Page 8 of The Hunter

8

STEFI

I managed to grab my T-shirt, bra, and jeans, but no panties. I discover that unpleasant fact when I get dressed behind the restaurant, hidden by the dumpsters, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The sirens are nearer now, and going back into the restaurant is an act of sheer folly.

I put on a pair of gloves before I entered Frau Augsburger so the authorities wouldn’t be able to lift prints off my weapons.

But panties mean DNA. Damn it.

There might be a match for my DNA in the system. Hospitals in Europe aren’t supposed to store the genetic data of their patients, and they’re definitely not allowed to share it with the police. But six people are dead in a Swiss restaurant, and there’s going to be a lot of pressure to find the killer.

Seven and a half years ago, I was forced to go to a hospital in Istanbul. I used an assumed identity, of course, but if they’ve kept my DNA on file. . .

Stop worrying about things you can’t control. Just get to the train station.

The trail is busier now. Families are out for an evening stroll, and young people are taking their dogs out for a walk. I force myself to move at a leisurely pace. My Swiss German isn’t good enough that I would pass as a native, so I stick to my identity as a tourist. I take dozens of photos of the nature reserve, coo over dogs, and exchange pleasantries with their owners.

Forty minutes later, I’m at the station. I was a little afraid that the police would be here, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I hop on the train into the city. An hour later, I arrive at Zurich HB, and two hours after that, I’m on an overnight train back to Paris.

It’s only after I sink into my seat that I finally allow myself to break the chokehold I’ve kept on my thoughts.

Joao is alive.

The weight of that realization crashes over me like a tidal wave. I thought he was dead; I thought I lost him forever.

Eight years. Eight years of long, lonely nights. Eight years of missing his laugh, his touch, his voice. Joao left me a voicemail once on a burner phone. It was the briefest of messages before leaving for a job. Sweet little fox, I’ll see you in Prague on Monday, was all he said. But as short as it was, I used to listen to it over and over again, my heart shattering each time at the magnitude of my loss.

But he’s alive.

“Surprise, little fox,” he said accusingly, his voice as cold as a glacier. “I’m still alive. And so are you. ”

Little fox. I remember the day Joao came up with that nickname. I was thirteen years old, and Bach had just forced me to kill my first person. Afterward, I wept on Joao’s shoulder, my heart breaking for my victim’s family and loved ones. “You have a heart as soft as a baby bird,” he said as he comforted me.

“I’m not a baby bird,” I replied, stung that he saw me as something that weak. Joao had a growth spurt that summer. For years, we used to be the same height, but then he shot up, and now I barely reached his shoulder. “I’m tougher than that.” My mind searched around for a suitable animal until I landed on one. “I’m a fox.”

His eyes laughed at me, and he rested his chin on the top of my head. “A little fox.”

I stare out of the window at the speeding countryside. Why had I never entertained the possibility that he might have faked his own death the way I had? Why had I never considered that he might also want to escape Bach’s clutches? When Tommy Power told me that Joao drowned in the Mediterranean, I believed him. Maybe because Joao always seemed to like being an assassin, or maybe because my heart couldn’t bear to hold onto hope.

I ache thinking of the time we lost.

Focus on the mission, Bach’s voice whispers in my ear. His presence is unwelcome, but the advice is sound. Getting distracted will get me killed.

With effort, I make myself stop thinking about Joao and pull out my phone. News about the attack should be breaking now. I scroll to a Swiss news site, and sure enough, it’s headline news. A video is playing of a news anchor breathlessly reporting on the gruesome discovery. I plug in my headphones and turn up the volume just as they cut away to the local police chief’s news conference.

“There’s not much I can reveal,” he says, looking harried as a dozen jostling reporters shove microphones under his face. “Our investigation is in the preliminary stage.”

Phew. He says nothing about having a suspect in custody. Joao got away; of course he did. When it comes to raw talent, my husband is off the scales. He’s not going to get caught.

He’ll remain in Zurich tonight. The protocol that Bach drilled into us dictates that he spends the night in a busy hotel in the heart of the city. He’ll make no efforts to avoid detection. If he’s pretending to be a tourist, he’ll take a lake cruise tomorrow or sign up for a wine and cheese tasting. If he’s masquerading as a businessman, then he’ll make sure he’s in meetings all day.

