122 Rules

by Deek Rhew

  The plan had been brilliantly conceived and executed. Only, someone sent another anonymous email to the lead detective of a high-profile crime unit. When the banker pulled into the small hotel on the edge of a tiny East Coast city in a stolen Pontiac, the police lay waiting for him. After he entered the small hotel room, they burst through the front door, slamming him to the floor and cuffing him under gunpoint. In the ensuing trial, he had been found guilty of all charges and sentenced to ten years in the state penitentiary.

  The prison’s newest resident would complete but a month of the punishment before bumping a large inmate with a shaved and tattooed head in the meal hall. The convict returned the favor by ramming a shiv into Theodore’s neck later that day, severing his spinal cord. The paralyzed ex-banker lay helpless and naked in the shower as the other inmates kicked him to death.

  Unfortunately for his family, no witnesses stepped forward to testify to the crime.

  These everyday folks had been selected to test Sam’s ability to follow orders without question and without regard to the humaneness, or lack thereof, for his actions. His weapons training, sharp from years in the military, had been further honed so he could remove these individuals himself instead of relying on anonymous tips and others to do the job for him. In every facet of his new position, he had surpassed all expectations, including his own.

  Having passed the program, Sam once again worked for his country. His purpose—to protect the homeland from anyone, either domestic or abroad, that threatened the freedoms he held dear—drove him to work until exhaustion forced him to stop.

  He had no blood on his hands; these people had made their own choices. But Sam left a wave of despair and unhappiness behind him as damning as if he’d pushed that sliver of metal in the man’s neck himself.

  But what of it? These lessons—just extensions on chapters in a textbook—had trained him to control and manipulate those around him. If a few had to be sacrificed for the greater good of God and Country, the importance of democracy bore that cost.

  After training, Sam had been turned over to his handler, Josha, who awarded him his first assignment. Sam completed the objective—to find a tax evader who kept millions of government dollars—in record time.

  That first job led to a series of others. Year after year, face after face. The names of those he sought, and the identities he assumed, cascaded together in a soupy blur of images that often left him feeling vague and dazed.

  Losing himself in a different identity, becoming someone else, and separating his true feelings from that of his assumed persona made him an excellent agent. But at times, when undercover for months, he had to look at his driver’s license to remember his own name.

  * * *

  As Sam continued down the highway, the rumble of the bike’s engine reverberating through his bones, he scrolled through the memories of a thousand lives he’d touched but never actually been a part of. The destinies he’d changed and the futures he’d destroyed. He’d done it for the greater good. But, he wondered if somewhere in the last decade the man he’d hoped to be and the man he thought he’d someday become had gotten lost. Or maybe, that person, that man, never really existed at all.

  This thought struck a nerve, but he shoved it out of his mind before these seeds of misgiving had a chance to sprout roots.

  He really didn’t want to think anymore. Sam thumbed up the volume on the helmet’s internal speakers. The music blaring in his ears, he bore down on the accelerator, towards the fly-crap-sized town of Walberg and his target.

  17

  Just a touch over eleven hours later, Sam turned off the highway and followed Pocahontas’ directions down a series of side streets. He passed a faded, weather-beaten sign announcing he had entered the town of Walberg—The Sweet Spot of Arizona, population 1102.

  He pulled into one of the slanted spaces in front of a small coffee shop just as the little GPS unit announced he had arrived at his destination. The cracked sidewalks and deserted, heat-baked streets, devoid of any signs of life, hosted but a lone tumbleweed blowing through the nearest intersection on a journey to nowhere.

  This is the “sweet spot” of Arizona? Chet, who had been quiet most of the trip, asked. Seriously, who do they think they’re fooling?

  Sam sighed. His alter ego’s crude, sarcastic streak sometimes annoyed him, but Chet had a point. The place felt wrong, with its sandblasted, sun-bleached buildings and boarded-up storefronts; it held a poisonous, hopeless vibe that seeped into his bones.

