poison is potent and untraceable. When all is said and done, the coroner will declare Lester just another victim of obesity and unhealthy living. It’s so easy to simulate a heart attack. It’s almost boring.
I turn the same corner the tiny family did minutes earlier. I have half a hope that I’ll find them loitering nearby, but no such luck. I pull my cell phone from my pocket, but stand idle, lost in my thoughts.
It is standard protocol to contact my superiors once the job is finish so that they may arrange a rendezvous point to extract my collectable and give me my next assignment. This is one of the main reasons I want to be promoted to Random Works. No one tells you where to go, or who your next job should be. Freedom like that is heaven to a guy like me.
I pocket my cell phone and continue down the sidewalk. The family is nowhere in sight, but it doesn’t take me long to pick up their trail. I find them inside a museum geared to teach small children about science and nature.
The parents stand back, photographing the boy with their cell phones as he splashes in a trough made to look like a river. He runs his tiny fingers into a sandbar and dislodges a red plastic sailboat. The boy drops the boat into the water then squeals with delight when the current sweeps it away.
I stand back in a corner near a display of freshwater mollusks. Several of the children cast curious glances at me, as if they know I’m out of place, but their parents are oblivious to my presence. Then the boy looks up at me. His hair is a tousled mess of spun gold. His eyes are glittering emeralds set in glorious alabaster. My scalp crawls and a knot rises in my throat.
Please don’t misunderstand my desire for the boy. I’m no pervert. I have no sexual desires for children. And though I sometimes relish the pain I deliver, it’s not something I crave. This boy, for me, is a door. One that leads to a higher plane of existence. If I play my cards right, make just the right spectacle, the higher-ups will have no choice but to promote me to a Random Agent.
When the family leaves the museum, I follow at a distance. It’s not easy, though. I’m giddy with anticipation. Not for the collecting, that will come later. But for the phone call I must make. If I am to gain permission then I must have all my ducks in a row. If I go in half-cocked, with no practiced pitch then it’ll be a short conversation.
The family returns to their car and drives off. This makes tailing them a bit more difficult, but nothing I can’t handle. They return home and I hide across the street, watching and waiting for my opening.
Several hours later the little family returns to their car and drives away. This time I don’t follow. Instead, I cross the street and let myself into their house.
It’s a modest three bedroom ranch, just the right size. The interior is clean despite the scattering of the boy’s toys across the floor. The air is warm and smells of fresh baked chocolate cake. Mylar balloons dance and chatter across the ceiling. A banner is taped to the dining room wall that reads: HAPPY 3rd BIRTHDAY!
I move into the kitchen where the chocolate cake is cooling on the counter. I sift through a pile of mail near the refrigerator and find the family’s name is Goodwin. Thomas and Bethany and their son Matthew. According to an extra invitation resting on the countertop, Matthew will be celebrating his third birthday in four days
I look to the chocolate cake cooling near the stovetop, and I raise an eyebrow. Either Bethany Goodwin is going to be too busy over the next four days to bake her son’s cake, or she’s more excited than Matthew.
I stroll through the Goodwin house reading the clues of their lives. Baby books litter the house by the dozens, everything from What to Expect When Expecting to How to Survive the Terrible Twos. I have my suspicions, but two other books tell me that my instincts are right.
Hidden away on a dusty bookshelf in the third bedroom, which is being used as an office, is a book titled Dealing With Infertility and another one titled Life After Hysterectomy.
And now I understand the Goodwin’s extreme happiness.
This is my angle. The spin that I will use to sway my employers into allowing me a Random Collection.
I take a deep breath and pull out my phone. I’m nervous, I admit, but confident that I can accomplish the task. I start to dial when a loud noise draws my attention.
It is a strange combination of thudding and water sloshing about. I try to ignore it, but when I put my finger to the phone’s keypad the noise grows violent and is accompanied by the sharp rattle of plastic smacking plastic.
I sigh, return my phone to my pocket, then leave the bedroom and follow the cacophony into the living room. At the rear of the room sits a large fish tank. The tank is immense. I guess it to be at least 250 gallons. The sunlight, so bright and golden, drifting in through the windows fizzles to a brown haze in the murky water. I step closer and a glittering of silver scales streaks against the glass.
