Spes Magna Games

Franklin Montgomery Allan Jones. That was the target’s name. Jones, a partner at Felton Rankin, lived in a nine-thousand-plus square foot Georgian home. Three stories. Five bedrooms. Appraised at just over twelve million. Jones didn’t make that kind of money as an environmental lawyer, not even working for Felton Rankin. He had inherited most of his money. His father built the house in the 50s after making a fortune in real estate back when the city was booming.

Jared, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, slowed his jog as he passed Jones’s home. It sat near the center of a ninety-thousand square foot lot. Seven foot brick wall around the property. Wrought iron gates that could be opened by remote. Large trees, mostly Chinese elm, near the edges of the property. Open lawn after that, well lit at night and monitored by motion sensors.

The wall posed little obstacle. Jared estimated he could be over it no more than three or four seconds. The elms would provide concealment, and the neighborhood watch, provided by a private security firm, drove predictable routes. Jared could park on the business street adjacent to the subdivision, cut through the park. Avoiding detection would be easy enough, except for the motion sensors.

Jared stopped near the gates leading to the long drive up to the house. He squatted to retie his shoes. He stood, stretched his legs a bit, and then continued to jog, his thoughts turning over the problems. By the time he made it back to his car, Jared had worked up a light sweat, but his breathing was still regular. He checked his pulse. It was still under eighty. Behind the wheel of his car, he leaned his head back against the rest, closed his eyes.

“Wall poses no real obstacle. Up and over in a couple seconds. Low-crawl past the sensors unsafe,” he said. “Not enough time to move slowly enough. Grounds too well-lit. Target could spot me.”

Jared sighed, fished the large manila envelope from beneath the passenger-side seat. He flipped through the contents again.

“Target has private gym membership,” Jared continued. “Keeps regular times, but parking lot patrolled and monitored. Target’s office also too high profile. Target’s routes too and from offer few opportunities.”

He looked at the Ziploc baggie. Those long hairs. Jared sighed again.

“It’s a good thing the dead are restless.”

Jared turned the key in the ignition. He exited the parking lot near the start of the running trail, merged easily into traffic. A half hour later, he was in the shower. After that, dressed in comfortable sweats and shirtless, Jared settled onto the sofa. Puccini played softly. Butterfly defiant and doomed. Three fingers of whisky on the rocks sat on the end table.

Jared’s home was modest. One bedroom, one bath. A living room and combination kitchen dining room. Sparsely furnished, but comfortable. The most expensive items were his sound system and his liquor cabinet. No television. No computer. No photographs hanging on the walls. A large Van Gogh print hung on the wall facing the sofa. Whirling, dark colors around stars in the night sky. Jared’s eyes followed the lines of the print, tracing the rhythms of color, light, and darkness. He drained the whisky in three swallows, closed his eyes, and settled deeper into the cushions.

He awoke hours after sundown. It was time. Jared dressed in black. Khakis, long-sleeved T-shirt, a lightweight windbreaker, his jungle boots. In one jacket pocket, he carried a new Ziploc baggie with the hair and news article. The headline: Teen Still Missing. In the other jacket pocket, a suppressor for the HK45CT in a holster tucked into the waistband of his pants above his right buttock. On his other hip, Jared wore a sheathed trench knife with a six-inch blade. His phone, set to vibrate, was tucked into a pants pocket.

Before he left the house, Jared checked his equipment one more time. Everything was in its place. He took two Excedrin and exited, walking down the drive to his car. He listened to the weather report on the radio. Cloudy, light winds, no chance of rain. The night would be cool. Jared backed out of the drive, angled the car to the right. He tapped the CD button on the car stereo. The swelling, pulsing Introitus of Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor filled the car, and Jared drove to work.

Tags: fiction, Lilacs

Jared sat near the end of the bar, canted a bit on the stool to see both the entrance and the door leading to the latrines. He had short hair so blond it was almost white. Jared wore crisp, mint green oxford shirt, dark slacks, and, incongruously, well-polished Army surplus jungle boots. No jewelry, not even a wrist watch. He was tall and slender with sharp features, dark blue eyes.

Near one elbow was a manila folder, thick with its contents. Near the envelope waited a shot glass. The whisky in the glass glowed softly in the dim, yellowish light. Few other patrons were in the bar. It was early, only a few hours after most people had to be at work.

Eddie’s Place opened early, closed late. The public area was one room, a narrow rectangle enclosing the smaller, narrower rectangle of the bar. A door covered with stickers stood in the center of the back bar. Track lighting with low wattage bulbs in green glass shades could not compete with what sun managed to slip over the taller surrounding buildings and through the row of circular windows of frosted glass that faced the street.