  He pushed through a glass door with “A Real Drip” stenciled on its marred and scratched surface. He waded into the small, dimly lit shop where Monica had sent her last email. The smell of coffee, sweet cinnamon rolls, and a faint underlying mold enveloped him as he stepped across the threshold.

  Spotlessly clean, the coffee shop had been decorated in what could only be called dilapidated-chic. Most of the bargain-basement, fancy stools sported duct tape over their cracked, vinyl surfaces. In the corner, a florescent light sputtered in the final throes of death, one last dramatic dance as it prepared to join its fallen brothers.

  Sam made his way to the front counter where a perky woman of about thirty smiled and asked if she could help him.

  “Just plain black coffee, please.”

  The chubby barista’s prematurely gray-streaked, black hair swung back and forth, her ponytail pendulum almost mesmerizing. In a few years her chub would likely bloom into full-fledged fat. She just had that look.

  The early arrival of crow’s feet said she’d worked hard her entire life. Sam could see her story as though reading her autobiography: she had been born into a lower-middle-class family that had to scrape by for the bare necessities; during her toddler or early elementary-school years, her parents divorced; she worked for minimum wage, cleaning and cooking, in all likelihood, the positive aspects of the little coffee shop were due to her efforts and diligence; she didn’t own the place and did the best with what had been handed to her.

  As she filled a large white mug, she asked, “Where you headed?”

  “Couldn’t this be my destination?”

  She cocked an eye at him. “Is it? Most people who come through this late are on their way someplace else.”

  Sam checked his watch: half past seven. “This is late?”

  “Here it is. Jus’ about ever’thing is shut up tight. I was getting ready to close myself.”

  “Oh well, then I should take this to go. Don’t want to keep you.”

  “No, no it’s fine. Sit down and rest a spell. Have to clean up, and that’ll take half past a freckle and quarter to a hair. You can keep me comp’ny while I work, Mr…?”

  “Morrell. Peter Morrell, but my friends call me Pete.” She offered her small, doll-like hand. He felt mammoth as his paw enveloped short stubby fingers jutting out from a hand so plump the knuckles formed concaved indentations. He took a seat on one of the wobbly stools.

  “Mary Beth Sanders, though in another month, it’ll be Mary Beth Cooper.” She held her hand up, showing him her small engagement ring. The tiny stone gave off a meek sparkle in the low light. Her smile glowed far brighter than her cubic zirconium ever would. The hope in her eyes broke his heart. Her life had been disappointing and difficult, and like most brides-to-be, she seemed on the cusp of something better. If this establishment gave any indication, the particular stallion she had hitched her wagon to would only let her down. In the next few years, that lovely light would fade, replaced by the dull, flat reality of her existence.

  “Well, congrats!” He smiled with fake enthusiasm. “Is the lucky man from around here?”

  “Aa-yep,” she said, in an accent misplaced on the western side of the country. “Ralph. Ralph Gerald Cooper is the lucky man. Sounds all proper like, maybe even classy don’t you think? He owns the place. Been workin’ together for the better part of fou’ ye’rs er so. Well, one thing led to another, and soon I’ll be Mrs. Cooper. Ain’t that just git all? Y
a know, they say that ninety percent of all romances start in the workplace? I used to think that was hogwash, jest an excuse for folks to fool around, but brother, now I’m a believer! And my Ralphy, he’s got aspirations. He’s gonna take the profits from runnin’ this place to start other businesses, maybe even a theater for showin’ the latest movies. Can you imagine, a theater in a little town like this? It’ll be a hit with the teenagers, that’s for sho’!”

  Chet shook his head, eyes downcast, without anything to say for once.

  She bubbled on about this and that as she cleaned the espresso machine and wiped down the counter. He didn’t have to say much to keep the wheel of her running monologue spinning. An occasional “You don’t say?” and “Really?” and she seemed more than happy to fill him in on everything from who managed the diner to the latest scandal at the Methodist church.

