by Derek Haas
“What’s this, then?”
“Your next mark.”
“Will I get a chance to prove myself this time?” Vespucci stood up. “That is not up to me.”
“Who is it up to, then?”
“To God, I suppose. Study the contents of that envelope.” He made it to the door. “And forget this girl, Columbus.”
He didn’t wait for my reply as he shuffled out into the hall.
THE name at the top of the page in the second envelope was Edgar Schmidt, a police detective. I did not get the call to kill him, but read about his death on the front page of the Globe three weeks later. The third envelope contained the name Wilson Montgomery, a pipefitter who had dealings with the mob. He died a week later, though I never found out how. The fourth envelope was devoted to a man named Seamus O’Dooley, a nightclub owner. He was gunned down in the alley behind his establishment.
I studied all of these files with undiminished intensity. In fact, each time I wasn’t called in to complete the mission only served to make me more focused on the next file.
But I didn’t forget the girl, despite what Vespucci ordered of me. I wanted to please him, but I wasn’t about to cast off the only part of my life that had ever meant anything. So when the holidays rolled around, Jake and I took off in her little Honda for New Hampshire.
Her family met us at the door. Her father, Jim, took my hand and warmly pumped it as he guided us into the house. In the fireplace, warm flames licked the screen that kept the embers at bay. The house was rustic, like many of the homes dotting the New England country-side, and the inside was filled with wooden Western-style furniture. A brown leather sofa took up most of the living room, and the home felt as warm as the fire. It was a home, a real home, something I’d never experienced.
Her mother, Molly, studied my face, a broad smile on her own, and said, “Well, don’t just stand there, Jim, grab his bag. We’re gonna put you in Louis’s room. It gets a little cold at night, but we’ll throw some extra blankets on your bed and you’ll be snug as a bug.” It seemed that once Jake’s mother opened her mouth, she couldn’t stop the onslaught of words tumbling from it.
Jake smiled and rolled her eyes when Molly wasn’t looking, as if to say “I tried to warn you . . .”
THE food covering the dining table was enough to feed a dozen people: peaches wrapped with prosciutto, a warm pear-and-endive salad, a honey-baked ham with a brown-sugar crust, baked beans, and no less than three pies waiting on a side table: pumpkin, key lime, and buttermilk chess.
“Jake tells us you work for a distribution company?” Jim asked when we had stacked our plates.
“Yes, sir. It’s just a start until I can earn enough money to begin school.”
“Oh?” Molly said, more of a comment than a question.
“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t—”
Jake rescued me. “Mother—”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
I looked at Jake and nodded, like I had this under control. “My parents died when I was an infant, and I was raised in foster homes, though not by parents you would call ‘loving.’ So if I want to go to college, it’s up to me to pay for it. And I don’t believe in owing the government a nickel, so, like I said, I’m just building up my account.”
Jim cast a stern eye at his wife, then looked back at me. “Well, I think that is not only a refreshing attitude but an admirable one.” He deftly changed the subject . . . “Well, what did you think of the drive into Nashua? Jake always likes to come in the back way, but I’ve been saying for years the Interstate can slice twenty minutes off . . .”
“Jesus, Daddy, you’re embarrassing me!” she squealed happily and tossed her napkin at him.
The conversation stayed in the mundane, and Molly didn’t let anything dampen her ability to dominate a conversation. Her sentences ran together without punctuation . . . I’m not even sure she took breaths. But I loved every minute of it . . . the food, the conversation, the family, and Jake’s hand that made its way under the table to mine. She squeezed it in three pulses, as if to say “I love you,” and I believed she did, believed it like I had never believed anything. And I started to think, we could be like this, Jake and me, thirty years from now, talking over a table to our own child and her new boyfriend. We could be having a meal like this.
