by Dyal Bailey
As fate would have it, Antonio’s favorite refuse-eliminator and assassin, Günter, created scenarios that were always significantly interesting. Plus the videos were a bonus result of his equations, because they were also an awesome and intricate source of Antonio’s amusement. So, while Günter removed unwanted variables from Rafaela’s life, Antonio was able to play his favorite role as both audience and muse.
Sadly, Werther sometimes became as demanding as it was obedient.
And although Antonio felt huge gratification after uncovering an emotional indeterminate like Micah Carteret and injecting him into Rafaela’s equations, he knew he mustn’t neglect his duties of eliminating the still numerous and undesirable variables that seemed to be endlessly muddling up his and Werther’s plans.
Sighing, Antonio started to open a new disposable cell phone, but paused. Taking a moment, he considered how best to stimulate and inspire the temperamental assassin with the details of the upcoming hit.
Günter must be handled with the utmost delicacy. Otherwise, he might fall into one of those artistic depressions of his. And that was the last thing Antonio needed.
Chapter Five
In his lavish, metro-sexually decorated New York apartment, Günter ran unsteady fingers through his short cropped blond hair and took another sip of his homemade apple schnapps. He wrinkled his nose.
“Ach, too much honey.”
He reached over to jot down a note about the alcohol content, but his notepad began to blur. Blinking his luxurious, blond eyelashes, he steadied his pen. After several tries, he accomplished his task. He took a multitude of deep, refreshing breaths.
Opening the cap of the peppermint, he used his perfectly manicured hands to steady the bottle, and poured a small amount into another fresh glass. This time, his lips curved and showed the full beauty of his shapely mouth.
“Das ist gut.” He nodded vigorously.
Or was his tongue just getting numb?
He cursed himself. Usually he took the time to taste from one bottle a day, but he had fallen behind. Ashamed, his face turned an even deeper shade of red.
What could he have done? Business was so brisk. He could barely find time to give himself an exfoliating facial; much less take care of his party preparations. Rubbing the lines forming on his elegant forehead, his eyes became moist. He sighed. Now his ears were starting to ring.
No, it was his cell phone.
Focusing hard, Günter tried to remember where he had placed it. Oh yes, it was on his desk in the living room. He pushed a stray lock of light blond hair from his face and attempted to stand, but ended up stumbling, sinking back into his chair. Maybe the apple schnapps was strong enough after all?
Flexing his arms, he forced himself up and staggered into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face.
Hearing the phone ring three more times, he decided he was ready to make the trip to his worktable. His plush white carpet now seemed to be giving him an inordinate amount of resistance. He made it to his destination and collapsed into his mint green, satin-and-lace covered chair. He pushed several buttons until he made the cellphone obey him and answer the call.
“Hallo.” He controlled a burp. “No, I wasn’t asleep! I was testing my schnapps.” He hiccupped and almost dropped the phone. Using both hands, he attempted a firmer grasp and listened. “How dare you call me a drunken Prussian? You heartless fiend, you know very well that I'm Bavarian.” Günter regarded the rows and rows of half-empty tasting glasses on his vintage dining table. “Ha! If you think a Prussian is so great, why don’t you send Fritz to kill your snooping forest ranger?” Pressing one hand against his still warm face, he searched for his planners. “He wasn’t harmed, was he?” He opened drawer after drawer, but couldn’t seem to stop the contents from swirling. “Yes, I'm concerned. It's only a few weeks before my Walpurgis Night get-together and I was counting on Fritz to play the flugelhorn.”
Finding his iPad, he clicked on the icon opening his assassination calendar. Günter withdrew a delicately feathered stylus and attempted to jot down notes for the kill. “Hank Tanker as Marguerite? Then I assume it’s not a ribbon you want around his chubby little neck.” He held his iPad unsteadily in his hand and found his René Pape tracks inside Gounod's opera, Faust. “Yes, I think I will send him the video. It would do Fritz good to see what could be done without those silly guns of his.” He cringed in disgust. “I keep telling him, between his obsession with firearms and his absurd hairstyle, he's going to get himself killed one of these days.” Günter closed his assassination calendar and switched to open his event planner app. “Yes, it would be a tragedy. For me! The only flugelhorn player I can get on short notice is Helga, that ghastly masseuse again.” He put a question mark next to Fritz’s name. “Ach. Her fingers are too fat.”
He clicked off the cell and tossed it onto his desk. Floating over to his walk-in costume closet, he flung open the doors, sashayed in, and sighed. He hurled one extra-large prima donna dress on to the floor, then another, and another. Something caught his eye, and he smiled, showing almost all of his teeth. Fairly diving toward a very, very large light pink dress, Günter held it in his arms. He slipped into a daydream, wondering what kind of earrings would be best.
Rushing into the other room, he printed out a photograph of Hank Tanker stomping through the woods a few feet from Antonio’s hideout. Turning the photograph from side to side, he summoned all that was available of his schnapps-muted faculties to picture the forest ranger as a buxom blonde. He hummed part of a duet as he ran his fingers across the sleeve of the soon to be lovely Hank Tanker’s dress.