  “I don’t know much about the goin’s-on at the Catholic or Seventh Day ’Ventists whatcha-ma-call-ems. They are all going to hell anyway, so why bother with what they’re up to?” She paused for a moment. A disapproving look crossed her face as if she’d caught him red-handed stealing from the donation plate. “You aren’t Catholic or Seventh Day ’Ventist, now are ya, Mr. Morrell?”

  Her impending judgment lurked behind her smile, ready to pounce as if she expected him to proclaim he not only belonged to both sects but also washed the feet of the Pope on the weekends. He laughed. “No, I’m neither.”

  Her face relaxed, and she smiled, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Well, thank the good Lord for that. So tell me, Mr. Morrell, what brand of Christian are ya?” Her eyes sparkled. He guessed Mary Beth knew a lot about everyone in town. On the surface, she schlepped coffee and pastries, but she specialized in information as her main stock in trade. Her brown eyes watched him, assessing. It would be a mistake to try and bullshit this woman too much. What she didn’t have in book smarts, she clearly made up for in cunning.

  Oh, Ralph, you are going to have your hands full, my friend. How the hell did he pull off the fake diamond? The fake life? Sam needed to keep her talking, and to do that, she had to trust him. So, he went with the truth.

  “Well, first call me Pete; Mr. Morrell is my father. Second, to be honest ma’am, I don’t hold to one particular religion.” He had started picking up the dialect.

  Sam applied a liberal application of:

  Rule #35:

  Sound as native as possible.

  “It is often imperative to sound as though you belong. We trust those that are like us, part of our group, and hold skepticism against those that are perceived as outsiders. Exercise caution when imitating accents or using local dialect and vernacular. Precision and accuracy is essential. If an interloper is detected, mistrust and often outright hostility will be the result.”

  —122 Rules of Psychology

  He continued, “I would like to think there is someone up there looking down on us, running the show, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it. Did a stint in the military with some time in Afghanistan. Lots of guys prayed every day, but it didn’t seem to matter which ones did and which ones didn’t. They all died, had their legs blown off, or had to deal with kids killing themselves in the name of Allah.”

  “Horrible. Just horrible,” she conceded. “Them people in the Middle East have such crazy notions of what’s right and wrong. Every day I see it on the news, and all that’s goin’ on, it just breaks my heart. But I think the good Lord will prevail; there’s just a lot of evil that’s gotta be vanquished. Am I right?”

  “So true, Mary Beth.”

  “So tell me, Mr. Morrell, are you married? You got no ring, an’”—she glanced out the window at his bike—“most ladies I know would never ride around on that thing.” And just like that, she shifted gears, from novice preacher to town gossip again.

  Unlike you, she doesn’t mess around, Chet said. Maybe we should pass her name onto Josha as your replacement? First your religion, now your marital status. What have you got? Some rumors about the Methodists? Good to see the fine taxpayers of this country are getting their money’s worth. Hang up your pipe, Sherlock; there’s a new sheriff in town. Face it: this hillbilly is kicking your ass.

  As always, Chet nailed it, but Sam needed to give a little more before he could get any real information from her. “When I came back from the war, my wife decided that she didn’t want to be married anymore. Tried talking her into changing her mind, just give it some time, but it didn’t make a difference. She didn’t want the military life, movin’ all over, husband gone for months on end, so she left, takin’ just about everything with her. I’m out now, traveling from place to place, trying to find somewhere to settle and figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

  She stopped scrubbing the counter and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, it’s so bad these days how nobody stays together no more. They say more ‘n’ more people are splittin’, just givin’ up without nary a thought, an’ pretty soon there just won’t be no more married folk. Not me though, no offense, once I say my ‘I do’s,’ that’s it.” She set her rag down and leaned against the counter. “Mr. Morrell, it’s real nice of you to open up like that, with me bein’ a stranger and all. But you gots to remember that God has a plan for all of us. He works in mysterious ways. Maybe His plan was for you comin’ here tonight and meeting with a little country girl. Our reverend, Mr. Callhoune, is just about the nicest man I know and certainly the most Christian. You should come to church with me ’n’ Ralphy and meet him. He’ll be able to tell you all about the plan that God has for you.”

