by Simon Wood
“Good to have you, Matt,” Stein said and raised his bottle to him.
“I think Matt can be an asset,” Harry said. “I believe he has a good heart, but he’s a little misdirected. I hope becoming a Taskmaster will straighten him out and put him on the right track.”
Matt found Harry’s character assessment embarrassing. It made him feel like a kid at parent-teacher night forced to listen to his teacher give a report about him. He hid his embarrassment behind his beer, drinking it too fast.
“I don’t know if Harry has explained what we do here at the Taskmasters,” Tripplehorn said.
“Not really,” Matt said.
“Well, once a month, we challenge each other.”
“One person from the group is given a specific task chosen by the others,” Chalmers added.
“Which must be completed by the next month,” Stein added.
“Which brings us nicely to our second piece of new business,” Harry said. “This month’s challenge.”
Tripplehorn fished out a pack of playing cards from his pocket, but Harry stopped him.
“No low-card winner this time.” He looked at Matt. “Taskmaster rules state that the new Taskmaster member is automatically assigned the challenge.”
Tripplehorn nodded and put the cards away. Stein and Chalmers grinned at each other. An invisible noose tightened around Matt’s neck, and he shrank into the damp-smelling La-Z-Boy.
“Harry, you’re right. I forgot the rules.” Tripplehorn did nothing to hide his smirk. “Matt, you’re this month’s automatic winner.”
“Don’t let these goofballs scare you, Matt,” Harry said. “There’s nothing to worry about. As fellow Taskmasters, we’ll make sure that everything goes smoothly.”
“What do I do?” Matt said, his fear bubbling to the surface.
“Didn’t I tell you Matt is a born Taskmaster?” Harry asked.
“You guys give speeches, right?” Matt said, answering his own question. “Like Toastmasters, right?”
He already knew his assumption was wrong, that this was no conventional organization, but their burst of raucous laughter confirmed the fact.
“I think you need another beer,” Chalmers said and tossed another bottle at Matt.
“No,” Harry said. “We do things a little differently. Stein, why don’t you tell Matt here what you did for the Taskmasters last month.”
“Surely.” Stein reseated himself, making himself comfy. “I killed a no-good pimp. Put a bullet”—Stein made a popping sound and put finger to his own forehead—“right between his eyes.”
Stein handed around half a dozen Polaroids of a stick-thin Hispanic man lying dead in a gutter with a small hole in his face. He went on to describe how he’d stalked the pimp, whose name was Hernandez, and finally lured him to his death with the promise of a big score. The Taskmasters laughed and joked with each other as Stein walked them through the story. Matt didn’t laugh. He was too busy trying to hold it together as his worst fears struck him with freighttrain intensity. When he’d said that he could help Matt turn his life around, Matt had thought he would help him straighten up his act, not teach him how to hone his violent tendencies.
Chalmers fished out a letter-size manila envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it over to Matt. Matt opened it, failing to hide his trembling hands. The Taskmasters glanced at each other, exchanging naughty schoolboy smiles. Matt scanned the details on the plain typed sheet and the handful of photographs.
“That’s Terrance Robinson,” Chalmers said, confirming the details Matt had in his hands. “He’s a hit-and-run driver. Killed a young girl six months ago.”
Matt examined a surveillance picture of Robinson crossing a downtown street. He was twenty or thirty pounds overweight. According to the “CliffsNotes,” he was the same age as Matt, but his extra bulk aged him a good ten years.
“Why haven’t the police arrested him?”
Stein snorted. “A friend is giving him a bogus alibi.”
“So what do you want me to do? Get him to confess?”
Harry laughed at Matt’s suggestion. “We don’t give anyone a shot at redemption.”
“We eradicate the problem,” Chalmers said.
“You’re going to kill this guy,” Tripplehorn said.
“Don’t worry about the cops. We’ve got it covered,” Harry said.
