The Fixer mg-1

by T. E. Woods

  The Fixer never resurrected a character and she never saw a client twice. She broke both rules that Thursday when she pulled on latex gloves and picked the lock on Walter Buchner’s back door a few minutes before midnight.

  She’d rented a vehicle as Darlene Ritz, a pregnant redhead with a taste for Pucci prints and faux fur. But it was Carr, the young Goth, who parked the green Subaru three blocks from Buchner’s University District bungalow. He’d demanded she meet him at the Seattle warehouse on Sunday. Perhaps he was allowing her travel time from whatever arctic lair he imagined served as her headquarters. He didn’t know she was less than seventy miles down I-5. She’d give him two minutes to explain. His story would help her decide what role the Ruger. 380 holstered in the small of her back would play.

  The Fixer eased the back door open and slipped into Buchner’s darkened kitchen. The glow of a television played in an unlit room straight ahead. She stood in the shadow of the refrigerator and listened as David Letterman and Paul Schaffer traded one-liners about Madonna’s latest adoption. A studio audience laughed. No other human sounds. Buchner was alone. She let her eyes adjust and surveyed the room. Pizza boxes and soda cans littered a table to her right. Dirty dishes filled a small sink. A gallon milk jug, uncapped and two-thirds empty, sat on the counter next to a stack of junk mail and two rotten bananas.

  The Fixer reached behind her, released the Ruger’s safety, and left it in the holster. She entered the living room as quietly as her work boots would allow. Buchner was on the couch, facing the television. Feet propped on a coffee table covered with beer cans and text books. The back of his head tilted to the right. The acrid odor of marijuana filled the room.

  “Turn the television off, Wally.” She planted her left foot four inches in front of her right, ready to kick if Buchner got frisky.

  Letterman urged the audience to stay tuned for Tom Hanks but Buchner didn’t move. The Fixer snapped her attention to the large window that dominated the east wall of the room. Curtains pulled closed. She spun, pulled the Ruger free of its holster, and gripped it with both hands as she headed down the short hallway.

  She shoved the first door open and leaned aside. Nothing. She reached in, clicked on an overhead light and saw an unmade bed, orange crate nightstand, and fiberboard desk. An aromatic pile of clothes covered the floor of the closet. She stepped inside the empty room, pulled Buchner’s driver’s license from her jacket pocket, tossed it on the nightstand, and made her way to the second door.

  Buchner’s bathroom made the local Texaco toilet look like a photo shoot for Architectural Digest. A dingy yellow curtain was pulled halfway across the filthy tub. Her first instinct was to fire a shot through the mildew-stained plastic on the chance someone was hiding there. But a bullet in a wall would leave a trail. Spending a shell was always a last resort. A can of shaving cream sat on the side of the sink. Steadying the Ruger in her right hand, she heaved the can with her left. The curtain offered no resistance as the can clanged to the tub floor.

  She opened the third door and found a room filled with boxes and cheap bookshelves. More books on the floor. A black Telecaster and amp sat in one corner, covered with a heavy layer of dust. The Fixer closed the door, confident she was alone.

  She knew Buchner was dead. She just didn’t know how. Any speculation of suicide, overdose, or natural causes was eliminated when The Fixer rounded the sofa and faced him. Wally had been restrained. Duct tape bound his hands together in a ragged silver ball. Heavy white plastic cord trussed his legs and feet. Lifeless grey eyes stared straight ahead. A golf ball-sized hole where Wally’s nose should have been left a cruel exposure of tissue, muscle, and bone. The powder residue on Buchner’s bruised and bloated cheeks showed he’d been shot at close range. The black plastic handle of a cheap steak knife protruded from his chest about an inch above his shirt pocket. A gelatinous sheet of blood made it impossible to determine the death blows’ sequence.

  She’d learned as a child that if she could unplug her essential core from the torture that was rained upon her she could survive. Like flossing her teeth or driving a standard transmission, The Fixer viewed the skill necessary for day-to-day living. So it wasn’t the grisly detritus of Buchner’s body that brought the bead of sweat to The Fixer’s upper lip. Nor was it the savagery of his slaughter that rang the tinny pierce in her ears. It was the legal sized sheet of yellow paper held in place by the knife in Wally’s chest. She read it and reminded herself to breathe.

