by Frank Stein
But had I actually been convinced? Or did I not really care? Was I already a killer? A dormant murderer just waiting for an excuse to cast away the shackles of conventional morality? A monster who leapt at the chance to become what he was born to be?
My psychological self-evaluation was interrupted by Chester getting up and walking out of the room. As he left, he looked over his shoulder and winked at me. “Don’t worry about the couch. It cleans off really well.”
I was confused, and was about to go after him when I heard someone behind me. I turned just in time to catch Simone as she flung herself at me. She dragged me to the couch and threw me down and kissed me furiously as I laughed and cried and cursed and then kissed her back.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“So, yes, I am indeed an Omega now.” Simone leaned over to light her cigarette from my burning match.
Simone, Chester, and I were sitting out on the back porch. The house was truly a mansion. A marble-trimmed path wound through an immaculate garden, and I had to stare at the flowers for a while before I was convinced they were real. The path ended in a cul-de-sac, at the center of which stood a working fountain, apparently also marble, and somewhat reminiscent of the cut-glass ashtray.
The varied greens of the grass and trees that lay beyond the flower garden were mesmerizing, and I didn’t want to drag myself back to the conversation. I nodded at Simone and didn’t say anything. I just smiled. Then I slowly refocused on the distant greenery, my smile widening as the smoke from my cigarette found its way into my line of sight, adding a soothing touch to the view.
“His mind is mush right now,” said Chester. He laughed and nudged Simone. “What did you do to him?”
I smiled and leaned over the round glass table to grab the ashtray. “Sorry. It’s just been . . . I don’t know.” I laughed and shook my head. “You’re right. My mind is mush right now. What did you do to me, Simone?”
We all laughed. Then we shared a perfectly unawkward moment of silence.
Simone broke it. “I’m sorry, Frank.”
I shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I like it rough sometimes.”
We all laughed again, but I knew what she meant. Perhaps later I would be angry, but right now I didn’t give a shit. Something had changed in me. A switch had been flipped, and I could feel a steady, burning line of electricity flowing through me like a slow and consistent adrenaline rush that wouldn’t go away. Not that I wanted it to go away. I felt alert and alive, almost superhuman. I couldn’t articulate why, and I didn’t want to. My life suddenly felt right, and I loved it. If this was what becoming a monster was like, then, well, maybe I would start using my middle initial more often.
“Hey, I just found out that your last name is Stein. That’s funny. Do you have a middle initial?” Chester refilled our glasses with the cold white wine we had been drinking. He emptied the bottle and placed it on the floor and then looked up at me with a grin.
“Don’t go there,” I said, and smiled. I looked over at Simone and gave her a tiny nod, just enough to make sure she knew that an apology wasn’t needed. After all, I hadn’t bothered to check for news about Simone being missing. I hadn’t tried to see if she had contacted Walker-Midland about not coming in to work. Hell, she could have been going to work like normal and I wouldn’t have known. Looking back now, it would have been so easy to call Mo’s bluff. In fact, I’m certain that any normal person in my situation would have spent all their time and energy validating that Simone was actually gone. But I didn’t. At some level I guess I didn’t want to know. Maybe deep down I had already decided. Maybe I had always known what I would become. All the logic I had used to rationalize my actions simply represented the death throes of the superficial part of my ego that had been confined to the belief that morality and the law were one and the same. But now those last bonds had been broken. Now I could see that morality and the law, although they overlapped to a large degree, were independent of each other. Now I could see that I would no longer be using the law to draw the line between right and wrong. I would have to find that line myself, and I would have to walk it. But I wasn’t worried, because I knew I wasn’t alone.
I looked at Chester and then Simone. “So what’s the deal here? Obviously the rules about two-person cells that never interact and Betas that never meet their Omegas aren’t so strict, right?”
“They are strict,” said Simone.
Chester nodded. “Rules are what keep this thing going. And they’re what keep us alive.”
I waited for them to go on or start laughing, but neither of them did. I sighed. “Okay. I’ll just wait for you two clowns to explain why we seem to be breaking these unbreakable rules.”
Simone smiled. “Because there’s a rule that allows us to break the rule under certain circumstances.”
“Like with Mo getting injured last night?”
Chester nodded. “Yes. Going to a hospital for treating an injury sustained on an assignment is the single biggest risk to our people.”
“But that’s not why I’m here,” said Simone.
“Okay,” I said. “Do I have to keep asking?”
Simone laughed. “There are a couple more rules that allow for two or more cells to connect. And both of those rules are in play here.”
Chester nodded, but didn’t say anything. He leaned on the table and looked out past me. I turned briefly, and realized that he was staring at the fountain.
Simone continued. “One of them, of course, is when a job needs more than two people. But that’s quite rare, because we’re not really designed to launch massive offensives. Our soldiers and government agencies are better equipped and trained for coordinating that stuff.”
“So what’s the other rule in effect here?” I lit another cigarette and followed Chester’s gaze out to the fountain.
“Well, I think Mo’s explained how and why we pick most of our targets.”
