Davis looked up at Francesca from the couch. She had changed her hair from black to auburn, but her eyes were the same. He smiled at seeing her face again, but his smile fell quickly when he realized he was supposed to kill her. "Francesca," Davis said quickly, "You have to leave. Tonight. Someone has hired me to kill you." Francesca's eyes opened wide asking an unspoken question; searching for answers. "Yes, Francesca, I am an assassin. That's what--"
"I know what you are, Jackson!" Francesca yelled. "What I don't know, is why you disappeared for two years, why you don't remember marrying me, and why you don't remember bringing me back from Panama!"
"I don't know!" Davis was as concerned with this information as Francesca was. "I don't know why I don't remember, but I can only guess that it's because the people I work for needed my...talents. All this time, I've thought you were dead." Davis rose from the couch and put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She fell into his arms and began to cry. Davis held her tightly and sighed heavily. His eyes were shut tightly allowing emotion to wash through him. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and began to run down his face. He opened his eyes and looked around at the room as he could see it. His vision was blurred by the tears, but he fought them back as best as he could. To his right was the hall they had walked through earlier and to his right was a playpen with the small boy inside. My son! Davis thought.
He pulled away from Francesca and looked at her with excitement and curiosity. "Is this-is he our son?" Francesca turned to face the playpen and smiled.
"Yes," she said. She reached down and picked him up and handed the boy to Davis. "His name his Joseph." Davis took the boy in his arms and held him close. Davis held him for a long time, cooing and saying the name Joseph over and over. Joseph smiled and laughed as his father held him for the first time.
After a few hours of talking about the last five years, Davis' phone rang abruptly. The shrill ring pierced the relative quite of the house. "Hello?" Davis said as he flipped the phone open.
"Hello, Jackson. Is it nice to be home?"
Shock and an unfamiliar emotion Davis knew to be fear fluttered through him. "Just who is this?" Davis asked unsteadily. "How do you know that name?"
"Isn't that your name, Jackson?" The man on the other end answered. "Now that you are home, I figured I would use your real name. Perhaps, you should have kept your memories when you left. If you had, you might have been able to avoid this day, but, you decided to make it easier on yourself and forget your family so you wouldn't be tempted to return and have this day happen. It was an inevitability. I will win, Jackson. You once tortured someone very close to me, so now it is your turn."
"What do you want?!" Davis bellowed into the phone. Francesca's eyes grew wide in fear and picked her son up instinctively and held him to her chest.
"Patience," the voice responded coldly. "Does Francesca know what you did to her first husband?" Davis just sat there, wordless. "I'm going to say that's a no. It's a shame, really. If she did, it would be easier on you, but now you must tell her."
"Why? What point will it make? What purpose will that serve?!"
"It will let her know who you really are. What darkness really lives inside of you. You have 15 minutes, or I tell her."
"How? I'll answer every phone call. You'll never speak to her."
"And the game has started. I hope you'll be more cooperative in the future Jackson. It really will be easier." The line went dead and Davis turned to Francesca.
"Francesca, we need to talk..."
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Storm
Gray clouds choke out the sun.
The day becomes a haze.
A scowl paints over my face;
I drift into a daze,
Imagining the warmth
Of the clear summer days.
I turn my face sky-ward
As the first rain drops fell.
A gentle wind blew in,
Twirling leaves in circles.
The northern wind grew cold
As it blew more fiercely.
The gray deepened to black,
And the rain fell in sheets.
I looked for some shelter,
But there was none to see.
My heart pounded quickly
While my clothes soaked in rain.
Lightning split through the sky,
Illuminating light,
Showing my dire distress.
The ground 'round about me
Turned towards the blackened sky
In a natural bowl.
Thunder bellowed loudly;
Shaking me to the core.
My nerves snapped. Eyes widened.
I jumped for the bowl's lip,
But it was out of reach.
My hope turned to despair.
The bowl filled too quickly;
I could not stay a float.
The wind cut through my body,
Chilling me, killing me.
I cried out in my fear,
"God, please save my life! Please!"
Lightning tore through the sky;
Thunder shook the very ground.
The rain showed no slowing;
My prayer went unanswered.
"You are stronger than this!
You can stop this storm, God.
"Nature listens to You;
It follows Your commands.
I ask for You to help!"
Lightning flashed; thunder roared;
The wind died; the rain slowed.
The deep black turned to gray.
A hand reached out to me;
It pulled me from my trap.
I stood on higher ground
While the rain stopped fully.
The sun broke through the clouds,
Warmth flooded my cold skin.
The gray melted away,
Revealing a bright blue.
