The Good Girl. Mary Kubica
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authority. I back her against the wall, bumping into a lamp as I do. It crashes to the floor, hitting the parquet with a nasty thud. The lightbulb shatters. But the lamp doesn’t break.
I hold her there. I tell her to shut up. I say it over and over again. Just shut the fuck up.
She isn’t saying a word. She’s got on her poker face, though inside she must be going ballistic.
“Okay,” she says then, as if this is her choice. As if she has any say in the matter. She nods her head scornfully. She’ll come with me. Her eyes are steady. Tired, but steady. Pretty, I think. She has pretty blue eyes. But then I force the thought from my mind. I can’t think about shit like that. Not right now. Not before I hand her over to Dalmar. I need to finish the job. Be through with it before I start to second-guess myself.
With the gun pressed to her head, I tell her how it’s going to be. She’s gonna come with me. If she screams, I’ll pull the trigger. It’s that simple.
But she’s not going to scream. Even I can see that.
“My purse,” she says as we step over the bag she dropped to the floor when we made our way into the apartment, hours ago, floundering with each other’s clothes.
“Forget your fucking purse,” I snarl. I drag her into the hallway, slam the door shut.
It’s cold outside. The wind is sailing in from the lake, blowing her hair about her face. She’s freezing. My arm is wrapped tightly around her torso. Not for warmth. I don’t give a damn if she’s cold. I don’t want her to run away. I hold her so tight that her left side rubs against my right side and at times our feet collide and we trip. We walk quickly, hurrying to the car parked on Ainslie.
“Hurry up,” I say more than once, though we both know it’s me that slows us down. I look behind, make sure we’re not being trailed. She’s staring at the ground, trying to avoid the cutting wind. Her coat has been abandoned in the apartment. Goose bumps line her skin. Her flimsy shirt fails to ward off the cold, early October air. There’s no one on the street tonight but us.
I open the door for the girl and she gets in. I don’t take the time to fasten my seat belt. I start the car and take off down the street, doing a U-turn on Ainslie and heading the wrong way on a one-way street.
The streets are all but empty. I drive too fast, knowing that I shouldn’t, but wanting this to be through. She’s silent, her breathing steady. She’s strangely sedate. Though out of the corner of my eye I see her shake: the cold, the fear. I wonder what she thinks. She doesn’t plead with me. She huddles into a ball on the passenger’s seat of the pickup and stares out at the city.
It won’t be long before we pull up behind the minivan and Dalmar’s men will tear her from the truck, their dirty hands all over her. Dalmar has a temper. I don’t know what they have planned for the girl. Ransom. That’s all I know. Hold her for ransom until her father coughs up a substantial debt. When the debt is paid, I don’t know what they’ll do. Kill her? Send her back home? I doubt it. And if they do, it’s only after Dalmar and his guys have had a little fun with her, made it worth their while.
My mind starts racing in a million different directions. And now I’m thinking what will happen if I get caught. It’ll all be for nothing. Kidnapping carries up to a thirty-year sentence. I know. I checked. I thought about that more than once, after Dalmar hired me. But it’s one thing to think about it, and another to do it. Now here I am, with the girl in the car, thinking about thirty years in the pen.
She won’t look at me. At a stoplight, I stare at her. She stares ahead and I know she can see me. I know she can feel my eyes on her. She holds her breath. She fights the urge to cry. I drive with one hand, the gun on my lap in the other.
It’s not so much that I give a shit about the girl. Because I don’t. It’s that I’m wondering what happens when word leaks back home that I did this. When my name is attached to a kidnapping/murder. And it would be. Dalmar would never sign his name to this. He’d set me up. If and when this goes bad, I’ll be the stooge, the scapegoat, the one on the chopping block.
The light turns green. I get off on Michigan. A bunch of drunken kids stand on the corner waiting for their bus. They’re monkeying around, being stupid. One of them stumbles from curb. I swerve out of the way and almost hit him. “Idiot,” I mutter beneath my breath. He gives me the finger.
I consider my backup plan. I always have a backup plan, for if and when things get messy. I’ve just never had to use it. I check the gas gauge. There’s enough to get us out of the city, at least.
I should get off at Wacker. The red numbers on the truck’s dashboard read 2:12. Dalmar and his guys are in place, waiting. He could do it by himself, but he wouldn’t. Dalmar never wants to get his hands dirty. He finds someone, some outcast like me to do the shit work, so he can sit back and watch. This way, when things go south, he’s clean of any misdeeds. No fingerprints at the scene, his face omitted from any photographic evidence. He lets the rest of us, his operatives he calls us, like we’re in the damn CIA, take the fall.
There’s probably four of them in the van, four thugs just waiting to restrain this girl who sits still beside me when she could be fighting for her life.
My hands slip on the steering wheel. I’m sweating like a pig. I wipe them on my jeans and then I pound a fist against the steering wheel and the girl lets out a stifled cry.
I should get off at Wacker, but I don’t. I keep driving.
I know this is stupid. I know everything that can go wrong. But I do it anyway. I peer in the rearview mirror, make sure that I’m not being trailed. And then I floor it. Down Michigan, to Ontario, and I’m on 90 before the clock ever reaches 2:15.
I don’t say anything to the girl because there isn’t anything I could say that she’d believe.
I’m not sure at what point it happens. It’s somewhere as we’re driving away from the city, as the skyline starts to disappear into the blackness, as the buildings get swallowed up by the distance. She squirms in her seat, the composure starting to wane. Her eyes move: out the side window, turning around and staring out the rear window as the city melts away. As if someone finally flipped the switch and now she realizes what the hell is happening. “Where are we going?” she demands, her voice becoming hysterical. The poker face has given way to gaping eyes, to ruddy skin. I see it in the glow of streetlights we fly past, illuminating her face every five seconds or so.
For a split second she begs me to let her go. I tell her to shut up. I don’t want to hear it. By now she’s crying. Now the water works have begun and she’s a blubbering mess, begging me to let her go. She asks again: Where are we going? And I pick up the gun. I can’t stand the sound of her voice, blaring and shrill. I need her to shut up. I point the gun at her and tell her to shut the fuck up. And she does. She’s quiet, but she continues to cry, wiping her nose on a too-short sleeve as we soar out of the city and into suburbia, trees swapping places with skyscrapers, the Blue Line snaking down the middle of the road.
Eve
After
Mia sits at the kitchen table, holding a legal-size manila envelope with her name written on the front in a very masculine all-caps script.
I prepare dinner for Mia and myself. The TV is on in the next room for background noise, but the sound drifts into the kitchen, compensating for the silence between us. Mia doesn’t seem to notice, but these days, it makes me a nervous wreck, and so I make idle conversation to offset the silence.
“Would you like chicken breast with your salad?” I ask and she shrugs. “Whole wheat rolls or white?” I ask but she doesn’t respond.
“I’ll make the chicken,” I say. “Your father would like chicken.” But we both know that James will not be home.
“What’s that?” I ask, motioning to the item in her hands.
“What’s what?” she asks.
“The