Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  “Are you allowed to tell me this?”

  She shook her head. “But I’m figuring it won’t do any harm. Or perhaps I should say that I’m hoping it won’t. Man, am I hoping.” She reached into her inside jacket pocket to fetch a notebook with a black leather cover. It had a pen attached with a thin cord. She presented the pad to Victor.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  She pressed a fingertip against the side of her head, as if trying to force it through her skull. “It’s an unreachable itch buried deep inside my mind and only you can scratch it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’d like you to write something for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like: ‘For the attention of Special Agent Joanna Alamaeda.’”

  She kept her gaze fixed on his eyes the whole time, watching for a reaction. There was none, but he asked, “Why?”

  “So that we can stay friends.”

  There was a lightness in her tone, but a harshness in her expression, a fear. Her hands didn’t move, but he could tell she was thinking about their proximity to her sidearm. He took the notepad; he took the pen. He wrote out the words she had requested. He could see the tension in her posture, the expectation. The fear.

  He finished writing. He turned the pad around so she could see what he had written. The effect was immediate. Either she didn’t try to hide it or couldn’t. The tension left her shoulders and she exhaled. He pretended he didn’t see that relief.

  “I’m confused,” he said.

  She smiled as she shook her head. “Don’t be. Forget it. You scratched my itch just fine.”

  “Happy to be of service.”

  He held out the notepad for her, but he released it just before her fingers fully closed around it and the pad dropped to the ground.

  “My bad,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Butterfingers.”

  He squatted to retrieve it, now a little dusty with sand. This time he made sure she had a hold on it before releasing the pad. She gave it a quick wipe before putting it away again in the pocket where it came from. Maybe there would be another itch inside her mind she couldn’t scratch, which would lead her to check the pad for fingerprints. With the sand, with the wipe, there was a credible excuse for not finding any if she ever looked.

  The wind was whipping at her hair. She pushed some from her face, but it kept coming back. Victor liked watching the unwinnable fight.

  “So, this angry guy who beat you up, did you get any digs in yourself?”

  “I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”

  She winced, sucking in air. “Well . . . that’s not saying much, is it?”

  Victor raised an eyebrow. “That hurt more than the three punches.”

  “I thought it was two punches.”

  “I must have a concussion.”

  She cracked first and smiled. “You didn’t joke this much when I first met you. Truth be told, I thought you were a little boring when we met on that bus. Cute, but boring.”

  “Some people have stunted growth. I have a stunted personality. Just be glad I’m a late bloomer.”

  She laughed. “Seriously, where’s all this coming from?”

  “I’m in a particularly jovial mood.”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure anyone has ever used the word ‘jovial’ in my presence. Or even this whole century so far.”

  “Then I’m honored to be the first.”

  She said, “Any particular reason why you’re so jovial?”

  “I’m standing on a beautiful beach with a beautiful woman. Life is feeling pretty good right now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you’re getting any, pal. Sand gets everywhere.”

  Now it was his turn to crack. “Perish the thought.”

  “So,” she said, pointedly. “This is good-bye, right?”

  “I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  He looked into the distance. “New pastures.”

  “Sounds exciting. You closed your deal? It went well then?”

  Victor nodded. “I could probably retire if I wanted to.”

  Alamaeda said, “And do you?”

  “Right now, that’s anyone’s guess.”

  “Then, what’s next?”

  He inhaled and shrugged. “At this point I have no idea, and I kind of like that. Maybe I’ll just take each day as it comes for a while. See where that gets me.”

  “Sounds nice,” she said. “Sounds really nice.”

  “Those new pastures,” he began. “I could give you a call when I’m there. You could join me if you wanted to.”

  “Didn’t we agree this had a finite shelf life?”

  “It still does,” he said. “I’m talking of an extension only.”

  “I’ve already had my vacation, remember?”

  “Surely you’re a hero for bringing down the cartel. They’ll give you some leisure time if you want it. Or just take it and deal with the fallout when you get back.”

  She thought for a moment, a smile forming. “The weekend’s coming up anyway. I suppose I could be back in the office on Tuesday. One day won’t hurt, I guess. But do I bring my bathing suit or my snowboard?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She frowned, surprised and confused. “You don’t know where you’re going?”

  “It’s usually better if I don’t know my destination. But it’ll be somewhere secluded, somewhere quiet.” He thought for a moment. “Somewhere . . . peaceful.”

  “I’m sold. Count me in, buddy.”

  “Then I’ll give you a call.”

  “You’d better.”

  She climbed inside her car and started the engine. She said nothing else and neither did Victor. He watched her drive away, tires throwing up plumes of swirling sand.

  He checked that the money was still secured and hidden inside the pickup, then called a number from his current burner phone.

  “Arturo, it’s time to honor our deal,” he said when the line connected. “I hope you have plenty of detergent, because I have a considerable amount of laundry for you.”

  Don’t miss another thriller by Tom Wood featuring Victor the assassin.

  THE FINAL HOUR

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  The priest was a short man who was stooped in posture, making him shorter still, but he carried himself with gravitas, especially when he spoke. His voice was deep and boomed without effort. He was often told he could not whisper. A useful trait when addressing his congregation, but not so useful when hearing confession. He compensated by cupping his left hand over his mouth. It helped keep the sins of his flock a little more private.

  The confessor was already in the box, so quiet and still that the priest almost didn’t notice him. He decided not to comment on the confessor’s impatience. It was only right to wait outside until the priest was ready to hear the confession. No matter, but he would try to mention it at the end. Manners were a close third after godliness and cleanliness.

