Simon Wood

by Accidents Waiting to Happen

  He followed them at a distance.

  It had been unfortunate that Michaels's friend Keegan had been killed instead of his target. It was the first time he'd killed an innocent party in the pursuit of an assignment. He would have had no regrets if Keegan had gone down with Michaels, but killing Keegan without the target aboard was embarrassing.

  Michaels dribbled out of the church with the rest of the congregation. The professional watched him speak to various mourners through binoculars. After separating from his wife and child, he got into a car with Bob Deuce.

  The professional continued to follow his target to the cemetery and back to the church to drop Bob Deuce at his car. His target's next stop was at his job.

  He'd expected to settle in for the afternoon, but after an hour Michaels was out the front door with a box in his arms.

  "Looks like someone got canned. I suppose that's the power of television," he murmured to himself.

  He followed Michaels home, parked five houses down and watched his target get out. A car, a red Chevy Malibu, passed him and pulled up outside the Michaels home. The guy in the Malibu intercepted Michaels. He produced something out of his pocket and accompanied his target into the house.

  "Damn, I don't like this," he said to himself. "This isn't good at all." The professional hadn't picked up anything on the scanner, so it was unlikely to be a cop, but his presentation gave the impression he was. Something about the man was familiar, though. He was sure he'd seen him before.

  Moments later, the man led Michaels out of his home. The professional started his car when Michaels got into the Chevy. He shadowed the Malibu into the matrix of downtown streets. The Malibu avoided the police department and was leaving the familiar landmarks for the dead side of town. Something's going down, Josh, can't you see it?

  The professional lagged one block behind his target and waited longer than necessary at the intersections.

  "Shit!" he exclaimed. He saw Michaels's failed attempt to make a run for it at the intersection ahead and saw the gun at his head. The Malibu drove on and he followed suit.

  The professional seethed. The moment he saw the gun, he realized what was going down. That fuck has hired someone else to finish up my work. He couldn't wait. Son of a bitch! He had it all under control. Tyrell just had to give him time. The executive had cheated him. Moreover, he had insulted him by hiring another hitter. It was like finding your wife in bed with your brother. Tyrell would be sorry for the betrayal.

  Angry, the professional screeched to a halt at the next intersection, where the failed escape had taken place. He was stuck there longer than he liked. Traffic poured past in what seemed a never ending stream. He watched the car cross the rail lines and disappear down one of the alleys by the abandoned factories.

  The traffic parted and he raced the white car across the junction. Once past the light rail crossing, he slowed and turned into the alley where the red Chevy had stopped.

  They were out of the car. Michaels was walking backward away from the killer as he bore down on him.

  Michaels spotted him and the professional reacted to it.

  The professional floored the accelerator into the carpet.

  The car lurched forward, slithering on the loose surface. Michaels made off like a rat up a drainpipe.

  His competition went for his weapon.

  "Too late, my friend, far too late," the professional murmured.

  He drove straight at his would-be replacement. His eyes filled with the man with the gun. Upon impact, the man blocked out the world, but he swiftly disappeared as he bumped over the roof. Josh Michaels had gone.

  The professional slammed on the brakes and the Ford came to a sliding stop.

  Grabbing his Colt and its suppressor from the glove compartment, the professional clambered from the Taurus. Screwing the silencer onto the pistol, he walked over to the battered body of the other killer.

  He lay on his back, blood oozing from contusions to his face and head. His legs were unnaturally positioned, as if he possessed a pair of additional joints between the knees and ankles. His hands no longer gripped a gun nor would they; most of his fingers were shattered and skin was missing at the tips. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and down the side of his dust-frosted face. He looked like a rejected china doll.

  The professional pointed the gun at the competition.

  "I know you. It's Joseph Henderson, isn't it?"

  The man struggled to stay conscious. "Yeah," he croaked. "You must be the opposition."

  The professional nodded. "You know about me, then? We have a mutual friend, don't we?"

  "Dexter Tyrell." The shattered man coughed and winced.

  "That's right, Dexter Tyrell," he said, and smiled.

  Henderson made pathetic attempts to move his broken body.

  "Don't move. There isn't much point."

  Henderson ignored him and continued to drag his body across the dirt. The professional wasn't sure if Henderson's movements were voluntary or not.

  "I can't believe the bastard brought another player into the game. You must have known there would be unhealthy competition. And now that you've lost there will be repercussions." The professional paused for a moment and surveyed the dying man. "All I can say is your resume read better than it should have."

  "Fuck you," Henderson spat.

  "No, fuck you," he said and unleashed two rounds from the semiautomatic. The dulled hiss from the silenced pistol echoed gently off the walls.

  The shots were precise. The first struck the bridge of his nose, causing his face to implode; the second shot tore his mouth open to produce an inhuman smile.

  "That should make the coroner work hard for his money. Not even a loving mother would recognize that face," he said to the corpse.

  The professional bent over his competitor and removed all identification from his pockets. He found the detective's shield for a New York City cop called Jenks.

  "Josh, you should look more carefully when you talk to strangers. Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

  He pocketed the items and the 9mm Henderson had been holding.

