Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  It doesn’t take long before I’m trudging. Running gave way to trotting, walking, shuffling, and now trudging. I don’t think the bear is chasing me, but I’m not going to stop until I fall down.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  It’s morning when I claw my way up a little bank to an asphalt road. The road is flat and straight. I walk to the center of the road, put the sun at my back, and start walking down the dotted white line. My bare feet slap at the pavement. It’s much more comfortable on my feet to step on the white paint, so I’m thinking about moving to the side, were there’s an uninterrupted white line to walk on.

  I hear the approach of a vehicle behind me.

  I turn and stick my thumb out. I don’t know why, since it would be hard for the guy to ignore me. I’m standing in the middle of the road.

  He slows down and stops. It looks like a big garbage truck. There’s a picture of a couch on the side.

  I walk up to the driver’s window.

  “What?” he asks in Russian.

  “Ride?” I ask. I put my hands in my pockets to turn them out so he will know that I don’t have anything to offer. I’m basically begging for a ride. Miraculously, my fingers find a gem in the bottom of my pocket. It must have fallen from the bag at some point when I was still carrying the payment around in my pocket.

  I raise the stone for the driver to see.

  He waves me around to the other door. When I climb up in the truck, I hand him the gem. He looks at it for just a moment and then puts the truck in gear.

  My Russian is still terrible, but his English is worse. I listen to him talk in Russian and I catch about a third of it.

  His wife wants to get another dog. Either that or she wants to take another lover. I missed part of the setup to the story, and you’d be surprised how many details could fit either scenario. I don’t have any luck making a determination, so I just try to nod at the appropriate parts.

  He’s headed to a place called Kobryn, where he says he will give me change for my payment. The way he says it, I think he wants an opportunity to study the gem a little more so he can decide if he’s going to beat the tar out of me for trying to pass a fake gem. I certainly hope it’s not a fake. Who pays for a ride with a gemstone anyway? If I accepted a gem as payment for a ride, I don’t think I would be angry to find out it was fake.

  He pulls into a depressing dirt parking lot surrounded by a high chain-link fence. He waves me into a little building. It has painted concrete blocks for walls, with a glass door. Second-hand merchandise is stacked on shelves up to the ceiling. As he walks by, the price tags hanging from the handles of chainsaws all spin in the breeze.

  He stops at a counter where an angry-looking guy is slumped over a newspaper.

  My driver—I never quite understood his name—takes out the stone and puts it on the counter. The angry man spins the gem between his fat fingers. He doesn’t pull out a magnifying glass, or hold it up to the light. He just spins it. I don’t hear the price he names. The driver turns and smiles at me. After he sells the gem, he turns and hands me a small stack of Rubles.

  I lift a foot and point. “Shoes?”

  The angry man points his finger to his right. I follow his finger and find a shelf of old boots. Some are even in pairs. I sit down on the floor and roll back so I can get the socks out of my pockets. Between my feet, the socks, and the shoes, I’m not sure which is dirtier. I find a pair that will do. The angry clerk doesn’t let me put the shoes on the counter. He takes back about half of my money for the shoes.

  The driver left while I was picking out shoes.

  I turn to walk out when the angry man stops me with a question.

  “Where you get?”

  I turn back and he’s holding up the gem. I point to my left ring finger and say, “Wife.”

  That makes him smile.

  I walk for a while before I see another building. The pawn shop was like a little depressing island of filth in the farmland. The surrounding countryside is really pretty. Although, I’m sure that a large part of what appeals to me is that I can finally see the sky. There are no overhanging trees here, smothering the view.

  My walk isn’t far before I come to the town. I’m guessing it’s Kobryn, but I don’t see anyone to ask. I’m on the dirt shoulder of a major road. On either side, streets lead to pastures filled with little suburban houses. These are the living quarters of the Kobryn-ites, I imagine. I keep walking.

  I haven’t formed a plan yet. There is an embassy in Minsk. Perhaps that’s not too far and I can take a bus. Or, I could try to get in touch with someone back home to send money, but I don’t have a passport or any form of ID. Maybe I could just live here? For now, I keep walking.

  Beyond the farmlands and the suburban homes, I find sidewalks, and shops, and churches. A little corner market sits next to an Orthodox Church with a big playground. Next to that, a furniture and appliance store also has a vegetable stand out front. It looks like a nice place to live. It looks like the type of place where you would know the names of the local merchants and you’d greet your neighbor if you saw them on the street. It looks like the kind of place where you wouldn’t be scared to let the kids ride their bikes down to the grocery store and spend their allowance on candy. Why couldn’t I start a new life here? If I immerse myself in the language, I’ll be proficient in a few months. I bet the angry guy at the pawn shop would know where I could score some forged credentials.

  I keep walking.

  Now I’m passing small businesses—little buildings that look like they house fabricators and manufacturers. There’s no real indication from the names on the front. I don’t understand half of them anyway. Most of them have loading docks on the side and parking for a couple-dozen cars. I’m guessing that whatever goes on inside these neat little buildings supports the homes in the nearby suburbs. Maybe I could get a job making office chairs, or installing hinges on pre-fab doors, or whatever they do in these buildings. I keep walking.

