Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“Motivated seller. That means the owner is eager to sell it. He wants to retire to Palm Springs. Says he’s tired of the rain.”

“I like the rain.”

“Me too. Cleans things up, doesn’t it?”

“You got that right. After yesterday…after what I saw inside that house, we could use all the cleanup Allah can deliver.” Hanson looked queasy. “The bathroom…tub or shower?”

“Both.”

Hanson shook his head. “This is Paradise.”

“You’ll have to supply your own virgins, but that shouldn’t be a problem with a handsome young man like yourself.”

Hanson gave him a look. “I do okay.”

“And the uniform…one can’t overestimate the power of the uniform over the female of the species.” Darwin smiled. “How soon would you like to move in?”

“Soon as possible.” Hanson hitched up his pistol again, then walked over to the window and checked out the view. The Grand Mosque was dimly visible through a gap in the surrounding buildings, floodlights gleaming off its azure sides. “My dad might be able to help me with the down payment. And I can tap the police credit union.”

“There you go.”

“Where there’s a will, right?”

Darwin winked at him. “You’re a quick learner.”

Hanson checked his watch. “Evening prayers are in eighteen minutes.” He nodded at the sconce. “You want to join me, Mr. Conklin?”

“I’d be honored. We can wash in the bathroom.”

Hanson sat down on the carpet. Unlaced his shoes and removed them. Peeled off his socks, tucked them neatly inside. Placed the shoes against one wall. He took off his patrol jacket, hung it on a doorknob. His blue shirt sweat-stained. Hanson didn’t seem to mind that Darwin still had on his suit jacket and shoes, standing there with his hands in his pockets. They had time.

“Bathroom’s this way.” Darwin started down the hallway, hearing Hanson padding along behind him. He stopped outside the bathroom door, gestured inside. “Here you go. Be my guest. I’ll finish up after you.”

Hanson carefully washed his feet in the bathtub with the chip of soap left from the previous tenant. Washed them again, water splashing, then looked around for a towel. Nothing.

Darwin took a handkerchief from his suit jacket, unfolded it.

“I couldn’t do that to your fancy handkerchief, Mr. Conklin.”

“Nonsense.” Darwin handed it to him. “Please. We can’t be expected to offer our prayers to God in a state of filth, now can we?”

Hanson dabbed at his feet with the handkerchief, draped it over the bare towel rack. The bathroom was small, the shower stall tiled in pink, the floor a checkerboard of black and white. He rolled the sleeves of his blue shirt past the elbow, started lathering his hands and forearms in the oversize sink. It would have been easier to take off the shirt, but he was modest…or uncomfortable with Darwin standing in the doorway watching.

“What exactly did you see in that poor woman’s house yesterday?”

Hanson rinsed off his thick forearms, water sluicing down his wrists. “Trust me, mister, you don’t want to know.”

“Actually, I do.”

Hanson glanced over at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grabbed the handkerchief off the rack, wiped himself damp, and refolded it. Held it out.

“No, thanks.”

“You’re not going to wash?”

“I can assure you, my handsome young police officer, it wouldn’t do any good.”

Hanson squared himself up, jaw forward, on guard now. “What’s going on?”

Darwin applauded. “You’ve just posed the ultimate philosophical question. Although, as usual, the question is asked too late for the answer to do any good.”

Hanson looked Darwin over, saw an owlish, slightly built Realtor in the tailored gray suit. Give the young policeman credit, he didn’t smile. Not exactly. His right hand rested on the butt of his pistol, but it was more reflex than genuine concern. “Get out of my way, Mr. Conklin.”

Darwin didn’t move. “No need to be so formal.”

Hanson stepped forward. “I asked you to get out of my way, buddy.”

“My name is Darwin. I’ll be your killer tonight.”

Hanson had barely tightened his grip on his pistol when Darwin hit him. Hanson was 195 pounds of grade-A muscle, but the punch emptied the air from him, knocked him backward. Hanson clung to the shower curtain rod with his fingertips, all of his tender parts open to the world. Darwin stepped into him, hit him full force just above the solar plexus, sent him tumbling into the bathtub. Hanson’s head smacked the inside of the tub.

Darwin sat on the edge of the tub. Hanson’s legs hung over the rim, dangled above the checkerboard floor. Darwin tugged at the young policeman’s little toe. “This little piggy…” There was just a minimal autonomic response. He looked into Hanson’s face. “Take your time. Shallow breaths. Pretend you’re sucking in air through a straw. The second punch broke the two lower ribs on your left side. Shattered them, actually. Your insides are filled with splinters of bone. Shrapnel to the vital organs. You’re filling up with blood. So, as I said…shallow breaths. Look at me. Stay with me. Do you have a foul taste in your mouth? A rotting-meat taste? Do you?”

Hanson gurgled a response.

“See there? Your liver’s been shredded. Amazing how quickly the bile backs up when the ducts have exploded. The human body…what a playground.”

“W-w-why?” whispered Hanson.

“Always the why with us, isn’t there? We always have to know why. A steer waiting in line to be slaughtered sees the steer in front of it getting its throat slit…do you think either of those dumb beasts wonders why?” Darwin smiled at the handsome young policeman. “It’s a heavy burden being human, isn’t it?”

Hanson tried to speak, groaned, his face twisted on the bottom of the tub.

“I know eighty-seven ways to kill a man with one punch. Eighty-seven kill spots on the human body if the blow is perfectly placed and struck with sufficient force. I don’t mean to brag; I just thought you’d be interested. You’ll be dead in a couple hours, but I wanted us to have some time together first. I so very rarely get to discuss my handiwork. That’s why I asked you about the Warriq crime scene.” Darwin played with Hanson’s toes again. The policeman needed to trim his nails. “I was trying to get your impressions.”

Hanson’s eyes widened.

“I don’t mean to be a poor sport, but there wasn’t a word about the killings in the papers, no footage on television. It was as if it hadn’t really happened.” Darwin stuck his forefinger in the young policeman’s open mouth, hooked him behind the front teeth, and repositioned his head to help him breathe more easily. He wiped his finger on Hanson’s shirt. “Vanity is a weakness, but a man deserves to take pride in his work. At the end of the day, family and friends are nothing-all we have is our work. Every one of my kills is seared in my memory. Every one. I could describe in detail how I killed them, and the look on their face at the moment of death. I could tell you about the way they fought, and what they were wearing and the sounds they made or didn’t make. I could prove it to you. I could run through the complete list”-Darwin smiled, smoothed the young policeman’s eyebrow-“but you don’t have that much time.”

Jill Stanton buzzed open the gate to her ranch and Rakkim drove through, the car bouncing over the dirt road. A drizzle started and he hit the wipers, the stiff rubber leaving a smeared, muddy trail on the windshield. The guy he’d stolen the car from should keep up on the maintenance. Probably didn’t change his oil at the recommended intervals either. Lightning in the distance. Early evening and the clouds blocked the stars, made it darker. He kept his foot heavy on the accelerator.