"Breathe deep," a small voice said.
I filled my lungs with air
Several times by nose.
The air smelt clean and clear.
The storm which had brought fear,
Brought cleansing along too.
This is the way God works.
We see one thing in fear,
But He does another.
For He is above us.
The day becomes a haze.
A scowl paints over my face;
I drift into a daze,
Imagining the warmth
Of the clear summer days.
I turn my face sky-ward
As the first rain drops fell.
A gentle wind blew in,
Twirling leaves in circles.
The northern wind grew cold
As it blew more fiercely.
The gray deepened to black,
And the rain fell in sheets.
I looked for some shelter,
But there was none to see.
My heart pounded quickly
While my clothes soaked in rain.
Lightning split through the sky,
Illuminating light,
Showing my dire distress.
The ground 'round about me
Turned towards the blackened sky
In a natural bowl.
Thunder bellowed loudly;
Shaking me to the core.
My nerves snapped. Eyes widened.
I jumped for the bowl's lip,
But it was out of reach.
My hope turned to despair.
The bowl filled too quickly;
I could not stay a float.
The wind cut through my body,
Chilling me, killing me.
I cried out in my fear,
"God, please save my life! Please!"
Lightning tore through the sky;
Thunder shook the very ground.
The rain showed no slowing;
My prayer went unanswered.
"You are stronger than this!
You can stop this storm, God.
"Nature listens to You;
It follows Your commands.
I ask for You to help!"
Lightning flashed; thunder roared;
The wind died; the rain slowed.
The deep black turned to gray.
A hand reached out to me;
It pulled me from my trap.
I stood on higher ground
While the rain stopped fully.
The sun broke through the clouds,
Warmth flooded my cold skin.
The gray melted away,
Revealing a bright blue.
"Breathe deep," a small voice said.
I filled my lungs with air
Several times by nose.
The air smelt clean and clear.
The storm which had brought fear,
Brought cleansing along too.
This is the way God works.
We see one thing in fear,
But He does another.
For He is above us.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Black (Part 4)
Davis pulled into the drive-way of the home of his former lover. He had to convince her that she wasn't safe and that someone wanted him to kill her. Davis never cared before who hired him, but with this new revelation about the identity of his target, he found himself needing to know.
Davis exited his vehicle and walked to the front door. He looked inside the window and saw a woman curled up on the couch. A light lit up the end of the couch with her head, but nothing else was on. The light, combined with the fading sun, illuminated a playpen in the middle of the room. A small boy, about two, sat in it and was playing with several toys. Davis, for the first time that he could remember, knocked on a door. He took a deep breath as the woman rose from the couch, wiped her eyes, and walked to the door. She opened the door, and her eyes grew wide in surprise, then dark with anger. The red tint around them from her tears grew darker as the tears began to fall again. She began cursing in Spanish at Davis, but he just stood patiently while she got it out of her system. She changed from Spanish to English and said, "Just who do you think you are, Jack Greyson! You disappear for two years, with no word, then just show back up one day and don't even say anything to me! What is going on!?"
Davis waited to see if she would say anything else. When she just glared at him in silence, he spoke. "Hello, Francesca," he said calmly. He was about to speak again, but her confused look made him change course. "What is wrong? Isn't that your name?"
"Not for a few years, now. Not since you brought me up from Panama five years ago." Now it was Davis' turn to be surprised. His look must have betrayed his thoughts because she asked, "Do you not remember that? Do you not remember the three years we lived together in this house? Do you not remember the day when you came home and I told you that I was pregnant? Do you not remember leaving two weeks later and never coming back until now?"
Davis' eyes went wide. He didn't remember any of that. He remembered the mission into Panama five years ago, and he remembers coming back alone. He could remember every mission he had in the time since then, but he remembered nothing of this life with Francesca. "No," Davis finally said. "I don't remember any of it. I don't even remember using the name Jackson. The name I know is Davis. That is my name. Davis Simmons." Davis' emotions began to get the best of him. Something that hadn't happened to him since the day he left the man to die in Panama. He went in and sat on the sofa in a daze. He couldn't get his head clear.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Francesca asked. "Come. I will show you." Francesca led Davis to a small office at the base of the stairs. Inside was something that made Davis' skin crawl. Covering the walls were neat sketches like the anomaly on his apartment wall. His eyes scanned the pictures hastily, pausing only long enough to notice vague details. Soon, though, he found one that he had seen before. It was exactly like the one on his wall. Where his was neat, this one was messier, in Davis' own drawing style. The weird thing was, it was the exact same sketch, dated 2008. Davis paid more attention to it this time. Davis examined the sketch, found the title where he would normally put it, which read Escape. The picture was of a man who was stuck behind a wall of bars and was struggling to break free. Davis staggered out of the room. He and Jackson were the same person. That was a certainty. The evidence was overwhelming, and he knew it to be true in the pit of his stomach. The question, now, was why couldn't he remember the three years he had spent with Francesca?
