Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  He watched the man wait and then move to the edge of a cement wall surrounding a townhouse. Stahl could see small wisps of steam come out of the man's mouth and vanish in the cold air.

  Was this the man? Was this the one Stahl felt connected to? He studied the face as best he could. His heart pumped faster.

  It was him.

  He almost missed the fluid motion of the man disappearing over the wall. Stahl panicked a little, fearing he might lose sight of him.

  But his perspective simply changed again.

  And this time, he got even closer.

  In the next swirl of images, Stahl found himself looking over the man's left shoulder. He could see the alarm pad by the outside door. He watched fingers gloved in kid leather attach a small electronic box to the keypad and saw a swirling array of red digital readouts before the man removed the box, punched in the right code, and then opened the door.

  He was inside the house.

  Stahl could hear nothing, which disappointed him. So close to watching a maneuver like this, he wanted to hear the breathing, the environmental sounds. The entire effect was incredibly vicarious, he decided.

  The man moved through a hallway. Stahl could see the tip of a silenced pistol in the man's hand, held with the barrel pointing just below the horizon.

  The low-ready position marked this man again as a pro. Someone had taught him well.

  Stahl almost laughed out loud when he noticed the gun was the same exact kind as the one he used. But he contained himself. Part of him seemed worried the man on the other side would be able to hear him if he did laugh.

  Was that ridiculous or a genuine possibility? Stahl wasn't sure.

  Lights ahead snapped Stahl back to the man's perspective. The gun barrel came up a speck higher. Maybe he hears voices, thought Stahl. The threat level might be increasing. His heart's probably pumping as fast as mine is right now.

  Stahl wished he could hear.

  Around a corner, the man came upon two well-dressed young men wearing suits and ties.

  He shot them both.

  Small bullet holes punctured their skulls in such rapid succession Stahl could hardly believe it.

  Whoever trained this man had done an incredible job.

  Their bodies slumped to the ground and the man checked both their pulses before moving on. He ignored their wallets or anything of value on them. Stahl noted this with cool appraisal.

  He was indeed watching a hit. Not a burglary.

  He felt a strange sense of kinship for the man he watched. Stahl had always enjoyed watching professionals work. And since there seemed to be so few in the world today, he took this chance to really enjoy the show.

  He saw carpeted stairs and knew the object of the killer's quest lay up there. Again, the nose of the gun led the way. Stahl imagined the man's boots not making any noise on the plush carpet. He could almost feel the rolling walk of the man as he moved smoothly up the staircase.

  I wonder if his heart sounds incredibly loud in his ears right now.

  Stahl's always did.

  At the top of the staircase, a hallway offered two options: left and right. The man never hesitated. He swung right.

  He's been here before, thought Stahl, or he's been given some very incredibly precise intelligence about his target.

  Three doors down, the man stopped outside a gold-plated doorknob.

  Listening, thought Stahl.

  More sure signs of a professional.

  Stahl found himself wondering who this man could be. The world of truly professional assassins was a small one. And Stahl found it difficult to imagine this man had been so well trained and never operated in international waters before.

  Someone had to know him.

  Someone had to have trained him.

  But who?

  He saw the leather-gloved hand go toward the doorknob. He saw the gun barrel come up, aimed between the crook of the arm opening the door for rapid reacquisition as the door swung open and the man would move inside.

  He saw the hand turn.

  Slowly.

  Slowly.

  Slowly.

  Stahl imagined hearing the click.

  And then a thin shaft of light appeared.

  Growing bigger as the door swung open.

  Stahl registered several images at once.

  An old man in bed.

  A woman, young, with him.

  They were either having sex or trying to start a fire rubbing their bodies together.

  Neither of them stopped.

  They don't even know he's there, thought Stahl.

  The man brought the gun up now. Calmly taking his time. Stahl knew he'd be getting the sights fixed firmly. Leaving nothing to chance.

  Before he spoke.

  The young woman turned then.

  She must have heard him.

  Did he speak? Stahl wondered. Or did he just remain mute? That might even intensify the terror both people would be feeling right now.

  He saw the woman's mouth open as if to scream. He saw a black hole punch into her throat just below where her voice box would be. Any screams intended for the neighborhood would have just died in a rush of blood and tissue damage. She slid off the bed onto the floor. Blood would be pouring into her lungs by now. If she wasn't already dead, she would be soon.

  The man moved closer to the bed.

  The figure of the old man, naked and fat, changed. His face grew angry. Stahl watched his mouth open and close rapidly. He was yelling. He swung his stolid legs out of the bed and tried to stand up.

  A powerful man, Stahl decided. He's not used to being intimidated by anyone.

  The old man waggled a finger at the man holding the gun.

  Stahl almost laughed again. You had to wonder what these people thought they were trying to do. A professional assassin cannot be reasoned with. They can't even be bought, not if they have any hope of staying alive. And yetÉthat desperation makes them think they can bargain their way out of death.

  It never works.

