by A. Sparrow
But then again, I was more a courier than a killer. I was just making a delivery. It was Wendell who created the Fellstraw. And it was the nurse who would be committing the actual act. But I tried not to think about it too much. I just couldn’t process the magnitude of the deed.
My first murder. The lead-up summoned a far different feeling from any of my other firsts. First time behind the wheel of a car. First date with a girl. This was just as nerve-wracking, but there was something fiendish and nightmarish about taking a life.
I was under no illusions that this little errand would get Wendell out of my hair. I could tell what he was doing, leading me along, giving me a taste of what it would be like to work for him and the Frelsians as a high-paid assassin. I had no intention of following him any farther down that path, but like Urszula had said, it would buy time. To what end, I wasn’t sure yet.
At least it was pretty country up here. A lot flatter than I expected to see in a place called the Green Mountain State. Lots of fields and meadows. Cows and barns everywhere. There was supposed to be a big old lake up here. Champlain, I guess it was called, but I never caught even a glimpse of it from these flat lands.
I took care not to go too much over the speed limit. I had no license. No identification whatsoever.
When I got to town, I had to stop and ask for directions to Winooski Avenue. Turned out I had overshot it and had to double back. The houses here were a weird combination of quaint, rundown and majestic all interspersed within the space of one block. The configurations were diverse. No two built exactly alike, quite a change from Fort Pierce, where whole subdivisions had the same layout and palette. But I guess that’s the way things are up here. People built their houses one at a time.
The Lakeview Assisted Living Center didn’t look like much. It had no view of any lake, as far as I could see. It was just an old, bloated and triple-decker house with a fenced-in yard, surrounding by other houses in varying stages of dilapidation. Apparently, the winters were rough on paint jobs up here. It was not the ritziest neighborhood in Burlington.
As I stepped out of the car, I realized I had forgotten to stop for flowers. I racked my mind to try and remember if I had seen any florists on the way. But I hadn’t really been looking for any.
One of the neighbors had some daffodils and tulips in the flower bed. Those along the front walk were kind of old and bedraggled, but there was a row of bicolor tulips on the shadier side of the house that had yet to come into bloom.
I looked up and down the street. There was no one around, so I bustled over to the next yard and snapped off a good half a dozen blossoms. It wasn’t ideal, but it was going to have to do.
So I went back to the Center, ascending a rather steep, makeshift wheelchair ramp made of painted plywood and hit the switch for the automatic door. Inside, there was a small lobby with a threadbare all-weather carpet, mottled with random stains and bleach marks. The air smelled like a blend of urine and antiseptic.
A girl in her twenties sat behind a desk, reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey.’ The name on her tag read ‘Joyce.’ She had the kind of eyes that made her look like she was always laughing, and a smile that had every right to be forced, but seemed quite genuine. I smoothed my hair and smoothed the bulge of the IV bag under my jacket.
“Visiting?” she asked.
I resisted the sarcastic urge to say ‘no, I’m checking in.’ I just nodded.
She slid over a log book with a green cloth-bound cover. “You need to sign in. Lunch starts in half an hour, just so you know.”
“I’m just here to say a quick hello. I was passing through town.”
Without thinking, I almost signed my own name. I went as far as scrawling a ‘J.’ Instead of James, I wrote John. John Beedle. I wrote in 11:01 as the time.
“Oh! It’s you! You’re finally here!”
“Me? What?”
“You’re Elsie’s grand-nephew! She’s been expecting you. She’s like … all excited. Telling everybody about it for days. Elsie’s the closest thing to a celebrity that we’ve ever had here. A famous artist. But you know that. But she hasn’t had a visitor in the longest while.”
“Yeah, I … uh … I don’t get up to Burlington very often.”
The girl stood and pointed her pen down a corridor. “Go right after the double doors. Her room is down the end of the hall, last door on the left. “Number 29.”
I mumbled a thank you and shuffled away. I couldn’t help thinking of that old folk’s home in Switzerland, where I had visited the real Luther and his namesake.
