My day was planned for reconnaissance—I think that’s what it’s called—I needed to understand Messenger’s habits, his moves, his favorite places. And tonight, I would go back and add what I learned to my design, finish the details of how I was going to kill him. I twisted Needle around my finger, spurring inspiration. The hunt was on.
A man paying too much attention to his phone, bounced off me, his shoulder abruptly hitting mine. He let out a grunt, jabbed a short stare at what knocked him before moving forward. The jarring hit threw me out of rhythm and out of place, forcing me to stop and refocus. My respite was cut short by an arriving bus, heckling with its hissing brakes as it came to a stop. The doors opened and poured a sea of empty faces in my direction. A low drone of chatting voices and the sounds of shuffling feet surrounded me, leaving me stranded with nowhere to move. The scene was like honey bees in a hive, an orchestration of chaos that had a beginning, middle and end. Only I was the queen, trapped by a million workers. The air became hot and toxic, but I knew what bothered me was more in my head than reality. I shrunk inside the crowd and waited for the congestion in my mind to pass with the people. In my quiet bubble, I told myself to relax, to try and reconnect with my creative muse so I could spark the imagination I needed to complete the task at hand.
The traffic signal flashed to indicate I could cross the street, giving me an exit. I stepped off the broken curb hastily—and rolled my ankle. I cursed at the sharp twinge, walking it off while bodies rushed by me and hurried to the other side. The glowing white numbers counted down, telling me I had three seconds to get to the curb before the traffic barreled through. I winced. I felt a sudden hand on my hip, helping me regain my footing. I turned to say thank you, but the person disappeared, leaving me to wonder if he or she had ever been there at all. I made it to the other side amid a blare of car horns. I chose to ignore them and searched in the direction I knew Messenger should be approaching from—Nerd had set up a package delivery with Messenger’s Quickey Courier Service, using a deli’s address across the street.
Bike messengers were easy to spot, and I only needed to catch one going in and coming out. I had my phone in my hand, ready to take a picture or two, to help me be diligent in memorizing everything about him. I didn’t think I’d really need my phone; I didn’t need his picture. Once I had him in my mind, there’d be no forgetting my mark.
“Five years,” I stated, thinking of Messenger’s time served. “Just five years. Is that what Janice’s life was worth?” My voice was drowned out by a woman’s phone conversation next to me. She cupped the electronic bug nestled in her ear and gave me a look before continuing. I raised my brow as if I’d asked a question, and she quickly turned to face the other direction. And then I saw Messenger. I sucked in a breath and straightened from my slouch, stretching up on my toes to get a better look. He entered the deli, twisted around once to check on his bike, showing me his face. It was him. I was sure of it. The only pictures Nerd had been able to find were dated, more than six years old, from Messenger’s arrest files. Even if they had been ten years old, there was no mistaking the tattoos that covered his neck and his flat nose. Very distinctive, both of them. His nose was squished and easy to remember, but the huge tattoo on the left side of his neck was the giveaway. From where I was, it was difficult to make out the picture on his inky skin. I narrowed my eyes, made out the vague shape of a skull. That gave me enough to confirm it was Theodore Holst.
I had him.
I had him memorized, and didn’t need anything else.
Within a moment, Messenger was back at the door, his body rigid, his hand cradling the deli’s doorjamb. He swung a fist in the air, yelling at someone inside. I tried to listen to the altercation, but the woman with the bug in her ear was speaking too loud. I moved closer. Had something gone wrong with the delivery?
“A tip!” I thought I hear heard him say.
He was shouting something about a tip. We needed the delivery to work and couldn’t chance him making a change. I’d studied the path Messenger used in delivering to the deli. I studied the line of traffic, the mix of yellow and green cabs lining up, bumper to bumper. By now I’d grown deaf to the never-ending car horns, hearing them only when they were meant for me. Messenger moved back to his bike, his delivery finished. He scanned the street, surveying the caterpillar run of cabs and trucks, searching for an open spot to jump into traffic. Before I knew it, he was gone, chasing his shadow to another delivery.
