to respond to the emergency call. Instead, he’d watched from his car, safely parked on the county road that he had used for the past 60 years of his life.
The farmer had inherited the land from his father, but now there were no further heirs. His wife died in childbirth, and their daughter died with her, all those lost decades ago. The fire burned his memories along with his home, and even though he would never rebuild, he also couldn’t allow the land to be sold. As long as he owned the property, he could still feel a bit of himself and Ellie as they were when they were young and full of life.
These days, the farmer lived in a retirement home in Seattle and hadn’t been back to reminisce with his property in more than five years, but he lived the end of his slow life with the knowledge that he could go back if he ever wanted.
It was the perfect operating base for the man who called himself the Manipulator.
He’d moved his equipment into the barn a week earlier. He brought everything he needed with four trips in a rented van: two state-of-the-art desktop computers; a laptop; a printer; a portable (but powerful) generator; a bar fridge loaded with beer and bottles of water and a bit of food; two office chairs; and a few odds and ends he thought he might need.
He didn’t expect to spend a lot of time in the barn; this was his planning center, and most of the actual work would be done in the vicinity of his target. This was his planning center, but the actual work would be mostly done in the vicinity of his target.
The Manipulator stared at the monitor of his primary computer. He was logged into his Assassins, Inc., site, waiting for his client to show up. She was late.
“Come on, you dumb bitch. You think I enjoy just sitting waiting for you to show?”
He uncapped a beer and took a sip while he was waiting and he set some background music playing, a set of 90s music that he’d grabbed off the web.
“Hello? Are you there?” The chat window popped up to show him her words.
He smiled, almost able to hear the desperation in her voice. Good.
He didn’t answer right away. One song merged into another through his speakers and he drifted away to his youth as a song by Madonna bled into another by Train.
After enough time passed, he typed, “Hi again. I’m glad you made it. Sorry I kept you waiting. I was talking to another client.”
“You have a lot of clients?”
“It varies. Summertime is particularly busy.”
There was a long pause. “I might want to change our arrangement.”
The Manipulator stared at the message. He didn’t like surprises.
“What kind of change?”
“If you faked me and my daughter’s deaths, you’d have to kill some other people, right? To get the bodies?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“That’s understandable. People feel different levels of guilt. You’d have your freedom, though.”
“But, would I?”
The Manipulator drank some more of his beer. What the fuck are you doing, lady? He felt anger rush through him, wanting to reach through the Internet and tell her how stupid she was being.
“What would you like to do differently? Are you saying you want to call everything off?”
Now it was her turn to hesitate.
“No. I just want one person killed, the man who’s causing all the trouble. My husband.”
The Manipulator laughed out loud. Hell, he didn’t care who got whacked.
“That’s no problem,” he typed.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Still $20,000?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure? Once we have a firm agreement, there’s no backing out.”
“I’m sure. I’ve thought a lot about it.”
I bet you have.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a bull frog calling. There were other nighttime sounds, but the sound that rang in his ears was the sound of money.
He raised his beer in a mock salute.
“I need to see you,” he typed.
“No. I can’t meet you. This is hard enough.”
“I want
The farmer had inherited the land from his father, but now there were no further heirs. His wife died in childbirth, and their daughter died with her, all those lost decades ago. The fire burned his memories along with his home, and even though he would never rebuild, he also couldn’t allow the land to be sold. As long as he owned the property, he could still feel a bit of himself and Ellie as they were when they were young and full of life.
These days, the farmer lived in a retirement home in Seattle and hadn’t been back to reminisce with his property in more than five years, but he lived the end of his slow life with the knowledge that he could go back if he ever wanted.
It was the perfect operating base for the man who called himself the Manipulator.
He’d moved his equipment into the barn a week earlier. He brought everything he needed with four trips in a rented van: two state-of-the-art desktop computers; a laptop; a printer; a portable (but powerful) generator; a bar fridge loaded with beer and bottles of water and a bit of food; two office chairs; and a few odds and ends he thought he might need.
He didn’t expect to spend a lot of time in the barn; this was his planning center, and most of the actual work would be done in the vicinity of his target. This was his planning center, but the actual work would be mostly done in the vicinity of his target.
The Manipulator stared at the monitor of his primary computer. He was logged into his Assassins, Inc., site, waiting for his client to show up. She was late.
“Come on, you dumb bitch. You think I enjoy just sitting waiting for you to show?”
He uncapped a beer and took a sip while he was waiting and he set some background music playing, a set of 90s music that he’d grabbed off the web.
“Hello? Are you there?” The chat window popped up to show him her words.
He smiled, almost able to hear the desperation in her voice. Good.
He didn’t answer right away. One song merged into another through his speakers and he drifted away to his youth as a song by Madonna bled into another by Train.
After enough time passed, he typed, “Hi again. I’m glad you made it. Sorry I kept you waiting. I was talking to another client.”
“You have a lot of clients?”
“It varies. Summertime is particularly busy.”
There was a long pause. “I might want to change our arrangement.”
The Manipulator stared at the message. He didn’t like surprises.
“What kind of change?”
“If you faked me and my daughter’s deaths, you’d have to kill some other people, right? To get the bodies?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“That’s understandable. People feel different levels of guilt. You’d have your freedom, though.”
“But, would I?”
The Manipulator drank some more of his beer. What the fuck are you doing, lady? He felt anger rush through him, wanting to reach through the Internet and tell her how stupid she was being.
“What would you like to do differently? Are you saying you want to call everything off?”
Now it was her turn to hesitate.
“No. I just want one person killed, the man who’s causing all the trouble. My husband.”
The Manipulator laughed out loud. Hell, he didn’t care who got whacked.
“That’s no problem,” he typed.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Still $20,000?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure? Once we have a firm agreement, there’s no backing out.”
“I’m sure. I’ve thought a lot about it.”
I bet you have.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a bull frog calling. There were other nighttime sounds, but the sound that rang in his ears was the sound of money.
He raised his beer in a mock salute.
“I need to see you,” he typed.
“No. I can’t meet you. This is hard enough.”
“I want
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