Tying Up Loose Ends –Prologue
Hill’s DC Auto RepairSunday, May 14, 2002
9:08 PM
“Here we go,” the young man said as he unlocked the main door. “And you don’t have to worry, the security camera’s already been taken care of.”
“I think you’ll find I rarely worry,” Vesuvius replied drily, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as he followed the man through the front office and into the garage bay.
“Thinking in advance, that’s what I do best.” The man continued to chatter as he flipped the switch, filling the bay with light. “I even remembered to cover the windows so no can see inside. No one will even know we were here.”
“Very considerate, I’m sure, Mr.—”
“Jami—Ayaan Jami,” the man replied, his words betraying the faintest hint of an accent. Moroccan, perhaps? Vesuvius wasn’t sure. “And I must say, I’m very excited to be working with you on my first assignment.”
So eager—had he ever been that eager? It had been so long ago he couldn’t remember. “If we’re patient, Mr. Jami, our time comes to us all. Now could you show me what I came here for?”
“Of course—right this way.” Mr. Jami led him towards the back where a black sedan sat. A Lincoln Towncar, specifically. “He’s due to pick it up tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning, he thought. Just before the senate commission. The timing would be perfect, which is exactly what his employers were banking on. Vesuvius watched in silence as Jami opened the car and popped open the car’s hood.
“Very good, Mr. Jami. Now please—stand aside.” Vesuvius placed the duffel bag on the ground. Unzipping it, he first pulled out a pair of safety goggles and put them on. Removing a screwdriver from his bag he carefully unscrewed the spark plug cover. Pliers came next—he used them to remove the ignition wires from the spark plug. Next came a block of plastique explosive, which he pressed into the intake plenum.
“That doesn’t look like very much.” He could hear the doubt in Mr. Jami’s voice. “Are you sure it can do the trick?”
“It doesn’t take very much,” Vesuvius told him. “Believe me—this small amount will take out half the garage bay.”
“Well I suppose you know best,” the man replied, swallowing visibly and stepping back even further. “I have the day off tomorrow.”
“Lucky you, huh?” Vesuvius pulled two wires from his bag, inserting each end into the plastique and carefully securing each wire to the spark plugs. He replaced the spark plug cover. There, he thought, with satisfaction—no one would even notice that anything was amiss. Until they put the key into the ignition, of course. He closed the hood and put his equipment back in the bag and zipped it shut, hoisting it unto his shoulder.
Just one little thing to take care of—
“Come here, Mr. Jami,” Vesuvius said. Obediently the man moved forward. “Closer.” Mr. Jami inched closer and he placed one gloved hand on each shoulder, holding the younger man firmly.
“You did a wonderful job this evening,” he told him. “I wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. However, my anonymity is very important to me right now.” Confusion filled the other man’s eyes. He didn’t understand fully—at least not yet. “It’s very important that no one recognizes me—that no one is around to tell the authorities about what happened here tonight.”
“I—I promise,” Mr. Jami stammered pitifully. “I won’t tell anybody.” He tried to pull away but Vesuvius simply tightened his grip.
“Hey—I’d like to believe you,” he said. “Truly, I would. But at the moment I simply can’t take that chance. You understand, don’t you?”
Before the man could utter a word, Vesuvius moved his hands to grip the man’s throat—ever so slowly he began to squeeze—
SMK SMK SMK SMK
“It’s done?”
“Clean and easy,” Vesuvius said as he turned left onto Glebe. “No problem –and no witnesses.” He didn’t have to spell out what that meant.
“A bonus. His pay will go to you, then. You can pick it up at your usual drop, say about 10 AM?”
“Thank you, sir—that will be fine.”
“I assume you’ll be leaving town after this—or possibly the country? You have to be pretty nervous after your last mission was botched.”
His botched mission. Botched—the words stung, and stuck in his brain. He had never failed before—never.
“Shortly.” A right onto Maplewood—Vesuvius stared at the house as he slowly drove past. “Let’s just say I have some unfinished business.”
“Might I suggest you take care of it quickly? We don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”
“Don’t worry,” Vesuvius replied. “I’ll take care of it quickly—very quickly indeed.”
