James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

“Sooner rather than later.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Okay. Just call me as soon as you finish with Rosa.”

“I will.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“What’s going on with the IRS?”

“I’m not sure. Listen, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

They said good-bye, and Jack switched off the phone. His mouth hurt, partly from having talked too much, mostly from having kissed the sidewalk last night. He spat a little blood into the grass and slowly pushed himself up onto two wobbly feet.

“Wonderful,” he said as he tried to straighten his back. “The IRS.”

•

Macon, Georgia, was a good place to die. And that was exactly his plan.

He called himself Fate, the favorite word of Father Aleksandr, the priest in his native Georgian village-the other Georgia, the lands beyond the Caucasus Mountains-who’d told him since boyhood that everything happened for a reason. The concept had always overwhelmed him, the very idea that every thought and every deed, every action and every inaction, was part of a bigger plan. The problem was, he didn’t know what the plan was, couldn’t fathom what it should be. What if he made a decision that somehow managed to screw everything up? He preferred to lay that kind of ultimate responsibility on somebody else, even when doing the very thing he did best.

That made him a peculiar killer indeed.

He was seated behind the wheel of his rented van, parked on the street corner a half-block away from the chosen household. The sun had set several hours earlier behind an overcast sky. The nearest street lamp was at the other end of the street, leaving him and his van in total darkness. Frost from his own breath was beginning to build inside his windshield. No matter how cold it got, he didn’t dare start the engine for fear of drawing attention to himself. He didn’t need the heater anyway. He had his own source of warmth, a fifth of slivovitz, a potent vodka made from plums. “Peps you up, colors the cheeks” was a slogan known to millions of Eastern Europeans. At seventy-percent alcohol, it was also the ultimate insurance against the inhibitions of conscience. The Budapest whores knew it well. So had the snipers in Chechnya, who’d dosed themselves heavily on the devil’s drink before potting away at women and children caught in their crosshairs. On occasion, Fate had known it to make him braver too, though he drank it simply because he liked it even more than chacha, a grape vodka popular among Georgians. So long as he followed his own rules, he enjoyed his work; he didn’t need any vodka to ease his conscience.

He poured another capful of slivovitz and then lit it with his cigarette. The genuine stuff burned a pretty blue flame. He watched it flicker for a moment, then tossed the flaming cocktail down the back of his throat.

It was a ritual he’d performed since his teenage years, when Fate had found his first victim-or, more appropriately, when his first victim had found Fate. He and the other hoodlums in his gang never selected a target. Victims identified themselves. The boys set the criteria and waited for someone who fit the bill to come along. The next guy to walk by wearing sunglasses. The next woman with brown eyes. The next kid on a bicycle. Back then, it was just for fun, perhaps an initiation or other gang-related right of passage. That kind of silliness was behind him. His work now had a purpose. He murdered only for hire.

It was the perfect arrangement for a killer who didn’t want his work to upset the larger plan. Victims were preselected, not by him but by someone else. He didn’t even have to choose the manner of execution. His victims did. It could be a complete surprise, the sleeping victim never regaining consciousness. Or death could be days, even weeks in the offing, a protracted path of suffering punctuated by sharp, futile screams. The decision-making process was deceptively simple. He’d follow his targets home at night and watch them go inside. If they left the porch light on, death would be quick and painless. Porch light off, not so quick-and definitely not painless. The choice was theirs. They sealed their fate without effort and without even knowing it.

Everything happens for a reason. Not even the smallest act is meaningless. It all determines one’s fate.

He took another hit of slivovitz and turned his eyes toward the front porch. Jody Falder was standing outside her front door. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, apparently trying to stay warm. A cold wind had kicked up at sunset, transforming a mild afternoon into a dark, cold reminder that the South did indeed have winter. She wore no coat. Obviously, she hadn’t anticipated the drastic change in temperature, or maybe she hadn’t expected to return home so late.

Peering through night-vision binoculars, he watched her fumble for her house key, unlock the door, and disappear inside. Patiently he waited, his eyes glued to the porch light. Two minutes passed, and it was still burning brightly. He gave her more time, careful not to rush things. He couldn’t actually see her moving about inside the house, but it was easy enough to monitor her movement from room to room. Kitchen light on, kitchen light off. Bathroom lit, bathroom dark. Finally, the bedroom light came on and remained lit for several minutes. Then it switched off.

He narrowed his eyes, as if peering into the bedroom window, though he was merely imagining the scene unfolding behind drawn curtains. The unexpected cold front had surely left her bedroom colder than usual. Nipples erect, for sure. She’d shed her clothes quickly, slipped on a nightgown, and jumped beneath the covers. At that point, only a lunatic would jump out of a warm bed, run downstairs, and flip off the porch light. It appeared as though she’d made her decision. Porch light on. Quick and painless.

Lucky bitch.

He lowered his binoculars, then did a double take. The porch light had suddenly switched off. A twist of fate. It was apparently controlled by electronic timer. Arguably, it wasn’t her decision, but rules were rules. Porch light off: No more quick and painless. A sign of the times. We are all slaves to our gadgets.

Doesn’t that just suck?

A perverse smile crept to his lips as he slipped on his latex gloves, like the hands of a surgeon. It was a real source of personal pride, the way he managed to inflict all that suffering and still make death look like anything but homicide. He grabbed his bag of tools and pulled a black knit cap over his head, the same cap he’d worn on every job since his first mission as a mercenary soldier, a sneak attack on a rebel camp-six women, three old men, and two teenage boys, the first in a long line of noisy amusements for his knives. This job would be much cleaner and quieter, but the hat was still his lucky charm of sorts.

He moved quickly across the yard and toward the darkened house, yearning for that look on her face when she’d look up into his eyes, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do much of anything but accept the fact that Fate had found her.

•

I’m back,” said Rosa as she entered Jack’s conference room. “That was quick,” he replied.

There was nothing like the government overplaying its hand to set off a career criminal-defense lawyer, and the morning raid by the IRS had propelled Rosa into orbit. She’d insisted that he go to the emergency room while she marched off to an emergency hearing to block the IRS from accessing his computers. Thankfully, his tests had ruled out serious injury. A mild concussion, at worst. He was discharged with some Tylenol and a sheet of preprinted instructions about things he should avoid over the next few days-loud noises, sudden movements, general stress and aggravation. A trip to Disney World seemed out of the question.