Requiem for an Assassin

jacket, not an empty glass. Other than the lights and the fire, in fact, there was no sign that anyone had been using the room.
    Suddenly, she was concerned. Rain had sophisticated enemies, and look what had happened to Dox. What if someone had…
    Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. The hotel’s security was designed to protect Hollywood glitterati. They were safe here. And even if his judgment were off, Rain was still the most thorough, cautious, paranoid tactician she’d ever known. He was just out—taking a swim, or using the gym, or maybe strolling in one of the gardens.
    She walked into the bedroom, scanning reflexively. Still no sign of him—no clothes lying around, not even an impression in the bedspread where he might have been sitting. Ah, there, on one of the dressers—a bottle of 1971 Glenmorangie. A good single malt, that was John. She glanced inside the walk-in closet, and saw a navy cashmere blazer on a hanger, and a pair of Camper loafers she recognized as his tucked neatly into a corner. She smiled. She knew there were women who would kill to have a man so neat, but it could be a little spooky at times. It was in Rain’s nature to move, and to live, without leaving sign.
    She walked into the enormous bathroom with its soft white tile and mirrors and sensible light, and found a few toiletries in a drawer. And then, next to one of the sinks, a note. Okay. She picked it up.
    On the grounds, the note read. Back by 7:00.
    She looked at her watch. It was 6:15 now. She was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t waiting for her, and wondered what he was doing. She recognized the note itself was a concession: he didn’t like revealing anything that might enable someone to anticipate him, whether it was a restaurant reservation or a simple note describing his whereabouts. The vague reference was a compromise, but because she knew him, she could probably fill in the blanks, as he knew.
    She guessed a workout. The gym was right around the corner. If he wasn’t there, she would just wait for him here. She peeked out at the private patio—half security habit, half curiosity—and liked what she saw: a hot tub sunken among the flagstones, rising steam illuminated by an underwater light; a pair of chaise longues, surrounded by ferns and hibiscus flowers; a high brick wall surrounding it all. She imagined the hot tub with John later and it gave her a little shiver. She took a quick shower and went out to find him.
    The gym was a large former cottage that had been gutted, carpeted, and outfitted with the latest equipment. It had a high ceiling and large windows. Delilah glanced inside, and immediately saw Rain. He was in a corner, barefoot, in shorts and a tee-shirt, doing squats. She watched, fascinated. She knew he worked out and he’d told her a bit about his solo routines, but she’d never seen him. He was going fast now, squat, stand, squat, stand, occasionally brushing a wet strand of hair back from his eyes. She didn’t know how many he’d done before she started watching, but she counted two hundred and fifty, and then fifty more where at the end of every rep he leaped into the air.
    He paused for a moment, and she sensed he was going to scan the windows. She stepped to the side and waited for a moment so he wouldn’t see her. She wanted to keep watching.
    After a few seconds, she looked back inside. Rain was doing handstand push-ups, freestanding, not against the wall. Slowly this time: up, down onto his forehead, hold, then up again. She counted ten, and then he dropped over into a back bridge and did fifty more push-ups, inverted. A dark line of sweat ran down the front of his tee-shirt.
    He flipped over and stood, and Delilah moved out of the way again. When she looked back inside, he was hanging from the horizontal bar of one of the machines, his hands spaced widely. She looked more closely…was he using just his fingertips? Yes, he was. He did twenty pull-ups, then dropped down and shadowboxed in front of the mirror. No, it wasn’t just shadow boxing, she realized; he was incorporating other elements, ripping and grappling movements she recognized, like some kind of customized karate kata. As he circled around, she caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes were closed, and she was surprised, even disconcerted, at the intensity of his expression. This was no dance for him, she knew; the movements were techniques he could use, had used, to kill. She wondered what, or whom, he was