Four

by Dustin Stevens

  This brings me to rule two: never question my methods.

  Whoever hires me knows that if at any point they do try to scrutinize my approach, I can and will walk away from a project. I will keep every dime I’ve been paid, wash my hands of it and never be seen again.

  The people that hire me do so because I handle things delicately, as opposed to just handling them.

  Anybody can go in with a gun and start whacking people. It’s the planning, the operational knowhow, that they pay for when they enlist my services.

  It’s like the old expression, you don’t pay the hooker for sex, you pay her to leave.

  They’re not paying me to off someone. They’re paying me not to leave a trail.

  They also know up front that if anything gets to the police or the press, it’s because I want it there. No matter how much they want to call and find out what the heck’s going on, like I am sure Mavetti’s doing now, they are not to do so.

  Not unless they like the idea of my walking away with a pot full of their money anyway.

  I watched the television reporter go on for a few more moments rehashing what she’d already said and showing bland pictures of the apartment before flipping it to ESPN and tossing the remote on the bed. Stuart Scott immediately replaced the woman with a report on how the Red Sox roughed up the Yankees last night.

  I couldn’t help but smile at how well the day was already turning out.

  Dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts I opened up my bag and removed the two pages of handwritten notes I had on my second target. I could have gone on for days and days, Google pulling up several million hits, but I really only needed the basics.

  The target was a United States Congressman from the eighth congressional district. To the locals, that consisted of Dorchester and the surrounding areas.

  Everybody else probably knew it best as Southie.

  It was fitting, in an ironic sort of way, that the JFK Presidential Library and Museum sat on Dorchester Bay as the center of the district, because this guy would have the media believe he’s the second coming of Jack himself.

  Keller Wilbanks, a name that alone oozed posh and entitlement.

  Wilbanks was born a third generation heir to one of the largest banking centers in the country, rode his family’s name and fortune through Exeter, Harvard, and then Yale Law.

  My time at Harvard taught me there are three distinct types of people in the Ivy League. About a quarter of the students are from suburban Middle America, play sports or work, wouldn’t know what a silver spoon looked like if it was on their tray in the dining hall.

  About a quarter of the students were so rich or so smart, they were on another level. Utterly unrelatable.

  The third group, comprising about half the student body, was made up of students that just thought they were really smart or really rich. Also unrelatable, not because of any discernible features, but because they are infuriating in every sense of the word.

  Without ever having met the man, I could tell within minutes of reading about him that Wilbanks was a combination of the latter two. A man that clearly had the wealth to fit into category two, but the ignorance and arrogance to plant him firmly in category three.

  Not the best of combinations to say the least.

  Fresh out of Yale Law he took a corporate counsel job sheltered within the family company for two years. At the age of twenty-seven he ran for a spot as a United States Representative. He won the primary when both of his much older and better qualified candidates backed out. Won the general when the incumbent suddenly decided he no longer wanted to be in politics.

  His sudden epiphany probably had something to do with a handsome payment he received, not that we’ll ever know.

  Such things tend to have a pretty strong gag order attached.

  Wilbanks was now in his third term in office, fast approaching his mid-thirties. He married well and had two small children. Successful career, beautiful wife, fabulous wealth, two-point-five kids and a well manicured home out near Newton.

  For all intents and purposes, he was a man living the dream.

  Unlike Mr. Kennedy though, Wilbanks was nothing but a sham. Everybody knew he was a puppet of big business. In his three terms he had successfully introduced not a single bill and was ranked dead last on the congressional power list. He barely spent eight weeks a year in Washington and preferred to spend his time at home in Massachusetts.

  That might be well and good if his time was spent improving life for his constituents, but that wasn’t the case either.

  On the front end of his palatial property, he had built a lake a couple hundred acres large. Even named the thing Lake Keller. Most days when he was supposed to be legislating, he was out on the water, casting a line.

  About the only positive thing I could say about the man was at least he was a fisherman.

  Placing the notes aside I went to my suitcase and removed two matching toiletry bags from it. Whenever traveling, I always carry both with me, each holding the same exact items.

  The only difference between the two is their color.

  In a gray bag I packed the things I will need for the trip. Toothpaste, shampoo, general items.

  In the other, I carried those containers filled with something slightly more volatile than Crest or Suave. This bag was black, for obvious reasons.

  In lieu of scrawling ‘toxic’ across it in block letters, it was the best I could do.

  In a small Colgate shaving cream can I kept a sleeve of Baer’s I used the night before. The metal bottom screwed out from below and the patches were piled one upon another in a tiny steel sleeve.

  Plastic would have been easier, but the compound may have eaten through.

  Having already used the Baer, I removed the can from the bag and set it off to the side. They were there if I needed them, but no longer really an option. Anybody that used the same method more than once was asking to be caught.

  That, and they had no creativity.

  A man like Wilbanks thinks he’s untouchable. He doesn’t bother with the kind of security his situation requires because he doesn’t realize he needs it.

