feinted right, cut left, and abruptly broke off the fight.
He turned his back, raced to the balcony, butted the door open, vaulted the rail, and dropped soundlessly into the night.
Dalton spun around and headed for the bedroom, his heart a cold stone in his chest. The room was black, but he heard rapid breathing coming from the bathroom. And something else too. A high-pitched, whistling sound.
“Veronika?”
Her voice, coming from the bathroom:
“Micah. In here.”
Dalton jumped over the bed, got to the bathroom door. A match flared, and he saw Veronika in its glow lighting a candle on the edge of the bath. She was naked, her breasts and belly, her right hand and forearm all sheeted in blood. On the floor in front of her lay the second man, a razor-edged leaf-bladed punching knife on the bath mat beside him. The man was on his back, writhing and making a barely audible keening sound, like a teakettle whistling. His legs were kicking convulsively, and a wet stain was spreading over the crotch of his jeans.
He had both of his hands up to his face. They were gripping the plastic handle of something that had been shoved very deep into the socket of his left eye. The handle had a long coiled electric cord attached to it. It took Dalton a moment or two to realize what it was. A curling iron.
Dalton stepped around the man on the floor, went to Veronika, knelt, looked at her hands, her body, afraid of what he would find.
“Did he cut you?”
“No,” she said. “It’s all his blood. I heard something thumping. I thought it was dream. I couldn’t feel you. Then I knew it wasn’t a dream. I keep the pistol in the bathroom, like a panic room. I am thinking I would lock the door, get the pistol. He was too fast, right on my back. He kicked the door open. I reached for whatever, caught that, and went at him. I could not see him, but I could smell him. It punched into his eye. I hope I kill him.”
Dalton looked at the man, writhing and gasping on the mat.
“I think you have. It just hasn’t gotten through to him yet. They cut your power off. Do you know where the switch is?”
“There’s a panel in the janitor’s closet, at the top of the stairs.”
“Where’s the pistol?”
She reached into the cabinet, pulled it out from under the towels.
“Can you handle him?” he said.
She nodded, doing an automatic press check to see if there was a round in the chamber. Then she leveled it at the man on the floor. Her hand wasn’t shaking at all, and the look on her face was a killing look.
“I’ll be back.”
A minute passed.
Veronika watched the ugly little man suffering in utter horror, the reality of what she had done sinking in.
Then her bedroom light came on, and Dalton was back at the door, with her bathrobe in his hands.
He switched on the bathroom light, covered her, held her for a moment. They stood and watched the man’s agony. The keening sound he had been making slowed, finally stopped, and now there was just the thump and rustle of his boots on the floor and his ragged breathing, shallow, gurgling and rasping in his throat.
Dalton knelt down, pulled the man’s bloody hands off the butt of the curling iron. White skin, a black growth of beard, in his gasping mouth a row of tiny yellow teeth. His body, although badly formed, with signs of chronic malnutrition, was bony and hard as a tree root. His one open eye was a shiny black pebble. His lips were turning blue, and his mouth was filling up with blood. Sensing Dalton nearby, he reached out and grabbed him by the hand, his bony fingers sinking into Dalton’s skin. His lips moved, but only a whisper came out “Haldokló?”
“He asks if he is dying,” said Veronika. “Is he dying?”
“Yes,” said Dalton. “What language is it?”
“I think it’s Hungarian.”
“Can you ask him who sent him?”
“Ki küldött?”
The man jerked at the sound of her question and then became still. Only the slow throbbing of a vein in his forehead
He turned his back, raced to the balcony, butted the door open, vaulted the rail, and dropped soundlessly into the night.
Dalton spun around and headed for the bedroom, his heart a cold stone in his chest. The room was black, but he heard rapid breathing coming from the bathroom. And something else too. A high-pitched, whistling sound.
“Veronika?”
Her voice, coming from the bathroom:
“Micah. In here.”
Dalton jumped over the bed, got to the bathroom door. A match flared, and he saw Veronika in its glow lighting a candle on the edge of the bath. She was naked, her breasts and belly, her right hand and forearm all sheeted in blood. On the floor in front of her lay the second man, a razor-edged leaf-bladed punching knife on the bath mat beside him. The man was on his back, writhing and making a barely audible keening sound, like a teakettle whistling. His legs were kicking convulsively, and a wet stain was spreading over the crotch of his jeans.
He had both of his hands up to his face. They were gripping the plastic handle of something that had been shoved very deep into the socket of his left eye. The handle had a long coiled electric cord attached to it. It took Dalton a moment or two to realize what it was. A curling iron.
Dalton stepped around the man on the floor, went to Veronika, knelt, looked at her hands, her body, afraid of what he would find.
“Did he cut you?”
“No,” she said. “It’s all his blood. I heard something thumping. I thought it was dream. I couldn’t feel you. Then I knew it wasn’t a dream. I keep the pistol in the bathroom, like a panic room. I am thinking I would lock the door, get the pistol. He was too fast, right on my back. He kicked the door open. I reached for whatever, caught that, and went at him. I could not see him, but I could smell him. It punched into his eye. I hope I kill him.”
Dalton looked at the man, writhing and gasping on the mat.
“I think you have. It just hasn’t gotten through to him yet. They cut your power off. Do you know where the switch is?”
“There’s a panel in the janitor’s closet, at the top of the stairs.”
“Where’s the pistol?”
She reached into the cabinet, pulled it out from under the towels.
“Can you handle him?” he said.
She nodded, doing an automatic press check to see if there was a round in the chamber. Then she leveled it at the man on the floor. Her hand wasn’t shaking at all, and the look on her face was a killing look.
“I’ll be back.”
A minute passed.
Veronika watched the ugly little man suffering in utter horror, the reality of what she had done sinking in.
Then her bedroom light came on, and Dalton was back at the door, with her bathrobe in his hands.
He switched on the bathroom light, covered her, held her for a moment. They stood and watched the man’s agony. The keening sound he had been making slowed, finally stopped, and now there was just the thump and rustle of his boots on the floor and his ragged breathing, shallow, gurgling and rasping in his throat.
Dalton knelt down, pulled the man’s bloody hands off the butt of the curling iron. White skin, a black growth of beard, in his gasping mouth a row of tiny yellow teeth. His body, although badly formed, with signs of chronic malnutrition, was bony and hard as a tree root. His one open eye was a shiny black pebble. His lips were turning blue, and his mouth was filling up with blood. Sensing Dalton nearby, he reached out and grabbed him by the hand, his bony fingers sinking into Dalton’s skin. His lips moved, but only a whisper came out “Haldokló?”
“He asks if he is dying,” said Veronika. “Is he dying?”
“Yes,” said Dalton. “What language is it?”
“I think it’s Hungarian.”
“Can you ask him who sent him?”
“Ki küldött?”
The man jerked at the sound of her question and then became still. Only the slow throbbing of a vein in his forehead
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