4247 Maplewood Dr
Monday, May 15, 2002
8:10 AM
“Sweetheart!” Amanda called. “If you don’t hurry you’re going to be late.”
“Coming, Mom!” Came the reply.
Lee shook his head, looking down at his watch. “I swear, she takes at least twice as long to get ready as she used to.”
“Well it’s part of being a teenager,” Amanda said. “Especially since we’ve told her she can wear a little bit of makeup to school.”
“Sure, with the emphasis being on little,” Lee said. “She’s been up there almost an hour, Amanda. Francine wants us in her office by nine.”
“Relax,” Amanda replied. “We still have time.”
Relax—a lot easier said than done, especially where his daughter was concerned. “What exactly is she doing up there?”
“Lee—” Amanda began. At that moment Jenna came downstairs.
“I’m ready,” she announced, with a smile.
She looked pretty normal, Lee noted with relief. Light pink gloss on her lips, pink cheeks— normal, that is, except for her—
“What did you do to your eyes?” He asked abruptly, regretting his words as he watched his daughter’s face fall.
“I didn’t mean it that way, munchkin,” he told her. “What I’m trying to say is—they kind of—well they really stand out, that’s all,” he finished lamely. From her silence he knew that had been the wrong thing too—sometimes it felt like everything he said these days was wrong.
“I was trying to do smoky eyes,” Jenna explained. “I saw something in Seventeen magazine and I thought I’d try it—I thought I had it right, but—”
Smoky eyes? Seventeen? And what was a thirteen-year old reading that magazine anyway? Before Lee could insert his foot any deeper into his mouth Amanda jumped in.
“It looks nice, sweetheart,” she approached Jenna. “You just overdid the shadow a little bit—here.” She smoothed her finger over each of Jenna’s eyelids. “That’s better—much more blended.”
Looking in the foyer mirror, Jenna smiled at her reflection. “You’re right—it looks much better. Thanks, Mom.” She hugged her.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” Amanda said. “Are you ready to go?”
Jenna patted her backpack. “Yeah, I think so—I got just about everything I—oh wait, I forgot my homework. Be right back.” Her footsteps thudded up the stairs.
With a sigh Lee looked at his watch 8:15—at this rate they’d be lucky to get Jenna to school on time, let alone make the meeting with Francine. “I can’t believe it,” he said to Amanda. “All that time on her face and she nearly forgets her homework? What does she think she’s going to school for?”
Amanda smiled. “Welcome to teenage life, Stetson.”
SMK SMK SMK SMK
Vesuvius sipped his coffee slowly, letting the warm liquid trickle down his throat as he watched them emerge from the house. She was first. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, the white skirt and red blouse she wore accentuated her slim waistline. He came next—a tall man with slightly graying hair. Her husband, the man thought. They walked close together, the man’s hand resting easily against the small of the woman’s back. Then the daughter—her light brown hair pulled back from her face in a style similar to her mother’s, wearing jeans and a lavender top. Hers was the only voice he hadn’t heard on the phone, which was odd, considering she had to be at least twelve or thirteen. But then again, she had a cell phone, didn’t she? Most kids did these days.
The older woman didn’t emerge—though he knew from experience that she’d probably be in the garden later. The younger girl turned her head briefly, saying something to her mother. From this vantage point it was too far away to see her face and yet he could recall it clearly—especially her eyes—she had her mother’s eyes.
Her mother— he glanced at the photos that lay on the seat beside him—she and her husband leaving the house, shots of them entering a building which appeared by all accounts to be a film company.
A film company? That couldn’t be right. Whatever this woman was, she was a hell of a lot more than just a film maker.
As the Taurus pulled out of the drive the man reached for the phone on the seat, flipping it open—his fingers prepared to dial the number—and then he stopped, putting the phone back down.
‘Enough games,’ he thought. Again he looked at the photo.
In his mind he could imagine her in front of him, dark eyes widening with terror as his hands tightened around that slender throat, squeezing until she gasped for breath—until her trachea was crushed beneath his fingers…
“Soon,” he breathed. “Very soon.”
‘Time to discover what Mrs. Stedman is really all about.’
TBC