  With Brockler, chemicals made for the cleanest method of dispatching her. With Wilbanks, the most obvious choice was already gift wrapped and waiting for me.

  Sifting through the bottles of lotions and creams, I selected a large can of spray-on deodorant and unscrewed the top from it. I peeled back the label from it, leaving only a plain black can and set it atop my dresser.

  Returning to my suitcase I removed a simple black plastic lever and a pair of underwater goggles. I attached the lever to the top of the can and gave it a gentle squeeze, the compressed air inside hissing out at me.

  This was something I’d only done a couple of times before. If I was prone to bouts of nervous energy, I would be giggling like a child on Christmas Eve at the moment.

  I dressed myself in a pair of gym shorts and a dri-fit t-shirt with running shoes before placing the air and goggles into a fanny pack. Alongside them I tossed in deodorant and a comb before securing it around my waist.

  On the way out I was sure to put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, again using the back stairwell as I walked to my car and climbed inside.

  I’ve been here almost a full day now and my rental has remained motionless.

  A car that doesn’t move can be just as conspicuous as one that does.

  Swinging out past Alewife I turned onto Route 2 West and moved past Arlington and Waltham. Just outside of Burlington I stopped at a K-Mart and purchased a cheap duffel bag along with a Swiss Army knife, a pair of stonewashed jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and some hair gel. At the register I grabbed a pair of flimsy black sunglasses from the rack.

  I put all the items on a credit card made out to a man that died in my hometown twenty-five years ago.

  The girl behind the counter didn’t even look up at me as she checked me out, the items all going into the duffel bag. Three minutes later I was back i
n the rental headed north on 95 towards Newton.

  Next stop, Lake Keller.

  Chapter Eight

  Lake Keller was big enough to appear on most maps of Eastern Massachusetts. Most Congressmen would never broadcast to the world the exact location of their home and family, but not Wilbanks.

  Like I alluded to before, a man that has been handed his kind of life tends to carry an air of invincibility.

  That, or an extreme lack of common sense.

  The Sunday afternoon traffic was thin and it didn’t take long for me to cover the twenty miles to Newton. After leaving K-Mart I jumped back on Route 2 and took it to 95 South, swung around and picked up the Turnpike headed back West.

  The exit for Newton wrapped me off the highway and through wooded corridors until it opened into a quaint little town. A bona fide tourist trap, it still possessed many of the colonial aspects that made it famous.

  Small shops all done in red brick. Signs with words like Ye and Olde.

  The kind of thing out-of-towners pay through the nose for.

  With a disdainful shake of the head, I drove through the narrow streets of town before circling out into a less congested area. I wound past thick clumps of restaurants and gas stations before reaching my destination.

  The Newton Mall.

  I swung the rental around back and parked near the cinema, alone but not isolated. The lot had good lighting in all directions, but as far as I could tell no cameras.

  No need to chance it though.

  Digging through the duffel bag I removed the Swiss Army knife and placed it in the fanny pack, checked to make sure the air and goggles are okay and zipped it up. Emerging from the car I fastened the nylon strap around my waist and clasped it tight, positioning the pack so it sat just above my butt.

  The idea of running in public and letting people see that damn thing bobbing along is deplorable, but this is the kind of thing I get paid the big bucks for.

  Making myself look like an ass in public, a cross between a soccer man and a fat man in an amusement park, serves a purpose. If anybody is later asked they’ll always remember the fanny pack, very rarely the man wearing it.

  Stepping away from the car I stretched my arms up high and shook my legs out several times before breaking into a brisk jog across the parking lot. Within seconds I was on the opposite side of the street, circling further away from the mall with each measured stride.

  The Newton Mall sat a little over two miles from Lake Keller, an easy jog consisting mostly of back roads. Six blocks down 26 before a series of sharp turns took me through thick woods, all completely void of traffic.

  As I jogged I passed an occasional gated driveway, though didn’t see a soul. Every house sat on an enormous plot of land, which is all the better for me.

  Very few homes, most of them owned by people that would never be working on the outside of them. People like Wilbanks. Bankers, lawyers, people that love saying they have huge houses with lots of ground but have no idea what to do with them.

  Such a waste.

  Sweat dripped down my back and off my nose as I wound through the peaceful streets, the only sounds the soles of my shoes slapping against the pavement.

  Within twenty minutes of leaving the car, Lake Keller rounded into view.

  The Wilbanks compound was the last house on the block, the road transitioning from black pavement to white concrete as it crossed from public to private. I stopped at the edge of it and made a show of bending over, panting as I surveyed my surroundings.

  I haven’t noticed a soul over my entire run. The woods stood quiet as I pretended to huff in gasps of air. There were no cameras or sensors of any kind along the driveway as I walked backwards a few steps before slipping into the woods lining the road.

  Swinging out in a loose arc I found the edge of Lake Keller. Crouched low behind an ash tree, I swept my gaze along the shoreline before me, searching for the optimal place to put in.

  Across the way I could make out the edge of the boathouse, its bright white paint gleaming. Behind it I knew stood the main home, though from my vantage it was completely blocked.

