Accidents Waiting to Happen

by Simon Wood

  “The bastards. Is this suspension paid?”

  “Until an arrest is made. Then they cut me loose. But I think it’ll be all over by then.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Trust me, it will.”

  “But that doesn’t explain your condition.”

  At that moment, Josh realized how badly he smelled.

  Briefly, he thought of the girl on the bus and what she must have endured sitting next to him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Jenks and his foiled assassination attempt quickly obliterated the images of the nose ring girl.

  “I think someone wants me dead.” Kate started to

  challenge his wild accusation, but he knocked her protest aside. “Listen, I came home from work and I was picked up by some guy called Tom Jenks, who said he was a cop.”

  Kate looked puzzled. “Who said he was a cop?”

  “Yeah, he said he needed me to go with him and I

  did. After a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t—the car, his manner, lots of things didn’t ring true. When I tried to get away, he pulled a gun and told me I was worth money to someone, but only if I was dead. He took me to the old factories over by the rail lines.”

  Kate slapped a hand over her mouth. “That was

  him, wasn’t it? The murdered man on the news. You killed him?”

  Josh shook his head. “No, I didn’t. He was going to kill me and someone else killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “James Mitchell. He ran him down, then shot him

  and must have burnt him and the car. I was out of there once the killing started.”

  “But I thought Mitchell was trying to kill you, not rescue you.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I really don’t have a clue now.”

  Kate wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Josh,

  what have you got us into?”

  The word us stung. His actions, his deceits, his mistakes, had dragged his family and friends into a sinkhole with no bottom. It was his fault and his alone, but he’d affected everyone close to him. His only comfort was she still thought of them as an us, not as individuals.

  He hoped he could keep it that way.

  “I don’t know.” He pulled her back. “But I think it’s connected to Margaret Macey, the woman who got the threatening phone call. Someone wants both of us

  dead. I’m going to see her.”

  “No, Josh.”

  “But I’ve got to. I might be able to save her and she might be able to explain to me what’s going on.”

  “No, Josh. That’s what the police are for.”

  “But they won’t be interested until I wind up facedown in an alley with a bullet in my head.”

  Kate flinched.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  “Josh, I’m scared. I don’t want you leaving this

  house tonight. The more involved you get, the more things go wrong. People are dying. I don’t want you to be next.”

  “I can’t just do nothing. I have to go.”

  “If you go, I won’t be here when you come back. I mean it.”

  The professional lounged on the bed in his motel room with pillows propped behind his back, the remote control in one hand and a cellular phone in the other. He watched his handiwork, the cremated car and the mutilated body, on the television. Not bad for a spur of the moment effort, he thought to himself. It was him they were talking about. He dialed the number and the

  phone was answered immediately.

  “Dexter Tyrell.”

  He hit the mute button on the TV, but continued to watch the newscast.

  “You dumb fuck, Tyrell.” The professional was

  cool, showing no hint of the anger boiling up inside.

  Feebly, Tyrell muttered something in the way of ignorance.

  The

  professional chopped him off short. “Don’t play

  the innocent. You know why I’m calling. You sent a second man in to finish my work. Didn’t you?”

  Silence filled the telephone line except for a roaring hiss that made Tyrell sound like he was in a wind tunnel.

  “Yes, I did,” Tyrell admitted.

  “I’m glad you admitted it. It shows strength of character when a man can admit his mistakes. Don’t you

  think?”

  The television report went back to the studio and the program moved on to other news. Disinterested in the mute talking head, the professional switched the TV off.

  “How is he?”

  “Funny you should ask. I’ve just been watching the evening news. Your man is one of the top stories tonight.”

  “Is

  he dead?”

  “Yes, he is. Don’t worry, it’ll be some time before they can make a positive ID.”

  The professional grinned. He thought he heard an

  audible wince through the phone line.

  “It was lucky I was there or he would have robbed me of my fee.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was about to kill Josh Michaels, but luckily, I interceded.”

  “You stopped him?”

  “Of course, Mr. Tyrell. It was my assignment. Mine to carry out. Mine to finish.”

  “But Michaels will go to the police,” Tyrell said, his voice rising in pitch.

  “No, I shouldn’t think so. It wouldn’t be in his best interests.”

  Tyrell paused before answering. “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan? I’ll do as I was assigned. Within the next forty-eight hours, your request will be fulfilled. I’ll confirm my plans tomorrow. And then … we should discuss terms. A new arrangement after your breach of

  trust.”

  “Of course.”

  “I think we should meet face-to-face.” The professional made the simple request sound ominous.

  “Let… let me know when you… you’re ready,”

  Tyrell stammered.

  “Good night, Mr. Tyrell.” The professional hung up.

  The professional switched the television back on and flicked through the stations for something to watch other than news.

  He knew Tyrell would be panicking over whether

  the man he hired would kill him after the assignment was complete. He could almost smell the businessman’s fear. He stopped the channel surfing when he came to PBS. A cheetah had just brought down a gazelle and was reveling in its new kill.

