Signs of anything, really.
He was surprised the house looked as good as it did. It had been a mess when he was a kid, and his folks had never had the money to fix it. But now, more than twenty years since he’d last set foot in this tiny excuse of a home, they’d clearly made use of their money. Of course, his mother was a Norman Rockwell/Thomas Kinkade fanatic, and it showed. The white picket fence, surrounding a bucolic strip of grass, needed a paint job. They had erected their American Dream, the perfect suburban pukey dream home.
He glanced at the note. Today was Thursday. It was almost nine. He’d run out of reasons to procrastinate. He had an obligation and needed to keep to the timeframe.
He grabbed the bag containing his small arsenal and headed for his car. He wondered again if he was stepping into a trap, but decided he had to take the risk. His parents were assholes, but they weren’t more clever than he. He could handle this.
Gun drawn—Glock 19, fitted with the silencer he’d made using a Pepsi can, flex coupling, PVC bushing, and a couple of band clamps—he approached the house from the front, entering through the front gate. There was no need to sneak around the side; no one was on the street, and the closest neighbor lived too far to see the front of the house.
He was about to pass the mailbox when he noticed an oversized red envelope sticking out, the name FRED clearly written across the front. He snatched the envelope and tore it open.
It contained further handwritten instructions:
DOOR’S UNLOCKED.
TARGET IN LIVING ROOM.
WELCOME HOME.
He could still recognize his father’s pathetic scribble.
Something Fred had never experienced crept into his stomach: dread. But he couldn’t leave now. He’d never failed to complete a hit, and he had a reputation to uphold.
At this point, his approach to the house wasn’t even close to stealthy. He sauntered up the path as if he’d just returned home from a date. Not that he’d had many dates. Girls thought he was rather strange and, as one called him, icky.
The front door was unlocked, as the note had said it would be. He stepped inside the foyer and the door snicked shut. By now he was past pretenses or real concern; this had become too bizarre and he wanted answers.
“Welcome home, son,” his father called from the living room.
Fred smirked and shook his head, amazed at the casualness of this situation. He stepped into the living room, the gun hanging at his side. He expected to see the old man brandishing a shotgun or rifle. Instead, his father sat empty-handed on the sofa.
“How good to see you,” the old man said. Fred immediately recognized where he’d learned his own particular smirk. He’d forgotten how much he emulated his father. And how alike they looked, though he’d imagined that after twenty years things would somehow be different. Not only were their mannerisms similar, so was their receding hairline. Their bodies shared the same lanky lines, same stooped posture. Fred wondered if his father had grown a backbone somewhere along the way but highly doubted it. His passive—and pacifist—father had always disappointed him.
Fred asked, “Care to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“Not much. Same old, same old.”
“Answer my fucking question!” He raised the gun and aimed it at his father. “Or I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking head off.” Then he regretted his impatience. This could be a setup, and he’d just threatened the old man’s life.
He waited a few seconds, expecting to see cops explode from their hiding places to arrest him.
No exploding cops.
“So, it’s true. You’ve come to kill me.”
Fred lowered the gun. “So it seems. Those are my instructions. But why you? Why did you hire me?”
His father sat forward on the edge of the sofa. “Been a long time, Freddie. Miss me?”
Fred smirked. “I never miss.”
His father licked his lips and sighed. He held out his hand, as if hoping his son would take it, but quickly lowered it again to his lap. “It’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much. Please, have a seat.”
Fred grinned despite the rodent gnawing on his intestines. “A seat. Well sure, what the heck, why don’t I have a seat? And maybe you could get me a beer. And hey, while you’re at it, maybe you can tell me why I’ve been brought here to kill you.” He sat on the chair near the door.
“You never were patient. Want coffee or something?”
The gun resting against Fred’s knee brought him little comfort. “Are you planning to keep making small talk? Or maybe you can give me some answers.”
“Is that a no?”
“Well,” Fred said, standing. He sniffed once and wiped his palm on his pants. “Anyway, this has been ... surreal. But I have a job to do. You understand.”
His father bowed his head. “So it’s true.”
“What’s true? That I’m here to kill you? You hired me, remember?”
His father ignored the question. “I was hoping somehow I’d been wrong. And it took years. You know?”
“No, I don’t know. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I hired a private detective to find you. Your mother and I were worried sick and wanted to find out what had happened to you. And finally ... we learned.”
“Good for you.”
“I learned what you do for a”—he cleared his throat—“living. Your mother died of a heart attack when she found out. So you pretty much killed her, too.”
“So that’s what this is about?” Fred shook his head and snorted. “Do you understand your stupidity? You hired me to kill you. That’s one fucked up way to get answers.”
“I know,” the old man whispered. “And I’m sorry. Somehow I failed you. Somewhere along the way something went bad. But I had to know.”
“Yeah, well now you know. And you must know I have to kill you.”
“I beg you not to. Not for me, but for yourself. Don’t do this, Fred. You still have a chance—”
“Shut up!” He raised the gun and aimed it between his father’s eyes. “Don’t beg for your life, old man. It won’t work.”
