Six Crime Stories (16 page)

 

*****

"
This is Hiram Fleason
,
"
said Mayflower
,
sliding an 8 by 10 photo across the glass-topped patio table.

Tom stared at the color photo of the thin-faced little man with wire-framed eyeglasses
,
a baggy brown suit
,
and a bad haircut. He was seated on a park bench
,
gazing blankly to one side
,
a brown paper bag in his lap and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper in his spindly hands.

Mayflower was wearing latex gloves like a doctor or dentist.
"
This is his address
,
"
he said
,
sliding a slip of paper with typeset printing on it across the table.
"
He lives in Seattle. You
'
ll rent a car and drive up there this afternoon.
"

Frowning
,
Tom looked at the address without touching it. The bad feeling he
'
d had all day was getting stronger.

Mayflower pushed a silver key across the table.
"
This is the key to the front door of Mr. Fleason
'
s house. Once you let yourself in
,
you
'
ll be pleased to know
,
there
'
s no security system to contend with.
"

Tom stared at the key
,
the bad feeling intensifying.

Next
,
Mayflower lifted a paper bag from under the table and put it down in front of Tom.
"
This is the gun you
'
ll use to kill him
,
"
the billionaire said matter-of-factly.
"
I suggest you throw it off a pier when you
'
re done.
"

Tom
'
s stomach wrenched. His instincts had been correct; the price for his wife
'
s miracle cure was steep indeed.

"
I think you
'
ll find that a single shot between the eyes will be most effective
,
"
said Mayflower.

"
Wait a minute
,
"
Tom said quietly
,
leaning back from the table.
"
I don
'
t even know this man.
"

Mayflower grinned.
"
It
'
s better that way
,
don
'
t you think? Makes it easier.
"

"
I don
'
t know who you think I am
,
"
said Tom
,
"
but I
'
m no killer.
"

Mayflower laughed. He pulled a black cigarette from the case on the table and lit it.
"
Not entirely true
,
my friend
,
"
he said.
"
You were a Marine
,
weren
'
t you? Fought in the Iraqi war
,
didn
'
t you?
"

Tom nodded grimly.

"
Killed your share of the enemy
,
"
said Mayflower. Raising one hand
,
he extended the thumb and forefinger like the hammer and barrel of a gun pointing at Tom
'
s head.
"
Served with distinction
,
"
he said
,
flicking the thumb down as if firing the imaginary gun.

"
That was different
,
"
said Tom.

"
Not at all
,
"
said Mayflower.
"
You killed for a cause. This time
,
the cause is saving your wife
'
s life.
"

Tom shook his head and pushed his chair back from the table.
"
That was war. This is murder.
"

"
Think of it this way
,
"
said Mayflower
,
blowing out sweet-smelling smoke.
"
If someone put a gun to your wife
'
s head
,
wouldn
'
t you be willing to kill him to save her life?
"

"
This isn
'
t the same thing
,
"
said Tom.

"
Yes
,
it is
,
"
said Mayflower.
"
Because if you don
'
t kill Fleason
,
your wife will die. It
'
s really that simple.
"

Tom glared at the billionaire
,
infuriated at the way he was manipulating him...infuriated because he knew Mayflower was right. Killing a civilian outside the field of combat went against everything he believed...but if it was the only way to save Sydney from the cancer
,
how could he refuse?

Mayflower had him
,
they both knew it
,
and Tom hated him because of it.

"
Think of it as a deductible
,
if you like
,
"
said Mayflower.
"
Your part of the payment for your wife
'
s medical care.
"

"
What has this guy done
,
that you want him dead?
"
Tom said darkly.

"
Who said
I
wanted him dead?
"
said Mayflower
,
smirking.
"
I never said it was
my
wish.
"

"
But what has he done?
"
said Tom.

"
You
'
re looking for justification
,
"
said Mayflower.
"
You want me to ease your conscience by telling you he
'
s a serial killer or a pedophile or a terrorist...but I won
'
t do it. The less you know
,
the better off we
'
ll all be if something goes wrong and you end up questioned by the police.
"

Tom wanted to get up from his chair and walk away...but he couldn
'
t do it. If this was his only chance to save Sydney
,
he couldn
'
t throw it away.
"
You
'
re a billionaire
,
"
he said.
"
Why can
'
t you just hire a professional hit man?
"

"
Because this is more entertaining
,
"
said Mayflower.
"
Now
,
the question you should be asking is
,
do you love your wife enough to save her life?
"

Tom met the billionaire
'
s bemused gaze and said nothing.

