Endings Page 2

  No surprise there. There is nothing that kills as efficiently as a gun. There have been times when I’ve used other means, but only under duress or instruction. If for no other reasons than practical ones, firearms make the most sense in my case. I am, after all, generally much smaller than my targets. Physically, I mean. And a gun? Well, it evens things up.

  That first hit, for Julian and Clara, was not as difficult as one would imagine. Not as difficult as I feared it would be. I felt soulless in that moment. I felt as though nothing would ever matter again. Truly, in some ways, it has not.

  Julian and Clara had told me something about the man’s habits, about where to find him; where it might be best to do the deed.

  I didn’t even have a gun then. Not at first. And I knew enough to understand I didn’t want it in my own name. But I needed one.

  I went to a bad part of my town, large bills in my purse. I found a guy—a fairly random guy—and I told him what I wanted. I took a risk doing that, I knew, but by then almost everything I did was a risk. It was the only thing keeping me alive.

  After Random Guy tried to sell me some meth—I declined—he said I should talk to someone named Rick, a regular at Bud’s bar.

  Bud’s was close—just a couple of blocks from the place Random and I were standing. My first instinct was to walk, but the area was dodgy, plus I had the feeling to put Random in my rearview, so I drove the paltry two blocks and got rock star parking right outside because it was early; not quite six o’clock.

  Inside, the bar was so dim I was both distressed and relieved. A dozen or so guys sat along the battle-scarred bar, propping it up with cheap drinks and baleful-looking conversation.

  A couple of heads turned when I sat at the bar, but it didn’t take long for them to turn back to their televisions and desultory conversation.

  The only other female in the place approached me, a pale brunette in her thirties who asked if she could get me anything. I thought about being pert and asking for a gun, but ordered a beer instead. Once the beer was delivered, she slid a menu in my direction and asked if I wanted any food. I spent some time pretending to look at the menu but realized once I saw the pictures of surreal-looking hamburgers and French fries that the last thing I wanted to do was eat. When she came back for my order, I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I told her that a girlfriend of mine had met a guy named Rick and that he’d told her he knew someone with a cheap car for sale.

  “I need a cheap car,” I said. “So I thought I’d look him up.”

  She smiled at that, so I knew I’d chosen the right words.

  “Sure,” she said. “Everyone knows Rick.”

  She pointed out a guy at the other side of the bar. He was all alone in a booth meant for six, a Sox baseball cap pushed far back on his head.

  I thanked her, grabbed my barely sipped beer, and headed in his direction.

  “I hear you can get me a cheap car,” I said as I sat down.

  He looked up from the papers he’d been leaning over, the surprise on his face only mild. I noted clean, neatly trimmed nails with fat, healthy cuticles. Whatever else Rick did, he liked his manicures.

  “I need it to be in good condition,” I said, meeting his eyes. “And something I can handle on my own.”

  I could see his confusion clear. It was almost too easy.

  “How much experience do you have with … fast cars?” he asked.

  “None. And speed is not my main concern. I would like … I would like it to be accurate.”

  “That’s kinda the point with this kind of … car,” he said without expression. “Accuracy. But, yeah. Whatever. I have the perfect one for you. Come back on Wednesday. Same time. With $1,200. Cash.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Here’s my number. Text me when you’re outside and I’ll meet you.”

  I did as he asked. On Wednesday, he came out at my text. We walked the few blocks in companionable silence.

  His car was a late model Subaru Outback in a pretty shade of green. It looked so solid and reliable and practical, I nearly commented, then opted to keep my yap shut. It didn’t matter anyway.

  I nervously passed him a sealed envelope. Inside it, I’d carefully placed a dozen one-hundred-dollar bills.

  He ripped open the envelope and nodded when he’d finished counting.

  “Excellent,” he said, then politely, “Thanks,” while he pulled a bundle out of the back of the Outback.

  I peeked inside and saw a gun, a suppressor, and a couple of boxes of ammunition.

