The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book

by Manuel Werner

Among the company chauffeurs that regularly ran VBI executives around town, Abelard had spotted one that he recognized to be like minded – unscrupulous, criminally inclined and quite unfamiliar with empathy. He chose him to aid and abet in the deed. McCurdle – he insisted that people not use his first name and, outside of human resources, no one actually knew it – pulled the large German car into the slow moving traffic and headed for the corner in the older part of Montreal where a three hundred year old church abutted onto most of the sidewalk and so altogether obscured the view on one of the streets. This is where he would force Mr. Hecht into the car. Abelard carried no weapons. He was strong enough to subdue most men and Mr. Hecht, in his debilitated state, would cause him no great difficulty.

  Abelard stood with his back to the direction from which Mr. Hecht would arrive, looking intently at a map. McCurdle stayed in the car and kept it idling. As Mr. Hecht passed by, he spotted the map and gave the large man no further thought. He was certainly not surprised to hear, “excuse me sir would you know where…” and as he turned to respond he was quickly pushed into the open back door, followed by Abelard’s large hand now around his throat and pinning him to his seat. All in less than 10 seconds. Before Mr. Hecht had a chance to utter a single objection the car had already pulled away and was heading to a house, with a very private entrance, Abelard had rented for the occasion.

  “In a few minutes we will arrive at our destination. Please do not say anything until then. Should you do anything to concern me I will put you to death,” Abelard’s phraseology still retained much of its old charm. Something about Abelard convinced Mr. Hecht that this was no idle threat. Involuntary reflexes made Mr. Hecht run through the full range of expected facial gymnastics, from wide-eyed disbelief, through glowering skepticism, to the agitated glances of cornered prey, as he turned his gaze from Abelard’s business card to Abelard and back again.

  McCurdle pulled straight into the garage of the small stone, two story, early 19th century house. Absent the need for brute force and Abelard was always very well-mannered with his peers, even those he intended to most hideously torture and kill. Mr. Hecht, being the captain of his own castle, was unambiguously a peer. He helped him from the car and politely showed him the way through to the main house. He led him over the darkly lacquered hardwood floors to a large dining area with a long, polished oak table. He asked him to sit at the head of the Table and himself took a seat at his left side.

  “Mr. Hecht, you have surely by now guessed the purpose of our meeting,” Abelard began, in an unvarnished, utterly neutral monotone. “We do not have much time if you are to be back at your office before someone notices an extended absence. Your secretary has by now seen the e-mail I sent you acknowledging our meeting and will assume all is as it should be. When you do return, any attempt to characterize the circumstances of our meeting as coercive will likely reflect very poorly on your mental health.”

  Abelard waited a moment for Mr. Hecht to appreciate just how fully forlorn was his predicament. Abruptly leaving his chair to place himself behind Mr. Hecht, he continued, but with a noticeably more menacing tone. He wanted to introduce into Mr. Hecht’s mind a sharp ambiguity as to his own psychological wellbeing.

  “You may be thinking, even as I speak, that your disadvantage is but fleeting, since your office will be expecting you to return later this afternoon with news of our meeting. You may even have wrapped yourself in the warm blanket of stoicism – Abelard having learned about Epictetus from the very same priest he had put to the sword – that very soon all this will be but a bad memory. And, to a point, you would be right. However, Mr. Hecht, you know nothing about me. You have no idea what I am capable of to get what I want. I have killed hundreds of men, and had countless more murdered.” He held back on how he had often found it effective to also annihilate entire families if all else failed. This option would be a last resort if personal safety was not sufficient to sway Sticky.

  Mr. Hecht was now visibly frightened. Large droplets of nervous perspiration seeping from the pores in his forehead had splashed over the thin metal rims and onto the lenses, leaving a trail of long, oily streaks. His blue eyes all but disappeared into his skull as he tried to follow the madman circling around behind him, for his head remained motionless, paralyzed with fear.