  And as Stahl watched a hole suddenly appear in the old man's forehead, he knew it hadn't worked this time, either. Another hole appeared to overlap the first so quickly, the man hadn't even fallen back yet.

  When he did, the mattress concaved slightly to accommodate his immense weight. Stahl saw the man move to the bed and check for a pulse. Then he moved to the woman. Pink froth bubbled out of her lips. The man felt her neck and then stood back. Stahl watched the woman's body convulse once more.

  She must have been still alive, he thought.

  No witnesses.

  The man left the room and walked back downstairs. Still the gun barrel nosed first. Always ready. Always prepared.

  At the door where the man had come in, he paused. He saw the man set down a package and saw the toggle switch. A single flip and the readout began a ninety-second countdown.

  A bomb? Thought Stahl. That's a bit unusual.

  Unless the man didn't want anyone to know he'd done the killing. Or if he wanted to send a particularly brutal message back to whomever the man worked for or represented.

  Movement came faster now. But still composed. The man hesitated before running out into the yard and simply leaping over the wall.

  Video cameras, thought Stahl. The outside must be covered with them. He's waiting for the gap in the timings.

  The man moved then, made the wall and slid over it like a gymnast.

  On the other side of the wall, the man walked back down the street.

  The image faded.

  Stahl realized then he hadn't nodded off at all. He could still consciously make out the sounds around him in his hotel room. He could feel the pressure of the blankets covering him. He could feel the warmth. Even taste the dryness in the air.

  And the man in his vision had disappeared.

  Stahl felt certain he'd hear about the exploits on the news tomorrow. Whoever he'd just watched killed, the person behind the trigger was an amazingly competent shooter.


  And Stahl, for the first time in a long time, felt respect for someone besides himself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Frank sat nursing a cup of black coffee in front of the television set the next morning when Gia padded into the room.

  "Long night?"

  He shrugged. Discussing the matter-of-factlys after a kill never did much for Frank. Killing Patrisi had been a necessary move on his part. Designed to buy both him and Gia some time. Hell, Frank was optimistic enough to think it might even remove the threat entirely.

  Maybe.

  He glanced at Gia. "It's done."

  She sat next to him on the couch. "You did it?"

  "I wasn't here, was I?"

  "Well, no, but I figured you'd maybe just go and check his place out. I didn't think you'd actually - "

  "I already knew what his place looked like. Recon wasn't necessary in this case. Only doing what needed to be done."

  "I can't believe you killed him."

  Frank pointed at the television. "Look."

  Images of a roaring fire on Beacon Hill splashed across the screen. The voice-over spoke of two tragic events happening in the space of just a few hours. First the Bulgarian taxi driver and now an esteemed member of the North End business community.

  Frank turned. Gia looked at him.

  "You blew up the house?"

  "No evidence left behind," said Frank. "Another necessary move. I don't need anyone finding telltale signs it was me that did the job."

  Gia breathed out. "Jesus Christ, Frank."

  "That man wanted you dead, Gia. Did you forget that already?"

  "What do you want me to say - Ôthanks?'"

  "You could be a little more grateful than just sitting there shooting me disapproving looks."

  She sighed. "Sorry." A smirk played across her face. "Did you hear what they called him? An Ôesteemed" member of the North End business community."

  "I've always thought Ôesteemed member' was just another way of saying Ôreally egotistical prick.'"

  "In which case," said Gia, "it fits Patrisi - my uncle – perfectly."

  "Oh yeah." He took a sip of coffee. "You want some?"

  "Please."

  Frank walked to the kitchen. "The explosion and deaths of Patrisi should send a clear enough signal to anyone thinking about coming after us that I won't play around. If I perceive a threat, I'll act to take it out."

  "You think they'll listen? Patrisi had a lot of hungry go-getters in his organization. Any one of them might look upon this as a chance to prove themselves. Not only would they be doing the memory of Patrisi justice but they'd establish themselves in the eyes of the Committee."

  "I don't give a shit what a bunch of old Family skeletons in suits thinks about someone trying to avenge Patrisi. The simple fact that I want them all to receive - and acknowledge – is that if we're pursued, they will die."

  "You're really prepared to see that possibility through?"

  "If it comes to that."

  She leaned back into the cushions. "You'd do all that for me?"

  Frank handed her the coffee. "Well, now, I'm not exactly doing it all for you, Gia."

  "You're not?"

  "Seems to me I've dug myself a fairly deep hole doing all this crap. I'm in as much danger as you are, probably more. Gotta make sure my own hide stays alive, too."

  "I wish there was a way we could get away from it. The Committee won't let you just walk away from something like this. Not for killing a guy like Patrisi."

  "Let them come," said Frank. "I'll deal with them in time."

  He could feel her eyes on him. She'd always had something of a gift for scrutinizing him. "Something's bothering you."

  Frank turned away from the windows and looked at her on the couch. "Something's bothering me. Yes."

  "I always knew that frown." She took another sip and then set the mug down. "What is it?"

  "You're so adept at reading people - you tell me."

  "I wouldn't even know where to begin. Besides, we've been apart for a while. I'm out of practice."