  “It’s a Bersa Thunder,” he said, clearly reading my hesitation for confusion. “It’s a good gun for a woman.”

  I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, then bid him goodbye.

  Later, when I felt the heft of it, felt its compact weight in my hand, I could tell he was right. It was a good gun for a woman. I knew I’d be able to kill a man with that.

  Once I got it, I didn’t even really know what to do. It made me think maybe I should have somehow gotten my hands on a new gun. Presumably new-out-of-the-box, it would have come with instructions. But this wasn’t that—it had scratches, and I was pretty sure the serial number had been filed off.

  I brought the Bersa home and sat and looked at it for a while. It was one thing to think about using a gun. That’s what I discovered. Quite another to actually own one.

  After a while, when looking at the gun and poking at it produced no sudden rush of knowledge, I had the idea to see if anyone had made a video about how to operate my purchase. It turned out, there were lots of them online. The videos all made loading and operating the Bersa look pretty simple, plus I learned from watching that it was “high quality and reliable,” which was something of a relief since I didn’t really know what I was doing.

  One video showed someone shooting the gun again and again. An intense-looking bearded guy in a watch cap kept shooting and shooting, though the video never showed what he was aiming at or if he was hitting it. After watching the video a couple of times, I had a strong sense that the tidy-looking little gun was very powerful. The guy in the video looked strong and was quite a bit larger than me, but every time he fired the Bersa, I could see the gun jump and buck in his hands. Enough of a jump that I figured you’d have to hold on very tightly with both hands and maybe even expect some bruising after the gun was fired.

  It took me a while to figure out where to test the gun. Where would be private enough? Quiet enough? Where could I feasibly practice shooting this gun without anyone seeing me? Somehow this last part—not being seen—seemed very important.

  I spent a few days pondering this, meanwhile getting used to some of the mechanics of the beast. I taught myself how to load the magazine. I learned how to screw on the silencer, which the video had taught me was actually called a suppressor. I learned, from watching, that I’d need to hold the gun very tightly when I shot, so it didn’t jump right out of my hands. What I hadn’t learned was where I would get the courage to actually do the deed, but, as I had so many times of late, I put my head down. I moved forward and on.

  Finally, right down to the wire and with no more time to waste, I forced myself out the door. I’d done some research. About forty minutes out of town, there was an old garbage dump that had been shut down twenty years earlier when the city added a fancy waste transfer station at one edge of the multiacre property. Now garbage got shipped to who-knows-where instead of getting piled up as it had in the old days.

  At the other end of the large property from the waste transfer station, trees had begun to grow up where open pit garbage had once stood. The mountains of landfill had been covered over with dirt and were now home to trees and grasses. The driveway was blocked off by a severe-looking gate, but there was no fence. I figured the gate was to keep teenagers out: no parking or racing. And everyone knows teenagers don’t like to walk.

  I’m not a teenager, so I made a hike of it, parking a mile or so away. Once I got to the property, I quickly left behind any signs of civilizati
on beyond the occasional fast-food wrapper and—encouragingly—shotgun shell casings. Clearly, I’d chosen the right place.

  Out of sight of the traffic-less road, I sat down on a rock and screwed the suppressor into position. Now that I’d done it a few times, it was pretty easy. I loaded the gun. For the first shot I decided not to worry too much about hitting anything. The shot itself, that was the thing. Getting a round to leave the gun. Seeing how that would feel; figuring at the same time that my management of it would determine if I could go through with this at all.

  It took both more and less than expected to pull the trigger. At first I touched it gently, gingerly and nothing happened. Thinking I’d squeeze it harder, the gun jumped and bucked on my way to shooting it, exploding in my hand milliseconds before I thought it would. I managed to hang onto the gun, but I had a vision of it hitting a rock, spinning around, then sitting in the dirt, watching me. Judging me. I packed that vision away and carried on.

