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I stepped onto the subway car, took a seat at the back, then disembarked at the next stop, merging with the crowd once again.
Job done. Payment collected. Time to go home. Almost...
I sat in my rented car, outside the city. Just sat, drinking in my first unguarded moment in days, leaning back in my seat, feeling...
Feeling what? I suppose there are many things one should feel in the aftermath of taking a life. Dean Moretti may have earned his death, but it would affect someone who didn't deserve the pain of loss.
I knew that. I'd been there, knocking on the door of a parent, a wife, a lover, seeing them crumple as I gave them the news. Your father was knifed by a strung-out junkie client. Your daughter was shot by a rival gang member. Your husband was killed by a man he tried to rob. I'd seen their grief, the pangs made all the worse by knowing they'd seen that violent end coming...and been unable to stop it.
Yet in this case, it was the other victims I saw--the teens Moretti sold drugs to, the lives he'd touched.
Killing him didn't solve any problems, not on the scale they needed to be solved. It was like scooping water from the ocean. More would rush in to fill the empty place. Yet, the next time the Tomassinis called, if the job was right, I'd be back.
I started the car and headed for the highway. As the lights of New York faded behind me, the radio DJ paused his endless prattle with a "special bulletin," announcing that the Helter Skelter killer had struck again, this time in New York City.
"Good thing I'm leaving, then," I murmured.
The announcer continued, "Speculation is mounting that the Helter Skelter Killer is responsible for the rush-hour subway death of Dean Moretti..."
I nearly ran my car off the road.
Cool under pressure. If they posted employment ads for hit men, that'd be the number two requirement, right after detail-oriented. A good hit man must possess the perfect blend of personality type A and B traits, a control freak who obsesses over every clothing fiber yet who projects the demeanor of the most laid-back slacker. After pulling a hit, I can walk past police officers without so much as a twitch in my heart rate. I'd love to chalk it up to nerves of steel, but the truth is I just don't rattle that easily.
Driving up to the U.S./Canada border that morning, I was still so rattled I could hear my fillings clanking. How could Moretti's hit be mistaken for the work of some psycho? Any cop knows the difference between a professional hit and a serial killing.
Had I unintentionally copied part of the Helter Skelter killer's MO? The case had been plastered across the airwaves and newspapers for two weeks now, but I'd been good. If an update came on the radio, I changed the station. If the paper printed an article, I flipped past it. It hadn't been easy. Few aspects of American culture are as popular with the Canadian media as crime. We lap it up with equal parts fascination and condescension: "What an incredible case. Thank God things like that hardly ever happen up here." But I no longer allowed myself to be fascinated. In hindsight, a choice that warranted a special place on the overcrowded roster of "Nadia Stafford's Regrettable Life Decisions."
Now, as the queue inched forward, I rolled down my window, hoping the late-October air would freeze-dry my sweat before I reached the booth.
I eased my foot off the brake and moved forward another car length. Normally, crossing the border was no cause for alarm. Even post-9/11, it's easy enough, as long as you have photo ID. Mine was the best money could buy. Half the time, the guards never gave it more than the most cursory glance. I'm a thirty-three-year-old white middle-class woman. Run me through a racial profile and you get "cross-border shopper."
I pulled forward. Second in line now. I inhaled and plied myself with reassurances. Let's face it, how many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way.
As I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel. I was doomed. I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood. Impossible. Nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.
I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.
The agent peered down from his chair. "Destination?"
"Heading home," I said. "Hamilton."
I lifted my ID, but didn't hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Buffalo."
"Purpose?"
"Shopping trip."
"Length of stay?"
"Since Tuesday. Three days."
The agent waved away my receipts, but did accept the proffered driver's license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It was my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I'd changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn't exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.
"Passport?" he asked.
