INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  How long does one broad need to take a leak? he thought.

  He laced his fingers behind his head, forcing himself to resist the temptation to continue jerking off. Had he allowed himself to finish, he’d have nothing left for the whore.

  He lay back in all his glory as the blonde entered the room. She stopped at the foot of the bed backlit by the window—her skirt short, her feet wide, her posture inviting.

  “It stinks in here,” she said.

  “That fat bitch I live with,” he said. “Sweats like a pig. Ain’t changed the sheets in a month, I bet.”

  “Where’s my money?” she said. “I get paid up front.”

  “On the bureau. Why you still dressed?”

  “Get out of bed.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanna do you on my knees. Gets me off.”

  Simon flashed back to the bar and the holes in the knees of her designer hose.

  “I thought you said straight fuck.”

  “You turnin’ down a blow job?”

  He grinned. “Noooo, ma’am!”

  He fairly bounced off the mattress and stood naked beside the bed, pale in the weak light from the street, stroking himself and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  The blonde picked up the money and stuffed it in her bag.

  Madeline began to wonder about the other steps that she heard with Simon. Maybe it was her mother. What if Simon told her to come back? Maybe he wanted more money. Maybe he wanted to hurt her again. She couldn’t just stay here and listen to him beat her. She had to do something. She had to help.

  Madeline sneaked out and crossed the hall into her apartment. The lights were on in the living room and her mother’s bedroom door was closed, but not all the way. She heard voices coming from inside and she was scared, but she said a small prayer, faced her fear, and crept to the door to listen.

  Simon stood naked, watching with anticipation as the blonde removed something from her bag. It was long and cylindrical, and in the dim light, Simon could only guess what it was. He thought it a sex toy; a vibrator maybe, something for her, and maybe even for him. But all that changed when it began emitting a crimson glow. A red dot appeared over his heart, and a look of bewilderment crossed his face.

  “Wha ... what are you doing? What is that thing? Is that a gun?”

  The red dot held rock steady, unwavering, as if inked on his skin like a tattoo. Then it began to travel, easing its way down across his chest to his abdomen, and his rapidly dwindling erection where it stopped.

  “I understand you like raping little girls, Simon.”

  “WHA?” Simon yelled. “Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?” He didn’t wait for an answer before lunging at her. He advanced one-half of one step before a flash lit the room. Something akin to a loud click halted his attack and searing pain raced through his genitals. A heartbeat later, blood splattered over him. Another flash, another click, and a knee exploded. He screamed and collapsed, cradling his shredded manhood with one hand, his fractured knee with the other.

  “Shut up, Simon, or I’ll take out the other knee. I can make this very painful before it’s over.”

  Simon clamped his mouth shut to muffle his cries. “Ummmf! Wha ...” He pushed down a scream and began to hyperventilate. “Why ... are you doing this ... to me?”

  “You hurt that little girl, Simon. Raped her. She’ll never be the same.”

  “She asked for it. She wanted me to do it to ‘er.”

  “Is that what your sick mind told you? She was eight years old! The only thing she wanted was a normal childhood. You stole that from her, you piece of shit.”

  “I ... I did my time. I changed. I told her I ain’t gonna hurt her no more.”

  “You did three of ten. A joke.”

  “I’ll go back! I’ll go back an’ do all the time!”

  “Sorry Simon, twenty wouldn’t be enough. The system can’t rehabilitate scum like you. You’re rabid. You need to be put down.”

  A creak from the bedroom door came from her right, spinning Hanna around in a flash, the red dot of the laser searching for a threat. It found Madeline’s forehead as she peered into the room, and Hanna was quick to jerk the weapon skyward.

  Shit.

  Madeline gazed at the Amazonian figure in the short skirt and knee-high boots. Without fear, she peered deeper into the room. There lay Simon Hoffer, naked as the day he was born and writhing in pain. There was a lot of blood. Unaffected by the sight, she wrinkled her nose and sniffed the air, then turned back and gazed upon Hanna, blue eyes fixed on blue eyes.

