Endings Page 3

  The Internet, at first, didn’t provide an answer. It produced spoofs and jokes and even video games along with loads of links to film and fictional hit men. It became clear to me that no hard and fast advice that was found there could be taken with anything but a lot of salt. I was coming up dry when an oblique reference to something in an article related to assassination triggered an idea. “The subject said he had found a hit man advertising in a mercenary magazine.” I knew I didn’t want to start advertising in magazines, but it made me think; maybe others did.

  I drove to the one store in my city that still sold a deep selection of magazines and looked for the mercenary section. It wasn’t difficult: hunting, fishing, killing. There proved to be not one but six different magazines that I thought might contain what I was looking for. I took a deep breath and waded in, buying all six, then heading home with the idea of continuing my research.

  It was clear from that first reading that I was not the intended demographic of the magazines I brought home and then spread out on my bed. Large-breasted women posed in ads for shotguns and off-road vehicles. “In-depth” pieces brayed lustily about traveling across the world to work for Saudi princes and Russian mobsters, but I wasn’t here for the articles. I kept skimming, hoping I’d know what I was looking for if I saw it. After a while, I was pretty sure I’d come up empty again and started preparing to make a new plan. Then I turned a page, and something clicked.

  At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking at. The language in the small ad wasn’t clear, but that seemed intentional: I knew that the very nature of the thing would force misdirection. It wasn’t clear from the words, but I understood right away that they represented the end of my search.

  Have what it takes?

  Not many do. A steadfast heart. A steady hand. A talent for invisibility. E-mail for more information.

  I stared at the ad for a while, willing the words to make sense. Or to not make sense. Sometimes you reach out and find what you are looking for. And I just couldn’t think what else these words in this order might mean.

  So I responded.

  I have the things you’ve asked for. More. Can’t imagine what you request next, but I’m ready.

  Then I sent it.

  Then I waited.

  By the time the response came, I’d imagined I’d gotten it all wrong. Getting the terse note in return didn’t entirely reassure me. I assumed this was the nature of the beast. I accepted that they’d have to start somewhere.

  Resume? SSN? We’re going to look you over.

  Requesting the same stuff they might if I were applying to be a clerk at Home Depot surprised me. But then fair enough, I thought. If it was what I was hoping, they’d need to look me over pretty carefully, too.

  I sent the package off by return e-mail. Then waited some more. It was a shorter wait this time. Just a couple days. And then:

  We’d like to look at you in person.

  They listed an address near me. A park. I told them I’d show and then I did. But they—or he or she or whatever it or they was or were—did not. I sat in the park, on the designated bench between a water fountain and a kid’s play area and waited for … something.

  While I sat, I kept a sharp eye out, but I didn’t see anyone who seemed like someone I might expect to meet. A few moms with little kids heavily engaged in park play. There was one old bum parked on a bench across from me. About the time I figured he might be my contact, he sat up and barfed a violent stream of distressingly green puke directly onto his shoes. That seemed too intense a detail to fake, so I ignored him after that and willed away the memory of what I’d seen.

  I sat there for exactly an hour. I didn’t look at my phone. I didn’t really fidget or even move a whole lot. I went to a kind of meditative place, accessing an oasis of calm I hadn’t known I possessed. My eyes were busy, but my body was mostly still. Just as I registered with some surprise how long I’d been sitting there, I felt the vibration of my phone. A text. I didn’t recognize the number.

  Thank you for your time. We have everything we need.

  I sat and looked at the words for a minute, maybe two. Trying to decide what they meant. When I couldn’t make sense of them, I texted back.

  I don’t know what that means.

  I wasn’t surprised when there was no reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEN ALL OF the money was gone. Not that there had ever been a lot, but now there really was none, plus the cards were maxed and people were starting to bang at the door. I stopped answering the phone.

  Not long before my life as I’d known it had ended, we had re-financed the house for a remodel and the remodel had been completed. Polished stone countertops. Walk-in refrigerator. Two dishwashers—two! There had been a reason for the brace of them when we designed that kitchen, but I can’t think of it now.

  The remodel had demanded new furniture. Truckloads of it. And an outdoor kitchen next to the Pebble Tec pool. All the trappings of a beautiful life. My heart contracted now even at the words “Pebble Tec.” In my new reality, I don’t remember what they mean.

  My husband’s income had died with him. He’d made good money when he was on the job but hadn’t had the kind of career that offered any type of security. Before long, the money that came to me during my stress leave stopped coming, too. We hadn’t carried insurance, not on our lives. Later, I realized we’d been counting on all three of us living forever. Anything else hadn’t seemed like a possibility. And now here we were.

  Here I was.

  I could have gone back to work then. They would have taken me. But I could not go back to work. The very thought of doing it made me weep again; made me wring my hands in despair. The deep, silent, sincere sympathy. The pity. And then, beyond that, the hours of meaningless function that would lead to a biweekly paycheck in order to purchase more empty things. And why? And for what? It seemed troublesome now for me to catch my breath, let alone get up and get myself ready to work, or actually go there. No sleepy kisses. No hurried coffee or straightened hair. Going back to work was out of the question. But staying where I was no longer seemed an option, either.

