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THE SNOW-DUSTED CEMETERY shined with an ethereal glow from the breaking dawn. Far from spooky, the place felt bathed in an other-worldly hush: expectant, quiet, almost holy.
September parked as near to the grave markers as she could. She’d only been here once, to bury her husband. Those days had blurred over time, the sharp pain that fueled her escape to Texas now a dull ache. But the location of his memorial was burned in her memory. Chris, as much as Angela, had called her back to South Bend, to finish what he’d started, for her. She needed to thank him, and say her final goodbye.
“Shadow, wait.” He yelped in protest when she switched off the SUV and pocketed the keys next to her wallet. “I’ll be right over there. I need to do this alone, baby-dog.” She took her gun out of the glove box and carried it with her. She carefully set the child lock. He continued to fuss as she left the car.
She pulled the hood of her coat up over her knit cap, snugging the cord tight to keep wind off her neck. September trudged past several rows of headstones to reach the Day monument. They’d laid Chris next to places reserved for his parents. Slightly raised soil testified to the more recent interment of his father, Peter. Soon, Angela would join them both. September realized she’d need to make the arrangements for Angela, and her heart broke a little more.
With her bare hand, September traced his name. Christopher Day loved her, a broken soiled doll he’d wanted to fix. Wanted to heal. And she’d loved him for caring for her, damage and all.
Through his work, Chris recognized the pain, anger, and emotional scars that led to the crimes he swore to prevent, or to solve. “Mr. Fix-It,” she murmured. How their lives would have changed, had they never met. He’d be alive. Angela, too. She’d be dead, or behind bars. “How did it all come to this?”
Taking a deep breath, she knelt on the cold ground, and rested her forehead against the icy stone. “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you more, love you the way you deserved. Thank you for trying to save me. Thank you for Dakota. And I’m ... oh God, I’m so sorry it got you killed.” Her voice shuddered. Tears froze on her cheeks like sparkling contrails. “You should have told me, not hidden away what you found.” She sighed, scrubbing her face. He knew how broken, how fragile she’d been, and wanted to protect her. “I’m stronger now. And it’s because of you that I survived. I won’t let you down, not again.”
When her cell phone rang, she set the gun atop the Day headstone. At the same time she dug in her pocket to answer the call, the tenor of Shadow’s barks changed. That’s when the shovel hit the back of September’s head.
THE DOG’S SCREAMS IN the distant car got on his last nerve. He’d take care of the mutt, after he finished with September.
Mr. Bleak stooped over September, scooped her up and slung her slight weight over one shoulder. He slogged back the way he’d come, shovel in his other hand. He had had to wait until the Uber driver left, explaining he wanted alone time in the cemetery to meditate. The freshly dug grave he’d passed on the walk gave him satisfaction. He’d always been lucky. After he finished here, he’d take September’s car and leave it in an appropriate place. To the outside world, she’d simply disappear. He’d looked her up. September Day had a history of running away.
The tracker he’d put on her car paid off twice in one night. He recovered the thumb drive, and nailed the old man. He ran a gloved hand over his watch cap, still picking exploded bits of egg off his clothing and face. That had been a surprise, and so had the monster dog that interrupted him. When he finally finished this assignment, he never wanted to see a dog or a cat ever again.
At the fresh grave, Mr. Bleak dumped September face down beside the hole. He checked her pockets and collected her car keys. She moaned and moved. So he hit her a couple more times, grunting with effort at the thwack of the shovel blade on the back of her skull. When she stopped moving, he rolled her in.
Quickly he covered her body with scooped dirt from the nearby mound. To a cursory glance, the grave appeared empty. The poor slob’s casket dropped on top of her would hide September for eternity.
Then he dialed the boss. “It’s done. Got the computer records, eliminated witnesses, and terminated the September account.” The girl, Charlie, didn’t count, and he’d take care of her later. He stared down at the still mound of dirt in the bottom of the grave. “Wire payment to my account tonight.” Once he received payment, he’d make arrangements for a new face.
“You need to settle two more outstanding accounts.”
Two more people? This job had turned into whack-a-mole, with new targets multiplying with each elimination. “That’s not in our agreement. I can’t settle two more accounts until you clear the current balance. Immediately.” This would be his last contract. He just had to figure out how to finish clean, and make sure that door stayed closed.
The voice on the other end of the line initially sounded female, but now changed timbre to a low bass. “I must check with my client. The organization appreciates your professionalism, but frowns on jobs left unfinished.”
He smiled. The client believed the voice distortion software protected his identity. Fat chance. They all answered to higher power. And Mr. Bleak had a direct line to the highest echelon. Should this cretin try to stiff him, nothing would stop his retribution.
Nothing personal, of course. He simply had a reputation to protect. Additional fees, though, meant early retirement to the island retreat he’d picked out years ago. “Do what you need to do. Tell your client once I see the payment in my account, we can discuss additional jobs.” He stabbed the shovel into the mound of dirt beside the grave.
The voice now mimicked the lisp of a young child. “Our end can terminate one loose end but need you to remove all September contract connections—do you understand? We’ll double your fee to terminate the Latana Ojo account in Heartland, Texas.”
He found it interesting how many ways one could discuss murder. You never knew who listened, or recorded conversations. Nobody could trace Bleak, though, and he preferred plain language. “I have a job to complete in Chicago first before deleting September’s mother, and any related connections.” When the man hissed at the blunt declaration, he added, “Yes. By tomorrow afternoon your troubles will be over. I’ll terminate the Latana Ojo contract.”
Pleased with the terms of the negotiations, he disconnected. Most flights from South Bend connected through Chicago O’Hare, a serendipitous convenience for him. He’d already agreed to remove the baby-voiced subcontractor to complete his assignment. The powers that be took house cleaning seriously.
Juggling the keys in one hand, and the shovel in the other, he strode back to September’s car. If he wanted the police to believe she’d gone into hiding, the dog must disappear, too. Plenty of room in the grave to toss a dead dog. He’d make sure the authorities found September’s car at the airport. The authorities always believed the obvious.
