I flip on the light in the room. Apparently, Karl thinks I'm ungrateful or something, because a cell in Alcatraz would be more interesting—and inviting—than this room. He should just let me book my own flight and stay. I think the only reason I get to choose the car is because he has no idea what I actually do on my assignments. He would likely approve renting a tank if I sent him the bill for one.
Maybe I should try.
I shut the door behind me and cross to one of the two beds to drop my bag. With a sigh, I flop onto the other bed and stare at the ceiling.
Sleep. I need sleep.
In a few hours, I'll be gunning down a man who probably doesn't want to die just yet. They never do.
I kick off my shoes, remove the jacket and shirt and pants, and crawl under the covers. I should have showered first, but now I'm too comfortable to move.
My eyes close, my brain drifting toward unconsciousness, the undeniable hum in the background.
***
I try to open my eyes, but the overhead light catches me in the face. Blinking, I struggle to clear my brain. Something woke me.
My phone. I un-bury myself from under the covers, feeling like the bastard child of the Tin Man and Scarecrow, and lean over the foot of the bed. My phone is still in the pocket of my pants lying on the floor. I fish it out and, with a grunt, fall back into the pillows. I squint as the screen lights up.
A text message.
I grin and tap the icon.
It's a picture: a boob shot from Syd. Underneath it says,
You back?
I reply,
Not yet.
My eyes start to close when another text message comes in.
I miss you.
I'm not sure what to reply, so I lay the phone on the mattress next to me and try to go back to sleep. Still, I can't help but smile.
***
I wake in the late morning to a thrumming in my head. That's the hum. It's gaining. I sit on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor, and rub my eyes with my palms. The hum is like a hangover, a caffeine headache, and what I imagine that noise people claim to hear in Taos, New Mexico sounds like—all rolled into a big wad of misery and crammed into my skull.
Mostly, though, I hate what it will become. Hate it enough that my thoughts go right to Phil's imminent death. His speech is this evening. I have a plan.
Not a very good one. But a plan.
I trudge to the bathroom, smacking my palm to my head and muttering, “Quiet, already. I'm working on it.”
Since I packed next to nothing, I grab the little courtesy bottles from the vanity and leave my phone in their place. Traveling light makes the situation feel like it will be over faster. Plus, less potential of leaving clues behind.
I flip on the shower and hop in. I could piss better water pressure.
Thank you, Karl. Your generosity overwhelms me.
Multimillionaires don't get that way by being frivolous, I guess.
Half way through my shower-coma, my phone vibrates on the vanity.
“Dammit, Syd.” I splash off the last of the soap.
Then I realize it's probably not Syd.
I fumble from behind the curtain and grab my phone on the last ring.
Before I can speak, a man on the other side says, “I am looking for Dimitri Hayes.”
He sounds so formal, I feel like I should be in a suit and tie just to answer his call. I recognize the routine. He's one of Karl's men. Karl has them all over the country, and possibly the globe.
“Dimitri Hayes, that's me.” I unfold a towel from the wall rack and wrap it around my waist. “And yes, it's room two-eleven.”
“Thank you.” He hangs up.
These guys move fast. I barely slip on my pants before there's a knock on the door. I don't even bother to peek out. I'm the most dangerous thing in this hotel, and maybe the whole damn city. If I'm told to be, anyway.
A man is standing at the door, wearing jeans and a Saints jersey and holding a large brown envelope with one hand. He stares at me.
I put up my hands and wiggle my fingers. His frown deepens. He grabs my wrist and narrows his eyes.
“No fingerprints,” I say.
He concludes for himself, then hands me the envelope. I shut the door in his face and walk to my bed.
At least he won't be calling me later to discuss his feelings.
I rip open the envelope and start packing the gun, ammo, and silencer into my jacket. After I shave and finish dressing, I grab my jacket, phone, and keys and head out. Time to get some coffee and grub. I have an entertaining night ahead.
