Hitman Damnation

TWENTY



The days passed into mid-October.

Agent 47 dutifully worked as groundskeeper and maintenance man, although most of his jobs had nothing to do with that description. His supervisor was a young man named Stuart Chambers. The hitman developed an immediate dislike for him. Chambers took his managerial role much too seriously. For the first few days on the job, “Stan” was given the most menial and disgusting tasks, such as scrubbing out the men’s and women’s toilets in all the restroom facilities at Greenhill. When that was done, Chambers ordered 47 to clean out the grease trap in the cafeteria kitchen. It was a revolting, dirty job that put the assassin in a foul mood. After a week, 47 had still not been given any tasks within the restricted area.

The only positive things about being at Greenhill, he decided, were the evenings he spent with Helen. Since his cover required him to flirt with a more “human” identity, he made the effort to talk more and be more personable. The shyness act played well, for it encouraged Helen to “draw him out,” bringing them closer to a kind of friendship that, surprisingly, 47 enjoyed. He was uncommonly comfortable with the platonic relationship they had built in the short time they’d known each other. He sensed, however, that she wanted to take their friendship to another level. Sometimes she referred to their get-togethers as “dates,” and one night he was certain that she wanted him to kiss her good night after he’d walked her to her building. But 47 couldn’t do it. Something prevented him from crossing that line with her.

One evening after dinner, they took a walk outside the compound along the two-lane road toward Coal Landing. The sun was rapidly sinking and the weather had turned autumn-cool, so Helen bundled up in a sweater and light jacket. Agent 47 simply wore his work shirt and overalls with a windbreaker. At one point, she shivered and complained of being chilled. 47 recognized the hint, so he placed his arm around her and held her closer. It was all part of acting the role, even though it felt completely foreign to him.

“Mmm, that’s better,” she said.

The hitman felt awkward but used that in his characterization of timorous Stan Johnson.

“I told Mitch Carson that you wanted to work in the mansion gardens. He said he’d speak to Stuart about it.”

47 allowed a wry laugh. “I don’t think Stuart Chambers likes me very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Have you noticed he gives me all the ugly jobs? I have yet to do any real maintenance work. He’s not very nice to me. Why is he such an … such an—”

“A*shole?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I was trying to say.”

“I don’t know, but I agree. He’s actually kind of sweet on me. About a year ago he asked me out. We dated a few times, but he wanted … er, he wanted more from me than I was willing to give at the time. I also thought he was disrespectful and insensitive. I broke it off with him.” She looked up at 47 and squeezed his arm. “Maybe he’s jealous.”

“Of me?”

“Of you and me.”

“Oh.”

Did that mean the rest of the compound was already viewing Helen and Stan as a couple? 47 didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing.

“People are talking, you know,” she said mischievously.

“About us?”

“Yep. Hey, we’ve been together every night since you got here. There may be a couple hundred people living at Greenhill, but it’s really a little place. It’s like small-town gossip. Whenever someone hooks up with somebody, it becomes news.”

“I didn’t know.” 47 found that disturbing. “Why would anyone care?”

“People are people.”

He had never thought of that. This relationship stuff was very new to him and he said so.

She squeezed his arm again, stood on her tiptoes because of his height, and kissed his cheek. 47 was flustered.

“I’m new at it too, Stan,” she said.


This was all very bizarre.

Helen was acting like I was her boyfriend or something.

I knew I had to get close to her when I came here. The plan was that I would integrate myself into a “normal” human social life, and I’d been able to do it. I was surprised by my success, although I couldn’t say I found it particularly comfortable. It was very alien to me. It made me feel like even more of a freak, because no matter how hard I tried, even if I meant it, I would never be “normal.”

Every morning Helen used her keycard to go through the gate to the restricted area. She was in the mansion all day working for Charlie Wilkins. Helen was my means of getting inside that mansion, so I had to keep up the illusion that we were a couple. What was strange about it all—and I wasn’t sure how to handle it—was that I was truly enjoying her company. I’d never had a friend of that sort. Diana Burnwood was the closest thing, and she was my Agency handler. I rarely saw her in person. I could count the number of times on one hand. Helen was very different. She was just an innocent, regular person, except there was something in her past that she wasn’t proud of, something that wounded her. I aimed to find out what that was.

Wilkins had left the compound and was traveling with his campaign committee. The man had a lot of work to do before the election, which was in three weeks. There had been no word from the Agency regarding the hit on him. I didn’t expect the orders to come too soon. Helen told me some interesting things about Wilkins. I had already done due diligence and researched the man thoroughly. I knew how he had started the Church back in the 1970s and worked his way up. He became a millionaire when he opened his fast-food chain restaurants, so that gave him the means to expand his Church. Helen told me he was close with Dana Shipley Linder’s mother and that her father had died in a hunting accident.

