right here and now."
"It's not that," said Vitus. "Look, I can't pretend to know everything about this way of life or the people that live it, but I know logic. I know that if Ivanovich finds both of us here, he might see one of us as leverage and the other as expendable. We already know he wants us both dead, so who's to say he won't kill one of us at the first available opportunity?"
"I'm pretty sure I broke his nose, too," said Jenn. "All right, you might have a point. So what's your plan?"
"You meet up with Philip and Hayes and bring them back here. I'm going to let Ivanovich take me, let him think the trade is still on."
"Okay, we're back to this being a horrible plan again. He's going to know that something's up."
"I guess you'd better hurry, then."
The man called Hemingway did not answer. He simply dug the barrel of his gun into Vitus' back as they marched down the street.
"You can at least tell us that much, right? I mean, you did arrange a meeting place in the note you sent to our friends," Jenn added.
Still, the man called Hemingway did not answer. Soon they approached a car on the side of street. It was a late model white sedan. The man called Hemingway fished the keys from his bag and tossed them to Jenn.
"You'll drive," he said. "Your boyfriend can ride shotgun. How's that shoulder doing, anyway?"
Vitus looked down at his arm, still bound in the sling.
"I've had worse," he said. He had not had worse. The antique-dealer summoned every last ounce of courage, embracing the sort of manly, sarcastic quips one would expect from a pulp hero caught up in the same ordeal. But the man called Hemingway was not fooled. He could smell the fear in the air, and he smiled, not at Vitus' wit or charm, but at his vulnerability.
"Get in the car," he commanded.
Jenn climbed in behind the wheel. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"Just drive. When you need to make a turn, I'll tell you to turn, but you'll know nothing else. Understand?" said the man called Hemingway. "Just because our last encounter ended on different terms does not mean I am incompetent. I'll promise you this right now: you will not get away from me. I am very good at what I do. You will not distract me or catch me off guard. Not anymore. So if you're expecting a villainous monologue, you are sorely out of luck."
Vitus was disappointed only because he was, indeed, hoping to be on the receiving end of a villainous monologue at least once in his life. He didn't press the issue, though, and instead settled quietly into the seat of the car, staring at Jenn as she began to drive back toward the south.
The ride barely lasted an hour, until they finally came in sight of the wide, beckoning waters of the bay. The man called Hemingway guided Jenn as they approached each and every intersection. After two more right turns and a left, the car pulled alongside the smoldering ruins of Ivanovich's warehouse. Charred, fragmented walls of thin metal still stood, marking out boundaries where there had once been walls. Vitus imagined that the largest pile of ash and twisted metal near the dock was what was of Ivanovich's collection.
"I bet Malcolm's pissed," he said with a whistle.
"Ivanovich is a nobody," said the man called Hemingway, breaking his now-characteristic silence. "Do you think Rasputin honestly cares what you've done here? Ivanovich is a flunky--nothing more, nothing less. It's the big boss you should really be worried about, and he doesn't much care for the word no."
"Great, now he talks," said Jenn.
"Only because there's been a slight change of plans," said the man called Hemingway. He had been reading the screen of his cellular phone, which he then flipped shut and tossed into his shoulder bag.
"What kind of change?"
"Get out of the car," said the man called Hemingway.
Jenn and Vitus complied, though they weren't anxious to find out what would happen next. Vitus straightened his sleeve and sling properly, as if reverting to a not-so-distant lifetime in which he was constantly concerned about his respectable appearance.
"It seems I have a conflict of interest," said the man called Hemingway. He examined his handgun, making sure it was properly loaded and ready to fire at any moment. "You see, I'm employed by Mister Rasputin by way of Ivanovich. We're about to make a trade--the two of you for the settee, but it seems that Ivanovich wants me to kill you after the swap anyway. Not exactly honorable, but let me assure you, I'm more than willing to oblige. Mister Rasputin, on the other hand, would like to offer you a job."
"A job?"
"Now don't get me wrong, I'll be taking the money from the both of them, but, well, I've already told you how Rasputin feels about no. Apparently, he's been watching you quite closely, and he's impressed with your ingenuity and resourcefulness--the sort of qualities he looks for in his employees."
"You're about to tell me about his feelings for the word no again, aren't you?" said Vitus.
The man called Hemingway grinned and held his handgun aloft. "Now you're using that brain of yours. Did I mention you would be taking the position currently occupied by Malcolm Ivanovich? It seems he's been more trouble than he's worth, and, well, I guess you could say he's about to be terminated. He'll be joining us shortly, by the way."
"What about Jenn?" asked Vitus.
Jenn punctuated his question with a resounding, "Yeah."
"She'll be fine as long as both of you do as I say, but at this point, she's nothing more than a bargaining chip. No offense."
Jenn was, in fact, unsure of whether the statement in question was offensive as much as it was horrifying.
