The taxi rolled through Anchorage, passing near the docks. Vitus imagined he could see the boat and its small, odd crew standing atop it. He was ready to leave this place behind, but he knew that he would need answers from the one man that might have them before he left. Moments later they turned from the busy street onto a secluded land that would seemingly nowhere through the city.
"Here you go. End of the road, literally," said the cabbie, all too pleased with his turn of the phrase, but he was right. They had pulled into a large cul-de-sac, and when they stopped, it was in front of a large building. It appeared to be a brownstone, as if a chunk of a New York City neighborhood had somehow found itself in Alaska.
"Wait here," said Vitus as he passed the driver a fifty dollar bill from his wallet.
"You got it," said the cabbie, chewing happily on his cigar.
They left the taxi and their luggage behind, and Vitus surveyed the building. At the front entrance, a security camera was mounted overhead and an intercom panel gleamed with golden buttons amid the stone facade. Vitus knew the following about Malcolm Ivanovich: he was a small man and one that could be easily frightened; though the building that served as his home and museum seemed ominous, he had no security detail to speak of; and he had a penchant for collecting religious antiques and artifacts despite his status as a proclaimed militant atheist.
"So what's the plan this time?" Jenn asked.
"We ring the doorbell," said Vitus. "It'll have to be you, though. If Ivanovich sees me outside, he'll know the jig is up."
"The jig? Really?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," said Jenn. "Nothing at all. So what should I say?"
"Tell him you're here to spread the Good Word," Vitus replied.
"What?"
"Ivanovich is a militant atheist. If you tell him that you're affiliated with a religious organization, there's a good chance he'll come down here and try to debate you. He brags about it all the time."
"That's horrible," said Jenn. "Fine. Here, hold this." She took off her heavy coat, revealing the yellow sundress beneath that Vitus had not noticed. Vitus took her coat and hid in the bushes as Jenn approached the door and rang the bell. She smiled sweetly into the camera.
A moment later, a distorted yet high pitched voice replied from the intercom panel.
"Yes?" said Ivanovich.
"I'm here to talk to you about Jesus," said Jenn.
At first there was only silence, but then a grating laugh, like that of a child who can't stop giggling during a game of hide and seek, rang from the intercom. "I'll be right there," said Ivanovich.
Jenn nodded firmly at Vitus and waited for the door to open. When it did, a short, thin man stood in front of her with a devilish grin on his face.
"Please come in, young lady," he said. "Feel free to close the door behind you, or leave it open. Either way." Ivanovich led Jenn further into the brownstone building, and Vitus took the opportunity to slip in behind them.
Ivanovich brought them to an enormous living room. The floors were polished hardwood. The fireplace hearth was Italian-made (approximately three hundred years old by Vitus' estimate). Jenn admired the decor and mentally remarked that most of it bore a resemblance to the items Vitus normally kept in stock at Bethel's Fine Finds--the hand-crafted grandfather clock against the wall, the jade figurines on display in a glass curio cabinet, the fine maple coatrack near the door.
Ivanovich spun around, prepared to assault the young woman's entire belief system (and counter-argument, if necessary), but instead, he found a surprise waiting for him. Behind the pretty young woman in the yellow sundress was Vitus Bethel, standing with a lady's coat draped across one arm and pointing a dark gray pistol.
Ivanovich's jaw dropped. The jig, as Vitus would say, was up. "Oh, God!" he exclaimed as the realization dawned on him. Jenn suddenly decked him hard across his jaw, and Ivanovich stumbled backwards and landed on a plush French sofa.
Vitus raised his eyebrows at Jenn. She shrugged as if to say, "What?" Vitus shook his head and stepped in front of Ivanovich as the latter struggled to regain complete consciousness.
"Hello, Malcolm," said Vitus, his voice void of any emotion.
"Vitus? What are you doing?"
"I know you set me up, Malcolm."
Ivanovich abruptly changed his tone. "Vitus, thank God you're alive!"
"Wow, you're kind of a hypocrite when it comes to pleading for your life, aren't you?" Jenn remarked.
"Why did you do it, Malcolm? Why me?" asked Vitus. His finger rested still against the trigger.
"Vitus, you don't understand. I didn't have a choice," Ivanovich muttered. "I didn't know what was going to happen?"
"But you knew who Rasputin was, right?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Did you know he would kill to get that settee?"
"Well..."
"Did you know he would try to kill me?" Vitus pointed pointed the gun closer to Ivanovich's face. Vitus surprised himself. He wasn't nervous at all.
Ivanovich fell silent. There were no more excuses. Vitus took that as a yes.
"What are you going to do to me?" Ivanovich asked. A nervous tick flared up on his face, causing his eye to blink constantly.
Vitus lowered the gun and turned to Jenn.
"Hit him again," he said.
As Jenn wound back her fist, Vitus marveled at her grace and beauty. He pictured the moment as if it was a scene from a film. He imagined the music swelling up and the girl of his dreams moving in slow motion. He caught the smile on her face and the twinkle in her eyes, and she punched Malcolm Ivanovich square in the nose. Blood splattered from his nostrils, disturbingly also in slow motion. Vitus and Jenn both cringed at the sight.
Ivanovich, meanwhile, fell from the sofa to the floor, whimpering and writhing in agony. The rebellious antique-dealer and his partner in crime felt this would probably be a good time to leave. On their way to the door, Vitus paused at the curio cabinet. On it, Vitus noticed a jade figurine carved in the shape of St. Francis of Assisi. It was a piece he had given Ivanovich at no charge for purchasing the grandfather clock that stood in the living room.
"Oh, and Malcolm," he said, holding the figurine aloft, "I'm taking this back." Unfortunately, Ivanovich was too busy collecting tissues for his bloodied nose to notice the quip, though, and Vitus couldn't help but feel it had been wasted.
