Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  I’m desperate to find something to do. I turn on the news channel. My Russian isn’t good, but it gives me a toehold to try to understand Polish. The grammar is the same, and if you push everything up into your nose, you’ve already got some of the pronunciation.

  From the office, I grab a pad of paper and the Polish dictionary. I turn on the captioning of the television and start to make a list of all the words that I don’t understand. During the commercials, I look up the words and try to puzzle out the definitions. It’s like a big, complex puzzle that ends in a headache. I give myself twenty minutes to rest before plunging in again.

  I set a schedule for myself. Breakfast is at eight. Polish news from nine until noon, and then lunch. I’ll do an English channel with Polish captions in the afternoon, workout, and then work on my diary until dinner. In the evenings, I can sit on the balcony and read until it’s time for sleep. I’ll do this schedule for four weeks. If I don’t find a way out by then, I’ll explore what’s on the other side of the railing of the balcony.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Hughes actually knocks when he comes back.

  I’ve been locked in the apartment for sixteen days. The guys who bring me food don’t bother to knock. They simply wait for me to use the bathroom and then they shove a box through the door. They must have cameras in the bathroom, because I can’t fool them. Anyway, that’s why it surprises me so much when Hughes knocks.

  I walk to the door and realize that I can’t let him in.

  “Come in,” I say.

  When he opens the door I have only a tiny urge to try to push past him.

  “Hello, Malcolm,” he says.

  “Hughes.”

  “I’m very sorry for the delay, but our instructions were detailed and explicit on the matter. We were not allowed to move forward until we had exhausted every potential lead.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. I lead him to the kitchen table instead of the living room. My language notes are all over the living room, and I would like to keep my relationship with Hughes a little more formal.

  “Thank you,” he says, when I motion him to a seat. “We had instructions to follow in the event of Bud’s disappearance. We were to follow these instructions so we could locate him, and rescue him, if necessary. I’m sorry to let you know that we were not successful.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have reason to believe that this is not a shock to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sorry. My opinion is hardly important. I’ve been instructed to give you this.”

  He pulls a thick envelope from his pocket and sets it on the table between us. On the outside, instead of an address, the envelope just says “Malcolm.”

  “And I took the liberty to retrieve your U.S. passport,” he says. He puts that on the table next to the envelope. It’s just a little blue book, but the implication makes me lightheaded. Why would he bother with a passport unless I was going to get out of this apartment?

  “You will find that you’re in Poland on a visitor’s visa, and you can return to the states at any time.”

  “Now’s good. How about now?” I say. I’m wearing clothes I found in the dresser. They’re not my style, but they fit okay. I can’t think of anything else I need from this apartment. Maybe I’ll take my diary, but that’s all stacked on the coffee table. I can grab that in an instant.

  “I think you should read this letter first,” he says. “I will give you a few minutes.”

  He stays seated, so I take the letter to the balcony. The letter is a printout, so the first thing I do is flip to the back to verify Bud’s signature. It’s not that I doubt its authenticity, I just want to know who wrote it before I start.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Dear Malcolm,

  I assume that you’re reading this because I’ve decided to move on, in one way or another. I’ve enjoyed a long and fruitful life, so whatever the circumstances of my departure, please know that I’m ready to move on as long as it’s on my terms.

  I grew up amongst the miraculous. For a long time, I thought that the wonderful events of my childhood were just youth’s misunderstanding. But now I’ve come to accept that I really did experience miracles. I know I’m not the first man to turn to spirituality as he approaches death, but it’s more than that. I’m not abandoning rationality, I’m expanding it to include even those things that I can’t explain. You have to be able to observe without judgment if you seek to expand your understanding. That’s something I’ve never been good at.

  I set up the Prize and hired you to run the foundation for a number of reasons. I knew you would be good at it. Your skill is negotiation, in every sense of the word. No matter how crazy, you’re able to talk to anyone. No matter how difficult the obstacle, you’re able to find your way around. No matter how obfuscated, you’re able to see the truth. You’re perfect at your job, as I knew you would be.

  But that’s not the only reason I hired you. I had another idea about you, that perhaps you and I shared a similar origin. I know it’s not something you think about or talk about, but you don’t remember much about where and when you grew up. You can’t name your parents, or a town, or whether or not you have any siblings. Didn’t that ever strike you as strange?

  And what brought you to my door? When I had no jobs to offer, you worked as an intern in one of my manufacturing plants upstate. When I turned my focus back to software, you appeared as a project manager and pitched your skills. You persisted and worked for that company until you found that I had given up the daily operations. Eventually, I realized that you would keep coming back until I eventually hired you in a job that would give you more frequent access to conversations with me.

  When I created the Prize, your application was at the top of the pile. It wouldn’t have mattered. I created the job for you. At that point, I had to know your intentions and it seemed I would only learn them firsthand.