  I’ll bet. “Well, that’s nice of you ma’am.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop calling me ma’am. Call me Mary Beth, seems we should be on a first name basis by now, seein’ as how we’s talkin’ about you comin’ to my church an’ all. You know,” she said, her face impassive though her shifty eyes betrayed her manipulative intentions, “you should really think about tryin’ the place on. It’s a nice little town. Before you know it, we could even be neighbors. Why, a little house just down the street opened up. You should look at it in the mornin’. I know the realtor. Here, let me give you his name and number.”

  “He isn’t a thief?”

  She laughed. “Oh, they’re all thieves, aren’t they? He’s Ralphy’s cousin and ’bout as honest as they make that breed. B’sides, he’s the only one in town. You gotta go through him you want any prop’ty anywhere ’round here.”

  “So, a lot of new people like me moving to town?”

  “Oh, they come and go. Though you know,”—she tapped her teeth like the idea had just occurred to her—“a purty little gal did move here just a little while back. Kinda quiet. She don’t mix much socially, but she started workin’ at the lawyer’s office. She talks real smart, so she’s got an education from someplace. Think she’s from up north somewhere.” Mary Beth appeared to be a little frustrated at the lack of information.

  “Really? Well, if a smart girl like that thinks this is a good place to settle, maybe I’ll kick its tires and see how it feels.”

  “So, is yer divorce done, you know, with the courts and all?”

  “Yes, it’s been final for a while,” he replied, already knowing where Mary Beth intended to take the conversation. He let her.

  “You seem like a nice enough fella, for bein’ out of town and all. You shoul’ stop in the lawyer’s place and say hello to that little gal. Her name’s Susan. She’s not all glamorous, like in the movies, but down-to-earth purty.”

  He chuckled. “And the matchmaker comes out.”

  “Oh no! I’m just sayin’, if you stop in there and talk and maybe ask her out to coffee, who knows where things might lead?”

  “Coffee, huh? And just where would I take Ms. Susan to coffee?” I’ll tell you where: someplace you can eavesdrop.

  “Well sir, there’s only one coffeehouse in town, ’less you count that swill they serve down at the diner, and I
do not. ’Sides, the diner ain’t the type of place a lady wants to go when you’re just gettin’ to know her. She already spends a purty good amount of time here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep, we’s the only place in town that’s got free WiFi,” Mary Beth said, her eyes sparkling with pride. “She comes in ever’ Sunday with her computer.”

  “She only comes in on Sundays? It’s funny how we are creatures of habit.” Sam made an effort to make his voice as casual as possible, trying to hide his disappointment. Susan might have been a possible lead, but if she hadn’t been there that morning, then she couldn’t be Monica. He would have to begin searching elsewhere.

  “Well, now that you mention it, she did pop in this mornin’. Surprised me a bit. Little outta character, but you know the young an’ all. Don’t know what she was doing. I think it’s some lawyer stuff. Not real interestin’.”

  Bingo. “So,” he said lowering his voice and leaning in as though eavesdroppers abounded, “you say she’s pretty?”

  “I-yup. Five-five. Dark hair with blonde roots. Hazel eyes. About twenty-five maybe. Real serious. Quiet and polite.”

  “I see.” This Susan girl sounded like Monica—the description fit, as did the timing of using the WiFi, and she worked for a law firm. Check, check, and check. The possibility still existed that it was the wrong person. However if it came to it, Mary Beth seemed like a reliable busybody who could be counted on to match him up with someone else if need be.

  He would set up shop, then begin formulating a plan and a reason to stop by the law office. How quickly could he get her identity confirmed and take care of business? Sometimes those that were underground got lonely and wanted someone to talk to, so he got the drop on them within a couple of days. Others, he had to go to more extreme, messier measures, to verify their identity. Easy or hard, it all depended on her. He’d love to get the job done and leave this dusty little shithole as soon as possible.