By Way of Pain: Criminal Delights: Assassins

by Dabney, J. M.

  The person I truly was deep down—that's who I hid from all I came across. I turned off all the lights as I made my way out of my office. It was time to make my way to the pickup point. When I exited the building, I categorized my surroundings. I knew every inch of this part of town by heart. Strangers weren't a common sight.

  No unfamiliar cars or people loitering about, a group of teenagers who took up post in front of the bodega across the street pretended to be more dangerous than they were. Arrogance was a downfall. The quickest way to underestimating your opponent was to think you were superior in battle.

  At a safe distance, I pushed the remote start on my key fob and waited a few minutes before I approached to open the door. I tossed my briefcase to the passenger side and slid onto the driver's seat. Even as it appeared that I wasn't, I paid attention to the view outside the windows of my vehicle. The place I'd find my assignment packet was a secluded spot in the city's central park.

  This time of day before dinner, the park was filled with people doing their evening runs. Stenton was on the cusp of fall, still holding onto the warmth of late summer and everyone took advantage before the brutal winters started. I signaled to take the turn into the parking area and got out. I removed my tie and jacket, rolled the sleeves of my dress shirt over my scarred forearms.

  To everyone else, I was just another businessman taking a stroll after a long day at the office. I inhaled the fresh scent of cut grass and took the path to a bench near a pond in an isolated corner of the area. It was all so cliched really. The clandestine, hidden envelope would be destroyed in my fireplace after I'd committed the details to memory. If I had a sense of humor, I might even find all of this comical, but that was also another sign of humanity I didn't quite get.

  I sat down, crossed my legs to rest my left ankle on my right knee and curled my hand under the edge of the seat. The package gave with only the slightest of pressure. I didn't think to open it. I enjoyed the silence of the moment hidden away in a copse of trees where no one had yet started to clear the leaves from the cobblestone paths. The shimmering gradient of the dying sunset playing across the crisp water fascinated me for a few moments, yet boredom quickly grew.

  I stood and headed back to my vehicle, deciding on stopping to pick up dinner on the way home.

  Cooking wasn't one of the menial tasks that I enjoyed. Yes, I knew how to cook, but only because I tried to camouflage myself. Tried to learn tasks other normal people found enjoyable. It served me well. But how much longer could I stave off the inevitable need for more? Killing was routine, it meant no more to me than the fleeting pleasure I received from it, but I'd lost count of the bodies. Faceless specters forgotten just as quickly as the life drained from their eyes.

  I'd made Stenton my base of operation, but I traveled everywhere to complete my jobs. Nothing kept me in one place, how long would the killing sustain me before I no longer had that? I'd exterminated the last of my biological ties to this world decades ago. Everyone who crossed my path, the ones who might remember me were taken out with no more remorse than the strangers I assassinated. I took pride in my work. My hands were stained with blood and everything in me blackened and rotten. I was born a monster with my fate sealed the second I cried out with my first breath.

  Chapter Two

  Harrison

  I stroked the angel carved into sun-warmed stone. I placed the cheap grocery store bouquet atop it. Pain and loneliness took me to my knees.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I cleaned the debris from around her headstone. Granted there wasn't much, I'd been here a week before, and the week before that. Friday evenings I always visited her to tell her about my week. Even five years later, I still missed her. Until I was twenty-five, she and I were the only people we had. She'd withered away over the years. The cancer had started taking her from me when I was thirteen. Her numerous remissions were only brief months of respite. We tried to act as if life were normal while she was healthy. Yet, we knew it would all end with one blood test. Her genetic predisposition to cancer had turned out to be a death sentence.

  We'd lived on borrowed time, and while I was thankful her pain ended, in my selfishness, I'd wanted her to hold on just a bit longer.

  “I hate my job,” I whispered into the breeze that caressed across my face. The tsking and weak chuckle in my head caused me to smile for the first time in days. “I know. First job, I was lucky to get it with no job experience.”

