Josh didn't understand Bob's hostility, and the change in character shocked him. "What's crawled up your ass?" he asked.
"You. You've surrendered."
"I haven't given up."
"Then don't act like it. And if you need my help, call me. I'm here for you. But don't give up on me, and more importantly don't give up on you. You've got to bring this mess to a close."
Bob was right. It was time to drop the self-pity. He had too much to lose by giving up.
"Thanks, Bob. I'll be talking to you." Josh hung up.
"Josh, is everything okay down there?" Kate called from the upstairs landing.
"It's nothing. Everything's going to be okay," he said, but didn't know if he believed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The professional sat in his rental car, parked several houses down the street from Margaret Macey's ranch home. He tutted his disapproval.
"Margaret, Margaret, Margaret, what have you done?" he asked.
A police cruiser was parked outside the old woman's house.
The cops won't save you, Margaret. No one can save you. I told you that. The professional had warned her not to call the police; told her it wouldn't do her any good. He'd discovered the police involvement on his scanner three days ago when he heard a request for a patrol to visit Margaret Macey. And here they were again, and he was certainly surprised to find them when he had something new planned for his target. But he could wait for the police to go. He had underestimated Margaret. She had more strength of character than he gave her credit for. Her file had stated she was weak in all respects, but no matter, she could do little to hurt him and the police wouldn't be able to track him. The police were more of a nuisance than a problem.
She would still die and it would look like natural causes. He waited.
He cast a quizzical eye over Margaret's house. The siding had seen better days and looked as if it had been run through the washer one too many times. The moss covered wood shake was curled and hung at curious angles like the teeth of a none-too-proficient boxer.
The small, unkempt yard was ugly, filled with dead plants and overgrown weeds. Margaret's house was no different than the neighboring homes. A shitty little house on a shitty side of town, he thought. He mused this was no way for someone to live out their twilight years. In the same position for over twenty minutes, his butt was going to sleep, so he shifted in his seat.
Like a cat watching its prey, he waited for the right time to pounce while he thought of the woman inside the house. A hundred and fifty grand--who'd've of thought it? An outsider would have never guessed Margaret Macey was worth a considerable six-figure sum, dead.
But how many times had he read about some old bird who lived like a bum with millions in the bank? Sometimes he failed to comprehend what made people tick. He could get into the lives of those he killed, establishing what they did and when they did things, but the why always eluded him. A horn blared from behind and the professional checked his mirror. One car had cut off another turning onto his street and the cars had narrowly missed each other.
He returned his gaze and his thoughts to Margaret Macey. What a sad and pointless life she led. Life to her was a malignant disease prolonging her suffering.
He wondered if anyone besides Pinnacle Investments wanted to see her dead. He considered that he would be doing her a favor, ending her life, like a considerate owner knowing when to have his beloved pet put out of its misery. The near-miss cars sped past. The force made his car shudder on its wheels.
Josh Michaels's life was in stark contrast to Margaret's.
He had so much to live for. And if the professional was brutally honest, Michaels was a more challenging target and he couldn't wait to get back into the thick of that assignment.
But to deal with Michaels effectively he had to be totally focused on the younger man and not have the distraction of Margaret Macey on his plate. Anyway, it wouldn't take much for the professional to rid himself of Mrs. Macey. A couple more phone calls and a personal visit should do it. He would be glad when he had disposed of her.
He remembered his nocturnal visit to Margaret's house two days after his first phone call from Josh Michaels's party. His investigation revealed no security systems and poor quality door locks, making it easy to get in and out when the time came. The operation had all the hallmarks of a slick assignment. It would be like taking candy from a baby--or life from an old lady.
The professional smiled smugly.
His smile hardened. A swift disposal of one of his targets would get that prick, Dexter Tyrell, off his back. Tyrell's attitude annoyed him. The executive knew nothing of the work the professional did for him and the inventiveness needed to meet Tyrell's criteria.
"I want the people in the files killed in a way that does not raise suspicion. It has to look like an accident or a random act of violence. You know, accidents with machine tools, heart attacks, muggings, car accidents, hit and runs. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you what to do," Dexter Tyrell had said to him during their initial phone conversation two years ago.
It had been easy for him to say, but not as easy for the professional to carry out. With the hassle he was getting from Tyrell these days, it hardly seemed worth the ten grand per head. It might be time to move on to higher-paying assignments.
The professional was distracted from his thoughts by two police officers coming out of Margaret's house and saying something the hit man couldn't hear before closing the door. They climbed into the squad car and pulled away, the purr of the thudding V8 heavy in the air.
Time for some food, the professional thought. He unfolded a sheet of paper he removed from the car door pocket. He dialed a number listed at the top of the pizza delivery flyer. He gave his order, a name, and an address.
"When will it be ready?" he asked.
"Thirty minutes, sir," the disinterested pizza chain employee replied, and said, "Thank you for choosing Supreme Pizza."
"Perfect," he said and hung up.
He waited for his food to arrive.
