INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “If it’s listed there, that’s what I want,” Bernie said, smiling. “As I said before, I didn’t put you here for a taste of T-bone.”

  Turniken slapped the sheet with the back of his hand. “Do you even know what you’ve written? Somewhere here you tell me to ... where is it? Yes, here it is ... ‘You, as governor, will issue pardons to every inmate currently being held in the state prison system, making sure to release the most serious offenders first.’ I can’t do that! I can’t release rapists and killers!”

  “There you go again with that word ‘can’t.’ Think positive, my friend.”

  “But why? What do you hope to accomplish?”

  Bernard Ashland held out his hands in an “it’s obvious” gesture. “Why, complete havoc, of course. Rampant fear, anxiety, panic. The breakdown of social norms and the beginnings of complete anarchy. And, when all is said and done, the eventual victory of evil over good. Isn’t that enough?”

  “But it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.”

  “You got elected by completely ruining an innocent man’s future, and now, suddenly, you’ve got religion?”

  “This is different.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I might be the lowlife politico you think I am, but if I allowed any of these to become law, I’d be no better than a murderer.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  “I won’t do it. Any of it. Plain and simple. You’re going to have to point that mind control gadget of yours at me and make me do this stuff, because there won’t be any other way.”

  Bernie stood silently for a minute. “You know that’s impossible,” he admitted. “First of all, as I said back at the restaurant, I can’t force you to do something days or weeks from now. I’d have to do it right this minute, and I wouldn’t even know how to issue a command. I know nothing about the workings of government—the policies, the procedures—Robert’s Rules of Order, for Christ’s sake. That’s your bailiwick. Plus, even if I were up on the lingo, the device works over such a short range, I’d have to be by your side twenty-four, seven, and I certainly don’t intend on baby-sitting you four straight years. I mean, that’s why we have a representative democracy, isn’t it?”

  “You’re damn right.”

  Turniken knew he had won. He was free.

  He strode over to his big governor’s chair and confidently took a seat. He rolled up the list of demands and tossed it onto his desk, watching it flutter and slide along the surface. He crossed his arms, crossed his legs, and looked over at his visitor. “My offer for a free dinner still holds, Bernie. So what’ll it be—a hamburger patty or chicken nuggets?”

  “Why that’s almost as witty as your Ass Gland remark. But in the end, you will do as I wish.”

  “The hell you say.” Turniken sat back, triumphant, and wondered why he couldn’t have performed this decisively at the debates. “On second thought, Bernie, skip the free meal. I want you out of my office right now.”

  Bernie smiled, walked slowly over to the desk, and rested his fingertips on it, much as he had done at Turniken’s booth several months earlier. “Penny. Is that your wife’s name?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “And your kids? Nicki and Mark, right? No, Marshall. That’s your boy’s name, isn’t it?

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Oh, nothing. Oh, by the way did I tell you the news about Halloran?”

  “Yes, you did,” Turniken said, “Now please leave.”

  “I just want to let you know that I didn’t really hear about it from Sally Baggers on Channel 4 NewsAndMoreNews News. I happened to be right there on the Capitol Plaza when the whole thing went down.”

  “Good for you. The door’s behind you. You just remember how you came in and reverse the process.”

  “The reason I mention your family is that they’re scheduled to make an appearance at that very same Capitol Plaza in a few weeks, isn’t that right? For a rally? Arts in education, or something like that?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s right. That would require you to consult an agenda. But anyway, trust me. They’ll be there. And, in fact, so will I.”

  “I see where this is going, Bernie. But it won’t work. What do you plan to do? Use your whistle to make my wife come on to some smelly, tenured history teacher who should have retired ages ago? Make my kids do leg thrusts on the concrete? And that’s supposed to get me to free every prisoner in the state? Please.”

  “You’re close, Governor,” Bernie said. “But let’s start small, shall we? I was hoping that by the time that rally takes place, you can maybe see to it that every con whose last name begins with the letter L gets sprung. That isn’t asking for too much, is it?”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’m sure I can get either Marshall or little Nicki to play out in traffic the same way I did Halloran.”

  As the words sank in, Turniken felt all hope drain from him as if he were being bled dry. He looked up at the man in his dark suit and perpetual shadow and said, “You’re evil.”

  Ashland took the compliment with good grace.

  “And I sold you my soul to get here, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, Governor, you sold it to me a long time ago—and for a pittance. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll bid you a good day. But I’ll keep in touch.”

  Governor Amory Turniken slumped in his big governor’s chair under a leaden cloud of doom and despondency. In an instant it became clear to him what his life would be like from here on in. He stared ahead at the discarded list for the longest time and gradually permitted himself a smile. At least he had fulfilled his vow to put something on his desk by week’s end.

  AGNUS DEI

  BY JEZZY WOLFE

  October 30th

  Randolph pulls the sheet back, revealing the body underneath, skin leather stiff and tinged blue. The man’s brown hair is touched with silver at his temples, his hands smartened with the polished manicure of someone who never picked up anything heavier than an ink pen in his lifetime. There are no birthmarks, no scars, except for a small pale line bisecting one eyebrow. His eyes, clouded by the lack of oxygen, are flattening in their orifices. His tongue reminds Randolph of a slug stuck in the cracks of a sidewalk.