  “Is this what angels smell like?”

  Cordite, Hanna thought. She smells the gunpowder.

  “Are you my Guardian Angel?”

  “Am I what?”

  Madeline lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Hanna’s waist and held her tight. “My Angel! I prayed to God for my Guardian Angel to protect me from Simon and now you’re here.” Madeline found Hanna’s eyes once more. “Can you fly?”

  “No, Madeline, I can’t fly. And I’m not an angel.”

  “You know my name. You know where I live. You must be my Angel.”

  Hanna removed Madeline’s arms from her waist and dropped to one knee. Because of her recent falling out with God, the last thing she wanted was to be perceived as an angel, guardian or otherwise.

  “What are you doing here, Maddie? Where did you come from?”

  “Rona’s ‘partment ... ‘cross the hall.”

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “Rona an’ her grams.”

  “Shit.”

  “Angels ain’t suppos’ to cuss.”

  “I’m not an angel and I don’t cuss.”

  “Angels ain’t suppos’ to lie, either.”

  Hanna heaved a resigned sigh. “I want you to go back to Rona’s, okay?”

  “Are you here to kill Simon?”

  Hanna gazed at the girl, gauging how to answer.

  Angels ain’t suppos’ to lie.

  “Yes, Maddie. I am. Now go.”

  Madeline sighed and stepped backward through the door as Hanna set her Ruger on the bureau. She retrieved Simon’s cash from her bag and dropped it next to her weapon. Next came a dark sweatshirt, a pair of loose-fitting bell-bottom jeans, and a Navy watch cap. Without removing her boots, she began pulling on the clothes over what she was wearing. Fully distracted, she stepped into the bell-bottoms, and while her hands were busy, Madeline rushed back into the room, snatched the Ruger from the bureau, and put the red dot in the middle of Simon’s forehead.

  Simon’s begging caught Hanna’s attention and she cried out for Madeline to stop, but before she could reach her, Madeline gripped the weapon with both hands and pulled the trigger twice. A pair of red dots appeared just above Simon’s left eye and blood trickled down his forehead. A thin smile crept onto Madeline’s lips as her eyes glazed over.

  “You hurt me,” she whispered.

  Hanna grabbed the Ruger from Madeline and stood in horror. Never did she think an eleven-year-old would commit murder, but as the room succumbed to the quiet of the moment, gunshots rang out from the city streets nearby.

  Gangs, Hanna thought. Killing each other. Some of them are only eleven or twelve. It’s a new world, where children kill. She looked to Madeline.

  “C’mon, Maddie. We’re leaving.”

  “You’re not gonna kill my Mommy?”

  “NO! ... God no ...”

  “Want me to do it?”

  INFLUENCE

  BY MARTIN ZEIGLER

  State Senator Amory Turniken sat in the corner booth of one of those watering holes favored by the ambitious. All polished wood, brass, and marble tile. Wait staff in black and white, neither friendly nor rude but somewhere in between. And somewhat better service in return for a somewhat better tip.

  Turniken was nursing his fourth whiskey sour when a shadow crossed his ice and he looked up to see a stranger standing at his table.

  The joint was dark
anyway, at least this end of it. The late afternoon light from the street-side windows barely reached this far. And yet the stranger standing here, with his fingertips poised on the table as if he were about to call a meeting to order, managed to look even darker in his black suit, black shirt, and black tie. His complexion alone, deep gray and slightly crimson in tone, suggested that something else, something unseen, was diminishing the light to his face.

  “Senator,” he said, with an acknowledging nod.

  Turniken was still working on who to blame for his poor performance earlier today and did not wish to be bothered. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

  “Looks like the debate didn’t go too well,” the stranger said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because otherwise you’d be at a larger table with lots more people.”

  “Let me try this again,” Turniken said. “What do you want?”

  “Mind if I sit? The rest of the drinks are on me.”