  Subsequent attempts went more smoothly. Ready for the jump and buck, I held the gun in a firm grip, then squeezed smoothly. By the sixth shot, I was ready to try a target. I sited a tree perhaps twenty feet away. I was sure that the first shot missed by a substantial amount, as did the next and then the one after that. But the fourth shot hit home. Even from a distance, I was certain of it.

  Up close, I could see I was right: a thin trail of sap ran thickly down from the place where the bullet had hit its target. Satisfaction mixed with a regret so sharp I could taste it on my tongue. It tasted metallic. It tasted like loss. As I scurried around, collecting my spent cartridges, I felt some panic: If I experienced regret causing a tree to bleed, how would I ever be able to end a human’s life?”

  I got over it. That’s what we do, right? We suck it up and move on. I had committed to something. And I was raised that way: commit to something, you see it through.

  Julian’s dealer lived in a loft near the edge of town. There was a gallery downstairs, an apartment above the gallery. Julian and Clara had told me that before I went there. They told me everything they could. Everything I’d need—that was the hope.

  I watched the gallery for a couple of days before making a move. During the day, employees were there—a couple of willowy young women who helped sell art, a young man who handled framing and the loading and unloading of trucks—so I figured that during the day was less than ideal. At night, though, it seemed as though the man barricaded himself into the building. Later, I’d tell myself it was because he knew he wasn’t safe. How could anyone be safe who’d treated people as he had?

  On my third night watching, there was an exhibition in the gallery. People came—lots of people—caterers, people I took to be artists, still others who I thought were probably moneyed patrons of the arts.

  Late in the evening, I let myself in, fusing myself to a group of young women entering the gallery in a gaggle. I knew I didn’t quite fit with their group; angular flesh poured into designer evening wear, their giggles and squeals as much of a covering as the wraps thrown over their shoulders. But it was a gallery and I was all in black. I didn’t think anyone would take special note of my arrival. I was right.

  Before long a glass of champagne was placed in my hand. There were crackers and cheese. Canapés and petits fours and tiny chocolate tarts etched with lavender fleur-de-lise. I wasn’t hungry, but I ate some of what was on offer, crackers under cheese turning to sawdust in my mouth. Meanwhile, I moved carefully around the concrete floors of the gallery, looking at the art while keeping an eye out for my target. Max.

  “Do you see anything you like?” He’d come upon me so quietly, and from a side entrance. I hadn’t even felt his approach.

  “Oh, so much,” I said, only slightly surprised that it was true. I found myself looking at him. He was tall and slender with a cleft to his chin and a glint in his eye. This close, I could see he was an attractive man.

  I could have taken him there. Perhaps I should have. But I hadn’t done it before and, in that moment, the thought of taking someone’s life clawed at my heart. He must have seen something in my eyes—some sort of glitter, maybe. A feral light, like a fever—and mistaken it for something else. It was by then the end of the evening, and almost everyone had gone. I could—so easily—have taken him right there.

  “Will you join me upstairs?” he said. “For a drink?”

  I understood his intention. I saw what he saw, as well. I think I was stalling. Waiting for the “perfect moment.” All this time later, I understand that they almost never come.

  I walked with him to his apartment over the gallery. We sat in a small but elegant living area and chatted for a while. His conversation seemed to fill a spot in my intellect that had been neglected for a long time. He was brilliant. Funny. And he desired me. That was plain on his face. Plain, I think, in the scent he gave out. I hadn’t encountered that scent for a long time.

  He brought wine and a small plate of canapés I recognized as being leftover from the event and placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa we sat on. He poured two glasses; handed me one. Conversation was not difficult. We nibbled and drank for a while. It was pleasant—or would have been—had not my mission been demanding so much of my attention.

  We talked late into the night. It’s a phrase one hears. At one point, he moved towards me as though he had an intention to deepen what we were sharing. I put him off. Conversation, that was all. Maybe the promise of something more.