Davis exited his vehicle and walked to the front door. He looked inside the window and saw a woman curled up on the couch. A light lit up the end of the couch with her head, but nothing else was on. The light, combined with the fading sun, illuminated a playpen in the middle of the room. A small boy, about two, sat in it and was playing with several toys. Davis, for the first time that he could remember, knocked on a door. He took a deep breath as the woman rose from the couch, wiped her eyes, and walked to the door. She opened the door, and her eyes grew wide in surprise, then dark with anger. The red tint around them from her tears grew darker as the tears began to fall again. She began cursing in Spanish at Davis, but he just stood patiently while she got it out of her system. She changed from Spanish to English and said, "Just who do you think you are, Jack Greyson! You disappear for two years, with no word, then just show back up one day and don't even say anything to me! What is going on!?"
Davis waited to see if she would say anything else. When she just glared at him in silence, he spoke. "Hello, Francesca," he said calmly. He was about to speak again, but her confused look made him change course. "What is wrong? Isn't that your name?"
"Not for a few years, now. Not since you brought me up from Panama five years ago." Now it was Davis' turn to be surprised. His look must have betrayed his thoughts because she asked, "Do you not remember that? Do you not remember the three years we lived together in this house? Do you not remember the day when you came home and I told you that I was pregnant? Do you not remember leaving two weeks later and never coming back until now?"
Davis' eyes went wide. He didn't remember any of that. He remembered the mission into Panama five years ago, and he remembers coming back alone. He could remember every mission he had in the time since then, but he remembered nothing of this life with Francesca. "No," Davis finally said. "I don't remember any of it. I don't even remember using the name Jackson. The name I know is Davis. That is my name. Davis Simmons." Davis' emotions began to get the best of him. Something that hadn't happened to him since the day he left the man to die in Panama. He went in and sat on the sofa in a daze. He couldn't get his head clear.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Francesca asked. "Come. I will show you." Francesca led Davis to a small office at the base of the stairs. Inside was something that made Davis' skin crawl. Covering the walls were neat sketches like the anomaly on his apartment wall. His eyes scanned the pictures hastily, pausing only long enough to notice vague details. Soon, though, he found one that he had seen before. It was exactly like the one on his wall. Where his was neat, this one was messier, in Davis' own drawing style. The weird thing was, it was the exact same sketch, dated 2008. Davis paid more attention to it this time. Davis examined the sketch, found the title where he would normally put it, which read Escape. The picture was of a man who was stuck behind a wall of bars and was struggling to break free. Davis staggered out of the room. He and Jackson were the same person. That was a certainty. The evidence was overwhelming, and he knew it to be true in the pit of his stomach. The question, now, was why couldn't he remember the three years he had spent with Francesca?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Black (Part 3)
Davis went home immediately after leaving the Greyson house. His head spun with the implications of the picture and the wife's reaction. For some reason, she seemed familiar. It seemed like Davis was supposed to know the woman, but that was impossible. He did not make it a point to fall in love or even interact with women. An experience many years ago taught him that. He was on an assignment from, he found out later, a drug cartel in Panama. They wanted him to take out a rival drug lord after his wife was dead and buried. Davis flew to Panama on a private jet hired just for him. When he landed, he immediately went to a bar to secretly gather intel on the target. As he was sipping on a glass of rum, a pretty young woman with dark black hair began to talk with him.
Their conversation covered the polite at first, but then the lady began to get invasive. "What are you doing here, Mr. American?" Her accented English was almost as captivating as her eyes. Almost. In the many recollections of that night, Davis found himself surprised at how well he kept to a single cover story. "I'm a writer for a news group. I've been put on assignment to see how the drug war is affecting the people."
She laughed quietly, but full of life. "How do you do this in a bar, Senor? The people are not all in here. Only those who participate or do not care about these things." Her laughter died abruptly as the words she said caught up with her mind.
"And which are you, Senorita? Participant? Or do you not care what happens to the people?" Her eyes burned with resentment at the question. Davis quickly back-stepped over his offensive question. "Forgive me, senorita. I am a reporter, after all, and sometimes I cannot stop the questions from leaping off of my tongue." This placated the exquisite woman enough. The fire lowered to a low smoldering.
