Of course, Joseph had written to both of us.
Peter arrived late that night and found him in a private room on the third floor. They sat together on the bed and talked for more than an hour—mostly about the good old days. About the three of us—the places we’d gone, the things we’d seen, all the good times and the not-so-good times. Peter said they laughed so loud a fat, old nurse had to poke her head inside the room and warn them: This is a hospital, gentlemen, and there are sick people to consider. Please turn down the volume. Unfortunately, this scolding only made Joseph laugh that much harder, and as a result, he accidentally popped his IV tube out of his arm. Needless to say, the nurse was not amused.
But Joseph eventually grew weak and tired, so Peter hugged him good-bye, kissed him on the forehead, and called himself a cab from the phone outside in the hallway—
—and then he snuck back inside the room and smothered Joseph with his pillow.
Peter told me all of this in a two-page letter. He wrote it during the flight home and dropped it in a mailbox outside the airport.
That was three years ago.
There were three of us back then.
The three horsemen. That was our code name, and maybe a dozen people in the entire world knew this information. Half that number knew our true identities.
Let me tell you, back in those days, there was no one better. No one even close.
We did the impossible. And we did it time and time again. Like goddamn phantoms in the night.
Even some of our own people were scared of us. And we liked it that way. It made things easier for a while.
But then things changed.
And we got older…
We disappeared in 1968.
After twenty-nine years of loyal service.
The world was changing…and not for the better.
I guess you could say that we saw the handwriting on the wall.
So, we formulated a plan.
You have to remember now, men in our profession did not exactly retire with a gold wristwatch, a handshake, and a big fat pension. It was an unspoken truth, but it existed nonetheless.
In theory, our plan was simple: stage an accident and provide a trio of burned and disfigured bodies as proof of our demise. Then split up and go our separate ways, alter our appearances, change our names, and start new lives. And no matter what—never, ever directly contact each other. Not by telephone and certainly not in person.
Only unsigned letters and only occasionally—once or twice a year.
Keep the trail to a minimum.
And when the time came, we would be there for each other. In the end, we would be there…
That was the promise we made to each other so many years ago.
That was part of it anyway.
In theory, the plan sounded so simple.
In reality, it was something else entirely. Even if they believed our little “accident,” they would be sure to take the necessary precautions. They had no choice in the matter. The simple truth was: we would always be three of the most hunted men on the planet. No matter what, we knew they would never stop searching for us. They couldn’t afford to—we knew too much. We’d seen things no one ever dreamed of. Done things no one could even imagine. And this knowledge was very, very dangerous. With this information, we could change the course of world history at any moment in time…
During the war, it had all been relatively clear: scientists, soldiers, spies, a couple of politicians. There was blood everywhere in those days. No one was clean; everyone had it on their hands. We were simply a working cog in a much larger war-machine. An honorable and noble machine—we truly believed that.
It was years later that it all became so strange. That’s the only way I can describe it for you. It just got so damn strange. Hell, for a time there, it was hard to figure out who was our enemy and who was our ally. It all got so mixed up and messed up, and we didn’t know who we could turn to, who we could trust.
Only that we had each other—we always had each other.
And some of the assignments…Jesus. Mostly they broke down into two categories: those who knew the wrong things. Politicians and military folks mostly—all over the world. And plenty here in the States. Generals, congressmen, even a President. But there were others, too. And they were the tough ones. People in the wrong place at the wrong time. Folks who had snooped a little too deep under the covers. Journalists and reporters. Doctors and professors. Businessmen, big and small. Even a few housewives who happened to be victims of bad timing and even worse luck…and there were children, too.
It all got so confusing. For a while there, it seemed like we were being ordered to terminate just about everyone.
During the war and the years that followed, we looked at the assignments as our job—as our duty to our country—but then it all got to be such madness. Such goddamn madness.
And still we did the job we were trained to do.
And we did it well.
It’s time. Hospital. Come.
I sat there at the kitchen table, my hands trembling, and read the letter a dozen times.
The words didn’t change.
It’s time. Hospital. Come.
I always knew this day would arrive.
I crumpled the letter into a ball and took it out to the garage. Placed it in an ashtray on my workbench and burned it. Scattered the ashes in the back yard.
I went inside and took a shower.
Then I packed a suitcase and called the airport.
I knew the phone number by heart.
It’s a short flight to Wichita. A little under four hours, with a thirty-minute layover. If there are no delays, I should be there in time for dinner.
Plenty of time to think about things…
My name is Aaron Thomas Schumacher. Aaron is my birth name, the name given to me by my father and mother eighty-four years ago.
But if you know me today, you know me as John Cremins. Retired postal worker from Arizona. Relocated to North Carolina a decade ago, just after the death of my wife, Anne. We were high school sweethearts, married fifty years, until she died of bone cancer. Yes, sir, John Cremins has himself quite an interesting history. He was even a combat veteran.
