It was cold outside. Not Minnesota or North Dakota frigid arctic cold, but wet, humid cold, the kind that leaks in through any open place in your body and makes one miserable. He had dressed to keep the temperature at bay; leather gloves and pants, a zippered vest overlaid with an old Navy BDU jacket and a black watch cap. He looked all the part of the loner, lost veteran or token homeless person, and that was exactly how he intended to look. He didn’t want to just go unobserved; he wanted to look like a person that people would intentionally look away from. Nobody paid attention to the homeless or the destitute. Not in this neighborhood. Not these days.
He had parked his rusty 1989 Honda Civic about a mile away from his ultimate destination. He would walk-shuffle the rest of the distance in beaten-down Boondocker boots that hardly had any tread left on them. Inside his car under the dim glow of a sodium-vapor lamp he checked his weapon. It was a small 9mm pistol that had been fitted with a silencer. He removed the magazine and diligently pressed fifteen rounds into the clip. It held sixteen. The last round he held between his thumb and forefinger, examining it carefully in the pale yellow light. The brass glinted back at him dully. He’d only need this one if he did his work correctly. Removing a small pocketknife from his pants, he unfolded it and shakily scraped into the side of the round: “C.A.S 2006”. Satisfied, he pushed the round into the magazine and chambered it.
The house, if you could call it that, was easy enough to find. In this dark, forgotten neighborhood of fugitives, former sex offenders and crack addicts a house was little more than a still standing structure that masked the horrors of within from the glancing eyes of the outside. It had taken him just under an hour to amble in a seemingly aimless pattern toward it. He passed sleeping bums, wandering prostitutes and the occasional common citizen without notice.
The house was one story, surrounded by a rotten wood fence that was progressively falling inward. Withered weeds and mildew covered the walk. The house itself was dark, made of tongue-and-grooved timber that had been painted a multitude of colors over its fifty-some years of existence. The roof sagged tiredly and the front porch had long given up its battle against gravity, having been propped up by a smattering of broken concrete cinderblocks.
He stood across the street from the house, keeping an eye on it and swaying intentionally to give the common passerby the idea he was drunk or stoned or both. It was convincing enough; nobody gave him a second glance.
He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. His heart rate had already increased. He focused his breathing to keep his nerves down.
All seemed suddenly still.
He walked with careful, deliberate steps around the side of the house to an area shielded from the light of the yellow street lamps. Nobody would see him unless they were looking for him, and this neighborhood was already passed out in a drunken or drug-induced stupor.
He walked slowly, like his father had taught him when hunting, with deliberate, smooth steps, so as not to make any noise. He lurked in the darkness, letting his night vision adjust. He crept easily up toward the porch, onto it, and then toward the front door, the only entrance into the hovel.
The door was a rotten, sagging frame with cracked white paint flaking off from years of neglect. The knob was one of those old-time types; a tarnished brass knob with a skeleton keyhole beneath it. He placed his leather gloved hand on it and twisted. To his immense pleasure it turned with only a mild squeak and the door pushed inward with a muted squeal of tortured metal from the hinges.
This would be easier than he’d imagined.
He stood in the threshold, silhouetted only momentarily before disappearing into the dank recesses of the abode.
The fragrance of dust, mold, rot and the stench of human body odor filled his nose.
A ragged couch faced the door and he could see a human figure splayed out upon it, covered in a ratty blanket. The soft sound of snoring filled his heightened senses. He pushed the door closed slowly behind him, pausing before the metal met the hasp. The room was cloaked in near complete darkness.
He padded carefully over toward the couch to get a closer look at the figure asleep upon it. His right hand slid the pistol from the nylon holster that kept the firearm concealed in the small of his back while his left hand removed a small, folded photograph from the hip pocket of his BDU jacket.
He crept ever closer to the sleeping figure, holding the photo out in front of him to ensure he got a clean look.
His heart leapt into his throat as adrenaline gripped him. He breathed deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth, silently calming his taut nerves.
The figure on the couch stirred lightly, rolling toward him. In the dusky light of the room he was able to get a clean look. He was the man in the photograph, undoubtedly. A prison tattoo of a tear dotted his cheek just to the right of his eye and a thin, greasy moustache invaded the space below his nose.
He held the pistol out, moved closer to the sleeping figure, and spoke.
“Wake up, Carlos.”
The man’s eyes shot open.
“Vindication.”, he whispered.
A single shot erupted silently from the muzzle of the 9mm pistol he held in his hand and hit the waking figure directly between the eyes. A halo of blood came out the back of his skull, and he slumped back against the couch, twitched momentarily, and then came to a final rest.
He watched carefully as the brass cartridge was ejected from the pistol. It hit the floor, bounced a few times, and then came to rest. He picked it up, and advanced on the corpse. He sheathed his pistol in his back holster, clumsily picked up the expended round with shaky hands, and knelt before the dead “Carlos”.
He dropped the expended shell into Carlos’ agape mouth, and used his right hand to shakily push his jaw shut.
He moved quickly out of the house, disappearing into the darkness like a silent specter.