"Senor," she said her accent thickening, "I do care, and, I try not to participate. Part of our life, however, is having to do things we do not wish to do." Davis continued the conversation, but as the alcohol began to take its effect, his thoughts became more primal.
He found himself the next morning in a run down hotel room in Panama City with the beautiful woman face down on the bed. The sheet was pulled back slightly, revealing her bare back. Davis shook her slightly. "Senorita," he whispered quietly. A low raspy voice answered him instead.
"She will not answer you, Senor. It's hard to talk when you have not been breathing for several hours." Davis' head snapped up and scanned the small room for the man. In the far corner of the room, Davis saw a man standing. The man was much smaller than Davis, but had a ruthless look about him. "Lucky for you, though, my boss wants you to know who she was before you are killed."
Davis let the surprise of the situation take control. He needed to look as if he had never been in this situation before. "K-killed?" Davis stammered. "Wh-why should I be killed? I'm no one! I mean, I just came down on assignment by my news company."
"Is this why you landed in a private jet? Or why you had a gun under your pillow?" The man confidently stepped forward and pulled Davis' pistol from his belt. "No, senor. I do not believe you are a reporter. Neither does my boss. Now, do you want to know the identity of the woman in your bed?"
Davis swallowed down the surprise. He felt no fear. No panic. His only feeling was cold callousness. A careful situation assessment played through his head. He knew he was faster than the man; and stronger. A cold unfeeling smile spread across his lips. "Please, Senor," Davis said. "Enlighten me. What wrong did I do that so offends your boss?"
"First," the other man said as he walked closer to Davis with the gun extended, "you have slept with his wife. He does not look too kindly on that. This was his favorite wife, but he does not know how to keep them on a tight leash. He has had several killed before for their disobedience." The man chuckled as though he was living the memories of these women's deaths. "Second, and most grievously, you have been sent to kill him. This, he cannot have. He enjoys being alive. Therefore, Mr. Assassin, it is you that must die." The man reached to chamber a round when Davis moved. Davis allowed the adrenaline to flow through him as he knocked the gun aside with his left hand and punched with his right. Davis' fist connected with the man's temple and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Davis had never let his anger get the better of him before, but this time he couldn't control himself. The beautiful woman, the wife of his target, a target herself, had been murdered. He had no right to feel for her, but he did. He cared so deeply that it surprised him. He took the unconscious man into the jungle. He stripped the man down to his underwear then tied him to a tree. He, then, slapped the man across the face to waken him. As the man came to, Davis grabbed his face. "Tell me what your boss will be doing today, and I'll make your death painless." The man laughed and spit in Davis' face. Davis pulled out his knife and made a long, swift cut across the man's chest. The man grimaced in pain, but did not cry out. "How long, do you think, before the scavengers get the scent of blood and come to eat?" Davis sliced once across the man's right leg. A slow, but steady stream of blood flowed from the chest and leg. "I really can't imagine the sheer torture being eaten alive must be." The man's eyes started to betray his demeanor. He was trying to be tough, like it didn't scare him, but each cut made his eyes give more and more away. Davis twirled the knife in his hand, then cut the man's left leg similarly to the right. The man, this time, cried out in pain.
"STOP! Please!" Tears filled the man's eyes. Davis took pleasure in the fact that he made this man cry. It brought an intense satisfaction to his mind. That's for the senorita, he said to himself. She didn't have the chance to cry and beg for her life.
"Where will I be able to find him today?" Davis asked again. The man closed his eyes tightly. He exhaled shakily and said, "I am the man you seek. I always see to my wives' and their lovers' punishment personally." Davis felt his anger rise again. He slashed his knife quickly four more times. The man's arms and stomach each had a new cut on them. The fourth knife stroke found the man's cheek. Blood seeped from each wound and Davis could hear the animals starting to gather. There would be no mercy for this man. Davis pulled out his gun and chambered a round. He raised it at the man's head, giving the look of keeping his promise. "What was her name?" He pressed the cold steel against his forehead. "Francesca," the man whispered. "Her name was Francesca." Davis lowered his gun and drug his knife across the man's chest and stomach vertically from the base of the throat to the band of his underwear. Fresh blood flowed from this deeper cut and the man howled in pain. Davis cleaned his knife, holstered his gun and walked to the jeep. The last sounds he heard were the man calling out curses and obscenities to Davis for not fulfilling his promise, followed by a wild roar and ear shattering scream as the animals found the source of the fresh blood.
Once Davis returned to his home in America, he found an e-mail waiting for him. His employer was not happy at his tactics. It was not done the way it was asked for. For this, Davis received only a quarter of the payout. The last line of the e-mail was, "Next time, follow the rules."
