Never Girl

by Ana Valen

  Hmm. Should she call Kovalenko or head inside?

  She eased into the warehouse and looked around. Like last time, the workers paid her no mind. They simply pushed their clothing racks and operated their forklifts. The disregard was slightly off-putting, like she didn’t exist. Actually, she now longed for that fearsome escort. Brushing this aside, she continued onward.

  She took the same route as her last visit. Before long, she found herself back in the empty reception area. She crossed the room, stopped at Kovalenko’s office, and knocked on his door.

  “Come in!” Kovalenko chirped.

  She turned the knob and slowly opened the door. Kovalenko sat behind his desk, while the same massive man stood in the corner. Igor, right?

  “Ah!” Kovalenko continued. “Claire Jacobson. Right on time.”

  She closed the door and eked out a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Kovalenko.”

  “Please, please. Call me mob boss.”

  She froze while starting for his desk.

  “Kidding!” He stood, walked around his desk, and extended his hand. “How are you doing?”

  She tentatively shook. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I could complain, but who would listen?”

  She gave another uneasy smile.

  “Please,” he continued, gesturing towards the guest chairs. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she planted herself, Kovalenko walked behind his desk. She also glanced at Igor who stood there staring at her, his massive hands clasped like always. She quickly refocused on Kovalenko.

  Why couldn’t they do this over the phone?

  “So,” Kovalenko continued, now seated, “how can I help you?”

  “I have a request. I want—”

  “Actually, how are things going with my associate?”

  She bit her lip. And why did Kovalenko insist on drawing things out? Probably because that tormented her.

  “Things are going well,” she said. “He’s performing far better than I anticipated. And faster too.”

  “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s quite good at what he does.”

  “Agreed. And what do you think about his personality?”

  “He’s… unique.”

  Kovalenko grinned behind his bushy beard. “Unique. That’s one way to describe him. I would describe him as useful. He would describe himself as a non-entity—a random assembly of molecules no different than this table.” He tapped his desk.

  Claire wanted to mention Harlan’s changes, and how they hinted at emerging consciousness. Or was this reemerging consciousness? She wasn’t sure, because she still didn’t know who Harlan was before he became a machine. Either way, it was probably best not to disclose this.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I got the impression that he doesn’t value much.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Well, about that request of yours. What do you need?”

  She cleared her throat. “I want you to kill someone.”

  “Really? And who might that be?”

  “Susan Wright.”

  “The girlfriend?”

  Claire nodded.

  He leaned back. “Why do you want her dead?”

  “Because she was behind Jessie’s death.”

  “She was? Last I remember they had a lovely relationship.”

  “I thought the same thing. But thanks to Harlan, I found out the truth.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Susan was cheating on Jessie with another man. She was also planning to leave with this person. She just needed to take care of some things. I now know what that meant.”

  Kovalenko shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He looked to Igor. “You see? That’s why you shouldn’t involve yourself with women. In the end, you always pay for it.” He refocused on her. “No offense.”

  “None taken. Actually, that’s sound advice.”

  Kovalenko laughed while pointing at her. “I like you!” He looked to Igor once more. “Igor! Don’t you like her too?”

  She glanced at Igor, who kept staring at her, his face carved in stone.

  “Bagh,” Kovalenko said. “Igor doesn’t like anyone, including me. The only reason he hasn’t killed me is because I pay him so well. And speaking of killing and payment, what are you proposing?”

  “I—I don’t know. What’s the going rate for something like this?”

  “Before we get into that, I want to ask you something.”

  Damn. Was he going to violate her airspace again?

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

  “Kill Susan?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “Because I wouldn’t know how.”

  He chuckled while looking back to Igor. After saying something in their native tongue, he refocused on her. “Are you joking? It’s not that difficult. Just approach whomever you want to kill, pull out a gun, and shoot them. Easy-peasy.”

  “The motions are easy enough. But actually doing this is something else.”

  He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. His demeanor also grew more serious. “Are you saying you don’t have it in you?”

  Oh, hell. What was the right answer?

  “Here’s a hint,” he went on. “It’s a trick question.”

  She gave a confused headshake.

  “Everyone has it in them. Me, you, definitely Igor. That’s because killing is a component of our human nature. However, I will not kill for another person unless they realize this… unless they accept this. Because if they don’t, they are liars.” His face darkened. “And I do not work with liars.”

  She swallowed.

  “Now let me ask you something else. If I was not available to kill Susan, would you do this yourself?”

  She looked down and considered her answer—seriously considered it. After a long while, she looked up. “Yes. I would.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Susan is the reason why everything got fucked up. She’s the reason why it all went to hell. She’s the reason why my brother is dead.”

