PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  The hours pass too quickly and soon I'm driving toward the convention center. As I roll through the parking lot, looking for a space, I pass nothing but Cadillacs and BMWs. That red Lincoln would have been perfect. God dammit.

  I park and sort through my papers. On the printout maps of the convention center, I've highlighted the conference room where Phil will be giving his speech. It's on the third level, to the right of the elevators.

  I look up through the windshield at the people in business suits trickling in and out of the building.

  Security is going to be creeping all over this place.

  Not like I was going to headshot Phil while he's on stage, anyway. This is just a scope out. Get a feel for the guy.

  I shrug out of my jacket, grab my phone and Ralf's wallet, and step out. The weather is fantastic here. The sun doesn't smack upside the head like in the desert, yet there's no threat of snow.

  My boots clunk against the asphalt of the parking lot. If I had to do any of this by stealth, I would have been dead a long time ago. I am not a ninja.

  The lobby is well lit, both with natural light through the glass walls and artificial lights mounted in the high ceiling.

  Visitors come and go in small groups. I head into their midst, into pre-functions. There are doors and hallways everywhere. I'm already feeling lost, even though the exit is only a few yards back.

  Ever onward. I spot the elevators and make my way through the crowd gathering around tables of coffee and donuts.

  An elevator opens. A few people get off, and I get on. Two women in business attire join me right before the doors close. The women gab at each other in that loud, self-assured office voice. Maybe it's a job requirement.

  They exit on the second floor. I exit on the third. The hallways ahead and to the side are empty. Just more doors. I follow along until I find my room, take a deep breath, and step in.

  The room is long and carpeted, with theater style seats. A few people are already waiting. Most of the chairs are empty. I sit in the front row, but to the far side. I want to see more of Phil than he sees of me.

  That's the idea, anyway.

  Within a few minutes, the room starts to fill up. The constant chattering doesn't even touch the hum in my head. Granted, the hum has maintained an even level, but I'm beginning to think I could make out more of what is being said around me if I could clear my brain.

  But I can only clear it by killing Phil. So here I am.

  A podium rests on the stage, and behind it, a projector screen.

  I have no idea what this damn conference is even about. His profile must have stated his industry at least a hundred times, but I don't actually care. All I know is, his industry is about to be less one brilliant mind.

  Phil enters the room, smiling and talking with a woman. I recognize him from the picture. The woman hands him some notes and departs into the aisle to take a seat. My gaze follows him to the podium.

  I pretend I'm the Terminator. Locked onto my target. Ready to go Arnold Schwarzenegger on this douche-bag.

  He smiles at the audience. It looks so fake, I want to throat punch him. People start pulling legal pads and pens from their bags. I'm probably the only one not taking notes. The audience better listen closely, because this is the last time they will ever hear his sage words.

  A smirk sets on my lips.

  He begins to speak. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I glance at the people seated nearby. No one is paying any attention to me, even though I'm wearing casual clothes—dark jeans and a black t-shirt—because I never think this shit through. Sometimes I'm too low key.

  I pull the phone from my pocket.

  The message is from Syd: I take it back. I don't actually miss you.

  I swallow a laugh and text, I should be home tomorrow. Send me another photo.

  She shoots back: Why don't you send me one?

  I am so glad everyone is fixated on Phil's animated carcass, because I am positive I'm turning red. Who knew that was even possible?

  I reply, I'm in public.

  She wastes no time responding, That makes it even hotter.

  I grin as I type, Is there a name for your condition?

  A woman beside me clears her throat, pulling my attention away from the phone. “Would you like some paper?”

  I look at her. She's offering me a fresh legal pad and a ballpoint pen.

  Resistance is futile.

  I accept it, smiling and trying to appear pleasant and not like I want to stab her in the eye with said ballpoint pen. I set the items on my lap and refocus on my text conversation.

  Syd has sent another message. I remember what Christmas morning used to be like when I was young and my father was alive. That's the same feeling I get every time I see the little glowing icon now.