  Hello, Fixer

  Warehouse.

  Come now.

  Taped to the paper was a photograph of the very pregnant Darlene Ritz standing at the airport Avis counter, smiling as the agent handed her keys to a green Subaru.

  The Fixer lay in the mixture of ice and rain that collected on the roof of the Pier 37 warehouse opposite the one to which she’d been summoned. It was nearly 3:00 in the morning and her body ached from the frigid forty minutes she’d spent watching. No one entered. No one left. No light flickered inside. She rolled onto her back and stared at the starless sky.

  Someone had tracked her. She bit the inside of her cheek until the warm metallic taste of her blood filled the back of her throat. She spit and reviewed her vulnerability. Buchner hadn’t been dead long. It was unlikely whoever took the photo of her at the Avis counter would risk Wally’s body being discovered by somebody else. How many people were involved? Had they staked out the airport rental agencies? How did someone know she was posing as Darlene Ritz?

  The cold penetrated her wet clothes and numbed her from ankle to shoulder. The thought crossed her mind that she could stay there on the icy roof. Let the frigid rain pelt her body until she drifted into sleep. Be done with it.

  You killed the wrong person. Wally’s frightened words echoed in an unending cry. But Bastian was a butcher. Untouchable. Unstoppable. He met every criterion The Fixer set for her assignments. You killed the wrong person. She’d seen Ortoo’s beheading. The disc hadn’t been edited or staged. You killed the wrong person. More than thirty targets over six years. Never a doubt. Never a mistake. You killed the wrong person. Always justice. Never revenge. You killed the wrong person.

  The Fixer willed herself to stand. It was time.

  She jimmied a side door and a pinpoint beam picked her up four steps past the threshold. She froze mid-step and reached behind her waist for the Ruger.

  “Raise your hands, Ms Carr.” Barbara Streisand’s voice called out from overhead speakers. “Or shall I address you as Ms Ritz today?”

  The Fixer stood still.

  “There are several automatic weapons trained on you at this moment.” Now the synthesized male voice with the Boston accent spoke to her. “Raise your hands or die.”

  She lifted her arms to the side and squinted into the black expanse of the warehouse.

  “Pull your gun out slowly with your left hand. Hold it high so we all can see it.”

  A chill colder than the night’s sleet raced up her spine. She shivered once and pulled the Ruger free with her left hand.

  “Very good, Ms Carr. Now slowly place it next to your right foot.”

  The Fixer did as she was told. Humiliation burned behind her eyes.

  “Now kick that gun as far as you can, Ms Carr.” A chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Simon Says.”

  Her instinct was to turn and run into the frigid night. Escape through the pre-dawn darkness of the abandoned wharf. Find her way back home. But the images of automatic weapons and the insistence of a “we” held her in place. She gave the gun a kick and heard it skate across the concrete floor.

  “Good girl,” Boston Accent continued. “Now come along.”

  The pinpoint moved forward three feet. The Fixer stood in darkness.

  “I said come, Ms Carr.” A squeal of feedback punctuated the demand.

  She stepped toward the beam. As she moved, so did the pinpoint. She followed it in darkness, keeping her eyes on the tight circle of light as it weaved past crates and boxes. When it
stopped moving, so did she.

  “Have a seat.” The speakers now offered the synthesized voice of woman. Warm and comforting. The circumference of the pinpoint expanded and softened, revealing a folding metal chair. The Fixer peered beyond the focus of light. Nothing but black void. She took four short steps, sat, shielded her eyes with her hands, and looked up.

  “I’m here,” she called. “Tell me why.”

  A soft chuckle came over the speakers. “So defiant. I find it as unattractive as I do futile. I suggest you adopt a more respectful tone.”

  The Fixer had spent her adult life constructing a world in which she held the power. The emptiness of her efforts crushed her as she sat on the cold metal chair. She was defenseless. Waiting for the pain to begin. No longer curious as to the form it would take. Knowing only that it would come. She closed her eyes and waited.

  “So tell me, Ms Carr.” Another laugh from the speakers mounted around the warehouse. “What brings you in today?”

  She kept her eyes closed.

