Hitman Damnation

TWENTY-SEVEN



I rarely let the unexpected throw me, but that sure did.

There she was, standing two feet in front of me, staring me right in the face. There was a moment, one of those awkward instances, when I wasn’t sure how to react. Probably a remnant of the drug withdrawal. I wasn’t thinking on my feet as quickly as I should have been.

At any rate, I muttered, “Excuse me,” and moved past her. As if it were one of those clumsy incidents when you turn a corner and accidentally bump into someone.

Then, behind me, I heard her call, “Stan?”

I kept going. Didn’t even acknowledge it. Just continued my stride toward the elevators. I was wearing the bellhop uniform and cap. Perhaps she would think I merely resembled the Stan Johnson she knew, after which she’d realize I couldn’t possibly be him. A bellboy at a hotel in Cyprus? Impossible. Her imagination got the best of her.

When I reached the corner and turned toward the elevator bay, I glanced back. She was gone. Apparently I was right. She must’ve chalked it up to a mistake on her part and moved on. I wondered if she was looking for Ashton? She wasn’t dressed for exercise.

I took the elevator to my floor and went to my room. There was nothing more I could do until tomorrow. With Helen running around the building, I knew I had to be extra cautious. I didn’t want to run into her again. She might actually try to talk to me, the bellhop, and then I’d really be in trouble.

It would be so much more convenient if I were given the green light to kill Wilkins now. I could accomplish it here and be done with it. I didn’t understand what the holdup was. I didn’t understand anything about this crazy assignment. The reverend did have me curious as to what he was doing in Cyprus, meeting with criminal types. And moneymen. I didn’t know much about American politics, but I thought it would be considered pretty shady for a presidential candidate, especially someone from the isolationist America First Party, to accept campaign dollars from such sources, if that’s what he was indeed doing.

How long would it be before Ashton was missed? Would someone find him in the closet tonight? Tomorrow? What would Wilkins do?

I also wondered how safe it was for me to go back to Greenhill. They were missing two security men, and their maintenance supervisor had broken his neck falling down some stairs. If Ashton had kept my identity to himself, then I was probably all right. The big question was whether or not Wilkins knew. I had to assume that he did and play my cards accordingly. On the other hand, I had to take the chance of going back in as Stan Johnson. It was still my best bet to get close enough to the reverend to take him out.

There was also unfinished business with Helen. I had to risk returning to Greenhill for her. She was worth the gamble, and although it went against my grain, I thought I needed to protect her.

When I bumped into her, I felt as if someone had hit me in the chest with a hammer. I’d never experienced that before. I was smart enough to know it was not a physical reaction but an emotional one.

Emotions. I had some after all. Who would have thought?

In the shower, I held my hand out flat in front of me. The shakes had diminished considerably. In fact, it was about as still as I’d seen it in months. Maybe I was kicking the painkillers faster than I thought. Then I realized the headache had disappeared as well. I hadn’t noticed that before. That was a good thing.

I got into bed and fell into a much-needed sleep.


The dreams were still vivid, though.

I was back in my eight-year-old body. Little 47. From my name alone, I should have known from an even earlier age that something wasn’t right with me. Who named a child “47”? When I was much older, I learned I was called that because the last two digits on my bar code were four and seven. My bar code.

So I inhabited my eight-year-old self again. I remembered the moment in question as if it were yesterday. I sat in the asylum garden near the big fountain. I’d finished with my training for the day, and I felt perturbed. I didn’t understand yet why the good doctor was making me do all that stuff. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the staff. I didn’t like anybody.

Then I saw it in the grass. A little snake. Slithering along, minding its own business.

But I hated it. Why should that measly creature be free, when I wasn’t? I was stuck in the asylum and wasn’t allowed to leave. The snake could come and go as it pleased.

With lightning-fast speed that surprised me, I jumped at the reptile and caught it in my bare hands. It was gray and about ten inches long. The creature slinked around and through my fingers. I’d never touched a snake before that. It was smoother than I expected, and yet it felt scaly and rough too. A very strange combination. I studied the thing and looked it directly in the eyes. A forked tongue rapidly slipped in and out of its mouth. It was almost as if it was asking, “Who are you? Why are you holding me? Are you my friend?”

No. I was not your friend. Especially after you bit me.

The anger rose in me. Frustration. Confusion. Coldness.

Without thinking about it, I squeezed and crushed the snake in my hands. Its guts and bloodlike icky fluids dripped out over my skin.

I wasn’t repelled.

I threw the snake’s remains as far as I could. Then I sat down on the edge of the fountain and studied my palms. What had I just done? I’d killed a living thing. It bit me and I defended myself, but was that a good reason?

Right then and there—I knew. It all became clear to me. I understood why I felt like an outcast. A lab specimen. A nonhuman.

I was a born killer. I was engineered to do what I’d done.

At first I was very depressed. Sad. But a minute later the anger returned. Real fury. And I stayed incensed for weeks. Dr. Ort-Meyer kept asking me what was wrong. I told him I hated him. Several times. He laughed and patted my back, as if I was behaving exactly as he wanted. “Very good, very good!” he’d say.

Then, in the dream I was having, I tried to escape the asylum much sooner than I really did. But everywhere I turned, there were iron bars blocking my way. I ran down a hall to flee from the violence I’d inflicted in my fantasies. Dead end. I turned around and tried a different route. More obstacles.

I couldn’t get away from what I was: a killer.

And then—there he was. Waiting for me at the end of a corridor.

The Faceless One. Death. He beckoned me to come closer. I refused. I sensed that he was communicating with me. He was offering me a way out of my predicament.

“What? How?” I screamed at him in my eight-year-old voice.

Death held out his hand. He had one of my Silverballers. Loaded. Ready to go. Its beauty attracted me. The sleek gunmetal finish, the pearl handle, the pure art of its design. I moved closer to Death. Reached out. Took the weapon. It was heavy in my small hands. But it felt … wonderful.

I peered up at Death, again trying to penetrate the blankness that covered his face. Who was he really? I was positive that he was someone I knew. Somebody familiar.

You know what to do. He didn’t speak aloud, but I heard him in my head.

The way out.

Yes, I knew what to do, all right. I lifted the Silverballer and pointed the barrel at my right temple. All I had to do was squeeze the trigger and it’d all be over. I would be just another one of Ort-Meyer’s failed experiments. Let 48 or 49 or 50 be his pride and joy. Not me.

Just pull the trigger. End it all.

Now.


Again, I woke up in a sweat.

So the withdrawal symptoms hadn’t completely gone away.

I held out my hand. No trembles. I mentally examined my body. No headache. No fatigue.

Only the dreams. That’s all that was left.

I had to beat them. I couldn’t stand them anymore. And there was only one way to do so.

I had to find out who Death was. That was the key to full recovery.

I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes—well, they appeared as they always did. My skin—not as pale. That was progress.

“I’m going to beat you,” I said aloud, even though I knew no one could hear me.

No one except Death.