by Simon Wood
“I drew this for you.” She held out the drawing for Josh to take.
Josh put his bag down and took it. He was at a loss for words.
Kate, who had already seen it, stifled a laugh and put a hand to her mouth to contain a giggle. “Tell him what it’s called, sweetie.”
“I call it Daddy’s Accident,” Abby said proudly.
Daddy’s Accident was a crayon effort that depicted a bridge and Josh at the wheel of his car at the bottom of the river. The crudely drawn picture stunned him into silence. Only a child deciphering an adult’s world could produce the picture’s shocking honesty. After several moments, he smiled at the artwork.
“What do you think?”
“It’s pretty much how it was,” he said stiltedly.
“You like it then?” Abby said expectantly.
“Oh, I love it,” he said, a little uncomfortable with the image in his hands. He bent down and kissed his daughter.
“Cool. It’s just like Mommy told it to me.”
“Is it now?” he said suspiciously.
“I’ll get that sandwich for you.” Kate left his side for the kitchen.
Josh heard a tinkle of laughter from the kitchen. His wife had left him to deal with the praise of the picture.
He searched for a compliment.
The following morning, Josh had the house to himself.
He packed off Kate and Abby to cruise the malls and fight it out with the other families with kids on spring break. The prospect of thrashing through the hordes of impatient people concentrated on the same outlet stores hadn’t appealed to him. He wanted time to himself.
Kate and Abby’s affections had been suffocating. They didn’t allow him a moment’s peace without inquiring into his well-being. He told his employers he would be taking some time off and Kate had done the same with her job. He hoped his family would relax with time, otherwise his vacation would feel longer than two weeks.
He went into his home office down the hallway from the lounge. His office was his sanctuary from family life, an indulgence that focused entirely on Josh, the single man. Bookcases had the kind of books he liked and the shelves were filled with mementos of places visited and dearly held gifts. He only made one concession to family life—Abby’s picture gallery.
He took Abby’s picture off his desk and pinned it to the wall, which was a portfolio of significant events in her life. Daddy’s Accident nestled neatly next to a portrait of Wiener and the killer whale from Marine
World. He smiled at the latest addition. It was ridiculous but true and he loved the picture.
The phone rang and Josh reached across his desk to answer it.
“Josh Michaels,” he said, still looking at his daughter’s pictures.
“Hi, Josh,” the female voice said.
Josh immediately recognized the voice, a voice he hadn’t heard in nearly two years. His smile slid from his face. He looked away from the crayon gallery and sat down on his desk before his legs failed him. The river water he thought was gone lapped uncomfortably inside his stomach, its sour taste back in his mouth.
“Hello, Bell,” he said. A stammer crept into his
voice.
“How are you?” she said in a mocking tone.
Thank God Kate didn’t answer. He counted his
blessings that he’d answered the phone. “You shouldn’t have called.”
Ignoring him, she said, “I saw your adventure on TV
the other night. Road rage is such a terrible reflection of society these days. You must have been very lucky. I thought you couldn’t swim.”
“I can’t,” he said sharply.
“So what saved you?”
“Fear,” he said flatly.
“Very impressive. Just shows you what an incentive fear is. I was surprised not to see you interviewed with that lovely wife and daughter of yours, but you never were a fan of publicity. How are they?”
“What do you want, Bell?” he said, changing the
subject.
“Straight to business, eh, Josh? No, ‘How you are, Bell?’ ‘Long time no hear, Bell?’ ‘What have you been up to, Bell?’” she snorted. “How you’ve changed, Josh.
I remember you talking to me for hours. You loved to talk. Sometimes you’d talk too much and we know
where that got you.”
“I haven’t got all day. What is it you want?” Josh chose anger to disguise his fear.
“It’s not what I want, but what I can do for you.”
“And what can you do for me?”
“I can protect that life you hold so dear. For five thousand dollars, I can guarantee that your dirty little secrets don’t reach the ears of your family—or Dateline for that matter.”
“I paid you.”
“Yes, I know, but the cost of living is always increasing and money doesn’t go as far as it once did.”
“We had an arrangement.”
“We did, but you thought it required a one-time payment and so did I. Alas, we were both wrong,” she said with a sigh. “Now, all I need is another payment, which I might add is substantially smaller than the original sum. So you should consider you’re getting a bargain.”
Josh definitely didn’t think Bell’s sales pitch was a bargain. It was another shakedown and he hoped this wasn’t the start of many such requests. “And will this be the last payment?”
“Honestly, Josh, I don’t know.”
“What if I don’t pay?”
“Well, something unfortunate could happen. I’m
sure you can guess what that would be. But you don’t have to decide now. I’ll let you think about it and I’ll call you in two days. It’s so good to hear your voice again and it’s been wonderful to speak to you. I would say give my regards to Kate, but I can’t see you doing that. Ciao, Josh. It’s been real,” she said in an overly peppy, grating manner.