  Frank turned back to look out on the city. "Last night. While I was working. It was like I had someone there with me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It felt like I had someone or something perched on my shoulder watching my every move. I couldn't shake the feeling until after I left the building. The entire time, the weird feeling of being watched hung over me."

  "I'm surprised you could carry out the task if you felt that way."

  "Moe didn't train himself a loser, Gia."

  "You ever felt this way on a hit before?"

  "Hits are usually over pretty fast. I have a target, I get the job done quickly without much time spent trying to break into places. The simplest methods always work best. Stick with a target long enough and you learn their moves and routines." He glanced at her. "Their weak points."

  "But thisÉ"

  "But this was different. I was in a vulnerable position for longer period of time. That's unusual for me. Not unique, but unusual. I was exposed for a longer time and then still had to get in and get out." He shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe I imagined it."

  "You've been imagining quite a bit lately, haven't you?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "The headaches?"

  Frank sighed. "Yeah. The headaches. I still can't make a damned bit of sense about them. I never even get the silly things."

  "What if we did some research?"

  "What kind of research?"

  She looked around. "I didn't notice if you had a computer and Internet connection around here."

  "That's right, you didn't."

  "You don't?"

  "You know what kind of electronic surveillance the Feds can do to a phone line used for the Internet?"

  Gia shook her head. "Of course not."

  Frank nodded. "Trust me, then. I don't have an Internet connection in this place for a very good reason. We're safer without it."

  "But we've got to find out what's wrong with you." She sighed. "What about your doctor?"

  "My doctor?"

  "Sure, can't we see him?"

  "We go see him, he's going to slide me into a magnetic resonance imaging tube and then go phone up Patrisi's boys. Having my guts blown all over the inside of a medical testing facility doesn't exactly thrill me."

  Gia chewed her lip. He watched her seemingly mull over something mentally before she turned to him again. "Frank, have you ever heard of remote viewing?"

  "Remote what?"

  "It's a method developed by the government to tap psychic abilities."

  He almost laughed. The time they'd spent apart had changed her. No doubt about that. "Jesus Christ, Gia."

  "Hear me out. The government did some extraordinary stuff with research and experiments into this stuff."

  "Why the hell did they call it remote viewing?"

  "Probably because it sounded better than psychic phenomena. Especially if they were trying to get financing from a bunch of old codgers up on Capitol Hill."

  "If they could just say what they mean and be done with it, the world would be a better place, you know that?"

  "Possibly."

  "So, this research - what, the people got headaches?"

  "Not necessarily. But the government was able to prove to themselves at least that the mind of a person can be tuned to pick up images, places, pictures, sounds, smells and more."

  "What'd they do with this research?"

  "In the 70's and 80's supposedly they used it to track Soviet spies and subs. A few times they tried other things."

  "Did the Commies know about it?"

  "'Commies', Frank?"

  "What?"

  "That's a pretty old label."

  "So I'm patriotic. Sue me."

  "Moe teach you that one, too?"

  "Moe served a long time in the service back in Korea. He did his part for this country."

  She took a sip of coffee. "To answer yo
ur question before we degenerate into a fight about political correctness, yes the Soviets knew about our research. And we knew about theirs."

  "We were better though."

  "Actually, not necessarily. The Soviets had funded their psychic research a lot longer than we had. When the Soviets rolled into Berlin in 1945, they confiscated all the research done by the Nazis on the subject."

  "The Germans were into it, too?"

  "Hitler was huge into the occult, Frank. I thought everyone knew that."

  "I was too busy learning how to kill threatening underworld crime figures when you had your nose stuck in a textbook."

  She looked at him for a second. "What I'm trying to say is that this kind of stuff isn't just blown off anymore. A lot of people really think this stuff exists."

  "Sure, I've seen the ads for those stupid psychic network numbers. I knew an old lady used to blow her social security money calling those dumb things for lottery numbers every night. You know what? She never won. And she died broke."

  "FrankÉ"

  "I've got headaches, so what? That doesn't mean I've got some kind of super psychic power."

  "You said yourself you felt like someone was watching you. You've never had headaches before. You saw images the other day. And all this started the other night, didn't it? Vespucio?"

  "So what if it did?"

  "Maybe, something happened the other night when you killed Vespucio thatÉI don't knowÉsomehow opened up something in you."

  "You mean my third eye?" Frank grinned.

  "Forget it. I can see this is going nowhere. I thought you'd at least be open to the possibility."

  "Gia, I am what I am. I was taught to shoot and kill things that can be seen and felt and heard dying. I've never been told to kill an image or a ghost or some kind of lost spirit. If it ain't there, it can't be killed. I prefer concentrating on what's there. Now that may seem stupid to you, but that's what I was taught."

  "Maybe there are some things Moe couldn't teach you, Frank."

  "Like this?"

  "All I'm saying to you is that you might not be the same man you were. Isn't that possible? Isn't there the slightest chance that you might have had something or someone change you?"

  "I don't change easily, Gia."

  "Maybe that's why you're having the headaches."