Read Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation Online
Authors: Raymond Benson
The
only positive things about being at Greenhill, he decided, were the evenings he
spent with Helen. Since his cover required him to flirt with a more “human”
identity, he made the effort to talk more and be more personable. The shyness
act played well, for it encouraged Helen to “draw him out,” bringing them
closer to a kind of friendship that, surprisingly, 47 enjoyed. He was
uncommonly comfortable with the platonic relationship they had built in the
short time they’d known each other. He sensed, however, that she wanted to take
their friendship to another level. Sometimes she referred to their
get-togethers as “dates,” and one night he was certain that she wanted him to
kiss her good night after he’d walked her to her building. But 47 couldn’t do
it. Something prevented him from crossing that line with her.
One
evening after dinner, they took a walk outside the compound along the two-lane
road toward Coal Landing. The sun was rapidly sinking and the weather had
turned autumn-cool, so Helen bundled up in a sweater and light jacket. Agent 47
simply wore his work shirt and overalls with a windbreaker. At one point, she
shivered and complained of being chilled. 47 recognized the hint, so he placed
his arm around her and held her closer. It was all part of acting the role,
even though it felt completely foreign to him.
“
Mmm
, that’s better,” she said.
The
hitman
felt awkward but used that in his
characterization of timorous Stan Johnson.
“I
told Mitch Carson that you wanted to work in the mansion gardens. He said he’d
speak to Stuart about it.”
47
allowed a wry laugh. “I don’t think Stuart Chambers likes me very much.”
“Why
do you say that?”
“Have
you noticed he gives me all the ugly jobs? I have yet to do any real
maintenance work. He’s not very nice to me. Why is he such an … such an—”
“Asshole?”
He
looked at her and smiled. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I was trying to say.”
“I
don’t know, but I agree. He’s actually kind of sweet on me. About a year ago he
asked me out. We dated a few times, but he wanted …
er
,
he wanted more from me than I was willing to give at the time. I also thought
he was disrespectful and insensitive. I broke it off with him.” She looked up
at 47 and squeezed his arm. “Maybe he’s jealous.”
“Of me?”
“Of you and me.”
“Oh.”
Did
that mean the rest of the compound was already viewing Helen and Stan as a
couple? 47 didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing.
“People
are talking, you know,” she said mischievously.
“About us?”
“Yep.
Hey, we’ve been together every night since you got
here. There may be a couple hundred people living at Greenhill, but it’s really
a little place. It’s like small-town gossip. Whenever someone hooks up with
somebody, it becomes news.”
“I
didn’t know.” 47 found that disturbing. “Why would anyone care?”
“People
are people.”
He
had never thought of that. This relationship stuff was very new to him and he
said so.
She
squeezed his arm again, stood on her tiptoes because of his height, and kissed
his cheek. 47
was
flustered.
“I’m
new at it too, Stan,” she said.
This
was all very bizarre.
Helen
was acting like I was her boyfriend or something.
I
knew I had to get close to her when I came here. The plan was that I would
integrate myself into a “normal” human social life, and I’d been able to do it.
I was surprised by my success, although I couldn’t say I found it particularly
comfortable. It was very alien to me. It made me feel like even more of a
freak, because no matter how hard I tried, even if I meant it, I would never be
“normal.”
Every
morning Helen used her keycard to go through the gate to the restricted area.
She was in the mansion all day working for Charlie Wilkins. Helen was my means
of getting inside that mansion, so I had to keep up the illusion that we were a
couple. What was strange about it all—and I wasn’t sure how to handle it—was
that I was truly enjoying her company. I’d never had a friend of that sort.
Diana
Burnwood
was the closest thing, and she was my
Agency handler. I rarely saw her in person. I could count the number of times
on one hand. Helen was very different. She was just an innocent, regular
person, except there was something in her past that she wasn’t proud of,
something that wounded her. I aimed to find out what that was.
Wilkins
had left the compound and was traveling with his campaign committee. The man
had a lot of work to do before the election, which was in three weeks. There
had been no word from the Agency regarding the hit on him. I didn’t expect the
orders to come too soon. Helen told me some interesting things about Wilkins. I
had already done due diligence and researched the man thoroughly. I knew how he
had started the Church back in the 1970s and worked his way up. He became a
millionaire when he opened his fast-food chain restaurants, so that gave him
the means to expand his Church. Helen told me he was close with Dana Shipley
Linder’s mother and that her father had died in a hunting accident.
