Meeting Kate

I didn't get much sleep right before I left Albany; I was too keyed up and my thoughts raced all night. Have you ever had one of those times where no matter what direction you went, it wasn't right? Yeah, that's where I was all night. No matter how many times I rolled over or swapped pillows, trying to get the cool side, I'd lay there and think of what's happened.

I know I said I don't do outcomes, but the past few days have made me mental. No way out.

Finally, after getting something to eat at the pinnacle of breakfast cuisine, Burger King, I looked again at the map and made up my mind to go south; get out of the northeast and get some miles between me and; and what? I didn't know. I just had to do something; to move; to look like I was doing something constructive.

There was no more news about Varden, so I didn't have any idea whether my name was attached to the case or not, but after my telephone call... I just didn't know where I stood.

I've always been able to think better when I'm driving long distances, although I have auto-hypochondria; that's when you are in a car for a long time and you rub your neck and think you've found a lump; it's gotta be cancer!

Anyway. I was able to get past Washington, D.C. before my eyes burned and the car kept going towards the edge of the road. The sound of the tires hitting the edge, where there are some speed strips to warn you, popped me back to consciousness. Most of the motels along I-95 were not what I wanted; they asked for too much information and usually wanted the car's license tag. So, I took an exit near Richmond and drove towards town to find a little hole-in-the-wall Mom-and-Pop motel; the ones left over from pre-interstate.

Finally found a place some people would call "quaint", but I call old and never re-decorated. Smelled that way, too; camphor smell from the moth repellent. Too tired to care, I grabbed a small bag out of the car and undressed to my boxers; fell into bed and my eyes closed immediately. Immediately, that is, until I heard an argument and noise from the next room.

Besides the loud screaming, someone was throwing things at the wall separating me from my sleep. While I couldn't quite make out everything being said, it was loud enough to keep me from sleeping, even with the pillow over my ears.

The minutes dragged on until my neighbors decided to take their discussion outside, in front of my door. Enough! I opened the door and saw some scrawny guy throw his fist at a woman and hit her in the face. The next time he drew his hand back to hit her again, I stepped between them.

We just stared at each other for a few seconds until he said, "Fuck it! You can have her," and got in his car and left. I looked behind me and the woman looked terrible; black-eye, bloody noise, running mascara; and bruises.

I grabbed her arm and took her inside my room; no resistance at all.

"Sit down," I said and pushed her towards the foot of the bed.

I soaked a washcloth, stood in front of her, grabbed her chin and wiped her face. Tears started dropping from her eyes.

"What's going on?" I asked. She said nothing.

"You have somewhere to go?" Nothing. She just sat there.

"You can have that bed," I said pointing to one still untouched. "I'm going back to bed."

That was somewhere around 0-dark-thirty. I never saw the time. When I awoke, light was trying to creep around the curtains and Miss Messy-Face still sat at the end of the bed, The tears had stopped.

"Thank you," she said.

"What now?"

"I dunno. That was my husband last night and we're done. I have nowhere to go."

"We'll talk more after breakfast," I said. "Why don't you wash up."

An hour later, I was showered and at a Denny's with a little fresher companion. The waitress made some comment about her leaving me after she saw the bruises and black eye.

"You can call me Mack."

"I'm Kate."

"Okay, Kate. What now? Can I drop you some place? You have someone to stay with?"

"Not anymore. We were just moving to Richmond when he told me he had someone else. She's here, somewhere in Virginia, and that's that."

"Where you from?"

"Wisconsin. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. No one there either."

"I'll give you some money for bus fare. Where do you want to go?"

Kat looked straight at me, then down and the tears started flowing again.

"Okay, okay. You can ride with me a while until we get this figured out."

We ate breakfast and decided we go south together until she thought of somewhere she'd rather be. On the way back to I-95, we stopped at a Wal-Mart so Kate could get a few clothes and personal items. She changed when we got gas and, once on the road, fell sound asleep.

Two wanderers on the road. If this were still college, it would be an adventure. Now, it's still an adventure; a different kind. In college you didn't worry about the future; you felt safe no matter what. That's different now.

Time to get out of Dodge...

In the last couple of days, I've managed to get to the bank in Albany and withdraw most all of the cash from the safety deposit box. There is a few thousand left in there, just for emergencies, but the rest is with me.

A cab took me from downtown, which really isn't that large, past a few used car lots. I wanted something I could pay cash for without alarming anyone, especially the IRS. So, I had an arbitrary limit of $5,000, which shouldn't ring any bells.