Stein handed Matt a small semiautomatic. “It’s untraceable. Just use and lose.”
Harry went into fine detail about how Matt should stalk and kill his prey. Matt nodded, taking in the words, but he was too numb to comprehend the A-B-Cs of killing a complete stranger. When Harry finished his speech, the Taskmasters drank and joked about themselves for a while. Matt drank but didn’t join in the hilarity. He waited for everyone to have their fun and take him home.
They dropped Matt off first. Harry followed him up the walk to his apartment complex, under the watchful gaze of the other Taskmasters. He stuck out a hand for Matt to shake.
“Now, you’re cool with this, right?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, of course.”
“You went a little quiet on us.”
“Well, you know.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “It’s a big step up from bar brawls, but this will be good for you. Put some meaning in your life. Look, don’t worry, son. It’ll be easier than you think. You’ll see.”
Matt attempted a confirming laugh. “Yeah.”
“Remember, this guy isn’t innocent. He’s as guilty as hell. You’re just doing what the law can’t. You just have to keep telling yourself that.”
“That helps. Thanks.”
“So the Taskmasters can trust you? There’s no going back after tonight.”
“You can trust me.”
“Good man.”
***
Matt sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in his hands, watching the dawn creep up on the city. Sleep hadn’t come easy, not while a loaded gun and a picture of the person he was meant to kill sat out on the kitchen table. He had to kill a man. If he failed to follow through, his imagination didn’t have to wander too far to know what the Taskmasters would do to him.
He’d made such a hash of his life. The really embarrassing thing about it was there were no excuses for his predicament. He wasn’t a total idiot; in fact, he was reasonably smart. His parents had been good people who’d only wanted the best for him. So how come he couldn’t hold down a job or go for a drink without eventually bruising his knuckles on someone’s face? Questions without answers, he thought—not that he could answer, at least. He picked up the gun and examined it.
“Time to answer some of those questions.”
***
Terrance Robinson left his bank job twenty minutes after five, having had a pretty easy day of trying to arrange bank loans at the Hilltop Mall branch. Matt knew this because he’d spent the day watching Robinson. He’d even gone into the bank to ask about opening an account, just so he could get a close-up look at the man he was supposed to kill. Matt didn’t get the impression that Robinson’s child-killing escapade weighed heavily upon him. He was easygoing around his colleagues and then negotiated rush hour traffic with infinite patience.
Robinson pulled up in front of his home, choosing to park in the street to let two boys—Matt assumed they were his two sons—continue playing a little one-on-one in the driveway. Pulling his tie off, he even jumped into the fray, snatching the ball away to attempt overambitious layups.
Having blown by the Robinson home, Matt got out of his car and wandered back up the street for a closer look. Excited giggles and shrieks carried on the air. Robinson exhibited no signs of remorse about his deadly action and the lives he’d wrecked. He got to enjoy his children but had robbed other parents of theirs. A man like that deserved to die, didn’t he?
“Hate is the key,” Chalmers had said during their meeting, as he had tapped Robinson’s file. “To kill him you have to hate him. Read what this man has done and hate it
. Stare at his picture and hate him. Do that and this will be easy.”
Matt watched the man at play with his children. Did he hate Robinson? He’d let that girl die instead of doing the right thing. He despised Robinson for that, but did he hate him in the way Chalmers and the Taskmasters wanted him to hate him?
Lingering, Matt found himself staring at the kids and not their father. Killing Robinson meant destroying those boys’ lives too. Devastating another family didn’t make up for what had already happened. Matt couldn’t kill Robinson. He returned to his car and drove to the one place that would end this game.
***
As he climbed the steps to the police department, Matt didn’t know what he was going to say, other than he was planning to spill it all—the Taskmasters, the unregistered gun, Terrance Robinson, the lot. He guessed he’d be dropping himself in the crapper along with everyone else, just by association with these madmen, but he couldn’t help that. The Taskmasters had to be stopped, and he had to take some responsibility for once in his life. He opened the doors and went inside.
