Not any hole.
The hole he dug.
Peter rubbed his hand across his head as if he were trying to raise a genie from his skull.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He’d never had thoughts like that in his life.
Peter felt a movement at his elbow and turned to see White-Eyes standing to leave.
Thank god.
As the thin man moved away, he banged into Peter with his right arm. His flesh was hard. It felt as though someone had bumped into him with a bat.
Peter glanced at Volkov. The Russian watched Ginger.
Peter did the same.
After a bit he felt better. He pushed the image of himself digging holes from his mind and spotted Volkov hand Ginger a stack of money. Not stripper money. Real money. Ginger nodded, talking with Volkov.
Peter couldn’t hear what they were talking about.
It didn’t hit him as odd when he found himself driving Volkov and Ginger back to the safe house. He’d hoped he’d be dropping the two of them off at Volkov’s real house, but the Russian had muttered the address of the safe house to him as he and the girl slid into the car.
Peter heard the two of them mumbling as he drove. Ginger wasn’t a giggler. Her personality didn’t perk up off stage, either.
When they arrived at the safe house, Ginger wandered into the kitchen mumbling something about sparkling water.
‘Cause she’s so fancy.
Volkov opened the linen closet and pulled out a black tote bag Peter had never noticed before. Volkov took the bag into the cell room, before leading the girl to the bag and shutting the door behind them.
Peter stood there, staring at the closed door, unsure what he was supposed to do while his boss had sex in a jail cell with a stripper. On either side of the cell room were bedrooms. Why would he take her into the empty cell?
When the screaming started, Peter turned up the television and sat on the sofa. The walls of the cell were hard, like cement, and the door had been reinforced with strips of thick wood, but Peter could still hear the screaming.
It didn’t sound like sex screaming.
Every so often the door would rattle, as if someone had thrown themselves against it.
Peter turned up the volume again. After another ten minutes he grabbed the bottle of vodka from the kitchen. He wasn’t supposed to drink, but...it’s not like it was meth. He poured himself a large shot and then another.
Peter carried the bottle back to the sofa.
~~~
Peter opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep. He looked at the cell door to find it cracked open.
“Volkov?”
He must have left.
The bottle of vodka sitting on the table beside him was nearly empty. Was he supposed to be keeping watch?
I hope I’m not in trouble.
Peter turned down the television and stood, staring at the cell door. He crossed the four feet to the entrance and was about to peek inside, when the door swung open. Ginger stumbled past, pushing him, nearly knocking him over on her way toward the front door. Her face was swollen and covered in blood.
She pushed open the screen door and ran out of the house, screaming. A second later Peter heard the screeching of tires and a thump.
The screaming stopped.
“Go see.”
Peter jumped. Volkov stood behind him, his body naked but for a pair of wrestling shorts, his tattooed skin glistening with sweat and blood.
“What?” he asked. His mind felt like a seized motor.
Volkov grabbed and squeezed his arm before pushing him towards the front door. “Go find her.”
Peter followed in Ginger’s footsteps. People gathered in the road outside the house. A man stood over the form of a red-headed girl, her twisted body illuminated in the headlights of his Impala.
Ginger’s left leg bent at an unnatural angle. Her body was covered in scrapes. She wasn’t naked, which struck Peter as the oddest thing of all.
“She came out of nowhere.” The man hovering over her repeated the phrase over and over. People around them announced they were calling 911.
Peter turned and reentered the house. He found his boss in the cell room.
Volkov had thrown on one of Peter’s t-shirts. In his hand hung a bucket, orange sponge floating in the murky water. The room looked as it always did, but for the smell of disinfectant.
Volkov thrust the bucket at him. “Dump this down the sink and put the bucket underneath.”
Peter took the bucket and did as he was told. The water appeared light red against the white sink as it swirled down the drain.
When he returned to the living room, Volkov tossed his t-shirt at him. He had slipped back into the black oxford he’d been wearing at the club.
“I wasn’t here,” said the Russian.
Peter nodded.
Volkov pushed past him, walking through the kitchen towards the back door, pausing in the porch off the back. He tapped his toe on the ground and then looked back at Peter.
“Tomorrow go out and get some shovels and pick axes. Things to dig.”
Peter nodded. “Puttin’ in a pool?”
He wasn’t sure why he’d said it.
He knew they wouldn’t be digging a pool.
Chapter Two
Broch cocked his head as he passed Studio Twelve. It sounded as if thunder bounced inside the huge metal building. Curious, he opened the door and let the cacophony wash over him.
Applause.
Not thunder at all.
People haein a guid time.
Broch wandered in and stood behind two men posted at the top of a set of stairs leading down to a stage. The men turned as he entered and, recognizing him as a fellow Parasol Pictures staffer, nodded. Both their attentions dropped to his kilt and then darted away.
Broch straightened and