Since that event, Davis had stayed away from all female companionship. Everyday, his heart ached for the dazzling beauty Francesca, but he would never have her and he would never compromise his life like that again. Still, he couldn't shake the idea that he knew this Mrs. Greyson. He brought the mental picture he had of her back to his focus. He studied her face, trying to locate something, but couldn't. Her hair was blond and her eyes were green. Davis turned his attention to his latest drawing. He started to see himself as the man struggling up the mountain and the sun was laughing at him. He would never accomplish his dream, nor would he figure out this new mystery. He glanced at his watch. The assignment was to be completed in eight hours. He sat down hard on his bed. He would figure this out before tonight. He had to figure it out. He had no room in his life for coincidence. Davis rose as soon as he sat down, grabbed his coat once more, and headed back out to the house. He would figure this out.
He thought back over the details of the case under the boat. He played the scene back through his head, all the way through where the woman came into the house. After years of being in this business, he had almost perfected the art of perfect recall. He could remember everything. Every sight, every sound, every smell. He got to the end where the wife called out her husband's name. Davis froze. A sensation all too unfamiliar to him flowed through his veins: shock. No, it couldn't be! He saw her dead body! There was no way it could be Francesca! The hair and the eyes were all wrong, but her voice. Davis clung to the memory of Francesca's voice as much as her eyes and hair, and there was no mistaking. This woman had Francesca's voice. The same accent, the same tone while confused. It was the same tone that she used when they met all those years ago in Panama. What are you doing here, Mr. American? Davis pulled off the road as this realization crashed over him. There was no way he could kill her. He couldn't kill Francesca...
Their conversation covered the polite at first, but then the lady began to get invasive. "What are you doing here, Mr. American?" Her accented English was almost as captivating as her eyes. Almost. In the many recollections of that night, Davis found himself surprised at how well he kept to a single cover story. "I'm a writer for a news group. I've been put on assignment to see how the drug war is affecting the people."
She laughed quietly, but full of life. "How do you do this in a bar, Senor? The people are not all in here. Only those who participate or do not care about these things." Her laughter died abruptly as the words she said caught up with her mind.
"And which are you, Senorita? Participant? Or do you not care what happens to the people?" Her eyes burned with resentment at the question. Davis quickly back-stepped over his offensive question. "Forgive me, senorita. I am a reporter, after all, and sometimes I cannot stop the questions from leaping off of my tongue." This placated the exquisite woman enough. The fire lowered to a low smoldering.
"Senor," she said her accent thickening, "I do care, and, I try not to participate. Part of our life, however, is having to do things we do not wish to do." Davis continued the conversation, but as the alcohol began to take its effect, his thoughts became more primal.
He found himself the next morning in a run down hotel room in Panama City with the beautiful woman face down on the bed. The sheet was pulled back slightly, revealing her bare back. Davis shook her slightly. "Senorita," he whispered quietly. A low raspy voice answered him instead.
"She will not answer you, Senor. It's hard to talk when you have not been breathing for several hours." Davis' head snapped up and scanned the small room for the man. In the far corner of the room, Davis saw a man standing. The man was much smaller than Davis, but had a ruthless look about him. "Lucky for you, though, my boss wants you to know who she was before you are killed."
Davis let the surprise of the situation take control. He needed to look as if he had never been in this situation before. "K-killed?" Davis stammered. "Wh-why should I be killed? I'm no one! I mean, I just came down on assignment by my news company."
"Is this why you landed in a private jet? Or why you had a gun under your pillow?" The man confidently stepped forward and pulled Davis' pistol from his belt. "No, senor. I do not believe you are a reporter. Neither does my boss. Now, do you want to know the identity of the woman in your bed?"
Davis swallowed down the surprise. He felt no fear. No panic. His only feeling was cold callousness. A careful situation assessment played through his head. He knew he was faster than the man; and stronger. A cold unfeeling smile spread across his lips. "Please, Senor," Davis said. "Enlighten me. What wrong did I do that so offends your boss?"