“I’m not begging for my life. I’m begging for yours. There’s still a chance for you. You can change things! Please, Fred, listen to m—”
Fred shoved the gun against his father’s temple and shot him in the head. The old man flew back and hit the sofa, the shocked expression on his face now nothing more than a rictus of cracked bone and shattered dentures.
Blood splattered Fred’s face and clothing—the reason he rarely fired at such close range. But he wasn’t concerned with appearances, and the silencer—though mostly a misnomer—was still quiet enough not to alert the neighbors. Hopefully. But he was prepared for such an event, should someone come along to investigate. The duffel bag he brought and dropped near the front door was his own Magic Bag of Tricks.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, wiping bits of brain matter off his cheek. “You stupid old fuck.” He spat on the corpse. “This was too good for you.”
He turned to leave but then stopped. There were still too many unanswered questions. If only he could control his impetuous nature, he thought. That way he could have tortured his father into giving him answers. Fred would have enjoyed that.
A search of the house might reveal something.
He started in the parlor. Searched drawers and shelves, knocking knickknacks and useless framed memories off the bookcase, overturning chairs and cushions. Nothing but dust behind the TV or under the stereo, nothing inside the fake Ming vases his mother had collected.
He glanced at his father’s corpse, reluctant to go near it, never mind touch it. Not that Fred was squeamish; he just hated the thought of touching him.
His father was in an almost upright position, and Fred reached inside his robe, separated the lapels. Nothing. He checked the pajamas—also nothing. The body tipped on its side and slumped over, almost falling to the floor.
Taped to his back was
a large manila envelope.
On the outside was written, simply, FRED.
He snatched it from his dead father’s body.
The unsealed envelope bulged with papers. Fred separated the seams and looked inside. The first set were medical reports indicating his father was terminal, had been given six months to live before the cancer would claim his life. The tests were dated three months ago.
Fred shook his head. Dying?
The next set of papers was his father’s will. A quick skim showed the beneficiary was the hospital where his father had been receiving his cancer treatments. They would get the house, the car, any money his father had in savings. Nothing for Fred. He rolled his eyes. How fucking typical.
And the next page showed a nice retirement fund, though it also showed a sizeable amount had been withdrawn just a few weeks ago. The $20,000 he had paid to hire Fred for the hit.
This kept getting better.
But what was Fred’s part in this? His father could have swallowed a bottle of pills or stuffed up the car exhaust pipe in the garage. Why involve Fred?
At the bottom of the stack of papers were two envelopes. On one was written OPEN FIRST. He read it.
Dear Fred,
I’m sorry I failed you. Your mother and I were blessed to have a son, and we raised you as best as we could. I guess sometimes that doesn’t matter. Sometimes the wiring just gets messed up. We blamed ourselves through the years and wondered what we could have done different.
And then a year ago I found out what you do. How you kill innocent men, women, and kids. Kill them for money. And my whole world ended.
But son, everything you do has a price.
I brought you home because I wanted to save you. But since you’re reading this, then that means I’m dead, and I failed you again. I’m sorry. I tried. I wanted to save you. And we could have saved you. We had money. We could have gotten you away in time, gotten you some help, if only we had known. Your mother and I loved you very much and would have helped you. That’s what this meeting was about, son—helping you. Saving you.
That was it. Nothing else. Fred read the letter several times, looking for clues, looking for anything to explain why his father had done all of this. If he was trying to save Fred, why would he hire him for the hit? It didn’t make sense.
The second envelope had nothing written on it. Fred tore it open.
Dear Special Agent Hobbes,
As we discussed on the phone earlier this week, I believe my son is the killer known as Bloodshed Fred. If I’m right, then I am now dead, because I hired him to kill me.
It breaks my heart to do this, but I can’t allow him to kill any more innocent people. If you arrive at my house on Thursday, September 3, at 9:00 p.m., you’ll know whether or not I was right. I know you thought I was mistaken, but in my home you’ll find the proof you’ll need.
And a handwritten note at the bottom:
This letter was sent three days ago, Fred. He got it all by now, including your bank account information. There’s nowhere to go now. It’s over. Please make peace with that.
Through the thick silence Fred heard his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. But he was still safe, wasn’t he? The letter was sent three days ago, so unless his father called the Feds earlier, they still wouldn’t know when—
And then he heard the squeal of brakes outside, the slam of car doors, and the heavy and persistent footfalls on the driveway and through the thick weeds and bushes surrounding the house.
His bag of weapons was near the front door where he’d dropped it. Fred grabbed it and bolted up the stairs two and three at a time and reached the top landing.
Eyes wild, Fred ran down the hallway, tripping over the scatter rug, catching himself against the windowsill. He glanced down at the dozens of agents swarming the house.
As the front door burst open and the shouting began, Fred hoped he had enough bullets.
SLASHER
BY F. PAUL WILSON
I saved the rage.
I let them bury my grief with Jessica. It cocooned her in her coffin, cushioned her, pillowed her head. There it would stay, doing what little it could to protect her from the cold, the damp, the conqueror worm.