  The woman next to me says, “Is this your first time at one of Doctor Ballantyne's conferences?”

  My head snaps up to her. She jumps, and a small line forms in her forehead.

  “Oh,” she whispers, “I'm sorry for bothering you.”

  She turns back to the podium.

  Crap. I need to focus on the job.

  With a stifled sigh, I silence my phone and stuff it back in my pocket. I take a moment to collect myself, then size up the woman.

  She has short hair and oval, wire-framed glasses. She's wearing a blue suit and a scarf with purple splotches.

  I have seconds to make her real and likable, so I can pretend to be the same.

  She's a single mom to two children, I decide. No, three. Balancing a career and a family. Terrible divorce left her emotionally fragmented. Her children are everything to her. The reason she puts in the long hours. The reason she attends these lectures.

  “No,” I say. “I've never been to . . . Doctor Ballantyne's . . . conferences before.”

  Doctor Phillip Ballantyne. Hope he doesn't have a middle name, because I don't know if it will all fit on his tombstone.

  She glances at me and gives a polite, but uninterested, smile. I try to focus on what Dr. Phil is saying.

  “ . . . were the original inhabitants of the Canary Islands, the Berber said to have migrated to the islands between one-thousand B.C. and one-hundred B.C. Now, the Guanches have since died out, primarily through intermingling, but many cultural aspects alive today on the Canary Islands are attributed to them. For example, the Silbo Gomero, or el silbo. Silbo is more commonly referred to as the whistling language. It developed as a means to communicate long distances . . . ”

  The projector screen behind him reads: The Polytheistic Beliefs of Pre-Islam Arabia.

  Maybe I should have paid more attention to my studies because I have no idea how any of this relates to each other.

  I pick up the pen and legal pad to take notes and nod along . . . for about three minutes. Then I can't pretend to care about blending in anymore, and I pull out my phone again.

  I read Syd's message: No name for my condition, but the doctor orders a firm fucking every twelve hours.

  Grinning like a dork, I type, I'll fill your prescription when I get back.

  I wait for her reply, but she has apparently moved on to something else. I imagine she has an active social life, between her band and the fact she has a personality. Those aspects tend to attract attention, especially from guys.

  The thought turns to despair and sinks from my chest to my stomach. Syd is, in reality, a player. That's why I let her stick around. One day, she will run off with her opening band and live the life of a B-list celebrity. Her fans will adore her. Maybe I'll get lucky and see her on YouTube sometimes.

  The despair morphs into something resembling contentment. Syd is going to leave one day, but she'll never be completely gone from my life. I'm good with that.

  At least, I can pretend I am.

  ***

  Doctor Phillip Ballantyne prattles on for a quarter past forever, but the clock lies and shows it has only been two hours. My ass is numb. These conference seats could get a confes
sion from the innocent.

  I head for the door, then realize I'm a moron. No going back to my hotel yet. I pat my pockets like I lost something, though most people are busy politely shoving through the crowd out the exit, and make my way back to my Guantanamo special edition chair.

  Phil—I hope I can call him Phil—is standing to the side of the podium conversing with some women from the audience. They are talking in rapid excitement, even giggling. My boy here is a regular Tommy Lee.

  He glances up and his gaze lands on me. His grin is so wide he looks like a damn Jack-o'-lantern.

  “Hello, hello!” He comes toward me, arm outstretched.

  I pull to my feet and shake his hand, squeezing a little too hard accidentally on purpose. His flinch is quickly subdued.

  He talks like every sentence ends with an exclamation mark. “I hope you found my conference enlightening! I haven't seen you at the others! If you enjoyed it, I will be holding another one next month in Houston!”

  I give my temple a short rub with my palm and try to vomit up some sunshine right back. “It was excellent, uh, Phil.”

  “Doctor,” he says, with a reprimanding raised eyebrow.

