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Authors: Jason Werbeloff
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thick-rimmed
glasses. Programmer. Thirty-six last month. Takes lunch every day
at the Delhi on Catherine Square. Predictable type of guy. They’re
the easiest clients.
I’d agreed with him that a stroke makes
sense. But it’s a risky business. Current medical tech is able to
reverse most non-fatal strokes, and Cryo Killers will tell you that
strokes will be entirely reversible in the near future. But still.
You don’t want to damage the memory center of the brain. No-sir.
You do that, and your client might wake up in twenty years with no
idea who he is, or why he’s there. Of course, if that were to
happen, I’d get away with it scot-free. But I have a reputation to
uphold. If word got out that I damaged his brain in the killing …
well then other clients wouldn’t look my way. No, I’m an ethical
killer. I do what I promise. And only what I promise.
The Buick’s engine rises to a dull roar as
it surges along the highway, toward Chinatown. Toward Dr. Hanfan.
Barring the rare unforeseeable complication, Dr. Hanfan has always
been spot on the money. He provides everything I need for clients
who require a medical solution.
“Barker!” Dr. Hanfan slaps me across the shoulder.
“I got package ready.”
He passes me a Styrofoam box. I lift the lid
and peer inside. “Dr. you’re a life saver.”
The needle-like projectile is thin as a
human hair, and about half an inch long. But this is no ordinary
needle. Dr. Hanfan calls it a butter bullet. Don’t ask me what a
butter bullet is made of. He calls it butter because whatever its
composition, the bullet dissolves on contact with a warm body,
delivers its medicinal contents, and that’s the end of it. Unless
they look for it, the Cryo Bureau would never know the client had
been shot.
“This one difficult,” says Dr. Hanfan.
“Special preparation.”
I hand him a bundle of cash. “I appreciate
your effort.”
“You good man, Barker. Good man.”
I shut the Styrofoam container, and Dr.
Hanfan seals it with packing tape.
“Medicine work best if you hit him in the
neck.” He cocks his head, and points to his carotid artery with an
arthritic finger.
“That won’t be a problem,” I say.
The traffic is easy, and soon I’m sitting at the
deli in Catherine Square. It’s one of those afternoons that makes
me want to live forever. I get that pastel-blue feeling. When all
the pieces of a killing fall into place. When all that’s left is to
pull the trigger. I watch Purple Martins flit this way and that
through the ancient oak tree towering above us. Sunlight dapples
the bricked pavement. The scent of freshly baked ciabatta layers
the air between the laughter of children at a nearby table. The
table behind Mr. Oglevy’s.
Tod Oglevy is absorbed in his Parma ham
wrap, masticating protractedly. As if the wrap offers him some
great message. Maybe it does. I reach beneath my suede coat, and
grip the pistol. I debate whether or not to let him finish his
meal. But a stroke wouldn’t wait, no matter how good the ham. I
stand, and toss thirty dollars on the table beside my half-eaten
olive ciabatta.
My heart hardly accelerates as I stroll in
the direction of Mr. Oglevy. This will be number six hundred and
three. Only my ninth stroke, but nothing too unusual. He’s less
than two yards away. I place my finger on the trigger.
I’m so close to Mr. Oglevy now, I can see
his untrimmed nose-hairs brushing the wrap as he takes another
bite. I slide my coat aside, place the barrel an inch from his
neck, and pull the trigger.
The pistol is silent. The gentlest whoosh of air, and I’m ambling toward the far corner of the
square. I don’t look back. Not until I’m standing behind a pillar
by the second hand book shop where I bought Janet a guide to house
plants last month for her birthday.
Mr. Oglevy continues munching on his wrap,
but scratches at his neck. Without swallowing, he lowers his fork,
and peers at the great oak tree. Even from where I stand I
glasses. Programmer. Thirty-six last month. Takes lunch every day
at the Delhi on Catherine Square. Predictable type of guy. They’re
the easiest clients.
I’d agreed with him that a stroke makes
sense. But it’s a risky business. Current medical tech is able to
reverse most non-fatal strokes, and Cryo Killers will tell you that
strokes will be entirely reversible in the near future. But still.
You don’t want to damage the memory center of the brain. No-sir.
You do that, and your client might wake up in twenty years with no
idea who he is, or why he’s there. Of course, if that were to
happen, I’d get away with it scot-free. But I have a reputation to
uphold. If word got out that I damaged his brain in the killing …
well then other clients wouldn’t look my way. No, I’m an ethical
killer. I do what I promise. And only what I promise.
The Buick’s engine rises to a dull roar as
it surges along the highway, toward Chinatown. Toward Dr. Hanfan.
Barring the rare unforeseeable complication, Dr. Hanfan has always
been spot on the money. He provides everything I need for clients
who require a medical solution.
“Barker!” Dr. Hanfan slaps me across the shoulder.
“I got package ready.”
He passes me a Styrofoam box. I lift the lid
and peer inside. “Dr. you’re a life saver.”
The needle-like projectile is thin as a
human hair, and about half an inch long. But this is no ordinary
needle. Dr. Hanfan calls it a butter bullet. Don’t ask me what a
butter bullet is made of. He calls it butter because whatever its
composition, the bullet dissolves on contact with a warm body,
delivers its medicinal contents, and that’s the end of it. Unless
they look for it, the Cryo Bureau would never know the client had
been shot.
“This one difficult,” says Dr. Hanfan.
“Special preparation.”
I hand him a bundle of cash. “I appreciate
your effort.”
“You good man, Barker. Good man.”
I shut the Styrofoam container, and Dr.
Hanfan seals it with packing tape.
“Medicine work best if you hit him in the
neck.” He cocks his head, and points to his carotid artery with an
arthritic finger.
“That won’t be a problem,” I say.
The traffic is easy, and soon I’m sitting at the
deli in Catherine Square. It’s one of those afternoons that makes
me want to live forever. I get that pastel-blue feeling. When all
the pieces of a killing fall into place. When all that’s left is to
pull the trigger. I watch Purple Martins flit this way and that
through the ancient oak tree towering above us. Sunlight dapples
the bricked pavement. The scent of freshly baked ciabatta layers
the air between the laughter of children at a nearby table. The
table behind Mr. Oglevy’s.
Tod Oglevy is absorbed in his Parma ham
wrap, masticating protractedly. As if the wrap offers him some
great message. Maybe it does. I reach beneath my suede coat, and
grip the pistol. I debate whether or not to let him finish his
meal. But a stroke wouldn’t wait, no matter how good the ham. I
stand, and toss thirty dollars on the table beside my half-eaten
olive ciabatta.
My heart hardly accelerates as I stroll in
the direction of Mr. Oglevy. This will be number six hundred and
three. Only my ninth stroke, but nothing too unusual. He’s less
than two yards away. I place my finger on the trigger.
I’m so close to Mr. Oglevy now, I can see
his untrimmed nose-hairs brushing the wrap as he takes another
bite. I slide my coat aside, place the barrel an inch from his
neck, and pull the trigger.
The pistol is silent. The gentlest whoosh of air, and I’m ambling toward the far corner of the
square. I don’t look back. Not until I’m standing behind a pillar
by the second hand book shop where I bought Janet a guide to house
plants last month for her birthday.
Mr. Oglevy continues munching on his wrap,
but scratches at his neck. Without swallowing, he lowers his fork,
and peers at the great oak tree. Even from where I stand I
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