But I saved the rage. I nurtured it. I honed it until its edge was fine and tough and sharp. Sharp enough to one day cut through the darkness encrusting my soul.
Martha was on the far side of the grave, supported by her mother and father and two brothers—Jessie’s grandparents and uncles. I stood alone on my side. A few friends from the office were there, standing behind me, but they weren’t really with me. I was alone, in every sense of the word.
I stared at the top of the tiny coffin that had remained closed during the wake and the funeral mass because of the mutilated state of the little body within. I watched it disappear by tiny increments beneath a growing tangle of color as sobbing mourners each took a turn at tossing a flower on it. Jessica, my Jessica. Only five years old, cut to ribbons by some filthy rotten stinking lousy—
“Bastard!”
The grating voice wrenched my gaze from the coffin. I knew that voice. Oh, how I knew that voice. I looked up and met Martha’s hate-filled eyes. Her face was pale and drawn, her cheeks were black with eyeliner that had flowed with her tears. A black hat and veil masked her blonde hair.
“It’s your fault! She’s dead because of you! You had her only every other weekend and you couldn’t even pay attention to her! It should be you in there!”
“Easy, Martha,” one of her brothers told her in a low voice. “You’ll only upset yourself more.”
But I could see it in his eyes, too—in everybody’s eyes. They all agreed with her. Even I agreed with her.
“No!” she screamed, shaking off her brother’s hand and pointing at me. “You were a lousy husband and a lousier father. And now Jessie’s dead because of you! You!”
Then she broke down into uncontrollable sobbing and was led off by her parents and brothers. Embarrassed, the rest of the mourners began to drift away, leaving me alone with my dead Jessie. Alone with my rage. Alone with my guilt.
I hadn’t been the best father in the world. But who could be? Either you don’t give them enough love or you overindulge them. You can’t seem to win. But I do admit there were too many times when something else seemed more important than being with Jessie, some deal, some account that needed attention right away, so Jessie could wait. I’d make it up to her later—that was the promise. I’d play catch-up next week. But there wouldn’t be any later. No more next weeks for Jessica Santos. No catching up on the hugs and the playing and the I-love-yous.
If only ...
If only I hadn’t left her on the curb to go get her that goddamn ice cream cone.
We’d been watching the Fourth of July fireworks down at the harbor front. Jessie was thrilled and fascinated by the bright flashes blooming and booming in the sky. She’d wanted an ice cream and, being a divorced daddy who didn’t get to see her very often, I couldn’t say no. So I carried her back to the push cart vendor near the entrance to Crosby’s Marina. She couldn’t see the fireworks from the end of the line, so I let her stand back by the curb to watch while I queued up. While she kept her eyes on the sky, I kept an eye on her all the time I was on line. I wasn’t worried about someone grabbing her—the thought never entered my mind. I just didn’t want her wandering into the street for an even better view. The only time I looked away was when I placed the order and paid the guy.
When I turned around, a cone in each hand, Jessie was gone.
No one had seen anything. For two days the police and a horde of volunteers combed all of Monroe and most of northern Nassau County. They found her—what was left of her—on the edge of old man Haskins’s marshes.
A manhunt was still on for the killer, but with each passing day, the trail got colder.
So now I stood by my Jessica’s grave under the obscenely bright sun, sweating in my dark suit as I fought my guilt and nurtured my hate, pr
aying for the day they caught the scum who had slashed my Jessica to ribbons. I renewed the vow I had made before—the guy was never going to get to trial. I would find a way to get to him while he was out on bail, or even in jail, if it came to that, and I would do to him what he’d done to my Jessica. And then I would dare the courts to find a jury that would convict me.
When everyone was gone, I said my final goodbye to Jessie. I’d wanted to erect a huge angelic monument to her, but Tall Oaks didn’t allow that sort of thing. A little plaque would have to suffice. It didn’t seem right.
As I turned to go, I noticed a man leaning against a tree a hundred feet or so away. He was watching me. As I started down the grassy slope, he began walking, too. Our paths intersected at my car.
“Mr. Santos?” he said.
I turned. He was a big man, six-two at least, mid-forties, maybe two-fifty, with most of it settled around his gut. He wore a white shirt under a rumpled gray suit. His thinning brown hair was slick with sweat. I looked at him but said nothing. If he was another reporter—
“I’m Gerald Caskie, FBI. Can we talk a minute?”
“You found him?” I said, my spirits readying for a leap. I stepped closer and grabbed two fistfuls of his suit jacket. “You’ve got him?”
He pulled his jacket free of my grasp.
“We can talk in my car. It’s cooler.”
I followed about fifty yards along the curving asphalt path to where a monotone Ford two-door sedan waited in the shade of one of the cemetery’s eponymous trees. The motor was running. He indicated the passenger side. I joined him in the front seat. The air conditioner was blasting. Damn near freezing inside.
“That’s better,” he said, adjusting one of the vents to blow directly on his face.
“All right,” I said, unable to contain my impatience any longer. “We’re here. Tell me: Do you have him?”
Uncommon Assassins Page 13
