Point And Shoot Part 17

Siege tried the key in the door again, wondered what he was doing wrong. Wrong key? Wrong door? Wouldn't be the first time. Squinting, he saw that the deadbolt was engaged. Great. Mom was clearly p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l. The deadbolt was never locked unless both of them were already inside the house. She wanted him locked out. She wanted him to knock like a pathetic loser. She wanted to confront him now-not tomorrow, not after school, now.

Might as well bite the bullet.

Siege pulled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket, pressed the auto-dial number for Mom. He waited. Nothing happened. Siege looked and noticed there were no bars on the screen. What the h.e.l.l was up with that? There might be a horse pasture across the street, but this was still Philadelphia.

He thought about having another beer, even though it was late at night and he would be expected in cla.s.s in a matter of hours. Just go crack your last beer, go head back down to the park, and let Mom sit up all night worrying. Maybe by the time he returned in the morning she'd be singing a different tune.

Yeah. Sure.

He had a system for breaking into the house, despite the dead-bolted front door and the alarm system (which was sure to be engaged). From time to time he'd forgotten his house keys at school and made it home before Mom, so he'd improvised.

As he slid his keys back into his pocket, he pulled himself up by the cement edge of the door frame and put a sneaker on the ledge of the front window. Hopefully no one would see this from the road and call 911.

There were people watching, but they were not about to call 911. Not yet, anyway.

"Who's this?" Culp asked over the wireless com system.

"Just the boy," Mann replied.

"Looks like he could be trouble."

"No. I've practically watched him grow up. He won't be any trouble."

Culp didn't know what to say to that. Was that meant to suggest that Mann knew the target? That was weird. Usually teams were dispatched to neutralize strangers. Personal conflicts lead to mistakes, errors of judgment, botched a.s.signments. After all, accidents were supposed to be random acts of fate.

This job would be Culp's tenth, but his first with an actual code name. Previously, he had played support roles (working his way up to a.s.sistant director) in four engineered automobile wrecks, two drownings, an untraceable poisoning, a suicide, and the one that made his career: a complicated amus.e.m.e.nt park accident that really wasn't an accident after all.

The client had wanted something spectacular and blood-splattery and headline-making, which all would be a distraction from the real reason this individual had to be removed from this plane of existence.

And the real tricky part: No one else had to be injured or killed.

The stunning success of that a.s.signment b.u.mped him up to the higher-paying name slot and this higher-profile a.s.signment. Last thing he wanted to do was have it go wrong, because then he'd be right back to support roles and career oblivion.

Tonight's job was surprisingly straightforward but with many moving parts. The narrative, as Mann explained it during their initial script reading, was as follows: An estranged-and deranged-husband returns home after many years away. He's already an accused murderer and a fugitive, and his last known sighting was a year ago on the opposite coast. But now he's back for revenge. He's heard that his wife has been seeing some guy named Chris, a real estate speculator, and he's consumed with anger, guilt, and jealousy. He returns home, kicks down the front door, finds his wife alone-despite his suspicions. But then he finds the receipt to a fancy Cuban restaurant downtown, puts it together, and chokes his wife to death right in her bed. See, this deranged husband had done this sort of thing before. Minutes later, the son wakes up and discovers his father next to the corpse of his mother. The son runs back toward his bedroom, where he left his cell phone. The father pursues. The son trips. The father is on top of him. The son fights back. The father snaps the boy's neck. See, he knows he's real far gone now, that there's no coming back from this. Which is when the father marches downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt, finds a metal chair and a st.u.r.dy length of clothesline, and hangs himself from the rafters.

A common narrative, the familial murder-suicide. But that's what made it believable. The public was prepared to hear that exact story, and practically programmed to shake their heads in momentary sorrow (Isn't that awful?) before going about their lives. The best death narratives, Culp knew, were the ones people completely expected.

The trick tonight would be arranging all of those steps to fool even the best forensic examiners. Not that the best would be sent out to investigate this murder-suicide. When local police (not Philly PD, Culp noted) heard the name Charlie Hardie, they'd already have the narrative preloaded in their minds.

Now it was just a matter of arranging the physical evidence to tell the tale.

As he climbed, Siege Hardie caught his reflection in a window. He had no illusions; he knew exactly how he appeared to the outside world: He looked like a kid who would shoot up a school. G.o.d knows he'd never do such a thing, but it was handy social armor. Most of his cla.s.smates tended to leave him alone. At first it started as an act to avoid ha.s.sles in the hallway. At some point, though, it became his real personality. Siege supposed he had his father to thank for that. He wished he could tell him now.