"First," the other man said as he walked closer to Davis with the gun extended, "you have slept with his wife. He does not look too kindly on that. This was his favorite wife, but he does not know how to keep them on a tight leash. He has had several killed before for their disobedience." The man chuckled as though he was living the memories of these women's deaths. "Second, and most grievously, you have been sent to kill him. This, he cannot have. He enjoys being alive. Therefore, Mr. Assassin, it is you that must die." The man reached to chamber a round when Davis moved. Davis allowed the adrenaline to flow through him as he knocked the gun aside with his left hand and punched with his right. Davis' fist connected with the man's temple and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Davis had never let his anger get the better of him before, but this time he couldn't control himself. The beautiful woman, the wife of his target, a target herself, had been murdered. He had no right to feel for her, but he did. He cared so deeply that it surprised him. He took the unconscious man into the jungle. He stripped the man down to his underwear then tied him to a tree. He, then, slapped the man across the face to waken him. As the man came to, Davis grabbed his face. "Tell me what your boss will be doing today, and I'll make your death painless." The man laughed and spit in Davis' face. Davis pulled out his knife and made a long, swift cut across the man's chest. The man grimaced in pain, but did not cry out. "How long, do you think, before the scavengers get the scent of blood and come to eat?" Davis sliced once across the man's right leg. A slow, but steady stream of blood flowed from the chest and leg. "I really can't imagine the sheer torture being eaten alive must be." The man's eyes started to betray his demeanor. He was trying to be tough, like it didn't scare him, but each cut made his eyes give more and more away. Davis twirled the knife in his hand, then cut the man's left leg similarly to the right. The man, this time, cried out in pain.
"STOP! Please!" Tears filled the man's eyes. Davis took pleasure in the fact that he made this man cry. It brought an intense satisfaction to his mind. That's for the senorita, he said to himself. She didn't have the chance to cry and beg for her life.
"Where will I be able to find him today?" Davis asked again. The man closed his eyes tightly. He exhaled shakily and said, "I am the man you seek. I always see to my wives' and their lovers' punishment personally." Davis felt his anger rise again. He slashed his knife quickly four more times. The man's arms and stomach each had a new cut on them. The fourth knife stroke found the man's cheek. Blood seeped from each wound and Davis could hear the animals starting to gather. There would be no mercy for this man. Davis pulled out his gun and chambered a round. He raised it at the man's head, giving the look of keeping his promise. "What was her name?" He pressed the cold steel against his forehead. "Francesca," the man whispered. "Her name was Francesca." Davis lowered his gun and drug his knife across the man's chest and stomach vertically from the base of the throat to the band of his underwear. Fresh blood flowed from this deeper cut and the man howled in pain. Davis cleaned his knife, holstered his gun and walked to the jeep. The last sounds he heard were the man calling out curses and obscenities to Davis for not fulfilling his promise, followed by a wild roar and ear shattering scream as the animals found the source of the fresh blood.
Once Davis returned to his home in America, he found an e-mail waiting for him. His employer was not happy at his tactics. It was not done the way it was asked for. For this, Davis received only a quarter of the payout. The last line of the e-mail was, "Next time, follow the rules."
Since that event, Davis had stayed away from all female companionship. Everyday, his heart ached for the dazzling beauty Francesca, but he would never have her and he would never compromise his life like that again. Still, he couldn't shake the idea that he knew this Mrs. Greyson. He brought the mental picture he had of her back to his focus. He studied her face, trying to locate something, but couldn't. Her hair was blond and her eyes were green. Davis turned his attention to his latest drawing. He started to see himself as the man struggling up the mountain and the sun was laughing at him. He would never accomplish his dream, nor would he figure out this new mystery. He glanced at his watch. The assignment was to be completed in eight hours. He sat down hard on his bed. He would figure this out before tonight. He had to figure it out. He had no room in his life for coincidence. Davis rose as soon as he sat down, grabbed his coat once more, and headed back out to the house. He would figure this out.
He thought back over the details of the case under the boat. He played the scene back through his head, all the way through where the woman came into the house. After years of being in this business, he had almost perfected the art of perfect recall. He could remember everything. Every sight, every sound, every smell. He got to the end where the wife called out her husband's name. Davis froze. A sensation all too unfamiliar to him flowed through his veins: shock. No, it couldn't be! He saw her dead body! There was no way it could be Francesca! The hair and the eyes were all wrong, but her voice. Davis clung to the memory of Francesca's voice as much as her eyes and hair, and there was no mistaking. This woman had Francesca's voice. The same accent, the same tone while confused. It was the same tone that she used when they met all those years ago in Panama. What are you doing here, Mr. American? Davis pulled off the road as this realization crashed over him. There was no way he could kill her. He couldn't kill Francesca...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Black (Part 2)
Davis awakened to the irritating sound of a car alarm. His eyes snapped open and his hand reached underneath his pillow. When he realized that it was only a car alarm, he removed his hand from under his pillow and checked the time: 3:30 p.m. Davis drug himself out of bed, showered, and shaved. He dressed himself in an expensive black Italian suit and white dress shirt with a black leather tie. He put a shoulder holster on over his shirt, reached under his pillow and retrieved his Glock 23 and holstered it. He slid his jacket on and left his condo to do a quick check of the target residence.