  I'd acted as caretaker for her so long. Locked away in the house, losing friends even though the night nurse allowed me some semblance of freedom. I felt guilty on my nights out, laughing and drinking with my dwindling friend group.

  Sometimes, I thought the scent of death clung to me and they'd sensed it; infected them with a dark cloud with no silver lining. I didn't blame them. They'd gone on to find partners, get married, some had families. Others moved away, and I witnessed their lives through social media posts.

  Routine got me through over the years but being alone turned out to be unbearable. Lonely and touch starved. I hadn’t realized how the passing time had changed me. My natural shyness had morphed into an awkwardness that I found hard to get over.

  I'd known I was gay from an earlier age, came out to my mother, but dating wasn't easy for me. I knew what people thought when they looked at me. Big and scary, looked like one of those alpha Bears who could take charge with their dominance. My confidence hadn't grown into my appearance. It wasn't that I didn't think of myself as attractive. With the scruffy beard that I tried to keep trimmed, people called me handsome and nice. I wasn't the type of man people called sexy or labeled as a bad boy. That distinction didn’t fit, and despite appearances, I considered myself submissive. For me, that’s why I assumed Mr. Kingsley affected me the way he did and that embarrassed me when I was around him.

  No one wanted the nice guy. As I'd had to step into an adult role when I was barely in my teens, I’d always felt as if my emotional growth had stopped.

  “Mr. Kingsley isn't the nicest man, but I can pay the bills and take care of our house. I even paid off the mortgage last week, and I'm almost done with the medical bills. I was thinking of going to Ireland next year as we'd always talked about doing.”

  I pulled up the delicate weeds and placed the small pile in a plastic shopping bag.

  “I think he's an important man and is just stressed out, but he's always so cold. He barely talks to me.” I paused as if I was waiting for her to speak to me and make it all better. “I miss you. The house is so quiet, and then I go to work, it's almost as silent, if not for answering the phone. Maybe I need to find a new job.”

  It wasn't the first time I'd thought about changing employment. Maybe work in a bigger office where I could find friends or at least find people for small talk. I grew sick of hearing my own voice. To be honest, I felt pathetic. I was about to turn thirty and had nothing but a job I wasn't happy going to and then coming home to an empty house. I knew I had more than others, but again, I was selfish and dreamed of more.

  “I was thinking about getting a pet. What do you think? Maybe a senior dog. A cat would probably be better…they wouldn't be bothered by being left alone during the day. I'd hate for them to feel lonely.”

  It continued like that for an hour before I whispered my goodbyes and told her I loved her. I approached my car—it was a sedan that was quickly falling apart. I'd bought it when I was sixteen with the money my mother had saved up for me from my dad's insurance policy. I loved to cook but wasn't ready to head home yet and preparing a meal for one seemed like too much effort. On my drive toward a diner near my place, I let my mind wander.

  My namesake was just a man in pictures and stories my mother loved to share with me. He'd been a cop, and my mom had told me he loved being in uniform and walking a beat. He'd known the names of everyone in the neighborhood. Asked about their spouses and kids. She'd told me so many times over the years that I was exactly like him. He'd been a big guy, kind of soft and she claimed that
she’d never seen him without a smile. One day, he'd gone to work like normal and had a heart attack. There hadn't been any sign that something was wrong with his heart.

  They'd met in high school. She'd been new in the city and Dad was the popular golden boy who played on every sports team they offered. He'd asked her to a homecoming dance out of the blue, and after that, her stories sounded like fairy tales.

  I loved when she’d told them. I wanted someone to love me like that. But the big three-o was speeding toward me, and I had yet to even have a date. People had sworn by those dating apps, and while I'd gotten messages, I wanted more than someone who just wanted a body for a few hours.

  It all seemed pointless, and I figured I was young enough I had time. Yet didn't my parents prove that time was relative? No one was guaranteed tomorrow, hell, not even the next minute. It just took a split-second, and it all ended.

