3

“Mister… Creed … thank … you for … re … turning … my … call.”

At first I thought it was a joke. The voice on the other end of the line was metallic, choppy, like a guy on a respirator or maybe a tracheotomy patient who had to force air through a speaking valve in his throat.

“How did you get my number?” I asked.

“Sal … va … tore … Bon … a … dello,” he said.

“How much did he charge you for it?”

“Fif … ty … thou … sand … dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money for a phone number.”

“Sal says … you’re … the … best.”

The tinny, metallic voice revealed no hint of emotion. Each word bite was cloyingly monotonous and annoyed the shit out of me. I found myself wanting to imitate it, but resisted the urge. “What do you want?” I said.

“I want … to em … ploy you … part … time … the way … Sal … does.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” I said.

“You can … torture … me … first … if you … want.”

He offered to write down a name and give it to me and I could torture him until I was satisfied he’d never reveal it. This was supposed to prove he wouldn’t sell me out later if something went wrong in our business arrangement. The man was obviously insane, which meant he was pretty much like everyone else with whom I associated.

“Before we go any further,” I said, “what shall I call you?”

“Vic … tor.”

“There’s a flaw in your plan,” I said. “Torture is only one way to make you talk. What if someone kidnaps your wife or kids or your girlfriend? What if they threaten to blow up the day care center where your sister works? Trust me, Victor. It’s hard to let your loved ones die a horrific death when you could save them by simply revealing a name.”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “I’m … wheelchair … bound. There … is no … one … in … my life. When … you … meet me … you will … under … stand.”

I thought about that for a moment and decided I already understood. “I’d rather limit our relationship to the telephone for now,” I said. “I actually do believe you wouldn’t talk. Something tells me you’d welcome torture and maybe even death.”

“You are … very … percep … tive … Mr. … Creed. So … when … can you … start?”

I wasn’t worried about speaking freely on my cell phone. The few people in the world capable of breaching my cell security already knew what I did for a living. “I have three clients,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll be fourth in line. Each contract is fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses, wired in advance.”

“Can … I … de … cide how … the hits … go … down?”

“Within reason,” I said.

Victor gave me the details for the first target. Then he hit me with a stipulation I’d never encountered: he wanted to speak to the victim minutes before the execution. I told him that would require kidnapping, which would place a major burden on me. It meant a second person, more time, and more exposure. I refused all the way up to the point where Victor offered to double my fee.

Victor proceeded to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do, and why. And as he spoke in that creepy, metallic voice, I realized that even though I thought I’d stared in the face of the deepest, darkest evil the world could possibly produce, I had never encountered anyone as vile. I came away thinking I’d have to scrape the bowels of hell with a fine-tooth comb to uncover a plan as morbidly evil as his.

I told him I’d do it.