  I was a ghost. I wandered around the empty house, sat in the media room with the big TV off, or went outside and trailed my hands through the pool as I watched it turn a little more green every day. In the house that had been my home, there was no longer anything for me. In that house, in that yard, on that street in my hometown. Everything had stopped adding up to sense.

  There was no more money coming in, so I stopped making the mortgage payments and paying the insurance and water bills. I could have scraped some of that money together, but why? And for what? There was nothing left I wanted to keep, even if I’d had the funds to do it.

  I could have gone along like this for quite some time. Pulling my hand through an ever-more-murky pool until the bank came to take the house back. But I didn’t leave it that long. I don’t recall there being a decision. Just one day I packed my laptop and a few suitcases, stowed them in my minivan next to some blankets, pillows, and a cooler stuffed with the contents of my refrigerator.

  The single item I hesitated over the longest was a photo album. Pictures of parents. Then young love followed by wedding pictures. Next me, swollen with the life growing inside of me, my face foreign to me now. Unfamiliar. A beatific smile. A healthy glow. I didn’t recognize that woman at all.

  Then baby pictures. First day of school. Visit to Santa. First steps. First bike ride. All those firsts. All of the light on that sweet face.

  All of the light.

  I left the photo album on the antique table in the foyer. And then I drove away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THERE WERE HIGHWAYS. And there were roadside rest areas. There were sights to see that I mostly didn’t see.

  Sometimes I would sleep. More often at rest times, I would lie awake, willing my body to relax. The shift into slumber mostly never came.

  I didn’t feel as though I was searching.
But I didn’t feel I was hiding, either.

  I could have taken my own life, then. I could have done it easily. But even that seemed like too much bother and maybe, too, the rest I thought that end would give me was better than I deserved. But this limbo, this ghostly drifting, this was what suited me now. This was what I was for.

  I might have floated, anchorless, like this, endlessly, but it seemed that, just at a pivotal moment, when all hope had drained away, they contacted me again.

  Enough time and activity had passed that I had forgotten about my hour in the park. Whatever had happened was inexplicable, but it was in the past. I had the feeling of a near miss. Like I’d been close to something that had slipped away.

  I don’t remember where I was when the text came, but that part doesn’t matter. I recognized the number, though. Still, I was unprepared.

  Download a Tor browser. Then visit aligatormail.onion. Login as newfish, password 12345678. More instructions at that time.

  I had no idea what any of this meant. It seemed like a foreign language. I didn’t even know what a Tor browser might be. But I’ve never been slow, and moss doesn’t grow on me.

  And so, even though I really had no idea what I was getting into, or entirely what I was agreeing to, I texted back:

  OK.

  Upon Googling, I found that the Tor browser was my “gateway to the Deep Web,” which proved to be an unregulated Internet space that was available to me via means of which I was not at that time quite clear. Downloading the browser was easy and free. And aligatormail.onion was also easily accessed. By the time I typed in the password they’d fed me, I was nervous, though I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t know what was waiting, really. And, yet, part of me knew very well.

  To: newfish@aligatormail.onion

  From: Nevermind

  Subject: First Assignment

  You passed the first tests. We’ll see if you pass this one. Odds are against you (nothing personal) but we like the cut of your jib.

  Location: 41.9028168 -87.624505

  Subject name: Alistair Pattison

  Method: Your choosing

  Expediency: At your discretion, under 30 days please

  Payment: Via Bitcoin. Please establish Bitcoin account and leave details via this e-mail address.

  Please alert via text when the job is complete. Payment will be made in full at that time.

  And that was it. It wasn’t nearly enough information; though, in some ways, it was way too much.

  We like the cut of your jib.

  I googled that, as well. The language was redolent of someone of a certain class. The cut of your jib. I pondered that until I couldn’t anymore. East Coast, prep schools and Ivy League. Then I focused on the rest of what was said. Maybe the jib pondering had helped me avoid the more pressing issues right in front of me.

  It didn’t take much googling for me to realize that Alistair Pattison was the scion of a successful contracting firm in a city a two-hour flight from where I’d lived with my Pebble Tec pool. Pattison was a father. A grandfather. He’d been a husband, but was now a widower—small mercies. And someone wanted him dead. A spouse, a lover, a child, a competitor. It was not my job to think about that part. I knew that before I even really began.

  I searched a bit further, wanting to know more about him, thinking it would help with my mission. There was a fair amount of information floating around. News stories and items from the society pages, a few of court documents, an op-ed page in the newspaper with a lot of unpleasant comments. From all of that I got the idea that, whatever else was true, Alistair Pattison was a nasty piece of work who had, in his fairly long life, pissed off a lot of people.

  He was old now and feeble, but old injuries can die hard and, from what I could see, any number of people might want him dead.

  The difficult thing for me was going to be how I did it. Though the address that had been sent to me was a luxury condominium on the lake, I discovered Pattison was now in a nursing home. I was imagining that even the fairly tame “woof!” the Bersa made when silenced might attract attention in the hospital setting. I needed something else.