  Kovalenko eyed her a moment longer. “Now you are telling me the truth. And Claire, it’s about time. So!” he chirped while leaning back. “That will be thirty-thousand bucks.”

  “I’m sorry?” she asked. Her unexpected honesty had clouded her hearing.

  “Susan Wright. The cost for killing her. That will be thirty-thousand smackers. Can you manage that?”

  “Yeah. That’s fine. I have more than enough from my inheritance.”

  “Fantastic.”

  She paused once more. “Wait. That’s it?”

  “Yup!”

  “Okay. When will you do it?”

  “Why tonight, of course,” he said with amused matter-of-factness.

  “Alright. And in the meanwhile, I’ll get the money.” She leaned forward to rise.

  “No rush on the money. You can pay me today, you can pay me tomorrow—it doesn’t matter. Because eventually, you will pay.”

  She paused while standing. Damn, she hated coming here.

  She stood, and he did the same. He then extended his hand over his desk. After an overly friendly handshake, she smiled and turned.

  While walking to the door, she shot another glance at Igor. His hardened face hadn’t softened one bit. This dissolved her smile. She reached for the knob, but instead of opening the door, she lowered her hand and turned back.

  “Mr. Kovalenko, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he said, seated once more.

  “Who are you going to send?”

  “Who do you think?”

  She again wanted to mention Harlan’s changes. Like before, she thought better of this. Best to give the impression that everything was normal.

  Chapter 24

  CAT Harlan entered his apartment and closed the door. He arrived carrying a manila folder, one he picked up from Kovalenko. After walking into the
living room, he tossed the folder onto the coffee table, removed his dark brown jacket, and sat on the long couch. Time to take out another target.

  He opened the folder which contained his new kill contract. When he spotted the target, his heartrate increased and his breathing deepened.

  He started at the photo of Susan Wright. Next to her image was her personal information, including her physical description, her last known address, her hang out locations—all the data he needed to hunt down the condemned. Normally, he would memorize the information and burn the document. Now, he sat there looking at Susan’s large brown eyes and smiling lips.

  He set down the folder, stood, and walked to his poster boards. While standing before the information, he crossed his arms.

  It didn’t make sense. There was no way Susan was the shooter. At most, she lured Jessie to the hiking trail and her new lover pulled the trigger. But if that were so, why was there only one set of tracks on the dirt path?

  He needed to know who traversed that pathway. And while the freeway security footage would give him the answer, he wouldn’t obtain it fast enough. His orders were to kill Susan tonight.

  He looked down and clenched his jaw. Why was he questioning this in the first place? He wasn’t here to question anything. He was here to follow orders. And his orders were to murder Susan. But could he?

  He walked back to the long couch and reseated himself. After picking up Susan’s kill contract, he stared at her image once more. While doing so, a strange sensation crept over him. Anger. He wasn’t angry with the kill order, but with himself. He was turning into someone he didn’t want—a thinking, conscious being. And this new side of him showed no signs of stopping.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled his mobile, and dialed his LAPD contact.

  “Hey,” Ricky Martinez greeted, “funny you called. I was just about to reach out.”

  “What for?”

  “You know that thing you’re looking into? I have an update.”

  “What is it?”

  “You want to discuss this over the phone? I say we meet.”

  “I don’t have time for that. Can you just tell me?”

  Martinez hesitated. “Yeah. Sure thing. So those detectives on the case, they identified the main suspect. Her name is Susan Wright.”

  Harlan looked back to Susan’s picture. No. This was impossible.

  “Hey,” Martinez said. “You still there?”

  “I’m here. I’m just wondering if you got that right. Are you sure they said Susan?”

  “Yup. I’m friends with one of the detectives. She filled me in.”

  “How did they reach this conclusion?”

  “They looked at the victim’s cellphone. Susan Wright texted him a bunch of times, and that’s how she lured him to the hiking trail.”

  “Was Susan the shooter?”

  “The detective didn’t say. She was too pissed to elaborate.”

  “Why was she upset?”

  “She was focused on another suspect. She swore that this person was responsible.”

  Harlan looked up. “Who did she originally suspect?”

  “The sister. Um… what was her name?”

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah. Claire Jacobson.”

  Harlan scowled.

  “Hey,” Martinez said. “You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Harlan lied.

  “Good to hear. And that’s all I got. You want a copy of those texts?”

  “No.”

  “Really? They seem important.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Alright. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, Martinez. I appreciate it.”

  “You got it.”

  Harlan ended the call.

  He stood, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and ran his hands through his hair. With his hands on his head, he closed his eyes.

  None of this mattered. Goddammit, none of this mattered. Right or wrong, who was at fault, who deserved punishment—it was all irrelevant. Even the people in this drama didn’t matter. Him, Susan Wright, Claire Jacobson, Jessie Jacobson, Alexander Kovalenko—they were all destined for a meaningless oblivion.