  As I interviewed you and conducted my background checks, I began to realize something extraordinary: you didn’t even realize your own mission. You were sent to get close to me, but why? I eventually figured out that you didn’t even know. Someone had programmed you to position yourself next to me, but didn’t give you any knowledge or reason behind it.

  Was it an oversight? Was it just sloppy work? The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. If you’re going to go to all the trouble to brainwash someone into a secret mission, it seems like the easy part would be to give them a backstory. Why didn’t they invent a family for you? Why didn’t they tell you to say that your parents were killed in a car accident and that you were born in Chicago, or Cheyenne, or Colorado? And why have you throw yourself at job after job, making it clear that you were just trying to gain access to me?

  The only thing that makes sense is that they wanted me to spot you. They wanted me to be aware of you and to know that you were trying to catch my ear. Perhaps they knew that my curiosity would get the better of me. If that’s true, it worked. And, over these long years, I’ve come to trust you completely, despite my questions about the people who sent you.

  So, now I’m left with the question: are you really like me, or am I to think that you are?

  The people of my village hunt me. They want to bring me home. Even though you may not realize it, you’re their agent. But are you a normal person, or are you like me? It would be an easier question to answer if I really understood the nature of what I am.

  The question is moot now. I have to assume that I’m beyond curiosity. Enclosed, please find a press release announcing the end of the Prize contest. You will also find papers to convey the trust to your name. You can use the money however you wish. The rest of my estate will be distributed to a small number of charities. Those announcements will grab the headlines, so I suspect the closing of the Prize should pass somewhat unnoticed. I hope your life is as long and fruitful as mine was.

  Sincerely,

  Bud

  67 AFT
ER

  BUD’S CRAZY. OF COURSE I have parents, and a hometown, and a full life, before I started working for him. It’s just like him to be so self-absorbed that he couldn’t see that. And I wasn’t stalking him by moving from job to job, just to try to get close to him. He’s crazy.

  I just never liked working for someone else. When I was managing the Prize, I really acted like an independent contractor. I just barely reported to Bud, and that’s the way I liked it. Of course I bounced around before I landed that job. Who doesn’t bounce around until they find something they really want to do?

  In small quiet moments scattered through the last couple of weeks, I’ve asked myself some disturbing questions. How did I know the language of Bud’s village? It’s only a distant cousin of Russian or Polish, and yet I was fluent. Why did everyone seem to know me? Why did it all feel so familiar?

  There’s another knock on my door, and Hughes lets himself back in.

  “Sir? Are you ready to go?” he asks.

  “You bet,” I say.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Air travel is very different when you have a private plane. Security is personal, apologetic, and efficient. We walk out to the plane, across the tarmac. The freedom is so real it feels like it could lift me up on a thermal and carry me into the airplane in its warm embrace. I take a big plush seat near the front and watch out the window as the crew finishes their visual inspection of the aircraft. They are thorough. Their every movement inspires my confidence.

  I almost shout with joy as the wheels leave the ground. I didn’t think I would ever get out of that apartment. And now, just an hour after being granted freedom, I’m already flying back home. We’ll make a brief stop in Germany and then leap the ocean to Maine. At least that’s what the pilot said over the intercom.

  In addition to the press release and the legal documents in the envelope, Bud also left me a stack of U.S. dollars. It was hardly necessary, given the amount in the trust which he put in my name. Perhaps he understood that I might be in a situation where cash feels like power. I have the money stuffed in the front pocket of my jeans, and every now and then I reach down to touch it. Even if I get kicked off the plane in Germany, even if I’m somehow stranded in Bangor, Maine, I have enough to buy a first class ticket back to New York. That cash is my power. It’s freedom from Hughes, and it works on any day of the week. Speaking of which, I should really find out what day it is.

  I fold out a little TV from an arm built into the wall and flip through the stations. I have to go high up the channels, but eventually I find a Polish-language channel. I listen for words I don’t understand until I fall asleep.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  New York is how I left it.

  I have about a million messages back at the office, and I end up deleting a huge block of emails. While we were gone, people were still anxious to make a claim on the Prize. I send out the press release to all the major outlets before setting an auto-responder on my email. It doesn’t matter. Nobody will hear the story. Everyone’s consumed with stories of the enormous charitable gifts in Bud’s name. Speculation of his demise abounds. Of course they’re correct, but I don’t think his death will ever be confirmed.

  Turns out it’s Tuesday.

  I walk down to my lawyer’s office at lunch with my passport and the papers regarding the trust. I’ll get the money sorted out in a matter of weeks. Meanwhile, most of my bills are overdue. I spend the afternoon at the DMV getting a replacement for my driver’s license.

  I get my security company to drop off one of the really large shredder bins and I spend the evening going through the filing cabinets. It’s a going-out-of-business sale on old paranormal files and everything must go. I tear through entire drawers in minutes and fill up the big bin with a ton a shreddable paper. Why did I keep any of this stuff?