Thanks, Dad.

No, really.

Thanks.

You flipped out and took a long California vacation and snuffed some actress you were probably trying to bang (stay cla.s.sy, Pops) and then tried to cover your tracks and then went on the lam. Leaving a wife and a ten-year-old kid home to ... well, do whatever. Not as if you gave a s.h.i.+t, right?

The weird fake-a.s.s California design of the home made the place easy to climb. Even drunk. Plenty of ledges, footholds, and a tiled roof that allowed Siege to crawl up and over the house. Halfway across, he glanced down at the backyard below. He could see their small gardening shed, their charcoal grill under a vinyl tarp.

And through a clearing in the trees, right in the middle of their own yard, a woman in a parka sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair.

Siege froze there on the roof, looking down at her. Mom? Why the h.e.l.l would Mom be sitting outside on a bitter night like this? She wouldn't. She'd be waiting inside to yell at him. So who was this? Siege was reminded of a million horror movies where an ordinary woman turns out to be demonsp.a.w.n from h.e.l.l at the merest touch of her shoulder ...

Whatever.

Ignoring the woman, he pressed his belly against the edge of the roof and stretched a leg down to the rusty railing outside his bedroom window. This railing was a design element and pretty much the most useless thing ever, as there was no porch, not even a mini-porch, to go along with it. Useless ... until now.

Siege crouched down on top of the railing and started to pull up the screen. He kept his window unlocked for such situations, and he'd also disabled the alarm sensor on his window a long time ago. He only paused to look back at the woman, who was still resting in that plastic Adirondack, calm as could be, seemingly talking to herself. Creepy.

"What's he doing?"

"Breaking into his own house," Mann reported.

"Do we want him inside?"

"I'm thinking about that right now."

The easiest thing, Mann thought, would be to let the boy slip inside. Then they could seal off all of the exits and pump in some paralyzer and keep them on ice until Hardie showed up. But the boy ... well, if he was anything like his father, he'd start trouble immediately. The last time Mann had let a Hardie run amok in a supposedly locked-down house ... well, frankly, that's how she'd ended up here. Missing an eye, a t.i.t, and sitting in a freezing plastic Adirondack chair on the fringes of Philadelphia. This was not where she'd seen her life taking her.

So Mann looked up at the younger Hardie and pointed.

The boy squinted. Perched up there, he looked like a Peter Parker who'd forgotten his red-and-blue tights at the dry cleaners.

Mann curled her index finger twice. Come here.

The boy paused for a moment, then, G.o.d bless his soon-to-be-still heart, began to scale down the side of the house, using ledges and cement door frames until he was safely on the ground.

"I'll babysit him for a while," Mann told her team. "Get yourself ready to breach the house at my command."

24.

h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Madigan. Arnold Braunshweiger.

-Arnold Schwarzenegger, Last Action Hero.

"HI, CHARLIE," THE woman said.

This freaked Siege out. Whoa, was he supposed to know this woman? Maybe a relative on his dad's side. There weren't many of them, but Siege hadn't seen any other Hardies for something like ten years, since he was a little kid. Mom always described the Hardies as a weird clan. Sitting in the backyard, with an eye patch? Yeah, this person could very well be a Hardie.

"Do I know you?"

"Take it easy, Charlie. Pull up a chair."

"That's not my name."

"I know. You call yourself Siege, right? How very punk rock of you. But I find it more than a little sad that your father gave you, his only son, his own name, and here you are casting it aside."

"Like I said, Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

"You didn't use profanity the first time, which I thought was much cla.s.sier. C'mon. Pull up a chair and I'll explain everything, buddy boy."

A few yards away was a matching Adirondack. Mom had bought the two of them earlier this summer with the idea that they could sit out back together in nice weather, but that never seemed to happen. Sometimes Mom would sit out here and read or just decompress. Once in a while Siege would sit out here and try to sober up a little before entering the house.

"C'mon, I'm not going to bite you."

The only other option was climbing back up into his bedroom window, but Siege realized that wouldn't solve anything, either. A conversation with this creepy woman was unavoidable.

So Siege pulled over the matching chair, positioned it so that they'd be sort of facing each other, sort of not, then lowered himself into it.

"Do you have any beers left?" she asked.

Siege tried not to be creeped out by the question. How did she know he had a can of Yuengling in his jacket pocket? She couldn't know he'd been drinking at all unless she'd been following him, watching him. G.o.dd.a.m.ned Spidey Sense was right!

