The Box

The killer stood silently over his fallen quarry.

Even in the nighttime shadow of the overpass, he could tell his single shot had done the job.  Perfect, he thought, smiling in the dark.

Overhead, the downpour continued as it had for hours, drowning out the sounds of the night.  It did well to conceal the chase, even muffle the victim’s cries for help.  Now it masked all movement and even obscured the view.

The killer looked down with smug satisfaction.  His victim lay face down in the drainage ditch, head in the water, arms and legs sprawled out, one hand clutching the sloping concrete.  Even though the light from the street above did a poor job illuminating the details, he knew the man was dead.  He’d done this countless times.  Only the first time made him doubt.  Only the first time made him sick.

He recalled the frightened look on the man’s face, the uncontrolled shaking of his body, and the muted pleas through the duct tape.  None of it bothered him until he had looked at his eyes.  “Don’t stare at the eyes, Jacques,” his mentor warned.  “They will haunt you.”  Philippe was right.  But he hadn’t listened.  Those eyes were the reason his first shot went wide.  They were the reason he vomited afterwards.

“Not anymore,” Jacques whispered.  There was no remorse in what he did.  It was the Lord’s work.

“We are the hands of God,” Philippe once said.  “In His name, we cleanse the world of evil.  But remember, He is watching us.”

The sound of a passing car interrupted Jacques’ thoughts.  He tensed, realizing how foolish it was to waste any time.  He had a job to finish.

“Get the box,” his employer told him.  The Italian’s words echoed in his head.  It was his only task.

For a second, Jacques stepped back, moving out of the overpass’s protective cover.  He needed a moment to think.  The cold of the rain would help him concentrate.  Discomfort was a powerful motivator, something he relied on many times.  Yet it didn’t help now.

His hands started to tremble.  “I must be going crazy.  What’s wrong with me?”

“You are scared, my son,” spoke the voice.  “A man of God has nothing to fear.  Are you that man?”

“Philippe?”

But no one was there. 

Jacques suddenly caught the scent of wet asphalt and looked up, aware someone might be watching.  There was nothing in sight but the streetlight.  Its yellowish light was faint, revealing only the rain.   

He needed to focus, needed to finish the job.  He ran his fingers through his long hair and sifted through the evening’s events in his mind.

As his employer pointed out, his mark would be wearing a tweed overcoat and waiting for someone at the bar of the steakhouse.  Jacques was to wait for the signal, assess his opportunity, and then make his move before the box changed hands.  But it was the signal that bothered him.  “He will take out a small box and place it on the counter,” the Italian said.  “Then he will put it away.  That is your signal.”

Jacques saw the man take out the small, black box, but something had been amiss.  The man was too careless in his signaling, kept the box in open sight for far too long.  And he signaled too early.  Another mistake.  A few minutes later, the man checked his watch, shook his head, and got up to leave.  It was as if the rendezvous time was mixed up.  But it couldn’t have been.  The Italian was very specific.    9:00 PM sharp.  So why did the mark leave half an hour early?

Something was wrong.  And it wasn’t just the time--the man’s uncharacteristic behaviors bothered Jacques too.  Why had he looked disappointed rather than nervous when he left?  And why, on the way to the parking lot, did he walk so calmly without looking back to see if anyone was following him?     

Something else was out of place.  Jacques recalled the chase, remembered the man’s uneven pace and frenzied screaming in the rain.  His actions were amateurish.  A professional would never have acted like that.  Something didn’t add up.  Had this all been a setup? he wondered.

Worried now, Jacques moved back into the shadows, driven by urgency.  “I must find the box.”

He tucked his gun under his belt and reached forward with both hands.  A tinge of doubt crossed his mind momentarily and he snatched his hands back.  Don’t lose your cool, his mind warned.  Heeding the thought, he firmly planted his feet to either side of the body, gripped the man’s shoulders, and heaved.  The body rolled onto its back with a splash.

Jacques searched quickly.  He started with the pockets of the overcoat, then the man’s shirt pocket, and finally the pants.  Nothing.

His heart raced.  “Where is it?” Again he searched, but the box was nowhere to be found.

Jacques jumped up.  Every warning signal went off in his head.  He looked around, frantically searching the gully.  “Damn it!”  He stomped the ground.  Water splashed everywhere.

Looking downstream he saw nothing.  He turned and looked the other way.  Still nothing.  He grabbed his weapon and thumbed the textured grip rapidly, trying to calm his nerves. 

Then, just as he was about to kick the man’s body in frustration, something caught his attention.  The box!  A small, square object seemed to float toward him.  Before it passed into the shadow of the overpass, Jacques caught sight of its black top.  He grunted victoriously, reached down, and claimed his prize.  He wanted to rip it apart but didn’t.  A professional never did that.  So he carefully lifted the lid and tucked it into top of his pants. 

As he moved into the light, Jacques felt the contents.  Something didn’t seem right.  There was a soft material, a papery strip, and something thin and metallic.  “What?”

His eyes focused.  He looked down and saw a small chain lying on a rectangular puff of cotton.  Wedged into the side was a note.

With shaking hands, he unfolded the slip of paper.  That’s when he gasped.  The words, penned neatly, read a single line:  “Congratulations on your graduation, sweetheart.  I’m so proud of you.  Love, Dad.”

Jacques’ mouth froze into a gaping hole.  It was as if he couldn’t breathe.  Oh, my God.  I got the wrong man! 

The gun slipped from his hand.  It fell into the ankle-high water.  The words of his mentor filled his head.  “Don’t ever get the wrong man, because He is watching you.”

Jacques dropped to his knees.  He had ignored the clues, distrusted his instincts, and dismissed his doubts.  What had he done?

For the first time since his first kill, he felt regret.  “Father, forgive me,” he whispered, clutching the small box to his chest.  He had just killed an innocent man. 

Then he began to cry.  But he wasn’t crying out of sorrow.  He was crying for redemption.  All those years of doing what he believed to be the Lord’s will meant nothing now.

Because, at that moment, he knew God could never forgive him.  Ever.

THE END

©2006 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.