  I’m taking down the calendar from the wall when I realize that I’m going to keep the office. It’s hard to get good office space in this part of town and I have a history in this building. I know all the security guards and I have a good feel for their security systems. I would be a fool to vacate. Once the trust is settled, I’ll have enough money to keep this place for a century. Might as well.

  I’m still wearing the clothes from the Polish apartment prison. They’re comfortable enough, but they’re not quite right. The jeans say Levi’s, but the stitching is too yellow and the zipper keeps splitting in the center. I shave, take a shower, and then change into my spare office clothes. Now I’m starting to feel like I’m home. With one of Bud’s crisp hundred-dollar bills, I get pizza from the place up the street. Keep it, I say to the delivery man. He immediately digs in his pouch for one of those pens they use to detect counterfeit bills. Even when it passes the test, the guy gives me a look.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  I wake up on the cot in my office.

  The second knock gets me to my feet. Fortunately, I’m still dressed.

  “Just a second,” I say.

  I open the door to the twins. I’ll keep referring to them as Ted and Leslie.

  “Hey, guys,” I say. They’re dressed differently. The one on the left is wearing a polo shirt and jeans. The one on the right has a blue button-down and chinos. They wear their hair differently, too. These are great signs. Last time I saw them, they were still more or less identical.

  “Hi,” polo shirt says.

  “I’m sorry, I still don’t know which is who.”

  “Ted,” polo shirt says. He points to his brother. “Leslie.”

  Still only talking one at a time, which is not so good. I glance at my clock. It’s only seven. I move to the coffee maker.

  “Coffee?”

  Ted shakes his head.

  “I heard that the Prize is shutting down,” Ted says.

  “I wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay,” Leslie says.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just a change of heart on management’s part, you know? I guess the grind of searching just became too much. It was always ‘at the discretion of the committee,’ you know?”

  “Sure,” Ted says.

  When I turn my back to fill the machine with water, I can’t tell which one of them is speaking.

  “Does that mean you’re out of a job?”

  “I guess, technically, it does. I’ll find something else to do. No big deal. I’m not in any rush to run off to the next challenge or anything.”

  I turn back to catch a glimpse of the brothers looking at each other.

  “And your boss is okay? We saw that he’s giving away his whole fortune,” Leslie says.

  Do you know what it sounds like when someone has rehearsed a conversation? I’ve gotten good at spotting them. Some people seem to do it all the time. They work out what they’ll say, what you’ll say, how they’ll respond, and then what you’ll come back with. You can hear it in their voice sometimes, but you can always hear it in their pauses. They’re not quite in the conversation.

  It’s moments like these when I like to go off-script. Toss a little improv their way, and you can often get a sense of why the person has rehearsed their lines. Do they want something from me? Do they need to convey a troubling piece of information? Are they going to confront me about something I’ve done wrong?

  Here’s my attempt to get an idea of what they want, “How’s your work with Dr. Inger going?”

  She’s the therapist I sent the brothers to after they finally realized that they were two people living as one. She’s the one who got them this far. For a long time, they didn’t want to admit that they were seeing her every day. They didn’t even admit to recognizing the name.

  “She’s good,” Ted says.

  “Look, Malcolm, are you planning on hurting yourself?” Leslie asks.

  “What?”

  “We’re worried,” Ted says. “You’re doing a lot of self-destructive things.”

  “Pardon me? Like what?”

  “Like giving away all your money,” Leslie says.

  “I haven�
�t… What? I didn’t give away anything.”

  “It’s noble,” Ted says. “But billions of dollars? They’re saying that you’ve given away your whole fortune. Charity is noble, but you have to keep something for yourself.”

  “That’s when we thought maybe you were planning on hurting yourself,” Leslie says.

  He used “we.” That’s excellent. Normally with the twins it’s all “I.”

  “You guys have it wrong,” I say. “I know you never met Bud, but there was an actual guy who was my boss. He was the guy with all the money. He gave it all away and he left me plenty, believe me. I didn’t give away anything.”

  “The news said he was an actor,” Ted says.

  “That’s an old story,” I say. “It was a hoax. Yes, there was an impersonator pretending to be Bud so he could get good rooms at casinos and such, but he was a fraud. There was a real Bud. Or is, there is a real Bud. He just decided to give away his money. It’s not so strange. Didn’t Warren Buffet give away most of his money a few years ago? It’s not unprecedented.”

  “I don’t care if there’s a real guy out there or not, or if you’re the real guy,” Leslie says. “I just want to know that you are okay, that you’re not planning on doing something rash.”

  “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” Ted says.

  “I told you that,” I say. “Remember? Remember when you stopped seeing Dr. Inger last year and you two were starting to meld back into one person? You got all suicidal and I talked you down. Do you remember? You don’t need to tell me about it.”