Interesting.

Fatal hunting accidents are actually quite rare.

In the meantime, I resolved to continue my so-called “work” at Greenhill and keep seeing Helen. I dared myself to say it. I liked her. And what a curious and unfamiliar sensation that was. For the first time in my life I was feeling what others call an emotion.


With one hand carrying a bouquet of flowers from Sam’s Florist on Greenhill’s Main Street, 47 knocked on the apartment door with the other. It opened swiftly, and Helen stood wearing a daringly low-cut evening dress. He wore his signature black suit and red tie.

“Stan, come in. Oh, flowers! Are these for me?”

“Of course.” He handed them to her and stepped inside. She closed the door and smelled the mixed bouquet. “How lovely! Let me get a vase to put these in. Come on in and make yourself at home. Dinner’s almost ready.”

While he had been in her apartment a couple of times, this was the first for an honest-to-goodness dinner date. A one-bedroom space, Helen’s home was decidedly feminine and tastefully furnished. A card table, covered by a white tablecloth, sat in the middle of the living room. Two large lit candles provided flickering illumination. In fact, Helen had placed several candles around the room.

Was this what they called a “romantic” dinner? 47 wondered. In preparation for what might be an unpredictable situation, he had chosen not to take any oxycodone that day. So far, he felt fine.

She reentered the room with the flowers in a glass vase. “I’ll put these on the coffee table, since the vase is too big to go on our table. How do you like it? I borrowed the tablecloth from the cafeteria.”

“It’s very nice.”

She laughed. “Stan, you really are a man of few words.” She pointed to a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket. “Could you open that? I just have to check on the chicken.”

47 took the bottle, examined the label, and didn’t recognize the name. He figured it was one of the inexpensive brands sold in the convenience store at Greenhill. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t planning to drink much of it. 47 tore off the foil top, worked the cork, and pointed the bottle at the ceiling. After the pop, sudsy liquid spilled onto the rug. Helen came back in to witness it.

“Sorry,” he said.

She laughed again. “Don’t be silly. That’s what’s supposed to happen with champagne.” She picked up two glasses from the table and held them out to him. “Fill ’em up, sir.”

He did, then placed the bottle back in the bucket. “Are we celebrating something?”

“Not really. Who says you have to be celebrating something to have champagne?”

He took his glass. She held hers up and said, “To Charlie winning president, to the Church of Will, and to our friendship.” 47 clinked her glass and took a sip. She nearly downed hers. It wasn’t the best champagne he’d ever had, nor was it the worst.

Dinner was a roasted chicken covered with a mustard-based rubbing that 47 found delicious. Helen had also prepared baked potatoes and a dish of broccoli roasted with garlic cloves. She broke out a bottle of red wine and filled yet another glass. 47 watched her consume too much during the meal, and she became giddy and talkative. She was obviously nervous, as if she expected something to happen between them that night.

47 recognized that if he were perhaps a bit more like other men, something would happen. Fortunately, he wasn’t.

When they were done with the meal, the assassin helped her with the dishes. She washed and he dried. At one point, though, his hands began to shake. The dreaded anxiety had returned. When she handed him a wet plate, it slipped right out of his trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.

“Helen, I’m sorry. How clumsy of me.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Let me get a dustpan and broom.”

He stooped and picked up shards. She brought him a paper bag to throw them in. “Be careful; don’t cut yourself,” she said.

47 helped her with the dustpan, and soon the mess was cleared. Then he asked to use the washroom. When he was alone, he dug the pill bottle out of his pocket and opened it—but it slipped from his shaking hands, spilling tablets all over the floor.

“You all right in there?” he heard her call.

“Fine.”

He managed to collect the pills, swallowed two, and replaced the rest in the bottle. When he returned to the living room, Helen stood and said, “You had a good idea. It’s my turn now—excuse me.”

“Sure,” he said.

While she was out of the room, he took the time to examine some of her things. There was a collection of paperbacks on a shelf, mostly romantic novels and a few self-help books. Especially striking was the absence of photographs. No family pictures. No high school graduation shot.

Was that a symptom of loneliness?

Helen reappeared with a concerned expression on her face.

“Everything all right?” 47 asked.

“Stan? What are these?” She held out her palm. There were three oxycodone pills in her hand. “I saw these on the floor behind the door. They’re yours, aren’t they?”

