by Eric Bernt
His ex-wife had always found it loathsome, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him so. What kind of a person doesn’t sleep in proper pajamas? Or even a bed, for that matter? She found it understandable that this was something soldiers did while in the field, but she could see no good reason why they couldn’t adopt a less bestial manner of living upon return to civilian life.
Butler had tried to change for her, particularly after she became pregnant with their first child, but he couldn’t seem to break himself of the habit. Well, that one and a great many others that equally incensed his beloved bride. A second baby was supposed to further motivate him into becoming the more civilized version of himself, but the beautiful little darling only made matters worse. There seemed to be no way to coax, prod, or guilt Butler into remaking himself into the man he was supposed to be, at least according to his ex. Their marriage never reached year five.
She moved to Colorado shortly thereafter and took the kids with her, leaving him to sleep in his clothes wherever and whenever he felt like it. Over the last ten years, this often meant the station house or any number of unmarked department vehicles, which had given him a competitive advantage over his peers, as far as he was concerned. Sleeper cars had gotten their name because they were “all show and no go,” but Butler had taken the term more literally. The department psychologist had repeatedly expressed her professional concern for his psychological status, but Butler had made it clear on more than one occasion how much he didn’t care.
Currently, it meant that he had gotten a hell of a lot better night’s sleep than Skylar had, even though he had given her the only chair in the room while he had slept on the floor next to Eddie’s bed. Four hours was plenty for him when he needed it to be.
Skylar, on the other hand, hadn’t slept much at all. She was too uncomfortable and much too anxious about her present circumstances to have given herself the luxury of any kind of meaningful REM. Having heard Butler snoring soundly at various times throughout the night, she vacillated between being happy for him, jealous of him, and concerned that he might wake up Eddie. Thankfully, Eddie slept peacefully through the night, so she focused on being jealous. At least, until the most glorious smells started wafting under the door.
Butler smelled them, too. He sat up abruptly, taking a long, deep breath through his nose. He glanced at Skylar, who could only be seen in silhouette. She raised her finger to her lips, motioning for him to remain quiet. He nodded, then stood up silently and moved into the hallway, where he found Lolo and four trolley carts full of breakfast foods: fresh-baked muffins, including chocolate and date nut; croissants; banana bread; a bowl of fruit that did not include blueberries; buttermilk pancakes and waffles; bacon and sausages and slices of ham; eggs that were scrambled, over easy, and in a soufflé; hash browns; a variety of juices; coffee; and several different types of milk. “Good morning,” Butler said.
“Good-good morning,” Lolo stammered.
Butler continued surveying the breakfast offerings. “Wow, have you been busy.”
“Well, you are guests and all.” She paused awkwardly. “Do you think, I mean Eddie, will he be able to find something he’d like to eat? Because I can make something else. I can make many things. I had to guess. I don’t like to guess. Too much chance. I don’t know. I made a whole bunch of different things.”
“I’m sure he’ll be able to find something to like,” he said with assurance.
“Here, Butler, this is for you.” She handed him a plate that included the items he had mentioned the night before. “Pancakes and bacon and hash browns, bacon not too crispy.”
He was embarrassed as well as a bit flabbergasted. “You really didn’t need to do all this.”
“Well, I knew you weren’t talking about Eddie last night. I know you thought I didn’t realize, but I did. I know more than people think I do. I watched you eat. Could tell how hungry you were. I thought you would like a nice breakfast of your favorite things. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know. Breakfast is.”
For a man who could be reasonably described as emotionally distant, he was sincerely touched. “Lolo, this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in as long as I can remember.”
“That is a long time. Well, food never did anyone any good just sitting on a plate getting cold. That’s what my mother used to say. She would. You should eat while it’s hot.” She handed him utensils and a napkin, then motioned for him to return into the room.
While he hesitated, the door was opened from the inside. Skylar poked her head out. “Guess who’s awake?”
“Is it Eddie?” Lolo asked expectantly. “We didn’t wake him, did we? I hope not. That would be bad. I would feel terrible. I mean, it’s early. Quite early for most people. I mean, I am not most people, so I don’t really know about them, but that’s what Dr. Davenport says.”
“No, you didn’t wake him up. Eddie’s stomach did.”
“Oh, good, he’s hungry. That’s a good sign. Very good.” She sounded like she was repeating something she had heard her doctor say.
Skylar glanced around at all the breakfast foods Lolo had prepared. “Did you make all this?”
“If it’s not enough, just tell me, and I can make more of anything you’d like.”
Skylar shook her head with appreciation. “No, I’m sure this is going to be plenty.” She turned back inside the room and flipped on the lights. “Eddie, we have quite a nice surprise for you—”
Eddie was no longer connected to the IV. His expression was priceless as the four food carts were wheeled into the room. He looked like a young boy on Christmas morning who had discovered he was getting everything on his list. And then some. “If this food tastes as good as it smells, I may have to revise my entire food-rating system. That will require a great deal of effort on my part. And I may even have to add smell as its own category.” He paused to inhale deeply. “I have never smelled anything like this.”
“Wait until you taste it,” commented Skylar. Butler had already started devouring his plate of food.