  The professional looked over at the Malibu.

  Michaels's prints would be all over it. It would do him no good if his target were picked up in connection with this mess. Even if Dexter Tyrell had tried to shaft him, he still had a job to do and he would do it. Josh Michaels and Margaret Macey would die, as would Tyrell himself. It was a matter of principle.

  His opposition had done one good thing. The location was perfect. It was secluded. No one was watching and no one had heard. He went to the Taurus, removed a can of gasoline and splashed it over and inside the car. With a handkerchief he removed the gas cap, then soaked the handkerchief in gas and shoved it in the car's filler nozzle. He ran a trail of gas from the car to the dead man's body and dumped the remaining gasoline over the corpse. He packed up the Ford, started it, turned it around and stopped a suitable distance from the Chevy. Leaving the car running, he got out and produced a matchbook from his pocket. He lit a match and set the matchbook alight. It flared, then he dropped it onto the dead hit man's body.

  Henderson's corpse erupted into flames and immediately ignited the trail of fuel. The flame leapt up the side of the car and spread out across its surface like spilt milk. Within seconds, the fire took hold of the car and smoke lifted from all quarters of the vehicle.

  The professional ran back to his car. He checked the progress of the fire and once suitably satisfied he drove off. He was more than a block away when he heard the muffled explosion.

  Josh Michaels had gone, but that didn't matter. His fate was sealed. This inconvenience would only hasten his demise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Eventually, Josh encountered civilization. He traversed a straight line from the derelict buildings and ended up on Broadway. Lively businesses, traffic and living, breathing people populated Broadway. Relief flooded over him and his heart slowed to a normal pace. He was sa
fe. He was amongst witnesses, lots of them, too many of them for one killer to eradicate. He was out of no man's land and on the right side of enemy lines. He needed more safety; he needed home. He knew the killer could be heading there right now, but where else could he go?

  He spotted the bus stop opposite the Tower Theater.

  The bus was a good, safe means of transport that would get him home in one piece. Mitchell couldn't do anything to him on a bus. He knew his assassin couldn't afford to make such a brazen attempt. A bus was as good as a tank, impregnable. Josh jogged over to the bus stop.

  After several moments of sitting on the bench, vulnerability struck him across the face with an open hand. He realized sitting at the bus stop wasn't such a good idea. What if his killer spotted him on the bench?

  He might take a chance with a drive-by shooting. Josh had no idea when the bus was coming. It could be in ten minutes, thirty, an hour. He never used them regularly.

  He was a sitting duck waiting to be picked off.

  Nervously, he crossed the road and ducked inside the bookshop.

  He flicked through paperbacks, magazines and newspapers, never once looking at the printed pages, but instead out of the window at the vacant bus stop.

  Staff and customers viewed Josh with interest, but never once challenged him. A giggle from behind jolted him from his surveillance. Realizing he was a spectacle, he placed the book back on the shelf and left.

  The theater foyer offered some protection from spying eyes. After some negotiation to get inside the cinema without a ticket, he bought a soda from the snack counter. Leaning against a poster for coming attractions, he sucked on the soda's straw.

  A pneumatic hiss drew Josh's attention, and he looked out the window to see the mobile billboard slowing to take the corner. Emerging from the foyer's darkened mouth, he jogged over to the bus stop, ditching the half-drunk soda in the trash as he went. The bus stopped for him. It felt good climbing the three steps into the welcoming arms of Regional Transit.

  Josh paid three dollars for the ride home, seventy-five cents over the top. correct change only the blackand-white notice pointed out. Josh didn't care. He paid the money gladly. He took a seat next to a teenage girl just out of high school with a ring through her nose.

  She had a Virgin employee's nametag pinned to her chest. He sat, relaxed and exhaled loudly. She looked at him, as did several other rush hour passengers on the three-quarter full bus.

  "Hard day at work," Josh explained to the girl.

  "Every day." The girl from Virgin dismissed Josh and stared out the window.

  The doors rattled shut. The air brakes wheezed and the bus eased into traffic.

  From the end of the road, Josh took the opportunity to scope out his street. The vapor lights shone down on his car and Kate's minivan. The lights were on in the house and there was no sign of the white Ford he'd seen tossing Jenks's body like a rag doll. He recognized the cars parked in the street and driveways, so he started to walk. Someone could have staked out his neighborhood, but if they had, he'd missed the signs. Although it seemed obvious his street and home were safe, he'd learned not to believe his instincts. With shaking hands, he opened the front door to his home.

  He found the hall was neither packed with cops waiting to gun him down nor with James Mitchell holding a knife to Kate and Abby's throats. Reassured, he ventured farther inside his house. His wife and child sat in front of the television.

  "Josh, where have you been?" Concern and annoyance were evident in Kate's voice. "Your car was parked outside."

  "I want to check something," he said, interrupting her.

  He snatched up the remote control from Abby's hand and started channel-hopping.

  "Dad," Abby whined.

  "Josh, I asked you a question." The irritation dissolved as Kate noticed his disheveled state. "What happened to you? You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

  Josh ignored her and continued channel-hopping. He found what he was looking for, the news. Slowly, Josh backed up and sat on the arm of the chair next to Abby.