"
In forty-eight hours
,
"
said Mayflower
,
"
if you
'
ve completed your assignment
,
the final dose of the cure for your wife
'
s cancer will be delivered to your door. If you have not done the job in that time-frame
,
you will not receive the cure. In fact
,
once the window of opportunity closes
,
you will never have another chance to reopen it. Any attempts to contact me will be refused.
"

Tom
'
s eyes flicked from Mayflower to the photo and came to rest on the brown bag holding the gun.

Mayflower stubbed out his cigarette and clapped his latex-gloved hands together.
"
The offer is on the table
,
"
he said.
"
But the clock is ticking. What do you say
,
Mr. Porter?
"

 

*****

It was true that Tom had killed his share of men
,
but he was still nervous as he opened the door of Fleason
'
s house and stepped over the threshold. He was inside the home of the man he had come to kill
,
but he was still wrestling with himself over the final decision to pull the trigger.

Reaching up
,
he tugged the black ski mask down over his face
,
adjusting the eye-holes to leave his vision unobstructed. With one black-gloved hand
,
he slipped the gun from the waistband at the rear of his black denim pants.

As he slowly crossed the darkened living room
,
his heart pounded. Adrenaline burned through his body
,
the familiar heat he
'
d felt so many times before in the thick of battle.

Only this wasn
'
t a battle. It was cold-blooded murder.

Cautiously
,
he edged down the hallway off the living room
,
alert for any noise or fluctuation in his environment. Inching up alongside an open doorway
,
he paused...then peeked inside.

It was a bathroom
,
and it was unoccupied. Tom continued past it.

There was another doorway on the opposite side of the hall
,
a few feet further on
,
and he crossed over to press himself alongside it. As he had done at the bathroom
,
he ducked his head into the opening to size up the room beyond.

Inside
,
a cluttered desk with a computer was surrounded by loaded bookshelves and stacks of cartons. Tom took three careful steps inside to make sure no one was concealed by the cartons...then backed out into the hallway.

Two doors down and one to go.

The third was on the other side of the hall
,
and Tom eased up beside it. This time
,
when he peered around the jamb
,
he found what he was looking for.

The man from the photograph lay on the bed before him
,
sprawled atop the sheets in a white T-shirt and briefs.

Just as Tom looked in at him
,
Fleason snorted loudly
,
and Tom flicked back from the doorway...but it was a false alarm. Fleason rustled on the bed and settled into a soft snore
,
unwittingly signaling his attacker that he was fast asleep and it was safe to proceed.

Taking a deep breath
,
Tom crept into the room.

When he stood alongside the bed
,
staring down at Fleason
,
the momentum that had carried him to that point finally faltered. The reality of what he was planning to do landed heavily upon his shoulders
,
locking him up.

Killing a stranger who had done him no harm--a defenseless
,
sleeping stranger
,
no less--struck him as being so blatantly wrong that he wasn
'
t sure he could do it. It was not only a crime
,
but a sin...and though Tom wasn
'
t overly religious
,
he still feared the spiritual consequences of such an act.

For all he knew
,
Fleason was a good man...maybe a better man than Tom himself. Maybe
,
Fleason had been marked for death because he was getting in the way of someone who meant to do something bad. Maybe something terrible.

Then again
,
maybe Fleason himself was up to no good. Maybe he was a criminal or deviant. He didn
'
t look like much
,
but maybe he was even a murderer. Tom hadn
'
t had time to look into his background
,
but maybe Fleason deserved to be killed.

Somehow
,
Tom couldn
'
t quite bring himself to believe that.

Not that it really mattered what kind of man Fleason was
,
anyway. Murder was murder. Either Tom was willing to do it
,
or he wasn
'
t.

Either he loved his wife enough to kill for her
,
or he didn
'
t.

That was what it boiled down to. If this was the only way to save her
,
and he let her die
,
could he live with himself?

When he thought of it that way
,
it was a no-brainer.

Gently
,
he lifted a pillow from the bed and placed it over Fleason
'
s face. Trembling
,
he pressed the barrel of the gun into the pillow right where the spot between Fleason
'
s eyes would be.

Heart thundering
,
he cocked the weapon. A final doubt screamed up like a speeding tractor trailer from the depths of his mind
,
and he knew he couldn
'
t do it if he hesitated for one more second.

Sydney. He had to do it for Sydney.

As Tom
'
s finger pressed against the trigger
,
Fleason started gasping for breath under the pillow. His limbs twitched on the bedsheets.

Tom clenched his teeth
,
fighting a lifetime
'
s inhibitions and fears. If Fleason woke and fought back
,
things would get complicated.

Sydney. He thought of Sydney.

And squeezed the trigger.

The gun discharged
,
the force of the blast kicking hard against his hand
,
the crack of the shot muffled by the pillow. Immediately
,
Fleason stopped gasping and twitching. A blossom of blood oozed out from under the pillow and his shattered skull.

Tom had done it. He had done it for Sydney.