As Eddie watched Lolo enter, he looked like a child who was now seeing Santa himself. He stared in wonder. And utter disbelief. It was as if he was having some kind of religious experience, what Buddhists call “that which cannot be communicated.”
And then, without warning, he slapped himself.
CHAPTER 54
EDDIE’S ROOM
DAVID’S PLACE
June 2, 5:31 a.m.
Skylar rushed to Eddie, expecting him to continue slapping himself. “Eddie, stop!”
To her surprise, he did. “It wasn’t that kind of a slap, Skylar. There is no need for you to be alarmed.”
“What kind of slap was it?”
“I wanted to be sure I am awake and not dreaming.”
“Oh.” She breathed a sigh of relief, although she was still puzzled. “Why would you think you’re dreaming?”
He rolled his eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. “She’s real. My angel. She’s standing right there.” He pointed toward Lolo, repeatedly glancing over at her. He then struggled to speak to her. “You’re. Real.”
“Well, I hope so,” Lolo replied sheepishly. “I mean, I think I am.” She pinched herself to make sure she felt something. “Yup, I’m real, all right. Ouch.” Momentarily embarrassed, she turned her attention back to Eddie. “So you remember me, then? From last night? You were kind of out of it. I mean, not in a bad way, but after all, you had been in a car accident.”
“It was not a car accident. It was a van accident,” Eddie corrected her. “I thought you were only someone from one of the dreams I had.”
Lolo blushed. “Wow, nobody has ever told me that before. I mean, about being in one of their dreams. Wow.”
“That is not a bad thing, is it?” Eddie asked.
“No, not at all. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s really kind of amazing. More than amazing, if you know what I mean. Does that make sense?”
Eddie smiled briefly, t
hen turned to Skylar. “How would I know if I was hallucinating?”
Skylar answered, “Just ask me. I’m a pretty good judge of reality, and I can say with near certainty that you are not hallucinating right now.”
He looked down at his arms. “Then why do I have goose bumps?”
Skylar smiled, marveling at what she was witnessing. “I’ll explain it to you after you eat.”
“And my palms are sweaty. I don’t like how it feels. They’re slippery.”
“Trust me, it’s a good thing.” She smiled warmly at him. “Let’s enjoy the food while it’s hot. After all, Lolo went through a lot of trouble to make all this for us.”
Eddie looked amazed. “She did?” He turned to Lolo. “You did?”
She nodded, pushing the carts closer to the bed so he could reach some of the baked goods. Two of the wheels SQUEAKED unpleasantly. Eddie cringed. Lolo replied, “No, no trouble. I like to cook. A lot. And you all are visitors. Visitors are special because we don’t get many. Not many visitors.”
Eddie surveyed the choices, then selected a croissant and quickly took a bite. His eyes went wide with surprise.
Skylar smiled as she bit into one of the chocolate muffins. “Pretty good, don’t you think?”
He took another bite as if to confirm what he had discovered during the first one. He spoke with his mouth full. “No, I don’t.” Lolo began to look upset. Eddie looked quite serious and then he swallowed. “It is not pretty good. That would be a three or a four, and this croissant is definitely not a three or a four.”
Unsure of what Eddie was talking about, Lolo asked nervously, “Then, what is it?” She seemed to be holding her breath.
“The very best score I have ever given any food is a five-plus, but this croissant is so much better than any other one I have ever tasted that I have to give it a six, which is a rating I have never given any food before. Not ever.”
Butler chimed in from the corner, where he was devouring his breakfast. “Try the eggs.”
“Which kind?” Eddie surveyed his options.
“All of them.” He gleefully swallowed another bite.
Eddie extended his fork and took a bite of the egg soufflé. His eyes bugged out with disbelief. “Six.” He then quickly took a bite of the scrambled eggs, a waffle, a sausage, and the hash browns. He shook his head. “I don’t know how this is possible, but they are all sixes.” He pointed to the different food offerings. “Six. Six. Six. Six.”
“You seem upset,” commented Lolo, who looked confused.
“Now that I know how good food can taste when prepared by a genuine chef, I will never be able to forget it.”
“Is that what I am? A genuine chef, really?” If someone had told her she was a fairy who could fly and would live forever, she couldn’t have looked any happier.
“Yes. I don’t know what else you could be.”
“I think so, too,” chimed in Butler. “Definitely a genuine chef.”
“Ditto,” added Skylar.
Lolo teared up and turned to Eddie. “I hope you don’t ever forget how good food can taste. Do you want to know why? I will tell you. Because then you won’t forget about me, Lolo.”
There was an extended pause in the conversation. It was perhaps the most beautiful moment of silence that Skylar had ever heard. Even Butler seemed to appreciate it.
“Even if you weren’t such an excellent cook, Lolo, I could never forget you. I have an excellent memory. I will be able to recount every detail of this morning if anyone asks. I don’t know very many people, but if someone does ask, I will be able to.” Eddie paused, considering something new. “I will be sad if I never get to eat a meal as good as this again.”
“I don’t want you to be sad, Eddie. Not ever.”
He studied her. “You are telling the truth.” This seemed to surprise him.
