A Guardian Angel (7 page)

God damn it,
he screamed in his head.
God damn it to hell.
He let his
knowledge of his name slip out, effectively killing himself. There
was no possible escape. He was cornered.

“How do you
know my name?” Mr. Graves asked, pulling back the hammer on the
gun. His face had hardened from shock to malice.

“I,”
Andy stuttered. For the first time, he couldn't respond. He was
terrified. Every instinct he had ever used in his line of work
screamed at him to break Mr. Graves' arm, steal the gun and kill him,
but there would be no walking away alive if he did it.

The bearded man
thought hard. Andy could see the new layer of glistening perspiration
that had built up on the man's brow. This decision was crucial.

“Do you know
what this means?” Mr. Graves asked him, lowering his gun. Andy
did not trust it. “You must kill Haley Flynn. Whether you feel
up to it or not. If you fail to, I promise that I will kill you.”

Andy kept silent.

“And we will
find Homer,” Mr. Graves added. He smiled when he saw the
shocked expression appear on the assassin's face. “Don't think
that I don't have eyes watching you in Chicago. I know everything.”

Andy struggled for
words. His face crumpled into defeat.

“I'm a fair
man. Consider your original payment as the fee I will pay you to keep
silent about anything you know,” Mr. Graves said. “About
everything.”

He beckoned to the
stewardess who had walked in on the scene froze in uncomfortable
horror. When she found the courage to approach him, she was ordered
to grab the weapons Andy had concealed on his person. After
hesitating, she obliged. Her face was apologetic as she frisked the
hitman. She had no idea what she was doing, but nonetheless she
discovered and removed Andy's handgun. She bowed and handed the
weapon to Mr. Graves, holding it like it was a dead fish.

Leroy stared into
Andy's eyes. The indent just beside his lips conveyed the whole
message of the situation to the perceptive assassin. Mr. Graves was
in control.

“You have
twenty-four hours in Chicago. If you're late to the runway...”
His voice trailed off.

“I
understand,” Andy said.

“Good.”

As soon as he got
in his apartment, Andy began to pace. Anxiety was paramount and he
wanted nothing more than to get outside and run free. Perhaps just
sprint in one direction and never turn around. He didn't even remove
his jacket before stepping back out of the apartment and onto the
snowy streets. He could see his breath as he walked.

Never before had he
had the desire to own a vehicle, seeing them as cumbersome and
imprisoning. He would just take advantage of the public
transportation that the city had to offer. This time, however, he
desired nothing more than to be alone. He didn't want anyone to speak
to him, no one to acknowledge his existence. He just watched their
bleak faces as he walked to his bank.

Paranoid, the
hitman glanced over his shoulder. Every face, every slowing vehicle
drew his gaze. Any one of them could be on Graves' payroll, just
following him and recording everything he did. If only he could
figure out who it was, he could lose them. Shake free of his tail and
go find Homer. But there were so many people. Hundreds, all just as
suspicious as the next, shuffling in gigantic herds on the sidewalks.
Even the traffic light cameras worried Andy. Could Graves be watching
him from them? He stared at one before slipping into his bank and
walking up to the shortest line.

He withdrew as much
money as he could. Andy's bank account had been set up with special
permissions to allow for tremendous withdrawals in the case of an
emergency. The thick plastic briefcases with the combination lock
that he paid extra for felt heavy. That much money was a strain to
carry.

Andy had no doubt
in his mind that Leroy Graves and his associates were aware of every
step he took. It wasn't paranoia anymore; it was acceptance. He
wondered what the man thought. If he worried to see Andy withdraw
such a large sum of money or rather was confused to its purpose.
Maybe he thought nothing of it, assuming that Andy intended to
purchase something expensive for himself to quell his sorrows. He
cared little as he arrived back at his apartment.

His own home felt
like a prison. The more he thought about it, the more it creeped him
out. He had never picked out or purchased any of his furniture. In
fact, he had never even moved any of his pieces in or arranged them
about. It was all as it was now when he had walked into the apartment
the first time. Any of them could be recording him. He was not alone.

His plan had been
to shake his tail and deliver the money straight to Homer. That's who
Andy wanted to have it. To take it all off of his hands and build for
himself the life he deserves. He had the idea many times in the last
ten years since he had begun his lucrative work. There were plenty of
selfish reasons that kept him from doing it, but plenty of rational
ones as well. He worried that the money would get Homer in trouble.
Perhaps that he couldn't be trusted with such a large amount, but it
was more of the fact that in order to give him the money he would
have to confess what he was to the only one who had been there for
him. He couldn't risk it. Any slip of information would put Homer in
danger.

Now, however, there
was no coming back. No matter what choice he made, he would be a
fugitive. Graves would not leave him alone once he completed his
task. Once Haley was dead, he would still be a slave or he would
become a corpse. He would never see his friend again. He wouldn't
even get to say goodbye. There was only one way to deliver his
message. He fetched a notepad from one of his drawers and uncapped a
pen. With misty eyes, he wrote.

“Addressing
the person or persons who discover this message. This paper shall
serve as the final will and testament of Andrew Walter Winter. I
leave behind the rights to my studio apartment and the contents of
the included locked briefcase to Mr. Homer Nour, my oldest friend.
Only he will know the combination. Think about the date we spoke
about ten years ago. This is not an admission of guilt or a
confession of any kind. Please respect my wishes.”

