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The Assassin
by Terry Wright
Slowly, Captain Holland became aware of his breathing and noises around him, the whir of a fan, tennis shoes squeaking on tiled floor, and the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. His chest felt like it had been hit with a shovel. Opening his eyes to a dimly lit room, he fought off a wave of panic, not knowing where he was or how he’d gotten here. “He’s coming around, Dr. Payne,” an angelic voice said. Holland turned his head, saw radiant red hair and a nurse’s cap, all fuzzy around the edges. He blinked. She stepped back. A tall man in a white smock bent over him. “Can you tell me what day it is?” What day is it? Tuesday…or maybe Friday? “No.” The sound that came from his throat gave him a fright. “What…” “Do you know your name?” My name? Yes. “Justice. Justice Graves.” “Not again,” the angelic voice said. “He kept shouting that name, over and over, when they brought him in.” “He’s still groggy,” Dr. Payne replied. “Captain Holland… Harold Holland. Does that name sound familiar?” “But I saw him. I saw Justice.” “You were delirious.” “Justice! Where are you?” Dr. Payne patted Holland’s shoulder. “Calm down now.” “Justice!” “He’s dead, remember?” “No. He’s back. I saw him.” “You’ll feel better tomorrow. The surgery went well.” Groaning, Holland thought the shovel had turned into a truck that someone had parked on his chest. “Did he get Billy?” “Get some rest.” Pain rifled through Holland’s body as the anesthesia wore off, the horror of the jailbreak and the gun battle now returning to his memory. He wished he’d never heard the name Billy Denton.
In the desert outside Deckers, where rattlesnakes, scorpions, and tarantulas reigned supreme, Billy felt at home. He’d grown up wandering the flats and craggy hills of this sun-baked hell on earth. He knew every inch of the place. Standing on a big rock, Billy peered into the ravine below. He’d named his hideout Irongate, for the rusted wrought iron gate that lay askew and bent alongside the trail leading down to the mouth of an abandoned mine. Old Penelope they called her, and Billy knew her well. Last night he discarded his puke-smelling prison uniform and donned a spare set of street clothes, jeans and a Tasmanian Devil T-shirt, which he’d stashed in the mine shaft for emergencies. All night long the incessant sound of dripping water and the musty smell of decaying timbers, which creaked and groaned as if possessed, had kept him from sleeping soundly. So he napped in the shade most of the day, drank water from an upslope spring, and with his hunting knife, cut the innards from a Barrel cactus for nourishment. By now, the sun had nearly completed its searing arc across the sky. It was time. With anger gnawing at his insides, he took inventory of the rounds in Pender’s Colt, sheathed his hunting knife, and headed toward Deckers to slip into town under the cover of darkness. He was on a mission, one final strike against Justin Graves. At Central Hospital, he snuck in through the delivery dock door and ducked into a supply room where he discovered a stack of gray smocks and coveralls on a shelf, uniforms the hospital orderlies wore. Perfect. After slipping a set over his street clothes, he spotted a misplaced pocket liner, complete with pens, a pencil, and a nameplate that read Ruskin. He hoped Ruskin wasn’t black as he put the assortment into the smock pocket and gave it a pat. One last detail: he removed his earrings and the ring in his eyebrow and stashed the lot into his pocket. Satisfied he’d blend in, Billy grabbed a pill cart, threw a towel over it as if covering his dispersals for the night’s rounds, and pulled on the supply room doorknob. Central Hospital wasn’t a big place, four floors and two wings. This time of night, after visiting hours, he encountered only a few people as he wheeled the noisy cart down the hallway toward the reception lobby where an admissions log sat on the counter, unattended. He scanned the list of patients and found the one he was looking for. Room W214, upstairs, west wing. Suppressing a grin, he headed for the elevator, the cart wheels rattling with speed.