  Perry Richards met an unexpected end, but at least he went well-groomed. Randolph makes an initial assessment: one massive, fatal heart attack. Also known as The Widow Maker.

  “Dr. Brown, here is a copy of the official police report, and the photos.” Eric Hayes, assistant to the head coroner, hands Randolph the manila folder.

  “Thank you, Eric.” He opens the file and scans the yellow page on top, his brow creasing. “Let’s get him ready for X-ray, please. I need a moment to look this over.”

  Eric, brandishing a small camera, nods and begins photographing Mr. Richards’ body. Dr. Randolph Brown carries the file to his office to review the police information.

  Turns out his initial assessment is very wrong.

  October 10th

  “May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.”

  Flicking drops of tepid water across the mahogany veneer of the casket, Father Moore completes the last rites of the burial and watches, stone-faced, as attendants lower the coffin to its final occupation. He turns to the small sea of black-clothed mourners, sobbing politely at the loss of their dear mom, aunt, and friend. Their sorrow barely touches him. He hardly knew Delores.

  Still, he forces empathy as her friends and family depart the graveside service. A few stop to inquire if he’ll be attending the following wake. He smiles thinly, assuring them all that he will be along shortly, and watches as they trudge weary-footed to the parked sedans along the cemetery drive—a procession of wheeled sarcophaguses waiting to escort them to their next destination.

  He doesn’t notice him, not at first. He’s watching the gravediggers heap clumsy mounds of crumblin
g earth on top of Delores’s well-appointed casket. An insistent cough alerts him to the bespectacled man in the generic tan trench coat and black hat standing behind the rows of folding chairs.

  “Father Moore?” His voice is crisp, unaffected by the afternoon’s chill. Puffs of condensation punctuate his words.

  The gravediggers, busy with their shovels, never look up.

  October 30th

  In his office, Randolph reviews the contents of Perry Richards’ file. A diagram demonstrates the position of Perry’s body when he was found. An order for the toxicology screen has been included. He gives the papers a cursory glance before settling on the official report, which includes notes from the questioning of the deceased’s wife.

  On Monday afternoon at 4:27 p.m., Mrs. Diane Richards found her husband unresponsive and slumped over his desk. Authorities arrived at the scene to find a tearful, albeit calm, wife and a very dead husband. They searched the office for any signs of struggles, attacks, or suspicious behavior, but encountered nothing out of the usual.

  Being the one to find him, Diane was taken in and questioned as a formality. She called their attorney prior to the interview with the investigators, which raised dubious questions about her innocence. But no evidence was found in the home to contradict the information she gave the police.

  At a quarter to one, Diane left Perry Richards in his home office so she could go shopping. New drapes, she explained. And a fresh French manicure, which she proudly displayed to the interrogators. When she returned almost four hours later, he sat dead in his chair. She called 911, and they instructed her not to move him. There were no obvious signs of pain or injuries. He didn’t have preexisting conditions that might’ve precipitated a sudden death. But she did mention his complaint about a throat irritation that started at church the day before. She said he refused to eat anything, and swallowing food became difficult. So instead, he drank glass after glass of water. He insisted it felt like something was lodged in his throat, but did not think he needed to visit his doctor.

  Dr. Randolph Brown closes the file, sitting back in his chair. No evidence of suspicious chemicals in the house. Poison hasn’t been ruled out, but the events don’t point to it, either. Samples of spittle around his mouth were taken at the house, but the tox screens haven’t returned. An esophageal laceration might cause discomfort ... enough discomfort to put Perry off his food, even.

  But that wouldn’t kill a man.

  A soft knock at the door startles him. Eric steps in halfway, silhouetted by the lights in the hall. His posture is too stiff, his scrubs too baggy for his thin frame. He looks awkward and uncomfortable right now. Much more than usual.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Brown. But there’s something you need to see ...”

  October 12th

  The air is too cold for October.

  Father Moore pulls his jacket tighter across his shoulders and waits for the street vendor to hand him the cup of black coffee he orders daily. Picking up the day’s newspaper and scanning the headlines, his mouth twists. It’s a joke so bad, even he has to laugh.

  These are dark times, indeed.

  As a vessel, he can only offer forgiveness and love. His parishioners seek him out for absolution and guidance, whispering their vile secrets from the shadows of an archaic confessional booth planted in the church’s vestibule. He won’t allow them in his office as his contemporaries often do, where their indiscretions stain the air like nicotine. Administering penances from a textbook rubric, he provides the community their peace of mind ... but at the cost of his. No amount of Hail Marys can instill sincere conviction into the hearts of modern abominations. True change will only follow cataclysm.

  He finishes his coffee and heads back to the church. Eight a.m., and his appointment is waiting by the rectory gates. “Good morning, Father Moore,” says the man in the black hat.

  October 30th

  Large films clipped to illuminator panels reveal the immaculate skeleton of a fifty-four-year-old male in perfect health. No injuries, either past or present, appear on the screens. While the films show no obvious evidence of a stroke or heart attack, the next step of the autopsy will give them a better idea of what possible event concluded Perry Richards’ life.

