by Darren Swart
It had set the precedent for how he was to live his life. He lived in the shadows, fulfilling contracts and dissolving into the commotion of daily life. His ruthless skill was unprecedented and his skills eventually carried him to the Death Squads of South Africa where the money was good and the killing was easy. Most were principled people and their families were the kind of people who were not used to dealing with his kind of people. He thought back. Those had been the salad days. He still missed South Africa.
He set the blade aside, almost reverently. He reached for a blue cellophane packet containing his orders. He studied the dimpled cheeks and the curly strawberry blond hair of the young American. The contract called for a live delivery job this time. It would be more complicated because there was competition in the mix.
He set the packet aside for a moment and picked the blade up again for one final pass across the moonstone. As he drew the blade away from the stone, he picked up a filthy rag which could barely be identified as an extra-large V-neck T-shirt. He slowly wiped the blade clean of oil making the dark metal shine like onyx beneath him. He eased it into a worn leather scabbard and tucked it into the small of his back. He walked across the dirt floor, grabbed the edge of a mildewed tarp and pulled across the ashen corpse lying against the wall, while turning off the bare light bulb over his head. It was time to finish the operation.
****
Gillian stepped back from the bed and did a quick inventory. She knew she would leave something she needed behind. It was inevitable. Neatly arranged clothes, guns, knives, and ammo were in uniform rows. She packed as methodically as she arranged. The memory of the call had given her a chill in the unseasonable California heat.
The voice was as tight as a banjo string. “Gillian?”
Blearily, she tried to focus on the clock. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“We have information that they’re planning to kidnap Wood.”
A surge of adrenaline shocked away the sleep. The single sheet fell away from her T-shirt as she sat up in bed. “When do you expect movement?”
“That’s unclear. We’re seeing assets coming into Charlotte, but they’re still getting organized. I need you to start moving that way. I can brief you in transit.”
“I’ll be underway in an hour. Check back at 0400.” As her hand moved away, the voice stopped her in mid motion.
“Gillian?”
She moved the earpiece back. “Yes, Franz?”
“They’ve assigned McPherson to this one.”
Her jaw clinched while her lips drew into a thin white line. She tried to sound confident. “I’m ready for him,” she said.
“Good. Talk to you soon.”
The phone clicked on the other end. She rubbed her hand across her face and slipped her muscular thighs over the edge of the bed. She took a deep breath and looked at the nub of her left pinky finger. It still hurt when it was cold. She owed the Scottish bastard one, or at least a half of one.
She slid the zipper closed on the gold and black knapsack and she took a quick sweep of the room. Text books and papers littered the worn enamel atop of the ancient dinette table. The sink was half full of dishes. She doubted if she would see them again. At the moment, they seemed unimportant.
Chapter 3
The evening sky was awash with the radiant hues of salmon and orange which sliced across the Western skies. A gentle North wind grazed the back of Howard’s neck like the touch of a lover’s hand. Undistracted, he fumed over a small black box. Another soft breeze wafted over him, this time carrying the hint of wisteria. He mumbled and cursed at the splice enclosure, all but ignoring the delectable scent. He mumbled aloud at the box in front of him. “Dadgum cheap housing. When will them boys in corporate learn to quit cutting corners with this foreign crap? I ain’t ever going to fix this thing before dark…”
He didn’t hear the crunch of gravel beneath him, nor did he see the man at the base of the ladder studying him intently. He struggled with the small box until he had a signal. Smiling, he tightened the last screw on the cable housing and started to descend the ladder, mentally patting himself on the back for repairing the aging system once again. For the first time, he looked down as he descended. The tall dark stranger stood beneath him with a map in one hand and scratching his dark head with the other.
Howard scowled, thinking, dang tourists, how do I always end up with them? Always asking for directions. Why can no one ever go to a dadgum convenience store and ask? The man flashed a beautiful white smile, disarming Howard. Though accented, his English was quite clear.