He stopped,
thinking. He brought the notepad out into the hall of his apartment
building and knocked on the door of his neighbor across the hall. A
woman just a few years older than Andy himself opened the door. Her
boyfriend could be seen peering at the doorway from the couch in the
living room.

“Hello,”
Andy greeted her. “My name is Andy, I live just across the hall
here.” He offered his hand.

She shook it,
confused. “Oh, hi Andy. I'm Trish,” she introduced
herself. “How can I help you?”

“Well, see,
I've just whipped myself up a pretty nice will and I need two
witnesses to sign it as I do,” Andy explained. He laid on the
charm now. “Might I ask you and your boyfriend to fill in the
role for me? It would be very much appreciated.”

She looked at him
with hesitation. A look in her eye relayed that she thought he might
be yanking her chain, but his unwavering and positive demeanor proved
to remove it. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Dead
serious,” Andy replied.

The woman looked
back inside at her partner who heard every word. He shrugged at her
look for support. She turned back to Andy. “Yeah, I guess so,”
she replied. “Are you okay?”

“You could
say that,” Andy responded as he walked into Trish's apartment
and got the business done with.

He returned to his
own apartment across the hall with the signed will. He attached it to
the briefcase which he stowed underneath his bed. He went to the sink
to wash his hands. As he dried them, he addressed the entire room,
empty though it seemed. “I'll do it,” he said aloud.
“Don't worry.”

Max's grave was
cast over in the shadow of the storm clouds that had crept over
Rosehill. Andy placed his bouquet of twelve yellow tulips on the dirt
next to the eleven that had already withered like the skeleton they
were for.

This time, he left
all twelve as he walked away from the grave for the last time.

This was the first
time that Andy had ever seen the two very serious looking men in
suits who frisked him as he got out on the airstrip. Both of Mr.
Graves's bodyguards, the white man and the Hispanic, were bald. Andy
observed his own reflection in the white man's tanned scalp as his
ankles were searched for weapons. They found the three-eighty auto
that he kept holstered around his shoulder in no time at all.

“I'm a
hitman, guys,” he explained when they confiscated it. “Duh,
I have a gun.”

“Do you have
any others?” the Hispanic man asked.

“Yes, a Smith
and Wesson six-nine-six in the back of my pants,” he answered,
“a Derringer in my left shoe, and a kris dagger strapped to my
genitals.”

The white guard
began searching Andy's shoes when he pushed him over with his bare
foot. “Idiot,” Andy spat at him.

A gun appeared in
the Hispanic man's hand, pointed at Andy's head. The white man had
drawn one too from where he lay on the ground when Leroy Graves
appeared on the ramp of the plane.

“He's
kidding,” he told his men, gesturing at them to stow away their
firearms. “Come on, Mr. Winter. You've got a job to do.”

The flight was
uncomfortable and awkward, silent in nature and malicious in feeling.
The only thing Andy said to his employer was his promise to kill
Haley Flynn. Mr. Graves said even less, only humming in response.
Once they had landed, he only needed to gesture at his guards before
they tossed Andy off of the plane.

There was no taxi
waiting for him on the runway this time. Instead, he phoned Steven
who got lost on one of the turns along the way. He picked Andy up an
hour and a half later.

“How did it
go?” was the the first thing Steven said to the assassin when
he climbed into his car.

“The plan is
the same,” Andy replied, showing more of his anguish than he
intended to. Steven picked up on it.

“What did he
say?” he asked.

“That the
plan is the same,” Andy said, and with that Steven asked
nothing more of him and they drove back to the house in silence.

“I want to
join you on surveillance,” Andy said once he had taken his coat
off and hung it by the door. There was a desperate tone in his voice.

“Andy, you
know she's already seen you,” Steven replied. “It's
risky. If she were to see you – ”

“Please,”
Andy interrupted. Steven was silenced by the look on Andy's face.
“Steven, please.”

The data collector
sighed as he peered into his new friend's eyes. “Okay,”
Steven said. Then he gave a warm smile, something that Andy didn't
expect due to his own rotten mood. “I'll be glad to have you.”

Andy didn't hear
Steven when he spoke. Or rather, he didn't listen. Every word was
loud enough but none of them made it to his brain because he was too
busy staring out of the window, through the apartment's glass door,
at Haley Flynn.

“Andy!”
Steven said, raising his volume to a level that he felt uncomfortable
with. Andy looked over at him. The data collector waited for
recognition in Andy's eyes. “What kind of dirt do you even
imagine we'll ever find on her?” he repeated.

He forgot that this
was what Steven thought the two of them were doing in the first
place. “Probably nothing,” he answered. He was being
honest. There was nothing he could ever imagine them finding out
about her that would do anything to put a dent into her perfect
reputation. “Graves will probably end up having me make up some
bullshit that could be confirmed by our vague details. Like that man
there,” he pointed out the man Haley now hugged in front of the
glass. “At first glance, it looks like there might be some sort
of scandalous relationship going on here, if you knew nothing about
her. That's the kind of stories writers like me go off on.”

“Yeah, but
like I said, that's her brother,” Steven said.

“Exactly. We
know that because we've gone the extra mile and investigated. But if
you were to capture this scene and omit that information, what else
would you see?” Andy explained. “Assumptions are always
wrong,” he looked to his friend. “One way or another.”

“We need
something much more substantial to give Graves,” Steven was
quick to answer. “Come on, don't you care?” He didn't
like his task simplified so much.