by Britney King
The camera moves slowly backward as a tree limb moves in front of the lens. When the bedroom comes into focus again, there is a man at the window. The girl stands with her back to him, arms folded across her chest. He approaches the girl and then peers out into the darkness, smiles, and as satisfaction passes over his features, he closes the curtains. It’s Geoffrey Dunsmore. He is aware they are being watched, and he welcomes it.
I am not naive enough to think that killing Dunsmore, or any other pedophile for that matter, will put an end to videos like the one I’ve just watched. But that has never been the point. There is only one thing that can combat evil, and it isn’t what most people think.
If I don’t kill again, and soon, I am going to further spiral down this rabbit hole I’ve slipped into. I am going to keep giving interviews, keep training strangers on the internet, and I’m going to put my family further at risk.
I don’t know if it surprises me or not that I am like my own mother in that way, someone who could so easily trade this life, this family, for another, effortlessly, the way you might sub out a ham sandwich for turkey.
I suppose it’s in my DNA. My father understood this every time he suited up for work, every time he walked out the door. It was there in his eyes, the sorrow of doing something he loved, knowing the risk of losing us, weighing the two each time he put on his badge.
And ultimately, it was not a fair fight. Two months before Sophie was born, my father was killed in the line of duty. It wasn’t a dramatic thing—he was dispatched to a local bar to break up a fight. A drunk swung a Maglite at someone, striking my father in the process, fracturing his skull in three places. In the hospital, though unconscious, he looked like himself. Peaceful and perhaps slightly amused, his expression was fixed.
Hours turned into days. As I stroked his weathered hand, he smelled of the beer and trash he’d landed in. Even though I washed him, just like the nurse had showed me, that smell, so unlike my father, never went away. Eight days in, he died from a brain bleed.
It was a relief to leave that hospital room, that smell, that fixed expression. But from that moment on, everything was different. Everything that I’d ever belonged to, or that had belonged to me, was either dead or gone. Everything except the baby I was carrying and the stranger I’d agreed to marry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JC
My heart thumps so fast it robs me of breath. What irony this is, I think, as I listen to the footsteps coming from behind, counting them as they hit the pavement. I am following her. He is following me.
Memorizing the rhythm of his footsteps, I listen as one by one they match mine. Judging by the thud with which they hit the ground, I know he has picked up pace. I know he is close.
Why this man is following me, I haven’t a clue. In any case, at 1:44 in the morning, when you’re in a dark, empty park on the edge of town, why becomes irrelevant, because whatever the reason, it can’t be good.
This is not how this is supposed to go, I muse, tightening my grip around the base of the knife. I steady my breath, and as I run the coolness of the blade across my fingertip, I audibly exhale. On my next inhale, I mentally prepare myself for a possible confrontation, and then I slow my pace and wait.
He, too, slows, before he switches up his pace. With each step forward, I sense him there, lurking in the shadows not far behind, and the thought of us coming face to face does not exactly thrill me.
I can feel he’s holding back and so I stop abruptly and turn—certain if I spun around to my left I could reach out and touch him. Only when I do, there’s no one behind me. Or at least, not that I can see.
He’s there, I’m certain. Although I can’t see anything, nothing further than a few inches in front of my face, I can feel his body heat.
A dead silence fills the air, and even when I strain to make sense of my surroundings, I don’t hear anything except the intermittent rush of wind.
For a second, I’m annoyed with his reluctance to show himself. I imagine us facing off, a scenario which ends with me subsequently snapping his neck. Not only is he rudely interrupting my sleep, he’s being sloppy about it as well. He shouldn’t be here—he shouldn’t be involved with her. He shouldn’t be following me.
Taking a step backward, I scan the dark edges of the wooded area just beyond the point where the soft glow of the lamp posts touch.
Carefully, I begin to turn and start back the way I came. I figure if he won’t show himself, then I’ll retreat to the warmth and the safety of my truck and wait him out. I take just two steps before I feel him closing in. I firmly adjust the base of the knife in my palm, strengthening my grip, and suddenly, his hands are on me. With one hand clasped against my mouth, the other around my shoulders, he drags me backward into a row of thick bushes.
This isn’t even remotely how this night was supposed to go, I think, bucking against him, utilizing all of my bodyweight as I attempt to ram my foot into his shin. Unfortunately, he’s quick. He dodges it, and I don’t make any headway at getting free. Bringing the knife around my body, where I plan to plunge it into the arm he has draped around my neck, I stab at the air, missing the chance. In the scuffle, we move sideways, out of the brush and onto the path, where he releases me and backs away.
It takes milliseconds for my brain to fully register what I am seeing, but in the dark, the shiny metal of the revolver pointed at my head is unmistakable.
I hold my hands palm up. “Easy,” I say, my eyes adjusting to the light of the lamppost. I can hardly make out his face, much less his features, but I can easily hear his breathing. He isn’t panicked. His hand is steady.
“Whatever you want, take it,” I say to him, but I know I am going to die.