  “You’ve visited Mr. Buchner.” The callous tone couldn’t be erased by any mechanical disguise. “It was kind of you to accept my invitation.”

  She opened her eyes but the effort proved pointless. There was nothing to see beyond the dusty rays of the spotlight. She swallowed hard and blinked away the image of Buchner’s bloodied corpse. “I saw your gracious note and couldn’t refuse.”

  A laugh rang through the warehouse. “Now that’s more like it, Ms Carr. A sense of humor brightens even the dreariest moments. I imagine you have a few questions.”

  “I do,” she called out to the emptiness. “For starters I’d like to know why Bastian was the wrong target.”

  “For starters, Ms Carr?” Taunting now. “You have other questions?”

  She knew she had nothing to lose. “Two more. How’d you find me and are you going to kill me?”

  The speakers transmitted a laugh more suited to witty cocktail chatter than the situation at hand.

  “Kill you? Would I have gone to all this trouble if I intended to kill you?”

  The Fixer paused. “No. I imagine you’d be more efficient if that was your intent.”

  “Exactly. Now tell me another thing, Ms Carr.” The voice took on a sense of genuine curiosity. “If I did intend to kill you, would it matter?”

  The question surprised her. She gave herself a moment. Time to reflect on how she got there. The faces of her targets. Her erstwhile efforts at justice. The epic loneliness of her life. It was all for nothing.

  “No,” she whispered. “I don’t think it would matter at all.”

  “So there you go.” The woman’s voice replaced now with what sounded like a teenaged boy. “Your scariest question asked and answered. Now, let’s get on with the other two. Let’s take the easier one first. What did Walter mean when he said you’d killed the wrong guy?” The speakers went silent for several seconds. “Relax. Bastian deserved to die. Everything Walter told you, everything you saw on that recording was true. Bastian was a butcher. And perhaps that was the least of his sins. Nothing could have stopped him. You deserve a round of applause.”

  Relief washed over her. “Then why did he say that?”

  “To get you here, of course.” The voice of someone teasing an old friend. “I had to think of some way to bring you back.”

  “Why? And why did you have to kill Buchner?”

  The sound of an impatient tongue tsk’ed over the speakers. “Will you let Walter go, Ms Carr? He hired you on my behalf. I’m your employer, not Walter. And I have another job for you.”

  The Fixer snapped her head up. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not a gun for hire. One fix. It’s done.”

  Successive claps of thunder boomed out of the speakers at louder-than-rock-concert levels. Sound waves pounded against The Fixer’s chest. She heard the wooden crates quake in the surrounding darkness. Concrete vibrated under her feet. She covered her ears and felt the roar rattle along her jaw bone. She bent forward, head on knees, covered her head with her arms, and waited for the roof to collapse.

  The thunder stopped. Echoes rumbled through the warehouse. The Fixer’s ears rang in panicked pulses, taking their time allowing sounds to register again. After several minutes the speakers broadcast the resonant tones of no-nonsense masculinity.

  “That was your one rebellious move. I’ll tolerate no other. You are in my employ, Fixer. You’ll do what I say when I say. Make no mistake about it.”

  The spotlight washing her went dark. The same wide screen Buchner used in their earlier meeting glowed to life on the catwalk above her. The Fixer blinked her focus toward it and felt the vomit rise in her throat.

  There was Monica O’Leary in her red beret. Stumbling across Fred Bastian’s deck balancing the potted poinsettia. There she was slipping on the steps of his deck. A cutaway shot revealed her walking into his sunroom. Sharing a drink with the drunken professor. Teasing him. Reaching into her boot for the syringe. Plunging it into his neck. Standing by, waiting for him to die. Tidying up. Leaving.

  The screen went blank. The spotlight returned. The Fixer tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t respond.

  “You will be of great value to me, Fixer. It goes without saying any dissent on your part will be met with the immediate release of this DVD to both the legal authorities and the media.”

  She sat. Hearing her blood pulse in her ears. Feeling her short breaths blow cold across the sweat of her upper lip.

  “Lest you think my knowledge is limited to Bastian, look again.”

  Once more the spotlight darkened. The flat screen glowed with a new offering. A collage of video clips. The Fixer jogging through a park. Standing in line at a coffee shop. Parking her car. Walking up the steps to the clinical offices of Lydia Corriger. Walking through the front door of her own home. All with no disguise. Her true identity revealed.