  My road veers off to the right in a bypass and I take the crosswalk to get to downtown. Finally, it seems like I’m in a city. The buildings are stone and they come right down to the sidewalk. Fire escapes lurk in the alleys over rusty dumpsters. Morning traffic is light. At least I see some people walking around here. I don’t feel so lonely.

  I push on a door beneath a black and yellow sign that promises me a place to wire money. They’re closed. The hours are listed on the door. I don’t know what time it is or even the day of the week. Across the street, a diner is open. I’ll get coffee and wait.

  Before I get to my coffee, another sign catches my eye. I don’t know what it says, but it’s flashing, and it’s next to a picture of a computer. I go in there. From the rows of computers in their little cubbies, I’m guessing this is the Belarusian equivalent of an internet cafe. The guy behind the desk has his feet up and a computer on his lap. He takes my money and hands me a card. I have no idea what he says—his mumble is indecipherable—so I take the card and swipe it down the side of the nearest computer.

  In a few seconds, I’m slogging through a drift of accumulated email.

  66 FOUND

  I’M READING AN EMAIL from one of my contractors—a guy who sometimes helps me track people—when the proprietor of the shop surprises me. He’s standing at my shoulder, pushing a cordless phone towards me. Again with that mumble. The only word I understand is “you”.

  I take the phone.

  “Hello?” I ask in English. I probably should have answered “Allo?” Old habits.

  Turns out, it doesn’t matter.

  “Is this Malcolm?” the voice asks. It’s an English accent. I don’t recognize the man, at least not from three words.

  “To whom am I speaking?” I ask.

  “Malcolm, we’re not in contact with Bud. Does he require extraction?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Is Bud there with you?”

  “No. I don’t know where he is,” I say.

  “Do you require extrac
tion?”

  “No,” I say. It’s just my first reaction. I don’t know who this guy is or how he found me. The logic falls into place quickly though. Bud would have planned for any contingency. He probably contracted a separate group just to look out for him in case he got robbed or somehow lost everything. If he didn’t contact these people periodically, they were instructed to come find him. In their attempts to track him, they’re tracking me as well. As soon as I accessed my email, they tracked down my location and made a phone call. Perhaps extraction is not a bad idea. After all, I barely have any money and I certainly don’t have a place to sleep tonight.

  “Let me give you a way to contact me when you hear from Bud,” he says.

  “Wait,” I say. “What are your orders regarding me?”

  “This is an international toll free number, just dial…” he begins.

  “I’m not writing it down until I know what your orders are regarding me.”

  “We are to help you in any way possible. You are a close friend of Bud.”

  Of course that’s what they would say. They want me to cooperate so they can fulfill their real orders.

  “What if Bud is deceased?”

  “Has Bud been killed?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Is Bud in danger?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Please, Malcolm, you must understand. My group works for your boss to help him in the event that he’s injured, or incapacitated, or even kidnapped. We operate in his best interests at all times, and he’s indicated that your welfare is amongst his top concerns. So you can be sure that we’re here to help. If you’re stranded, let us help you. If you have information about Bud, let us help him. It really couldn’t be easier than that.”

  The guy who handed me the phone is tapping me on the shoulder.

  “I know that Bud trusts me,” I say. I’m closing out my email as I’m talking. I don’t know if the clerk reads English, but I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. He probably has all my passwords by now anyway.

  “What?” I cover up the phone and ask the proprietor. He won’t stop tapping.

  He waves with me to come back to the desk. My email is closed so I follow him.

  I continue talking as we walk. “Bud trusts me, but since I don’t know exactly what he told you, I don’t know that you have cause to trust me. You say you want to help me, but how do I know you’re telling the truth.”

  “Honestly,” the voice says, “there’s nothing I can say. I can only show you our intentions by what we do. Does that make sense?”

  The proprietor is back behind his counter and he’s waving for me to hand him the phone.

  “What?” I ask. He’s still waving. “Seriously?” I hand him the phone. Once he has it back, he disconnects the call and starts pointing at me.

  “What are you pointing at?” I ask. I follow his eyes.

  A pair of policemen are coming through the door, fast.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  There was no time to run, and no sense in fighting, so now I’m handcuffed, in the back of a police car. The name of the town was on the door of the car, so at least it’s local police. I don’t know why that comforts me. They drive me a few blocks to the other side of the city and pull into an underground parking garage.

  From there, we take an elevator to a floor of desks inside of cubicles, where the potted plants have seen better days. They shift the cuffs from behind my back to in front, and show me to a seat in a small windowless room. I’m alone for an hour, then two.

  A middle-aged woman with a belted dress comes in with a paper cup of water and a plate of food. She sets them down with a smile.

  “Fork?” I ask, stopping her retreat.