“How many victims did you find?” a reporter demands. “Have you identified them?”

The police chief looks like he wants to be anywhere but there. “There were six homicides. We have not been able to identify them yet.”

“What about the restaurant staff? Is it true they’re all alive?”

He starts to answer, but just as he does, the broadcast cuts back to the anchor. “This just in, our reporter at the scene, Lisa Keller, is interviewing Frau Augsburger, the proprietor of the fondue restaurant. Let’s jump to Lisa.”

“Thank you, Elijah. I’m standing here with Frau Claudia Augsburger. Frau Augsburger, what can you tell us about today’s tragic events? Did you see the killer?”

Claudia Augsburger is a buxom blonde woman in her late thirties. She’s holding it together better than most people would. She’s undoubtedly had a very bad day, but she’s got a fresh coat of makeup on her face and is giving interviews to the media.

“I did not, Lisa,” she replies. “I have no idea what happened. A group had rented the restaurant for a private event. I had just finished serving the appetizers and headed back to the kitchen, where Leonie and Ava were cooking the main courses. One moment, I remember telling them to hurry, and the next moment, I’m lying on the kitchen floor.” Her face crumples. “And there were six dead bodies in the front room.”

“You didn’t see anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“You were unconscious during the entire incident? Do you think the killer drugged you?”

Not drugs. Despite what the TV shows would have you think, no drug causes instant unconsciousness. Joao would have simply applied pressure on their carotid arteries until they passed out.

“I must have been,” Frau Augsburger replies. “When I woke up, Leonie and Ava were still on the ground. My first thought was the risk of fire, but thank God, all the stoves were turned off. If he hadn’t done that, we might have gone up in flames.”

Lisa, the reporter, opens her eyes very wide. “You’re saying that you think the killer turned off the stoves?”

“I’m saying it wasn’t one of us. And that’s not the only gentlemanly thing he did. When I woke up, there was a cushion under my head.”

A sudden, unexpected, hot surge of jealousy goes through me. How considerate of Joao to put a cushion under the busty Frau’s head. God forbid she gets a crick in her neck.

I turn off my phone, lean back in my seat, and shut my eyes. What a tangled mess. There’s almost a Shakespearean quality to it all. For eight years, Joao thought that I died in a fire in Mexico, and for almost as long, I believed he drowned off the coast of France.

Yet here we are, both still alive.

Romeo and Juliet have nothing on us.

For one brief moment at the restaurant, I thought—hoped—we could get past the missing years, but that dream had shattered almost before it formed. Yes, Joao is still alive, but he lives in Venice and works for Antonio Moretti.

And when he spoke about the man, there was more than respect in his voice. There was affection.

But Moretti is one of the people who’ve bankrolled Bach’s operation. Five years ago, Henrik made a series of bad financial decisions and was on the verge of total collapse when Antonio Moretti invested three million euros into his business.

Bach’s academy would have shut down, but Moretti’s money kept it alive. As far as I’m concerned, Antonio Moretti bears just as much culpability for Bach’s crimes as my former trainer.

Even if Joao could forgive me for faking my death, he won’t be able to forgive what I’m planning to do. He’s built a full and complete life in Venice, and I am going to take a wrecking ball to it when I target his boss.

No happy endings in my future.

A tear trickles down my cheek, and then another. Before I know it, I’m full-on weeping. The kind-faced middle-aged woman in a black headscarf sitting across from me gives me several concerned looks before tentatively asking, “Is everything okay, my dear?”

“My boyfriend just broke up with me.” It’s not the exact truth, but it’s close enough.

A look of sympathy flashes over her face. She digs in her bag for a packet of Kleenex and offers me one. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I remember how sharp the loss of love can feel.” Her smile is gentle. “You’re young. You might not believe me when I tell you it gets better, but it does. In two years, he will be nothing but a distant memory. You’ll look back to this moment and wonder why you were so upset.”

Her words are kind, and she means well, so I smile back at her. “Thank you.”

I’m twenty-seven. That’s objectively young, I guess, especially from where she’s sitting. But I had no childhood to speak of, and I feel old beyond my years. And as much as I wish that what she was saying was true, I know it isn’t.

It’s been eight years, and the pain of leaving Joao hasn’t faded, not even a little bit. The heartache still lingers, agonizingly sharp and naggingly sore, as if no time as passed at all.