A Spy is Born – Emily Kimelman

I GRİP MY KEYS, the point of one protruding between my knuckles. The entrance to my apartment is right beyond the dumpsters. Ten feet away. Water mists the air, swirling in gray tendrils, turning the dark alley foggy and creepy. Brick walls rise on either side of me, closing me in—the street at my back is quiet, deserted. Fear tickles over my skin, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. A scuffling comes from near my door, and I freeze, my heart hammering. A shadowy figure steps out from behind the stinking trash dumpster. I stay frozen, breath gone, blood rushing loudly in my ears. “Hey, cutie,” a man’s voice says behind me. There are two of them! I whirl around, panic closing my throat, my fists tightening—one clutching my purse strap and the other my keys. My weapon. A tall man with greasy hair, wearing a peacoat and a smug expression, blocks my only exit. My gaze ping-pongs between the two men. I know what they want.

The shadowed figure by my door steps forward, revealing dark eyes and the low brow of a Neanderthal. They move in unison, closing in on me. Peacoat’s smug smile morphs into a hungry grin as his gaze falls onto my heaving chest. Even through the trench coat, it’s obvious I’m stacked. That’s half the reason I got this job. Crap. Stay in the moment. I plant my feet, the stiletto, thigh-high boots I’m wearing both an asset and a liability. Taking a deep breath, I bring my purse up fast and hard, whipping it at Neanderthal’s face. He steps back in mild, almost amused, surprise, and I lash out with my back leg at Peacoat.

My heel catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles away with a muttered curse. I pivot, twisting around, and step forward into a roundhouse kick that catches Neanderthal in the chin. The heel of my boot gouges him, and blood pours down his neck as he gives a cry of pain. “CUT!!!” “I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward toward the actor playing Neanderthal. He is holding his chin, blood spilling between his fingers. “What the hell, Angela?” Jack Axelrod, my director, asks from his perch above me—he and the camerawoman, Darlene Jackson, are in a cherry picker, getting the scene from the air. A medic rushes up to Neanderthal. “I’m sorry!” I yell up to my director. Jack shakes his head and says something to Darlene. She nods.

Please don’t fire me. “Let’s take a break,” Jack says, waving his hand to be lowered to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, but no one is listening. My manager, Mary Genovese, hurries over, heels clicking on the concrete floor, Birkin bag swinging from a well-muscled arm as she pushes past the medics. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, taking my elbow. “Let’s get you to your trailer.” Her heavy floral perfume stings my eyes as I follow her. We move off the set, weaving through the equipment and stepping over cords. Mary pushes open the door of the studio, and bright LA sunshine blinds me for a moment. Mary keeps moving forward, talking the entire time.

“Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to fire you for that.” “Fire me?” “They are not going to do that.” She pulls open my trailer door and pushes me up the few steps into the air-conditioned, plastic-scented space. “Have some water.” She points to a row of bottles lined up on the green granite counter. I obey, opening a bottle and taking a long sip while Mary sits on the couch and starts to type on her phone. My eyes are drawn to my Kindle, which is plugged into the wall. Can I just curl up in a ball and read now? “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mary says in a sing-songy voice, pulling my attention back to her. My chest tightens.

What now? “A little present for completing your first week on set.” “It’s not over yet,” I point out, sitting next to her on the white faux-leather cushions. She smiles at me. Mary’s dark lashes are painted with thick layers of mascara, and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is full of energy and enthusiasm. Mary believes in me and is one of the top agents in Hollywood, so I ignore the spray tan and the heavy perfume and the annoying way she orders me around. She got me this job. She’s convinced I can be a star. There’s a knock on the trailer door, and Mary pops up. “Here it is!” She opens the door, and a PA stands there, his long hair pulled into a man bun, his T-shirt and jeans just the right amount of distressed.

He’s holding a cardboard file box by the punched-out handles. He passes it to Mary. “Thanks, sweetie,” she says before closing the door. “Here you go,” she grins, handing me the package. Something inside it moves, and I screech, almost dropping it. “Careful!” “You should have warned me it was alive,” I grumble, placing it firmly on my lap and taking off the lid. Inside is a tiny little fluffball—a puppy. It looks up at me with giant brown eyes surrounded by soft white fur, the little black nose sniffing the air. The puppy jumps up at me with a squeak. I don’t know what to say.