  Turniken had no desire for company, not today. Even the free drinks didn’t sound all that enticing. But he respected the offer. And in due course he would probably respect the drinks. So he tilted a hand toward the bench opposite—which the stranger accepted.

  “Name’s Bernard Ashland,” he said. “But you can call me Bernie.”

  “Ashman?” Turniken asked. “You’re a chimney sweep?”

  “Too confined a space,” Bernie said. “I prefer Ashland, as in land of the free, home of the brave.”

  Before Turniken could signal his understanding, a waiter—in black and white, of course—appeared from out of nowhere. Bernie ordered a scotch on the rocks, while the senator tapped the rim of his near-empty glass for a repeat.

  Folding his hands on the smooth, varnished tabletop, Bernie said, “You probably want me to get to the point, senator, so here it is. You have one debate remaining, and it’s crucial. You screw this one up the way you screwed up today’s and last week’s, and you might still win the governorship, but then pigs might fly come November too.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Face it. There’s a general consensus that Halloran has been doing a standup job as governor. The feeling is that he’s honest, listens to the people, and is pretty much a straight shooter. So why change horses? And you know what? I’m inclined to agree.”

  Turniken bristled. “This isn’t even worth free drinks.”

  “Meanwhile there are a lot of folks who consider you a mediocre senator at best, a two-bit pol, not to mention a phony, a windbag, and little more than a self-serving opportunist. And I have to say that I concur with that assessment, as well.”

  Turniken leveled a baleful glare at the dark-suited stranger. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

  “All right, all right,” Bernard Ashland said, his hands up in surrender. He slid out of the bench and stood up. “Then I guess it’s Halloran in the governor’s mansion for another four.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a money roll, and peeled off a few bills. “But if it’s Amory Turniken you want in office, I’m telling you it can be guaranteed.” He slapped the bills on the table. “One hundred percent.”

  As Bernie turned to leave, Turniken rapped his glass on the table a couple of times like a gavel. “Hold on, hold on,” he said. “Sit down.”

  Bernie again slid into the opposite bench.

  “What game are you playing?” Turniken asked.

  “No game,” Bernie said, adjusting his lapels. “Games are for dice rollers, for bleary-eyed wretches at the slots, for poor saps stepping out of 7-Elevens with their fists full of lottery tickets. No, what I’m talking about is a sure thing. Based on solid principle.”

  “And what principle is that?”

  The waiter appeared again, tray balanced on his upturned fingers, and distributed the drinks. Bernie slid over the bills that he had slapped on the table and sent him on his way.

  “A simple principle, really. It’s that people never seem to know what they want, but they always know what they don’t want. Especially come election time, when it’s not ‘may the best man win’ so much as ‘may the worst one tank.’ Joe Voter, faced with two candidates, one who smells like roses and the other who smells like shit, will obviously pick the former, even though he would much prefer the sweet scent of carnations, and roses make him itch.”

  “Let’s suppose that’s true. How does—”

  “It is true. And you know it is.”

  “Okay, it’s true. How does it apply to me?”

  “Right now, today, if we applied this principle to you, we would have to conclude that your goose is cooked. Compared to you, senator, anyone would look good. And Halloran cuts a pretty impressive figure on his own, but next to you he comes across as our Lord and Savior. You don’t stand a chance.”

  “Now listen here, Ass Gland, or whatever your last name is—”

  “Ass Gland. Very good. I’ll have to try to remember that one. In fact, I definitely will remember it.”

  “Good for you. Do you definitely remember mentioning a one-hundred-percent guarantee? Because I didn’t ask you to sit back down just so you could continue to insult me.”

  “No insult intended, senator. You are what you are, and that’s just fine. I wouldn’t dream of changing you, even for a second. In fact, it wouldn’t be worthwhile. Why waste the effort building you up when the time would be better spent tearing Halloran down? Not just tarnishing his image and making him look bad in the public eye, but destroying him, completely and utterly.”

  To Turniken’s ears, every word out of the stranger’s mouth up to this point had been either a bald insult or so much dime-store political analysis. But this last line on Bernie’s part—about destroying completely and utterly—was something he could wrap his arms around. “And how do you propose to do that?” he asked.