As he arrived, he noticed the neighboring houses. The target was a two-story house overlooking the bay. The rest of the houses were similar in design. Most multiple stories, but there were a few at a single story. A tall fence cut off the front yard from the back, and it followed the property line. Davis couldn't see the back of the fence, but was sure that it ended as the beach started. Davis noted the position of the front door, the distance from the street, and the position of each and every window on the front of the house. Davis exited the car and walked towards the garage. No cars were visible in the driveway nor in the garage. Davis opened the fence gate nearest to the garage and went around back. As he had already guessed, the fence ended at the beach. The people liked their privacy, but didn't want an obstruction to their view or an obstacle to get to the beach. Davis walked onto the back deck and saw an old rowboat laid upside down on it. He picked it up slightly and looked under it. He saw oars, nets, and fishing poles.
As Davis lowered the boat, he heard an odd metallic scraping sound. So, he lifted the boat and looked again. This time, he noticed a small silver briefcase. He grabbed the case and opened it. In it, he found several passports, a small Walther P22, and several stacks of different currency. A typical case used by spies in movies. Davis found his interest peaked by this case. He counted the bills, planning on retrieving the case once he had finished tonight. After counting, he picked up the passports to get an idea of who he was going to kill. Normally, Davis didn't go to any lengths to know much about the people he has a contract for, but since the opportunity presented itself, he took it. Davis opened up the passport. The name of the man was Jackson Greyson. This man was 38, 6'3", and 235 pounds. Davis glanced at the man's picture. He bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph, but the other man had mid-length black hair, where as Davis' was short and blond. Davis thought it was odd, but didn't have much time left to think about it. A car door closed loudly in the driveway. The front door opened with a soft jingling of keys that reached Davis' ears. A muffled female voice called out. "Jackson?" The name was a question. The woman was clearly confused about something and Davis allowed himself a peak. He noticed his car was across the street. Davis chided himself silently for parking so close.
He closed the briefcase silently and slipped it back under the boat. Davis slipped out silently behind the house into the neighboring yard and exited through their fence. He walked quickly to his car and opened the door. He heard the door of the target house open and heard the name "Jackson" called loudly. He didn't allow himself to look, though she continued to shot the name trying to get Davis' attention. After he closed the door, he started the engine and put it in drive. As he left, he allowed himself a peak through the tinted glass at the woman in the yard. She had a look of confusion and hurt on her face. The question going through Davis' mind wasn't about the woman's identity. He assumed it was this Jackson's wife. What Davis was confused about was why was she confusing her husband for him? She should know her husband better than that. A detail from the man's passport that Davis overlooked the first time sprang to the front of his mind. Davis' belief in coincidence was as strong a piece of twine holding a hundred pounds, but now he was left wondering. Could that even be possible....
As he arrived, he noticed the neighboring houses. The target was a two-story house overlooking the bay. The rest of the houses were similar in design. Most multiple stories, but there were a few at a single story. A tall fence cut off the front yard from the back, and it followed the property line. Davis couldn't see the back of the fence, but was sure that it ended as the beach started. Davis noted the position of the front door, the distance from the street, and the position of each and every window on the front of the house. Davis exited the car and walked towards the garage. No cars were visible in the driveway nor in the garage. Davis opened the fence gate nearest to the garage and went around back. As he had already guessed, the fence ended at the beach. The people liked their privacy, but didn't want an obstruction to their view or an obstacle to get to the beach. Davis walked onto the back deck and saw an old rowboat laid upside down on it. He picked it up slightly and looked under it. He saw oars, nets, and fishing poles.
As Davis lowered the boat, he heard an odd metallic scraping sound. So, he lifted the boat and looked again. This time, he noticed a small silver briefcase. He grabbed the case and opened it. In it, he found several passports, a small Walther P22, and several stacks of different currency. A typical case used by spies in movies. Davis found his interest peaked by this case. He counted the bills, planning on retrieving the case once he had finished tonight. After counting, he picked up the passports to get an idea of who he was going to kill. Normally, Davis didn't go to any lengths to know much about the people he has a contract for, but since the opportunity presented itself, he took it. Davis opened up the passport. The name of the man was Jackson Greyson. This man was 38, 6'3", and 235 pounds. Davis glanced at the man's picture. He bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph, but the other man had mid-length black hair, where as Davis' was short and blond. Davis thought it was odd, but didn't have much time left to think about it. A car door closed loudly in the driveway. The front door opened with a soft jingling of keys that reached Davis' ears. A muffled female voice called out. "Jackson?" The name was a question. The woman was clearly confused about something and Davis allowed himself a peak. He noticed his car was across the street. Davis chided himself silently for parking so close.
