Hitman Damnation

FIFTEEN



Benjamin Travis and Jade told me they’d get word to me if and when the second hit—the one on Wilkins—was given the go-ahead. In the meantime, I knew I had to get close to the target. Now that he was running for president, there could be opportunities to accomplish the hit in a public place. The same way I did with Linder. But the client wanted it to appear to be an “inside job.” In order to get close enough to Wilkins to kill him, I had to join the Church of Will.

So I did as much research on the Church’s compound in Virginia as I could. The place called Greenhill. It’s where Wilkins had a mansion and where he lived when he wasn’t traveling. It’s where I could integrate myself into the Church society, become one of them, and execute the assignment within hours of the green light.

I phoned the facility to inquire about jobs and housing at the compound. I told the person on the end that I desperately wanted to join the Church of Will. She replied that there were no openings at this time. So I had to figure out another way to place myself inside their community.

I drove a rental car from Chicago to Pittsburgh and then down into Virginia. Instead of going out of my way to Washington, D.C., and Alexandria, I took side roads and state highways to Leesburg and Manassas and finally to Greenhill. Miles from civilization. If the place hadn’t been next to Aquia Lake, it would be nowhere. I parked at the side of the road, where I could see the comings and goings through the arch that was the entrance to the compound. But it was after sundown, so I figured I’d find a hotel in a nearby town and wait until the next day—Sunday—to make my move. It was at that moment that I saw a pickup truck leave the place. An old guy was driving it. The side of the truck had words painted on it: GREENHILL MAINTENANCE.

Interesting.

I followed him to nearby Stafford, a nothing of a town. He pulled in to Dougherty’s Tavern on Jefferson Davis Highway. He got out and went inside. I estimated his age to be seventy or older. Walked with a limp. Wore overalls.

Interesting.

He looked like a maintenance man from Greenhill who liked to have a few rounds on Saturday night before the Church services the next morning.

I went inside the tavern, which was relatively empty. My man had hauled up on a bar stool and was addressing the bartender. I went over there and took a seat two down from him. I saw that Old Man Maintenance had ordered a beer, so I told the bartender I’d have what that guy had.

The maintenance guy looked at me and said, “You have good taste in beer, sir.”

“I was going to say the same about you.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No. Just passing through. Been driving all day. Think I’ll find a hotel room for the night.”

“Where you headed?”

Small talk like that. Pretty dull. Said his name was Phil.

He complained about his “ticker.” He’d had some bypasses but he couldn’t stop his craving for beer. He kept coughing into a handkerchief. I could tell his time was nearly up; perhaps I could save him from a painful, protracted death.

When the guy was done with his drink, I offered to buy another. He accepted. I ordered one for me as well. When the bartender delivered them, I went over and sat beside the fellow. We clinked our glass mugs and said, “Cheers.”

People have many strange rituals.

We drank those down, then both lifted our mugs. Waved them at the bartender and asked for refills. I had palmed one of the vials Birdie sold me and emptied it into the dregs of the guy’s beer before it was filled again.

After one more round, which the maintenance man bought, I left. Found a cheap motel, got a room, and slept soundly with no bad dreams. The painkillers did their job for the night.

I went to Greenhill the next day. It was Sunday, and the compound was crowded with tourists and other membership applicants. A sign out front indicated that Reverend Charlie Wilkins was on the premises and was preaching that day. I had already missed the morning service. That was all right; I didn’t particularly want to hear it anyway. I’d get plenty of chances.

I dressed down for the role I’d be playing. For some reason, when I assumed a phony identity, the clothes helped me get in character. I became a farm boy from Iowa, so I wore farm clothes. I couldn’t do much about my bald head, so I left it alone. I didn’t want to have to fuss with a toupee for however many days I’d be there.

There were a couple of people at desks doing intake. A man and a woman. I chose to get in the woman’s queue. I knew who she was from my research. Helen McAdams. One of Wilkins’s personal assistants.

Perfect.

I supposed she was attractive, not that something like that mattered to me. But I sensed she was a bird with a wing down. There was something in her eyes and mannerisms. She was a troubled person. Vulnerable. Lonely. Unhappy. Someone I could manipulate.

