RJ opened her laptop and turned it around so he could see the thumb drive sticking out from the USB port. “That’s what was in it,” she explained. “There are two files on the drive. One is some kind of executable program I’m guessing. The other is a video file.”
Killian didn’t say anything. He just sat back and began massaging his temples wearily.
“I didn’t dare mess with the program obviously, but I did open up the video. It’s of your father. It seemed personal so I didn’t watch it.” She set the computer on Killian’s lap and began standing up to leave to give him some privacy.
Killian grabbed her by the arm. “You don’t have to go.”
RJ hesitated. “Killian, I’m sure what he has to say was meant just for you. Why don’t you watch it and then—”
Killian pulled her gently back down next to him. “Please stay. I’m sure whatever it is he has to say is going to affect us both.”
“Okay, Killian,” RJ said softly. “I’ll stay.” Killian handed the computer back to her. She moved closer to him and set it on her lap so they both could see the screen. She clicked on the file.
The video player opened up to a still image of Luc Lebon sitting on the couch in the living room of what used to be the main house. He was leaning in toward the camera, his right arm reaching out, the elbow of his left arm resting on a knee, its hand holding a glass tumbler filled close to half way with an amber-colored liquid, most likely a well-aged, single-malted scotch, his drink of choice. He looked tired, Killian thought, haggard even, perhaps a little drunk. His wavy brown hair, normally combed in place with precision, was disheveled and had much more gray in it than Killian remembered. His face, always taught and tanned, was now wrinkled, flushed, and beginning to sag. Dark circles puffed out under his tired and bloodshot blue eyes. He looked far from the giant of a hero Killian once saw him as. He looked every bit the disgraced seventy-one-year-old man that he was. A sharp pang of remorse shot through Killian’s heart as he realized this was how he would always remember his father looking before he died.
RJ maneuvered the cursor until it was over the play button. “Ready?”
Killian looked at her with tired eyes. “Honestly, no. No, I’m not.”
“Seriously Killian? Don’t you want to know why your father was murdered?”
Killian’s eyes narrowed and he pulled himself back from her. “I know exactly why my father was murdered. He was murdered because he was a traitor. I don’t need to know anything more than that.”
“All you know is what the Russians told you. How do you know that what they said wasn’t just a bunch of lies? You never know, maybe they killed your father because he was working for our government not against it.”
“No, impossible. My father hated our government.”
“Well, maybe he changed. You just don’t know unless you watch the video. Remember, Killian, what your father did or didn’t do didn’t just affect you. It affected me, as well. And I tell you what, I want answers.”
“You’re asking me to watch a video where more than likely my father is going to talk about how his betrayal to his country, how his betrayal to me, led to his murder. Do you really think I want to watch something like that right now? After all we’ve just been through?”
“Killian, it’s just that—”
“It’s just what, RJ?” Killian demanded in a loud voice. He then quickly leaned into her, his face nearly touching hers. “Tell me,” he said in almost a growl, “would you want to watch a video of your dead father discussing all the horrific things he did that got him murdered?”
Killian’s words hit RJ hard and for a long moment she forgot to breathe. Yet the aftershock of what he had said affected them both and they both sat there unmoving for a long time in stunned silence, one in a silence stunned by guilt, the other in one stunned by hurt.
RJ was the first to release herself from the grip the hurtful words had on her, realizing she was cold. She wrapped her robe tight around her to ward off the chill and then shoved her cold, red hands deep into its wide pockets. Without looking at Killian, who sat so close next to her his hip and thigh pressed flat against the both of hers, she began to speak. Her voice was quiet, unmodulated, but with an unmistakable firmness to it that left no doubt as to the sincerity of what she was saying. “In answer to your question, Killian, yes, I would want to watch a video like that. Even though it would hurt, tear me apart even, I would still want to watch that video because I would want to know more than anything why my father felt as if he had a right to do all those horrific things he did to me as a girl. I would want to hear him explain to me, no matter how unjustified or perverted his reasons, or how painful it may be for me to hear it, how, night after night, he could enter my dark room and slip into my small bed next to me as I cried, knowing what was about to happen to me; how he could pull off my panties while whispering to me that everything was going to be okay; how he could touch me everywhere with those rough, grease-stained hands of his and then put his fingers inside me; how he could put his head down between my legs and sodomize me; how he could get on top of me and put his hand over my mouth to cover my screams of pain as he penetrated me; how he could rape me and then collapse heavily upon me when he finished and try to convince me that it was all for my own good, that he was teaching me how to become a woman.”