I can barely handle taking care of myself, what am I going to do with a puppy? “It’s one of those new designer dogs, part poodle, part Dachshund. Pick it up!” I glance at Mary; she’s smiling, her gold hoops swinging back and forth as she gestures for me to pick up the dog. “It’s going to be great for your image.” Her eyes widen. “People love puppies.” I look back to the animal and scoop a hand underneath him…or her. It’s warm and soft. So tiny. I can feel ribs through the fur, and its heart flutters quickly against my palm. It wriggles, and I move the box to the floor, bringing my other hand up to clutch the small thing to my chest.

“You two look adorable! Hold on.” Mary whips out her phone and aims it at me. My face breaks out into a smile, the one I’ve perfected for social media. I’m so normal and happy and LOVE sharing with you. “Perfect,” Mary says, head bending over the phone as she posts it on my accounts. “What are you naming him?” I look down at the little guy. With the long body of a Dachshund, and the curls of a poodle, he’s funny looking. And super cute. The puppy yawns, showing off tiny pointed teeth, then spins once before curling up on my lap. He is falling asleep on me.

I kinda melt. “Should it be something funny?” I ask, scratching under his chin. He makes a little sound, a vibration of pleasure. “Sure. Anything you want.” “How about Lump?” “Loomp?” Mary looks up from the screen, her lip raised in distaste. “Yes, but spelled L–U–M–P. It was Picasso’s Dachshund.” Mary shakes her head. “I don’t think so.

” I scratch the puppy’s head, and he cuddles closer. “Okay, how about Amos or Archie? Andy Warhol’s Dachshunds.” “Those are cute. Either one will do. How do you know that, anyway?” I shrug. “That’s the kind of stuff I remember.” Useless. She nods and turns away. “I’m saying Archie. Amos might offend people who remember that old show Amos and Andy—very racist.

” “Okay, Archie.” The little dog blinks his eyes open. “Do you like that name?” He whines and wiggles closer. I bring him up to lay a kiss on his head. “That’s perfect!” Mary says, holding up her phone again. “So sweet!” Another knock at the door, and Mary goes to answer it. “Oh, hi, Jack,” she says, stepping back. I wince at the sound of the director’s voice. “Mary, can I get a moment alone with my star?” My star. I like the sound of that.

“Of course.” She reaches back into the trailer to grab her bag off the couch and raises her brows at me. This is your chance to apologize and show him you deserve to be here. Jack steps into the trailer once Mary is gone. He’s tall and strong, with gray hair and round glasses sitting at the tip of his sculpted nose, exposing his bright blue eyes. He gives me a warm smile. “Sorry I yelled at you.” My shoulders relax, releasing the tension gathered there. “Sorry I screwed up.” He shrugs, sitting down next to me.

“This is your first action movie.” I nod. “My first major role,” I say with a grateful smile. You’re giving me a chance, and I appreciate it. “I think you’ve got a lot of potential. And I know you’ve been training hard.” Seven days a week with my trainer and still managed to screw up. Ugh. “I have, but I can train harder,” I say, determined to get this right. His eyes dip down to my body for a moment.

“You look great. But we need you to have…” His eyes make it back up to mine. “More control.” “I know.” I nod. “I’ll work on it. I swear. I’m so sorry.” His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m sure you will.

” He gives my leg a squeeze before standing. “Back on in ten,” he says as he opens the door. “Oh.” Jack turns back to me, his hand on the knob, the door half open. “Come by for dinner tonight. My place in the hills. We can go over all this. I want to make sure you’re having a good experience.” “Okay,” I say, my instincts sounding an internal alarm. That’s a bad idea.

He smiles and, after one more up-and-down glance at my body, heads out the door. Mary comes in, grinning. “He invited you to his house,” she says. “That’s great. Means he’s taking an interest in your career.” “Is that what it means?” I ask, placing Archie back in his box. He turns in a circle before nuzzling in among the shredded newspaper. “Of course. Now come on. You’re needed back on set.