  “We need to get started. Call the investigator,” Randolph says, drawing each syllable out slowly, still staring at the films, his brow furrowed. He spots something unusual, a vague abnormality. It is so slight, he could well be imagining it. “Wait a second, Eric ...”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Do you see that?” He points at a light cloud in the film.

  Eric steps close to the screen, investigating the area beyond Randolph’s finger.

  Randolph feels pinpricks race up his arms and down his back. His intuition is kicking in. He always experiences chills right before—

  “Check the ETA on the toxicology screen, please.”

  October 14th

  Elections loom less than a month off, the fight for the 13th Congressional District heating the region faster than a waking volcano. The state, traditionally blood-red, turned a putrid shade of purple over the past term ... the color of rancid meat. Father Moore reads his evening news with a glass of scotch, but the sharp sting in his throat does little to calm the trepidation tying his gut in violent knots. He barely recognizes the world around him now. American society is flailing in a pool of hedonism and iniquity. Surely they will sink under waves of depravity so deep, they’ll have to rename their country Gomorrah.

  He pours another scotch and takes it to his office. The light from a small lamp casts the room in shadows as it spotlights the desk blotter’s sole occupant. Settling in his office chair, he drinks the scotch in ambitious gulps. Resolve bolstered, he picks up the unmarked legal-sized envelope, turning it slowly in his hands.

  I should throw this in the fire.

  He doesn’t. He’s not going to. He just spent two days trying to convince himself that he is above the vile proposition offered to him. If he didn’t need the money so badly, he would’ve flatly refused the offer. But recent circumstances have thrust him into a predicament that prayer has not absolved.

  Recently, the diocese paid him a visit to discuss closing his parish and moving him elsewhere. The parish has struggled financially for years. The congregation that fills the benches every week are tight-fisted heathens who demand their faith with a discount. Seems the parish in the next county was more stable, and could use another lay minister. The long and the short—he needs money if he wants to keep his church.

  Almost thirty years serving these people, gently prodding them toward salvation ... and they would let me be dismissed to work as a lowly assistant elsewhere. Where is the just reward in that?

  The envelope contains only a single photograph. A glossy 8x10 black and white. The man in the photo is standing behind a podium, smiling at his audience. He wears a tailored suit and a generous smile. He is groomed to be magazine ready.

  According to his recent caller ... a gentleman who only identified himself as Mr. Brimm ... the man is a parishioner in Father Moore’s church. He doesn’t remember seeing him at any of the services, but his face does seem familiar. He studies the photograph, the wide, oily smile dissecting a chiseled face, the classy suit that undoubtedly sported an Armani label. Bitter bubbles of bile rise in his throat. Of course he smiles. He wears the church’s money.

  Budget cutbacks were emasculating. The crew that maintains the church grounds has been downsized to one elderly man who cuts the grass twice a month. The ladies who keep the inside of the church pristine shrunk from five to two. The toiletries in the vestibule bathrooms are cheap bulk knock-offs purchased from a restaurant outlet supplier.

  And the social services provided to the community disappeared completely. No food pantry. No homeless outreach. The only counseling he can afford to offer is to the young couples that want to get married in the church. Not that he charges for the counseling ... he just doesn’t have the time now. He�
�s too busy doing the menial chores he cannot pay others to do for him.

  In addition to a dangerous drop in tithes, the other avenues of church income have also dwindled. Reserving the church for a wedding is now so cost prohibitive, wedding requests have dropped considerably. Organized fundraisers stopped a few years ago. Part of it resulted from the recession, of course. But much of it is simply the growing absence of God in the lives of his congregation.

  Do I no longer inspire my flock to live holy? Are the words failing to reach them? Perhaps it is better I step down and let holier vessels lead the way?

  This sudden lack of confidence angers him. At himself, sure, but mostly at the parishioners. They have put him in this position.

  He has put him in this position.

  Whoever this mark may be, he is, undoubtedly, a wicked soul. That someone else would plaintively seek for the destruction of one so vile ... certainly the world will not mourn such a decrepit person.

  Maybe this is the answer to his prayers. Mr. Brimm’s parting words resonate in his head.

  “Consider this a mission of mercy, if it helps you sleep. You do not yet know the righteousness you are doing.” He put on his hat. “But you will.”

  God placed me on this road. He will provide the transportation.

  Father Moore picks up the telephone.

  October 15th

  He plans the services accordingly, executing each as per the usual. He offers Mass four nights a week, as well as two services on Sundays, but as he searches the faces of his flock, he does not spot his man among the throngs. Perhaps Brimm is mistaken ... maybe this man is not a parishioner.

  He tries at first to identify the familiar stranger, without success. It must be God’s plan that it remains a mystery. Would he still be able to follow through if he knew who he was after? He put the questions of the man’s identity out of his mind ... ultimately, this is a sacramental lamb. His death will save them all. He no longer exists in Father Moore’s mind as an innocent member of his congregation. It is him, or everyone else will suffer. He is a modern day Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son.