Stolen Souls

85

AFTER AN HOUR of phone calls, and another hour of self-punishment, Arturas Strazdas began to pull himself together. He had been through the process before, reassembling himself from the pieces that had scattered over the previous hours and days.

He always began with a period of silence and contemplation. Sitting quite still, recounting every wound he had inflicted on himself, remembering that he was a sane man, and sane men did not harm themselves like this. Sane men channeled their rage, used it to fuel their lives, not destroy them.

The contact had said the girl’s elimination was now a matter of when, not if. Strazdas had no reason to stay in this city a minute longer than necessary. He should be in the taxi provided for him, the contact said, and on his way to the airport by ten in the morning. If not, a police car would come for him instead. And that would take him to a station for questioning.

One or the other, the contact said, simple as that.

So Strazdas took him at his word and set about his own reconstruction.

Once he felt sufficiently balanced in his mind, he shaved and showered before dressing himself in a fresh shirt and his good travel suit. His stomach gargled, and he checked the bedside clock.

Almost five in the morning.

Would they provide room service at this time? Some toast, perhaps, and a boiled egg?

He would try. A sane man has to eat. And Arturas Strazdas was, most definitely, a sane man.