” I pick myself up and glance in the mirrored wall before stepping out of the trailer. Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile. I can handle whatever comes my way. THE STEPS UP to Jack Axelrod’s house are white marble. The whole thing is classic, fashionable, 1920s Hollywood glamour. Lights twinkle in the gardens surrounding the mansion. The brick driveway behind me doesn’t have one weed creeping through the crevices. I grew up with a dirt driveway. Taking a deep breath, I continue up the fabulous steps. This is the stuff old Hollywood dreams are made of…everything I want.

Everything I came to this city to get. Determined to make it all work and make this dinner a success, I knock on the imposing wooden doors, releasing a long, slow breath. The sun is setting, bright orange and glimmering in the smog over the ocean. The sky is that dark, luscious blue of almost night. A few of the brightest stars twinkle overhead. Are they smiling down at me? The door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and a woman wearing a pale blue maid’s uniform—including the crisp white apron—stands before me. Gray curls frame her smiling face. She nods to me, as if I’m important. I’m the daughter of a welder and a laundress. She doesn’t care.

Nothing matters here except what you make of yourself. This isn’t Kansas, Toto. I heft the bag Archie is sleeping in and smile. “Hi, I’m Angela,” I say. “Of course, we’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to usher me in. “Please come in. Mr. Axelrod is on the back patio.” To describe the entrance hall as anything but grand would be madness.

The ceiling soars above me, arching into a domed skylight—like that ancient church in Rome. Not that I’ve been there in person, but I’ve seen it in books. I smile at my uniformed greeter and follow her, my ridiculously high heels clicking on the tile floor as we move past a staircase that winds up the wall to the second floor. Grand. The brass railing sparkles, and thick carpeting in the same blue as the sky runs down the steps. Photographic stills from black and white films line the walls. We pass under an archway into a huge sitting room with multiple couches and chairs… lots of places for people to sit. My feet stop as my eyes catch the gold statues on the mantel. Oscar. Oh, sweet Oscar.

The housekeeper, whose name I don’t know because I’m too nervous to ask, stops with me. She waits patiently. This can’t be the first time she’s stood next to some starstruck newbie. Does she know how dry my throat is? Does she know how much I want one of those? There are four of them. Four! Best Director awards over a three-decade career, and the man still has it. I take a stuttering breath, pulling my guts back into myself from where they’ve spilled all over the fancy carpet. It looks so soft! I glance over at my guide. “They’re beautiful,” I say. What a load of crap. They are powerful.

They are everything. She nods. “Yes.” She must clean them. Gets to touch them. I wonder if he’d let me if I asked. A giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I repress it. Asking to touch a man’s Oscar. What would my grandmother say? Slut, whore, filthy woman. The anger and hate in the old woman’s voice seems to grab me around the middle in a vice that squeezes all those guts I just stuffed back into myself, threatening to spill them out again.

I swallow. “What’s your name?” I ask as the woman starts to walk again. I follow, my legs leaden but loosening with each step as I get further away from those statues. It’s as if they have some kind of aura around them—some kind of witchcraft spun into the gold. “Nancy,” she answers quietly, almost like she doesn’t want me to know. Somehow, it reminds me of something…but what? A lamb to the slaughter. An image of the sheep we raised on our small farm flashes across my mind—they are standing in the rain, the lambs close to their mothers, my father striding through the storm to do his duty. “My real name is Stacy,” I admit boldly, strangely, out of the blue. Nancy turns to look over her shoulder, her brows conferencing in confusion. Why did I tell her that? She gives me a half smile.

“I’m sure lots of actresses change their name. You’re Angela now, dear, as long as you want to be.” I nod, blushing. I’m acting like an idiot. And that is so not new. But I got here, didn’t I? Nancy reaches the sliding glass doors we’ve been walking toward and pulls one open, revealing the back patio. The view stops me again. All of LA is spread before me. It’s glittering. And there—oh, right there! The Hollywood sign is lit up, seeming so tiny in contrast to the sparkling city.

Archie stirs from within the purse Mary gave me to carry him around in and pokes his head out, looking around for a second before licking my hand. All he sees is a blurry screen of black and white, from what I’ve read about puppy development. Maybe I really should have named him Toto… Jack rises from a cushioned chair and steps forward, his movements as elegant as his pressed linen shirt and casual jeans. He’s barefoot, and something about that sends a thrill through me. It’s strangely intimate. Jack Axelrod, Oscar-winning director, is smiling at me, holding out a hand…not wearing any shoes…all of LA behind him. Almost like he’s offering it to me. But what is the price? Your soul, my grandmother’s pinched voice pierces through me. A smile comes to my lips as I boldly walk through the opening. It’s just me and Jack, here to talk about my starring role in his movie.