I found the door to Room 29 partway open. I rapped my knuckles on it gently.
“Mrs. Beedle?”
“Yes?”
“I’m … uh … I’m here to visit … uh … it’s … uh … John, your nephew … er … grand-nephew.”
“Oh, John! Yes! Of course. Do come in!” Her voice was strong and cheerful.
I pushed through the door and closed it behind me. The first things that caught my eye were some stunning needlepoint tapestries hanging on the wall. They were swirly, blotchy impressionistic things had a complexity of color and composition that went way beyond the usual kitschy, folksy scenes you see of little kids and cats. I don’t how anyone could have gotten the colors of all those threads to blend so smoothly, not without spell craft anyhow.
Mrs. Beedle sat upright on one of those adjustable beds. Some PBS cooking show was playing on her TV. Her hair was like a corona, pale gray mostly but with enough traces of blonde mixed in to make it look stained. She was quite alert but frail, a withered-looking thing. She reminded me of some of those partly mummified Old Ones I had awakened from the long sleep.
She had classic, symmetrical features, high cheekbones, well-balanced nose and chin. This was not just anybody’s grandma. She had the air of an executive or a queen. She could have been a model or actress in her prime. This run-down nursing home seemed below her station.
The sharpness in her gaze told me she suffered no fools and took no prisoners. And yet, they weren’t totally devoid of empathy. There was warmth in those embers.
“I brought you these.” I thrust out my pathetic bouquet. One of the tulip stems had bent and the bloom had flopped over.
“Oh, they’re gorgeous! Won’t you be a dear and tuck them in that glass vase on the window sill. There’s a sink in the bathroom.”
My hands shook as I rinsed the vase and arranged the tulips so at least they weren’t sticking in all direction. Once that was done, I just stood there sheepishly, shifting my weight between my feet, rocking.
“Don’t be shy,” she said. “The bag you’re looking for is right there on my night stand. All you need to do is swap them.”
“So … you know.”
“Of course I know. I commissioned this hit. I planned and specified it.”
“Hit?”
She rolled her eyes.
“It’s just … should we really be talking about these things out in the open? What if somebody’s listening?”
“Who’s going to overhear us? Most of these octogenarians are deafer than me. And besides, that’s why I paid for a private room.”
I shuffled closer to the night stand, checking the corners of the ceiling for security cameras. “So … uh … how are things … back in Frelsi?” I said, making small talk to allay my nervousness. I was acutely aware of that heavy, Fellstraw-infested bag tucked inside my jacket and anxious to be rid of it and yet I thought it rude to seem too hasty.
“The Sanctuary is coming together nicely, I must say. But the Hemi sectors are still a shambles. All thanks to you, Wendell tells me.”
“Well … I had help.”
She gave me a wry grin. “Indeed you did. From the living and the dead. I’m just glad you’re on our side now.”
“Actually, I’m … uh … neutral, I guess. I’ve got friends on all sides.”
She smirked. “Neutral? There is no neutral in the Liminality. You either support us or you don’t. An
d what I see in front of me, is an act of support.”
“I’m not doing this voluntarily … to help Frelsi. I was coerced.”
She sighed deeply. “Oh, you’ll come around. You’ll soon see that this is the best of all jobs. We go everywhere. See everything. And the compensation cannot be beat. Seems mundane, what we do. A service job. But we’re the elite of the elite. There are not many like us, who can bring the craft to the living.”
“We? Us?”
“Yes. I am a Facilitator, too. Was. Did Wendell not tell you? I’ve had a long and successful career, but … alas … thanks to my rheumatism … I’ve outlived my usefulness. Can’t very well do my job all cooped up in a nursing home.”
“What are you doing in a dump like this? I thought you guys were like … really rich.”
Her eyes bore into me. “These are not my usual digs,” she said. “But I thought a lower tier nursing home might be less intimidating to a beginner like you. Less security. Better cover as well. More plausible that my demise could be explained as medical errors if death by natural causes doesn’t fly. Less likely to involve a quality autopsy or inquisition.”