Josh said nothing and held the phone to his ear until he heard the dial tone. Bitch! He couldn’t believe it was starting all over again. He thought he had paid for his stupid mistakes. He’d fucked up once, then again, only to prove that two wrongs didn’t make a right. The sour taste in his mouth from the river became stronger and he thought he was drowning again.
Josh’s crimes had been significant. He never thought it would come to prison, but it would if the truth ever came out. He thought he’d done everything necessary to cover his tracks, but it hadn’t been enough. He stretched across his desk and brought the replica model of his Cessna CI52 closer to examine its detail. Will they let me keep this in my cell? He dropped his head into his hands.
The phone rang again. Startled, Josh’s head shot up.
He stared at the phone like it was a hand grenade with the pin missing. On the fourth ring, cautiously, he picked it up.
“Hello,” Josh said.
“Mr. Michaels?”
“Yes.”
“Hello sir, it’s Officer Dale Williams. My partner and I came to the hospital two days ago.”
Relieved it wasn’t Bell back on the phone, Josh’s heart slowed to a near normal pace. He got up from his desk and settled into the swivel chair. “I remember you, Officer.”
“I wanted to give you the latest on the investigation.”
“Have you found him?”
“No, sir. We haven’t come up with anything. There were no witnesses and there’s no physical evidence at the scene other than your tire tracks. There isn’t really anything for us to go on, unless you’ve remembered anything new or know of anyone who would have
done this.”
Josh hesitated. Could Bell have masterminded the
attack? Was this a warning to let me know what will happen if I don’t play ball? He fought the urge to blurt out everything—his mistakes, Bell’s blackmail. He wanted to make amends for what he had done, but
feared the consequences. He knew Kate would never understand. Somehow, he didn’t see Officer Williams as the priestly type who would let him confess his sins and hand
out contrition in return.
“Mr. Michaels?” the policeman prompted.
“No, Officer.. I don’t know of anyone who would
want to harm me intentionally.”
“Well sir … to be honest, I can’t see us finding anyone.
There’s so little for us to go on,” the young policeman confessed, a little embarrassed. “Personally,
for what it’s worth, I think you came across some psycho.
You should count yourself lucky that things turned out so well. You wouldn’t believe how many cases like this we get.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Officer Williams.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do more, sir. If we find out anything, we’ll contact you. Good-bye, sir.”
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
Josh put the phone down. What are they thinking
about me? he wondered. Did Williams and Brady think it was an accident caused by two idiots fucking around on the roads or did they think he fell asleep at the wheel and dumped the car in the river himself? With his run of luck, he wouldn’t be surprised if they charged him with reckless driving. A headache climbed in behind his eyes and settled in for the long haul. The morning hadn’t gone well.
CHAPTER FOUR
The professional opened the door, took the do not disturb sign off the hook on the back of the door and hung it on the knob outside. The motel room was
clean, but lacked character or personality. It was a clone of the rooms on either side of it, furnished with two double beds, a television, a closet, a desk and assorted hotel toiletries. The room had been his home for
the past week, but it looked as if he’d yet to check in.
The maids rarely found any signs of disturbance to the room. The waste paper baskets were never used, the beds never looked slept in and the towels were always neatly folded after use. The only evidence of his existence was the locked aluminum briefcase and suitcase.
He liked the kind of strong and resilient luggage that couldn’t easily be tampered with. He didn’t like people knowing what he did.
Removing the briefcase from the closet, he placed it on the bed. He dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. Adjusting the combination locks, he snapped open the case and removed some files, spreading them across the bed. He scanned for something he’d missed, something he could use to his advantage to complete his task, to kill the targets. The files had arrived in the usual manner, delivered to his Boston post office box without his name on them and no return address, as instructed.
This was more than the fiftieth such “care
package” he had received over the last two years. However, this was the first time a package contained data on two targets in the same city for simultaneous termination.
He didn’t like the situation. Sacramento was a
small city where murders were not that commonplace.
It would be possible for someone to link the incidents if they dug deep enough, so it was important the deaths appeared totally unrelated.
Of the two targets, the older one, Margaret Macey, should be the easier to dispose of, and he had a novel idea for her elimination. Putting her file to one side, he picked up the other. Opening it, he leaned over in his chair, examined the photograph and frowned. This target had survived his first attempt. Josh Michaels hadn’t drowned in the river. It was a screw-up that drew attention.
He would have to be more accurate with his next
attempt. He would dig a little deeper into Michaels’s life before he exposed his position.
He had spent the first week watching his prey, seeing what they did, when they did it and whom they did it with. Michaels had offered him an opportunity when he left for a business trip. The professional had followed his target to Bakersfield. Seeing Michaels preferred driving on the deserted roads gave him the
opening for which he was looking. He knew he would be chancing his luck on the open road when not all the conditions were under his control, but he liked his chances. An “innocent” road accident for Michaels on his return journey would be the order of the day. Except it was Michaels’s lucky day, and that allowed him to survive. According to the television report, Michaels had swum to shore even though his file stated he
couldn’t swim. He hoped the rest of the information in the file was correct.