I left the light on next to my bed so I could read the latest file Vespucci handed me before I left. He had been in the hallway when I returned from a hard run, and I didn’t invite him in. I don’t know why I didn’t, or even if he gave a shit. He just waited for a second, studied my face, and when I didn’t extend the invitation, he turned and left. I had the feeling he knew I was still seeing Jake, that I was going to be out of town that weekend, but I didn’t open my mouth to confirm it. Hell, if he wanted me to kill for him, I wasn’t giving this up. And if we never talked about it again, that was all right by me.
The name at the top of the file was Janet Stephens. She was a judge in the 5th Circuit Court, City of Boston. She was not married, but had an ongoing relationship with a female attorney named Mary Gibbons. She lived in a town house in the Back Bay, not far from Beacon Street, with a corgi named Dusty. The courthouse was downtown, a twenty-minute walk through the Common from her front gate.
The picture of Janet revealed a middle-aged woman with a broad forehead and cocoa skin. Her father was black and her mother was white, and she had that beautiful tone found in a lot of offspring of mixed parentage. Her eyes were a piercing shade of green, and her hair fell in tight dark curls down to her chin. Her nose was disproportionately big, however, and it marred what was otherwise a handsome face. She stayed in shape, too, working out five days a week with a personal trainer . . . alternating upper and lower body workouts with cardio training each session. Her gym was equidistant between her town home and her courtroom.
Now, whether there was a hit on her because she sent the wrong guy up or because she was about to preside over an important trial, I didn’t have the slightest idea. Maybe the contract on her life had nothing to do with her job. Again, I didn’t know. My middleman made sure I stayed in the dark. It kept curiosity at bay, like a leash on an angry dog. The less we knew about the “whys,” the less tempted we were to learn more about our clients. It was just an assignment, an impersonal killing, something I was expected to do by rote.
I was sleeping a dreamless sleep when Jim’s voice cut through the darkness. He said something about the phone, and it took me a moment to realize he was standing in the doorway with a cordless receiver in his hand.
“I’m sorry . . . ?” I asked, still trying to shake out the cobwebs.
“There’s a gentleman on the phone for you. He said it was urgent.”
Waking in this bed, in this room, at this time was so foreign, it didn’t register to me what was happening as I sat up in the bed and Jim handed me the receiver. He backed out of the room to give me some privacy.
“Hello?” I said into the phone, my eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
Vespucci’s voice reached through the receiver. “It’s a go.”
Vespucci. He had found me. He knew exactly what I was up to, had even obtained the home number to Jake’s parents’ house. The middleman, the fence, whose job it was to find out everything he could about a target, had also found out everything he could about me. These thoughts were ripping through my head in an instant, only to be broken when the dark Italian spoke again. “Twenty-four hours.” And then the phone clicked off.
It’s a go. Twenty-four hours. Six words packed with a meaning that stretched all the way from this bedroom to a town house off of Beacon Street. I stood up, suddenly awake, as though smelling salts had been twirled under my nose, and started to dress.
When I came out of the bedroom, carrying my pack, Jim was stooped over a pot of coffee, pouring it into two large mugs.
“I’m sorry the call woke you,” I offered.
He handed me a mug. “I’m a hopeless insomniac,” he said, taking a
sip of his coffee. “I usually get up by four. It gives me time to think.”
“What time is it now?” The coffee tasted very good.
“Four,” he said, a twinkle to his eye. “You need to split?”
“Yes, sir. Something came up at work. They need me to fill in.”
“No problem. Take the mug with you.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Don’t be silly.”
Just then, Jake’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “What’s going on?” she managed. She looked beautiful, standing in an oversized nightshirt, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Looking at her there, it was all I could do to speak.
“I’m sorry . . . I got an emergency call. Everyone’s calling in sick to work today and they need me to fill in. Must be the flu or something. But they said it would be double pay if I could get there by seven. I can’t pass it up.”
She yawned and looked at her dad. “Any more of that java?”
“Half a pot.”
“Well then, pour me a mug while I get dressed, old man.”
“You don’t have to go. I’ll just call a cab to take me to a rental car place. Company said they’d pay for it.”
