The lake house was musty inside, and very still. Light filtered in through grimy windows. There were no sounds. The asset sat in a moldy armchair and looked at the gun in his lap.
He didn’t know why the house made him afraid. There was nothing strange about the place. It was a crummy old shack in some trees by the water. There was dusty furniture and a broken TV and a couple ugly paintings on the walls. It wasn’t a scary house. But it scared the asset nonetheless.
He sat in the armchair for a long time and looked down at the pistol and wondered what to do. He hoped the man would come soon. Except the man scared him, too. The man scared him as much as the house did.
The target in Delaware claimed the man had brainwashed him. Said he was using the visions as tools. The asset hadn’t listened. He enjoyed killing. And, anyway, the man had promised to help.
The asset shifted in his seat. He hadn’t completed his assignment. He’d failed the man, twice. And now he was here, in this lake house, and he was afraid.
The asset stood and walked to the window. The old Chevy sat alone in the trees. The man still hadn’t arrived. There was nobody around. He surveyed the cabin. The old furniture. The back door to the deck. The cramped kitchen.
In a corner of the kitchen was a wooden door. The asset walked to the door and swung it open. There was a stairway down, into blackness. The asset stood at the top, wishing he could close the door and go back to that moldy armchair and wait for the man. Instead, he gripped the pistol tighter and descended the stairs. Reached the bottom and fumbled for the light switch.
The fear was even worse here. The basement stank of shit. The asset stood at the base of the stairs and looked around the low room. He recognized his cell, the door yawning open. He understood now why he was so afraid.
The asset shivered and turned away from the cell. He crossed the basement to a recliner in the corner. There was a remote control there, a DVD player, and a small TV. The asset turned on the power and a harsh sound blared from inside the cell. Lights and grating noise. The asset quickly turned off the DVD player, feeling the panic thudding in his skull. He put the remote down and tried to catch his breath.
He left the remote alone. He continued to explore. There were drawers beneath the DVD player. The asset opened the top one. Found paperwork, ID cards, wallets. He recognized his own wallet. Picked it up and examined it.
The wallet was slim. There was an old video store membership. An expired credit card. A Georgia driver’s license with the name Wendell Gray. The asset looked at the picture. The name, the address. Wendell Gray. That was his name.
He felt a faint twinge of recognition. A shudder of panic. He pushed the memories back, and the panic disappeared with it.
The asset started to replace the wallet when something fell out of a pocket. A picture. The asset stooped and picked it up. A tiny picture, cut out, a woman’s face. She had graying curly hair, a flowered dress, concerned eyes. The asset’s eyes narrowed. He remembered this woman.
He put the wallet away. He kept the picture. He tightened his grip on the gun.