Authors: Phoenix Williams
Andy could only
make out the dead shell of a building in the distance from the small
stretch of freeway that wound through the outskirts of town. The sun
made a remarkable twinkle as it began sinking behind the dilapidated
form. Shortly following, they exited onto a thriving avenue that
contained tower-like apartment buildings and large houses. It was a
very young neighborhood. Through it prowled hipsters and naive trend
followers. Ambitious people with no talent. Your local pot dealer.
He almost believed
that the taxi driver wanted to pick up a sack once he stopped the car
in a dingy part of the neighborhood, but he only collected the blank
check Andy was left with, helped him with his luggage and then
departed, leaving him in front of a strange house. He walked up to
the front stoop and rang the doorbell. After a minute of waiting, he
looked around to make sure that this was the house he had to go to
before ringing it again. Now he heard movement.
The door was
unlocked and pulled in, and from behind it a very young, lanky man
peered. Sweat clung to his short, rough beard.
“Amidon?”
Andy asked.
“Summers?”
the thin man asked in response, trying to stay on top of his domain.
Andy smirked at the
lack of creativity his boss possessed. “Andy,” he simply
introduced before pushing past the skittish man into the living room.
“Steven,”
his host replied.
The place was a
stereotypical description of the term “man-cave.” Plates
and silverware occupied more area on the surfaces of tables, desks,
and trays than anything, but still their numbers failed in comparison
to the quantity of cups littered about, several of which still had
ample amounts of liquid in them. Curtains were placed over all of the
windows to prevent any sunlight from contaminating the otherwise
bleak atmosphere of the room. Or perhaps it was to prevent any glares
on the television screen which, from the position of the furniture,
got a lot of attention.
“I guess they
told you that I'm a man,” Andy commented, noting the lack of
any attempt to tidy up for his visit.
“You guess?”
Steven returned to the original discussion. “Are you the guy
from the tabloids?”
Again Andy smirked
to himself about his boss's lies. He nodded. “Here about Haley
Flynn,” he said.
Steven sighed in
relief, concerned that he had just let a random stranger into his
room. Andy was still a stranger, but at least he was an expected
stranger. “I've already begun collecting information about Miss
Flynn,” he began. “I'll be honest, we're going to have to
be very lucky to expose any dirt on her. She seems to have no
skeletons in her closet, so to speak.”
“Dig more and
we'll find them,” Andy said. “What do you know about her
now?”
Steven was a little
startled for some reason. Perhaps he hardly exposed himself to
conversations. He looked as if he had been put on the spot. Still,
his reputation did tone a true color as he replied through awkward
delivery. “She's twenty-six years old, born and raised in
Montreal –”
“She's not
American?” Andy asked with interest.
“She wasn't
until she got her citizenship two summers ago,” Steven was
quick to answer. “She graduated high school with alright grades
but flourished at the University of Colorado in Boulder. She got her
bachelor's in humanities and began volunteering in Denver at several
homeless shelters. From there, she was offered a position in human
services in New York City, which she stayed at until about two months
ago, when she arrived here. Her step brother Jacob lives here and
she's been staying with him while investigating rumors of illegal –
and immoral – economic practices being used on local resources.
She's caught a whiff of something big, something worth exposing.”
Andy hummed as he
thought it all over. “So she's a saint?”
Steven nodded.
Andy turned back
around to hang his coat by the door. “Then we will have to dig
deep,” he reiterated.
-Chapter Four-
Haley
Andy discovered
that Steven lived the life of a hermit on his second day in the
house. Little Andy did would interest him as he sat in his recliner,
scribbling away in a journal as the television blared at him. Andy
would try to engage him in conversation, but Steven would only reply
to his questioning as closed-ended as he could before turning back to
his preoccupations. He sipped on cheap white wine that he poured from
a box into a mug. He sat in the glow of the screen, drunk.
Andy began having
his doubts about his data collector after the second day during which
Steven didn't leave his locked bedroom until the late afternoon.
Dishes piled up while Andy agreed to wash them in exchange for the
roof above his head. He felt that even that was a sour deal on his
behalf. It was on this second evening that he sprung into motion,
dressing in the privacy of his guest room into a casual suit. Brown,
without a tie and patches on the elbows. Like a college professor.
“Steven,”
he addressed his host as he slid up behind the chair unnoticed. The
half-aware, half-sober man jumped but was interrupted before he could
protest the surprise. “How did you get that information about
Flynn?”
“I,”
Steven started.
“Did you just
find it on the Internet?” Andy asked.
Steven started
making exasperated giggles, signifying his offense. Then he clammed
up for a moment and confessed, “For starters.”
“Do you even
know where she lives?” Andy interrogated.
“Yes, of
course,” Steven replied. “Her brother has an apartment in
the Five Points community on Elite Street.”
“Which
apartment?”
“Well I -- I
don't know that yet – ”
“Why not?”
Steven jumped on
the defensive. “The apartment number isn't listed, just his
P.O. box number. The phone book doesn't list – ”
Andy was upset.
“You used the phone book?” he demanded. “The phone
book!”
