Nobody Dies For Free

by Pro Se Press

  ***

  To a man with Richard Monroe’s experience, breaking and entering was elementary. He acquired the address from Angela, parked his car across the street, waited for the signal, via text message, from Angela, which luckily came just after the night’s darkness had completed its arrival, and hurried across the avenue dressed in dark clothes with nothing but a piece of wire, bent in a certain manner, and a small flat-head screwdriver to assist with his task.

  Angela’s apartment was a third story set of rooms. Monroe waited for one of the building’s other residents to enter the front door with a key and hurried in before the door had shut entirely. Bypassing the elevator to avoid being seen by anyone, even though statistically he knew they would likely think him just a visitor or a resident they did not know, he took the stairs up to Level Three. The hallway was empty except for three teenagers hurrying out of an apartment. Monroe strolled past them at a relaxed gait, waited the few seconds until they were out of sight, and took the bent wire and screwdriver from his pocket.

  Most people have no idea how cheaply made and easily manipulated most commercial locks are. Burglars get in all the time and they lack anything resembling the training of a proper espionage agent. The wire was slipped in, twisted a few times by Monroe’s expert hands, and the mechanism clicked, welcoming the wire as politely as it would the familiar key. He pushed the tip of the screwdriver into the lock beside the wire, turned it, and the lock surrendered to his manipulations. Monroe was in.

  The place looked just like what it was, a chamber shared by two young women with too much to do and too little time to properly organize their belongings. Papers sat in untidy piles on desks. Shoes waited in odd places, some missing their partners. The TV remote stuck its end out from between two couch cushions like the Loch Ness Monster teasing a tourist. Monroe found the bookcase, saw that there was no specific arrangement to its contents, with no alphabetical order or proper categorization, but the desired volume was easy enough to locate: a big, fat Complete Shakespeare. He took it down from its berth, checked the table of contents, found the right play, and flipped to its page. Titus Andronicus! The Bard’s early and bloody mess of a play did indeed hold the secret Monroe sought. The little slip of paper, torn from a post-it note, minus the sticky part, with its ten little digits of destiny, was soon safely tucked inside Monroe’s wallet. He put Shakespeare back where he belonged, got out of the apartment, and was back in the Lexus in minutes, no trouble at all.

  He sent Angela MacIntyre a brief text, giving the all-clear and a goodbye, and drove away into the New Haven evening, already considering the next step in the investigation into the identity of the killer called Simon Scythe.

  Chapter 6: The Hook

  Before he could try to call that number, Monroe would have to change cities. Simon Scythe would immediately grow suspicious if two potential clients contacted him from New Haven in such a short space of time. Monroe’s plan was to move first and then try to call. But he had already decided he would be surprised if the number led anywhere at all. A professional hitman would be likely to change numbers often to avoid leaving behind incriminating bread crumbs. The most-likely scenario would be that Monroe would find the number either no longer in use or now connected to some innocent citizen. If that turned out to be the case, Monroe would have to enlist assistance from some sort of technical expert in trying to track down traces of previous usage of the number. But first things first: selection of a city.

  As he drove out of New Haven in the night, Monroe considered his options. In the event, unlikely as it seemed, that a human being actually answered the call when he made it, he needed a story. He intended to bring Simon Scythe out into the open by hiring him, by being one of his suicidal clients. The game could go either of two ways: he could set up shop in a strange city and concoct an elaborate cover story, a new identity, a fake profession, a false reason for wishing death upon himself; or he could simply put reality out there to bait the fish. He weighed the two plans against each other. If he faked a life, he would have to make certain that the entire scam was impenetrable to examination. If Scythe then discovered that Monroe was a former CIA man, the assassin would be sure to run. But on the other hand, what if Monroe simply announced his past to the killer-for-hire? CIA, in mourning, not wanting to go on, but lacking the nerve to end it by his own hand; that might be believable enough, Monroe decided. If he simply let all the details hang out in the open, eschewing masks and charades, the predator just might fall into his hands and become the prey.

  So he decided on a city: his own city of Boston would do, as would his own name, and even the details of his past. Having made up his mind, Monroe pushed the Lexus harder and sped along the dark highway, heading home and ready to set the trap.

  ***

  Monroe waited a week after arriving home. He took the time to refresh his mind and his body, worked out, ate well, thoroughly rested. About to invite a killer into his life, using himself as the bait, he needed to be at the top of his game. Mr. Nine did not call to check on Monroe’s progress, which Monroe took as a sign of his new supervisor’s confidence in him. He did not try to call Nine either and would do so only if he truly needed advice or assistance.

  When the week was over, Monroe prepared to make the call. He would not use the same phone he used to communicate with Mr. Nine. He went out and bought a cheap second cell phone, a pay-as-you-use throwaway phone. He returned to his apartment, fished the little slip of torn paper out of his wallet, and dialed.