  Kate started to complain, but Josh shushed her.

  "Give me a minute and I'll explain."

  The television screen showed a cordoned police scene with police and fire services present. Spotlights illuminated the area. In the background, the burnt carcass of a car lay slumped on melted tires. A screen shielded the television cameras from what Josh knew to be the dead body of Tom Jenks. The field reporter with suitably furrowed brow spoke.

  "To recap, the police have found the body of a dead man next to this charred Chevy Malibu." The reporter motioned with a hand in the direction of the wreck. "The man has no identification, was shot twice in the face and burned. Police, as yet, have no witnesses to the grizzly murder and appeal to witnesses to come forward. Initial indications lead the authorities to believe this killing may be a drug deal gone bad. ..."

  "Kate, come with me," Josh said.

  "Okay." She saw the fear in Josh's eyes; fear that was contagious.

  "There you go, sweetie." Josh gave Abby the remote control. "We'll be back in a minute."

  Josh led Kate by the hand toward the stairs, but their daughter halted their progress.

  "Daddy, why don't you tell me what is happening?"

  Josh returned to his daughter's side and knelt by her so that he was eye to eye. "Daddy is having some big problems he's trying to get through. You know sometimes you struggle with math problems and you scratch your head for a while before you get it?"

  Abby nodded.

  "Well, Daddy has a whole big bunch of them"--he gestured with his hands out wide like a fisherman telling a tale--"and it's going to take me a long time before I can work them all out. But I promise, when I've got it all sorted out, I'll tell you all about it." Josh put a finger to her nose. "Is that okay? Can you wait for a little while?"

  Abby nodded vigorously and gave him a hug.

  "Thank you, honey. You can watch your cartoons now.

  Josh returned to Kate and took her up to their bedroom.

  He sat her on the bed and knelt in front of her, holding her hands in his.

  "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Kate asked.

  He took a deep breath. "If I knew I would tell you, but I don't understand it all myself."

  "But what do you know?"

  "I went to the office and Mike Behan wanted to see me." Josh hesitated. "They've suspended me, indefinitely."

  "Why?"

  "Because

  of the Dixon apartments bribe. They can't have an employee suspected of bribery in such a sensitive position." Josh frowned in apology.

  "The bastards. Is this suspension paid?"

  "Until an arrest is made. Then they cut me loose. But I think it'll be all over by then."

  "How can you say that?"

  "Trust me, it will."

  "But that doesn't explain your condition."

  At that moment, Josh realized how badly he smelled.

  Briefly, he thought of the girl on the bus and what she must have endured sitting next to him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight. Jenks and his foiled assassination attempt quickly obliterated the images of the nose ring girl.

  "I think someone wants me dead." Kate started to challenge his wild accusation, but he knocked her protest aside. "Listen, I came home from work and I was picked up by some guy called Tom Jenks, who said he was a cop."

  Kate looked puzzled. "Who said he was a cop?"

  "Yeah, he said he needed me to go with him and I did. After a few minutes, I realized he wasn't--the car, his manner, lots of things didn't ring true. When I tried to get away, he pulled a gun and told me I was worth money to someone, but only if I was dead. He took me to the old factories over by the rail lines."

  Kate slapped a hand over her mouth. "That was him, wasn't it? The murdered man on the news. You killed him?"

  Josh shook his head. "No, I didn't. He was going to kill me an
d someone else killed him."

  "Who?"

  "James Mitchell. He ran him down, then shot him and must have burnt him and the car. I was out of there once the killing started."

  "But I thought Mitchell was trying to kill you, not rescue you."

  "That's what I thought, but I really don't have a clue now."

  Kate wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Josh, what have you got us into?"

  The word us stung. His actions, his deceits, his mistakes, had dragged his family and friends into a sinkhole with no bottom. It was his fault and his alone, but he'd affected everyone close to him. His only comfort was she still thought of them as an us, not as individuals.

  He hoped he could keep it that way.

  "I don't know." He pulled her back. "But I think it's connected to Margaret Macey, the woman who got the threatening phone call. Someone wants both of us dead. I'm going to see her."

  "No, Josh."

  "But I've got to. I might be able to save her and she might be able to explain to me what's going on."

  "No, Josh. That's what the police are for."

  "But they won't be interested until I wind up facedown in an alley with a bullet in my head."

  Kate flinched.

  "I'm sorry, but it's true."

  "Josh, I'm scared. I don't want you leaving this house tonight. The more involved you get, the more things go wrong. People are dying. I don't want you to be next."

  "I can't just do nothing. I have to go."

  "If you go, I won't be here when you come back. I mean it."

  The professional lounged on the bed in his motel room with pillows propped behind his back, the remote control in one hand and a cellular phone in the other. He watched his handiwork, the cremated car and the mutilated body, on the television. Not bad for a spur of the moment effort, he thought to himself. It was him they were talking about. He dialed the number and the phone was answered immediately.

  "Dexter Tyrell."

  He hit the mute button on the TV, but continued to watch the newscast.