  Abelard had another reason besides intimidation, to walk around behind his quarry. He needed to hide the telltale concern creasing his own forehead. Abelard was being buffeted by feelings he did not completely comprehend. He did not care for other human beings but he was also unsure whether he could actually hurt Mr. Hecht. He looked at the large head with its short grey hairs and mused that there was something endearing about the elderly, fastidiously dressed gentleman. He had to this moment seen Mr. Hecht as he saw all competitors, just another predator, smaller than him and meant to be devoured. It was not that Abelard had a limited intellect. On the contrary, Abelard had a very fine mind, of that he was fully aware and which he ascribed, in his false memories, to the lessons he had received from the hapless priest. He had no doubt that the world was a complex place and that some problems demanded deep thought and intricate strategies, but that at the heart of it all there was only the simple ‘eat or be eaten’ rule.

  Resourcefully convenient as he made his rule box, it would not accommodate Mr. Hecht. For such a wholly alien endeavour it would need shaping, renovating and resizing well beyond his capabilities in so short a space of time. Abelard had been diligent, as he always was, to prepare for this encounter and had scoured most available information on Mr. Hecht. He knew all about his family, the three daughters, all married, none working in the business, but all major shareholders. He also knew that he voted their shares at annual meetings. But that was not all he had learned about his captive. Mr. Hecht lived very modestly and kept only a small fraction of the salary he had been granted by his board. The rest was distributed to his favourite charities, mainly for the handicapped and a handsome sum for animal welfare. He had a reputation, even among his fiercest competitors, of unblemished honesty. Mr. Hecht, if he was to believe all he had read, was the rarest of humans, making decisions mainly on principle.

  “Mr. Bush,” the German accented voice, in a kindly but fragile tone, spoke for the first time, “why am I being dealt with so harshly? You must think me a ferocious creature. Perhaps I have done something to offend you and this is some sort of vendetta. Please forgive me, I am not a vengeful person nor am I a dangerous monster. You have been systematically ruining my business in your implacable attempt to takeover my company. But that is fair. It is the way of business. I would not proceed that way but that does not give me the right to fault others. Please be kind enough to stop this nonsense now. You are a young man and I have no intention of ruining your life with a complaint to the police. So please, let us part company peacefully.”

  For Abelard, this was terra incognito, utterly beyond the pale. Hurting Mr. Hecht would be like harming a Saint. He was struggling with his novel dilemma when Mr. Hecht’s head hit the table edge and then smashed against the hardwood floor where it bounced once on the pliant surface before coming to rest on its right cheek. Blood was seeping from his temple where it had cracked against the table’s sharp corner. But he was still conscious and clutching his chest. He was having a heart attack.

  Abelard was immobilized by his own ambivalence towards this elderly man. Here was an opportunistic scenario he had himself considered, even mentioning it as a possibility to his takeover team. For his mercenary purposes it was no less than the greatest of good luck. For that small part of his brain reserved for compassion, and largely unused, it was a major headache. In the end, utter novelty trumped long habit and his vanishingly small, but insistent compassion pushed him to reach into the pocket Mr. Hecht seemed to be struggling to get to and pull out a small vial of pills. He quickly poured a few into his hand and began stuffing them into Mr. Hecht’s foaming mouth.

  Alas, it was too late. Mr. Hecht had drawn his last breath. He continu
ed to stare at Abelard, the dark pills creating a sparsely toothed grimace, looking much like a grin, as though in disbelief rather than fear or pain. In the final anguished moments, racked with numbing pain, Horst Hecht had watched incredulously as this self-confessed mass murderer tried to administer what could have been life saving medication.

  Abelard was no less mystified at his reaction and made a mental note for a thorough post mortem. In the meantime, there was business to attend to and Abelard, his predatory instincts back in full control, was again attentive only to his current objectives. He quickly dialed 911 and reported the emergency. He took a moment to groom himself at the ornate entrance mirror and then stepped out into the splendid, late autumn warmth, under a glaring early afternoon sun, to greet the police. The shares held by the daughters, he schemed, could be his if he contacted them before the news got out.

  *