Chapter 14

“Are you sure, sir?” my driver asks, holding the keys out to me despite his concerns. He’s more than just a driver, of course, highly trained in many useful arts, although he spends the bulk of his days making my armored Cadillac Escalade perform like a vehicle one-third its size.

But tonight’s work needs to be done . . . alone. It’s a turning point, for me and for Roseboro. The game has been changing slowly, amping up in increments. But tonight begins the final moves. The plans that will ensure that my mark is indelible.

“Quite sure,” I reply, removing my tie. In addition to leaving no witnesses, I will be sure to leave no trace evidence either. Not that anything pointing toward me would be a problem, not in a city where I own the police. “I assume it handles as a normal vehicle?”

The driver dips his chin once, acquiescing to my demands. “Yes, sir. It requires more time for braking and slowing down for sharp turns, but that’s mostly due to its center of gravity, not the security modifications you require.”

I get in, tossing my tie and jacket into the passenger seat before pulling out of the deserted lot. Despite my driver’s warnings, the Cadillac handles like a fond memory of my youth, when cars were truly land ships and a Cadillac was the king of the asphalt seas.

Things have changed since then, some for the better and some perhaps not. But my reign at the top of the food chain is one of the best progressions from my younger days.

Approaching the house, I scan the road around me. Everything is quiet, all of suburbia sleeping soundly in their beds, not knowing that hell has come for them.

No, not them all. But one in particular.

I’ve let him live, thinking he might be useful in the future, and though he’s kept his mouth shut as instructed after failing his previous mission as an insider at Goldstone, he’s fallen too far into a black hole to be worth anything to me. Now, instead of a resource, he’s a loose end.

I slip leather gloves on, smooth and soft as butter, as I get out and close the SUV door quietly. Two knocks at the door have shuffled movement sounding from inside the house.

“Patricia?” he slurs out in the false, desperate hope of a truly broken man. The door opens a heartbeat later, and the light in his eyes goes out when he sees me on his doorstep.

He knows why I’m here. I know why I’m here. But still, he tries to dance away.

“Mr. Blackwell, nice to see you.” He lies horribly, the only truth the cheap whiskey on his breath.

I don’t wait for an invitation, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. The house is a mess, a bachelor pad of the worst kind, and I suspect, based on the rank smell in the air, that the garbage hasn’t been taken out in days.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” I ask the open-ended question, interested in what he’ll spill as his last words. Mere gibberish, or something useful, perhaps?

He shakes his head, his eyes losing focus at the fierce movement, but it must rattle a memory loose because he changes, nodding just as hard. “Yeah, yeah. There was a guy, a guy at work.”

He stumbles, his steps deeper into the house, and I follow, maintaining my distance. Tonight’s work will not be up close and personal. “A guy at work?”

Since his trial, a showcase that resulted in some pre-trial detention as a warning and a quick plea deal that resulted in a supremely generous probation, he’s been working a blue-collar job, laying tar on roofs. I did it as an exercise to him, not only of the breadth of my reach but as a way to keep an eye on him when I thought he could be useful. Even his job was useful. He’s tarred a few of my roofs recently.

A significant downgrade from his previous office life, but since he failed so spectacularly at that, the menial labor seems an appropriate prolonging of his punishment.

“At work, a temp guy chatted me up. Nothing too weird, just asking how I ended up pulling roof duty. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal, but he knew my name. Most guys who know who I am, they stay far away, telling me rats get bats.” He falls to the couch, unable to stand any longer with the alcohol in his blood, but he manages to mimic swinging a bat, as if to take off someone’s head.

My lips quirk at the saying I haven’t heard before, finding it amusing in its promise of violence. But the man seems lost in self-pity, as if his lack of friends at work is a sadness I could possibly empathize with.

“This man, what did he look like?” I say, feigning interest in his story. There is only one tidbit of information I truly want, whether he spilled anything incriminating.

He blinks, like he’s trying to remember through the boozy haze of his wasted mind. “Big guy, dark hair, young . . . maybe thirty?”

“And you told him what, precisely?” My patience is wearing thin. It’s time to get to the crux of the situation.

His eyes widen as he hears the warning in my voice. “Nothing, I swear it, Mr. Blackwell. Just told him that life takes you on bad trips sometimes, that I’d lost my job, my wife, my daughter in one fell swoop when I went on trial, but I was working my way back. That’s it, that’s all I said.”

I give him a slight nod, like he’s a good dog. “I believe you,” I say, and he sags in relief, a feeling that doesn’t last. “It’s too bad you won’t succeed.”

Tension shoots through his body, the smell of fear scenting the air as he looks around the room, searching for a way out. But there is none, only one last choice to make.