  Gently, Dexter Tyrell put the cell phone on the passenger seat next to him. His focus drifted from the other cars and the road ahead to the phone call he’d received from the professional. In the years he’d dealt with the killer, he’d never believed their relationship would take a turn for the worse. But it had now. He found it difficult to think straight. For the first time, he hoped it would take some time before Josh Michaels and Margaret Macey were dead. He tightened his grip on the

  steering wheel.

  Involuntarily, his foot eased down on the gas pedal.

  In hindsight, which was always twenty-twenty, he’d made a mistake bringing in another contractor. Hiring Smith seemed like a good idea at the time and he’d come highly recommended, but never for one minute did Tyrell think he’d be killed two days after meeting him. He shot out of the righthand lane and blew by a Greyhound bus at eighty-five.

  Tyrell’s Mercedes continued to increase in speed. He considered the situation. If the professional could take out a man like Smith, how difficult would it be for the hit man to take care of him? The answer: it wouldn’t be hard. Different thoughts, scenarios and questions flashed inside his head like icons on a slot machine.

  Maybe he was jumping to conclusions assuming the

  professional would want to kill him. He was a businessman as well. It didn’t make good business sense to

  bite the hand that fed him or to tear it off in spite.

  Tyrell was deluding himself and he knew it. He just wished he knew what the professional was thinking. In the f
inancial world, people were as easy to read as a book, but the professional was written in a different language. He pressed the accelerator pedal into the carpet.

  The siren wail made Tyrell jump, waking him from

  his living nightmare. The police cruiser’s blue and red lights flashed excitedly in his rearview mirror. He looked down at the speedometer. It read 105.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Kate’s threat was a kick in the guts. Josh had never thought for one moment that Kate would consider leaving him. But there it was—if he went to see Margaret Macey, Kate would leave him. So he did as he was told and stayed home, threw his clothes in the hamper, had a bath and put the eventful day behind him.

  But that was yesterday. Today was a whole new day.

  Kate was at work, Abby was at school, and he was at home, alone. Kate would never know if he slipped out of the house and visited the old woman. Something twisted the blade of guilt between his ribs. He’d been deceitful to Kate before and the deceit had come back to take its revenge. But he had to find out what Margaret Macey knew about this conspiracy and do it without being caught. He knew the price and consequences

  of failure. If he screwed up, he lost Kate and Abby—he lost everything. He was gambling with higher and

  higher stakes. He raised the bet one more time.

  Josh guided his car down the street and brought it to a halt outside Margaret Macey’s house. He remembered the address Bob had told him, though he knew his

  friend wouldn’t approve of what he was doing. From the appearance of the street, he couldn’t imagine this woman was worth murdering. He crossed over to the other side of the street and went up to the front door.

  He rang the doorbell. It didn’t work. Josh wasn’t surprised.

  He knocked on the door. No one answered.

  “Shit,” he murmured. He hoped she was in. He didn’t want to hang around all day waiting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a blur darting back from the window. He knocked again.

  “Hello,” he said.

  No one responded.

  “Mrs. Macey? Margaret Macey? I know you’re in

  there. I saw you moving.” Josh had his head close to the door and spoke loudly.

  Realizing how sinister he must sound, Josh glanced behind him into the street. He hoped the neighbors hadn’t heard, put two and two together and come up with five. The last thing he wanted was to give the cops another nail for his coffin. He saw no one.

  Whoever was in the house didn’t move or make a

  sound.

  “Margaret—can I call you Margaret? I’m here as a friend. I need to speak to you. It’s about the insurance company, Pinnacle Investments.”

  “Go away,” she shrieked.

  Shocked by the sudden outburst, Josh’s head

  snapped back from the door and he took one step back.

  He peered through the grubby window to the right of the door and only made out shapes in the gloom.

  “Mrs. Macey, I’m here to help.” A tinge of resignation clouded his resolve. This isn’t going to be easy, he thought.

  Ever since the pizza boy incident, Margaret Macey had made herself a recluse. The evil man on the phone had called twice since then. Now, she feared the phone, the outside and people. She’d never seen her tormentor and he could be anyone. He could be the man standing

  next to her at the bus stop, the man who packed her groceries at Albertson’s or the man at the front door right now.

  The police had told her they’d spoken to a suspect.

  By going to the cops had she aggravated the wound, only making the situation worse for herself? Maybe if she told the cops to drop the investigation he would leave her alone. She would do anything for peace. The man at the door interrupted her train of thought.

  “Margaret, can’t we talk? I think the same man who is trying to hurt you is trying to hurt me,” he said, his words muffled by the windowpane.

  He sounded convincing to Margaret, but he’d sounded convincing when he called the first time. He’d sounded just like a salesman, all bright persona and fake interest in her welfare, but he’d turned into a monster. He could be doing the same now, offering her something sweet before the bad medicine came.

  “Please, leave me alone. I know you’re him. You’re the one on the phone calling at all hours,” she said.