I found an older Chevy Impala, with only 75,000 miles on it; paid cash and drove it off the lot. The IDs I gave the dealership were false, a rush job, but the people in the dealership didn't question anything. With the economy in the dumper, all they cared about was the cash. I was happy to give a semi-spirited negotiation as to the price, but caved easily. I just wanted to make sure they were ready to close everything and let me drive out of there.

Although I have a temporary plate on the car, I'll either ditch it somewhere or steal a plate off another car. For today, at least, nothing to worry over. Just down the block from where I got the car, I dropped into a convenience store to fill the tank, grab something to eat and get a map of the east coast.

Getting out of Albany is easy, just jump on I-90 going east towards Boston where I plan to catch I-95 south. I got until Key West to make up my mind where to stop for a while. Once on the road, and still in Albany, I used a new pre-paid cell phone to call my benefactor's number. Although he had called me a few days ago, he failed to disguise the Caller ID, which showed on the cell's display. I have a good memory.

"Hello?"

"I want my 20k."

"Ah, Mr. Stevens. I didn't think I would hear from you again. Did you like my little present?"

"No. Not one bit. It was cruel and completely unnecessary, but more than anything else, it was obscene."

"Oh, I think it was necessary, Mr. Stevens. And, as far as the rest, call it what you want."

"Why? What possible reason could you have to do that to someone?"

"I wanted to get your attention and it worked, didn't it? It's important for you to understand I know who you are and can use that information for my security. As of now, you're not tied to Varden, unless you were stupid and I don't think you are. But, if we can't get along..."

"What do you want?" What is it you want me to do?"

"Nothing yet, but I'll have an assignment in due time. Just plan on calling me in a week or so at this number."

"What if I give your number to the police?"

"Go ahead. The number is re-routed so many times, it's impossible to locate and, it's not through the telephone company. It's Voice Over IP, an Internet number. In the mean time, make yourself comfortable and call me back next week. I'll tell you where you can pick up your money at that time."

The line went dead.

I pressed the end key to terminate the connection, wiped the phone thoroughly and disposed of it before getting too far down the road. Isn't this a pile of shit. I'm caught in a trap I helped create; wanting just to get out of everyone's life, even my own, and a voice, belonging to someone I don't know, has too much information about me. Like I said before, I'm royally fucked.

I had to force myself to slow the car under the speed limit and not pass other cars like an idiot. That's a sure way to get someone's attention and by someone, I meant police. Up until I went to Varden's house, I was in complete control, or so I thought. All I had to do was complete that one job and disappear again. Now, where was I? I'll tell you where I am. I'm the fucking target; I'm a fucking puppet.

I'm heading south. Instead of taking I-90 towards Boston, I'm going to cut over to I-87 and go south, past New York. Time to get out of Dodge...

Like Sand Through My Hands

Like most people, when I check into a hotel room, I turn on the television and channel surf. I wanted to see if there was any news about Varden, so I turned to one of the local Albany channels; news only and then lay down on the bed.

I must have drifted off, because I remember waking to an adrenalin burst upon hearing Varden's name mentioned by one of the news presenters. Unfortunately, it was at the end of the broadcast for the rotation; a promo of a story to come later; I'd have to wait.

The cold water I splashed on my face, in the hopes of making me more alert, almost worked. I took the towel back into the room and sat on the bed to wait; it didn't take long.

"Local dignitary, Thomas Varden, was killed last night at his Hudson home. Varden served on the school board, city council and was Mayor of Hudson from 1984 to 1988. He was well liked by the community and is survived by two sons, both now living in Pittsburgh, and seven grandchildren.

The police are only saying he was killed last night in his home. As yet, they are releasing few details and have no suspects. A news conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10:00."

Time to get out of here, I thought, before this blows up further. Whoever targeted me and killed Varden may be up to something else and I don't want to wait around and see. I had money stashed in Albany and getting it was first on my list. Then leave this area.

Without knowing whether the police are looking for me, I can't take any chances flying, train or bus. I thought this through while in the shower and decided to get a used car; not from a retail dealer; private sale only.

So, my plans are to go back into Albany and get to the bank where I have a safety deposit box; the library to use their computers and get on the road again. I'm hoping to find someone selling a decent road car through the classifieds or Craig's List.

I also decided not to shave and grow a beard as a partial disguise. A couple of day's growth, with my thick stubble and I'll have the beginnings. I'll shape it later.

When I get the car, I'll decide what direction to travel. What's the most important, however, is I can't do this forever. I have to find whoever did this to me and why.