When it was my turn, I introduced myself as Stan Johnson. It was as good a name as any. I did my best to appear shy and nervous. I said I was currently unemployed but had experience on a farm. I told her I was seeking more spirituality in my life and thought the Church of Will could help me.

I’d put on the application form that I was good with my hands, and she immediately offered me the job of groundskeeper and maintenance man—the position at the compound that became vacant that very day. She said I was lucky. I’d even get an apartment of my own, the rent for which would come out of my pay.

Fancy that.

I think she must have taken to me, for she told her colleague she was going to give me a tour of the compound. She made a call to Mitch Carson. I knew him to be the manager of the facility, but I feigned ignorance. When she hung up, Helen said we were to meet him in the cafeteria. Apparently my apartment wouldn’t be ready for an hour or two. Helen let me store my backpack full of clothes and my briefcase in a locker for the time being.

I met Carson in the cafeteria. He was awfully officious and treated me as an inferior human being because of my newfound lowly janitorial job, but I was polite and shook his clammy hand. He took my paperwork from Helen and said he had to go to a meeting “up at the house.” We said goodbye and Helen asked if I was hungry. I told her no, but she explained how the cafeteria was available for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A snack room with vending machines was open twenty-four hours a day. Church employees were issued a meal ticket that was swiped each time we had a meal. A small fee was once again taken out of our pay. For the most part, it turned out that Church employees worked in exchange for room and board. Not a bad deal.

Helen showed me the huge sanctuary. I appreciated the artwork. I’d spent time in Rome and befriended a Catholic priest at one time, so I knew what I was looking at.

I suppose there was some kind of beauty there.

There was a Main Street at Greenhill. It had a convenience store, a small medical office, a bank, a florist, a clothing shop, and a grocery store with fresh produce, a bakery, and a butcher. It was like a small village. The staff got around in little golf-cart-like vehicles, as if it was some kind of country club.

Then she pointed out the section of Greenhill I was most interested in. The off-limits area. Where the mansion was located.

“Only authorized personnel are allowed inside the gate,” Helen said as she indicated the high fence surrounding the space. I knew it was electrified. Why would a supposedly peace-loving reverend of a religious group have an electrified fence around his property? Helen had a keycard to swipe at the gate, because her office was in the mansion. Someday, she said, maybe she’d get permission to bring me inside and show it to me. As a groundskeeper and maintenance man, however, I would be allowed inside the fence during work hours. There was a team of workers and I’d be supervised. Helen pointed out the extensive gardens on the right side of the house. I told her that was my specialty, and she hinted that she’d see what she could do about that. On the left side of the house was a small building. She said it was the guardhouse. Next to that was a large barn.

Helen also pointed out the section of the mansion that fronted the lake. She said Wilkins’s office had a large plate-glass window that faced it, and when he was on the premises he always made it a point to pray in that spot at midnight.

Of course, I knew that window was bulletproof. Again, why would Wilkins bulletproof his office? He must be pretty paranoid. Especially now that he was running for president.

Finally, we entered one of the three housing buildings. My room was on the first floor. It was a studio apartment, complete with a kitchenette and my own bathroom. I asked Helen where she lived. Next building over, second floor.

Convenient.

By now it was almost six o’clock. Helen’s cellphone rang. She spoke to “Charlie” and said she’d be right there. Wilkins.

Apparently there was going to be an impromptu memorial service for a Church member who had died, and Wilkins was going to lead it. She had to get to the sanctuary. She told me that in a moment the compound loudspeaker system would make the announcement. She encouraged me to go and that perhaps she’d see me there.

I said I wouldn’t miss it.

Helen left me alone in my apartment. I unpacked and gave the room a once-over to make sure it wasn’t bugged. I didn’t expect it to be, but one can’t be too careful. After taking one of the oxycodone pills, I reflected on what I was doing at Greenhill.

Helen McAdams was a nice person. Too bad she felt she had to cover the scars on the inside of her forearms with the long sleeves of her blouse. Yes, I detected a susceptible personality there, and she would suit my purposes.

The closer I could get to her, the closer I’d be to Charlie Wilkins.