  He opened his eyes, reached down, and closed the folder. He didn’t need the information. He knew where Susan lived. And he could get there by 9:00pm. He just needed to change into his all-black assassin attire.

  ***

  Harlan arrived at Susan’s place and parked across the street. He shut off the engine, hunkered down, and observed the home. Where inside might Susan be? All the lights were off expect for one upstairs, so she was probably in her upstairs bedroom. If she were there, this assignment would be easy. Time to find out.

  He pulled the black gloves from his sweatshirt pocket and slipped them on. He then retrieved his pistol and silencer. After screwing the silencer into place, he slipped the pistol into his sweatshirt pocket, pulled over his hood, and climbed out.

  He softly closed the door and started across the street. While walking, he glanced around. Nobody was present. He refocused on the home, lifted his shawl over his face, and hurried to the front door.

  He pulled the keys and unlocked the door. After slipping inside, he closed the door and drew his pistol. With his weapon up, he started for the stairs.

  He listened while easing up the steps. Every so often, a keyboard and computer mouse clicked. No other sounds registered. He crested the stairs, where light emanated from Susan’s room. She was there. He slowly approached, used the threshold as cover, and leaned into the opening.

  Susan sat at her computer. She wore cream-colored pajama pants and a gray long-sleeve shirt. Her left foot was propped on the seat, and she rested her chin on her knee. With a forlorn expression, she continued clicking on her keyboard and mouse.

  He lifted his pistol and lined up the glowing night sights. With Susan’s head locked in the sights, he curled his finger around the trigger. He started coming back on the trigger, but held off when her phone started ringing.

  Susan grabbed her phone from her desk, answered, and placed the phone back down. “Hello?” she called out, having activated the speaker.

  He lowered the pistol slightly. He couldn’t eliminate targets while they were on a call. The person on the other end might piece together what happened.

  “Susan Wright?” a female voice answered. “This is Donna Hayward. I’m a therapist with New Beginnings. I just heard your message.”

  “Oh, my gosh. I didn’t know you were still open.”

  “We’re not, but we have access to our messaging system, so I received your voicemail. You said you were interesting in counseling, correct?”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “No problem. Any specific type?”

  Susan took a breath. “Bereavement counseling. I recently lost my boyfriend.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. Especially because,” Susan sniffed back moisture, “because he was murdered.” She shut her eyes.

  “Oh, no. That’s terrible.”

  Susan wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she choked.

  “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. And just so you know, we have counselors that specialize in bereavement assistance. Would you like to come in for a consultation?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay. What time works for you?”

  “As early as I can. I can’t live my life until I address this.”

  Harlan lowered his weapon some more.

  “Well,” the doctor continued, “our staff arrives at 8:00am. We open to the public at 9:00am. How about you come in at 8:30 and speak with me directly?”

  “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll give you my work cell. If you have an emergency, call me. It doesn’t matter what time it is.
”

  “Thank you once more.” Susan grabbed a pen and paper. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  The doctor read her number, and Susan jotted this down.

  “Hang in there,” the doctor continued. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Susan disconnected.

  Harlan again raised his pistol. He froze when Susan doubled over and reached for her stomach. As her face twisted in pain, he tried to lift his weapon. He couldn’t. His arms had solidified. He then spun when a vehicle pulled up to the home.

  He hustled into the far bedroom and checked the window. Sure enough, a car had arrived, a two-door Honda Accord. The vehicle pulled into the driveway, but it seemed like it was turning around. The car backed out, positioned itself down the street, but it never headed in that direction. The vehicle pulled along the sidewalk and stopped.

  The engine shut off and the driver door opened. From inside emerged a woman—five-foot-eight, Caucasian, and with a slender but solid build. She wore a dark suit and had a serious expression. She also had a police badge clipped to her hip. On her other hip, she carried a holstered Glock.

  Chapter 25

  Raven inhaled the night air while approaching Susan’s home. This was so dumb. She should not be here. When Adams found out—and he surely would—he would shit himself. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t find out. After all, she wasn’t going to say anything. And when she updated Susan on what was going on, Susan would probably keep quiet as well. Or at least Raven hoped she would.

  She stopped at the front door and rang the bell. With no response coming, she firmly knocked.

  “Ms. Wright?” she called out. “It’s Detective Stacy Raven.”

  Soft feet finally approached. A moment later, the door unlocked and opened. Unsurprisingly, Susan stood there wearing pajama bottoms and a long sleeve t-shirt.

  “Ms. Wright,” Raven said, “I’m sorry to—”

  “What do you want?”

  Raven rolled her jaw. “To talk, if that’s okay.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you think? Your murdered boyfriend. Don’t you want to know where things stand?”