I had what I needed.
SEVENTEEN
A LONG DRIVE. I knew where we were by the quiet wail of the car’s tires and the rhythmic thump-thump coming from the seams in the road. We were going to one of the holes, to one of the places where the bodies got swallowed by the ground—soft earth, gravelly sand, burping air, arms and legs and head disappearing. At least, it seemed like they just went in on their own. But sometimes there was a shovel and it took us until the morning light arrived before we were done.
Five hundred and eighty-four. It’s always five hundred and eighty-four thumps after the bridge. I’d counted each time, letting the feel of the road tell me when we’d arrive. And every time it was late like tonight, my mother telling me to go to sleep. The glow of streetlights careened by my window like falling stars, and the smell of the ocean seeped into the car. We were even closer than I thought. We’d pass the tall trucks soon—big, rising above us, towering like giant buildings. But they were motionless: asleep like I should be.
“Sit with me, baby girl,” my momma said, patting the seat next to her. I pretended not to hear. I hated when she wanted me to sit in the front, between her and the dead man. By now all of him would be stiff, and with every turn, every nudge against his body, his bones and joints would pop. I shuddered at the idea of touching him. When a man dies, his skin changes. I can’t explain how exactly, but the touch is like paper or a chalkboard. At least in the backseat, I was safe.
“I’m gonna lay down,” I answered.
The dead man moaned.
I was awake now, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. “Mom?”
“Just the air, baby girl. Just the air is all,” she said, hesitating between her words. I leaned back, ducking behind the man in case she was wrong. “Get some sleep.”
I forgot about the air. It gets trapped inside and battles to come out, to leave his dead lungs. That doesn’t always happen, though.
The car slowed, causing the brakes to yelp.
“Mom?”
“Gimme a second, baby girl,” she said. Her tone was gruff and filled with concern.
I sat up as my mom swung her arm, slapped the man’s face. His head spun from one side to the other, but no breath or movement came. The seams in the road began ticking again, faster this time. We were on our way. Over three hundred now. Almost there.
My mother clicked on the radio, rolling the dial until the orange needle came to rest somewhere between the numbers six and seven. WAJA-FM was the local station I liked. She’d caught me dancing and singing along to the songs one time, and had stood in my bedroom door to watch me—without me realizing it—for a while. After that, I’d sing the station’s call letters. She’d laugh whenever I did that. I liked when she remembered the station. I liked it better now, knowing the man in the front seat was dead.
EIGHTEEN
A FEW DAYS’ “RESEARCH”—that’s what I liked to call it—and I was prepared for Theodore Holst. Late morning had arrived and my dream from the night before was still clouding my mind. I couldn’t afford to think about my mother or the old station wagon. Not today. By noontime Messenger needed to be dead. Had to be dead, in fact, or we’d have to forfeit the contract.
I took the first available cab, poaching it from two businessmen who were too busy talking to notice me. I slid across the vinyl, closing the door as the air squeezed from the backseat upholstery. The man in the driver’s seat gave me a brief look and set the cab’s meter.
“Uptown,” I told him, adding an intersection that would drop m
e into the path of Messenger’s bike route.
“Uptown,” he confirmed without another look. We drove into traffic.
The traffic ahead was as thick as the stench. But I’d expected to hit a few stops before the intersection and factored in the congestion.
We’re set? I texted Nerd, asking and expecting a confirmation. If we weren’t, we’d have to abort the job.
We are! he texted back, the exclamation mark showing his confidence. Tracking you both, he added. The second message revealed he had taken an extra step—more than we probably needed, but not a surprising one. Nerd was the only reason the plan had come together the way it did, and for the first time my design became our design.
“That was one of the easiest hacks ever,” he’d told me, his mouth stretching wide in a satisfied grin. “I tapped into the courier’s servers, added a message for the deli, and scheduled a pickup by Messenger. Even confirmed his route too. He’s all yours.”