I sit on the coffee table in front of him, pulling a gun from my waistband with my right hand and a rope from my back pocket with my left. I hold them out, like a magician who just did an amazing trick and expects applause. Ta-da.

The man offers no applause, only a slight widening of his eyes in horror as he sees the items.

“You have a choice to make. Option one, I will shoot you in the heart. You will die, but be certain that no investigation as to your murder will take place.” I pause, letting him remember that I have significant sway over the police and everyone in this town.

He gulps, looking to the rope.

“Option two, you can hang yourself. Choose option two, and I’ll make sure your wife gets a nice payday. It’s doubtful your family will mourn you either way.”

My every word is ice-cold, no sway either way. This is a game to me, one with a deadly result no matter his choice, but I find entertainment in the mental gymnastics he goes through, first looking for a way out and finding none, deciding which fate is the lesser of two evils.

I can feel my own heartbeat racing with excitement, anticipation of seeing the light leave his eyes. I’m not an innocent by any means, but I do not have the amount of blood on my hands as say, Gabriel Jackson. Witnessing the moment where life truly ends is like a fine wine, something to be cherished as the gift it is. I look forward to savoring it tonight.

His hands twitch, and I turn my right hand, pointing the gun at him. “Ah, so you have chosen.”

Tears stream down his face as he nods. “If I choose the rope, can I write a note? I just... I want to say goodbye to them.”

It’s almost moving, his single final desire. I don’t need to ask who ‘them’ is, his estranged wife and daughter. Not that I’m moved.

And the experiment continues as I agree, interested beyond measure at what his last words to his family will be. He’s brought this upon himself, upon them, when he betrayed Goldstone in favor of me. He knew the devil he bargained with. I never hid it from him.

He reaches for the pen and pile of papers on the coffee table. They are, ironically, legal papers. It seems that Patricia, instead of wanting to come back to him in an attempt to rekindle their failed marriage, has served him with papers. Divorce.

How appropriate, then, that his final message to his family is written on them. His hand shakes, the writing nearly illegible except for its simplicity.

I’m sorry. I love you.

He pauses, like there’s more to say or as if he wants to postpone the inevitable, but finally, his head falls, his elbows resting on his knees, and the cheap Bic falls to the dirty carpet.

Sobs rack his body, but he stands, his eyes meeting mine. Sad resignation shines from their depths, but also relief. He’s thought of this himself, a way out from the catastrophe he created. Oh, I helped, guiding him and feeding his hatred, but the first step was his. The last will be his as well.

He takes the rope, already tied, and slips it over his neck, ironically similar to the silk ties he used to wear so often.

Stepping to a chair, he loops the rope through the unique little cutouts in the walk-through arch between his living room and the kitchen. Looking at me one last time, he pleads.

“Take care of my family as you promised. Please.”

I nod, wondering if he’ll have the guts to actually do it the way it needs to be done for this. “I am a man of my word. The payment will be made as soon as the coroner deems your death a suicide.”

I lick my lips, ready for the show and to move on with my plans.

His lips move, as if he’s praying, and time stretches. He goes to step off the chair, but as the rope tightens, he chickens out, standing up again. He looks back over his shoulder, tears trickling again. “I can’t. Help me.”

I sigh, disappointed. Maybe he was strong... once. But not anymore, so I kick his feet out from underneath him. His weight jerks down, tightening the noose savagely.

He flails, jerking, and his hands go up to his neck reflexively, and I watch, fascinated. All he needs to do is pull his feet underneath him and step back to the chair. It’s right there. But alcohol, panic, and the quickly diminishing oxygen in his brain have robbed him of any rational thoughts.

It’s riveting. I can’t look away, not that I would. I feel God-like and want to remember every moment as his life drains out, filling me with exaltation and renewed vigor.

When it’s over, I shudder, euphoric at my dominance and ability to make a man perform such a feat. He was useful for a while, but in his death, his true disposability is what is most remarkable.

I do a thorough scan to insure there is no trace of my presence left behind. Though I was careful the entire time, it wouldn’t do to leave accidental evidence. Not when I’ve gone through so much to set the scene.

Back in the car, I can’t stop the smile that sweeps over my face. It feels foreign, an odd stretching of my lips and cheeks as I enjoy the pleasure of a mission accomplished. I will send his wife a payment, true to my word, through a shell company, of course.

But this was merely a cleaning up of one loose end.

I have so many agents in motion, so many plans in play, that Goldstone will never see what’s coming next. Rough laughter rings through the SUV, my belly shaking with diabolical mirth at how I will bring the Golden Boy to his knees, fell his empire, and shake the very foundation of Roseboro. They will all remember me, the man who built this city, who will always rule even long after I’ve turned to ashes.

Roseboro is my legacy.