  She smiles and mimes putting food in her mouth with her fingers. I guess they don’t trust me with utensils. The bread is good, and the meat, whatever it is, couldn’t be more tender. The peas and carrots are cooked to oblivion though. I like the crispy potatoes.

  I’m eating potatoes and wishing for a napkin when the door opens again.

  “Malcolm,” the man greets me, as he takes a seat on the other side of the table. The door is still open an inch. He leans back and closes it. “I’m so sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “You’re not the one from the phone,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “You were talking to London this morning. I drove over from Warsaw. Much closer. Tell me about Bud.”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” I say. I’m licking butter from my fingers.

  “But you already know all about him. You’re supposedly good friends,” he says.

  He’s trying to challenge me so I’ll be back on my heels. It would be a good way to get information, but I’m not falling for it.

  “Suppose a credit card company calls you and tells you there’s been an attempt at fraud on your account,” I say. “You would be a fool if you didn’t force them to verify their identity before you gave them any information. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “You are indeed a cautious man,” he says. He pulls a paper and a cell phone from the pocket inside his suit jacket. The paper that he unfolds and lays flat on the table is turned so I can read. He fiddles with the phone and then lays on top of the paper. “This is our employment contract, and this video is Bud’s testimony that we’re in his employ.”

  “You could have shown me that when you first walked in,” I say.

  He taps the screen and the video begins. It’s a close-up of Bud, and it sounds like a will—being of sound mind and body—until Bud talks about the company he has contracted to safeguard him in case of an accident.

  “If a man proffers credentials unprompted, he can never be trusted,” the man says.

  I nod. It may be true, but it doesn’t offer me any more reason to trust this man. The only good reason I have to cooperate is that it doesn’t seem that I have any other choice.

  “Please, tell me about Bud,” he says.

  “I haven’t seen him in awhile. I’ve lost track, but I believe it’s been days since I last saw him.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. It was east of here, somewhere. In the village where Bud grew up.”

  “The name of the village?” he asks.

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  He reaches into another pocket and pulls out a small topographic map.

  “Perhaps you can show me on a map?”

  “I can show you where we went into the woods, and approximately where I came out. That’s the best I can do.”

  “You don’t know the location of the village?”

  “That’s correct. And, as far as I know, it’s not on any map.”

  I point out the few things I do know, such as where he can find the car, and about where I came out of the woods. I even give him an idea of where he might find some gem stones, covered in some amount of bear spit.

  “I would like you to be our guest at a secure apartment in Poland,” he says.

  “No, thank you.” I smile.

  “Then we will move you as our prisoner.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Hughes,” he says.

  “Did you say Hugh or Hughes?”

  “Like the aircraft company,” he says. “Hughes.”

  “What’s the name your mother called you?” I ask. I’m going to start using this question regularly. It’s fun to ask.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your mother—what’s the name she called you?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I should have taken the first option—to be their guest instead of their prisoner. Hughes takes me out of the room and has the police remove their cuffs. He attaches plastic cuffs to my wrists and ankles and leads me down to the car.

  “I would like to change my answer from prisoner to guest,” I say, several times, to no avail. He drives me to the border in the back seat of a comfortable blue car. Whatever papers he flashes to the man at the gate earns us
instant admission into Poland.

  Warsaw is gray. The sky, the roads, the buildings: all gray. Even the river is another shade of gray. It’s an interesting city, architecturally. I see some really cool parks and buildings, and the city has life—a real energy—but it’s just so gray.

  Hughes pulls up to the back of a gray building with balconies that overlook the gray river. He cuts the strap that connects my ankles, so at least I can walk at a decent pace through the parking lot. He loops his hand through the crook of my elbow and drapes a light jacket over my bound hands. He walks me in like we’re old friends.

  We share the elevator with a tiny woman. She’s almost as wide as she is tall and I swear she has to stand on her tiptoes to hit the button for the fourth floor. This is a pretty nice building. It has eight apartments per floor, four riverside and four that look towards the city. I have the northwest corner. From the balcony, I can see the park, the river, and then over to a rail yard on the opposite bank.

  Hughes gives me a brief tour. I have a bedroom, an office, a kitchen, and a nice living room. There’s no guard, but plenty of cameras. The deadbolt on the door has a keyhole on both sides.

  “What if there’s a fire?”

  “Go out on the balcony and wait for help,” Hughes says.

  “This is the fifteenth floor,” I say. “They’ll never get help up here.”

  “Then don’t start a fire,” he says.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Boredom overwhelms me pretty quickly in Warsaw. I have a couple of English channels on the television, and a few books, but I just can’t focus. Maybe if I knew how much time I was trying to kill, it would be easier. I sit on the balcony a lot. There’s a woman who comes out two balconies over. She’s out at least once an hour to smoke a cigarette.

  I yell to her in Russian. “Hello? I’m a prisoner. Can you send a message for me?”

  She just waves and turns away. It’s not a pleasant, “Hello, how are you?” wave. It’s a, “Go away!” wave.