“Where at address uptown?” the taxi driver asked with a thick accent. I raced to come up with an answer, but had nothing because I hadn’t planned on staying in the cab for very long. “You have address?”
“Sure. Sure, I do,” I answered, jumping as a bike messenger flew by the window. Another messenger followed, lightly brushing the car with his arm.
“Slow down! Too much glare!” the bike messenger yelled, giving me an idea. I leaned toward the window, catching the last of the bike messenger before he disappeared from my view. He was right—the sun was harsh, eclipsing the buildings along Seventh Avenue and blinding unsuspecting eyes.
“Glare is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” I mumbled, considering what extra layer of description that add to a police report.
“Glare?” the taxi driver replied. “Is club? Is where you go?”
“Saks Fifth Avenue,” I corrected him, remembering the sign I had seen above the building when studying Messenger’s route.
“Okay then,” he answered sharply. I was relieved. I didn’t have another store name to give him. “That place I know.”
The stopped traffic was a work of art. It was a visual and audible glorification of obnoxious horns and humps of color. Cars and trucks bumping and pushing, with bikers rushing along its belly like feeder fish swimming with whales. I only needed to wait for Messenger to appear. I rolled Needle. Toyed with her. Played with the narrow metal and picked at where the syringe emerged. My teeth chattered with a nervous angst. I bit on my tongue and waited for him.
I’d come to trust Nerd with setting up Needle. I rarely parted with my ring, my partner in delivering death, but Nerd had found her and given her to me as a gift. Who better to care for Needle than her godfather? Nerd’s latest poisonous blend came to us direct from a local source, a chemist making money on the side. Nerd had vetted the chemist, while also taking great care to keep our identity hidden. The chemist also preferred payment by Bitcoin—that helped.
“Won’t take more than half a dose,” Nerd had instructed. “Potent. Dangerously strong, so don’t accidentally jab yourself.”
I shook my head and focused, twisting Needle around on my finger, prepared to pop her syringe at the moment I knew was coming. Sunlight cut into the cab, creating a harsh dagger of light that forced the taxi driver to lower his visor. It was almost high noon, and Messenger would be coming up from behind the cab at full speed any moment. Saks Fifth Avenue was still a few blocks away, and the deli was in the block before it. That was my finish line, and left plenty of room for Messenger to pass us. But if he was late, I’d miss the opportunity—our one shot.
“That won’t happen,” I whispered, peering behind us. “Can’t happen.” I kept my eyes shaded from the brightness, but the sunlight bounced off the cars behind us. I squinted, trying to distinguish the faces in the crowd from any approaching bikes. My heart sank. I had one shot, and was nearly blind.
A bike messenger flew by, then another. I focused on their heads and necks, searching for the skull-shaped dark patch of ink. Nothing. I put my hand on the door, and the cool touch of the handle encouraged me as I leaned on it with all my weight. I couldn’t miss him. That wasn’t an option.
A flash of sunlight skipped off the car behind me, and I saw another bike messenger approaching. This time, I heard a voice. He was yelling at a pedestrian who’d stepped off the curb, nearly cutting him off. I recognized the tone immediately. It was Messenger. He appeared from the ray of sunlight like a bird flying out of a firestorm, and the mark on his neck triggered my body into action.
I sucked down a breath and pulled up on the taxi’s door handle while kicking my feet out toward the curb. The door swung open just as the rubber of Messenger’s front tire reached the cab. The bike’s wheel snapped, the metal bent as his body hit it with a force that shook the cab like an explosion. The window spidered into a thousand jigsaw pieces, the glass shattered into a storm of pebbly stones that flew from the door and scattered over the asphalt. I saw Messenger’s chin strike the top of the door frame and heard the crunch of bones as his head snapped upward and back, twisting his neck around in a single motion. His body crumpled and slid down into a lifeless pile. I let out a breath while the chaos of the moment quieted. The tinny rattle of his rear wheel spinning was the only noise for a moment.
“What a fuck!” the taxi driver yelled. His face appeared through the small opening that separated the front and back seats. “My cab! Look what that mother fuck do at my cab!”