***
New Orleans seems like a nice place. Small cafes and bars. Not as many big chain restaurants as Phoenix. More trees and standing water. The sky is still overcast with gray clouds, but not in a dreary way.
The hours pass too quickly and soon I'm driving toward the convention center. As I roll through the parking lot, looking for a space, I pass nothing but Cadillacs and BMWs. That red Lincoln would have been perfect. God dammit.
I park and sort through my papers. On the printout maps of the convention center, I've highlighted the conference room where Phil will be giving his speech. It's on the third level, to the right of the elevators.
I look up through the windshield at the people in business suits trickling in and out of the building.
Security is going to be creeping all over this place.
Not like I was going to headshot Phil while he's on stage, anyway. This is just a scope out. Get a feel for the guy.
I shrug out of my jacket, grab my phone and Ralf's wallet, and step out. The weather is fantastic here. The sun doesn't smack upside the head like in the desert, yet there's no threat of snow.
My boots clunk against the asphalt of the parking lot. If I had to do any of this by stealth, I would have been dead a long time ago. I am not a ninja.
The lobby is well lit, both with natural light through the glass walls and artificial lights mounted in the high ceiling.
Visitors come and go in small groups. I head into their midst, into pre-functions. There are doors and hallways everywhere. I'm already feeling lost, even though the exit is only a few yards back.
Ever onward. I spot the elevators and make my way through the crowd gathering around tables of coffee and donuts.
An elevator opens. A few people get off, and I get on. Two women in business attire join me right before the doors close. The women gab at each other in that loud, self-assured office voice. Maybe it's a job requirement.
They exit on the second floor. I exit on the third. The hallways ahead and to the side are empty. Just more doors. I follow along until I find my room, take a deep breath, and step in.
The room is long and carpeted, with theater style seats. A few people are already waiting. Most of the chairs are empty. I sit in the front row, but to the far side. I want to see more of Phil than he sees of me.
That's the idea, anyway.
Within a few minutes, the room starts to fill up. The constant chattering doesn't even touch the hum in my head. Granted, the hum has maintained an even level, but I'm beginning to think I could make out more of what is being said around me if I could clear my brain.
But I can only clear it by killing Phil. So here I am.
A podium rests on the stage, and behind it, a projector screen.
I have no idea what this damn conference is even about. His profile must have stated his industry at least a hundred times, but I don't actually care. All I know is, his industry is about to be less one brilliant mind.
Phil enters the room, smiling and talking with a woman. I recognize him from the picture. The woman hands him some notes and departs into the aisle to take a seat. My gaze follows him to the podium.
I pretend I'm the Terminator. Locked onto my target. Ready to go Arnold Schwarzenegger on this douche-bag.
He smiles at the audience. It looks so fake, I want to throat punch him. People start pulling legal pads and pens from their bags. I'm probably the only one not taking notes. The audience better listen closely, because this is the last time they will ever hear his sage words.
A smirk sets on my lips.
He begins to speak. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I glance at the people seated nearby. No one is paying any attention to me, even though I'm wearing casual clothes—dark jeans and a black t-shirt—because I never think this shit through. Sometimes I'm too low key.
I pull the phone from my pocket.
The message is from Syd:
I take it back. I don't actually miss you.
I swallow a laugh and text,
I should be home tomorrow. Send me another photo.
She shoots back:
Why don't you send me one?
I am so glad everyone is fixated on Phil's animated carcass, because I am positive I'm turning red. Who knew that was even possible?
I reply,
I'm in public.
She wastes no time responding,
That makes it even hotter.
I grin as I type,
Is there a name for your condition?
A woman beside me clears her throat, pulling my attention away from the phone. “Would you like some paper?”
I look at her. She's offering me a fresh legal pad and a ballpoint pen.
Resistance is futile.
I accept it, smiling and trying to appear pleasant and not like I want to stab her in the eye with said ballpoint pen. I set the items on my lap and refocus on my text conversation.