“Excuse me, Monsieur, but I think I am lost. Is the 109 near here?”
Doesn’t anyone know how to use a map these days? Howard shook his head as his foot touched the ground. “Sorry, Mister. You’re a long ways from the 109. You’ll need ta’….” were Howard’s final words. The small caliber bullet pitched his head backward, as he crumpled into the soft green bluegrass of the embankment. Without hesitation, the Frenchman gripped Howard by the feet, twisted him around and easily slid down the grassy embankment to the secluded ravine below. He pulled him easily to the bottom of the hill and left him to return to the cable van. Methodically he packed all the repair gear into the van and eased back to the body. He carefully stripped Howard’s body, keeping the garment away from the seeping blood. He grabbed the dead weight of the corpse and carried him like a sack of potatoes to the trunk of his Camry. As the Frenchman smiled he looked at his watch. He was ahead of schedule and equipped. Things had gone much smoother than he had expected.
****
Marty stared at a growing pile of bottle caps in front of him. The blonde surfer barkeep seemed irritated that Marty distracted him as he tried to clean them off the bar. Marty kept stacking them in neat columns. When they fell over—it was time to leave.
For the first time in a year, he had been late for work. For the first time, his new boss was waiting on him at the door. Gertrude’s death was an omen. When he saw Brice standing in his cubicle, he knew it wasn’t going to be something good. Brice was a man driven by spreadsheets and a reasonable rate of return. His job was to bring their operating cost down by five percent which didn’t seem to make much sense because they were already operating at a margin of over forty percent. He remembered the conversation:
“Good morning Wood. Decided to sleep in today?”
“Actually sir…”
Brice cut him off with a raised hand. “No problem, just don’t make a habit of it.”
Marty tore his eyes away from the comb-over to focus on Brice’s pudgy fingers shoving a packet of papers into his hands. “Get these back to me by four o’clock. Can you handle that?”
Without any clue as to what he was getting himself into, he responded, “Uh, yes, Sir.”
He gave Marty a plastic smile. “Good man. Thanks, Monty.”
He was already walking away when Marty muttered under his breath,
“It’s Marty, Sir.”
At three forty-five, Marty’s stomach growled. He realized he had worked through lunch. He took a deep breath and went over the adjustments to the packet: updated calculations, reformulated dimensions, inserted code requirements; all in all he had never seen such a butchered report. Despite having to correct half of the work, he had still finished on time. Smugly, he wrapped the package back up and carefully placed everything together so it was ready to be shipped overnight. As he walked it back to Brice, he passed Hal in the narrow hall.
Cheerily, Marty asked, “Are you coming to the club house tonight, Hal?”
Hal stared hollowly at the speckled brown carpet in front of him. “Not tonight. Got to go home and talk to the wife.”
As he moved farther away, Marty could swear he could hear the older man mumbling. He shook his head and eased up to Brice’s doorway. It occurred to him that he had never been to Brice’s office before now. The newness of the plush maroon carpet stung his eyes and caused him to catch his breath. He blinked hard and tapped on the door frame. Brice peered
at Marty over his reading glasses. His comb over was now firmly pasted to his head with Brill Cream. It seemed to coordinate nicely with the thin smile and the wart on his left cheek. “Ah, Wood, come in and have a seat.” He made a sweeping motion toward the chairs in front of his desk. “I’ll be right with you.”
Marty sat stiffly on the edge of the brand new leather guest chair, while Brice carefully stacked a sheaf of papers into the correct order and neatly sequenced them in perfect linear alignment. Marty looked around the room in glimpses taking in the architectural prints, model skyscrapers and commercial buildings. It was all quite angular, to the point of being disturbing. There were no plants or pictures of family. The room was linear perfection. It was like a model office; impersonal and much like Brice himself. Brice finished his arrangement of paperwork and looked up.
Marty started with an apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, but you said you wanted this by four o’clock. Julie wasn’t out there…” His voice trailed off. He felt like a fifth grader in the principal’s office.
