Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder

by Nicole Castle

  There was one item left; my pair of jeans. “This is why I wear black,” he said, holding them up so I could see the bloodstain before letting them fall.

  Now that my hands were empty, it all felt very final. “No evidence,” I said quietly, remembering the arson investigation on the news, only this time I was the one disappearing without a trace. A month ago, the idea would have terrified me. Now it was exactly what I wanted; to exist solely in Frank’s presence, left as a mere memory to anyone who’d ever known me. My past was finally behind me, my future limitless. I was officially V.

  Part Two: Destiny

  The man who was once the world’s foremost action star towered above me, gigantic on the multiplex screen. He’d recently become a bit of a joke on the Hollywood circuit, his strange behavior alienating costars and audiences alike. I was nearly alone in the dark theater, watching his awful final film for the third time.

  It was a big budget sci-fi flick, one I would’ve had no desire to see even if it got good reviews. What drew me here wasn’t the quality of the movie, but its lead actor. I watched Robert Marshall, studying his body language, his face, even his voice, getting to know him the same way Frank was, somewhere in his own dimly lit hiding place.

  This crappy little stain of celluloid had nearly bankrupted the studio, and to make it even worse, they’d already foolishly given the green light to its sequel. Mr. Marshall was currently on set for the next installment in the series, furthering their debt faster than they could say asteroid. That was why the head bigwig had sought out Charlie.

  Robert Marshall was heavily insured, and not only would his death bring a big payout and cease a production they didn’t want to continue, it would up the interest in the terrible film that had already been released, and bring in well-needed ticket sales. I certainly planned on seeing it again once he was no longer among the living.

  After my parents had died, I’d become obsessed with finding something different in their photographs; some shadow unseen before, a darkening of their eyes that proved they were gone. Frank said my reaction was out of trauma and morbid curiosity, but it didn’t change my mind about paying the ticket price one more time when he was dead.

  I put my feet on the seat in front of me, sighing at the shameful delivery of appalling lines. Even watching an actor as bad as Rob wasn't the same as performing weeks of surveillance on the actual person, but I had nothing else to do during the day. Besides, it made me feel closer to Frank to know that although we weren’t together, we were doing more or less the same thing.

  I’d been begging him for months to give me an encore presentation of our final night in Chicago. It wasn’t merely that I missed him during the excruciatingly long hours he spent shadowing his victims. I really wanted to see him kill again. I salivated at the thought of it. And more than that, I wanted in on the action.

  I knew he was trying to keep me innocent, but it was pointless for him to say no after I’d already killed once. He refused to even humor my request and show me how to do it properly. Not just the anticlimactic point and shoot that I’d previously witnessed, all of it; getting to know the victim’s every move through weeks of observation, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to strike. I yearned to look through the cross-hairs.

  The credits finally started rolling, two hours and thirteen minutes too late. I got up, leaving out the same door I’d snuck in. Normally I’d have no problem paying for a movie, even a shitty one like this. Frank’s income was staggering, and could support both of us spending frivolously if we wanted to. But I couldn’t risk standing out by repeatedly coming to a film only eight other people had bothered to see to begin with. Not to mention how much Frank thought I stood out anyway.

  My hair had grown back pretty and off-white, the brown tips trimmed happily away to leave me eye-catching once more. This close to Hollywood, a natural blond was something to be seen, and I got attention everywhere I went. He teased me about my paleness, insisting that he could only take me out during certain times of the day, since I glowed in the dark and blinded in the sunlight.

  Even though I could see the resemblance to the person I used to be, I still felt that the mental transformation had left me with an altered appearance. Frank had gotten angry with me when he discovered that I considered V a different person, and he started calling me little Vincent just to put me in check. Alas, that nickname stuck as well as the previous one, but I’d grown two inches since we left Illinois and I was too overjoyed by the fact to care.

  I walked back to our hotel, hoping Frank was going to finish the job soon. Only a few traffic-jammed hours from all the glamour of L.A., and this town was one of the dullest we’d ever visited. I couldn’t wait to get back on the road, to have another couple of days uninterrupted in his company.

  It wasn’t all work and no play for Frank. Every time he finished a job he’d have at least a week off to drive through anonymous towns, hanging out in cheap motel rooms before Charlie caught up with him and found him a job.

  He used to spend his days reading in solitude, or watching people from rooftops with his rifle, studying their lives while safely concealed. But being antisocial isn’t acceptable with company, so I’d coerce him to come out with me, making him do fun things that didn’t involve books and hiding places. He was basically up for anything once he figured out that fun didn’t hurt, and it felt like a momentous occasion to take him places, because he was completely blown away by the most insignificant things.

  Gas stations, where he’d paid for service but never really had a look around, were a source of endless amusement. I’d buy him neon colored slushies he’d never drink, and cheesy convenience food he’d never eat, and I’d send him on scavenger hunts to find things like most expired milk or objects he could kill with.

  Roadside attractions were great too, advertised for miles with vivid billboards only to be a waste of time and money, so far out of our way that he’d have to look at a map to find the freeway again.