She moved over and kissed me on the lips, sleepily, right in front of her dad. “Don’t be silly,” she said, sounding just like her father. “I’ll drive you. Pop . . . apologize to Mom for us.”
WE rode most of the way talking about innocuous things . . . my impression of her parents, the neighborhood, the house, the bed, the dinner. I was glad not to have to concentrate on what we were saying; my thoughts were on the file in my backpack.
When we arrived at my front stoop, I kissed her on the cheek, mumbled a few words of thanks, and hurried up into my apartment without looking back. Already, my heart was beating as though it had been shocked with a charger. I made my way to my closet and selected a pair of brown slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt. Over this, I pulled down a navy blue blazer. The same clothes fifty thousand men in Boston were putting on at that very moment. Nothing memorable, nothing that stood out. There is a way of dressing, of walking, of casting your eyes, that people looking right at you don’t even register your presence. This is a skill boys learn at Waxham, another reason I’m sure Hap recommended me to Vespucci.
I eased open the suitcase I kept under the bed. Inside, the tools of my trade, given to me by Vespucci when I stepped out of the Columbus Textile warehouse: a Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol; a box of fifty 9-millimeter hollow-point bullets; a serrated knife with a spiked handle; a cache of false IDs, credit cards, business cards. In case I was struck down doing my duty, my identity would be difficult to determine, giving Vespucci enough time to cover his tracks, probably by burning down this apartment.
I had not graduated yet to a sniper rifle, and though I am semi-proficient in its use now, it is not my preferred modus operandi. There is an adage that says the closer you can get to a mark, the more skilled you are as an assassin, but I think that adage is as porous as a sieve. Some of the dumbest killers in the world have stood two feet from their prey and pulled the trigger, and some of the most skilled riflemen have toppled their marks from distances greater than five city blocks. A close-contact killer may have to negotiate startled bystanders, while a marksman has to balance wind speed, sunlight, elements, obstructions, and the occasional spotter. Each takes expert skill. The trick, even as green as I was then, was to get in a position that would give me the most comfort . . . comfort in locating the target, comfort in killing the target, and comfort in escaping from the murder scene directly after the assassination.
I was standing near a bus stop on Beacon Street, reading the Globe like any other bored commuter, checking my watch occasionally, humming to myself a bland tune. The door to Janet Stephens’s town house opened and she emerged, wearing a navy dress and white walking sneakers for her short hike to the courthouse.
As soon as she entered the Common, I folded my paper, tucked it under my arm, and followed from thirty yards away, adjusting my pace to match hers, so that we would remain the same distance apart. I felt certain that somewhere Vespucci was watching me like the eye of God to see how his newest charge would handle the pressure of his first assignment.
Janet passed a couple of tourists looking at the duck sculptures, then took a left down one of the paths dissecting the park. She walked at a pace somewhere between brisk and leisurely, not enough to break a sweat but quick enough to keep me on my toes. I could feel my pulse rising in my ears, like a phantom drumbeat, pounding, pounding. The middle of her back stayed tight as she swung her arms, and it seemed wider than the way it was described in the file, certainly wide enough to hit, to split open, to shatter the spine, even from thirty yards away.
She slowed as she left the park and came to a crosswalk. A blinking red hand on the light-box across the street forced her to a stop, and she used the chance to stoop down and tie a loose shoelace. I had no choice but to approach the same crosswalk; there were several other pedestrians also waiting for the light to change, so it wasn’t as though I would be the only one joining her on the corner.
Still, it seemed like a giant spotlight was trained right on me. I looked past the businessman in front of me and concentrated on the middle of Janet Stephens’s back, less than two feet away now, stooped over, the cloth on her dress fluttering slightly as she tightened the lace. Two feet away. The Glock felt heavy where it hugged my ribs, hidden behind the loose-fitting blazer. I scratched my belly with my right hand, a casual gesture, then reached further in my jacket, as though I were scratching a rib. The metal of the gun barrel felt cold on my fingertips. Right now. I could do it right here, at the corner of the park, pull the gun, and then. . . .
