Endings, Linda Richards [desktop ebook reader .txt] 📗

And so it begins.

And so it began.

CHAPTER FOUR

SEVENTY-TWO PERCENT OF hits are contracted due to matters of the heart. I saw this fact on CNN, so it must be true.

Oh, sure, sometimes those matters of the heart extend to money or the protection of children or some other connected matter. But in seventy-two percent of cases, there is some element of love and loss. CNN says it, but I’ve seen this, also, with my own heart.

I think about that sometimes. About what would be different if I’d done the sensible, contractual thing in my own marriage. It hadn’t been about love for a long time. There had been the child to raise—and I may not have loved his father anymore, but our son sure did. So the child to raise and the shared life to protect.

What if I, in good seventy-two percent style, had not straightened my hair and made coffee on that day? What if, instead, I had taken out a contract on my husband’s life? This story would have had a happy ending then, do you see? No massive loss, no soulless searching, no wandering the landscape, a gun in my Coach. One could argue: Well, what of the husband? But he’s dead now, you see? And the going was not without discomfort. And a great deal of pain. Oh, I killed him in the end anyway, of course. But that was a different matter. By then it was a mercy killing, and I don’t think that’s the sort of contract CNN means.

The news piece had other facts, different statistics. For instance, they said, the most common method of fulfilling a contract was with a firearm.

No surprise there. There is nothing that kills as efficiently as a gun. There have been times when I’ve used other means, but only under duress or instruction. If for no other reasons than practical ones, firearms make the most sense in my case. I am, after all, generally much smaller than my targets. Physically, I mean. And a gun? Well, it evens things up.

That first hit, for Julian and Clara, was not as difficult as one would imagine. Not as difficult as I feared it would be. I felt soulless in that moment. I felt as though nothing would ever matter again. Truly, in some ways, it has not.

Julian and Clara had told me something about the man’s habits, about where to find him; where it might be best to do the deed.

I didn’t even have a gun then. Not at first. And I knew enough to understand I didn’t want it in my own name. But I needed one.

I went to a bad part of my town, large bills in my purse. I found a guy—a fairly random guy—and I told him what I wanted. I took a risk doing that, I knew, but by then almost everything I did was a risk. It was the only thing keeping me alive.

After Random Guy tried to sell me some meth—I declined—he said I should talk to someone named Rick, a regular at Bud’s bar.

Bud’s was close—just a couple of blocks from the place Random and I were standing. My first instinct was to walk, but the area was dodgy, plus I had the feeling to put Random in my rearview, so I drove the paltry two blocks and got rock star parking right outside because it was early; not quite six o’clock.

Inside, the bar was so dim I was both distressed and relieved. A dozen or so guys sat along the battle-scarred bar, propping it up with cheap drinks and baleful-looking conversation.

A couple of heads turned when I sat at the bar, but it didn’t take long for them to turn back to their televisions and desultory conversation.

The only other female in the place approached me, a pale brunette in her thirties who asked if she could get me anything. I thought about being pert and asking for a gun, but ordered a beer instead. Once the beer was delivered, she slid a menu in my direction and asked if I wanted any food. I spent some time pretending to look at the menu but realized once I saw the pictures of surreal-looking hamburgers and French fries that the last thing I wanted to do was eat. When she came back for my order, I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I told her that a girlfriend of mine had met a guy named Rick and that he’d told her he knew someone with a cheap car for sale.

“I need a cheap car,” I said. “So I thought I’d look him up.”

She smiled at that, so I knew I’d chosen the right words.

“Sure,” she said. “Everyone knows Rick.”

She pointed out a guy at the other side of the bar. He was all alone in a booth meant for six, a Sox baseball cap pushed far back on his head.

I thanked her, grabbed my barely sipped beer, and headed in his direction.

“I hear you can get me a cheap car,” I said as I sat down.

He looked up from the papers he’d been leaning over, the surprise on his face only mild. I noted clean, neatly trimmed nails with fat, healthy cuticles. Whatever else Rick did, he liked his manicures.

“I need it to be in good condition,” I said, meeting his eyes. “And something I can handle on my own.”

I could see his confusion clear. It was almost too easy.

“How much experience do you have with … fast cars?” he asked.

“None. And speed is not my main concern. I would like … I would like it to be accurate.”

“That’s kinda the point with this kind of … car,” he said without expression. “Accuracy. But, yeah. Whatever. I have the perfect one for you. Come back on Wednesday. Same time. With $1,200. Cash.”

“Obviously.”

“Here’s my number. Text me when you’re outside and I’ll meet you.”

I did as he asked. On Wednesday, he came out at my text. We walked the few blocks in