I slipped the IV bag out of my pocket and swapped it with the one on the nightstand.
“Now that’s a good fellow. Welcome to the trade. It seem like a simple step you’ve just taken, but it’s a large one, believe me. The psychological hurdle to taking lives can be immense.”
“Your nurse isn’t gonna get into trouble for this, is she?”
“Not at all. There’s nothing traceable. Fellstraw is the cleanest neurotoxin imaginable. Even the best autopsy shouldn’t find anything that isn’t already there.” She reached towards her bedside table and winced, grabbing her shoulder with her other arm. “Can you do me a favor dear and hand me that knitting basket. I have something in it for you.”
I rounded the bed and fetched the basket, placing it gently on her bed. It was heavier than I expected for a bunch of yarn and knitting needles. She removed the oblong lid and reached into the bottom, grimacing at the strain it put on her arthritic fingers.
She fished around and pulled out a gun. A small gun, but real nonetheless. All blocky and serious looking.
I backed away towards the door and fumbled with the latch.
“Oh stop! Don’t be silly. I’m not going to shoot you. Here, take this. I mean it as a gift. A token tool of our trade. Consider this is a changing of the guard.” She handed me the gun, grip first.
I took it from her reluctantly, as if it were a hot potato.
“The gun, by the way, is not for use against clients. There are more efficient means for that, as I am sure you are aware. It’s more for deterrence against those who might interfere with our tasks. Family and friends of the clientele sometimes get in the way. Understandably, they get the wrong impression about the service we’re providing for their loved ones. They mean well, of course, but a little gun waving now and then helps to discourage them. And then again, there are special situations where only a gun will do. I mean, this one’s not ideal. It’s just a little .25 caliber Ruger. Its trigger action is light and gentle, perfect for someone like me with my rheumatism. Not much stopping power, but it will kill just fine if you aim for the right spots. Because sometimes, we do need to shoot people. In some walks of life, that is actually the least suspicious way to die, if you do it right.”
“I’m not sure about this,” I said. “I’ve never really used a gun. I’m not … comfortable …. with them.”
“Oh, just take it and put it away. Otherwise I will have to dispose of it in the shrubbery. It would reflect badly on me if they find it in my possessions when I pass. Might make some bored investigator a little too nosey about my past.”
I stood there, my finger in the trigger guard, the gun dangling, me gawking at it.
“Put that away before the nurse comes by!” she hissed. She fished around again into the basket and pulled out a key.
“Oh, and here. This is for a safety deposit box in Rutland. The address is printed on the tag. You’ll find my updated will for all my savings and properties. My entire estate. And as for territory, the entire East coast is yours if you want it. Wendell is just here temporarily. He’s usually just a coordinator and I’m sure he’d love to get back to handling his celebrities, luminaries and special cases.”
I just stood there and stared back at her. She smiled. “You’re a young one to have so much craft. A prodigy. Just like Wendell had been when I first met him. You know, I was the one who put him through the ropes. And I had him kill my mentor for his first job, just like this. It’s the circle of life. Oh come now. Give me a hug.”
I went over to her bedside, hesitant. She leaned over and gave me a gentle squeeze and a peck on the cheek. I looked her straight in the eye. There was kindness blended with her coldness.
“I really don’t have the stomach for this. I don’t know why you guys picked me.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what they all say. It’s a beginner’s conceit. No one likes to kill, but it’s not really killing that we do, is it? We facilitate transitions. It’s more like a freeing. Opening up a door for a caged soul.”
I just stood there and looked at her, at the half-drained IV bag trickling through a catheter taped to her wrist and then at the fresh bag I had just delivered, containing whatever devilish construct Wendell had crafted out of its carbon.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Buy you a magazine? Get you some take-out food?”