  I liked to pay for shit like that, since it was my idea, but I always got the money from him. Frank figured that as an orphan, I should know how to pickpocket, and when we weren’t busy experiencing America at its finest, he’d have me practice my thievery skills on him.

  He didn’t see it as groping, and I had no intention of letting him in on the secret. I’d just keep my thoughts to myself, and try to get away with as much cash as I could while feeling him up. He thought I was the worst pickpocket he’d ever met. He didn’t know that I used to be quite successful at liberating men’s wallets while they were distracted with their cocks in my mouth.

  When we’d initially come here, Frank had let me ride into the city with him. He’d given me enough money to take a cab all over town and go sight-seeing. But after my first day in Los Angeles consisted of getting hit on by a scary body-builder, two men posing as photographers, and one who wanted to turn me into a star in the world of gay porn, Frank had started making me stay home.

  Despite his usual taciturn nature, he had no problem voicing his concerns about my sex life. He hated that I could pick up a guy with a single glance, leading them to the men’s room or janitor’s closet for a quickie before returning to his side for fulfillment in the other areas of a loving relationship.

  Frank provided everything I needed; compassion, solidarity, and a closeness that I never could’ve asked for, but we weren’t sleeping together so I had to look for that elsewhere. Even though I thought of him while other men knelt before me, Frank was absent from that part of my world.

  Having him to fantasize about had mostly cleared my mind of the negativity Mark left, and I was able to enjoy my moment in closed quarters, feeling a sense of power that my survival didn’t depend on pleasuring them.

  The first time I’d excused myself to go “wash my hands,” he saw the guy I’d been making eyes at following me and came to my rescue, shoving him into the same stall I would’ve, and nearly castrating him before I had a chance to explain. Then he’d given me a wounded
look, and didn’t speak to me for three hours.

  Having Frank angry with me was unbearable. I’d have preferred he yell at me, or even smack me around. I couldn’t handle his silence, the unspoken disappointment over my insatiable libido. I felt completely ashamed of myself, and he would have undoubtedly kept up the silent treatment even longer if I hadn’t broken down in tears, afraid he’d kick me out over something as trivial as a blowjob.

  I tried to tell him it was no big deal, it was only sex, but he just didn’t understand. He said I was better than that, as if I was degrading myself by sucking someone off. I had to admit that some of the guys who went down on me weren’t exactly worthy, and it wasn’t great for my self-esteem that they stopped finding me attractive after coming all over my face, but if I waited around for the man I really wanted, I’d never get any action.

  I’d come to find that Frank wasn’t straight so much as asexual, almost priest-like with his vows of celibacy, silence, and for the most part poverty. His only possessions outside the tools of his trade were gifts, from the silver cigarette lighter that Charlie had stolen for him in Vienna, to the replacement books I bought at the first hint of wear. Even his designer clothing was purchased for him, sent from overseas by Bella, who’d once been so offended by the outfit of an American tourist in Paris that she discredited New York as a style capital for a full season.

  Frank had told me that the only woman he’d ever been with had turned out to be a con-artist, and a good one at that. She’d blindsided him, telling him that she was pregnant a few weeks into their relationship. Frank was a total sucker for things like that. He had a soft-spot for kids, and since his father had been absent from so much of his childhood, he’d been ready to drop his entire life to take care of her and the brat. But the bitch wasn’t pregnant, nor was he the only man she’d given that story to. Apparently, she’d been running the scheme for quite some time, moving from place to place with the life’s savings of her gullible lovers after they added her to their bank accounts.

  Unfortunately for her, she’d bit off more than she could chew with Frank. He was absolutely crushed when he found out who she really was and what she was doing. And Frank didn’t have a bank account. What he did have was Bella, and unlike him, she had no problem killing for free. She butchered the woman in defense of her friend, then made him wear the wedding ring until he got a better understanding of females.

  That was almost ten years ago, and he hadn’t so much as bought a woman a drink since then. I felt sorry for him, but he said he preferred it this way. When he got lonely, he adopted a dog, and they were by far more loyal than people. Plus, now he had me to keep him company.

  It hadn’t taken him long to admit that having me tour the U.S. with him wasn’t going to be temporary. We got along too well. There’d be no point to him putting me up in an apartment somewhere. I’d be miserable, and he’d worry about me constantly. In his mind I was a kidnapping waiting to happen, and he was protective nearly to the point of possessiveness. But I was technically dead, so my existence was kept to a minimum.

  We still shared a bed and clothes, though the clothing had more to do with my insistence than anything else. He’d offered to buy something closer to my size, as long as it looked similar enough to fool Charlie if he happened by. But I refused. Wearing his clothes made me feel sophisticated, not like a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I was V when I wore black, and V was secure in his paleness.

  Because we spent so much time moving from place to place, Frank had gotten this idea in his head that I needed a semblance of normalcy. He’d be home for dinner every night, and he assigned me a bedtime and made me do chores; laundry and washing his car and making the bed, and I’d get an allowance every week, even though by now I probably had more money than he did.