  Putting my back against the trunk of the tree, I slid to the ground. The cool forest floor seeped up through my shorts as I sat and watched, a few low growing shrubs providing me with cover.

  For over an hour, I remained motionless.

  Wilbanks did an interview last year telling some local reporter that his favorite thing in the whole world was to sit on his lake and watch the sun set. I also knew he was in Massachusetts, claiming to be working on some new health initiative, and that the late afternoon sun was beginning to slide lower in the sky.

  All I had to do was sit and wait.

  I used the time to sit and map out every inch of the surroundings in my mind, scouring the shore lines for details.

  The boathouse had two boats docked to it, both presenting very different plans of attack. On one side of the dock was a wooden john boat. A little older in age, but in pristine condition and no doubt hand crafted from a local artisan.

  The kind of thing that was just as beautiful mounted on a wall as it was sitting on the water.

  The Swiss Army Knife was obtained in case he decided to go this route. Despite the greatest amount of care taken by the craftsman, there was no way to make a boat water tight. Wood can be butted up tight against itself, but there was no way to keep the seams from seeping water.

  To remedy that, a veneer was used that gives a glossy sheen to the rich wood and make every crack impermeable. If he opted to go for a row on the water, I would come up beneath him and carve away the veneer from several of the seams.

  After steering him towards the middle of the lake, he’d have no choice but to swim for shore.

  The odds were he wouldn’t make it.

  There were admittedly holes in the plan, though a good many factors were on my side. We were on a lake a good mile from anybody. Darkness was fast approaching. Nobody would even know he’s gone until I was well on my way back to Newton Mall.

  Content with the plan for the john boat, I shifted my attention to the opposite side of the dock as a golf cart slides into view. Wilbanks was perched behind the wheel, his foot propped on the seat beside him, his hand draped over the steering wheel.

  He didn’t have a care in the world.

  Soldiers were dying by the handful in the Middle East, gas was at three and a half dollars a gallon and this guy was going fishing like the second coming of Captain Ahab.

  Self-important prick.

  I slid my body a little further down the base of the tree and pulled my feet up under me to a crouching position.

  Across the way, Wilbanks pulled the golf cart up on the far side of the boathouse, disappearing from sight for several minutes.

  Using the opportunity, I skirted around the tree and lowered myself into the water, using submerged brush to hide me from view. I was in the water clear to my chin before I so much as heard a sound from the boathouse.

  The water was chilly but not unbearable, sending a surge of adrenaline through my body. Every nerve tingled as I crouched in the water, poised for my next move, uncertain what it would even be.

  The answer came to me in the form of a diesel engine revving to life across the water.

  He’d opted for the bass boat.

  It was time to go fishing.

  Chapter Nine

  Taking a handful of mud from the lake bottom beneath my feet, I smeared it across my forehead and slid into the water up to my eyes. I sat and waited as I heard the engine grunt to life and begin to pick up speed.

  Every few seconds I raised my nose above the water and filled my lungs before dipping back down. It was still too early to be using the air tank, a precious resource I’d no doubt need later.

  The sun sat just a few inches above the horizon as Wilbanks pulled the boat out onto the lake and into view. Sitting motionless, he drove straight past me without so much as a glance, headed for the opposite shore.

 
A full two minutes after he passed me the sound of the engine cut away and I could see him stand and move about on the boat. Another couple minutes passed before he began tossing his line towards the opposite shore, his back to me at an angle.

  Using the woods behind me as camouflage, I began to work my way down towards his position. I needed to cut down the distance between us much as possible in case anything should happen between here and there.

  Idiot or not, even this guy could tell the difference between a bass and a human surfacing for air.

  By staying on the shoreline, I remained well concealed. The sun was setting in the west, the trees above me throwing long shadows over the water. With the glare in his eyes, there was no way Wilbanks could see half of my head bobbing along on the opposite shore.

  Minutes ticked by as I followed the bank, remaining five feet from the shore. I stayed in water just shallow enough that I could walk and not have to swim.

  My entire focus as I went was on the opposite bank, Wilbanks trolling along, casting every few minutes and reeling it back in. His movement meant I had to go a little bit further down the shore line to draw even, but it also meant his attention was split between the casting and steering.

  This guy had no idea what was about to hit him.

  I pulled a little bit past his position just to be sure, letting the natural contours of the lake draw us closer. Each second that passed pulled us deeper into the bottleneck end of the lake, the sides drawing in together.

  Another five minutes and the banks pulled apart again. If he got out into the wider part of the lake, the odds were good it would be too far for me to swim with any kind of reliability.

  It was time to make my move.

  Reaching into the pack still secured to my waist, I slid the goggles out, dipping my head beneath the water. With my free hand I scrubbed the mud away from my forehead before rising and securing them down over my eyes.

  Keeping just my eyes above the waterline, I doggy paddled out a few feet, until the bottom fell away beneath me. Raising my face above the water, I drew in one last deep breath of air before submerging myself for good.