  The despondency which was taking over caused me to be angry at myself. I pulled into the small parking lot and took the last empty spot. The diner was one of those unique places that had survived because it was a neighborhood staple. It was a decommissioned railroad car with tiny booths and an old-fashioned counter. The kitchen was open, and you could watch your food being made.

  I got out of my car and wished I'd taken the time to go home to change. The clothes I wore for work were thrift store or clearance rack specials, ill-fitting and worn. I felt shabby in comparison to my boss whose suits looked to cost more than I earned a month.

  I made my way inside and took a seat at the counter, placed my drink and food order, and smiled at the waitress who'd already started writing as soon as I walked in.

  Sipping at my iced tea, thoughts of my boss came, and I was helpless to ignore them. He was an attractive man with an elegant stature, lean and perfect. I assumed him to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties but his face bore no wrinkles, and his hair was still dark chestnut waves. He didn't seem to be the type to dye his hair. I always pictured him as self-assured—a man who knew his place, and his implied arrogance, I assumed that to be a lofty place. My attraction to my boss made it so much more discomforting to deal with him daily.

  I always worried he'd notice my attention. A glance that lasted a second too long. I didn't know if he was gay or not. In the three years that I’d worked for him, I'd never once seen him have a personal visitor. He didn't ask me to make dinner reservations that didn't correspond to a business meeting. His ring finger didn't bear an indent.

  “So, how are you, cutie?”

  Freda leaned her fleshy hip against the counter and settled in to talk to me as she always did when I stopped in for a meal. Maybe that's why I enjoyed coming here. The nice woman always made time to have a conversation with me.

  “I'm good. Harold treating you right?”

  Harold and Freda had run the Stenton Station Diner since it opened in the sixties. Part of the charm of the place was watching the husband and wife duo playfully argue. Other than their children who helped out on occasion, the place was a two-person operation.

  “I threaten to divorce the man a hundred times a day, you know that. But that would just be cruel. He couldn't do better.”

  I laughed with her through snippets of conversation, my meal, and the dessert I splurged on so I could stay a few minutes longer. I was isolated and wouldn't deny it, yet I also didn't want to admit it to anyone. Feigning happiness was something I'd done for so long that I didn't know whether it was real or a figment of my imagination.

  When I would walk inside the house, the lock clicking into place would have it all come back in blaring clarity. At least here or at work, I could pretend I wasn't alone. That someone would miss me if I didn't appear one day. Would they worry? Probably not. I'd be just another regular who disappeared—found another place to go for their meals or a new place to collect a paycheck.

  Without an excuse to stay longer, I threw money on the counter to cover my meal and a generous tip. By the time I walked outside, the cool night breeze had blown away the smell of greasy spoon and strong coffee.

  On occasion, I thought about testing my theory, just pack up and go away for a while. Only fear kept me from doing so. It wasn't about the unknown or what existed outside of the city, but the fear my disappearance would be nothing more than a momentary blip. A split-second thought of where was he now.

  I hated being depressed. Hating knowing that I was that dispensable. A forgettable part of the scenery. I shoved my hands in the deep pant pockets, and my steps were slow as I strode back to my car. Home was only a five-minute ride, and I dreaded it so much. I wanted someone who would miss me, mourn me when I'm gone, and yet I knew I'd just be a vague and fading memory.

  Chapter Three

  Cowen

  It was Saturday, a few weeks since I'd received the assignment. Some people thought assassins just went right out to take out our victim, but there was planning involved. I leaned against a lamp post across the street from my target’s office building. The neighborhood was the perfect spot. Minimal foot traffic. Semi-upscale section. Plenty of alleys on either side. I didn't bother remembering his name past the point of finding him. I knew some who kept mementos of their kills. A tiny reminder, but that was evidence and a stupid serial killer mistake. They got off on reliving the kills. I only needed the moment the life drained from my mark.