Over the past thirty years, I’ve lived under four other aliases. Made my home on three different continents—been a citizen of several foreign countries and a resident of a half-dozen states here on America soil.
I’ve altered my appearance five times. Nothing permanent—other than a nose job—and nothing too drastic; just enough to get the job done.
The only thing that has remained constant over these many years is the company I have chosen to keep: I have always lived alone.
And that is the way it should be—at least for me.
I am an old man now. Horrible arthritis. Deaf in one ear. I walk with a limp even when it’s warm outside, and some days I have trouble going to the bathroom. I also do not sleep well.
I am an old man—and often afraid.
Perhaps this is my penance, although I do not believe so.
Look at Peter. Eight months ago, he was still smiling. Still living the good life in the warm sunshine of Florida. How he got to a Kansas hospital? How he is dying? Where his golden-haired bride by the name of Eve is? These are all questions I cannot answer.
But I can tell you this:
In a little more than five or six hours, I will take my best friend’s life. I will study his face as his eyes close for the final time and watch as his spirit leaves his body. I will hold his hand in mine, and when I am finished, I will wait and make sure he is truly gone.
Then I will ride back to the airport and board my flight. If there are no delays, I will arrive home sometime after midnight.
And my final assignment will be completed.
I always knew this day would come.
We all did.
Maybe this is all just foolishness; an exercise in madness. Maybe enough years have finally passed, and it is no longer
necessary. But a promise is a promise. Especially one made to a friend such as Peter.
I have to admit, though—it makes me wonder about my own death and that frightens me.
When the time comes, who will be there to take care of me? To send me on my way? Who will be there to make sure that I do not panic in my moment of truth and release my treasure chest of secrets? Who will be there to stop pen from touching paper…?
First Joseph, and now Peter.
Soon, it will be all three of us…
My God, we were something back in the old days—three young men, different but the same, the best of friends, trained in the fine art of killing.
Like phantoms in the night.
Death could not take us, then.
And we would not allow it to take us now.
Only we would take each other.
And the last one standing…
Well, he would have to find his own way.
That was the promise we’d made to each other.
All those years ago.
Me and Peter and Joseph—the three horsemen.
My name is Aaron Thomas Schumacher.
I am an old man.
And I am afraid of the dark.
GRAND FINALE
1
“Does that feel good, baby?”
A twitch of candy red lips. A crooked smile. “Ummm, incredible.”
He flicked his tongue across the silky smooth skin of her thigh, snaked it closer to the center of her body. She moaned with pleasure and squirmed on the tangle of white sheets, then reached down and forced his face between her legs. This time, he stayed there. She was past the point of no return now; completely his for the taking. As if to confirm his thoughts, she leaned back and gripped the bed’s brass headrest with both hands and closed her eyes.
Her name was Jill; he didn’t know the last name, and didn’t plan to ask. It wasn’t important. She was the front-row beauty from his Senior Finance class. Tall. Golden tan. Brunette. A real knockout; and that’s what was important. Earlier, he’d taken her to a new dinner club downtown, but they’d quickly grown bored with the older crowd and returned to his place.
“His place” was actually a luxury condominium suite. Two levels, complete with spacious dining and living rooms, sunken den, two bathrooms, and a bedroom loft, which was now occupied by the sweat-slicked couple. Top to bottom, the place reeked of wealth. The floor covers and furniture were imported, the art on the walls, originals. The downstairs bar and wine rack were always overstocked. The sound system—also located downstairs, along the far wall of the den—cost more than a full year’s tuition at the university. The second-floor balcony overlooked the bay out back, and on clear nights like tonight, one could see the resort lights aglow on the far shore.
It was extravagant by any means, but especially so for a 22-year-old college senior.
But then again Brian Lewis was anything but a typical college student. The only son of Manhattan publishing tycoon, Bernard Lewis, Brian lived a privileged life. He enjoyed an unlimited expense account and the freedom to do as he pleased, with only one strict requirement: that he continue to receive his “B” average at the university and graduate along with his class. After completing that task—his “growth and responsibility period,” his father called it—the rest of his life was his to do with as he pleased.
Upstairs in the loft, Brian slid on top and inside of his date, his shoulder-length brown hair tickling his back. The Justin Timberlake disc he’d put on earlier was between songs, the couple’s hungry breathing momentarily the only sound in the condo. He shifted, tried to catch his breath, but she wrapped her legs around his back and pulled him inside further, tightening and loosening her grip until she found a satisfying rhythm. Christ, he decided, she’s even better than I thought.
He kicked away the blanket, braced his feet on the bed’s footrest and pushed hard, gaining strength with each thrust. Two songs later, after her second orgasm, they switched positions, fumbling over each other in the dark. She immediately responded, rotating her hips in a lazy but forceful circular motion. This time, it was Brian who reached back for the bed rails, enjoying the ride and the view.
When she finally came, only moments later, she collapsed atop Brian’s chest, allowing him to glance over her right shoulder, up at the thick wooden rafters above the loft. And to smile at the hidden video camera, which had recorded the entire night’s action.