47 had missed them during his cleanup. Now that he was caught, he figured he might as well be honest. “Yes, they’re mine. They’re pills I take. For pain.”

“Pain? Really?”

He shrugged. “No. Not really.”

“Stan. I know these pills. They’re OxyContin, aren’t they?”

He nodded.

Helen took his hand and led him to the couch. As they sat, she asked, “Stan, why are you taking them?”

“I had an injury about a year ago. I was on them for pain management, but I guess I never stopped.”

“Stan, you’re addicted. You know that, don’t you?”

He shook his head. “I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to yet.”

“That means you’re addicted. Stan, listen to me. I was addicted to OxyContin too. For a long time. I haven’t told anyone at Greenhill this, not even Charlie. But—I don’t know, I trust you. I think we’re kindred souls, Stan. There’s a sadness in you that I can relate to. Do you … do you know what I’m talking about?”

He hesitated but then nodded.

She turned her head and didn’t look at him as she spoke. 47 could see this was very difficult for her. “Stan, I was very lost a few years ago. I was into drugs, a lot of them. I did everything. I was hooked on heroin. The OxyContin came later, and I got hooked on that. I did … I did some pretty awful things to support my habit. I’m not proud of it. Stan, it’s still a struggle for me. Every day I go through a few moments in which I crave those awful drugs. That’s the reason I joined the Church of Will. I needed the strength to fight my addiction. Stan, if you knew the things I’ve done …”

47 thought, If you knew the things I’ve done!

She turned to him and said, “I can help you, Stan. You need to kick it. You know you do. You may not want to admit it, but deep down you have the Will. It’s what Charlie teaches us. You have the Will to quit those pills and throw them away. You might need some medical help, but some people can quit cold turkey. It messes you up for a few weeks, but you can get through it. I’ll help you, Stan. Will you let me help you?”

“Helen …”

“If I can do it, I know you can do it. I’m not a very strong person, Stan. I’m pretty weak. I guess that’s something you should understand about me if we’re going to continue to be … friends.” Then she looked at him. “Or more.” She leaned in close, looking into his eyes, her mouth parted.

She wanted Stan Johnson to kiss her.

“Helen, I …”

She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek.

But Agent 47 couldn’t do that.

“Helen, I’m … I’m just not wired for that kind of relationship.”

She blinked but didn’t remove her hand. “Are you …?”

“No, I’m not gay. But I’ve never had a relationship that worked the way it’s supposed to. I guess you can say I’m jaded. It’s difficult for me to trust anyone.”

“You can trust me, Stan.”

“I’m sure I can. I think the world of you. I believe we can be very close, but I was hoping we could just be … friends.”

He saw the disappointment in her eyes. She removed her hand and then took a big sip of champagne. “Sure. We can do that.”

“Helen. You really don’t know me—”

She held up a hand. “Stop. It’s all right. I know you’ve got your own set of secrets. Perhaps you’ll tell me about them someday. And, about us, I’m not pressuring you, Stan. I like you. I like you more than anyone I’ve known here at Greenhill. So if you want to be friends, then I can accept that. I’m a damaged person too. Yes, I can see that you’re damaged. Your wounds are deep and permanent. I know.”

He took one of her hands and gently slid her sleeve up, revealing the red welts.

“Just like mine,” she added.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

“I thought I was at the bottom. The lowest of the low. I was selling my body for drugs. I was stealing. I was even homeless for a time. So I tried to end it.” She snorted. “It didn’t work, obviously.”

He lightly ran his fingers over the disfigured flesh.

“After that, I resolved to change my life. It was a wake-up call. I turned to the Church of Will and things started getting better. I had something to believe in. I gained a purpose beyond sticking a needle in my vein or popping a pill. Stan, you can do that too. I’ll help you, if you let me.”

A long silence passed, after which 47 replied, “I’ll consider it.”

An hour later, she was asleep on the couch. They had continued to talk, but she drank nearly all the champagne and wine by herself. She cuddled next to him, put her head on his shoulder, and drifted off.

47, however, was wide awake. The pills had kicked in, and his thoughts were clear and focused. He couldn’t think of a moment in his life in which a woman had fallen asleep next to him in this fashion. It was indeed a totally new and somewhat uncomfortable experience for him. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Could it be that the uncomfortable feeling he had was actually a comfortable one, which was so unreal to him that it seemed foreign?

Of one thing he was certain: He admired Helen. Not for any sexual attraction he might have for her but for what she was able to accomplish.

She had combated Death and won.