The corners of Brice’s lips turned up, but his eyes showed no emotion. He was as plastic as a politician. “Not to worry. I gave Julie the afternoon off. Thanks for running it right up here. I like to see a team member who’s willing to give a one hundred and ten percent.”
Team? One hundred and ten percent? Marty thought Brice was joking for a moment. And then recognized the tone of corporate rhetoric. He mentally shrugged it off and began with an overview of the work. “I double checked all the primary and secondary outfalls. I made one recommendation that the contractor increase the size of outfall #5. It seems a bit under size considering the slope the architect has recommended. It will be more expensive initially, but saves us digging it up under a warranty or guarantee. I made several minor adjustments…”
Marty watched as Brice’s eyes glazed over half way through the first sentence. He didn’t have a clue as to what Marty was talking about.
“Great job Wood. Sounds like a ‘win/win’ to me.”
More dogma. Marty made a mental note to start tracking the clichés for an office pool. It would be fun for Fridays to see who counted the most team references in a week. Brice almost caressed the packet as he placed it behind him on the sheen of the new cherry credenza. He took great pains to space it perfectly on the glossy red finish.
“Martin, I can’t tell you how glad I am you have such a great attitude. In the game of life, that is going to carry you very far. As you know, we’re being considered for a merger with Wake Engineering, so we’re being very careful about head counts and overhead.”
Marty forced himself to look straight ahead and away from the brand new carpet and leather chairs in the room.
“I’m very happy to offer you the opportunity for out placement services with…”
The conversation blurred after that. Marty sat there stunned for a moment, as Brice described “right sizing.” It took five minutes for Brice to neatly arrange some forms in front of Marty, with perfectly aligned velum strips at each signature point. In a matter of fact tone he explained the outplacement package and the “benefits” associated with it. Brice’s nonchalant tone made sound like he was asking Marty how he liked his coffee. The anal little man was now a shining Star in the Richard Cranium Hall of Fame.
He looked back to the brown bottle in front of him. He took another sip from it careful not to spill any, since he was now officially unemployed and on a budget. He contemplated that his job at Consolidated Engineering was like a bad marriage. He wasn’t happy with it, but he didn’t quite know how to end it. He considered the possibility and that maybe Brice had just done him a favor. He is still a twerp though.
Red faced golfers filtered in. Their raucous laughter filled the room, while cheap cigar smoke swirled in eddies overhead. The noise was starting to give Marty a headache. Maybe it was time to leave before the great wall of bottle caps is finished. A sudden jostle and the splash of something cold on his back made him flex toward the bar instinctively. He watched as the goose bumps rose on his arm. It was definitely time to go. He rose slowly from the stool and turned to find himself towering over a small man in a pinstripe business suit. Compared to the sea of ugly pants and polo shirts, the little man was as out of place as a prom queen at a monster truck rally. His face contorted in an animated look of horror.
He stammered, “This bloke bumped into me. I am so terribly sorry…” He jabbed his thumb toward the room full of loud drunks.
His narrow face and unusually expressive eyes made his look of dismay almost look comical. This was truly a fitting end to a real crappy day. With a small half smile of disbelief, Marty raised his hand at the bartender. “Sorry, Dude, looks like five is my limit.” He snorted at his own joke. He looked back at the little man. “Forget about it. No harm done.”
The little man shook his head. “Please, Sir, this is most grievous of me. Let me at least buy you a new shirt.”
Marty shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”
His large eyes looked like he would cry at any moment. “Sir, I cannot in good conscious let this pass. I must do something to make it up to you.”
Marty’s head cocked slightly, as he listened to the man speak. He changed the subject. “Where are you from, Mister?”
The man stopped for a moment and looked sheepish. “Scotland, originally.”
Marty smiled and extended his hand. “My Grandmother Bess was a Scot. What part of Scotland are you from?”
The little man didn’t look like he was going to cry anymore. “Dundee; where was your Grams from lad?”
“Ayr; along the West Coast.”