  The screen went blank.

  “You’re no longer freelance, Fixer. You are in my sole employ.” The voice over the speaker switched back to Streisand. “Leave now. I’ll be in touch.”

  She couldn’t move.

  “Leave now, Fixer,” the diva boomed.

  She shivered in impotence, pushed up from the metal chair, shuffled to the warehouse door, and stumbled into the freezing rain.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lydia clicked on the lamp and squinted at the bedside clock. A few minutes past five. She cursed the phone that had awakened her and threw herself back on the pillow. Six rings later she reached for it and checked the screen. She cursed again and answered.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Corriger.” The male voice sounded too chipper for the pre-dawn hour. “This is Darrel Johnson. Attending physician, Black Hills ER. We’ve got one of yours down here.”

  Lydia struggled into a sitting position. She’d finally slept a few hours after two sleepless nights. How did her patients always know when she was the least able to deal with their emergencies?

  “Who and what?” She ran her tongue over her teeth.

  “Identifies herself as Savannah Samuels. Gorgeous woman, by the way. No record of her in our system. Police found her wandering through Priest Point Park. Soaking wet. No coat. Barely coherent. Not drunk or high. No signs of head trauma.”

  “She’s physically okay?” Lydia rubbed her eyes against the burning pain that screamed behind them.

  “Seems to be. Blood pressure’s a little high. Probably situational. No broken bones. No wounds or fever. Initial blood work’s fine. No signs of infection.”

  “What’s she doing now?”

  Dr. Johnson sighed into the phone. “Sitting in an exam room rocking back and forth. Says she wants you. Want me to call the boys on six down here?”

  Lydia flinched at the notion of a psychiatry consult. She knew at that hour the unit would be staffed by med students and first year residents. They’d ask Savannah hundreds of meaningless questions, pump her full of benzos, and lock her in a suicide room until the morning shift br
ought the pros to work.

  “She say anything about wanting to hurt herself?” Lydia asked.

  “That’s the one clear answer I got. When I asked her if she wanted to kill herself she looked me square in the eyes and said ‘That would be too easy.’ Then she went back to whatever planet she’s visiting. I’ll tell you, give me an old fashioned car wreck any day. You guys can deal with the wing nuts.”

  Lydia ignored the insult to her patient and reached into the nightstand for her calendar. She flipped to Monday’s schedule. “Let’s do a catch and release if you’re sure she’s physically okay. Could you tell her we’ve spoken and that I’ll see her this afternoon? Looks like I’m free at four o’clock.”

  “Will do. I’ll fax you notes of this visit.”

  “Thanks. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Call her a cab, okay? She’s good for it.” Lydia hung up, tossed off the covers, headed to the kitchen, and turned on the coffee maker. She walked to the living room windows, disappointed the sun was long from rising, and clicked on the outside lights. A flurry of movement near the bird feeders caught her attention. She threw open the back door, raced across the cold lawn in bare feet, and screamed at the raven taking flight. She stared down to where the large black predator had been a moment earlier. A sparrow lay dead at her feet. Entrails spilling out from a delicate brown body. Feathers plucked and strewn by the raven’s rapier beak.

  Lydia turned her face to the ebony sky and yelled into the icy rain. She heard the mocking response of the raven but couldn’t trace him in the darkened trees. She crossed to the garage, ignorant of the soaked nightgown clinging to her body. She pulled two cotton rags off a shelf, returned to the kill spot, and fashioned a shroud for the tiny sparrow. She walked to the edge of the cliff. Lydia looked up to the cloudy heavens, felt the sting of the frigid drops, and hurled the carcass into the sea below her.

  The dependability of her patients was sometimes a curse. Everyone showed up that miserable Monday. Nine o’clock was the McMullens, wanting Lydia to wave her magic wand and erase the thirty years of marital torture they’d worked so hard to perfect. Ten o’clock was Sandra Kiefhaffer, raped at age nine by her brother’s scout master. The married mother of three still couldn’t shake the terror she felt on rainy nights. Eleven o’clock brought Mindy Millrose, in for her monthly weigh-in.