"Like I said, we have a name to go with the number that called here Saturday night, thanks to Pacific Bell,"
the police officer summarized. "It was lucky you only had the one call Saturday. It certainly made our job easier."
"Can you tell me his name?" Margaret asked.
"Not until we've had the chance to speak to him ourselves."
"Are you sure he hasn't called since?" the other officer asked.
Margaret hesitated. There'd been the first call--the one where the caller changed from an insurance agent into a monster hell-bent on her destruction. Since then it had been a series of calls at all hours of the day and night, but he'd hung up before she could answer. She didn't know if it was him, her monster, but she thought it was. She'd learned to live in fear without ever seeing her intruder. But it hadn't stopped with just the calls-- there'd also been noises. She was sure he'd been outside her home--footsteps on the deck, fingertips drawn down windows and the laughter, that evil laughter. No one without evil on their mind could laugh like that.
She wanted to tell the officers, but she couldn't. She'd made two allegations to the police last year about trespassers at night and they hadn't believed her then and she didn't think they believed her now. They didn't need to know more; they had a name. It didn't matter whether it had been one call or a hundred, as long as they ended his reign of terror.
"Mrs. Macey," the officer prompted.
"No," she said, "there haven't been any other calls."
The officer looked unconvinced and frowned. "Anyway, we'll let you know what happens in due course.
But it looks like we've got our man. I'm just glad you called. But you shouldn't have left it so long."
Three days had gone by before she called them.
Three days of peering through the drapes at the slightest disturbance. Three days of receiving telephone hang ups and the visit to her door. Three days was a long time to live in fear.
&nb
sp; How could she venture outside when he could be there waiting for her, just waiting to pounce? But confined to her home, her supplies ran out, supplies she needed. Toilet paper ran out on the third day. Lacking the courage to buy more, she forced herself to use torn strips of newspaper. Had it really come down to this, wiping her ass on scraps of paper like a common tramp?
It had been a humiliating experience. Afterward, she'd cried for a long time. That demeaning act had made her mind up for her. Margaret called the police.
She was fully aware of the punishment if she was caught calling the police. He'd said he would know if she went to the cops. She had little choice. She was dead if she did and dead if she didn't. Deciding it was better to die trying, Margaret called them.
With no more to be said, the police officers saw themselves out. Margaret had done it. She'd made a stand against her assailant. And now the police had a name to go with the threatening caller's voice. It was over. She sighed with relief.
Although she was relieved, explaining herself to the police had overexcited her heart. She felt it pounding like a rock on a piece of elastic forever crashing inside her chest. Her breathing became strained, as if she were breathing through a sock jammed down her throat. Although her exertions were brief, she was sweating and her wet clothes clung to her old flesh. She staggered into the bathroom to take her medication.
Snatching her pills from the medicine chest, she swallowed down another two capsules with the help of some water. In an effort to calm her excited heart over the last few days, she no longer adhered to the prescribed dosages of her medication, instead taking the pills as and when she needed them. She surmised it couldn't be any worse than not taking them. Wiping her mouth on a towel, Margaret returned to the living room.
Instead of her symptoms abating after taking her drugs, they got worse. Her heart worked harder, her throat constricted and perspiration broke out at every pore like she had been running for a bus. But she wasn't running. She wasn't exerting herself. She stood rock solid still. The telephone was ringing.
The phone rang for the third time. Subconsciously, she knew it was him, her evil caller calling again. She could always tell when it was him. Somehow the tone of the phone changed when he called.
Margaret answered the phone.
"Ah, Margaret, you're there."
It was him. He sounded so congenial, but he always started out that way. She clutched the phone with both hands--one hand held the handset normally and the other cradled the base of the receiver like it was a baby.
"It's been such a long time since we spoke."
"I've called the police, you know. They were here a minute ago. They're on to you. It won't be long before they pick you up," Margaret said triumphantly. He wouldn't be frightening her for very much longer.
"Oh, I know that, but I don't think they'll find me.
And what did I say?" He paused. "I said don't call the police, didn't I, Margaret?"
"I'm going to put the phone down. I don't have to listen to you." She tried to sound strong, but her voice cracked.
"I don't hear that phone being put down," the oily voice said, a cruel smile hidden inside it.
"I will."
"Go on then, but I wouldn't recommend it."
Margaret had been standing, but the warning sapped the last of her energy and she fell into the chair next to the phone. What did he have in store this time? What torture would the caller inflict if she didn't comply with his demands? Terror became a serpent encircled around her chest and it squeezed. "Why?"
"Well, if I can't talk to you on the phone . . ."--he paused for dramatic effect--"then I'll have to make a personal visit. I know where you live."
That sent a chill through Margaret's body that made her shiver, and the sweat cooled on her skin. It felt like his hands touched her throat, not warm like a lover's, but cold like a killer's. Margaret mouthed a reply, but the words didn't come. She didn't know what to say.
"I could get into your home at any time. It's poorly maintained with shitty little locks that could be broken with a snap of my fingers." He snapped his fingers and a sharp crack resounded down the telephone line. "It would be child's play for a man like me. Christ! It would be child's play for a child."