Jared walked his eyes from person to person. Eddie, the bartender: fat, bald head already shining with perspiration, neatly trimmed beard, tattoos done in fading blue ink, one of the back of his hand showing fanned playing cards, aces and eights, a dead man’s hand. The others were customers. Regulars. Jared knew them by face if not by name, each one always present. He wondered if they ever went home. If they had homes to go to.

“You gonna drink that today?” Eddie said, his affect flat, disinterested.

Jared fixed on Eddie’s rheumy eyes, waited a beat or two, and then shrugged. The bartender shrugged, turned away to wipe down the bar yet again. The shot glass shimmered as the light shifted from left to right: a truck passed by outside, reflecting the late morning sun.

Jared opened the manila folder and slid out the contents: papers, photographs, several long hairs in a Ziploc baggie, a smaller envelope. Setting aside the smaller envelope, he looked first at the photographs. A handsome man, well-dressed, well-coiffed, stared out from the top picture. Obviously a professional photograph, probably for corporate use. Others showed the same man in public, photographed without his knowledge. At the park. At the store. Leaving the office. The last picture was a young woman, smiling, brown hair styled, wearing a blue graduation robe. Around her neck, a silver chain from which dangled a pendant, a heart around a cross. The papers were typed, single-spaced, organized under headings that provided an outline of the man’s habits, movements, and, most importantly, the reasons why his death had been authorized.

Jared opened the baggie, pulled out a hair. It was the color of coffee light on the cream. A faint, floral scent preceded the words.

“He deserves to die.”

A faint sob punctuated the sentence. Jared looked up. A woman sat on the stool next to him. She was young, too thin, and nude. Her hairline was distorted from where her skull had been cracked by violence. Baseball bat? Gulf club? Her eyes had been blue in life. Now they were paler, yellowed.

“He’ll do this again,” the woman said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I know.”

“You say something?” Eddie said.

Jared shook his head. “Not really. Yeah, I’m going to drink this.”

Eddie nodded, turned to walk toward a raised hand at the other end of the bar. Jared took the shot of whisky in hand and tossed it back. The liquid burned at first, but then faded into warm hints of spice and vanilla. He looked at the dead woman and nodded while sliding the papers and pictures back into the manila folder. The smaller envelope went in last, after he thumbed through the bills inside.

Jared closed his eyes. Sighed. How much was a human life worth? Five grand, and even that seemed too precious in the particular case. When Jared looked again, the woman was gone.

“I need the office,” Jared said, sliding from his stool.

Eddie nodded. Jared lifted the bar flap, crossed behind Eddie to the door in the middle of the back bar, pushed the door open, entered the small, cluttered office. The wooden, low backed chair squeaked as Jared sat down while slipping his phone out of his pocket.

After three rings, a woman’s voice answered. “Prescott Investigation.”

“It’s me,” Jared said. “Tell Management I have confirmation. Terms are acceptable.”

“Time to completion?”

“Thirty-six hours. Verification through normal channels.”

A faint click indicated the woman had disconnected. Jared closed his eyes, rested his hands on his thighs, one hand holding the phone, head tilted back, rotated left, then right, then chin to chest, head rolling left, then right. The pain had started, creeping up from a tightness between his shoulder blades to the base of his skull. Sliding open the draw in the desk, Jared fished out the bottle of Excedrin from a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips. He popped one tablet into his mouth, crunching it between his back teeth, ignoring the acrid taste. He dry-swallowed the other.

Envelope in hand, Jared exited the office. He poured himself another shot, tossed it back.

“You shouldn’t drink and take those pills,” Eddie said. “Bad for your liver.”

Jared chuckled. “You’re in the bad-for-your-liver business.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” said one of the regulars, hoisting an empty pint glass. “One more, Eddie. I’m good for it, ain’t I?”

Eddie nodded, turned his back to the regular, locked onto Jared’s gaze. “Every time, huh?”

“Every time, but sometimes it’s not as bad. She was more sad than angry. That helps.”

“You need anything, you call, brother,” Eddie said.

“I don’t need anything, but thanks. Thanks for the use.”

They shook hands. Eddie poured another pint for the regular. Jared walked out into the late morning sun. The sky, nearly cloudless, the cold wind biting. Sliding behind the wheel of his car, Jared placed the envelope on the passenger seat.

“Five grand,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. “Five grand.”

He backed out of the parking space into the street, shifted to drive, and accelerated smoothly. It was time to go jogging.

Tags: fiction, Lilacs