  Eventually though, I let him lead me to his bedroom. We lay fully clothed in each other’s arms on a bed as vast as a garden. A dark green duvet enhanced the feeling of being outdoors. That and the modernist landscapes on his bedroom walls. One of them was signed by Julian. That brought me back.

  After about an hour, we drifted off to sleep, still in each other’s arms. When I woke, I listened to the night sounds for a while. The squeak of wet tires on asphalt. The occasional bleat of a horn or a siren’s scream.

  I extricated myself and moved to the bathroom, picking up my purse on the way, wincing slightly at the weight of the gun nestled in the soft leather.

  In the bathroom, I splashed water on my face, examining it in the mirror as I did. Was there something different there? Something I couldn’t erase? But, no, there was not. Not yet, at any rate. I thought that later I might see something, but I didn’t then.

  I screwed on the suppressor. I didn’t think there was anyone in the building, but I knew that a “silenced” gun was anything but silent. I eased the slide back to ensure there was a round in the chamber, then checked the magazine even though I knew I’d filled it before I left the house. I took off the safety and put my hand on the door before I could change my mind.

  He stirred when I reentered the room, the gun in my hand. I stopped and stood perfectly still, another piece of art in the room. In the silence, he settled back into slumber. I was glad. I didn’t want him to be awake. Before I could change my mind or he could fully wake, I cocked the Bersa and plugged three rounds into him—two into his chest, one into his temple—to be sure the job was done.

  In the bathroom, afterwards, I washed my hands in the sink. I could see a drop of his blood on my upper lip. I licked it away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE ARE TIMES, in all of our lives, when everything is very difficult. The paths we take, the jobs we do, the choices we make, all result in difficulties. It is as though we are constantly swimming upstream.

  At other times, we take a corner, make a choice, and everything falls into place—bing, bing, bing—like dominoes, falling into each other in an orderly fashion. After my time of swimming upstream, after I killed Max, my life was like that. Everything fell into place. Dominoes. Black and white. All fitting together as they should.

  My husband died. Let’s leave it at that. There was the fire. Then there was a lot of suffering. And then there was none.

  My husband died quietly. In his sleep. I was there.

  Afterwards, I bent my head to his chest and we
pt. The tears came from deep inside me. I didn’t see it coming, that grief. The sobs ripped from my chest with a violent intensity. It was a primal thing. Primitive. There was nothing of control about it. I cried for the life we had built together, in ashes now. I cried for the splendid young man I had met and later married. I cried, of course, for the child we made together and whom I had buried alone. And then I cried for nothing at all beyond the vast whiteness of feeling that overcame me, enveloped me. I sobbed beyond the point when my body had anything at all to give.

  Nurses came. Pulled me from him gently. Said words of comfort and made me drink something. Patted my back. Held me.

  None of it healed me, of course. It wasn’t meant to. But after a while, the crying stopped and, after a while longer, my hands stopped shaking and the shuddering breaths settled into something more like normal breathing. Later still, I walked into sunshine, amazed to feel my skin react to warmth from the sun and the scent of flowers on the air. Astonished to still feel good to be alive. Astonished and questioning. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

  How could it be right?

  But for a while, after my husband died, it was the last difficult thing. Then the falling into place began. I didn’t even see it coming until it was all there, ordered neatly around me.

  Dominoes.

  I arranged for an agency to represent me.

  Those words simplify a lengthy process. Lengthy but not difficult. I just had to think it through. In the job I had in my previous life, I had provided a service, but someone else had done the marketing. It is important in life, I think, to know your strengths, understand your limitations.

  So now, again, I had a need: a livelihood. The ability to keep a roof over my head, even though I was now alone in the world and so didn’t need much of a roof. And I now had a previously undiscovered skill. I just had to work out how to put those things together: the need and the skill.

  I knew that the likelihood of overhearing another conversation as I had in the hospital room Julian the artist and my late husband had shared was unlikely, if not impossible. But what could duplicate that circumstance? Where could I be or go to find someone who might be looking for my particular talent?