I throw on my warmest, most intimate smile—the one that says I’m totally fascinated by the person in front of me. And in this case, it’s not acting. JACK POURS me another glass of wine. My second and last, I note to myself, as a warm flush is already moving up my neck. So far, it’s going well. My limbs are loose, my laugh genuine, and Archie is doing a good job of being a cutie pie. Jack has bright eyes—they look like sapphires and emeralds had the most beautiful babies. They remind me of the deepest waters of the Caribbean… I went there once. On a photo shoot. Was sick as a dog on the boat.

But I got the shot. And I saw that pristine turquoise water, I luxuriated in it. “Are you ready to eat?” Jack asks me. “Yes, please.” He smiles and stands, offering me a hand. Gentlemanly. He’s not coming on to me. Doesn’t mean he won’t. But I’m prepared. I’m not going to sleep with him.

Not only is he old enough to be my father, he’s also my boss. I might be from Podunk, Kansas, but I know that’s a bad idea…lessons can be learned the easy way sometimes. The light breeze is sweet, and it plays with my hair, almost like a lover’s touch. This city loves me. I trip, falling forward a little. Jack catches me, his arm warm and tight on my waist. I’m drunker than I thought. “Sorry,” I say, my speech slurring enough that a flicker of concern tightens my gut. I only had one glass. This is three-whiskey drunk Stacy, not one-glass-of-fine-Sancerre tipsy Angela.

Jack’s eyes are close, so glittering…like the city. Will he hurt me? What a strange thought. I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzziness. “Do you need to lie down?” he asks, his voice filled with concern. He’s a good actor, too. Started out in front of the screen back in the late 70s. He was a real hottie then. Still is in his early 60s. But I don’t want him to touch me. There is an edge to that glittering gaze, the sharp edge of hard stone.

He does not care about me. You’re a slut. My grandmother’s seething voice sends a wave of nausea through me. “I think…I’m not sure what’s happening,” I admit, bringing a hand to my forehead. It’s clammy. I’m clammy. Archie pokes his head out of the bag again, licking my forearm. “Here,” Jack says. “There is a couch in the living room; you can lay down and take a rest. We can eat later.

” He’s moving me into the house. My feet are numb, and I’m tipping side to side, the only thing keeping me moving is Jack’s hold around my waist. I wince; God, he’s holding me tight. It’s like the pain is the only thing holding me here. I’m on the verge of drifting away. I’m on the verge of losing something… He drugged me. The realization is a shock of cold water—like falling through a frozen pond. I stop…or I try. My legs are not working right. Archie gives an alarmed yelp as his bag swings wide with my unsteady movement.

“Wait,” I say…or at least I try to say. Blackness is edging my vision. The icy pond is sucking me under, the weight of my clothing dragging me down. Swim! Something inside me screams. It’s not my voice. It’s not Gramma’s. It’s not any voice I’ve ever heard before. I spin away, the martial arts classes I’ve been taking pulling muscle memory from deep inside me. Jack’s hold breaks, and I flail widely, my arms pinwheeling, Archie’s bag drops onto the floor. He squeaks at the impact.

I keep moving, my vision a swirling mix of colors. I slam into something hard, and air oofs out of me. A lamp tips, the shattering of broken glass accompanying our dip into near darkness. My eyes are not working. I grasp the table that stopped me, holding on to my mind, to what’s left of my vision. “Dammit!” Jack curses. “What are you doing, you drunk bitch? That was a very expensive lamp.” He’s grabbing me again; pain, a dangerous, burning pain, lights in my bicep at his touch. “Let go of me,” I slur. “Shut up,” he commands.

My hand searches across the surface of the table I’m holding. My fingers find something big—a bowl, maybe. I grip it. Hot breath hits my cheek. “You need to lie down.” Jack’s voice has gone soft again. “I’m not drunk; you put something in my drink,” I think I say, but it comes out all distorted. Distorted like my vision, like the room. Shit, the whole kaleidoscope is spinning. Am I moving? He’s dragging me.