“You,” he says, shining a flashlight at my face, blinding me. “You put cameras in her home.” He widens his stance and steadies his gun. “You sick bastard.”
I fling myself to the side as he fires the gun, and then I take off in a full sprint in the opposite direction. Sound travels fast in the cold, and the sound I hear is a relief, a thousand prayers answered. The pistol misfires.
My legs burn, the undergrowth tears at my pants, but I press onward. Gasping for air, I fill my lungs, trying to maximize the oxygen in my bloodstream. It will help to outrun him.
But it is not enough. I feel him gaining ground. I can tell by the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Suddenly, I feel everything—from the moonless sky to the thickness of my breath in the air, I feel it all. The darkness that surrounds us is chilling, and I feel that too, and then he is on me, taking me to the ground. I don’t fight him on the way down. I don’t resist. Instead, I work within his swift movements.
Using my fingers to make out the contours of the hardened muscles of his upper thigh, I once again steady the knife in my grip and take a breath in. On the exhale, I plunge the blade into what I hope to be his femoral artery. It’s dark, so I pull the knife back, feeling it graze bone. Deftly, I plunge it in once more. He staggers forward and then onto his knees, before toppling heavily to the ground. When the movement ceases, I know I have made the right cut, and finally, I no longer hear his labored breath.
It’s then that something else catches my attention— the shuffling of gravel, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, coming up the path.
I make a start toward the nearest set of bushes, ducking behind them. Doubling over, I rest my palms on my thighs and try to be silent. My fingers and toes buzz, and my chest is throbbing, silently pleading for a giant racking sob of inhalation.
“Henry?” she says, quietly. “Henry! Oh my God.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte
Looking at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror on the plane, I am unrecognizable. This time it isn’t the hair or the makeup or the uniform. It’s in the eyes, although it has nothing to do with the colored contacts I’m wearing.
Wiping tears away, I carefully dab at my eyelids, worried that I will undo all of the effort I just p
ut in. My mascara is sure to run.
Dabbing a little concealer under my lids, I check my appearance once more.
In this line of work, it is always important to remind yourself who the enemy is. To keep it in the forefront of your mind and to drill it way down deep, so that when the time comes there is little doubt, there is no backing out.
But this time…well… this time the enemy is myself.
Henry is dead. I very well should be. Whoever killed him was also targeting me, but I was late, and for whatever reason, inevitably spared. I could feel eyes on me; it was clear I was being watched. Henry had set the rendezvous to make the drop, details and instructions for the hit on Dunsmore, which I was able to retrieve from him, after he’d bled out in the dirt. Often, he kept a tiny slip of paper taped to the bottom of his watch. This time, it was in the inside of his shoe. When I’d asked him to email the info he’d refused, saying there was something he wanted to discuss with me, and I got the impression that it was important, the kind of information he wouldn’t want the agency or anyone else to get their hands on.
For obvious reasons, I was concerned it was a trap— that Henry had lured me to that park, that I had become his mark—so I hung back and waited him out, which is why I was late.
Whoever was there intended to kill us both. It hit me, in that park—I could not go home. Not then, not ever again. To do so would be certain death for my family. They will be watching the house. Hence the tears. The best thing I can do now would be to get as far away as possible and wait for word from the agency. Their next move could come in the form of a bullet or in the form of information.
Until then, I have to carry out my current assignment as scheduled, and carry on as normal. Or at least pretend. Fifteen good years I have given the agency. Numerous kills. An ungodly number of kills. Now, it’s me they want. First, they got Henry.
Henry was the closest thing to a real friend that I’ve ever had. It’s my fault he is dead. He came to warn me, to help me, and I let him die.
It is just a matter of time before they will find me, and they will kill me. My death will be explained away easily, a tragic accident that took place during a work trip. If my family is spared, the insurance money should serve them well.
My chin quivers as more tears threaten to spill over. I am thankful that I never confided in Michael. It was the best decision I ever made. Each and every lie. All these years, so many times I could have easily slipped. I never did. And for that I am proud.
Speaking of pride, I check my reflection once more, and I think about what I want to leave behind, about the things I need to make amends for, and about finishing what I started.
Men like Geoffrey Dunsmore aren’t easy to get alone. Not that I have to have him alone. At this point, I suppose it doesn’t matter. But it does make it easier.
Flying to Paris without Henry, although wonderfully quiet and almost peaceful, feels sad and wrong. The interior of the jet is pleasantly empty, and I sink into my seat, exhausted. Takeoff is delayed, and dusk has fallen by the time the aircraft finally lifts its wheels, banks over the glittering city, and sets its course for Paris.
France always conjures memories of Dan the pilot. It’s where we first met, it’s where we first fucked, and if my calculations are correct, it’s where Sophie was conceived.
It also happens to be where I killed him.
I hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. Poor Dan. He had somewhat of a choking fetish. He liked it if I pressed and held his carotid artery just enough to bring him to the brink, right to the edge of consciousness. He liked leather; he liked to be tied up. He enjoyed putting himself in dangerous situations, and I was always more than eager to help.