The drab reception area was awash with people. Victims wandered around waiting to be helped, while those in custody were escorted by in cuffs. Cops floated between both sides of the law, both in front and behind the bulletproof barriers. Matt stopped a passing policewoman who was reading a report.
“Hi, I wonder if you could help me?” Matt asked. “I need to talk to a police officer about a crime.”
“You’ll have to check in with a PST,” she replied and pointed at the occupied people behind bulletproof shields. The policewoman went to leave, but Matt sidestepped to counter her escape. Her features tightened.
“I’m not here to report a stolen VCR or anything. This is important,” Matt said, scanning the room for eavesdroppers.
The policewoman read his face to determine whether he was genuine or a whack job. She made her decision after a long moment. “Wait here.”
She retreated into the depths of the building after punching a code into a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” A couple of minutes later, the policewoman opened the security door with a uniformed sergeant in tow and pointed at Matt. The sergeant approached him.
“Officer Hansen says you want to speak to someone?”
Matt didn’t answer.
“Sir?”
Matt was frozen, unable to speak.
“I don’t have all day.” An edge of irritation crept into the policeman’s voice.
Matt was staring past the sergeant to two familiar faces in the crowd—Harry and Tripplehorn—and both of them were wearing police uniforms. His urge to do the right thing turned to lead in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Matt said, backing away.
The sergeant placed his hands on his hips. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is this a joke?”
Seeing the Taskmasters there, it did seem like a joke—a bad one. Matt continued to back away, tuning out the cop’s threats. The Taskmasters, engrossed in their conversation, hadn’t spotted him yet, and he wanted it to stay that way.
Matt’s back struck the double doors and he thrust them open and bolted. He tore down J Street until he hit the cross street. He glanced back and saw the sergeant was surveying his escape from the doorway, but the Taskmasters were nowhere to be seen.
***
The apartment manager was gone for the night. Tuesday night was singles’ night at the VA social. Matt hoped the old coot got lucky tonight, though even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t take long for Matt to skip out. He crammed all his belongings into an army-surplus duffel and a box for an RCA TV. He hooked the duffel over his neck and carried the box down to his Escort. Reaching his parking stall, he cursed. His assigned stall was empty; the car was gone. He couldn’t believe someone had stolen the heap of junk on the one night he needed it.
Well, there was no way Matt was going to report the theft, and it wasn’t going to stop him from leaving town. No car meant he would be traveling even lighter. He carried the box of possessions over to the Dumpster. He’d hefted it to head height when someone kidney punched him. Matt crumpled and the box crashed down on his head.
“Leaving town, son?” Harry brushed the box aside and hoisted Matt to his feet. “I thought you had a job to do.”
Resignation washed over Matt. There was no point lying or being scared. They’d spotted him at the police department. They’d probably been tailing him all day.
“Where’s my car?”
“On the way to impound. Would you believe it was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant? But I wouldn’t worry about that. You have other things to keep track of.”
Harry signaled, and the SUV pulled a U-turn in the street and stopped in front of them. Stein was behind the wheel. Chalmers and Tripplehorn weren’t around. Harry bundled Matt into the rear of the vehicle, and Stein reversed back into traffic. Stein kept to downtown, driving with no particular destination in mind.
“You betrayed us, Matt,” Harry said.
Stein just shook his head.
“You wanted me to kill a man.”
“He killed a child.”
“But I can’t kill him. That would make me no different.”
Harry snorted. “If you don’t kill him, you’re no different than him. He’s a coward, and so are you.”
This logic made Matt’s head swim. “Hang a left here,” Harry instructed.
Stein parked the SUV in an industrial vacant lot in the shadow of a half-demolished warehouse. Harry flipped Matt over and zip-tied his hands together. Both men dragged him from the vehicle and dumped him on his knees in front of the dazzle of the headlights. Harry put a revolver against Matt’s forehead. Matt closed his eyes and waited for the trigger to be pulled.