The blinking red hand changed to the universal sign for “walk.” Janet sprung up and quickly returned to her previous pace. I let the other commuters pass in front of me and held back until I had returned to a comfortable distance. I was still thirty yards behind when Janet Stephens disappeared up the steps of the courthouse.
Was Vespucci watching? Did he see me hesitate and make a mental note, maybe even write something down in a notebook? Was he judging me, right now, this instant? “Columbus hesitated. A waste of an opportunity. Will need to cut him down first chance.”
Pushing these thoughts aside, I made my way down the street and stepped into a Korean grocery . . . a place as dark and dirty as a gopher’s hole. The shelves had a caked-on layer of dust that hadn’t felt the underside of a wet cloth in months. I picked up a box of Saran Wrap and then dropped the box on to the ground, like it had slipped from my fingers. As quick as lightning, I snatched the gun from its holster and slipped it into the crack between the lowest shelf and the floor. Same with the serrated knife. They might need a strong cleaning when I retrieved them later, but I wasn’t worried that the Korean woman in the back was going to find them while sweeping. I didn’t think that floor had seen a broom in ages. With the knife and gun tucked out of sight, I picked up the box like nothing had happened, took it to the front, paid for it so as not to raise suspicion, and headed back into the sunlight.
The entrance to the courthouse funneled into a metal detector, marked by three security guards and a red rope cordon. I put my recently purchased Saran Wrap and keys into a tray and then walked through the detector, eyes cast low. I didn’t look the security guard in the eye as he handed back my belongings, just took them perfunctorily and headed toward a cluster of elevators where a small crowd had congregated. From my file, I knew Judge Janet Stephens’s courtroom was on the sixth floor. I also knew Judge Janet Stephens never took the elevator; she always climbed the stairs, part of her exercise regimen.
Just then, a curt voice from near the elevators shook the lobby: “Jury duty, report to the sixth floor. End of the hall on the right. Jury duty, sixth floor, end of the hall on the right.”
I scanned the crowd, a varied group of vapid stares, people who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. The kind of crowd you could sit w
ith all day and no one would remember you.
The jury room was huge, and there were easily five hundred people inside. We were supposed to fill out cards and hand them in to the female administrator up near the front of the room, and then she would draw names for each pool. I took a seat in the back of the room without filling out a card. The only thing that concerned me was remaining anonymous and keeping an eye on the clock. Eleven thirty. I knew from the file that on most days, Janet Stephens called recess at eleven thirty.
The courtroom emptied at three minutes past the hour. I had been loitering for thirty minutes, trying not to look out of place, but it wasn’t difficult to blend into the surroundings. There were three courtrooms on the sixth floor and people scurried to and from each like rodents trying to stay out of the light. Nobody wanted to be seen and nobody wanted to make eye contact with anyone else. The hall remained as quiet as a museum; the only sounds were the occasional clicking of a woman’s heels, some defendant’s wife or girlfriend trying to look her best for her man and the jury. Everyone spoke in whispers, like somehow, if they showed deference to this place, they might find themselves treated fairly.
The occupants of the courtroom—the jurors, attorneys, stenographers, bailiffs—all made their way to the elevator bank soon after the doors to the courtroom thrust open, heading out for their designated one-hour lunch. I moved over to the stairwell and disappeared i nside.
Quickly, I moved to the fifth-floor landing and waited. I would need a little luck, just a little.
After a few minutes, I heard the stairwell door open above me. From Janet Stephens’s file, I knew she liked to eat each day at the deli down on the northwest corner of the courthouse building. She always ordered steamed vegetables and brown rice, and ate quietly as she read over her morning paperwork. I also knew she never failed to avoid the elevators in favor of the stairs. It is routines like this—the mundane, the boring, the normal, people caught in a rut—that make it easy for an assassin to do his job.