Captain Holland couldn’t sleep. His room was dark, except for a wedge of light from the hallway, beaming on the floor. Though he felt groggy, the pain in his chest overpowered the medication he’d been given. He struggled to get comfortable and tried to cope with the damage Billy Denton’s bullets had done to his body. A vision in his mind wouldn’t let him rest. With his own eyes he’d seen Justice, though he had trouble believing it at first. The wraith seemed so real, not like any ghost he’d ever imagined. It wore a dirty long coat and dusty cowboy hat; and those steel-gray eyes were filled with death. Doc was wrong. Delirium hadn’t caused him to see the ghoulish homicide detective, smell his rotting flesh, and hear his raspy voice. No. Justin Graves was back. Suddenly, a noise in the hallway caught Holland’s attention. It sounded like one of those rattling hospital carts, probably a nurse coming to wake him up again, to check his bandages, poke him and prod him, and otherwise keep him awake, as if he needed any help with that. Maybe now he should ask for a stronger dose of sleeping medication. The cart stopped just outside his door. A shadow invaded the wedge of light on the floor. Holland blinked, craned his neck, and tried to focus on the silhouette of a man now standing in the doorway. He seemed uncertain about entering, looked back and forth. “May I help you?” a nurse’s voice asked. “I’m looking for W214.” The shadow stepped back. For a split second, before it moved out of sight from the doorway, the shadow's face appeared, illuminated by the hall light, a goatee and a barbed wire tattoo. Holland’s heart about stopped. Son of a bitch! Billy Denton. His shadow was still cast in the light on the floor. Had he come to finish the job? The nurse approached Billy, their shadows now coming together on the floor. “I’ve not seen you around here before,” she said. “It’s my first night.” The shadow of his hand pointed to his chest. “Ruskin. See?” Her shadow stepped back. “But Ruskin is a woman.” She gasped. “What do you think you’re trying to pull off…?” In a heartbeat, his shadow drew a big knife and thrust it into her shadow’s belly. He plunged it deep and upward, burying the blade in her heart. Her shadow went limp, and his shadow caught her in its arms. Terror pumped through Holland’s body. He wanted to call out but stopped short for fear of giving himself away to the killer. Billy dragged the dead nurse into the darkness of his room. Her body hit the floor with a dull thump. Keeping one eye open just a crack, Holland feigned sleep, hoping the rapidly beeping heart monitor wouldn’t alert Billy. Holland felt helpless, fearing he didn’t have the strength to get out of bed much less fend off a knife-wielding assassin. Holland could only wait in silence and accept his inevitable death. But the strangest thing happened. Billy left the room, manned the cart, and wheeled the noisy thing away. What the hell? Was he here to kill someone else? If so, Holland knew he had to stop him. Somehow. He had to try. Painfully, he sat up and thought he would faint.
Billy moved down the hall, pushing the rattle-wheeled cart, the towel now covering his right hand, the one he’d bloodied killing the nurse. If anyone saw that blood, he’d be busted for sure. They’d sound the alarm and security would come running. He couldn’t afford that. Not now. He was too close to his goal, his target, his final blow to Justin Graves. To Billy’s delight, the halls were silent as a morgue. He encountered no one. The path was clear to do this thing he’d come to do. He left the cart in the hall and pushed open the door to W214, just a little at a time, cautiously, without the reckless abandon of his jailbreak. His mouth felt dry as he stepped inside the room, the knife clenched in his right fist, already bloodied. He knew using the Colt would make too much noise. This would be a silent kill, like the nurse, and then he’d slip away into the night. Too easy. In the soft glow of streetlight beaming in through the window, he could see his victim, comatose, unaware of the rasping ventilator and beeping heart monitor. Every nerve in his body tingled as he approached the bed, quiet like a cat stalking a bird. It would be a quick death. He raised the knife above her body, began the plunge, but hesitated as his mind recounted the times he’d violated Justice’s little whore daughter. Christy didn’t look so good right now, with all the wires and tubes sticking out of her. But she’d been a fine bitch, before she chose her father over Billy. He didn’t know how she’d survived the hail of bullets at the old warehouse. Luck he supposed. Whatever the case, he was about to rectify that. But first, why not cop a feel: one for the road, for old time’s sake? What the hell could it hurt? Reaching for the bed sheet, Billy felt a pulse in his loins, a rise in his heartbeat. He threw back her covers and took hold of the hem of her hospital gown. Slowly he lifted it, revealing raven-black pubic hairs glistening in the glow of the street-lit window. He licked his lips and pulled her gown higher, exposing the white skin of her belly, then her rounded breasts, limp nipples, and more wires. His heart rate doubled. He began to salivate. This could be better than ever, the final disgrace. He’d violate her one more time before killing her. Justice’s failure as a father would be complete. Billy didn’t waste any time, now that he’d made up his mind. A cackle rose in his throat as he tossed the knife on the bed stand, and the Colt too. He ripped off the orderly’s gown and dropped his jeans to his knees, his blood-gorged member now throbbing. This wouldn’t take long. He spread Crystal’s legs and touched her, probed her with a finger. She was dry but he didn’t care. She wouldn’t feel a thing anyway. Slam bam thank you, ma’am. Or better yet: Slam bam screw you, Justice. A bit of rattling came suddenly, from behind him, the familiar sound of wheels on the cart he’d left in the hallway just outside the door. As fast as the realization came to him, he spun around. “AAAAHHHHH!!!!” Captain Holland, pale, grimacing in pain, and hunched over the cart handle, yelled like a Comanche as he rammed the cart into Billy’s groin, launching him backward into the window, which exploded with an ear-shattering bang. The wind came out of his lungs, and he felt the sensation of nothing around him: falling, falling, falling, and then crashing through spiny bushes that tore at his skin like a million razor blades. Striking the ground flat on his back, he fought for air, almost paralyzed. This sudden turn of events made him want to scream bloody murder. Through clenched teeth he forced breath into his lungs. “JUSTICE!”