“Open your eyes,” Harry growled.
Before Matt had a chance to respond, Stein kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling onto his face. Harry lifted Matt back to his knees. He put his face close to Matt’s.
“Playtime is over, son. You’ve got to make your mind up. Are you going to kill this guy? Because if you aren’t...” Harry cocked the revolver. “You know we can’t have you knowing what you know.” Harry stood and pointed the gun at Matt’s forehead again. “What’s it to be, son?”
Matt stared at the gun’s muzzle. Kill or be killed. What a choice. He would have liked to tell Harry to go to hell, but Harry was probably right about him. He was a coward.
“I’ll do it,” Matt said.
“Are you sure about that? I don’t want you repeating this disappearing act tomorrow night.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your head for your trophy room,” Matt snarled.
Harry smiled and lowered the gun. “Good.”
He nodded to Stein, who cut Matt’s wrists free.
“I think you can find your own way back,” Stein said.
The Taskmasters returned to the SUV.
Getting into the vehicle, Harry said, “And I wouldn’t think about running. Your picture is in the hand of every cop down at the bus station and train station. You could always thumb a ride or even steal one out of town, but know this: we’re watching you. You’re on a very tight leash from now on. Oh, and Matt...”
Matt looked up.
“You’ve got two nights. If Terrance Robinson isn’t stiff by then, you will be.”
***
Terrance Robinson smiled and shook hands with the young couple. Their loan application must have been a successful one judging from their broad smiles. When the couple walked away, Robinson beckoned to Matt. Robinson walked him through the loan application procedure. He was very thorough, and Matt nodded at all the right times. Robinson printed off an application then excused himself while Matt completed the form.
Matt scanned the paperwork then wrote across the top of the form: YOU’RE A HIT-AND-RUN KILLER.
Robinson returned to his desk and Matt handed him the application. The color drained from th
e loan manager’s face as the sheet of paper slipped from between his fingers. His lips couldn’t form a response.
“I know you killed that girl, and I’ve been sent to kill you.”
“I...I...didn’t.”
Matt held up a hand to silence Robinson’s gibbering. “Doesn’t matter. It’s been decided that you have to die.”
Robinson’s eyes flitted from person to person in the bank.
“They can’t help you.” Matt let him see the gun tucked into the front of his pants. “It’s closing time in a few minutes. Just excuse yourself early. You’re having a business meeting with me. Make a fuss and you’ll still have to explain about the girl you killed. It’s a no-win situation for you. Are we cool?”
Robinson nodded.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Matt followed Robinson to the tellers. He told them he was leaving; then Matt guided him through the parking lot to Robinson’s car. He didn’t spot the Taskmasters, but he sensed them shadowing his every move. He couldn’t see them not being there at the kill. They’d still be worrying about him. Oh, yeah, they would be close.
Matt drove and Robinson poured out the sorry events, beginning with a beer run during a family barbecue and ending with the twelve-year-old girl bouncing off his hood. Knowing he was over the limit, he had driven off. Matt didn’t understand the unprompted confession. Maybe Robinson wanted to get it all off his chest before he met his maker, or maybe it was a thin attempt to make Matt go easy on him at the critical time. Regardless, Matt didn’t want to hear about Robinson’s fall from grace. What did it matter anyway? There was no one to blame. No excuses. No missed opportunities—only ignored ones. Robinson was lucky. For Matt, it was time to square things.
“Do I get a last request?” Robinson asked.
“What?”
“All condemned men are granted a last request.”
“What is it?”
With a shaking hand, Robinson reached inside his jacket. Matt’s grip tightened on his gun and fixed his aim on Robinson’s stomach just in case the bank worker carried a weapon. Instead, Robinson brought out a phone.
“Can I call my family?” Tears ran down his face. “Just this last time.”