Questions, But No Answers

So, here I sit, in a hotel room in upstate New York. I don't know whether to move on to some other area of the country or stay here. I want to hide, pull the covers over my head and sleep, but I'm too agitated for that.

The paper I picked up in Varden's bedroom had my real name on it; nothing else; but it was enough. The old man was dead long before I came into his life, much less to his bedside. Whoever cut him open did it as a message to me; told me I'm the prey. Varden was the hook to set me up and I bit on that hook; all the way.

After I folded the paper and put it in my pocket, I wanted to get away from there as quickly as I could and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped. Clearly, leaving my name there was a message, if not for me, for the cops. What else was there?

I turned around, went back up the steps and back into the bedroom. I started there. Inside my coat, in the breast pocket, I had a package of wipes, the kind with bleach. Even though I had gloves, I wiped down every square inch of anything I came near; the bed, the table; the floor. All of it. I put the used wipes in my pocket.

I wiped down the stairs and the handrails after looking into each of the rooms on the second floor. If the paper with my name was planted, what else was there? Would I even know what to look for? I figured anything I did was better than doing nothing at all. So I checked.

Dawn started to break around 5:00am and I had to leave before it got much brighter and someone saw me leaving Varden's house. I left by the back door; relaxed my breathing as I walked around the side of the house and waited to see if anything was moving. Nothing. I went around the block the opposite way I came to the house and walked back towards the train station. Besides a dog barking at me, I think no one else noticed until I got down to the station.

A 9:18 train brought me to Albany's Rensselaer station half an hour later. I bought a local map at the newsstand, a cup of black coffee at the Beanery and sat down, like I was waiting for a train.

A cab took me to downtown Albany and I walked the streets for a few hours, just thinking to myself and going back over the last few days. My nervous energy kept me going for a while and then fatigue settled in. I got on the first bus I found, which took me to Schodack about eight miles outside Albany. Along the way, I saw a couple motels go by, stepped up to the front door of the bus and asked the driver to let me out.

Across the street from the bus stop were a few stores and a fast food place. I bought a change of clothes, grabbed some burgers and walked back to one of the motels. My head still aches trying to understand what's happening to me and I can't sleep.

How did I get into this and how do I get out? I need to get out of New York, but to where? My head has been doing this all morning; asking the same questions over and over.

In the Dead of Night

I've been set up! Royally fucked is more like it.

Accepting a contract is not exactly like getting a job. I can't check my employer's references or see how they are rated by Dun & Bradstreet. But still... honor among thieves and all that.

I'm in a small motel up the road a piece from Hudson, near Albany, New York. Some place called Schodack; never heard of the place; it's Nowheresville, USA, which is good for the time being. After last night, I need to keep low and stay under the radar and try and determine what to do next. Frankly, I'm scared shitless.

The train up to Hudson, yesterday, was uneventful. It rides along the Hudson river and, after you get out of the urban areas, is quite pretty. I just sat there, looking out the window and watched the vista sweep by and saw a beautiful sunset.

Once I got to Hudson, I got some dinner at some joint near the train station and walked to the address I was given. Just a regular house, like you see up in the northeast; front porch, looking out over a small lawn; nicely kept. I walked on by, mentally cased the house, and kept walking for another few blocks.

There were just a few lights on in the house; something small downstairs and it looked like a bathroom upstairs; everything else was dark. My plan was to make certain I could get to the house without being noticed and use the back door for my entry. All I wanted to do was sneak inside, find Thomas Varden and give him the drug cocktail I had in my pocket. If I could get to him while he was sleeping, he'd never wake up. If he did feel the needle and woke up, he wouldn't be conscious long.

I waited down the road, walking around a few more blocks, found an empty house for sale and went inside to kill some time. Near 1:00am, I left, found my way back, no one else on the street, which is what I hoped and few lights anywhere.

The back of the house was quite dark and I waited until I could see where the door was. While waiting, I pulled on the surgical gloves I bought earlier. These old doors didn't lock well and, if you used a credit card, you could work it in the crack of the door and push it open. There were two doors; I don't know why I expected one; but I forgot, here in the north, there is usually a storm door and then the real door.

The storm door opened outward; unlocked. I got a phone card out of my pocket, which is like a credit card, but anonymous. I don't carry any identifying information anymore. Cash works most anywhere, so I can get by without any bank cards.