He smiled, knowingly. “Aye, I know it well. It’s a beautiful green mountain.”
The small man smiled broadly and he raised his glass “A toast to your dearly beloved Grandmother Bess then.” Raising his hand, he flagged the surfer dude. “Lad, a couple of pints in memory of his dearly departed loved one.”
The surfer dude looked confused. “Dude we don’t have anything but domestic beer. And we don’t have pints.”
The little man blinked at him and shook his head. He clarified. “Two glasses of whatever you have on tap.”
The surfer nodded with a half-smile. “Oh, yeah. I got ya.”
He turned away to fill a pair of glasses. The bartender watched the two cautiously. His mouth easily hid his intelligence, but his eyes could not. The small man turned back to Marty and rolled his eyes. Marty snickered. The man asked “What was her full name, Lad?”
“Bessag Wood. Everybody just called her Bess.”
The Scot raised his glass to the room and pronounced loudly, “Raise your glasses to Bess Wood. Mother and mentor to the end.”
A loud cheer went up amongst the drunken golfers. “Hear. Hear. To Buzz Wood!”
Marty smiled. It would have pleased Bess to know they were raising a glass to her. No one but Marty and the little man knew what they were toasting. The golfers didn’t care, so long as there was drinking involved. The cheers died down and both Marty and the small man sat at the bar. Marty extended his hand. “My name’s Marty, Sir. Marty Wood.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Marty. My name’s Dick, Dick McPherson.”
Chapter 4
Marty awoke, his thick tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth; his head was splitting. He blinked, his eyes burned. He sat up for a moment, trying collect his thoughts against an impossible ringing in his ears. The room smelled of spoiled meat. He sat up and leaned heavily on one arm; beads of sweat began to dot his upper lip followed by the sudden feeling he was going to retch. This was not good. A cold sweat washed over him like a sudden spring rain. He sat there for a moment and focused on breathing. He hoped some fresh air would clear his mind and chase away the ill.
However, the more he breathed in the rank air the more he realized it was the air making him revile. Change tactics—breath through the mouth. That seemed to help. His head cleared a little. He began to mak
e out his surroundings in the dim light. The earthen floor around him was littered by a hodgepodge of odds and ends. He could just make out a few crudely built wooden shelves and odd assortment of bags and jugs too dirty to identify. He squinted to see if there was some way out. There was something familiar about the room that kept pestering him.
He got up and moved around. A new plethora of smells weaseled their way into his sinuses, none of which were any more pleasing. Slowly he navigated around the room. Occasionally he would bump into various objects in the dark, making him curse silently. His head began to clear making him feel almost normal. The nausea waned along with the ringing. He fought against the sudden anxiety of why he was even here.
He squinted in the dark trying to find a light switch finally making out the thin outline of a string hanging from the joists above. He followed the string up to make out the dim outline of a light bulb. He gingerly worked his way across the room using posts and storage shelves to steady him. He grasped the yellowed string and tugged. He blinked against the sudden glare of the naked lamp. It was a moment before he realized the light was in front of the gray wood of the basement doors. He pushed against them; they couldn’t have been more solid than if they had been bricked shut.
He looked around the room. With the light, he could make out the earth floor scattered with old cans, jugs, fertilizer and other oddities. He held his hand to block the glare as he stared at a long piece of canvas along the wall. He eased toward and slowly lifted the edge of the mildewed tarp. A pair of clouded eyes stared vacantly back at him from the ground. The realization ran through him like an electric shock; he stumbled backward catching his foot on the mildewed fabric pulling it toward him as he tried to escape it. He barely stayed on his feet as he scooted backward.
Marty’s eyes were wide as he stared at the body in front of him. It was too much, too soon for him to fight. He could not stop himself from retching into the powder dry soil beneath him. He sat back for a moment exhausted. He used his shirt tail to wipe the sweat from his face. He sat for a while with his eyes closed trying to calm himself. The longer he sat, the more his mind cleared.