He closed the briefcase silently and slipped it back under the boat. Davis slipped out silently behind the house into the neighboring yard and exited through their fence. He walked quickly to his car and opened the door. He heard the door of the target house open and heard the name "Jackson" called loudly. He didn't allow himself to look, though she continued to shot the name trying to get Davis' attention. After he closed the door, he started the engine and put it in drive. As he left, he allowed himself a peak through the tinted glass at the woman in the yard. She had a look of confusion and hurt on her face. The question going through Davis' mind wasn't about the woman's identity. He assumed it was this Jackson's wife. What Davis was confused about was why was she confusing her husband for him? She should know her husband better than that. A detail from the man's passport that Davis overlooked the first time sprang to the front of his mind. Davis' belief in coincidence was as strong a piece of twine holding a hundred pounds, but now he was left wondering. Could that even be possible....
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Black (Part 1)
Davis looked at the clock on the screen. It read 4:57 a.m. That figures, he thought, it never lands directly on the hour when I check. It really was of no consequence, but Davis' brain doesn't let the little details slip by. He is a queer sort of man. The walls of his room are black and covered with white sketches scribbled messily over the walls. For a man of intense order and meticulousness, he has little care for his walls. They are merely for his expression and a place for his ideas to pop out. He returns his focus to one sketch in particular that has bothered him for some time.
It is dated 2005, but he doesn't remember drawing it, and he remembers everything he draws. Even more peculiar, this sketch was drawn neatly where all the others were not. Again, this fact was nothing of consequence, just an irritating incongruence that stuck out in Davis' head like a beacon on a clear night. No matter, Davis thought. I'll deal with it later.
Davis shifted his attention to his current rough sketch. His computer monitor gave the only light for him to draw by. It was how he liked to draw. The darkness helped him think, and his white drawings allowed for him to give some reprieve to his moody thoughts. His current sketch showed a man struggling up a mountain. Blood dripped from his fingers where he had needed to claw his way up an incline. Trees lined a narrow path and the sun had the look of a face laughing at the man's plight. Davis named this sketch Inevitability since it represented, to him, the inevitable failure of all men to succeed in their most desperate desire.
Davis located an empty spot on his wall and grabbed his white marker and set to work on filling the space with his new drawing. Right as he uncapped the marker, a chime came from his computer speakers. He walked back to his computer and read the message he had been sent: "Local job. Three. Fifteen minutes, tops. $100,000. Y or N?"
Davis hit reply, typed a "Y" and hit send. A few seconds later, he received a second message. "3000 Rochester at 0130 tomorrow." Davis deleted both messages and returned to his drawing. It only took him twenty minutes to finish the drawing. Afterwards, he recapped the pen, undressed, and climbed into bed. When his head hit the pillow, he went to sleep. His last thought was a run through the information and possible scenarios of his assignment the next night.
It is dated 2005, but he doesn't remember drawing it, and he remembers everything he draws. Even more peculiar, this sketch was drawn neatly where all the others were not. Again, this fact was nothing of consequence, just an irritating incongruence that stuck out in Davis' head like a beacon on a clear night. No matter, Davis thought. I'll deal with it later.
Davis shifted his attention to his current rough sketch. His computer monitor gave the only light for him to draw by. It was how he liked to draw. The darkness helped him think, and his white drawings allowed for him to give some reprieve to his moody thoughts. His current sketch showed a man struggling up a mountain. Blood dripped from his fingers where he had needed to claw his way up an incline. Trees lined a narrow path and the sun had the look of a face laughing at the man's plight. Davis named this sketch Inevitability since it represented, to him, the inevitable failure of all men to succeed in their most desperate desire.
Davis located an empty spot on his wall and grabbed his white marker and set to work on filling the space with his new drawing. Right as he uncapped the marker, a chime came from his computer speakers. He walked back to his computer and read the message he had been sent: "Local job. Three. Fifteen minutes, tops. $100,000. Y or N?"
Davis hit reply, typed a "Y" and hit send. A few seconds later, he received a second message. "3000 Rochester at 0130 tomorrow." Davis deleted both messages and returned to his drawing. It only took him twenty minutes to finish the drawing. Afterwards, he recapped the pen, undressed, and climbed into bed. When his head hit the pillow, he went to sleep. His last thought was a run through the information and possible scenarios of his assignment the next night.
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