Fugue State (17 page)

CHAPTER 20

W
hen Alexa reached her hotel room, she removed two of the cyanide pills from the bag and crushed them into a fine powder with tools she had purchased at the pharmacy. She poured the pale yellow powder into a tiny glass vial that she disguised in an empty lipstick container.
The poison is ready; now to prepare the antidote.
She mixed the antidote as directed in a fifty-milliliter bag of normal saline. She attached IV tubing to the bag and set it on the counter.

Her heart skipped a beat.
Time to get ready for the party.
She went to the bathroom vanity and pulled her hair back with a multitude of pins. Her golden locks brushed her shoulders in loose curls. She worked like an artist with a variety of brushes, painting her features different colors. She swept smoky dark shadows across her lids and painted her lips a bloodstained hue. She slipped into the red gown with the plunging V-neck and adjusted her cleavage appropriately. She needed the V-neck to distract away from her stomach. The fabric was heavy and gathered in layers just above the navel, which gave her space to hide the IV tubing.

Alexa pulled up the gown to expose her midsection. She saw a nice sized superficial vein coursing to the left of her umbilicus.
Perfect.
She grabbed a butterfly needle and pierced the vein carefully. She threaded the IV catheter over the needle and removed the needle. She drew back blood into the tubing and flushed it with saline before locking the IV with a plastic fastener and taping both to her skin. She poured herself a vodka tonic to calm her nerves while she waited to hear from Serge.

She watched herself in the mirror. The fierce makeup was striking, but was it enough? She needed to charm him, to entice him. She feared she was too old to pull off such things. From a distance, her reflection seemed flawless. But when she stepped closer, the lines on her face became the haphazard stokes of a Monet, and her features turned lackluster. She frowned at the flaws, and the scowl made the woman in the glass completely unbearable.
Confidence is beauty
.
Just be confident
. Alexa grabbed the IV bag containing the antidote/saline solution and taped the bag to her inner thigh. She taped the tubing to her stomach, but didn’t connect it to the IV she’d placed. She wanted some freedom to move.

The hotel phone rang. “We’re waiting, pet
,
” Serge’s voice whispered into the phone.

Alexa wanted to bring a handgun, but declined in fear of a bag search. So she stepped into her heels and grabbed her Louboutin studded clutch before heading out the door.

Serge had arranged for a private car tonight — a step up from the taxi the entourage had been using. Inside, a small mini bar sat on the floor by their feet. Serge had already picked up the blond man and the redhead from before, and they were making their way to pick up the other girl in the group.

The group exchanged kisses on the cheeks and hugs and laughs. Alexa feigned amusement and tried to hide her internal jitters. The blond man didn’t appear happy to see her. She grinned widely when their eyes met and poured him a drink, trying to ease the tension.

He grabbed the glass of gin and took a swig. “You’re too serious for us,” he scoffed.

Alexa was surprised he was able to speak any English. In their last encounter, he didn’t speak a word of it. She couldn’t help but think he learned those words just to wound her after the cold shoulder she’d given him. She dropped the grin for only a moment. “I’ll be more fun, then.”
I need everyone to like me tonight.

They arrived at an old, three-story brick mansion from the seventeenth-century. It stood in the middle of dark alley filled with deserted, boarded-up buildings. Cars came and went. Their black Mercedes lined up behind two black Bentleys. A long, black runner led guests from the street to the front door of the old mansion. A doorman with a turban opened car doors, and guests spilled out onto the runner. It wasn’t a very polished scene. Old overweight men struggled to stand while their thin, clumsy, drunken wives stumbled about in their heels. Alexa found the spectacle amusing.

Serge’s entourage scampered out of the car with ease but a lack of posture or poise. Alexa made sure to stand upright and leave the car with an attitude of sophistication. Serge escorted her into the party.

Inside, food and alcohol floated around on serving trays while men with flutes, belly dancers, contortionists, and snake charmers moved about the room. A small empty stage in the front of the large ballroom had been decorated with white flowers. Serge’s crew flocked to one of the small bars in the corner of the room. Alexa followed. The group had a round of vodka shots. It helped to calm her nerves. She reached into her clutch to grab a couple of antacids she had stored to quell the ulcer she continued to develop.