  “Doctor. Yes, Doctor.” I struggle to find the next words. “Your piece on the Canary Islands was quite . . . brilliant.”

  The women have gathered around us, and they nod and move in until we're all such close buddies. Wouldn't be surprised if we started holding hands and singing Kumbaya.

  “Have you read my work?” He's still grinning at me.

  I have an urge to shove the barrel of my gun into his mouth.

  “Uh, no, I have not,” I say, then add, “but I have been meaning to.”

  If I worked the conversations with ladies at the bars this well, I really would be a virgin still.

  “Oh, there's a table out in pre-function. I'll let the nice lady out there know to send you home with a copy of my books. Here, let me give you my info.” He slips out his wallet, grabs a business card, and hands it to me. “It has my email and phone number.”

  His tone is like he just gave me directions to Jesus' tomb. The women are not-so-discreetly trying to sneak a peek. Just to be a jerk, I fold the card in half and stuff it in my front pocket.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I'll let you know how I enjoy the books.”

  “Yes, please do.” He clasps my shoulder and leads me away from Team Phil. He lowers his voice. “We are opening up internships this summer, and I would be delighted if you would apply. It's a marvelous opportunity to get first-hand experience and network.”

  I still don't even know what Phil does, besides talk about people who whistle like canaries or something.

  But I play along by nodding and saying, “I'll do that. Should I email you for details when I get home?”

  “Yes, yes. At your first chance,” he says. “Let me know, and I'll put in a personal recommendation for you.”

  If I didn't already hate Phil for being a wife beater, I would be happy to off him just because he oozes so much goodwill he must keep the heads of children in his basement. Yin and yang.

  “Great, thank you.” I nonchalantly pull away from his grasp, then add in a casual tone, “So, you headed home now?”

  He chuckles, though he sounds tired. I have a solution for this. A permanent one.

  “Not heading home until tomorrow. Drinks with some of the other professors first, then back to my hotel for the night.” He shakes my hand again. “It was good meeting you, um, what was your name?”

  “Ralf,” I say, and it amuses me that a guy named Ralf is going to have a gun to his forehead in a few hours.

  I would like to ask him what bar he will be visiting or what hotel he is staying at, but both questions pose a risk of sounding alarming. I'll do it the traditional way then.

  We have a long night of hanging out—Phil.

  ***

  Phil drives a silver Lexus. The guy keeps adding to my reasons I want to pop one in his brain. I trail him in my rented Yaris to a place that claims to be a bar, but is more like a big restaurant that happens to have liquor.

  Phil crosses the parking lot, meeting with a group of old men. They talk and laugh so loud I can hear them like they are in the backseat. And that's with the hum still giving a private one-note audition in my skull. Finally, they turn and head inside.

  Time to move.

  I grab my jacket and slide out of the car. The papers from my file on him are still in the passenger seat. I'm such an amateur.

  I lean back in and shove the papers next to the console, then lock the car and slip on my jacket. The gun weighs down one side and the silencer the other. Interior pockets rule.

  I do a quick Google search on my cellphone for the number to the restaurant and give them a call.

  A pleasant female voice answers “Hello,” on the third ring.

  “Yeah, how long is the wait?”

  “For how many?” She's all southern honey. It's kind of hot.

  “A party,” I say. “Five or six.”

  “About fifteen minutes. Can I get a name?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “That's all I needed.”

  I hang up, then step over the curb and onto a grassy knoll.

  On the other side lays another parking lot. It's dimly lit. Perfect for hanging out until I'm certain Phil and friends have been seated. I can't stay in my car. My nerves are twitching.

  The breeze sweeps through, messing up my hair and causing a small shudder.

  I pull my jacket close and keep walking. People make their way between cars and buildings, chatting and being loud, the New Orleans nightlife well underway. Of all the cities I've been in, which, to be fair, number less than a dozen, New Orleans is definitely a favorite. If I get lucky, Karl will want to off a lot more people around here. I could roll with that.