"You're such a worrier," she said. "I can see your eyebrows scrunching up there. Look, I can see the bulge of the can in your lower left-hand jacket. A boy ... sorry, a guy your age doesn't hide soda pop in his jacket pockets, so obviously it's beer. I can tell you've been drinking because you smell like a brewery. Not a bad thing, by the way. I have a lot of pleasant memories of boys who smelled like beer."

"Again, who the f.u.c.k are you?"

"So that would be a no on the beer, then? Fine. I'll remember this, Siege."

He sighed, then pulled the can from his pocket, cracked the top, took a sip, and handed it over.

"Oooh, we're sharing," the woman said, taking the beer. "Swapping spit, practically."

"You keep talking like you know me, but I don't know you, or why you're sitting here in my backyard."

The woman took a long pull of the beer. "You know exactly why I'm here, Siege."

"This is about my father."

"Oh yes it is."

"You know him?"

"Do I know him," she said with a crazed smile on her face. She took another quick pull of the beer and held the can in her lap. "Oh, Siege, we could sit here all night and talk about your father. Unfortunately, we don't have the time. That story's going to have to wait."

"Who are you?"

The woman locked eyes-well, a single eye-with him, then handed the can of Yuengling over. Siege took a pull, just to prove he wasn't afraid of her cooties or what have you, even though he did find it more than a little gross to be swapping can spit with a one-eyed creepy woman.

"I've never told anyone this before," she said. "Not on an a.s.signment, at least. You see, we all have code names, and a person in my position usually takes the name of a director. For about ten years now I've been known as Mann, after the director Anthony Mann. Not Michael, though I do admire his work. I'll admit it. I chose the handle Mann as a thumb in the eye to those who thought that directing was not suitable work for a woman. Now it strikes me as obnoxious. Much like your own nickname, Siege, will seem obnoxious to you in perhaps a decade, if not sooner."

Siege tipped more beer back into his throat, holding the can so that the middle finger of his right hand was prominently displayed.

"Ah, nicely played," said the woman who claimed her name was Mann. "But after tonight's a.s.signment, I think I'm going to retire the handle. I'll need a new one and there are a few options I have in mind."

Siege handed her the can of beer. She shook her head and gave a little wave of her hand. He knew he shouldn't drink any more of it. That last sip hit hard, and he was feeling dizzy.

"You ask who I am," Mann said, "and tonight I'm in the mood to tell the absolute truth. My real name's Melissa."

"Nice to meet you, Melissa," Siege said, "but that still doesn't answer who the f.u.c.k you are."

"And back to the profanity. Your father would be so proud. Anyway, let me tell you what's going to happen tonight in as much detail as possible. First ... hey, would you mind pa.s.sing the beer?"

Siege was about to say, Change your mind?

Siege also meant to lift the can of beer and hand it to her, tell her she could finish the thing, for all he cared, he was done drinking for the night.

But he couldn't.

He could barely wiggle his fingers, a motion which made the half-empty can crinkle.

"Good, good," Melissa/Mann said. "You're feeling it."

f.u.c.k.

f.u.c.k, no, this wasn't happening ...

"Here's what going to happen tonight. I've given you a mild paralyzing agent. Don't worry. It won't kill you. That'll come later."

Melissa/Mann tipped the rest of the beer into the gra.s.s and then took a plastic baggie from her coat and placed the empty can inside.

"I'm going to have my team take you inside, and then we're going to give your mom the same type of paralyzing agent. Completely untraceable. I've used this stuff for years, and it's quite reliable."

Melissa/Mann pulled herself out of the Adirondack, joints popping. She slid the bagged empty can into her jacket pocket and crouched down in front of Siege, her hands on his thighs. She squeezed them lightly.

"Can you feel it when I do that? You should. See, you can still experience physical sensation, you just aren't able to respond to it. I could jab a steel skewer through your leg and you'd feel every excruciating millimeter of it. But you couldn't do a thing to stop me."

Melissa/Mann reached up and touched Siege's face. Siege wanted to scream but it was as if someone had ripped his brain straight out of his skull, severing all connections except for the nervous system. Her fingertips were cold and clammy.

"Pretty soon your father is going to come home. He thinks he's coming to save you, but it's already too late for that. He's p.i.s.sed off too many people for there to be a happy ending. Instead, we're going to arrange it so that the world thinks your father came home to kill you and your mother. He's going to strangle your mom, because that's kind of his thing. That's how he killed the actress. I was there. I saw it all happen. Okay, since we've got this honesty thing going ... I made it all happen."

Holy.

f.u.c.king.

s.h.i.+t.