  Three rings and then, to Monroe’s amazement, an answer came.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was as Angela MacIntyre had described it: cold, flat, robotic. Monroe got the same impression Angela had reported, that some mechanical means was being used to obscure the true voice.

  “I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,” Monroe said, “but I’m very interested in the services I’ve heard you offer.”

  “And what services would those be?” the voice asked, a drop of sarcasm sliding around in those words.

  “This is the Reaper, is it not?” Monroe said, deciding to go the confident, mind-made-up route rather than feign the nervousness that some of the suicide-hitman’s employers probably had on display when making similar calls.

  “Where did you get this number?”

  “I have sufficient resources at my disposal to get whatever I want,” Monroe said, “and I hope that includes an ending to a story that seems to have gone on far too long.”

  “May I ask where you’re located?” the voice said.

  Despite the means used to disguise the voice’s true qualities, Monroe was sure it was male and not very young, though not old, either. He tried to listen for any hint of regional origin in the voice, but came up empty.

  “I’m in Boston, Massachusetts,” Monroe said.

  “My fees are quite steep,” the voice said. “Can you afford what you want?”

  “I have nobody left,” Monroe said. “Everyone is dead…except for me. I’m perfectly willing to spend it all: several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Perhaps we are on the same page,” the voice agreed. Monroe could almost hear the anticipation through the phone. The voice then shifted gears. “Of course, there always is the possibility that I’m speaking to someone who truly does not have my best interests in mind: police, perhaps, or the government. What assurance can you offer me to contradict that idea?”

  “I can offer you the truth,” Monroe said. “I used to be one of those things…but those days are gone now. Today I’m just a man, and I don’t even want to be that anymore.”

  “Will you tell me your name?”

  “My name is Richard, Richard Monroe. And what shall I call you?”

  “It doesn’t really matter what you call me.”

  “Do you know what they call you?”

  “What?”

  “Simon Scythe.”

  “Ha! Thank you for that information, Mr. Monroe. I like it! And they have no idea who I am o
r where I’m to be found?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “And which part of their game did you play in former days, Monroe?”

  “Naval intelligence, then CIA, and now I sit on my ass all day and read books and feel the loneliness closing in faster and faster.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Scythe said. “And a man with your background can’t finish the game yourself?”

  “No,” Monroe said. “My guts seem to have shriveled down to nothing, one of the nasty after-effects of personal tragedy, I suppose. I’ve reached the point where I can sit here and drink myself to death slowly and miserably…or I can get somebody to walk me over to the cliff and give me a good shove.”

  “I need some time, Monroe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not in Boston or anywhere near it and I don’t entirely trust you either, not yet. You must understand that a man in my profession has to be absolutely certain before he accepts a commission. I’m the best there is at what I do. I may be the only man in history who does exactly what I do. I intend to stay in that position for as long as I can. And so I must be sure that you’re not playing some game of subterfuge with me. I do not walk into traps. Is that understood?”

  “Clear as day,” Monroe said. “But hurry up, please. It’s money for you, peace for me.”

  “Do not call me again,” Simon Scythe said. “I will contact you when—if—we are to proceed in this matter. Good day, Mr. Monroe.”

  Click.

  ***

  Monroe tried to put himself in Scythe’s shoes. What would he do in a similar situation, offered a big contract by a man who admittedly had a past that sparked suspicion? Monroe was sure he had interested Scythe. The killer would investigate further. He would probably travel to Boston and do some spying.

  Monroe had to make it look real. He had hinted at a drinking habit and also at intense grief and loneliness. He went to the liquor store, bought several dozen bottles of scotch, whiskey, and other strong stuff. He would empty those bottles a few at a time and make sure they went out with his garbage, as any spy worth his weight in surveillance tapes knows that the golden path to understanding a target’s life is through his trash. He bought picture frames too, filled them with photographs of Genevieve, placed them in prominent places around the apartment, even breaking one of the frames and leaving the picture in its shattered house.

  He stopped shaving too, tried to look tired, kept rings of exhaustion around his eyes, added a bit of gray to his temples. He slept later than was his habit in the mornings, stayed up late at night, visited bars and went for long walks at all hours.

  This went on for a week and Monroe began to feel like he was being watched. There were no certain signs of surveillance, just a gut instinct, but a feeling that he had learned to trust over long years of experience. He was tempted to try to catch the watcher in the act, turn the tables now rather than let the game go on and be dragged further into it. Shouldn’t he minimize the risk?

  No, he decided, let it continue. Wait. Be patient. Draw the bastard out and see where the dice come to rest.

  ***

  On the eighth day, the call came just before noon. Monroe had actually been drinking some of the scotch he had stocked up on, just a bit though, as most of it had discreetly gone down the drain.

  Monroe picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “So sorry to learn of what happened to your wife,” Simon Scythe’s mechanized voice said. “She was lovely. I enjoyed looking at her image when I visited your home last night.”

  “Do we have a deal then?” Monroe asked, pushing impatience to the forefront of his tone.