The cart careened into the heart monitor, sending it crashing to the floor. Captain Holland staggered and tripped and fell against the windowsill. Shards of glass cut into the palms of his hands. Something inside him felt like a hot poker, torn stitches perhaps, or the sudden hemorrhage of a bullet-weakened artery. Below, he saw Billy struggle to his feet, pull up his pants, and stumble off into the night. Holland gritted his teeth and collapsed into unconsciousness.
Opening his eyes again, Holland didn’t know how long he’d been out but realized he was back in his room. The wedge of light on the floor looked familiar; the fan whirred. But something was different; something was horribly wrong. Someone must’ve left a dead body rotting on an autopsy table in the morgue downstairs. The stench in the room turned his stomach. He swallowed bile and wished someone would put him out of his misery. A raspy voice came from the shadows. “Captain.” It was a familiar voice, the one he’d heard in Deckers’ city jail. And a grating kind of breathing disturbed the air. Holland’s throat clutched. Slowly, he shifted his eyes to the shadowy corner of his room where a ghostly cowboy began to appear. Justice! Though instinct told Holland to scream, to cry out for help, he held his breath and stifled his fear. “I owe you one,” said Justin as he stepped out of the shadows. Dirt and filth rained down from his long coat. His breath smelled of decay. The brim of his hat hid his eyes. “Justice—is it really you?” The ghoul nodded. “How…I mean…why…?” “I’m trying to save my daughter’s soul.” “She—she’s not safe,” Holland managed to say. “As long as Billy is alive, Christy is in danger.” “I cannot stop him. It’s against the rules.” Holland tried to ignore the ghoul’s foul stench. “She’s in deep shit, Justice. What rules could possibly…?” “The devil’s rules, Captain.” “Jesus!” Holland felt a jolt of adrenaline. “I must deliver to him one hundred souls in exchange for Christy’s.” “You made a deal with the devil? Christ, Justice! What were you thinking?” “She deserves a second chance.” “And if you fail?” Justin lifted his hat brim, revealing lifeless eyes. “Hell is a horrible place for a little girl.” “She’s a grown woman, Justice. She made her choices.” A huff of air came from Justin’s hollow chest. “Because of me…it’s my fault she took the wrong path. I didn’t make her listen. I wasn’t there for her. Parents like me raise children like her. I can’t let her pay the price for that.” Holland shook his head. “I said you’d have to fight for her…but I didn’t realize you’d be up against the devil himself.” Justin leaned forward. “I need your help.” Holland had no idea how he could help a dead detective. The whole affair sat in his guts like a rock. “What can I do?” “Put a twenty-four hour guard on Christy.” “That won’t stop Billy.” Holland coughed. “He’ll find a way to get to her. I’m sure he’ll stop at nothing now.” “Then you’ll have to kill him first.” “We don’t even know where to look.” “You have to stop him.” Though Holland didn’t agree with people taking the law into their own hands, there seemed no other way out of this dilemma. “Why don’t you kill Billy yourself?” “If I do, Christy and I lose. We’ll both be condemned to an eternity in hell.” “Then help me find him. Ghosts can do that, right?” Justin’s shoulders sagged. “The light can only reveal him to me if I know where he is.” “The light?” “Death is not all bad.” “But a hundred souls?” “Let me worry about that.” Justin stepped back into the shadows. “You get Billy.” Exhausted, Holland closed his eyes. With a gust of wind, the ghoul was gone.
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