"To the docks," said Vitus. The cabbie chewed on his cigar and nodded.
"Here you go. End of the road, literally," said the cabbie, all too pleased with his turn of the phrase, but he was right. They had pulled into a large cul-de-sac, and when they stopped, it was in front of a large building. It appeared to be a brownstone, as if a chunk of a New York City neighborhood had somehow found itself in Alaska.
"Wait here," said Vitus as he passed the driver a fifty dollar bill from his wallet.
"You got it," said the cabbie, chewing happily on his cigar.
They left the taxi and their luggage behind, and Vitus surveyed the building. At the front entrance, a security camera was mounted overhead and an intercom panel gleamed with golden buttons amid the stone facade. Vitus knew the following about Malcolm Ivanovich: he was a small man and one that could be easily frightened; though the building that served as his home and museum seemed ominous, he had no security detail to speak of; and he had a penchant for collecting religious antiques and artifacts despite his status as a proclaimed militant atheist.
"So what's the plan this time?" Jenn asked.
"We ring the doorbell," said Vitus. "It'll have to be you, though. If Ivanovich sees me outside, he'll know the jig is up."
"The jig? Really?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," said Jenn. "Nothing at all. So what should I say?"
"Tell him you're here to spread the Good Word," Vitus replied.
"What?"
"Ivanovich is a militant atheist. If you tell him that you're affiliated with a religious organization, there's a good chance he'll come down here and try to debate you. He brags about it all the time."
"That's horrible," said Jenn. "Fine. Here, hold this." She took off her heavy coat, revealing the yellow sundress beneath that Vitus had not noticed. Vitus took her coat and hid in the bushes as Jenn approached the door and rang the bell. She smiled sweetly into the camera.
A moment later, a distorted yet high pitched voice replied from the intercom panel.
"Yes?" said Ivanovich.
"I'm here to talk to you about Jesus," said Jenn.
At first there was only silence, but then a grating laugh, like that of a child who can't stop giggling during a game of hide and seek, rang from the intercom. "I'll be right there," said Ivanovich.
Jenn nodded firmly at Vitus and waited for the door to open. When it did, a short, thin man stood in front of her with a devilish grin on his face.
"Please come in, young lady," he said. "Feel free to close the door behind you, or leave it open. Either way." Ivanovich led Jenn further into the brownstone building, and Vitus took the opportunity to slip in behind them.
Ivanovich brought them to an enormous living room. The floors were polished hardwood. The fireplace hearth was Italian-made (approximately three hundred years old by Vitus' estimate). Jenn admired the decor and mentally remarked that most of it bore a resemblance to the items Vitus normally kept in stock at Bethel's Fine Finds--the hand-crafted grandfather clock against the wall, the jade figurines on display in a glass curio cabinet, the fine maple coatrack near the door.
Ivanovich spun around, prepared to assault the young woman's entire belief system (and counter-argument, if necessary), but instead, he found a surprise waiting for him. Behind the pretty young woman in the yellow sundress was Vitus Bethel, standing with a lady's coat draped across one arm and pointing a dark gray pistol.
Ivanovich's jaw dropped. The jig, as Vitus would say, was up. "Oh, God!" he exclaimed as the realization dawned on him. Jenn suddenly decked him hard across his jaw, and Ivanovich stumbled backwards and landed on a plush French sofa.
Vitus raised his eyebrows at Jenn. She shrugged as if to say, "What?" Vitus shook his head and stepped in front of Ivanovich as the latter struggled to regain complete consciousness.
"Hello, Malcolm," said Vitus, his voice void of any emotion.
"Vitus? What are you doing?"
"I know you set me up, Malcolm."
Ivanovich abruptly changed his tone. "Vitus, thank God you're alive!"
"Wow, you're kind of a hypocrite when it comes to pleading for your life, aren't you?" Jenn remarked.
"Why did you do it, Malcolm? Why me?" asked Vitus. His finger rested still against the trigger.
"Vitus, you don't understand. I didn't have a choice," Ivanovich muttered. "I didn't know what was going to happen?"
"But you knew who Rasputin was, right?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Did you know he would kill to get that settee?"
"Well..."
"Did you know he would try to kill me?" Vitus pointed pointed the gun closer to Ivanovich's face. Vitus surprised himself. He wasn't nervous at all.
Ivanovich fell silent. There were no more excuses. Vitus took that as a yes.
"What are you going to do to me?" Ivanovich asked. A nervous tick flared up on his face, causing his eye to blink constantly.
Vitus lowered the gun and turned to Jenn.
"Hit him again," he said.
As Jenn wound back her fist, Vitus marveled at her grace and beauty. He pictured the moment as if it was a scene from a film. He imagined the music swelling up and the girl of his dreams moving in slow motion. He caught the smile on her face and the twinkle in her eyes, and she punched Malcolm Ivanovich square in the nose. Blood splattered from his nostrils, disturbingly also in slow motion. Vitus and Jenn both cringed at the sight.
Ivanovich, meanwhile, fell from the sofa to the floor, whimpering and writhing in agony. The rebellious antique-dealer and his partner in crime felt this would probably be a good time to leave. On their way to the door, Vitus paused at the curio cabinet. On it, Vitus noticed a jade figurine carved in the shape of St. Francis of Assisi. It was a piece he had given Ivanovich at no charge for purchasing the grandfather clock that stood in the living room.
"Oh, and Malcolm," he said, holding the figurine aloft, "I'm taking this back." Unfortunately, Ivanovich was too busy collecting tissues for his bloodied nose to notice the quip, though, and Vitus couldn't help but feel it had been wasted.
"To the docks," said Vitus. The cabbie chewed on his cigar and nodded.
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