“Oh, wonderful,” I say aloud.
The fish is eighteen inches long, but that is by no means it full size. It paces side to side like an agitated lion, flashing me with scales that look stronger than armor. Its large mouth is turned down in a perpetual frown and as it gulps the water it razzes me with its forked “bony tongue”. The fish is known as an Asian Arowana or the dragonfish.
The dragonfish darts upward slamming head first into the heavy plastic cover, lifting it several inches and sloshing water onto the floor. I step backward in time to dodge the dirty tank water, but the fish has made its point. I am unwanted company.
Arowanas can get upwards of three feet long and even ones as small as this are known tank-busters, breaking the thickest of aquarium glass in their thrashings. I consider tapping the glass to make my own point, but I don’t want the disgusting beast to jump out onto the floor. I want the Goodwin family at the peak of happiness when I make my collection.
I leave the house and make my way to a public park. I choose an empty bench along one of the trails, well away from the young men playing football in the grassy plain or the young women sunning themselves, each group pretending not to be preening for the other. I wait for a random jogger, a pudgy little man in ill-fitting shorts and covered in too much sweat, to pass by before I retrieve my phone.
I dial the number. It rings six times before a stern but hushed voice answers, “Hello. What can I do for you?”
My voice catches in my throat, a first for me. Drops of sweat race each other down my back. My awkward silence has gone on too long and I sense my superior’s agitation through the phone.
“Yes,” I manage to squeak out. I clear my throat, close my eyes and will my frantic nerves into submission. “This is G.R. Agent 102498, reporting in, sir.”
“You’re late. We expected to hear from you two hours ago.”
“Yes sir. I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” I sound like a drunken parrot. I mean to explain, to discuss my encounter with the Goodwins, but I lose my nerve.
“And what of Lester Freedmont? Any troubles?” His voice bores into my head and roots around like a lie-sniffing badger.
“No sir. The job is completed. Freedmont has been collected without incident.”
“Excellent,” he says, though his voice remains emotionless. “We will meet you in one hour at the corner of Fairlane and Taggard to retrieve the collectable. Don’t be late.”
He is about to terminate the call. I can hear his breathing grow distant as the phone leaves his mouth. My heart rate triples, I gasp. If ever I have a chance for a promotion, it is now. And I’m blowing it. My mind goes blank. I forget the name of the family, what the young boy looks like, what town I’m in.
Do it now! I think to myself.
“Sir,” is all I manage to say.
There is a long, silent pause where I’m not sure if my superior is still on the line or not. I want to call out again, but the silence has captured my voice.
“Is there something else, 102498?” His voice seems almost amused, as if he’s known all along what I want to ask.
“Yes sir. I request permission for a Random Collection.” The wor
ds fall out of me like so much dead weight. A euphoric dizziness overtakes me and I’m thankful that I’m sitting down. This is it. I’ve taken my future into my own hands. There is no turning back now.
It’s my superior’s turn to clear his throat. “Agent 102498 you are a Level 2 G.R. Random Collections are for Level 3 and above.”
I am now sweating more than the pudgy jogger, and trembling with a chill to boot.
“Yes sir. I understand that, but—”
“Do you feel you are up to Random Work?” he asks, cutting me off.
Every muscle in my body clenches, and I sit for a moment with my mouth open. “Yes sir. I am up to the task.” To my own ears it seems as though I’m speaking gibberish.
“I can see from your record that you are doing well as a Level 2.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What are the job specifics?”
I explain to him about my chance meeting with the Goodwins, about the sheer happiness the family possesses, and even about little Matthew’s birthday four days hence. I try to lay it on good and thick, not just painting the impact the collection will have on the community, but also my ability and desire to do the job.
When I am finished, my superior makes a little impressed noise as if he is thinking.
“This sounds like a tricky collection. Perhaps we should call in a Level 3 to assist you.”
“No,” I say regretting the harshness in my voice. I calm myself and begin again.
The Promotion (A Short Story) Page 2