“Of course I am telling the truth. I don’t think lying is nice.”
Eddie nodded. “I don’t think so, either. Lying is something that nice people shouldn’t do.” He glanced at Skylar. “Unless they absolutely have to.”
Skylar jumped in. “Eddie, stop talking and eat before your food gets cold and you decide to downgrade your ratings because of it.”
“No-no, I wouldn’t want that,” Lolo said.
He began to eat as if he hadn’t in days, which wasn’t far from the truth. And with every bite, he mumbled “six” to himself. And repeatedly glanced at Lolo, who never took her eyes off him. He would smile at her, then look away. Then sneak another glance.
Skylar pretended not to notice but watched every moment closely. There was no denying something wonderful was happening.
If only it could last.
CHAPTER 55
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
WEST OF WASHINGTON, DC
June 2, 6:17 a.m.
The international killer’s plane had arrived thirty-four minutes ahead of schedule, but there were no available gates, so Mr. Elliott and the rest of the Lufthansa passengers had been sitting on the tarmac for the last half hour. If the crew had only known what he had done to people for far lesser offenses, they might have operated with a greater sense of urgency.
He normally didn’t fly first-class but decided that he could justify the splurge this time. After all, it wasn’t every day he received $2.5 million as an initial payment for an assignment. And if the world’s highest-paid assassin can’t fly first-class, who can?
Mr. Elliott hadn’t set foot inside the United States in nineteen years. There was good reason for that. The number of governmental agencies hunting him was large and included pretty much all of them. He had made no attempt to hide his horrendous deeds, and in fact had publicized them—without ever showing his face. No one had any idea what he looked like, particularly now that his face had been so thoroughly modified. Little did the plastic surgeons who had performed the work realize that his was the last face they would ever change.
He waited patiently in the customs line to present his identification. He stood behind an attractive German couple who were holding hands. The rings on their fingers appeared to be new. Perhaps this was their honeymoon, Mr. Elliott thought. He smiled at them politely as he imagined their screams while he tortured them. The more barbarous his thoughts, the more pleasant his smile became. It was a little game he played whenever out in public. Which was why he didn’t go out much. It was too tempting.
He was traveling under the name of Manfred Engels, just one of several identities he had at his disposal. As he handed his German passport to the customs agent, the man glanced at him perfunctorily. “Good morning.”
Mr. Elliott responded with a slight but authentic German accent. “Good morning.”
“The purpose of your visit to the United States?”
“I’m visiting an old friend.”
“How long will you be with us?”
“Only a few days, I’m afraid. My daughter has a recital I have to get back for.”
“Piano?”
“Violin.”
The agent nodded with the understanding of a fellow father as he stamped the killer’s passport and turned to the following person in line. “Next.”
“Manfred” collected his luggage at baggage claim and waited patiently while the bags were opened and the contents inspected. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. In fact, his clothing and other personal items all looked very German, just as they were supposed to. Mr. Elliott was meticulous.
He cleared customs in less than twenty minutes, making his way out of the secured area, where he paused to check the text messages on his phone. He had one new message from an unknown sender. It read: 4-RED-219 90875. It was a parking garage location. Fourth level. Red section. Space 219. The car parked in it was a blue Ford Fusion, as boring and forgettable a vehicle as has ever been manufactured. Which made it perfect for Mr. Elliott’s purposes, along with its keyless entry system.
When the correct five-digit code was entered in a concealed keypad in the driver’s
door panel, the car would unlock. He pressed 9-0-8-7-5, and presto, the car was his. His birthday was September 8, 1975. At least, so the passport he was carrying said. He placed his luggage in the back seat, then reached inside the center console, locating the car keys and parking exit ticket. He moved to the trunk and unlocked it, revealing several large nylon bags.
One contained the clothing he planned to wear on the trip. Mr. Elliott prided himself on a casual but elegant sense of attire that could have been featured in the pages of any number of men’s fashion magazines.
The other bags contained a small arsenal of international arms: a suppressed Austrian sniper rifle called a Steyr Scharfschützengewehr PIV, commonly known as an SSG PIV; a Belgian machine gun, the M24E6, made by Fabrique Nationale Herstal, which was favored by several branches of the US military; and several American-made handguns, including a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and a Kimber Micro 9. He had enough ammunition to last for days.
But it was the smallest bag that contained the items he cared most about: knives and cuffs and garrotes and needles and other instruments of torture, both exotic and common. There were several rolls of duct tape and dozens of zip ties because, well, he never failed to find good uses for them.
There were also tactical hoods and other masks, as well as several GoPros and a Canon XA11 compact video camera to capture all the action for posterity. Given what he was being paid for this job, he felt compelled to share the deed with future clientele in multicamera high definition.
Mr. Elliott paid the parking attendant for the seven hours the car had been parked in the facility, then drove away from the airport, heading south. Facing an hour drive, he tuned the FM radio to his favorite classical station, WETA, which broadcast at 90.9 megahertz. He often streamed this station over the internet wherever he happened to be in the world, but listening to it over its native radio waves somehow made the notes sound that much sweeter. A Rossini sonata was in progress, which he found soothing.