“Will do. Definitely.”
“Good.” Sergei collected his new poison and got back in his car. Having the cyanide-based one for the yacht job would’ve been ideal—he could test it on his mark and see how well it really worked. But he wouldn’t have it in time, and anyhow, that poison would leave the mark looking like he’d had a heart attack or something. For Saturday’s job, the kill had to look deliberate. It was meant to send a message, not just quietly remove a piece from the board.
Still, he wanted that poison, and soon. As he drove away, following Highway 103 back toward Cape Swan, he had high hopes that Katashi had come through for him this time. With the government cracking down on every goddamned substance on the planet, it was getting tougher and tougher to get his hands on poisons with specific effects. Katashi had hooked him up a few times, or tried to. Every fucking time, though, there was some side effect. Some potential reaction that happened one time out of ten, or a hundred, or a thousand, that made the victim seize, or vomit, or something other than immediate death. Too much risk. Too much potential for an ME to figure out the victim had been poisoned.
Sergei was patient, though. He had other means to kill and leave only as much evidence behind as he wanted to. The job that required a fast-working, undetectable poison could wait until precisely the right concoction came his way.
But Sergei hoped like hell it came through soon.
*
With three days to go before he needed to kill someone on a boat, Sergei’s focus had been solely on his upcoming job and his late nights with Dom. Today, though, he had other things on his mind.
He stared through the windshield at the all too familiar stucco facility gleaming in the midday sun. After all this time, he’d have thought visiting this place might get easier, but it never did.
Chest tight and stomach in knots, he got out of the car and went inside.
There was a desk in front, chest high and staffed by a couple of college aged women. He didn’t recognize either of them today, so they might’ve been new. No surprise—the turnaround here was astronomical.
Can’t imagine why.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed down the hall that he’d been down a million times in the last ten years. The route hadn’t changed for a long time—second left, last door on the right.
“Morning, Sergei.” A familiar male voice turned his head. Jason, one of the nurses, offered a subtle, guarded smile.
Sergei forced an equally faint smile. “Morning.”
“How are you doing?” Jason asked.
“I’m all right.”
He wondered if Jason’s co-workers knew how much he liked his private dances. For that matter, he wondered how someone who worked here could afford a stripper like Sergei. But he wasn’t paid to worry about his customers’ finances, so he danced when Jason came to his workplace and kept a poker face when he went to Jason’s.
Jason cleared his throat. “Anyway. Um.” He gestured down the hall. “She’ll be…” He hesitated, and Sergei heard the words he didn’t say: She’ll be happy to see you.
Not a day went by that Sergei didn’t wish that were true.
They exchanged halfhearted smiles, and Sergei continued down the hall. He was almost to his destination when a familiar redheaded nurse came around the corner.
“Oh, Sergei.” Brittany’s face lit up. “You’re right on time, as always.”
Sergei shrugged. “No thanks to an accident on the highway, but I made it.”
“Good.” She handed him a small paper cup of pills. “You know the routine.”
“I do. Thanks, Britt.”
No one else stopped him. At the door, just as he always did, he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then he forced a smile and stepped inside.
She was out of bed, sitting in the armchair by the window in her robe and slippers, gazing out at the yard.
He swallowed. She hadn’t changed much lately. There wasn’t any dark hair left to turn gray—she’d been snow white for years. Time had long ago deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her shoulders were thin, her posture hunching a little farther with each passing year.
She turned her head as Sergei pulled a chair up beside hers.
Sometimes she had little flickers of recognition. She’d look at him, and there’d be that spark, like she’d just figured out who he was. Today, it didn’t come.
In their native tongue, which he only spoke with her these days, he whispered, “Hi, Mama.”
She stared blankly at him.
He set the cup of pills on the tray beside her chair.
“What are those?” she asked in the same language.
“Medicine,” he replied. “You need them.”
She looked at him and blinked a few times. “Are you sure?”
“Take them, Mama.”
“But why?”