  Our home life was a bit peculiar, considering what he did for a living. We acted almost like an old married couple, greeting each other tenderly with “What did you do today?” or “How was work?” and then I’d fill him in on all the boring things I did, and he’d tell me about his mark.

  Frank’s victims were usually men of the nouveau riche variety, making their money by ingenuity or just plain luck. Charlie’s clients, on the other hand, seemed to mostly come from wealthy families, long lines of bluebloods who were used to sweeping their problems under the rug.

  Hearing about the clients was often more amusing than hearing about the marks. These were truly horrible people, men and women you’d boo and hiss at on television, but secretly worship because villains were more entertaining than heroes. And the hired gun was the most engaging of all, stealing their lives through voyeurism before ever wielding a weapon.

  It wasn’t only his marks that he’d observe. Frank watched everybody; rich, poor, men and women, unattractive or beautiful. He’d grown up as a silent observer, watching Londoners with no comprehension of their language or culture. He didn’t learn English until after his mother died, and his childhood was spent in a constant state of wonderment, having to make up stories for the people he saw. His obsession with books turned everyone into minor characters, and he was nearly my age before he figured out that they actually existed.

  The realization that the world was not a work of fiction left him frightfully aware that he could be spied on just as easily as he’d spied on them, and it was this paranoia that caused him to be vigilant about going unnoticed. Little precautions that I never would’ve thought of were part of his daily life; subconsciously picking up mannerisms of whomever he was near to look like he belonged, and shifting his accent almost imperceptibly from speaking with me to speaking with strangers, becoming a local wherever he went.

  Everyone was a potential spy for the unseen and unmentionable adversary he was hiding from, and he was perpetually on guard. He never parked directly in front of our room in case someone was watching, and if he felt like we were being followed, he’d go miles out of our way to lose a tail that might not have been there to begin with.

  We didn’t ever get more than one room key. It was too suspicious. But he still felt bad about Charlie keeping me prisoner, so he let me have it during the day while he was at work, giving me free reign so long as I was there when he got home.

  I had gotten pretty good at timing Frank’s arrival. He was pulling into the parking lot as I swiped the key card, and I held the door open before following him in, hungrily checking out his ass like I always did.

  “What’d you do today?” he asked, setting the takeout he’d picked up on the table and going to wash his hands. He tended to be a bit compulsive when it came to cleanliness, frequently washing his hands even if he hadn’t killed anyone that day, and changing his clothes constantly, though he’d only been wearing them for a few hours. That suited me just fine. It saved us time and money on the laundry because I’d get dressed in whatever he’d just taken off, luxuriating in his scent.

  “Went to the movies,” I said, peeking in the bag to make sure he remembered to buy something for himself. He became so focused on his jobs that I sometimes had to remind him to eat while he was working.

  “Again? I thought you said it was terrible.”

  “It is terrible. And don’t worry, I’m being careful.”

  “I know you are,” he said, shaking his wet hands to dry them instead of using a towel. Frank never touched the towels, though he didn’t deny me the pleasure. Even after showering he’d just stand there and drip-dry, something I regrettably never got up early enough to witness.

  Frank was out of bed at four thirty every morning, regardless of the time zone or when he’d gone to sleep. Then he’d shower, get dressed, and go run for a couple of hours. Once he was finished he’d come back, take another shower, and fill the tub for me while he dried off and shaved.

  He knew how much I liked the water, and because the frightful places we stayed at had questionable swimming pools, if at all, it didn’t matter if the bathwater had gone completely cold by the time I got up. On top of that, Frank had a huge phobia
of drowning, and he seemed to think that if I ran my own bath it was somehow less safe than when he did it for me.

  I’d learned of his fear when we had to travel through the Florida Keys for a job. He’d been an absolute wreck driving across the Overseas Highway; his knuckles whiter than me on the steering wheel, swearing at Charlie for booking him a gig in Key West when there were plenty of kill-worthy people in Miami. As soon as we were back on land he’d pulled over to throw up, and spent the next two hours chain-smoking, explaining through breaths of smoke that he didn’t do water. I couldn’t even enjoy the scenery because I was so worried about him, though he did make it up to me by not breaking my toes for getting sand in his car.

  Frank would usually be gone for the day before I woke up, but sometimes I’d get to watch him finish shaving with his shirt off while I took my bath. He was better-built than I’d realized, his slender body wiry underneath his clothes, with the perfect amount of chest hair and a delicious dark line trailing down his stomach, leading my eyes where they’d go anyway. And he had scars all over, a great story behind each one.

  He’d been grazed twice by bullets, there were several gashes from knives and a few puncture wounds, but the unusual ones were all from Bella. She’d tried to carve her initials in his shoulder while he slept, leaving him with half a B before he’d woken up and smacked her, and the small round scar above his left kidney was from a Gucci stiletto. She’d stabbed him with it because he commented on how much noise they made on tile.

  When Frank shaved, he used a beautiful, black marble-handled straight razor, the kind they had in old-fashioned barber shops. He did the whole routine from sharpening the blade on a leather strap and applying thick cream with a brush, to quickly but carefully shaving his face without once looking in the mirror.