I put the phone card into the slot between the door and the jam and started to work it down towards the lock. As I did, I had my right hand on the doorknob; getting ready to push it, but it turned. This door was also unlocked. Unusual, but it didn't alarm me. Some people forget to lock everything before they go to bed.

Inside, the kitchen was dark, except for the little bit of light coming in through the windows. It wasn't much, but I could see if there was anything blocking my path. The other rooms downstairs had the usual, old, musty smelling furniture. No Varden downstairs.

The stairway was lit from the bathroom, which I could see at the top of the stairs. I slowly stepped on each stair, near the outside, to keep any creaking to a minimum. At the top, I could feel my heart beating in quick-time and, from nearby, I could hear someone breathing, like they had a cold. Before following the breathing, I checked the other rooms; two more; both bedrooms; both empty.

After a deep breath, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the cigar coffin, opened it almost all the way, and took out a syringe. It didn't matter which one, they all had the same thing in them; full of heroin. I didn't know how much a usual dose of heroin was, so I filled the syringes with as much as I could. I'd give Varden at least two, if not more.

Slowly, I walked towards the room where I heard the breathing; labored breathing. The door was almost closed, so I pushed it with my shoulder and walked in. The bed was to my right. I stood next to the bed and listened; just the breathing; in and out; in and out.

I bent over and felt for his arm, but I wanted to be absolutely certain it was Varden. Next to me, on the bedside table, was a lamp. I felt for the switch; found it; turned it on.

Even now it's difficult to describe what I saw. On the bed was an emaciated, older man, connected to an I.V. As soon as the light came on, he looked at me; he was awake; but he was also in bad way.

He had been opened, from his pubic area to his chest and was bleeding out. The skin had been pulled back, exposing his intestines, which were partly outside his abdomen. Two skinny legs splayed towards each lower corner of the bed and tied with rope to keep them open. His arms were by his side, not moving. I looked to his face and saw his throat open, like his body. The breathing came from there, not his mouth or nose.

His eyes still focused; focused on me; on my eyes. I held up one of the syringes to where he could see it and he blinked a conscious, slow blink. He knew what it was and what I was about to do. It was a signal telling me he was ready.

I walked closer to the I.V.; looked back down at him and he blinked again; a slow blink. Seconds later, his eyes closed for the last time. I used six syringes on him, not because he needed it; I did.

I hadn't noticed before, but there was a folded sheet of paper on the night stand. The real shock was it had my name on it; not Fred Smith; Mackenzie Stevens; my birth name.

Adventure Beckons

This is a an almost perfect setup. Me, someone outside of society and living by myself; no friends or family. Fred has no background, no history and no ambition, beyond the immediate. As long as I can keep me off the radar, I should be able to do this. By off the radar, I mean not losing sight of being careful and don't leave fingerprints or DNA.

That's why I picked up the used syringes with the box and not my hands; besides not wanting to stick myself. Once I use and discard them, all that is left is my target's DNA and the fingerprints and biologicals of whoever used the syringes before I acquired them. Quite safe, so far.

My initial plan now is to score a few doses of heroin or some type of phenobarbital. I could go back to where I found the syringes, but I don't want to show a 'new" face twice. I don't want to be carrying the stuff around with me either; it's a one off for this job. I figured a large dose of a soporific is an easy way to take care of my cancer victim.

I checked in on the drop and there was but one message, just my target's name and address; up the road a piece in Hudson, New York; about an hour and a half or two up the road. Funny how this is all coming together... Hudson is right on the other side of the river from the Catskills, right where Rip van Winkle took his long nap.

Tomorrow, I travel. I'll take the 7:15pm Amtrak train up and two hours later, I'll be in Hudson. A short cab ride and I should be near the house before 10:00. Good. That allows me enough time to take care of business and catch the 6:45am train back the next morning.

Tonight, I just need to go out and buy some dope.

I've been running this whole thing back and forth in my mind. It's a puzzle; that's all; a puzzle. Something with a solution. How to kill a person and get clean away. That is the intriguing element; the penultimate teaser with an 'A' or 'F' outcome; pass or fail; do it or get caught.

My life now is nothing more than living my future as it is today. I tried the marriage thing and a nose-to-the-grindstone job, which were like taking one step in front of another, day after day. Where does it lead? I know where it leads and I don't want to go there. It's not my thing; but, what is my thing?

What's that line from "Me and Bobby McGee?"

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,..."

I got nothing left; nowhere to go that I haven't been, in one way or another. Certainly, I was prepared to live in a cheap flop-house for as long as it took or as long as I wanted. There was nothing to go back to, anymore.