“Oh, you mean like a last meal? That’s so sweet of you, but I’m perfectly fine and ready as is. I’ve been preparing for this a long time now. There is a celebration waiting for me on the other side, up at the glaciers. I’ll be moving into a brand new tower in the Sanctuary. Thanks to your naughtiness, there has been some redevelopment and enhancement of our residential structures. The new towers are even more spacious and elegant than before. War isn’t all bad after all, or at least, its aftereffects. It can be quite stimulatory. Creative destruction, you know?”
“Can I ask you a favor?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“My mother lives there, in the Sanctuary.”
“Really? I had no idea,” she said, with amazement. “Does Wendell know about this?”
“I don’t know what he knows. Doesn’t seem like there’s much he doesn’t know. But my mom, I’m pretty sure she’s already a Freesoul. Her name is Darlene. Darlene Moody. I saw her there once, when I was in Frelsi, but she didn’t remember me. If you see here, can you tell her you met her son. Remind her, that she has a son.”
“Well, this I can do, certainly but it all sounds rather odd. Why wouldn’t she know she had a son?”
“I don’t know. She acted like she had amnesia or was brainwashed or something. They re-engineered her. Made her look younger. I think they messed with her brain.”
“Preposterous. They would do no such thing. Flesh weaving is strictly cosmetic.”
“No. I’m telling you, she was changed. They did something to her. I’m just saying to watch out. The same thing could happen to you.”
Her face went sour, but she kept her composure.
“I’ll take note of her mother’s name. The Sanctuary is quite exclusive. But it doesn’t surprise me that she’s there, considering your accomplishments and skills. Whatever you have, obviously runs in the family. Your mother should be proud, to have a boy so talented.”
“Thanks,” I said. I kept staring at that shriveled IV bag hanging on that stand, that tube draining into the catheter taped to her wrist. My head felt like it was starting to swell. My sinuses seemed to thicken.
“Good … good luck.” I didn’t know what else to say. Before any tears could dribble, I turned and rushed out of the room.
***
I sat in the car staring out the windshield for many long minutes, wondering what to do, where to go next. I had strong reservations about returning to that cottage on Lake Dunmore. I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn what We
ndell had done to Urszula. Could she already be back in the Deeps, having lost her second chance at life?
And I struggled to decide what would be best for Ellen. Maybe I should do what she did for her Grams and break off all contact. Run. That would give Wendell no reason to take her out. He was just preying on my emotional connections. There was no reason for him to harm her if I showed no signs of caring for her fate.
The problem was, I did care. And it showed in my diffidence. If I really hadn’t cared, I would have been on the road already, zooming westward.
But I failed to see how going back to the cottage would make things any better. Wendell could pull this shit all over again with another victim until I did his bidding. I wouldn’t be an assassin’s apprentice. I would be his slave.
I started up the car and visions from Billy started up, flickering at first and then with a steady barrage of imagery that made it hard for me to shift my attention to the road.
He had obviously recovered from his attack and was back out in the open, zipping around the woods and meadows like a manic hummingbird. He zipped down to the lake, skimming low over the water, past that blonde girl, Wendell’s girlfriend, skipping stones. And then he zoomed up the bank past the cottage. There were two cars in the driveway: Wendell’s slate gray Cadillac and a silver Subaru.
And then I realized that Billy was Wendell’s tool. Even though Billy was technically part of me, I didn’t have any control over him. As long as he provided these intrusive visions, Wendell could make sure I witnessed every brutal detail of whatever he wanted me to see. There was no way I could put the cottage and the girls out of my mind and unlink their fate from mine. I was a captive audience for Wendell’s threats and retributions.
I slammed the Camry into gear and headed south, back to Lake Dunmore.
Chapter 26: Treegirl
Billy’s visions sputtered to a halt soon after I left Burlington for the countryside. The last thing he showed me was a close-up view of a patch of moss growing in the crook of a tree branch, broken up into dozens of smaller pictures like a mosaic. I don’t know if this meant he was in trouble again or if the image was supposed to help me somehow. I hoped he was okay.
