Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

"Sit down, Lester," the Old One said gently as Gravenholtz leapt out of his chair. "It was a metaphor, correct, Mr. Crews? Just a metaphor from a former professor of English."

Crews waited until Gravenholtz sat back down. "You're taking quite a chance coming here, mister. Lester there might be bad medicine where you come from, but my boys have handled worse."

"I rather doubt that," said the Old One.

Crews smoothed the lapels of his black suit-he looked like an enormous crow preening. "So what are you doing here?" He looked down his nose at the Old One. "You come to get saved?"

"No. I don't need saving," said the Old One. "Lester?" He didn't take his eyes off Crews. "Why don't you give us some privacy?"

"You sure?" said Gravenholtz.

"Go on, Lester," said the Old One. "Go play with the other boys."

Crews waited until Lester closed the door. "Can I get you folks something to drink? Got everything from corn liquor to twenty-year-old bourbon to soft drinks."

The Old One shook his head.

"I'm good," said Baby.

"Oh, you're more than good, lady," said Crews.

Loud sounds came from outside the door. Shouts and screams. Glass breaking.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Crews," said the Old One.

"Oh, I ain't worried," said Crews.

More screams. Gunshots. Rapid-fire.

"Poor Lester," said Crews. "My boys…I seen them do things you wouldn't believe human beings were capable of…" He grinned. "Butlet's talk about us. " He put his arm around Baby. "You look familiar, honey-pie. Not just 'cause I used to see you on TV with the Colonel…we ever met before?"

Baby shrugged off his arm. "Malcolm Crews…you've hurt my feelings."

"I have met you before," said Crews. "I just can't…" He shook his head.

"I saw you in action when I was a girl," said Baby. "My mama took me to see you preach in a barn outside of Dawson. I was twelve at the time, and I thought you were really something, stalking across the floor like a ringmaster cracking a whip."

"That's right," said Crews.

"We were in the third row," said Baby. "You were looking at my mama during the whole sermon, and I didn't see a bit of the Lord in your eyes."

"Wasn't your mama I was looking at," said Crews. "I was sizing you up, sitting there in your Sunday best, Bible in your lap, fresh faced but already with back-door eyes. I remember looking at you and thinking I'd give you another year to marinate in your own juices. Old enough to bleed, you're old enough to butcher. I come back to Dawson a year later but you was nowhere in sight. Next time I saw you was on a news video, you and the Colonel getting married, but I didn't connect you with that sweet young thing." He stared into the fire for a moment, turned back to her. "I can still see the Colonel standing there in his dress uniform, stiff as a ramrod with you beside him holding a bouquet of wildflowers. How old were you?"

"Just turned sixteen."

"Sixteen." Crews nodded. "You must about killed that old fart."

"You'd be surprised," said Baby.

The doors to the study creaked open and Gravenholtz walked in, a little out of breath, dragging C.P. by his hair.

Crews eased himself off the couch. Never said a word. Which was pretty impressive, if you asked Baby.

"Everything okay, Lester?" asked the Old One.

"Feel like I just took a good dump." Gravenholtz was bleeding from a dozen gunshot wounds, a flap of scalp over his ear hanging down. He hoisted C.P up, and the man groaned. "He's the last one. What do you want me to do with him?"

The Old One glanced over to where Crews was edging toward a side door. "Don't go, Mr. Crews, we still have so much to discuss. Please?" He turned back to Gravenholtz. "You took care of all of them? Even the guards at the entrance?"

"I said so, didn't I?" said Gravenholtz.

"What is he?" said Crews. "Some kind of…robot or something."

"It's rather complicated," said the Old One. "Let's just say Lester is hard to kill."

"I know what you're here for," said the history professor, wagging her finger at Rakkim. "You can't fool me."

"I can see that." Rakkim looked around the faculty annex trying to see Sarah. Probably fifty people there, arts and sciences instructors and their spouses. He spotted her on the far side of the room, near some trays of wilting vegetables. He waved but she was busy talking to a group of young women who clustered around her.

"Look at her," said the professor, standing too close. She patted her frizzy home perm. "She wants back in, doesn't she? Who can blame her?"

"Back in where?"

"Don't play innocent with me." The professor drank from her cracked teacup, sloshed some on his trousers, started to wipe it off. Another finger wag. "Don't get your hopes up. I may be Catholic, but I'm married…happily married."

"It's been good talking with you." Rakkim started to leave, but she blocked his path.

"She walks off the job five years ago, hardly a word to anyone," said the professor. "Now she suddenly shows up at the monthly tea and thinks she can get her old job back?"

"Sarah's not interested in her old job."

"She was always too good for us warhorses. Redbeard's niece. Youngest Ph.D." The professor's face reddened. "Famous for that book…which was not…not well researched. Popular, that's all she was."

Rakkim stepped around her, working his way through the crowd.

"Are you the husband?" asked an older man in a flared corduroy jacket. He smelled of the orange blossom incense burned at the Muhammad Ali mosque, one of the more prestigious modern mosques. "You're Sarah's husband, aren't you?" He stuck out his hand. "Dr. Ron Wallis, chairman of the history department."

Rakkim wanted to wipe his hand. "Hi, Ron, how are you?"

Wallis's expression revealed his desire to correct Rakkim, suggest Rakkim use his academic title, but he decided against it. "I'm fine, Mr…?"

"Epps. Rakkim Epps. I wish I had more time to talk, but-"

"Epps? Not short for Epstein, I hope." Wallis seemed pleased with himself. "Just kidding. Not that there would be a problem. I have nothing against Hebrews."

"I'm relieved."

"I take a certain pride in judging people on their own merits, regardless of-"

"Ron, I wish I had more time to talk with you, but I really need to speak with Sarah."

"I understand completely." Wallis pinched a deeper dimple into his green bow tie. "These academic affairs can be a little daunting to the…uninitiated."

"Daunted is exactly how I feel, Ron."

"Buck up," said Wallis. "No one here is any better than you, remember that. We just have certain intellectual credentials…areas of expertise." He gave a curt bow. "Remind Sarah my door is always open."

Rakkim started toward Sarah.

Sarah excused herself from the group of young women, put her hand on his arm. "Did Dr. Wallis tell you his door was always open?"

"Always open to you, " said Rakkim. "I don't have the intellectual credentials."

"Poor baby," said Sarah, leading him to the group. "Ladies, this is my husband, Rakkim. Rakkim, this is Emily, sociology, Carmella, Chinese history, and Satrice, American history."

Rakkim bowed.

The young women returned the bow, glanced over at Sarah as though for approval. Though they were only ten years or so younger than Sarah, they deferred to her as though she were the queen of the Nile.

"If you'll excuse me, ladies," said Sarah, "I want to pay my respects to Professor Hoffman." She trailed a hand across Rakkim's arm as she left.

"One-note Hoffman?" said Satrice.

"Be nice," said Emily.

Rakkim and the three women exchanged nods, looked around, saw both chaperones glaring at them from their elevated chairs. "I should probably go-"