This, then, was a way out; one way or another. If I got caught, I have nothing more than what I have now. If I didn't, I have adventure.

Tomorrow starts the adventure...

Getting Set Up

I said "yes" without reservation; somewhat out of compassion. After watching my grandmother and a friend die from pancreatic cancer, I had no reservations concerning euthanasia. Pancreatic cancer has no cure and few escape the final, painful outcome. While some states, such as Oregon, now have a Death with Dignity law, that wasn't true in this case.

It doesn't matter much to me which states have it or not. When my time comes, I'll find a way to take care of myself, if I'm able.

High school was a fruitful time for me. I reconnected with Bob-the-Boss, but in a different way than previous years. I had pocket money in high school, I earned by mowing lawns and selling answers to tests. But, the most I made happened by chance, when a kid in the school came to me and asked to borrow $20.00 for a date. I gave him two weeks to pay it back. After a few weeks, I caught up with him in the hall and asked for my money. He refused. Bad choice.

While I was planning how to get my money, Bob approached me after school. He had both hands out in front of him with the palms towards me and he was smiling. "Hey, bud," he said. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Can you lend me five bucks for gas? I'm broke and payday is Friday"

"Where ya working?" I asked as I peeled a five from the bills in my pocket. At the same time, I had an idea. "You can keep it," I said to Bob as I handed it to him. "I just need a favor."

"What's that?"

"Someone owes me twenty and hasn't..."

"Just tell me his name."

I told Bob who the kid was and also said to get $25.00 back instead of twenty. I don't know what Bob said or did, but I got the money that afternoon. After that, Bob became my enforcer and I was in the money business.

After high school, bob joined the army and I was on my own. By the time I dropped out of college, I had paid my tuition and expenses by offering quiet, short-term loans and had built a healthy cash reserve, stashed in a couple of safety deposit boxes around the northeast. That's why I could walk out on Debbie without worries and also why legal matters meant little to me. I had grown up skirting the law on quite a few issues. Never been busted.

I spent most of the morning, after accepting the euthanasia contract, setting up dead drops for email, where my new benefactor and I could trade information. It's fairly easy to do, if you follow some rules. Both of us can create messages and leave them as drafts; don't send it anywhere. To make it work, log on, read the draft and delete it. No emails come from or go to any account. There are no RFC-822 headers, which are used to trace email.

The header data, of an email, shows every part of a route an email takes to get from its origin to the destination, as it hops from one server to another, but, since our messages are never sent, there is no header, no hops, no destination. I set up a random routing between a dozen or so of these drops so, if one were compromised, for any reason, I had alternatives. Also, I could reach these from any place on the world using Internet cafes, which I used to create these and are available in most countries.

While out, I purchased some clothing, including a suit and tie, and also a travel valise. One final act with the phone was to call a contact number and leave the first login instructions as a voice message. I'd either drop that node from my drops or change the login information later.

To be safe, I broke the phone in a dozen pieces and dropped each piece in a different location. Of course, I wiped the phone down before disposing of it. Can't be too careful!

At noon, I went into the store and told my boss I was resigning, but would work through the day, but he told me it wasn't necessary, gave me some cash, and wished me luck. That was that.

When evening came, I finished a good dinner, at a small Turkish restaurant, and thought I would take a walk; I really had an idea I wanted to pursue. Down the street, on my way back to my hotel, was a cigar shop and I knew I'd find what I need there. After looking for a few minutes, I bought a single cigar, a Rocky Patel, but not to smoke.

After leaving the cigar shop, I opened the wooden coffin, which is the packaging for this brand, and was ready to just ditch the cigar, when I noticed an older man, sitting in a chair and leaning back against the brick wall. What I really saw was the end of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. As I passed, I offered the Rocky Patel. He looked up at me, I just nodded, he took it.

I don't smoke cigarettes or cigars, but the wooden coffin packaging is what I really wanted.

Around midnight, I left my room and walked a mile or two, where I hoped I would find what I really wanted and was not disappointed. This area is known to be a hangout for drug dealers and prostitutes and hidden, way down an ally, is an old tenement, which I guessed to be a shooting gallery, where the addicts go to get their fix.

No one challenged me when I walked inside and, after waiting a moment to let my eyes adjust, I started looking. It didn't take me long, maybe five minutes. In one of the corners I found about a half dozen discarded syringes. I used the sliding top of the cigar package to nurse three of four of these used syringes inside and then closed the box.

A good productive day. Tomorrow, I'd get the name and address of my quarry and start making plans.