He turned away,
stamping in his jet black polished dress shoes to the door. He fumed
inside his head, cursing the man on the plane for his apparent
insult. He had thought himself more professional than this amateur
performance. He needed someone with experience. Someone motivated.
Smart.
“Where are
you going?” Steven asked as he watched Andy reach for the door
handle.
“I'm going to
go do some research on Flynn,” Andy stated.
Again, Steven's
face was constricted in offense. “I'm the data collector,”
he commented.
Stepping away from
the door, Andy turned to face the man, tightening the muscles in his
face to terrify. To show the killer inside. It was a grimace to make
little schoolgirls out of warriors. Steven shook.
“If that's
what you call it,” Andy started, releasing each word through
his hissing teeth, “then I demand you do it.” He lurched
forward which set Steven in a defensive pose. “You will waste
neither my time, my patience, nor any more of our employer's finances
sitting about on your ass. Otherwise, I'll walk out this door.”
Steven's eyes
darted around for something to defend himself with. Andy could see
the fear and discomfort in his pupils. He tried to speak. Fear shook
his voice. “If you do that,” he started, failing to
maintain calm in his tone, “I'll tell Mr. Graves.”
This stopped Andy
in his menacing thoughts. His face fell soft of the violent intent he
displayed and into true surprise. “That's his name?” he
asked.
Something
frightened Steven about the man's sudden change of mood than the
previous rage directed at him. He said, “The man with the
plane?” He relaxed when Andy nodded. “Yes. Leroy Graves.”
Andy was impressed.
He had worked for the man on the plane for almost nine years and
never before had heard his name. When he dared to ask it once, Graves
replied that knowing it jeopardized their work together. Yet this
amateur, as he referred to Steven before, figured it out.
“How long
have you worked for him?” Andy asked. Curiosity drove his tone
instead of dominance.
“Five
months,” Steven replied. He seemed unsure what Andy was getting
at.
Again, Andy was
impressed.
“I even know
where he lives,” Steven chimed in, realizing that he lifted off
the bad foot that they had started out on. “The name of his
wife. His mistress, where she lives. What kind of car he drives. His
favorite restaurant.”
“Do you know
what company he represents?” Andy interrupted, seeing now an
opportunity.
“Yes.”
“Which?”
“I can't
say,” Steven said, repositioning himself defensively. He really
did not want to piss off his guest again.
“Why not?”
Andy was getting upset again.
“Orders,”
Steven replied. “In fact, I've said too much. Please, Mr.
Summers, don't put me in any worse of a position than I am already
in. Knowing only makes this harder.”
Andy sighed. He
knew that he couldn't get any more from the man. He paused at the
door. “How did you find all of this out?” he asked.
“Most of
that, actually, was Google,” Steven replied. “I get one
lead and I keep pulling and pulling until all the roots are torn from
the dirt. Every stone unturned reveals what the world under it looks
like. I will collect every drop of information I can find about a
subject before I can make any assumptions about it. Yes, yes, I know
what I can see with my eyes, but I want to know what a witness has to
say about Haley Flynn. What the Internet has to say. Phone books.
That is where I have to start.”
Again, Andy sighed.
Too quick to anger,
he judged himself. Steven proved himself
full of surprises, at least, on this evening. He was right,
considering they dealt with such a sensitive case as this. If he
planned to kill this woman without anyone, even Steven, knowing she
had been murdered, he needed every detail about her that he could
pull together. Something could give himself away without ever
thinking about it if it weren't for the expertise Steven had to offer
him. Something like that could mean the death of him, the only
fitting punishment for a failed killer.
Steven is going
to save my life,
he decided.
“Come on,”
he said, nodding his head to the door. “Let's research.”
Andy found himself
thankful to have Steven with him as they drove through the city,
creeping toward the Five Points apartment complex along the bleak and
misnamed Elite Street. Steven had a car. He hadn't thought it
through, but Andy would have to sit in a tree or something to stake
out the building. In New England. In the winter.
It wasn't exactly a
ghetto, but Elite Street wore it share of dilapidation. Several
buildings were boarded up and closed to future activity. Groups of
young tattooed men, few white people among them, chatted around in
loose, warm clothing. Gang bangers. Or so Andy could only assume. He
almost scolded himself on being too quick to judge. But he was an
assassin. He had to be quick on everything.
Good killer, not
so good man,
he thought.
Steven pulled the
car up by the Five Star apartments, taking care to look inconspicuous
and empty. The car could not be left running so they had brought
blankets. Steven had to point this out to Andy, in a way crushing his
excitement about the car's heater.
“You do this
often?” Andy asked with the first sign of humor he had allowed
to slip through to Steven.
“Often
enough,” Steven answered.
For a moment they
sat in silence, anticipating any change that could take place. Every
bit of movement or color attracted Andy's attention. Everything
seemed to be much more interesting than it was in reality. That
feeling dissolved as they waited in the dark, hoping it had not been
too late to catch her. The clock read only five in the evening.
Either way, they must wait. Hopefully they would catch her coming
home from her day of activities, but they would be patient until she
came back out if that's what they had to do. Andy sighed to himself
when he realized how restless the whole ordeal made him. Not often
did his assignments require this much care. He had even a few jobs
that were, “this is what he looks like, here's a gun, now go at
it.”