Several minutes later, he walked somewhat more steadily toward the table to clear away his sampling glasses. By the time he washed, polished, and put the rest of them away, he felt his head starting to clear. He untied the peach satin ribbon of his apron and concentrated all his mental energy on tidying his hair. Checking his lavender button-down for any excess wrinkling, he gave his chest two refreshing slaps, picked up his costume suitcase and his pre-packed bags, then marched out the door.
…
Rafaela was still in a daze as she walked out of Gen-Bio-Lab. She fished her keys from her purse, but made no move to open her car. After five years of working for the CIA, it took a lot to surprise her, but Dr. Jacobs’ revelation had left her stunned.
She studied her hand and thought of the millions of negative mutations occurring inside her body every hour. If it weren’t for her DNA repair vehicles, the soft skin around her fingers would begin to sag and discolor. For now, her DNA repair agents were fully functioning, but at some point, they too would fail.
That is, unless Dr. Jacobs’ Nicodemas Project bears fruit. And from what she saw today, the experiment would, given time, be a success.
She peeked at her reflection in the car window then bent to gaze closer at her eyes in the side mirror. She wondered if, as she aged, she would favor her grandmother. She hoped so. Rafaela wasn’t vain, so the concept of eternal beauty was never terribly appealing to her. But a longer life, that was something altogether different.
How trivial, she realized, to think of myself, when much heavier matters, such as the life and death of all humanity, are at stake. She pondered how the ERCC6 gene interacted with the TP53 chromosome and her eyes grew wild. Could this experiment control cancerous tumors as well?
Then she thought of the flip side. What if the experiment went badly? She knew how an epidemic of advanced aging could sweep through a population, doing a great deal more damage than the most virile plague. She shuddered.
Micah ambled up beside her. She both felt his presence and saw his reflection, but didn’t bother to glance up. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sneaking up on people might be dangerous?”
He moved back with his hands up in mock defense and laughed. “And sneaking up on Dr. Rafaela Ramos could be fatal.”
She turned to him, crossing her arms. “Okay, Micah, what do you want?”
“A walk.” H
e gave her his best “I’m a good guy” bravado.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she sighed, shifting away.
Ignoring her body language, he stepped even closer, crowding her. “We could talk about old times and new times. Did Jacobs drop his bomb?”
She scanned the area around them.
He laughed, “I see he did, and I’m guessing you don’t want your CIA spooks finding out about it.”
Tapping her foot, she conceded. “Okay, a very short walk.”
“Now there’s my girl.” He went around to the passenger side of her car and got in. “The Riverwalk is less than a mile away, and I’ll even let you drive.”
Minutes later, they were walking along the levee in silence. Rafaela pretended to take great interest in the abundant azalea bushes lining their path. Micah scrutinized her. When he saw her relax, he asked, “So are you going to game up and stay on at Gen-Bio-Lab?”
A wistful look washed over her face. “I want to, but you know Bailey. He’d never let me take the job.”
“And Bailey has control of your life because? Oh that’s right, he doesn’t.” Micah regarded her, raising his brow.
“Shut up.” The woodsy scent of his cologne found her nose, and the wash of memory made her bite her lip.
“Get real, I know you. You’ve got to be foaming at the mouth to do this thing. This is so your kind of gig.” He turned to her and searched her face, and she sensed him drinking her in with his eyes.
At the thought of the project, she relaxed again and exhaled. “You’re right. When I was in the lab with Dr. Jacobs today, it felt so right. It made me feel as if this project is what everything I’ve done in the past has been leading up to.”
He looked at her, serious. “You know this is what your grandmother would want you to do.”
Her face grew solemn. “I know, but …”
He stopped walking. “But?”
She sighed. “Bailey’s been good to me.”
Frustrated, he clenched his fists. “Oh sure, I bet he bought you a titanium leash for Christmas.”
“You don’t understand.” She picked up the pace to get the walk over with. His long strides caught up with her.
“What? That you’re the CIA’s favorite pet? Oh yeah, I think I have a pretty good idea. Does Jacobs?”
She stopped and gave him a pained stare. “Please. He can never know.”
He studied her. “My lips are sealed. If …”
She considered him warily.
He took her hand. “If you let me do what I’ve been waiting to do for these five long years.”
Her shoulders tensed. “And just what is that?”
“Only this.” He took her in his arms, pulling her into a kiss. His lips were gentle against hers, igniting a warmth inside her. The taste of his mouth was sweetly familiar.
Swept up in his embrace, it took her longer than it should have to break away. And when she did, he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his darkly handsome eyes delving into hers, and she relished the warmth. Allowing it to fill her, she knew she would still feel it for many weeks to come.
…
Günter, unbearably handsome, with his flawlessly styled, almost white-blonde hair and elegant bearing, arrived at the Augusta Airport. His movie star aura caused every woman and man he passed to pause for a look.
He was halfway to the baggage area when one of the female flight attendants caught up to him and gave him a slip of paper with her phone number on it.