Thinking about his mistake, he cursed himself under his breath. He had to tighten up his act. Having drawn attention to himself, he was vulnerable and that was unforgivable. Mistakes were not his trademark and mistakes would get him killed. He closed Michaels’s file, sat back and let his mind drift.
The hit man liked his work. He found it challenging and he had a talent for it. Killing people was something he was good at, but the challenge didn’t come from the killing. It came from making the kill look like an accident.
The concept was his employer’s brainchild—he
regularly needed people killed, but couldn’t afford any suspicion falling upon him. He would think long and hard about what kind of accident suited each of his assigned targets to satisfy his employer. He kept news
clippings of unusual accidents that he could reconstruct or improve on for his assignments. He took great care to make his kills look like accidents, although occasionally he did commit an obvious murder if the case warranted it. In his opinion, a seemingly motiveless murder was just as hard to solve as a well-planned accident.
However, it took time to set up the kills to make them look like accidents. Too much time in his employer’s opinion—he wanted quicker and quicker turnarounds these days, and the caseload had significantly
increased in the last twelve months. Obviously, a quicker kill meant less preparation, so the quality of the assassination couldn’t be guaranteed. If his employer wanted quick kills he could do that, but it would look like murder and murder meant investigations.
He thought of himself as a craftsman rather than a ruthless killer; a member of a dying breed in a world of mass-produced lifestyles. The greatest compliment he could receive was to watch the nightly news and hear it, or read the newspaper and see it—the words “unfortunate accident” in conjunction with his target’s name.
Any monkey with a good aim and a cool nerve could take out a mark, but it took real intelligence, class and attention to detail to kill someone without anyone realizing it had been a contract hit.
Over time he began to need the applause after a superior performance. In the beginning, as soon as his
mark was dead, he was out of there before the body was even cold. These days, he had little to fear cop-wise and hung around the kill zone awhile. The ultimate praise came from the mark’s family and friends. On several occasions he had attended the funerals of his targets in person or viewed them from afar with listening devices.
He loved hearing the target’s loved ones discuss the circumstances of the death. An overwhelming pride filled
him every time. Oh yes, he loved his work.
His work was his life, but it did come with its downsides.
The hit man’s life was a loner’s life. His contact with the real world and the people in it was scant. Most of the time, the people he really saw were through the crosshairs of a gun sight. After years of practicing being unseen, practice became perfect and no one saw
him. His career made his life very impersonal. Even after two years of dealing with the same employer and
over half a million dollars of fees, he’d never met the man face-to-face. His home in Boston was like the motel room he sat in now. There were no photographs of
him or his family, books, CDs or other material possessions.
If someone walked into his house they couldn’t
tell if he had moved in, let alone lived there. He snapped out of his thoughts before he depressed himself.
He had work to do.
He removed one of the three cellular phones from
the briefcase. This one, like the other two, was the payas-you-go type, unregistered and purc
hased with cash.
This phone he used for his employer. He disposed of the phones regularly to prevent a regular record building up against any one person. He selected the preset number and listened to the phone dial. The call was picked up immediately.
“Yes?” his employer said.
“I have an update on the situation,” the professional said.
“And?”
“The Michaels assignment was unsuccessful.”
“What the hell do you mean? You told me it was
completed yesterday.”
“Your mark suddenly discovered he could swim.
Your files were wrong.” The professional emphasized that the blame wasn’t his.
The employer put his temper on a leash, but it
wouldn’t take much to set it off again. “Is there any police involvement?”
“Yes, but they’ve got nothing to go on. I’ve been monitoring police dispatches on my scanner. I’ve
caught a couple of transmissions and there are no further actions planned unless anything else comes to
light. Which it won’t.”
“It better not. What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to do some more research on Michaels,
get involved in his life. The closer I am to him the easier it will be.”
“I don’t want you exposing us,” the employer said.
“What about the other project?”
“To be dealt with over the next few days. I see fewer problems with that one. She’s less active than Michaels.”
“Let’s hope your next call reports success and not failure.”
“Have I ever failed before?”
The professional heard the line disconnect and
switched the phone off. He bore no resentment for his employer. The man was a greedy asshole who believed he was in control. That was fine with him. That thinking made his employer vulnerable, making it easy for
the professional to eliminate him if the occasion arose.
He replaced the cell phone in the briefcase and removed another of the phones and an address book. The
professional flicked through its pages. The names and addresses it contained didn’t belong to friends, family or business contacts, but victims. Each name was the name of a person he’d killed on behalf of his current employer. He felt obliged to record their names for posterity. All craftsmen kept records of their work, so why shouldn’t he? He knew carrying the book with