2
The next evening…
Brian Lewis was thinking three things as he slid the key into his front door at twenty minutes past midnight: Chet Avery’s party had been a real bomb; so much so, in fact, that he hadn’t even gotten laid; and, foremost on his mind, he was hungry as hell.
He stepped into the den, flipped on the television—a 52-inch Sony—and sat back on the sofa, a grease-stained pizza box resting in his lap. With one hand, he stuffed the tip of a pepperoni and sausage slice into his mouth, and, with the other, he lifted a heavy leather case from atop the end table and rested it beside him. He popped the clasp and opened the lid. Inside were several dozen videocassette tapes, protected in clear plastic cases. Each tape was labeled on the spine in neat blue magic-marker print. A few of them read: BARBARA, Sept. 12. JANICE, Dec. 24. TERESA, Feb. 13.
Brian selected a tape from the top row, one marked “JILL, July 23.” He struggled up from the sofa and popped it into the cassette recorder. He sat back and pointed a palm-sized remote control at the television. The VCR whirred quietly and the screen immediately filled with a blurry, shadow-scarred image. After a few seconds, the shadows lifted, the picture sharpened, and Brian recognized the loft, his bed, last night’s date, and his own naked white ass. Grinning at the picture, he traded the remote for a tightly-rolled joint from his shirt pocket and another slice of pizza.
He’d started videotaping his dates several years ago, while only a freshman. He had always been a whiz with various types of mechanical devices, and cameras were his specialty. Shortly after coming to the university, it occurred to him that it was only natural that he combine his technical talents with his other favorite pastime: women. And with his casual good looks and well-publicized bank account, the women were his for the picking. He even had two female instructors from the university—a 32-year-old, married English professor included—among his tape collection. Over the years, he’d perfected his spy system to the point where he could now activate the camera with a special vocal command, and even control the zoom lens with a hidden switch located in the upstairs bathroom.
Only one time had he almost been caught. During the spring semester of his freshman year, the first camera he’d used—a store-bought model—had malfunctioned and a warning alarm had sounded from the camera, scaring his date half to death. He’d simply claimed it was the smoke alarm and scooted the girl downstairs to wait while he “fixed” it. He’d learned a valuable lesson that night, and as a result, he now used only the most expensive surveillance equipment available.
Six slices of pizza and two joints later, Brian stretched out on the sofa and reached for the remote, ready to turn the tape off for the night. About to hit STOP, he realized from the position he and Jill were in that the tape was almost finished, so he let it run. He’d been especially strong last night. And, as he always said, there was nothing quite like the grand finale.
A close-up view. High and tight. Her on top, riding him hard, muscles flexing, hair flying everywhere like she’s on the dance floor: she was dancing all right. Mouth open, tongue darting in and out, not seductively; animal-like, gasping for air. Camera angle pulls back, swings a degree left, and you see Brian on his back, you see his face, his sweating, smiling face. And as Jill comes, she falls onto him, and he smiles a big grin for the camera and winks a secret salute of success. Then she plants a tender kiss on his lips and crawls out of the bed, heads for the shower.
That was exactly what had happened last night…
But that was not what was now playing on the videotape…
The screen did show Jill pecking Brian softly on the lips, but instead of getting up to take a shower, as she most definitely had the night before, she reaches behind her back and her right hand swims into the camera’s view holding a gleaming butcher knife, and then the lens isn’t fast enough to capture any more detail because then she’s slashing at Brian’s face and chest and all you can see is a bloody pulp…and the crooked smile on the brunette’s blood-spattered face, as she stares directly into the camera.
“Jesus,” Brian whispered, shaking his head and pushing the pizza box to the floor. He looked at the residue of ash scattered on the sofa cushion, blinked at the marijuana smoke, which hung thick in the room. “Powerful shit,” he mumbled, and leaned back on the sofa, instantly asleep.
3
Morning greeted Brian Lewis just before nine, and a killer headache came along for the ride. Within half an hour, he’d already swallowed a couple glasses of juice and a half-dozen Tylenols, but relief wasn’t on the way yet. And so he suffered at its mercy, sitting perfectly still in the dark bedroom. Finally, when he could wait no longer, he pulled on a white polo, tucked it into his khakis, and went downstairs.
The den was a mess. Stale smoke hung heavy in the air like early-morning smog. Sofa cushions and pizza crusts were scattered across the carpet. All of the lights were still on. And the entire room smelled of pizza grease. He had slept soundly on the sofa until just before six, when he’d rolled off and almost lost some teeth on the corner of the coffee table. Only then had he retreated to the loft.
He poured himself yet another glass of orange juice and sat on the only remaining sofa cushion, flipping absently through his tattered notebook. The words were too blurry to read, so he merely glanced at the charts and diagrams. His head was feeling worse by the minute, but he had already missed two labs this summer semester and couldn’t afford to skip another.
A Long December Page 13