  “We do indeed,” Scythe said. “You have fallen far from your pedestal in Paris, haven’t you, Richard?”

  “As low as it goes,” Monroe said. “Now what do I have to do to get you to help me? Spit it out man! I can’t take this dancing around the subject any longer!”

  “I need the money, Richard. I’ve had a good long look at your financial state, too, and I think a nice round sum of three hundred thousand will settle this nicely.”

  “How do I get it to you?”

  “I only accept cash, so you’d better call your banker,” Scythe said.

  “Give me two days to get that in order,” Monroe said. “Once I’ve got it, what then?”

  “In forty-eight hours,” Scythe told him, “I’ll call you again and arrange for you to drop the money exactly where I tell you to.”

  “And then you’ll shoot me?”

  “No,” Scythe said. “And then you’ll be on my schedule, but I never reveal the exact time or place where the shot will ring out. But you have my solemn promise that you will die very, very soon after payment has been made. I am always true to my word. And let me say again, Richard, I was very sorry to hear about what happened to your wife.”

  “Thank you,” Monroe said.

  “So,” Scythe asked, “did they ever catch the one who fired that shot in Paris?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Monroe said, “but I’ve been out of the loop for some time now. And to tell you the truth, I don’t give a damn about revenge. I just want to get to where she’s gone to, as quickly as possible.”

  “In that case, Richard,” said the invisible killer, “I’ll be happy to provide the ticket once you’ve paid for it. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Click.

  ***

  Online banking has changed the way the world does its financial business and Monroe took full advantage of that modern convenience. In a few hours’ time in front of the computer, Monroe had managed to consolidate the requested three-hundred thousand dollars needed to seal the deal with Simon Scythe. The full sum had been transferred from its various homes in Europe and the United States to sit together in one account in one bank which had a branch in Boston only a few minutes’ driving time from Monroe’s residence. He then called the bank manager to schedule an appearance for the next afternoon to withdraw the large amount, requesting that it be made available in bundles of hundreds ready to be packed in a single briefcase.

  When the banking business was done, Monroe relaxed for the rest of the day, as much as relaxation was possible for a man on such a mission. He went over the details of his plan in his mind, checking and double-checking for potential problems and saw no obstacles except any suspicion which might arise in the mind of the target, although he foresaw no great chance of such worries causing much of a problem. Monroe’s instincts were telling him that Scythe was already enraptured by the idea of that three-hundred grand and greed would overshadow caution. When the afternoon had been spent thinking and waiting and evening was there, Monroe got up and went out. He had another task to complete before picking up the money the next day. He knew he would probably be followed and he had already figured out how to get what he needed without his true intentions being suspected. He would not even be driving this time, as the things he sought could be found only a few blocks away.

  Chapter 7: Line and Sinker

  Fenwick’s Tavern is an old-fashioned Boston pub. In business since shortly after the revolution, the place is something of a landmark. It had also been one of Monroe’s favorite watering holes in his younger days and he could recall its interior layout even after many years away from the place.

  Monroe walked the seven blocks to Fenwick’s and went inside. It was a weeknight and the joint was only half full. He walked in and wondered if Simon Scythe was watching him from across the street. It did not matter if he was, Monroe decided, as long as he did not follow him inside. Monroe went to the very end of the bar, far enough back that he was sure he couldn’t be seen clearly by anyone looking in the front window. He ordered a scotch and took a few slow sips. After nursing that drink for fifteen minutes, he left the half-empty glass on the bar with a generous tip. He went not to the front door to exit, but to the back of the bar where the restrooms were. Hoping it had not been remodeled since his last visit to the place, he entered the men’s room.

  Mon
roe entered the second stall, closed the door behind him, and forced the window open, making a space large enough for him to slip through. He landed six feet below the window in the narrow alley that separated the rear wall of Fenwick’s from the rear wall of the building that had its back to the tavern and its front facing out on the parallel street. That parallel building happened to be a shoe store, expensive and fashionable, but it was the shop three doors down which interested Monroe.

  He entered the pharmacy and began to search the shelves, having already written his shopping list on the fabric of his mind. He selected a few small cans and several bottles, all common over-the-counter remedies for minor ailments, paid for them, and went back outside. Returning to the alley between the shoe store’s rear and the spine of Fenwick’s, Monroe hid the bottles and cans in his jacket pockets, climbed back into the tavern bathroom through the still open window, and made sure to flush on the way out of the stall, for the sake of realism, despite not having made a deposit.

  He went back to his barstool, had a second round of scotch, tipped again, and left the place for the walk back home.

  ***

  When he arrived at his apartment, Monroe went straight to his bathroom and shut the door behind him. It was the smallest room in the place and the one which he had searched thoroughly enough to be absolutely certain that Simon Scythe had not bugged or otherwise rigged for surveillance in any way. He took the pharmacy wares from his jacket and placed them in the medicine cabinet. He undressed, showered, and left the bathroom to retire for the night, satisfied that the prelude to the acquisition of the briefcase of cash had gone well.