Then Jack picks me up, and everything tilts. I search for that small, familiar coal of inner strength and, closing my eyes, breathe on it, getting it to glow a bright orange—the way I did when I built the courage to come out here from Kansas. This is how I hunted down the bruises left by my grandma and covered them with makeup because I figured she was better than foster care. The devil you know. This burning coal gave me the power to march into Mary’s office and tell her she would regret not taking me on as a client. The light from this latest blaze brightens, and with it my senses return. My back is moving, something rough underneath me is rubbing my skin. I hear Archie barking, but far away. There is hot breath on my face…the huff of desire, of sexual satisfaction. Fabric tears, the sound sharp.

Air hits between my legs. My breasts are exposed—cold. Sharp teeth bite a nipple, and the pain throws gasoline onto the flames of the fire I’m tending. My eyes pry apart. That’s when I feel him at my entrance. Oh no—hell no. Rolling, turning with all my strength, I knock him away. Sharp fingers in my hair pull me back. Jack’s eyes are right above mine. They are no longer those Caribbean depths—now they are the shallow, dangerous shores of the Pacific, roiled and dark, with flecks of white swirling.

His lips crush onto mine, stealing my breath, but not my strength. His tongue invades me as he tries to position himself again. My hands are empty. I lost whatever I was holding. But I still have my nails. I bring them up—these long, fake, plastic artifices of femininity. My weapons. I rake them down Jack’s cheeks, cutting through his rough stubble and digging into that famous face. Warm blood follows the force of my dragging fingers. The smell—that metallic tang of life force—invades me, stoking my fire.

You’d think liquid would quell flame, but that’s not what happens here. I want more. I want to unleash all his blood. Jake Axelrod is going to pay. He cries out, his mouth leaving mine, and pulls away. I blink, struggling to focus. I’m lying on a rug on the floor of a room, the ceiling high above me. I’m naked. I can’t let him get away, because he will come back. This isn’t going to end well for either of us.

He chose the wrong country bumpkin. I am more than he knows. I built my own damn pyre of strength. He can take nothing from me. I roll onto my side. Jack is pressed against the side of a couch. He’s not wearing any pants. One hand holds an injured cheek. “You stupid bitch,” he says. His eyes land on me.

