She tucks the remaining piece into her bra, where it sits like a rock pressed against her sternum.
When she comes out, Kincaid is sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs splayed wide like a careless man on the subway, already a little drunk and not caring what she thinks. His glass sits empty on a nearby dresser.
She sets her glass next to his. She reaches to her waist for the ties that hold her wrap dress closed and with one quick, deliberate motion—before she can think about it—she yanks the knot undone, so her dress falls open. She lets it slide over her shoulders and fall to the floor in a silky flutter. Kincaid smiles, a happy schoolboy. She stands before him in bra and panties and heels, a gold chain at her throat. She can practically feel Kincaid’s throat go dry.
Before he can say or do anything, she climbs onto the bed, straddling his lap. She peels off his jacket first, pulling it down over his shoulders. He watches, amazed. Maybe it plays into a fantasy he has, that a woman could want him so much she’d tear off his clothes. In any case, he lets her. He runs his hands over her body, and she tries not to think about the way he kneads her ass through the lace panties. She loosens his tie—his throat shouldn’t be constricted in any way—and unbuttons his shirt. He throws his head back, loving it, giving her full access, giving her whatever she wants.
“I knew you’d enjoy it, if you gave yourself a chance,” he says. Does he really believe this? His erection rises beneath her, pushes clumsily at her crotch as she undoes the buttons of his shirt.
“I want you to use your mouth,” he whispers in her ear.
She’d rather die first.
It’s now or never.
She pushes his shoulders back on the mattress. He doesn’t fight—why should he? It’s all going his way, his wildest dreams fulfilled. She turns, reaching for her glass on the dresser. And in that moment, he can’t see what she’s doing.
In the flurry of hands undoing his buttons and her twisting and gyrations, she has managed to slip the nugget of poison from her bra into her mouth. She doesn’t want to keep it there for long. Not for one second more than is necessary.
She leans over Kincaid, their faces so close that his five o’clock shadow grazes her cheek, and kisses him full on the lips. She anticipates the open mouth and the tongue rising up to meet hers.
In that instant, she uses her tongue to shove the poison into his mouth. Then follows with the glass, rim crashing into his teeth, and empties the whiskey down his throat.
He knows something is up and flounders beneath her, trying to sit upright, but she wills herself to be as heavy as an anchor. She sits like a banshee on his chest, a succubus. Her fingers pinch his nose closed, clamp his mouth shut. She doesn’t want him to be able to breathe. She waits for him to gulp for air. Swallow, you motherfucker. Swallow.
He’s thrashing, he’s flailing, but she only has to hold on a few seconds more. His face turns red. Tears well in his eyes. A little whiskey seeps at the corners of his mouth, but he’s on his back and gravity is on her side.
Finally, his Adam’s apple moves.
It’s done.
She springs off his chest like a cat and scrambles backward. Standing a safe distance away, she watches, anxious for what will happen next.
Russian poisons work quickly. Once the deed is done, you want it to be fast. The last thing the Russians want is for someone to have the time to tell a few secrets before they expire.
With the weight gone from his chest, Kincaid sits bolt upright, a strained expression on his face. His first thought is not of revenge. It’s pure self-preservation. He knows something terrible has happened. He knows he has been poisoned. Could he be feeling the effects already? What will she do if he yells for help, or tries to run away? She watches for the slightest twitch, any indication of what he’ll do next.
His hands search around him, as though he’s gone blind and needs his hands. He rifles his jacket, then stops: his cell phone. He pulls it out of a pocket and starts to jab desperately at the keyboard. She slaps it out of his hand, sending it spinning across the room.
He tries to yell but nothing comes out, only the hiss of air and a long, foamy string of bubbles, like a washing machine run amok. His eyes search her face—what have you done to me? He’s frightened as the truth starts to dawn on him. Frightened as a little boy.
Then his expression changes. Help me.
“Don’t worry. You’re not going to die,” she tells him as she reaches for the bottle of Scotch. She takes a big swig, swishing it around in her mouth, rinsing vigorously, while sprinting to the bathroom. Spits it all into the sink. Has she been quick enough, or could a minute amount of poison have gotten into her system?
Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands over him and starts to dress hurriedly. “I didn’t give you the full dose. It’ll just make you sick—really sick. Something for you to think about.”
But Kincaid isn’t listening. He’s fallen backward onto the bed. Pink-tinged foam pumps out of his mouth now like a bubble machine. He’s gone pasty white, except for his face, which is turning blue. His eyes are wide open and stark. She leans over and slaps his cheeks. Unresponsive. Feels his throat for a pulse and it’s wild, all over the place. He starts to vomit dribbles of yellow liquid.
She steps back from the bed, her heart going like a jackhammer. This is not what she expected. A quarter of the pill is apparently enough to kill him. She’ll call for an ambulance from the first pay phone she sees but from the looks of things, he’s going to die. The realization turns her ice-cold, makes her want to double over puking.
And she held that pill in her mouth for one, two seconds.
And now her thoughts turn to self-preservation. Brian. He’s her only concern.
Can she be linked to this room, to him? There was, undoubtedly, a camera in the lobby and she hung back when they were checking in, but there’s a chance it may have caught her face.
Well, it’s a chance she has to take. She puts on her coat, snatches up her handbag. With wadded up tissues, she wipes down every surface she remembers touching in the bedroom and the bathroom. Wipes the rim of her glass.
Taking one last look at the body convulsing on the bed, she averts her eyes and wipes the door handle as she leaves.
There’s a lone light burning in the rear of the house as Theresa pulls into the driveway. She collects herself before heading in, wishes there was a way to erase the smell of Scotch that seems to exude from her pores.
She gives the babysitter—an older woman who lives a few doors down—forty dollars and locks the door after ushering her out. A quick check on Brian—so trusting and innocent in his sleep, she almost bursts into tears—before heading to the bedroom. Pulling the codebook out of the shoebox.
Writing, with shaking hands, the numbers for the message she formed in her head on the drive home.
SITUATION DIRE. CANNOT REMAIN IN PLACE. TAKE ME OUT NOW.
THIRTY-TWO
Outside it’s raining, but if Lyndsey had not gone to the vending machine for coffee, she would not have known, not in her small, windowless office. She stands in the cul-de-sac at the end of the hall, the bit of space given over to vending machines. The walls are gray-tinted glass, ceiling to floor. She takes a minute to sip at the steaming hot coffee and watch fat drops of water slide down the glass in streams. She tries to predict which way the stream will break as gravity pulls it down—as though it matters. Anything to stop thoughts running through her head.