Interesting.
Fatal
hunting accidents are actually quite rare.
In
the meantime, I resolved to continue my so-called “work” at Greenhill and keep
seeing Helen. I dared myself to say it. I liked her. And what a curious and
unfamiliar sensation that was. For the first time in my life I was feeling what
others call an emotion.
With
one hand carrying a bouquet of flowers from Sam’s Florist on Greenhill’s Main
Street, 47 knocked on the apartment door with the other. It opened swiftly, and
Helen stood wearing a daringly low-cut evening dress. He wore his signature
black suit and red tie.
“Stan,
come in. Oh, flowers! Are these for me?”
“Of course.”
He handed them to her and stepped inside. She
closed the door and smelled the mixed bouquet.
“How lovely!
Let me get a vase to put these in. Come on in and make yourself at home.
Dinner’s almost ready.”
While
he had been in her apartment a couple of times, this was the first for an
honest-to-goodness dinner date. A one-bedroom space, Helen’s home was decidedly
feminine and tastefully furnished. A card table, covered by a white tablecloth,
sat in the middle of the living room. Two large lit candles provided flickering
illumination. In fact, Helen had placed several candles around the room.
Was
this what they called a “romantic” dinner? 47 wondered. In preparation for what
might be an unpredictable situation, he had chosen not to take any
oxycodone
that day. So far, he felt fine.
She
reentered the room with the flowers in a glass vase. “I’ll put these on the
coffee table, since the vase is too big to go on our table. How do you like it?
I borrowed the tablecloth from the cafeteria.”
“It’s
very nice.”
She
laughed. “Stan, you really are a man of few words.” She pointed to a bottle of
champagne sitting in an ice bucket. “Could you open that? I just have to check
on the chicken.”
47
took the bottle, examined the label, and didn’t recognize the name. He figured
it was one of the inexpensive brands sold in the convenience store at
Greenhill. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t planning to drink much of it. 47 tore
off the foil top, worked the cork, and pointed the bottle at the ceiling. After
the pop, sudsy liquid spilled onto the rug. Helen came back in to witness it.
“Sorry,”
he said.
She
laughed again. “Don’t be silly. That’s what’s supposed to happen with
champagne.” She picked up two glasses from the table and held them out to him.
“Fill ’
em
up, sir.”
He
did,
then
placed the bottle back in the bucket. “Are
we celebrating something?”
“Not
really. Who says you have to be celebrating something to have champagne?”
He
took his glass. She held hers up and said, “To Charlie winning president, to
the Church of Will, and to our friendship.” 47
clinked
her glass and took a sip. She nearly downed hers. It wasn’t the best champagne
he’d ever had, nor was it the worst.
Dinner
was a roasted chicken covered with a mustard-based rubbing that 47 found
delicious. Helen had also prepared baked potatoes and a dish of broccoli
roasted with garlic cloves. She broke out a bottle of red wine and filled yet
another glass. 47 watched her consume too much during the meal, and she became
giddy and talkative. She was obviously nervous, as if she expected something to
happen between them that night.
47
recognized that if he were perhaps a bit more like other men, something would
happen. Fortunately, he wasn’t.
When
they were done with the meal, the assassin helped her with the dishes. She
washed and he dried. At one point, though, his hands began to shake. The
dreaded anxiety had returned. When she handed him a wet plate, it slipped right
out of his trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.
“Helen,
I’m sorry.
How clumsy of me.”
“
It’s
okay, it’s okay. Let me get a dustpan and broom.”
He
stooped and picked up shards. She brought him a paper bag to throw them in. “Be
careful; don’t cut yourself,” she said.
47
helped her with the dustpan, and soon the mess was cleared. Then he asked to
use the washroom. When he was alone, he dug the pill bottle out of his pocket
and opened it—but it slipped from his shaking hands, spilling tablets all over
the floor.
“You
all right in there?” he heard her call.
“Fine.”
He
managed to collect the pills, swallowed two, and replaced the rest in the
bottle. When he returned to the living room, Helen stood and said, “You had a
good idea. It’s my turn now—
excuse
me.”
“Sure,”
he said.
While
she was out of the room, he took the time to examine some of her things. There
was a collection of paperbacks on a shelf, mostly romantic novels and a few
self-help books. Especially striking was the absence of photographs. No family
pictures. No high school graduation shot.
Was
that a symptom of loneliness?
Helen
reappeared with a concerned expression on her face.
“Everything all right?”
47 asked.