  “Character assassination—with a twist.”

  Turniken took a sip from his sour and placed the drink carefully back down on the napkin. “You mean tell lies about him? I tried that. It doesn’t work.”

  Bernie nodded in agreement. “Yes, I noticed. That’s why we’ll rely on the truth.”

  “But there’s no dirt on the guy. One parking ticket back when he was in college. That’s it.”

  “Yes, it’s unfortunate,” Bernie said with a resigned smile. “And that’s why we’ll need to create our own truth.”

  “Can we do that?” Turniken asked, imagining the possibilities.

  “Certainly. After all, what is truth?”

  “You got me.”

  “It’s what leaves no doubt. It’s what people see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears. It’s what I’ll demonstrate in a moment or two if you’ll just bear with me.”

  It took but a few minutes for the waiter to show up again to see how they were doing.

  “Still working on them,” Ashland said, lifting his own glass and speaking for Turniken.

  As the waiter headed back to the bar, Bernie plucked something out of his own shirt pocket—a thin, cylindrical device that looked almost like a dog whistle except for a small cone at the end of it. He now lifted the thing to his mouth and mumbled something into the cone that sounded vaguely like the word “halt.”

  Immediately, the waiter froze in midstride, like a child playing red light, green light. He held the circular tray out in front of him like a discus thrower and remained absolutely still.

  “I’ll be darned,” Turniken said. “How did you do that?”

  Bernie pulled the whistle thing away from his mouth. “Don’t ask me. I didn’t invent it. I just stole it. I believe the real inventor mentioned something about converting vocal commands to mental waves, but of course there’s no way to get him to elaborate now.”

  Turniken understood, or thought he did.

  “It needs improvement, though,” Bernie admitted. “It only works over short distances. And you can’t force anyone to do anything in the future but only in the here and now.
But, hey, you work with what you’re given.”

  Turniken nodded and continued to stare in fascination at the statue in black and white.

  “Now, senator, I invite you to sit back and watch as this fellow does a few exercises, a trick with his tray, and lets us in on what he really thinks of his job.”

  Bernie again mumbled something into the cylinder, and the waiter broke free of his motionless thrall and turned to face the table. Another mumble, and the waiter let go of his tray. A third, and the poor guy began doing jumping jacks. Legs apart, hands together. Legs together, hands to his side. Repeating this over and over, counting out loud—“One-two-three ONE! One-two-three TWO! One-two-three THREE!”—like a student in phys ed, except in heavy black slacks instead of gym shorts.

  Turniken and Bernie continued to watch and occasionally sip from their cocktails as if this were a nightclub act. “One-two-three TWENTY-NINE! One-two-three THIRTY! One-two-three THIRTY-ONE!”

  By now, ripples of sweat were pouring out of the waiter’s sopping hair and down the sides of his face, his words becoming more labored with each cycle. “One-two-three FIFTY-FOUR!”

  “Poor guy needs to work out more,” Ashland observed.

  “Does he even know what he’s doing?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely. But he can’t help himself. He’s inwardly cursing the day I was born, I bet, but that’s about all the resistance he’s allowed. That old saw about never having to do anything against your will under hypnosis might be true, but this isn’t hypnosis. It’s almost total mind-control.”

  “Amazing,” Turniken said.

  “One-two-three SEVENTY-SEVEN! One-two-three SEVENTY-EIGHT!”

  “Okay,” Bernie said. “I guess that’s enough.”

  Another command from Ashland, and the waiter stopped immediately, but the next command allowed no rest. Drenching sweat, the waiter picked the tray up off the floor, aimed it, and sent it spinning like a Frisbee.

  Turniken leaned out of his booth and watched the tray fly across the room, sail over a table where a lone diner sat, and shatter the window next to her, sending shards of glass everywhere. Turniken even spotted a spray of blood as the lone diner screamed and shot a hand to her eyes.