  He started talking to her again, but she didn’t hear him. Sweat broke out across her body. For a moment, objects became shapes, losing their integrity as solid forms. As Margaret’s heart beat faster and faster, a tingle crept along her arm, numbing it. She needed her

  medication.

  “Please, let me in, Margaret,” he pleaded. “I know I can help you and you can help me.”

  “Please, don’t kill me,” Margaret said.

  “I’m not trying to. Please, don’t think that.”

  Margaret picked herself up from behind the armchair.

  She’d ducked behind it after she glanced at the

  visitor at the door. Getting up was easier said than done. The strength needed to do so was an effort at the best of times; currently, it was a near impossibility. Using supreme effort and her one good arm she pushed

  herself to her feet and tottered like a babe for a moment before gaining her balance.

  “Margaret, I can see you. Please let me in. I only need a few minutes of your time.” He sounded excited by the sighting and charged with new vigor.

  She ignored him in favor of her medication. The

  stuff was here somewhere. The bathroom cabinet was full of nothing, filled with medication for coughs and colds, Band-Aids and toothpaste, although it was hard to see anything as her vision faded to primary colors, then back to Technicolor. She grappled with the cabinet’s contents, which went tumbling into the sink below.

  The pills weren’t there. She couldn’t remember

  where she’d last seen her drugs. Why can’t I think straight?

  In her bedroom, the nightstand proved as fruitful as the bathroom. She stumbled back to the lounge with the ever-present visitor still whining at the window. He was telling her something, but she didn’t care what he had to say.

  Margaret moaned the feeble utterance of a creature without a tongue. She didn’t feel good. Something bad was happening. It felt as if her heart had been folded into a shape it was never meant to be in. The pain in her chest was excruciating and the tingle in her arm was ablaze; millions of hot needles pressed into her flesh at once. She fought to take a breath, but the air stopped in her mouth. Breathing, something she’d done all her life, was now an alien concept.

  Standing became too much. Her legs buckled and she crashed to the floor. She struck the telephone table, sending it and the phone smashing to the floor in sympathy.

  She hardly registered the impact on her body. It

  no longer fed the information back to her brain.

  Margaret lay on her back. The visitor rattled the door and tried to force it. A recorded female voice from the telephone told her to hang up and try again or dial the operator. Margaret wasn’t compliant to the request.

  “I’m coming round the back,” he called.

  She could hear it—the rustling of his movements, the creak of the screen door, the attempts on the door before the tinkle of shattering glass cascading onto the vinyl flooring. She saw the figure come for her, the Michelin man, crudely shaped without definition.

  Even now, she still couldn’t identify the man coming to kill her.

  Margaret Macey was in bad shape. Josh dropped to his knees at her side. He propped her up on his lap. Her eyes looked at him, but didn’t focus.

  “Is there anything I can do? What can I do? Tell me, Margaret.”

  “You got what you wanted. I’m dying,” she said.

  “No. That’s not what I wanted. I wanted to talk to you about the man who’s been calling you. He’s been pursuing me as well.”

  The old woman stared back blankly. She wasn’t going to tell him anythi
ng now. She was the color of the dead and breathing erratically. She needed a hospital.

  But that was a problem. Suspected of frightening this woman, he’d now broken into her home and given her a heart attack. It wouldn’t look good for him with the cops. He cursed.

  “Margaret, do you take any medicine for your condition?”

  The woman didn’t seem to hear him. “Do you

  have any pills or shots? Is there anyone I can contact?”

  The woman in Josh’s arms stiffened. Her face contorted in pain. Tightly, her boney hands balled up.

  White knots at every joint threatened to break through the paper-thin skin. He cradled the old woman like she was a bomb with the seconds disappearing off the

  clock. Flecks of spittle sprayed over her chin.

  Josh didn’t know what to do for her.

  Her last word came out as an accusation. “Killer,”

  she said.

  She gurgled like a blocked drain before her body relaxed and became still. Josh knew he was holding a

  dead woman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Oh, Christ. Oh, no. Please, don’t be dead.” He

  clutched the frail old woman to his chest and rocked back and forth. He thought fast. What could he do?

  What should he do? Gently, he placed her body on the floor and started CPR. He had his CPR certificate, but he couldn’t remember a damn thing now. He hoped to God he was doing it right. He tilted the woman’s neck back, pinched her nose and breathed into her mouth.

  Disgusted, Josh dismissed the unpleasantness of her spittle on his mouth. After several attempts, he stopped.

  She was dead and Josh gave up.

  He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth and tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t bear to look at the blank, staring eyes of the dead woman and brushed a hand over the lids, closing them. On hands and knees, he moved away from the corpse and slumped against the threadbare couch.

  Josh noticed the monotonous tone of the recorded

  voice coming from the discarded telephone. He went over to the handset to call 911. With his hand about to touch the receiver, he hesitated and retracted it. He realized what he’d done.

  Guilty. Josh was guilty of the crime the police had accused him of, whether it was intentional or not. He’d