“Well, there’s no bleeding. Maybe we should just let her rest.”
Will looked at Oliver. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I thought you went back into the city.”
“Oh, I did go back. I got to my flat and picked up the mail, got a coffee and the paper. I was going to relax a bit, you know, before I went over to the embassy. But then I recalled I still had that item I had forgotten to return to you. The thing nagged at me until finally I figured I should just hand-deliver it to you, didn’t want you worrying about it while you were gone.”
“The knife?”
“Yes, see, I thoughtfully put it over there for you,” said Oliver, pointing down at the old woman’s body. Glinting brightly in the light of the day, the long handle stuck out of her back. “According to the official report, you’ll be somewhat of a hero, as it was your knife that took down the assassin of two U.S. agents, a Russian assassin no less.”
“I don’t know if anyone is going to believe that,” Will said.
“Well, ballistics don’t lie,” Oliver said. “Just give me a minute to get the right guns into the right dead hands and we should be fine.”
Will looked over at Mitchell’s body. “You said two people. Where’s the other one?”
“Over here,” said Oliver, taking Will over to the north side of the barn and pointing down behind a bale of hay. Brandon lay on his back, his eyes looking surprised, the bullet hole in his forehead still leaking a steady wash of blood. “Lucky shot, I’d say.”
“Yes,” Will agreed, “pretty damn lucky. I thought you meant Bendix.”
“No, I was coming up the drive and saw him beating a hasty retreat, running away across the field. It seems that’s generally his modus operandi.”
They heard footsteps coming down the gravel drive and both turned quickly just as the old priest entered the barn. He ignored them, stopping and kneeling on the rough ground beside the old woman. He crossed himself and said a prayer, then he rose and went across to crouch down next to Zoya. He put his hand to her chest and left it there for a few moments. Only then did he look up at the two men. “She needs help.”
“I have a car, we can get her to the local doctor,” said Oliver.
“No, no,” said the priest. “Do not take her to the doctor, he would have no idea what to do. She needs a very specific cure. Do either of you know where she lives?”
Will was about to reply when a loud, retching sound came out from the barn’s darkened corner. The priest squinted into the shadows and then looked quizzically up at Oliver and Will. “Who is that naked man?”
XVIII
Elga looked down at the point of the knife blade sticking out of her chest. She pinched it with her fingers and tried to push it back, but it seemed she could not apply enough pressure. She tried reaching behind her and pulling it out by the handle, which was sticking out from her spine at a perfectly perpendicular angle, but the blade was lodged deeply in an unreachable point between her shoulder blades, and her short, stiff arms could not extend that far.
“It’s stupid to try,” came a voice. Elga looked up to find the ghost of Mazza standing there, a hole of blood still sitting where her left eye should be. Lyda stood next to her.
“Oh,” said Elga.
“Yes,” said Mazza, nodding toward the knife. “I could try to pull it out, but I’m guessing it’s in there for good.”
The spirit of Lyda opened her mouth and out dropped a smattering of small silver fishes.
“See what I’m up against?” said Mazza. “It’s going to be good to have someone to talk to now. These two are useless.”
“Two?” said Elga, itching at her chest.
“Come, you remember Basha?” Mazza gestured toward a spot where the light seemed a bit crooked.
“Oh, right,” Elga said.
“We must go now, there are still some matters to attend to,” said Mazza. “Basha has had us flying around like barn swallows, but now most of our work is done.”
“Work? What work? Killing me? Is that what you stupid bitches came to do?” Elga said, placing her hand to her chest where the point of the knife poked out. “Ow.”
“Always so easy to offend, Elga.” Mazza paused. “But, possibly, yes. It may have been time for you to go. I do not know. I don’t ask questions and Basha shares so little.”
XIX
Vidot sat in the passenger seat of the car, wearing the oversized clothes he had borrowed from the priest. He had not said a word to anyone, other than
Oliver had been pointing a pistol at Vidot when he finally emerged, naked, from the shadows. Feeling as exposed and vulnerable as he had ever felt, Vidot raised his hands in surrender just as Will stepped forward and told Oliver to put the gun down. “He’s okay. I told you, I know him.”
“Where in the Lord’s name do you know him from?” said Oliver.
“He’s a friend,” said Will, nodding to Vidot. Then, addressing him:
Vidot made a small bow, relieved that Will had remembered him from their mutual hallucination. After a few more awkward moments, the priest had finally gone to get him a set of clothes.
In the car now, he tried to use logic to reassemble the surreal course of events. All he could come up with was that the death of the old woman had broken her spell over him, returning him to his natural state. He wondered if the same thing had happened that day all over Europe. God knows how many others were sprung free. The woman was ancient and had, no doubt, cast countless spiteful spells between Russia and Paris. He imagined legions of bears, squirrels, and tortoises spontaneously becoming men again, awakening naked to their restored form, as bewildered as he was. Driving along in the car now, he scratched his fingers lightly along the top of his hand, pinching himself and pulling at his skin. He rubbed his arm and ran his fingers through his hair. He never imagined the intensity mere existence could cause, but now, as tears ran down his cheeks, he scratched at his testicles and wiggled his ten toes in the old priest’s roomy loafers, all while savoring the simple satisfaction of being back in his own skin. He looked over his shoulder at Zoya, lying unconscious with her head in Will’s lap. The American was softly stroking her forehead, gazing down at her face with an expression of tender affection that almost made Vidot’s heart burst.
Oliver drove fast. As they left the countryside behind, buildings slowly filled in the spaces, crouching together and growing in height, as if they were physically being pulled shoulder to shoulder as they stacked up toward the center of the city, rising taller as they were drawn in by the centripetal excitement of Paris. It was not too late in the evening and the boulevards still bustled with families and young couples out for an after-dinner stroll. Vidot realized his wife, Adele, was there in the city too, perhaps even now in the arms of her lover. Vidot wanted to run to find her, pull her from her Alberto’s arms, box the man’s ears and punch him in the nose, and then seize her, kiss her, throttle, embrace, and shake her till she screamed. The impulse was so strong, he had to close his eyes to try to calm himself. Not yet, he thought. I cannot go to her when my heart is so rough. I must wait.
They drove down rue Lafayette and turned up toward Pigalle. “I’ll pull up in front of the hotel,” said Oliver. “You can help get her upstairs, yes?”
Vidot nodded. He was curious what would happen. They had all listened as the priest, crouching next to Zoya on the barn floor, had explained the necessary steps they would need to take if they hoped to revive her. Will had asked the priest to come with them, but the old man had refused. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ll find it