I nodded. “Yes. They’re basically picked and validated through the Omega network.” Then I turned and looked at Simone. “But Mo did tell me that it’s a two-way communication, so an Alpha or Beta can identify potential targets. Still, that’s part of the process, isn’t it? So why is this an exception?”
Simone smiled. “Individual cells are always looking for potential targets for Omegas to validate, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We are also allowed to pursue cases where a target gets . . . how should I put this . . . requested by a member. It still has to be approved by an Omega, of course. But it comes from a member.” She looked at Chester, who seemed entranced by the fountain.
I glanced at Chester and looked back at Simone. “You’re saying that an Omega can approve a personal target—a target with a deeper connection to one of us. That’s what’s going on here.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And we need more than one cell for the assignment? More than two people?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re the two cells? Is Chester your new Beta or something?”
Simone leaned back in her chair. “No. Omegas don’t have Betas. In fact, we are Betas in some sense. Every Omega does field work, and so I report to an Alpha Omega.” She smiled as I shook my head. “Anyway, no, Chester and I aren’t in a cell. This is kind of an improvised team.” She paused and reached for the pack of cigarettes. “Chester is an Alpha in his own cell, and I’m his Omega contact. The original plan was to have another local team come in to help Chester, but when Mo called me after getting injured, I sent her here and took the next flight in. When a coincidence like this occurs, I don’t like to pass it up.” She smiled and leaned over and kissed me. “Besides, I heard you made your first kill, and I figured you didn’t need to grieve over me much longer.”
I pretended to push her away. “How sweet of you. But I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m a cold-blooded killer. Grief isn’t part of my vocabulary.”
“How nice for you.” Chester, who had been frozen in silence for most of the conversation, suddenly s
poke. His voice wavered, and that teary look I thought I had seen on him earlier was now back.
I was embarrassed at my own insensitivity. It should have been clear to me when Simone mentioned that the next target was personal. I looked at Chester and placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. This is for Tom, isn’t it? Your partner.”
TWENTY-NINE
Janesville, Wisconsin. A nice town that had gotten a bad rap after being associated with a small but highly publicized Ku Klux Klan rally. And even though most of the KKK members had been driven out by the residents years ago, the reputation, unfair though it was, had stuck. This so-called tradition of white supremacy, combined with the abundance of low-rent housing, had led to a couple of blocks in the town being taken over by neo-Nazi transplants from Milwaukee and Madison. These transplants were our targets.
This made more sense to me. Although I had no doubt that KKK members weren’t particularly supportive of the gay community, I didn’t think they specifically targeted homosexuals on a high-priority basis. Neo-Nazis, on the other hand, are leaders in anti-gay violence. The term “curbing a fag” is one of their contributions to the English language.
The term refers to one of the most brutal ways of killing someone. As the phrase implies, a street curb is involved. The victim is told to lie on the ground and open his mouth and bite down on the edge of the sidewalk. Then a steel-toed heavy combat boot driven by a Nazi foot comes down hard on the back of the head, smashing the jaw and often the skull.
Curbing.
Tom had been curbed.
It had happened late one night when Chester and Tom were driving back from a party and had stopped in Janesville for gas. They had paid at the pump, but Chester wanted to use the restroom, so they had locked the car and gone into the station. Chester had been the designated driver, and Tom had been all too happy to drink enough for both of them, putting him in a condition that prompted a remark on the cuteness of the tattoo that graced the side of the gas station attendant’s shaved head. The attendant, somewhat bored and not especially sober himself, took offence and called a couple of buddies.
Chester was pulled out of the bathroom by three young skinheads. Tom had already been taken out back, and was doubled over in pain and bleeding from his ear when Chester saw him. Chester tried to fight off his captors, but was knocked unconscious. When he awoke, the place was crawling with police. It took the detectives several attempts at explanations before Chester understood what had happened. A passerby had called 911 and the cops had arrived just in time to save Chester’s life. But they had to have a closed-casket funeral for Tom.
The sun was gone and we had been outside drinking white wine for several hours now, but Chester’s story sobered us up.
After several moments of silence, I lit a cigarette and spoke. “So the cops didn’t catch the bastards? You must have seen some of them at least, right?”
Chester nodded. “Eight people were eventually arrested. The trial took two years. One of them is doing twenty-to-life. The others are at home.”
“You’re kidding. What the hell?”
Chester sighed. “The skinheads took off when they heard the sirens, so the cops didn’t see them. And the guys who called 911 couldn’t identify anyone.” He reached for one of my cigarettes, the first time he had done so in the twenty hours I had known him.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean shit. You picked them all out of a lineup, right?” My voice was loud and peaked with wine and indignation.
Chester took a deep drag and silently watched the smoke hang in the yellow light of the anti-mosquito torches that lined the edge of the back porch. “I screwed up with one ID. Picked the wrong guy. The District Attorney said the defense would have used my one mistake to cast doubt on all the other IDs. And since no one else saw them and there was no other hard evidence, the DA made a deal. The others testified against the gas station attendant. He got convicted, and the rest of them were never even tried.”
“Screw that.” I looked at Simone, who had been quiet. “You know about all this?”