  He knew he should not, but he couldn’t help speculating who might be so eager to confess. The priest knew almost everyone in the area by name and by voice. They were decent people, but ones who sinned in thought and deed like any others. As a young man he had served in towns and cities and heard confessions that had reddened his face in embarrassment or caught his breath with shock. Here, though, the sins were what he called “baby sins.” People lusted, but didn’t commit adultery; they envied, but didn’t steal; they could succumb to wrath, but only with their fists. They were simple people and now that he was old he enjoyed the simple life he had built with them. The priest was well liked because he relished his whisky as much as the villagers and didn’t give them more Hail Marys than they could handle.


  The church was set atop a low hill overlooking a village. The village was located on the southwestern tip of Ireland, in county Cork. It was a small, isolated place, with a single bus service that made the trip to Cork and back once per day. A handsome village in the priest’s humble opinion, populated by those who loved the Lord and whisky in equal measure. There were just four shops in the entire village, but also four pubs. The church had been built in the middle of the nineteenth century and was still standing tall and strong. Larger than the village needed, but a fine building nonetheless. The floor of the nave was composed of tiles—aquamarine, white, and pale green. The interior walls were white and the beams that supported the roof overhead were stained dark. The pews were simple and in need of some sanding and polishing, but where was the money for such frivolity? It was dedicated to Our Lady, Star of the Sea, and St. Patrick.

  The confessor said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been exactly one year since my last confession.”

  The priest was intrigued by this exactitude. Most confessors spoke in general terms to ease their own guilt. A few days meant a week. A week meant ten days. A couple of weeks was a month. A year meant eighteen months. A long time meant several years. I don’t remember meant a lifetime ago. The priest was a precise man and respected others who were also precise.

  The voice that spoke to him didn’t belong to an Irishman, which was rare. The confessor had almost no accent, if such a thing could be true. The words were well enunciated, perfect in pronunciation, but flat and monotone. An Englishman, he presumed, but a traveler who spoke several languages and had lost any quintessential Englishness from his speaking voice. The priest liked to hypothesize when dealing with new people. Uncommon now, but it was a habit that had served him well in his past life. The Englishman was no doubt here to explore rural Ireland—the Ireland of postcards and folk songs.

  The screen that separated them offered privacy, but no secrecy. Through the lattice the priest could see the confessor, who was a dark-haired man in a gray suit.

  The priest said, “Tell me about your sins, my child.”

  “I have killed many people.”

  The priest was unfazed. “Is this some kind of joke? Because it’s neither funny nor original. It’s one thing to waste my time, but it’s another to waste the time of this church and squander that of those who are in need.”

  “I assure you it is no joke.”

  “I see,” the priest said, and settled himself for what would follow.

  It hadn’t happened to him since he had moved out to the wilds, but when he had worked in areas of larger populations he had dealt with the occasional oddball. Some confessors were borderline insane or outright mad. They confessed outlandish crimes, looking for attention or even believing themselves responsible. He had listened to many a Hitler who had survived the war and had been in hiding ever since. He had heard the confessions of many a Satan.

  “Okay,” the priest said. “We’ll start from the beginning. Why have you killed people?”

  “I’m a professional assassin.”

  “Yes, of course. And how many people have you killed?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Despite the ridiculousness of what he was hearing, the priest couldn’t help thinking about the fact that he had taken the confession of real killers before. Those who had fought in the Troubles. He was still disturbed by the things he had been told. “How can you not know how many people you killed?”

  “I poisoned a woman recently,” the confessor answered. “I’m not sure if she died.”

  “Why did you poison her? Were you paid to?”

  “No,” he said. “We were enemies, then allies of convenience. After that alliance was no longer necessary, I considered her my enemy again.”

  “I see.” He didn’t. “Why are you not sure whether she died?”

  “I told her how to beat the poison. I gave her a chance at life if she was strong enough to take it. It’s not yet safe to check whether she was.”

  “Why did you give her this . . . chance, as you put it?”

  “She convinced me I might need her help one day. She had already proven herself capable of fulfilling such a role.”

  It was a fantasy. It was a delusion. The confessor really believed what he was saying. Which was frightening in a different way. The priest hoped there was help out there for him. For now, the best the priest could do was humor the fantasist to keep him calm. The priest didn’t want to cause a scene that would upset those who were genuine in their need. “Do you care if she lives or dies?”

  The English confessor was quiet for a moment, then said, “If she dies, then I have eliminated a dangerous threat. If she lives, then I have gained a useful associate.”

  “In which case, if she does indeed survive, maybe you should send her flowers. But that’s not the answer I wanted.”

  “It’s the only one I’m able to provide.”

  The priest rolled his eyes and said, “Are you sorry for what you have done? Is your conscience heavy with guilt?”

  “No,” the confessor said.

  “Then why are you even here?”

  The confessor was quiet for a time. The priest didn’t hurry the answer. Instead, he waited, curious.

  “This is something I have to do. Habit, or perhaps addiction would be a more appropriate word.”

  “Explain.”

  “This, here and now, is a remnant of the person I once was.”

  There was a neutrality in the confessor’s voice that belied the sadness of the words. The priest was intrigued as to who might create such a broken delusion, and what life he sought to escape in doing so.

  The priest said, “What do you hope to achieve with this confession?”

  “What do you mean?” the confessor asked.

  “You don’t seek absolution. If you don’t feel remorse for your sins, then this process is pointless. You have to accept your sins if you want forgiveness.”

  “And God will forgive me, no matter what I’ve done, if I only ask for it?”

  “Yes, that’s how it works,” the priest said to bring the conversation to a close. “Say nine Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers and you will be absolved of your sins.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  He said, “Go to confession more than once a year.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The priest smiled to himself. Never a dull moment. “And don’t kill any more people.”

  The confessor said, “I can’t promise that.”

  Tom Wood is the international bestselling author of thrillers which include The Final Hour, A Time to Die, The Darkest Day, No Tomorrow, The Game, and The Enemy.

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