“You fucking slut.” I don’t try to make my mouth work. I can’t waste the fire on words. I need to burn him down. Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I keep an eye on Jack, refusing to lose consciousness again. Refusing to lose sight of him. Jack is staring at his blood streaked hand. He can’t believe what I did. I let my eyes track the rest of the room. We are in the living room I passed through to get to the patio. The one the kindly housekeeper led me through. Where is she? A shiver brings goosebumps over my bare flesh. She knows. She knew. This is what he does. I’m not the first. I won’t be the last. His eyes find mine, and a spark leaps into his gaze. He’s got his own fire. And the blood on his hand is like kerosene. Jack launches at me, bowling us both over, knocking into another table hard enough to tip the lamp on it, rolling the thing onto the floor, breaking the bulb and sinking us into near-darkness. The only light left comes from the city outside and the fires burning in each of us. I taste the smoke of our contradicting desires, feel the flame of our wills, the soft linen of his shirt and the rough stubble of his beard as we struggle. Wriggling, slithering, inelegant-but-effective movements free me from his clenches. Fingers tight on my ankle, he drags me back under him. My fists flail, connecting with his jaw, sticky blood coating my knuckles. He doesn’t cry out in pain but makes this weird grunt. Not sexual satisfaction, but close. I kick out, or try, but he’s on top of me again. I struggle, my back burning against the carpet. I inhale a sharp breath as a shard of something cuts me, warm blood blooming between me and the rug. I have to get out from under him. His fingers grab at my wrists, and weight bears down on my stomach, making it hard to breath. He’s got my left hand. I kick harder, desperate now. Really waking up, all this movement throwing off the shroud of the drug he put in my drink. Lucid thought beckons, almost in reach. I stretch out mentally, grasping for clarity, but fall back onto instinct as the drug crowds my thoughts into the hazy, smoke-filled space of my subconscious, where my fire burns. Strength infuses my limbs, and I lash out, desperate to be on the offense. I’m not subtle, or gentle. I’m not some little girl. No way! A primal scream rips from my throat, and he is stilled by it. By my power. Using his momentary surprise, I kick my way out from under him. He falls back into shadows, and I scramble to my feet, still facing him. He rises slowly as I back up, my butt hitting another couch. My hand grasps it, and I move along its solid back. He’s blocking the way forward. I risk a glance over my shoulder. The fireplace is to my right, the patio doors a straight shot down the wall and behind another couch. My vision jitters as I bring it back to him. He shatters into a kaleidoscope of Jacks, all moving toward me with the slow, steady pace of a man who thinks he’s won. He has won. His whole life. A shudder shakes me, my stomach cramping on emptiness and fear. My hand leads me along the edge of the couch. Archie’s barking starts up again as I reach the end of it. Where is he? I’m going to have to run, but I don’t know if my legs can hold me. I turn and launch myself from the steady support of the couch, flying forward, ungainly and sloppy. My bare feet touch the cold marble of the hearth. I’m falling forward. My hands fly out, grasping the edge of the mantel. It’s cold and smooth, slippery against my palms—slick with sweat and fear. I grip the mantel, dragging myself along it. The gold of the Oscar statues twinkles in the low light. Four stoic forms, all lined up— immune to the horror show playing out in front of them. Fingers dig into my hair, grasping a chunk of it, and rip back my head. I move with the pain for a moment but then lurch forward, trying to twist away, gripping the mantel even harder. Jack grunts. I grasp the closest Oscar. It’s cold and solid and heavy. Jack’s arm comes around my bare waist, the softness of his shirt in contrast with the roughness of his hold. He drags me back, and we fall together onto a couch, me on top. My legs are spread, his arm under my breasts, and hot breath on my neck. A swipe of his tongue against my flushed skin turns me wild with rage, with fear, with every instinct out there. They all flare, the perfect fuel for my flame. “No!” I yell. And it comes out clear. Unmistakable. Jack thrusts his hips up, the hard line of him rubbing against my bare ass, wriggling to get in. A mind of its own. A member apart. I thrash, the statue in my hand landing against Jack’s shoulder, loosening his grip on my middle. Surging forward, I fly onto the coffee table, pushing big, heavy books off its polished glass surface onto the floor. I thought that rug looked so soft when I came through here earlier—didn’t know how much it could burn. Weight lands on my back, pressing me into the table, and—oh my God! No, no, no— he has me down. He’s trying to…I twist hard, bringing the statue up and around with all my strength. It connects with his temple, the sound a sickening thunk. A disgusting cracking. I just broke something. He falls away, limp. My heaving breath is the only sound in the room. I scramble away, pulling myself up onto a nearby chair. Gray light filters in through the tall patio doors. Scanning the room, I see one of my shoes in the open doorway of the patio. Where are my clothes? They must be behind the couch. Jack isn’t moving. Is he dead? I can’t look. I need to leave. The thought is sluggish, fighting through the loud rushing of blood in my ears and the hard, terrified gallop of my heart. My eyes travel wildly over the couch in front of me, cushions askew, then to the mantel, where that one Oscar is missing, then down onto the coffee table. A sweaty imprint from my body mars the glass, big art books are open and crumpled on the carpeting below. A shudder runs over me and my stomach flips, threatening to empty. My eyes finally, slowly, fall onto Jack, a slumped, pants-less form on the floor. His legs and ass look so white. His pale blue shirt has gone gray in the darkness. Jack’s hair looks darker in this light…my eyes drop to my hand, to the statue still gripped there. Blood. There is blood on Oscar’s head. My fingers grip the statue’s ankles so tightly they hurt. Throbs of pain suddenly awaken all over me. There is a bite mark on my breast, a cut on my back, bruises all over me. Tears blur my vision. I can’t see again. A deep heave racks through me, and I double over, retching at my feet, the bile splattering my ankles, wrecking the carpet…well, the blood probably already did that. What is happening? I heave again. But there is nothing left, nothing left to release. I got it all out. Struggling back onto the chair, I curl around the statue, my gaze drifting back to Jack’s slumped form. He’s not moving. I should check on him. A thought passes by, at first like a drifting cloud, then suddenly insistent. Jack Axelrod is dead. I killed him.

.

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