She nodded. “Heard about it when I was vacationing in Door County in northern Wisconsin around that time.” She smiled at Chester. “Of course, being the cut-throat human resources bitch that I am, I saw it as a recruitment opportunity.” She touched her cheeks. “And we could use a few more plastic surgeons in our group.”
Chester laughed. “You are an ageless beauty, Simone. I wouldn’t mess with your face if my life depended on it.” He looked at me. “What do you say, Frank? Is she a forty-six-year-old hottie, or what?”
“Forty-six? I thought she was twenty-seven,” I said with an incredulous expression. But I couldn’t hold the look and I started laughing, which got all of us going.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Mo was standing in the doorway in a long nightgown, her slim body silhouetted by the living-room lights behind her. She pointed at the table. “Give me a cigarette.”
We all cheered in delight. I stood up and lit her cigarette and then helped her to a chair.
“How’s the battle scar coming along?” I asked.
“It doesn’t feel too bad, actually,” said Mo. She looked at Chester. “Pretty good work for a Botox jockey.”
“Hey now,” said Chester. “Be nice or no more morphine for you.”
We all laughed again. This felt good, like we were some kind of family. A family with problems, but with problems that we all knew about and had accepted, just like any other healthy family.
Mo smiled as she picked up her cell phone and checked her messages. Then her expression changed.
I stopped laughing and took a sip of wine. “What is it?”
“There’s a message on my cell from a Milwaukee police detective.”
I almost choked on the wine and quickly put the glass down. It wasn’t like we didn’t know this was coming. It was just that it seemed so far away now. It was hard to believe I had stabbed Takahashi less than twenty-four hours ago.
“What did the message say?”
“That they were interviewing everyone who ate at the restaurant that night. They must have gotten my name from the credit card receipt. Or from the reservation.” Mo shrugged. “In all honesty, it shouldn’t be a problem at all. We just need to act appropriately shocked that our clients were beaten and stabbed to death just a few minutes after we drove away. And you need to mention your bar fight. Hopefully the cops will just assume those guys followed us out and, after realizing you and I had left, vented on poor Takahashi and crew. And maybe one of the attackers got cut, and so they poured antifreeze on the blood so there wouldn’t be any evidence.”
I gulped again, but this time there was no wine in my mouth and I let out an odd sucking noise. I had just remembered that Mo didn’t know about the call I had made—the decision to leave the scene as it was and hope the police would see it as a self-contained massacre. My mind raced, and I suddenly felt very drunk.
“What?” said Mo.
I sighed and looked out across the dark lawn. The fountain lit up well in the night—red and green with flashes of yellow as the jets squirted water out of the marble angel’s upturned hands.
“He’s wasted,” said Chester. He laughed. “Maybe we should switch to red wine.”
Mo ignored him and continued to stare at me.
Finally I gave in. “I didn’t use the antifreeze.”
“You didn’t use the antifreeze.” Mo spoke slowly, and it scared me.
“I can explain,” I said.
“I’m waiting.”
I looked at Chester and Simone, but neither of them made any move to interrupt the conversation.
My voice trembled. “The way it was, I figured the cops would think that Yoshi and Takahashi and Aki were in an argument that got out of hand. And there was so much blood, I didn’t think they’d test all of it.” Once I said that, my confidence returned, and I rattled off a long list of points that backed up my decision.
When I was done, Mo was almos
t smiling. “Not bad. It’s risky, but it may have been a good call. At least it explains why the police took so long to get in touch with us.”
I nodded. “Yep. If they’re not looking for anyone else, they can afford to take their own sweet time writing up the report.”
Simone smiled at me. “Good stuff. Maybe you are worth your billing rate after all.”
Chester raised his glass, and the rest of us did the same. Mo raised her fist in a copycat gesture.
“Here’s to looking ahead, but not forgetting the things behind us,” he said. The words came out slurred, and I didn’t try to read too much into his awkward toast.
“Speaking of looking ahead,” I said. “What’s our plan?”
THIRTY
“Our targets live in three adjoining houses on the same block,” said Chester.
We were inside Chester’s house now and in the basement, all of us sitting on matching brown leather beanbags facing a massive LCD screen on which Chester had pulled up a street-view map of Janesville. The houses he pointed at were the only ones on the block—the other lots were vacant and overgrown. Not a bad setup from our perspective, especially if we could somehow get them all in one house. But that seemed unlikely. Explosives, I was thinking.
“Explosives?” I said.
Chester shook his head. “Too risky. I’ve scoped these guys out, and at least two of the houses seem to have kids living in them.” He turned to me. “Besides, I want these guys to see my face. I want my face to be the last goddamn thing they see.”
I nodded. His anger worried me, but I understood. Still, there were only three of us, since I assumed Mo would sit this one out. “Okay. So what then? You’re saying there are at least seven guys, right?”
“More likely ten or twelve total.”
“Spread out across three houses? And with children in at least two of those houses?” I raised my eyebrows. “Look, I know you guys have been doing this stuff for a while, but I’m not sure my skills are at a level where I can just walk into a house and take out three or four militant dudes with a knife.”