“I’m so sorry,” I told him, trying to sound clumsy, trying to sound naive.
Curious faces from the sidewalk began to slow and step off the curb. A quiet murmur rose in a buzz of voices, asking questions and making awestruck comments. They would begin circling the taxicab soon, I knew, stretching their necks to catch sight of a macabre scene, taking the sight with them to talk about for the remainder of the day.
“Mother fuck broke my cab!” the taxi driver continued to yell as he fumbled with his door’s handle.
“I never saw him. I mean, with the sun and the glare.”
“That mother fuck!” I heard again as he thumped on his steering wheel while trying to get out of the car. “He pays for damages!” The taxi driver slammed his door, condensing the air in the cab so suddenly it set off a ringing in my ears. Now was my chance to finish Messenger. I readied Needle to deliver the poison.
“The world won’t miss—” I began to whisper, having slipped from my car seat onto my knees, hovering over Messenger’s broken body. Shock and relief filled me like a cold drink. I let out a gasp. He was already dead. His head was turned completely around, his eyes staring back at me. A single drop of blood fell from his broken nose. I heard a whisper in my head telling me to run, telling me to turn away and not look back, but I was frozen by the sight, by how he’d died so quickly, so . . . elegantly.
There was no redness from the hit, no bruising or flow of blood pouring onto the asphalt. The dead don’t bleed. His neck must have snapped cleanly when he hit the car door. I buried Needle’s syringe again, careful not to prick my finger, and then jumped back in the cab. I needed to stay a moment, needed to catch my breath. My eyes stayed fixed on Messenger’s, waiting to see him blink, or to see his pupils change—the emptiness growing or shrinking as onlookers gawked and took pictures. They never did. Even as the sun shuttered behind a cloud, the black circles remained fixed and even, the image of the taxi’s door burned into his retinas forever.
Cars and trucks blurted in protest to the abrupt stop in traffic, throttled their motors in a roaring threat to go around us. The sidewalk of tourists and suits and expensive open-toe shoes slowed and then spilled into the road again like a swollen river breaching its shallow banks. A hundred strange faces began asking questions about what happened and whether “the poor man” was alive. I took that as my cue to leave, escaping through the other car door.
“Where you leave?” I heard the taxi driver shout. “The politsiya . . . the police need statement. You stay!” But the more he yelled, the faster I moved.
When my feet hit the pavement, I dove into the street, staying low to avoid any city surveillance cameras and rushed from the scene. I dodged an approaching truck, its horn blaring, the deep tone vibrating through my body. Another car slowed and I ducked in behind it, ran along its side. More trucks and cars passed, rolling slowly enough to give me cover. I guided myself, touching their metal skin, walking from one to the next, hiding as the driver’s accented voice bellowed over the traffic. Briefly, I turned back and saw the first police officer arriving. He was a young man with hair cropped short, as though he’d been plucked fresh from the military. His baby-face expression remained fixed, stayed unchanged by the sight of the collapsed body. He checked for life, found none, and spoke into his radio. He’d likely seen many dead bodies. After all, it was a busy city and accidents happened. When he began to talk to the taxi driver, I turned away.
I made it across the street, put my feet on the sidewalk, and felt a familiar rumble in my legs. I was near a subway entrance. I ran to it. A welcome puff of warm air gushed over me. I took to the first steps, gripping the steel railing, and turned around for one last look. Messenger’s body remained the same. Lifeless. He was dead, and this case was over. I let out a sigh and felt a comfort and confidence I hadn’t felt before. I was coming into my own.
I was an assassin.
Some of the crowd began to move on, their interest lost. I moved on too, but stopped and blinked when I saw a familiar face.
That can’t be him, I told myself, convincing my mind that I was seeing things.
But it wasn’t a mistake, and I squeezed the railing to hold myself still. Garrett stared through the crowd, his eyes locked on me. He held his phone in his hands as though taking my picture.
Painful Truths Page 11