  With a bit more research, I determined I would use ricin to kill him. It sounded super easy to make, so I ordered castor beans on eBay and had them delivered to a UPS store near the hotel I reserved at the same time.

  I booked my flight. And, after only a small struggle, set up a Bitcoin account, only half sure I got it right. And there was an irony that almost made me smile for the first time in weeks: figuring out how to get the Bitcoin thing right seemed more daunting than making the deadly toxic poison was going to be.

  Tomorrow was coming; was nearly here. And I was standing there with one foot through the doorway. I could have drifted, sure. But this? It just seemed like the next correct thing. I set out and it was like everything changed in that moment. Like nothing was ever quite the same.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE NURSING HOME has that smell. Not quite urine. Not exactly dust and disuse. A waiting smell. The smell of roads not traveled and forks not taken. The smell of termination.

  I arrive in the evening, just as visiting hours are ending. I slip into the unguarded hallways unobserved, thinking that walking as though I belong will get me anywhere I need to go.

  It is not difficult to find what I am looking for. The hallway is conveniently marked with the name of the residents who live in each room. And fourth door on the right, I find it: Pattison, A.

  I slip through the door quickly and quietly from an empty hallway. No one has seen me arrive. Except Pattison, of course. He is sitting up in a hospital bed on the far side of a large private room, blue eyes bright in a wasted face. He looks pleased to see me. Like a lot of people in his position, I am betting he doesn’t get many visitors.

  “Ella,” he says when I am standing at the foot of his bed. His voice makes me falter. There is such joy in it. Such relief. It almost makes me feel ashamed, though I don’t quite understand why. “It is so good of you to come.”

  “Of … of course,” I say. Not correcting him about my identity for so many reasons.

  “Do you need money? Is that why you are here?” The words are delivered without rancor: as though that would be the natural course of events.

  “No.” I wonder what to say to keep him from suspecting I am not who he thinks I am, then realize it probably doesn’t matter.

  “Oh. How funny. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you when you weren’t looking for money.”

  “Well, I’m not now.” I say it evenly, with no extra weight on any syllable.

  The sound he makes indicates he is digesting this. I settle into the visitor’s chair across from the bed. I tell myself I am doing this to make sure he doesn’t suspect anything, and no alarms will be sounded, but a part of me knows I am just stalling. I am here to do something, but now that I am here, I am no longer sure I have the gumption.

  “How is Thomas?”

  The simplest question is difficult when you have nothing to go on. I opt for the oblique.

  “How is he? He is Thomas,” I say. “You know.”

  He laughs at that. A scratchy, hollow sound, like he hasn’t laughed in a long time, and I figure that’s probably true. From what I can see and from what I know, he hasn’t had much to laugh about. “All true. You’ve said it very well.”

  The ricin is in an envelope in my purse. The creation and drying of it had gone like clockwork, exactly like the instructions I’d followed so carefully had advised. I’d had some vague plan of blowing it into his face, preferably while he was sleeping. I hadn’t expected wakefulness or welcome. Hadn’t anticipated joviality. Hadn’t expected kind of liking him and his intelligent blue eyes.

  I’d read about the effects of ricin poisoning. It would be an ugly, painful death. Inelegant. In my mind’s eye, it had all seemed very easy. Seamless. Sitting here across from the frail old man, I wonder if I can do it that way. I am beginning to doubt it.

  A nurse bustles in, pulli
ng me from my thoughts.

  “Oh, Alistair,” she says brightly. “You have company. How nice! Who is this?”

  “This is my great-niece, Ella,” he answers before I have the chance to manufacture anything. I watch the nurse’s face but don’t see a flicker. If Ella has ever been here, the nurse hasn’t seen her. Nor does she look as though she felt I shouldn’t be here. Maybe sign-in wasn’t part of what she monitored. I allow myself to breathe.

  “Well, nice to meet you, Ella,” she says. She seems warm. Friendly. I get the feeling that she might be welcoming to any relative who chose to spend time with one of her charges. “I’m Jenny.” And then kindly to Alistair, “It’s near the end of visiting hours, Al. I’ll leave you alone for a bit. But at quarter after, I’ll have to come back and kick her out.” She closes the door behind her quietly as she leaves the private room, and I realize I have a solid twenty minutes to do whatever needs to be done. My heart flutters towards panic, and I calm it with a breath. Calm it, also, with the thought that this is something I am required to do. I can walk away, sure. But the people responsible for giving me this assignment won’t give me more if I do that, I’m certain of it. This is a single chance kind of thing. An audition, even. Anyway, if I don’t do it, someone else will. There is always someone else. And if not someone, then time. Alistair is old. One way or another, he has used up all of his time.

  I am moving before I realize I’ve made a decision. A pillow muffles the Bersa’s already silenced bark and blocks Pattison’s view of what is coming. Blocks my view of those sharp blue eyes. It is over almost before it began. Easy. Though an unseen part of me bleeds.

  I flush the ricin before I leave the private hospital room. It all just seems kinder this way.