She looked at Killian now and Killian couldn’t help but to look at her. “Yes, Killian, I would definitely want to watch that video because… well, because I’ve always, always regretted killing my father without first making him explain himself to me. For twenty-four years now I’ve been living with this regret. Instead of having an actual memory of me demanding him, forcing him to explain himself to me, all I’ve been able to do instead is try to imagine how it would have been. And for the past twenty-four years that’s exactly what I’ve been doing: imagining, dreaming about it in vivid detail, over and over again, night after sleepless night. But in this dream of mine, my father doesn’t just explain to me everything that I wish to hear, in it he also apologizes to me with tears in his eyes, and he even gets down on his knees and begs me for forgiveness. And you know what I do? Each time in these dreams I still kill that mother fucker exactly how I did twenty-four-years ago when I was that scared, seventeen-year-old girl, but this time I do it without any regrets.” She smiled sadly at Killian and then turned her head and looked straight out to that place before her that only she could see. “Yeah, I would give anything for a chance to watch a video like that, Killian.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Hello Killian. It’s your old man here and, well, I guess if you’re watching this it means I’m dead.” Luc looked down into his drink and chuckled. When he raised his head back to the camera, a sad, defeated grin had etched itself on his face. “Sounds like a line from a bad movie, doesn’t it?”
The grin slipped away and he took a long, nervous pull of the scotch, drinking not as if he were doing so to savor its taste or to quench a thirst with it, but as if he were trying to numb himself with it, as if he actually were in a bad movie, one of those movies where the character is shot and, in order to save his life, is about to have the bullet dug out in a hasty, primitive manner by someone other than a doctor, so he drinks the whiskey desperately in an effort to brace himself for the unbearable pain he knows is about to come. When Luc pulled the now near-empty glass from his mouth, he wiped his moist lips with the back of his hand and then looked guiltily back at the camera.
“Anyway, I’m recording this not long after our last video call, a call that, like most encounters between the two of us I’m sad to say, ended badly… ended in anger. I wish we could get together and talk about that anger between us, to work it out, to put all our past grievances behind us and once again be friends… friends as father and son should be. Unfortunately, though, I’m afraid we never will have that kind of opportunity again.”
While he no longer looked like the fit, man of vigor Killian remembered him to be, he still spoke with th
at same commanding voice of his, a voice deep-toned and assured, one that always compelled one to want to listen to whatever it was he had to say.
Luc took another pull from his drink and stared at the camera a moment before continuing. “I’m in trouble Killian. Serious trouble… with the Russians.
Even though it was no surprise to either of them, RJ still shot an alarmed look at Killian at Luc’s validation of his connection with the Russians. Killian made no reaction.
“Look, Killian, you know my politics… heck, I admit it’s because of them, our differences over them, that’s partly to blame for driving that wedge between us… so I’m not going to bore you by getting too far into the weeds about how it was my deep-felt beliefs that first got me involved with the Russians…” Luc paused only long enough to take a quick, lubricating sip of his scotch. Any reticence he may have had to making the video had quickly disappeared and the speed with which he spoke began to build. “…except to say that I was so fed up with all the ugly discourse that was happening all throughout the country, mostly resulting from the hard-left, liberal direction Obama had placed it on with all his god damned apology tours, his leading from behind bullshit, his recognizing of gay marriage, the whole transgender bathroom debacle, and on and on and on, that I began looking to get myself involved more politically with the sole purpose of finding and electing Republicans conservative enough to reverse the destructive path the country was on before it was too late.” He drained the scotch and then reached out and grabbed a bottle that was setting on the coffee table next to the laptop just outside of camera shot.
“Essentially the same old things he’s been ranting about ever since the Clinton administration,” Killian said with sad resignation. “And the way he’s hitting that bottle… I can tell we’re really in for a show.”
RJ gave him an understanding smile while sliding her hand into his and interlacing their fingers together.
“I already had built a pretty solid political network over my lifetime that included many high-ranking Republicans – local and national politicians, of course, but it also included some pretty heavy-hitting businessmen and political consultants as well. And once I made it known that I was throwing my support, and contributions, to the Trump campaign, the network lit up like a Christmas tree and it wasn’t long before I was invited to join the board of an up-and-coming evangelical nonprofit out of Virginia called—”
“Wait...” RJ quickly paused the video. “Evangelical? Isn’t—wasn’t your father a Catholic?”
“My dad? Heck no. Before my mother died he wasn’t much of anything, but I guess he always considered himself a Protestant.” Killian chuckled thinking back. “No, my old man was far from being a Catholic. In fact, he used to enjoy teasing my mom and me for being one. He especially liked to give us silly nicknames. He’d always come up with something different, but the two that still stick in my mind for some reason are Pious Papal Puppets and Friday Fish Friars.”
RJ laughed.
“Or he’d do goofy things like pretend to be a priest and, using made-up Latin-sounding words, give a fire and brimstone sermon right before my mother and I would leave for church. Whenever he did this, he’d always imitate my grandfather’s accent. Being from Cork, Ireland, my mom’s dad was a devout Roman Catholic, so I imagine my father being a Protestant was a pretty serious concern to him. My grandfather was not one to keep his opinions to himself, so I’d bet a paycheck my dad got a lot of flak from him for not being a Catholic, which is probably why he enjoyed teasing my mom so much for being one.” Killian shook his head fondly. “Not to mention my grandfather’s Irish brogue was so thick my mom would always have to translate for us whenever we visited with my grandparents, so it was always pretty funny whenever my old man imitated him.”