There was no variance with Dan. He was well known among our colleagues for his dalliances, his incessant one-night stands. Sometimes, as it happened with me, Dan picked a regular and hung onto them, until the shine wore off, or in my case, until I became a liability.
There were no shortage of warnings that came my way. Sometimes they came in the form of stories, other times in glances of pity. I was determined to prove everyone wrong.
That trip, the one right before our final flight, after we engaged in his rather ritualistic manner of sex, we laid side by side in Dan’s hotel room. Talking about the future—or rather Dan talked, and I listened. He hadn’t meant to let it slip, but he had. He wasn’t flying back to the States with me and the crew. He wouldn’t be in the U.S. when the abortion was scheduled, or even reachable by phone, but he said I could email, if I wanted. He explained that he was off to Italy, on an anniversary trip with his wife. His kids were scheduled to meet them partway through, as an extended vacation was planned to celebrate his daughter’s graduation. As he discussed the logistics, there was something in the way he said it that made me realize I wasn’t in his future. I was just a diversion along the way to it.
At the airport, I weave in and out of weary passengers, taking care to watch for surveillance. The best way to notice if you’re being followed is to keep moving. Following a person is really more of an art rather than a science, and surveillance tradecraft is no exception. Like playing the violin or running a marathon, it takes time and practice to become a skilled surveillance practitioner. Lucky for me, most people involved in tradecraft simply do not devote the time necessary to master this skill. Because of this, they have terrible technique, use sloppy procedures, and lack finesse when they are tailing people.
Henry taught me best. Surveillance is actually an unnatural activity, and a person partaking in it must deal with strong feelings of self-consciousness and of being out of place. People conducting surveillance frequently suffer from what is called “burn syndrome,” the erroneous belief that the people they are watching have spotted them. Feeling “burned” will cause surveillants to do unnatural things, such as suddenly ducking back into a doorway or turning around abruptly when they unexpectedly come face to face with the target. People inexperienced in the art of surveillance find it difficult to control this natural reaction. Even those of us who are experienced surveillance operatives occasionally have the feeling of being burned; the difference is we have received a lot of training and are better able to control our reaction and work through it. The most important thing is to maintain a normal-looking demeanor, even when your insides are screaming that the person you are surveilling has seen you.
The more I am able to stop and pause and survey my surroundings, the easier it will be to spot surveillance. So, I enter the airport bathroom and freshen up, adding thick-rimmed glasses to my repertoire.
I fix the blonde wig in place, rearrange several errant pieces of hair, and, finally satisfied, I smile at my handiwork. Given how far from my natural color I have gone, I am surprised I don’t look half bad. When my expression softens, once again going slack, I look weary and useless, and ultimately very ordinary, which just might help.
I don’t resemble Charlotte Jones in the least.
Instead of taking a shuttle to the hotel, I hail a taxi. In a cab, it will be easier to spot if I’m being followed. I can give the driver instructions, change directions, direct him where I want him to go if I need to lose a tail.
The driver glares at me in the rearview in a way that makes me uneasy. Even though the flight across the Atlantic is official, a real job, transporting a real businessman, and the agency wants to see this job carried out, one can never be too cautious. So I pat the handgun in my luggage, a reminder that all can be equal should I need it to be.
He speaks in broken French into a cell phone, and I make out that he is having an argument with his son.
Turning my attention toward the window, I glare out at the city of light. I’ve always hated Paris, but I hate it more in the winter. Maybe I hate it more because it’s the kind of place one is supposed to love. I feel nothing of the sort. There are too many people and not a single reason to feel alone.
Tonight, the last thing I want is to be alone. I am on a mission, and that mission, and bein
g in Paris, makes me want to go dancing. And so I do.
I meet her on the dance floor, soft and sweaty, about five minutes past her prime. Dark hair, watchful eyes. She speaks only French. Me, hardly any. She is my contact. She knows things I need to know. The rest I forget. It won’t matter tomorrow anyhow.
Or later in my hotel room, either.
The atmosphere in the bedroom is heavy, with a hint of lavender in the air. The pale carpet beneath my feet is soft and thick.
Now that we are here in my hotel room, everything feels a little more serious; the sexuality I had tossed around freely at the nightclub feels suddenly dangerous. Nothing in life is free, information included.
The physical act is easy enough, mostly mechanical when it comes right down to it. Kissing. Fingers. Oral and manual stimulation. It’s all acting, really. So what if sometimes you enjoy the job? Still, I wonder what I would lose if I seduced this woman. Nothing, I realize. There is nothing that could be taken from me that hasn’t already been taken.
Afterward, naked, she perches herself on a chair, like a lazy house cat, and smokes a cigarette. It’s not a small room, I’ve stayed in worse. Still, she takes up too much space. She’s hardly said a word, what little sex we had was awful, and I’m not sure I’ve ever hated anyone more. She says something in French, something universal, something along the lines of how long are you here for? When can I see you again?
I offer only two words in response: Geoffrey Dunsmore.
She crinkles her nose, looks momentarily surprised, before exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the air.