She searched the room for her target. With so many people crowding the space, she couldn’t see much beyond the group just ahead of her. She looked for turbans, but the room was full of them. She would have to move about in order to find him. Serge caught Alexa’s eye.

“I want to mingle,” she said seductively.

“Me, too.” His accent seemed thick. She headed to a small clearing in the center of the room. She recognized a few faces from the last French party, but she didn’t recall their names or any specifics about them. She slithered through the crowd, scanning the passers-by. At the slow pace, it took a solid thirty minutes before she found Castro. He flirted with two young girls in the corner of the room to the left of the stage. His security men stood about three feet behind him on either side.

She walked toward him while trying to devise a plan. The two girls grabbed his arms and guided him toward the flute player, where the three started dancing. Alexa eased off.
Now is not the time.
She turned to her left and saw Serge flirting with a thin, twenty-something man with spiky brown hair. She watched their gestures and body language. Their motions were a type of foreplay, the way they jutted their pelvises toward one another. She had seen this with Serge before. He wanted to take another lover.

Her eyes diverted back to Castro and his companions. Their dancing had stopped. Castro walked back toward his security guards.

Alexa felt a hand on her arm, and her heart leaped in her chest. She turned to see Serge.

“You having fun, my pet?”

Alexa smiled. “It’s great.” Her pulse throbbed in her ears now and nearly drowned out his voice.

“Good. I think I leave you this time.” He motioned to his male comrade.

Alexa hesitated.
No!
She wanted to be able to leave with Serge and his private car when all of this ended. She bit the inside of her lip hard, then glanced at the spike-haired man.
Something seems familiar about him
.
Something about his features, the hollow cheeks and temporal fossae
.
The prominent folds along the corners of his mouth.
It was a pattern all too familiar.
HIV-associated lipodystrophy
. She’d seen it frequently in the hospital. HIV patients were often sent to radiology to have their spinal fluid drawn, and Alexa had performed numerous spinal taps on such patients. She presumed the doctors on the floor did not want to risk a needle stick with an HIV patient. Her theory fit with the CYA “cover your ass” medical practices to which she had become accustomed.

Only, in the medical community HIV was distastefully referred to as
the hiv
, as in: he will be lucky to
live
. Alexa became familiar with the politically incorrect term as an intern, and it became more universal throughout the years.

Serge’s soon-to-be next lover has the hiv
.
Seems awfully risky
.
I can’t let him go through with this!
I could tell him, Serge has a right to know.
But the idea didn’t sit well with her. Sharing that fact with Serge was like disclosing someone’s personal health information without his or her consent.
I can’t go around discussing someone’s HIV status.

She grabbed Serge by the arm and led him away from his partner. He disputed, but she wouldn’t release her grasp. When they were a safe distance away, Alexa turned to Serge with an air of jealousy and contempt, hoping for a tactful way to change his mind.

“Not tonight. Not like this. Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

He looked baffled and amused by her anger at the same time. He laughed out loud.

“I don’t have to leave you, pet. Come join us in the fun. No?”

“No. Not tonight.” She had to convince him, even if it meant ruining her plans. She wanted to protect Serge
.
Even if it meant letting Castro run free.
I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t intervene.

“Stay with me tonight. We can leave here. I want to see the Eiffel tower, now, tonight. Please.” She began to sulk.

He laughed again.

“Tonight, tonight, you want to see the Eiffel tower. You live in Paris all this time, and now you want to see the Eiffel tower?”

“Yes.”

“No, pet. Another night.” He put a hand to her pouting chin. “You want me to stay? I stay. We dance tonight. There are other nights for lovers.”

Alexa shook her head adamantly.

“No. Promise me, no. Not
him
.” She motioned to Serge’s proposed lover.

He frowned. “Fine,” he said with a bit of hostility.

“Let’s dance,” she begged, grabbing his hands.