RJ smiled along with him, pleasantly surprised by Killian’s willingness to reflect so readily on his past. She gave him a delicate prompt to continue. “So, after your mother died…”
Killian lost the smile. “Yeah, right. After my mother died my old man turned to religion big time, became a hardcore fundamentalist. From what he told me his parents were some serious bible thumpers, strict Pentecostals, used to speak in tongues and everything, so it was a world familiar to him. I’m pretty sure that his politics and religion merged at some point, which led him to becoming an Evangelical.”
“Never would have guessed,” RJ said. “I mean, from the way Diego talked, he and your father became pretty close after your mother passed. I had just assumed it was because of their shared religious beliefs.”
“Yeah, I never completely understood that relationship between the two of them,” Killian said. “Two completely different men in just about everything except their love and respect for my mother.”
RJ nodded her head thoughtfully.
“I guess,” Killian continued, “they both just wanted to be around someone who missed her as much as each of them did, because you know my father never married again, never could find another woman who could replace her; and while I’m sure Diego would say his love for my mother was nothing more than a platonic, Christian love, I’m also pretty sure he had deeper feelings for her, feelings that probably didn’t square too well with his duties as a priest, if you know what I mean.”
RJ gave Killian a look and a playful little shove with her shoulder as if she were taken aback by what he implied. Then she said with an affectionate smile, “You know, they also had something else in common besides their shared love for your mother,” she said, putting a hand to his cheek and turning his face so he had to look into her eyes. “They both also had a love for you, Killian. I hope you realize that.” A tear popped out the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek as she kissed him.
Killian’s eyes went wide from surprise.
The kiss was also a surprise to RJ. Realizing what she had done, she yanked herself away from him and turned breathlessly back to the laptop, her cheeks flushing hot and her heart beating rapid-fire in her chest. She could feel him looking at her, but she didn’t know whether she should apologize or kiss him again. Instead, after several seconds of uncertain hesitation, she clicked on the play button and resumed the video.
“—‘The Right Way for Christ’s Sake.’ I know, sounds corny. But these guys were serious as hell about stirring up a hard-right conservative movement, one that they hoped would eventually sweep the nation. They had thrown their support early on behind Trump’s candidacy, and since I had too, I didn’t just become a board member, I began working very aggressively on behalf of the organization, mostly giving speeches, raising money, things like that.”
Luc looked down into his glass for a moment before he took another long, stiffening pull from it. When he looked back to the camera his face was pained, his eyes moist. He sniffed with determination and then continued. “I didn’t find out until later when I was trying to dig myself out of the whole that the Russians had buried me in that most of the Right Way’s funding didn’t come from donations, or from the ballcaps or tee-shirts or other cheap merchandise they sold online as their accounting books would lead one to believe, their funding came from a shady connection with some Russian oligarch billionaire close to Putin. Turns out the Right Way was a front for an even larger Russian operation to get Trump elected. One of the many as we now know.”
After a heavy sigh and running his fingers through his already mussy hair, he drained his glass and quickly refilled it before continuing. “But even if I had become aware of the connection earlier, I doubt if I would have, or could have, done anything about it. They knew me so well, Killian, the fucking Russians. They had me.”
He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and began working it, searching for something on it, as he spoke. “I never saw it coming. I mean, who would think that they would come after an old man like me. Sure, I ran a cyber security company that worked classified contracts for the government, but I didn’t do any of the classified work. I never did. But they didn’t care what I knew, just what I had ac
cess to. They managed it so that I had no choice but to give them whatever it was they asked of me, no matter what it took for me to get it.” He found what he was looking for on the phone. He stared at whatever it was with a look of sad fondness on his face before looking back to the camera. “God damn it, Killian, they knew exactly how to get to me.” Luc held the face of the phone in front of his computer’s camera, filling up the entirety of the frame with it.
RJ paused the video and sucked in her breath, gasping from the shock of what she saw.
Killian snatched the computer from her lap and pulled it up to him to get a closer look. It was a picture of his father standing arm and arm with a woman. Both were scarfed and bundled in thick winter jackets. Luc wore a brown ushanka atop his head. He looked like a proper Russian official with the ear flaps folded up. The woman looked warm and snugly with a furry, white kubanka covering her head. Both were smiling and looking into each other’s eyes like two long in love. Behind them stood Saint Basil’s Cathedral, its onion domes snow-covered but with enough of their bold colors showing to contrast vibrantly against the gray Russian sky.
“Oh my god, Killian,” RJ said, leaning in close to him to get a better look for herself. “How is it possible? I mean, it isn’t possible, right? That woman… that woman is not your mother, right?”
Killian didn’t answer. He was unable to, stunned speechless from what he was seeing.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
The Good Kill Page 44