"So here's what's going to happen," said the man called Hemingway. He checked his watch--a circa 1900 gold pocket watch, Vitus judged with a cursory glance, similar to the ones that had been liberated from Ivanovich's warehouse and now found themselves at the bottom of the bay. "In about ten minutes, Ivanovich will be here to collect you. He personally wants to make the trade with the remainder of your crew. Instead of his original plan, I'll take care of Ivanovich for you. You're welcome, by the way. Then I'll trade the girl for the settee, and you come with me of your own free will. Understand?"
Vitus said nothing. Neither did Jenn. In fact, the both of them were quite tired of all the guns that had been pointed in their general direction over the past few days.
"Oh, come on, where's your spirit? Your girlfriend goes free, Ivanovich is off your back, I don't ruin my new suit with your blood, and you get an exciting new career. We all win, see? So what do you say?"
The man called Hemingway pulled his gun away for a brief second, just long enough to scratch his nose, but Vitus took advantage of the opportunity. He reached inside his sling, pulled out the small derringer he had concealed within, and pulled the trigger. He should have aimed for the head, he knew, if he wanted to kill the man called Hemingway quickly and efficiently, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, the bullet went through the professional's chest, and he stumbled back into and over the hood of his sedan.
"Brutal, too," sputtered the man called Hemingway. "No wonder he likes you." Then he coughed, spraying a film of blood onto the car. He reached out with a finger, smearing the blood into a small dot before collapsing entirely. It was a period--the punctuation mark of his life. The man called Hemingway had written his last sentence. Jenn retrieved his handgun for herself as Vitus immediately set to rummaging through his bag.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
Vitus stared blankly at the small gun still in his hand.
"Yeah."
He was lying. Pulling the trigger was easier than he thought it would be. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd shot a man, but it was the first time he'd killed one. Mentally, he had prepared himself for this moment, but that had done little good.
"He deserved it," she said.
"I know."
Jenn thought back to the night she'd taken a life. There was a feeling that still resonated deep within her, that still hung on like a phantom limb though the act itself had long ended. She knew it was something that would never fully go away. Now she simply had to live with it. Though she was glad someone else could understand what she was going through, she hated that it had to be Vitus--that it had to be the person she loved most who had to pull that trigger and feel the things she had felt. Yet there he was, staying by her side just as she had stayed at his through every shifting state, like two revolving key words in the world's most depressing sestina--changing positions, but always there. Now they had become Vitus Bethel and Jenn Korova, murderers.
"Here we go," said Vitus as he pulled both a handheld radio and a cellular phone from the satchel of the recently deceased man called Hemingway. He passed the phone to Jenn and began fiddling with the dials and settings on the radio.
"No good," she said after attempting to make a call. She'd had no idea what number to dial for help (except, of course, for 911, which would have done them absolutely no good in their current situation), so she'd tried the only other number she knew--the one at Vitus' house, half-expecting to hear an angry Russian voice pick up on the receiving end. But there was nothing. The phone was absolutely dead.
Vitus muttered as he experimented with the radio, trying desperately to remember the exact channel Philip and Hayes often used.
"Philip? Hayes?" he would say as he tried various combinations of the numbers Philip had once given him until he found the correct one. It wasn't exactly the most efficient plan, but it ultimately paid off.
"Vitus?" asked a voice from the other end. It was Hayes.
"Yes!"
"Are you kids all right?"
"We're fine, Hayes."
"And Hemingway?"
"Dead."
"Hell," said Hayes, "I wanted dibs. No matter. Tell us where you are, and we'll come get you."
"Ivanovich's warehouse," said Vitus, his eyes scanning the waters of the bay. A large, white yacht was approaching. "You may want to hurry. It looks like Ivanovich just pulled in."
"Vitus," came Philip's voice across the radio. "Do whatever it takes to keep him there. We're en route. We were headed to the manor anyway, so we can be there in twenty minutes, half an hour tops. Understood?"
Vitus nodded before realizing how pointless that particular gesture is when talking over a radio. "Understood," he said. He calmly placed the radio back into the satchel and handed it to Jenn.
"So what's the plan this time?" she asked.
"You need to get out of here," he said.
"Okay, clearly you've gone crazy. That's a horrible plan. I'm not going anywhere, Vitus."
"Please, just take the bag and run. Find someplace safe and wait for Philip and Hayes to get here. If I'm going to stall Ivanovich, I don't want to have to worry about you."
"You're not getting all overprotective on me, are you? You know I can handle myself. Do you want to see me wrestle a large animal to prove it? Because I swear to God, I will wrestle a bear right here and now."
"It's not that," said Vitus. "Look, I can't pretend to know everything about this way of life or the people that live it, but I know logic. I know that if Ivanovich finds both of us here, he might see one of us as leverage and the other as expendable. We already know he wants us both dead, so who's to say he won't kill one of us at the first available opportunity?"
"I'm pretty sure I broke his nose, too," said Jenn. "All right, you might have a point. So what's your plan?"
"You meet up with Philip and Hayes and bring them back here. I'm going to let Ivanovich take me, let him think the trade is still on."
"Okay, we're back to this being a horrible plan again. He's going to know that something's up."
"I guess you'd better hurry, then."
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