Syd has sent another message. I remember what Christmas morning used to be like when I was young and my father was alive. That's the same feeling I get every time I see the little glowing icon now.
The woman next to me says, “Is this your first time at one of Doctor Ballantyne's conferences?”
My head snaps up to her. She jumps, and a small line forms in her forehead.
“Oh,” she whispers, “I'm sorry for bothering you.”
She turns back to the podium.
Crap. I need to focus on the job.
With a stifled sigh, I silence my phone and stuff it back in my pocket. I take a moment to collect myself, then size up the woman.
She has short hair and oval, wire-framed glasses. She's wearing a blue suit and a scarf with purple splotches.
I have seconds to make her real and likable, so I can pretend to be the same.
She's a single mom to two children, I decide. No, three. Balancing a career and a family. Terrible divorce left her emotionally fragmented. Her children are everything to her. The reason she puts in the long hours. The reason she attends these lectures.
“No,” I say. “I've never been to . . . Doctor Ballantyne's . . . conferences before.”
Doctor Phillip Ballantyne. Hope he doesn't have a middle name, because I don't know if it will all fit on his tombstone.
She glances at me and gives a polite, but uninterested, smile. I try to focus on what Dr. Phil is saying.
“ . . . were the original inhabitants of the Canary Islands, the Berber said to have migrated to the islands between one-thousand B.C. and one-hundred B.C. Now, the Guanches have since died out, primarily through intermingling, but many cultural aspects alive today on the Canary Islands are attributed to them. For example, the Silbo Gomero, or
el silbo
. Silbo is more commonly referred to as the whistling language. It developed as a means to communicate long distances . . . ”
The projector screen behind him reads: The Polytheistic Beliefs of Pre-Islam Arabia.
Maybe I should have paid more attention to my studies because I have no idea how any of this relates to each other.
I pick up the pen and legal pad to take notes and nod along . . . for about three minutes. Then I can't pretend to care about blending in anymore, and I pull out my phone again.
I read Syd's message:
No name for my condition, but the doctor orders a firm fucking every twelve hours.
Grinning like a dork, I type,
I'll fill your prescription when I get back.
I wait for her reply, but she has apparently moved on to something else. I imagine she has an active social life, between her band and the fact she has a personality. Those aspects tend to attract attention, especially from guys.
The thought turns to despair and sinks from my chest to my stomach. Syd is, in reality, a player. That's why I let her stick around. One day, she will run off with her opening band and live the life of a B-list celebrity. Her fans will adore her. Maybe I'll get lucky and see her on YouTube sometimes.
The despair morphs into something resembling contentment. Syd is going to leave one day, but she'll never be completely gone from my life. I'm good with that.
At least, I can pretend I am.
***
Doctor Phillip Ballantyne prattles on for a quarter past forever, but the clock lies and shows it has only been two hours. My ass is numb. These conference seats could get a confession from the innocent.
I head for the door, then realize I'm a moron. No going back to my hotel yet. I pat my pockets like I lost something, though most people are busy politely shoving through the crowd out the exit, and make my way back to my Guantanamo special edition chair.
Phil—I hope I can call him Phil—is standing to the side of the podium conversing with some women from the audience. They are talking in rapid excitement, even giggling. My boy here is a regular Tommy Lee.
He glances up and his gaze lands on me. His grin is so wide he looks like a damn Jack-o'-lantern.
“Hello, hello!” He comes toward me, arm outstretched.
I pull to my feet and shake his hand, squeezing a little too hard accidentally on purpose. His flinch is quickly subdued.
He talks like every sentence ends with an exclamation mark. “I hope you found my conference enlightening! I haven't seen you at the others! If you enjoyed it, I will be holding another one next month in Houston!”
I give my temple a short rub with my palm and try to vomit up some sunshine right back. “It was excellent, uh, Phil.”
“Doctor,” he says, with a reprimanding raised eyebrow.
“Doctor. Yes, Doctor.” I struggle to find the next words. “Your piece on the Canary Islands was quite . . . brilliant.”