“If you get lonely during your stay, feel free to give me a buzz.” There was an excited tremble to her voice.
“I would be most delighted.” With a regal bow, he picked up her hand and gave her a knowing look. He kissed the inside of her palm with his lips and gave her back her hand. He considered the woman before him. She wasn’t blonde, but there was a peculiar, far away beauty about her. Perhaps he could give her a few highlights, if he got bored while in this podunk of a town.
With his usual exquisite manners, he said good-bye, and continued on his way to retrieve his luggage. Waiting until she could no longer see the back of his head, the pretty flight attendant rushed back to her gate to make her next flight.
He glided over to retrieve his baggage then headed toward the rental cars. Always traveling light, the majority of his equipment would arrive separately.
Doing another mental inventory, he waited for the girl behind the counter to stop dropping her keys and find the ones to his van. Contemplating his assignment, he pondered what to do with the forest ranger’s hair. Then a radical idea occurred to him. He smiled, and the sight of his picture-perfect teeth made the young woman drop her keys again. Closing his sapphire blue eyes, he reflected upon his latest artistic revelation, until the rental car girl coughed.
She managed to put his car keys and his receipt in his hand and shuffled from behind the counter to show him where his van was parked.
Günter opened the door for her and held her arm when she almost tripped on the curb.
“I think I can find it,” he spoke gently.
“Oh it’s…it’s…no problem at all, Mr. Jenkins. I mean Gregory.” She peeked up at him adoringly.
“You are too kind, but I see there is a line waiting for your return.” He pointed at the row of customers that were standing in line. She reluctantly made her way back to her post.
He pushed the button on the key ring and headed toward the blinking lights on the bumper of his car. Examining the outside and inside of the vehicle, he slid behind the wheel. He perused the tiny airport and grimaced.
“Gott-im-Himmel! Please tell me that this insignificant dust-speck of a township has an adequate sushi bar!” He sighed and told himself not to think about all he was missing in New York while he was gone. Consoling himself with thoughts of suffering for the sake of his art, he puffed up his chest.
Life may be cruel, but he would persevere. Smiling the smile of a contented martyr, he drove towards the gate. The expression on his handsome face was so appealing, the woman at the guard-gate forgot to give him his change.
Chapter Six
Burly female detective, Mimi Watson, was all about the job.
She graduated Quantico at the top of her class, and if it wasn’t for her father’s failing health, she would be distinguishing herself tracking down serial killers far away from her mundane hometown.
To be honest, she enjoyed being a big fish in Augusta, Georgia’s little pond. She liked the reverence that even the female sheriff and most of the senior detectives gave her, thanks to her level of training. And they should give her deference; she was good, very good.
Because, she was all about the job.
She shone her light through the empty warehouse then moved closer and considered the large, cross-dressed corpse at her feet. There was no humor in her. Her handsome partner, Cotton Blanchard, on the other hand, was controlling a laugh.
“Do you find murder funny, Blanchard?”
“Come on, Mimi, we’ve worked together for seven years; why don’t ya call me Cotton like ever’ body else?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I don’t find murder funny, Mimi, but look at this guy. He’s got silk stockings with garters on, for Pete’s sake.”
Still somber, she glared at her partner. “And a ring of red blood around his neck where someone slashed him open, like a piece of prime beef.”
He cracked up. She just gawked at him. “What is it now?”
“Prime beef? Hello, this guy has got to weigh over three hundred pounds.” He leaned over the victim and checked his neck. “But I wouldn’t say his throat was slashed. These cuts look like they were made by a surgeon.” Putting on gloves, he pushed back the dead man’s hair. “Hey, I think this might be Hank Tanker, the forest ranger that went missing.—Ah, heck! Check out his ears.”
She glanced at the victim’s newly pierced ears then shined her light throughout the pitch-black warehouse. Something sparkled a few feet away and c
aught her eye. She headed over and lowered into a squat to regard it closely. Taking out a small plastic bag, with gloved hands, she placed the tiny particles inside.
He glanced her way. “What did you find?”
“I’m not sure, but they appear to be sequins.” She tread back over to the corpse, the tiny bag in hand.
He knelt beside her. “They seem like they match. But there are no sequins on the victim’s dress.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. These belong to the killer.”
“The killer? As in singular? Don’t tell me you think one man could have done this by his lonesome?”
She almost smiled, enjoying the puzzle, which was beginning to piece itself together inside her mind. Everything about this and the other victims smelled like the work of one man. She wouldn’t waste her time trying to explain her gut instincts to Blanchard. He’d scoff and make some absurd comment about women’s intuition.
But if she was right? If she was right, this case could be a career maker. And that would give her something to smile about.
…
Still hearing the music from Günter’s latest video in his head, Antonio hummed and tapped out Vous qui faites l’endorme with his fingers on his desk. As if he, himself were on stage and not deeply ensconced inside the Peloso compound, he began to throw himself into the role of the demon, Mephistopheles. He was standing and singing the irreverent ballad out loud when his throwaway cell phone rang. He stopped abruptly and blushed, remembering himself. Clearing his throat, he answered.