As they danced, she lost track of time. Her thoughts become muddled, and she had a hard time concentrating. All of the spinning on the dance floor with Serge didn’t help matters. She had nearly forgotten about Mohammed. In between spins, Alexa tried to locate her prey. Too many people and too much motion confused her.

Her gaze landed on his security guards, and she scoured the ground near them. Castro stood about three feet in front of them. Predictable.

She took one last glance at Serge’s face. She needed to be certain he wouldn’t go back to his proposed lover. His eyes didn’t lie. His countenance had changed drastically. He wasn’t in the mood for romance any more. She needed to separate herself from him and move on to Castro. A few more twirls and a final dip, and the music came to a halt.

Serge headed to the bar. “You want a drink, pet?” He spoke kind words with a sharp tongue that failed to mask his irritation.

“No, thanks. Go ahead.” She watched him walk away then turned back to Castro. He hadn’t moved. She wanted to go to him, but something stopped her: rumbling nausea and acid in her throat. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited in the stall. On the way in, she passed one of the servers and grabbed a glass of scotch from his tray. She needed the drink for Castro’s poison. Although Muslims rarely drank alcohol, Alexa had seen Castro sip scotch periodically. He was an odd Arab, to like American women and alcohol.

The vomit burned her throat. Was it the nerves, the alcohol, or the spinning that got to her? She thought about what she was about to do, and her stomach churned violently.
Without a doubt, it’s my nerves
. Before leaving the stall, she hiked her gown up to her bosom and looked down at the IV tubing. She’d nearly forgotten to connect the tubing together.
Get it together, Lex!
She scolded.

She attached the tubing from the bag containing the antidote and saline to the IV in her umbilical vein. A little blood seeped back into the tubing. Alexa tested the tubing by pressing her inner thighs together and squeezing the bag. The antidote passed through the tubing upward and into the IV.
It works.
She dropped her gown and opened the clutch that contained the empty lipstick container with the hidden vial of poison powder. She dumped the powder into the drink, stirred it with her quivering little finger, and watched the yellow dust dissolve into the liquid. She applied a veil of powder and a hint of rouge to her face before heading back to the party.

Castro held his position. She quickly glanced around for Serge. Nothing. She raised her eyelids wide and allowed the flush of the alcohol to warm her cheeks. She crept toward Castro, her footsteps keeping with the melody of the flute player’s song.

He caught her gaze while she remained a few yards away. With his eyes locked on hers, he tilted his head to one side and two fingers went to his chin. She forced her lips into a coy smile. Even the music had a seductive quality to it. She floated nearer, and the last few steps were made by him to meet her.

“Hello, again.” His accent mangled the English.

“Why, happy birthday.” She hummed the words like a cherished lullaby. In the perfect moment, a server walked by with a glass of scotch for Castro. Alexa scooped the glass off the plate for herself, and handed the poisoned glass out for him.

“We should toast for your birthday.” She whispered, stepping close enough to brush his arm with hers.

He reached for the glass, but hesitated. The security guards seemed stiff with trepidation.
He doesn’t trust me
. Slyly, she pulled back the glass before his hand could touch it, and took a small drink herself. She pretended to swallow while holding the liquid in the back of her throat, knowing she may have to swallow eventually. She twisted a gold lock from her shoulder with her fingers and turned her glance away from him. It was enough. Fearing he would lose her attention, he grabbed the poison glass and drank heartily. Alexa now put the clean glass of scotch to her lips and carefully spat the poison back into the glass. Then she swallowed a sip of the watered down version of the poison she had spat into the untainted liquid.

“Jeers,” said Castro.

“Yes, cheers!” she echoed.

Alexa pressed together her inner thighs, slowly squeezing the liquid antidote into her veins.
To your health.
Castro drank just over half the glass of poisoned scotch. She began a mental countdown.

The server passed by again, this time with a tray filled with champagne flutes. “Ooo, I love champagne.” She sounded like a schoolgirl. “It goes straight to my head.” The server took Castro’s poisoned glass, and she placed her poison-spit glass on the tray also.