Allison Brennan - The Kill

When he lived in Atlanta, his name was Tom Ullman and he was a bartender. Hands down, he yielded the best personal information and found the right truck most easily when he tended bar. But he also had to listen to a lot of crap, and everyone wanted to have a conversation.

He didn’t want to talk; he only wanted to listen.

He didn’t work in a restaurant or bar in Colorado or Kentucky, but when he hit Massachusetts, his name was Andrew Richardson and he found employment in a large, friendly restaurant in a middle-class section of Boston. And since he was a patient man, he was able to wait for the information he needed.

Also, in restaurants he could easily and discreetly see the parking lot. When he learned what he needed to know, he watched the patrons leave. If they had the right type of vehicle, it was an omen that the time was right for action.

Now he answered to Steve Williams.

Everything was coming together perfectly, as if preordained. He’d already found the angel. Tonight, he’d found the truck.

He’d been on Vashon for well over a year and had not only come to recognize the regulars, but knew their vehicles and schedules. Karl and Flo Burgess were retired and lived in West Seattle. They came to Vashon at least once a week to eat, and usually sat in his section because he didn’t have to be reminded that Mrs. Burgess liked four olives in her vodka martini.

They owned a Ford-150 with camper shell.

He placed the tray with their change on the table. “Thank you for coming. See you next week.”

He was about to walk away when Mrs. Burgess said, “We’re leaving tomorrow to visit our daughter. We won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

His heart raced and he smiled. “Have a safe drive.”

Karl Burgess shook his head. “I’m just not up to making the drive to Phoenix this year.”

“His back,” Mrs. Burgess said with a half-whisper. “Growing old.” She smiled and patted her husband’s hand.

“I’ll see you when you return, then,” he said and walked away.

He was so eager to complete his planning he could hardly complete his shift, but he forced himself to remain patient. Everything was coming together perfectly. Tomorrow was Friday; he knew exactly where his angel would be.

He eavesdropped on the Burgess’s conversation as they finished their coffee. Their flight left early. They were driving to the airport. That meant long-term parking lot.

He’d gotten in and out of the long-term parking lot easily in Atlanta, Kansas City, and Austin. Seattle would be a piece of cake.

He’d gotten into the habit of hanging out after his shift for a few minutes because most of the servers did it. He didn’t want to stand out. He knew how people thought of him-a friendly guy who liked his job, working to support his art. He had some talent, and made a point of bringing in sketches to show the crew. It gave him the necessary background so no one gave him a second thought.

He’d told them he was divorced and had moved and settled on Vashon Island for a change of pace. They also believed he had a grown daughter in college, so anytime he was late or had to disappear for a few days, he said he was visiting his daughter in Oregon. Close enough for a weekend trip, but not close enough where anyone would expect her to visit.

Success was in the details. Laying the foundation so that people believed what he wanted them to believe. And because every story in every state was similar, he never lost track of who he pretended to be.

But tonight, he said he was tired and left the restaurant as soon as he closed out; he walked to his cottage a half-mile away, and went right to his room. He took out his map and his notepad and plotted out each step for tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be the last. The thought was bittersweet. He liked the Pacific Northwest. He particularly liked living on the water. It reminded him of his early childhood, before everything changed. When it was just him and his mother, inseparable, living on the coast in a state he barely remembered. Before Bruce Carmichael came into their lives and stole their innocence and his mother’s life. Before Angel.

He found himself sitting on the small cottage porch watching the sky change color. The sun had already disappeared, but it wasn’t the setting sun that enticed him, it was the layers of the sky. Azure and lavender and jewel green. He watched as one color faded into another, growing darker and darker, as the Seattle skyline came to life.

Angel would have loved it here.

“Take me away, please.”

He and Angel were sitting on the narrow balcony of a three-story walk-up, cramped because the balcony was barely large enough for a planter of flowers. The old lady in the apartment next door had six pots teetering on the edge of the iron railing; twice in the three months they’d lived here one of her planters had fallen and shattered on the cement walkway below.

“Where can we go?” he said.

He was scared. He hated being scared, but the fear ate at him until he couldn’t think. It wasn’t fear of the unknown, or fear that he would starve, or fear that he would be killed.

It was fear that he was more like Bruce than he wanted to be.

“Anywhere,” she whispered, hugging her knees, her beautiful blonde hair hanging down. It shimmered for him, sparkling even here, on this filthy balcony above a garbage-strewn walk. He reached out and touched it. So soft. “It hurts when he touches me. It hurts so bad. Sometimes, I can escape and make up stories so I can think about something else. But sometimes I can’t and then it’s worse.”

Angel had had her ninth birthday the weekend before. And something about that night had changed her.

Bruce had been hurting Angel in her bed for two years, ever since their mom died and Bruce took them away. But last week was worse.

“He’s going to kill me,” she whispered. “Just like Mama.”

“I won’t let him kill you.”

“You can’t stop him.”

Anger bubbled up. She thought he couldn’t protect her. That he wouldn’t stand up for her. Didn’t she know how much he loved her?

“I’m going to run away,” she said. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go by myself.” She sniffed.

“You can’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to. I’m scared.” She leaned into him and let him hug her. The anger was gone, but the fear was stronger than ever.

“I’ll find a way. I’ll find a way to keep him away from you forever.”

After Hamilton Craig’s funeral, Gary Porter walked into his empty house. He missed his wife, Janet, but considering all the sacrifices she’d made during his career, he couldn’t stop her from pursuing her dreams now, even though they were in their sixties. She’d been a European history major in college and was now a docent for a major travel company. Currently, she was leading a senior-citizen tour through France. She always asked him to join her, but Gary had no desire to travel. He liked being home, having a routine. For him, travel equaled stress.

While he missed Janet, when she was home their relationship was better, stronger. He liked hearing about her job and the sights and loved the slideshow she’d put together for him after each tour.

Tonight, however, he felt old and would have given anything to have Janet with him. It was Hamilton’s funeral, of course, making him feel mortal. Reminding him that life was unfair, that a random act of violence could steal the life of a good man.

Gary absently flipped on lights as he made his way to the den, his steps echoing on the hardwood floors. A quick glance at the clock in the hall told him it was already too late to call Janet in Paris.