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.