He climbed into Angel’s bed and waited.
At three in the morning, he heard tapping. It was a specific rhythm that he hadn’t heard in years. It was the sound of authority. It was the step of a military man.
The beam of light came into the room and danced along the bedrails. It bobbed and bounced across the beds. It stopped on the bed that had been his. It was the bed that now belonged to Angel. The beam came from a long black flashlight, the kind policemen carried, and the man who held it unhooked the clipboard to examine what was written.
After name, there was nothing.
The man carefully placed the clipboard where he had found it. The light wasn’t searching anymore, and Virgil could see his face clearly. He wore a suit. It was black. His shirt was sharply pressed and white. He had short, precise hair. His features were chiseled Asian. Virgil had seen him before.
Curtis, long dead now, whispered into his ear, his voice sounding as alive as ever.
“He’s an assassin,” Curtis had said.
Virgil remembered a conversation a million years in the past, two lifetimes ago, as Virgil sifted through the old Colon files.
“He’s Japanese,” Curtis had said. “He’s actually from Peru.”
Looking at the stoically angry face in the dark, a name he never thought he would need to remember bubbled to the surface of his mind.
“Matsumoto,” whispered Curtis. It was Colon’s longtime bodyguard.
Matsumoto was the only man moving in the ward. Virgil was the only man watching. Matsumoto regarded the man in the bed. Angel was sleeping with his eyes open, though one of them was now covered. He was peaceful.
Matsumoto moved deliberately, and the beam of light danced across the ceiling. He brought the flashlight around in an arc and it crashed into Angel’s head. Virgil heard bone crack. The beam flew, and he heard it again. Matsumoto kept striking. The sounds turned wet and heavy. Virgil heard blood splash against the floor.
Matsumoto struck long after what was necessary, and when he was done, Virgil could hear him breathing. He did not hear Angel and knew that he would not. In the dim light, he saw the crisp white shirt had been painted with deep, dark drops. His face had too. Instinctively, Matsumoto drew a white handkerchief from a pocket. He wiped his face. Then he wiped his flashlight. He took one last look at what he thought had been Marc Virgil.
Virgil closed his eyes, in case this man was seeking witnesses. He forced them shut. His heart pounded so loudly that he thought for sure Matsumoto could hear it. He heard the hard steps of the polished shoes he never saw, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced. The footsteps grew softer. Eventually, they disappeared.
Virgil rose from bed. The floor felt hot now. He rested on the bedrail that had been his. There was no reason to go further.
Angel’s head had been demolished. In its place was an unrecognizable mess. Virgil knew who this was, but he was the only one.
In Angel’s nightstand was a paper bag filled with his personal items. Virgil dumped it on the bed. There was a pair of gray slacks. Virgil thought they looked tight, but they fit just fine. There was a pair of shoes. They hurt, but he wore them anyway. Then there was a tan sport coat. It was smooth and soft. It still smelled of finer living. He slid it over himself. There was a watch too. It looked fancy, with part of the face cut away to reveal a tiny device inside of it, spinning around mysteriously.
There was a clock on the wall. It was over his bed, and he had never seen it. The pieces disagreed, but he used the wall as his guide and set the fancy watch to Mexican madhouse time. He smiled in the dark.
The sun would come up soon. He needed to hurry. The locals would be out and going to mass. He had buried a package behind a church. It was filled with guns and enough money to start a new life. Someone might see him digging it up.
South of Evil Page 31