  I pull my phone from my pants pocket. It has been on silent this whole time. Maybe Syd has texted me. Maybe many times. She might be angry. The idea gets me a little riled up, and I tap the screen to see what I'm in for with the crazy woman.

  There are no new messages.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes passes incredibly slowly when standing in the middle of a poorly lit parking lot with nothing to do. It also passes incredibly fast when preparing to kill someone. I feel like I'm going to implode.

  But now is the most nerve-wrecking part. I cross over the knoll and back to the Yaris, then hasten around the side of the restaurant. Collar up and head down, eyes slanted to look into the windows as I stroll by. If all goes well, I will see where Phil is seated but he won't see me. That's the idea.

  Being spotted wouldn't be a big deal if I hadn't engaged my target already. Since Phil and I are all but blood brothers now, I have to be careful. I need the element of “Oh, shit.”

  His group is occupying two tables near the back of the restaurant. I pick up my pace and complete my loop to the front door.

  Inside, the lobby is warm and filled with people. The clattering of dishes, the scent of onions and garlic. A group of waitstaff are clapping and singing a birthday song.

  A woman asks, “Table or booth?”

  It's southern honey. I turn to where she stands at a counter. She has smooth, dark skin and gorgeous brown eyes. God damn. Maybe I can delay my return trip and take my twenty-four hour me-time here in the south.

  She straightens. I'm busted. Stealth isn't my thing in any situation.

  “Uh, no, thanks.” I snag a menu. “Just looking for my party.”

  I hurry into the dining area before she can reply. The restaurant is busy, but there are a few seats to choose from. I slide into a booth and slouch down. I can see Phil, but he won't see me as long as he doesn't stand up.

  A waiter brings me water and offers an appetizer. I say yes and wave him away. Not a clue what I just ordered. Don't care.

  Actually, I kind of do. The menu is all sorts of southern goodies—the hostess excluded—but I can't kill on a full stomach. I did that once. It ended poorly.
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  Lucky for the guy he was already dead.

  The waiter comes back with a soda. Apparently I ordered that.

  He pulls out his notepad. “Have you decided what you would like?”

  I glance down at the menu. This isn't the type of place that will let me sit around sucking down drinks and not order food.

  “The manager's special,” I say, assuming there is one.

  He nods and tries to take the menu.

  I slap my hand on it. “I'd like to keep it. Please.”

  “Sure.” He shrugs and walks off.

  Halfway across the restaurant, Phil is living it up with pints of beer and platters of food. I would be envious that he gets to eat without worrying about emptying his stomach on a fresh corpse later, except he's going to be that corpse. It's sort of a fair trade.

  My appetizer, as it turns out, is fried artichokes, which is about as exciting as a garden hose. The manager's special is surf and turf. Too bad I shouldn't eat it. What a waste of a perfectly good artery-clogging meal.

  So I just sit here watching a bunch of old guys violate doctor's orders. Phil is having a good time for someone who is going to have a bullet for an after dinner mint.

  With a small groan of irritation, I slump in my seat. The shrimp on my plate are taunting me, so I cave and snack on them with the cocktail sauce. Phil continues with his merriment. I've had more exciting visits to the dentist. Less painful, too.

  I consider checking my phone, but I need to stay focused. Plus, I'll probably do something stupid if Syd hasn't texted yet. Like call her.

  So much for learning about southern hospitality. That hostess up front is gorgeous, but I'm ready to get back to jumping my claim in the southwest.

  After I've gone ahead and eaten all the shrimp, fried cheese sticks, and half of the steak, Phil is finally ready to leave. I scramble for the menu buried under my plates and hold it up. I'm not James Bond. I have no nifty moves. I just do what works. And a menu shield works pretty damn well.

  It works well enough that Phil leaves the restaurant without seeing me, though he didn't have to get too close, anyway. I tune pass the hum as best as possible and listen for his voice. A moment later, the sound of the front door, and then his talking fades out.