"You're not a man," Margaret blurted.
Laughter echoed down the receiver and into Margaret's ear. She flinched at his mockery.
Someone banged on the door.
Involuntarily, Margaret jumped in her seat and released a short, startled scream lacking volume and power. Her hands tightened around the receiver until her knuckles glowed white under papery, translucent skin. Margaret stared at the door. Unlike Superman, she couldn't see through walls, but she knew it was him outside.
"Who's at the door, Margaret?" he whispered.
If Margaret had possessed the strength she would have shattered the phone in her grasp. She wanted the man to be on the other end of the phone. She wanted him there, not outside her door. Gripping the handset tighter was her way of keeping the monster in the phone and out of her living world.
Margaret froze. She saw him. The nondescript body behind the door moved and appeared at the window, his silhouette outlined against the drapes. He peered through the window, but the drapes prevented him from seeing anything. He wore a baseball cap turned backward on his head and what appeared to be a wind breaker fluttered in the breeze. He carried something bulky in his hands. Fear of what the object could be drove Margaret's mind into a frenzy. The figure moved back in front of the door.
"Have you guessed who it is?" he whispered once more.
Margaret jumped in her seat when he banged on the door again.
"Hello," he said from behind the door and paused.
"Is anybody there?"
"Go away, go away," Margaret shouted back.
"Hey, it's pizza delivery," the man at the door said.
"I didn't order a pizza."
"I've got a delivery for this address for a medium thin crust pepperoni pizza that was ordered in the name of Macey."
"I didn't order anything."
"Well, somebody did, and I need to be paid for it,"
he said.
Margaret started to get out of her chair.
The man at the door mumbled something inaudibly and the voice whispered on the phone.
"How do you know who is at the door, hmmm? I could be lying my head off waiting for you to answer.
Think about it, Margaret."
Margaret fell back into her seat, afraid of the warning the voice had given her. She had no idea who was at the door. It could be him ready and waiting for her to open the door, to blast her with a shotgun or stab her with a knife. Kill her right on her doorstep and laugh as he watched her die. Driven by fear, her heart accelerated another ten beats per minute. The serpent tightened its grip around her chest.
"Go away," she said.
"Hey, lady. I want to be paid for this pizza. I get stiffed with the bill if you don't pay."
"Go away," she said and burst into tears.
"Okay, okay. Thanks a lot."
Margaret heard him walking away, cursing her as he went. Relieved, she dropped the phone and wept uncontrollably.
For a moment, she didn't notice the laughter coming from the phone. The voice called her from the receiver. She raised it to her ear.
"Gotcha," he said.
"What?" Tears choked Margaret's voice.
He waited for the crying to stop. "Margaret, go to your door, you pissed off some poor pizza boy trying to make an honest buck."
Margaret hesitated, afraid that this was another of his falsehoods to make her come to the door.
"C'mon Margaret. Hurry before he goes. I wouldn't lie to you. I only did it to you make you realize the error of your ways--letting the cops know about our little chat. Chop, chop. Take a peek."
Margaret went to the window and pushed the drapes to one side. She saw the figure at the door had indeed been a pizza delivery boy, wearing a Supreme Pizza baseball cap
and windbreaker. He was getting into a crappy, battered Honda sedan that was all dents and faded paintwork. A small flag on a small plastic pole was stuck on the roof with Supreme Pizza's name and logo emblazoned on it. He looked back at Margaret's house before racing away in a cloud of black smoke and squealing tires.
Relieved that her tormentor wasn't behind the door threatening to break her into pieces, Margaret's knees buckled and she collapsed, striking the wooden door.
Slumped, she held herself up against the door and slowly, she slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. It was all a joke. A sick joke to scare, to torture, to put the fear of God inside her and he'd been successful.
Relaxing, she let her bodily systems slow and stabilize themselves. In the distance his voice babbled endlessly.
Margaret ignored him. In the pit of her stomach a sensation relayed its rebellion. She felt unwell. She was going to be sick. Margaret tottered to her feet and made for the bathroom, where she puked. It was physical release from her mental torture. Dryly, she retched several times before finally vomiting.
"So, can I interest you in that life insurance policy side on the armchair. He laughed, knowing that he was talking to an absent Margaret Macey.
The professional slipped the phone into his pocket. He was pleased with his efforts. He felt he had made real progress this time. He would have to follow up this incident with another very soon to ensure his target didn't get a respite. Margaret Macey was being reeled in like a prize marlin. She was tired and beginning to lose her strength. It wouldn't be long before she was another trophy to go above his fireplace.
But now he had a date to keep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dressed in his sweats, Josh bounded down the stairs with his running shoes in one hand. He ran on the weekends and sometimes a couple of times during the week. A normal run was three to five miles, depending on how much time he had available. Since coming out of the hospital, he hadn't been running. It was time to get back into the swing of things. He sat down on the bottom stair and pulled on his shoes.
Kate came out from the living room. "Are you going for a run?"
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