  I casually smoked a cigarette. I'd given up the habit a decade ago, but no one really paid attention to some guy in a suit having a smoke on the curb. I’d always smoked to blend. Enjoying it was never part of it; just something other people did and I was curious as to why. I snubbed out the smoke and pocketed the filter so as not to leave DNA. The light was slowly dying as dusk moved seamlessly into night. I always appreciated the peacefulness of it.

  Boredom was a constant in my life. Killing was the only act that I had which would drive it away. A short man, round around the middle in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit exited the front door. I casually strode across the street. My distance behind my mark was enough that his instincts wouldn't kick in that he was being followed. Yet still close enough he was always in sight.

  My mark walked to the parking garage down the block. I'd already scoped out his spot on a mid-level. And while it would've made more sense to wait for him there, a stranger hanging out around vehicles had the potential to draw attention.

  The time of the act drew closer, but my heart didn't pick up speed. I subtly looked around and even nodded at a lady who passed me, her smile small and brief. It was that polite smile that always came with false politeness—just some societal expectation. I'd studied every visual, emotional cue—every microexpression. In order to blend, you need to be perceived as normal and respectable.

  I slightly increased my pace when he turned the corner into the garage. His vanity worked in my favor because he took such pride in his middle-aged crisis sports car. He parked it on a nearly empty level. My steps echoed as I slipped inside and shot out my arm to catch the elevator door before it closed.

  I chose the floor above his and reclined against the back wall of the elevator. He didn't spare me a glance or start in on the small talk so many people tried awkwardly to initiate. If they used security footage in the elevator, the brim of my cap concealed my face and the prosthetics I used softened my angler features. I'd padded my shoulders, chest, and waist, and probably added a twenty-pound illusion to my slender frame. The inserts in my shoes gave me another inch in height. I'd already scoped out the security protocol, and they only videoed entry and exit points.

  The small ding signaled we'd reached his floor. He exited, and just as the door began to close, I stepped through the narrow space. I stopped as I let my gaze scan the dim interior. The lights didn't break the shadowed edges. A few cars were parked on the opposite side, and my mark's footsteps were the only ones I could hear. I bent my arm behind me to reach under the hem of my jacket, and everything inside me went still at the sound of steel on leather as I unsheathed my blade.

 
Even in the cavern of the garage, with practiced stealth, my steps barely made a sound. I mentally planned it out, saw it in its every step, from the grab to the second I pressed my blade to his throat. The last few steps, I jumped and placed my hand over his mouth, and his futile struggles were nothing against my strength. The cool edge of my knife against his throat instantly ceased his fighting, and I dragged him to the other side of his car. I kicked at the back of his knee, and he fell, and I released him.

  He opened his mouth to beg and the corner of my mouth lifted into a cold smirk.

  “You can have whatever you want. Here's my wallet.”

  He frantically dug the item from his back pocket and tried to offer it to me. When I didn't take it, he promised me everything from his car to whatever money I wanted.

  “I have a hundred grand…it's yours.”

  “Do you think money solves everything?” I asked as I drew the lethal point down his rounded cheek and nearly gasped as the skin split. The thrill started to build, and the pleasure nearly had a shiver running the length of my body. He bit his lip to keep in his scream as I repeated on the other side.

  Terror made people do odd things. When he could call out for help, he seemed frozen. I crouched down to put us at eye-level. I started picking the buttons from his shirt until the pale, smooth skin beneath was revealed.

  “Do you know why you're going to die?”

  His answer was a stuttered no, and I leaned in close, the stench of his sweat tickled my nose, and I nearly groaned at the way he flinched.

  “You're about to find out.” The strike was quick, and he fell backward, the sound of his head hitting the cement rang in every direction.

  Then a scream and a cry for help jerked my head up. Fuck, a familiar man stared at me in horror, and as he fumbled to open his car door, he dropped his keys. I overtook him quickly and trapped his body between mine and the driver's door.