Today. Such a casual word for most people. One hundred and fifty thousand people die every day, and for some, today will be their last. I wonder how many of them know that. I suspect the number is relatively small.
“This gonna take long, chief?”
I stare at my target, study every part of him. Silence, when combined with scrutiny, is a powerful thing.
He shifts from foot to foot, one grubby toe poking through a tear in his trainer.
There’s a moment of regret at selecting this man. Not because I think he is incapable of the task, but because I would prefer not to be locked away in a room that has boarded-up windows and virtually no ventilation in the presence of a man who has not discovered the benefits of soap.
He draws his canvas coat tighter against his body as if the action might shield him from my gaze, and a urine breeze finds my nose.
“I’m paying you, aren’t I?” I pinch my nostrils with my left hand and pull a packet out of my pocket with my right. “Cigarette?”
“Cheers.” The vagrant shuffles forward, snatches nervously at the white stick with oily fingers, and plants it between his lips. “Nice place.”
If that’s his attempt at sarcasm, I’ll forgive it. In the next few minutes this grimy-walled room with its festering floorboards and roach problem will be a place more than fit for such an observation. I pull a lighter from my pocket, light his cigarette, then one for myself.
“Take a seat.” I inhale a lug from my smoke and gesture to a wooden chair in the middle of the room. Facing it is another chair, and focused on both of them from the side is a video camera on a tripod.
“So what sort of documentary is this anyway? Another one of those why the homeless can’t get a home jokes?” He pulls hard on his cigarette, slumps into the seat with a leering grin, and blows smoke at me.
“No … Nothing like that.”
“A talent show for the great unwashed, then?”
I allow a slow smile to creep over my face.
“Well?” He flicks a palm up. “You gonna give me a hint? Do I have to act or something?”
I push the red button on the camera, take my coat off, and hang it on the back of the chair opposite him. “All you need to do is keep your eyes on mine.”
“You a queer?”
As I lower myself onto the chair I pull a syringe from one of my coat pockets and hold it up to the light, checking for any bubbles in the liquid. It’s fine.
“Hey! What’s in the tube? You a druggy? Just ‘cause I live on the streets that don’t make me a spliff head.” He makes to get up.
I grab his sleeve. “Sit. Down.”
He pauses and we lock eyes. He sits again, still looking at me as he draws on his cigarette almost down to the filter. Mine is only halfway through.
“That’s better. Just keep your eyes on mine. It’s really not that much to ask, is it?”
“I ain’t taking any drugs.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what—?” He balks as I slam the needle into my arm. “What’s in the tube?”
“Drugs.” I smile, suppressing the pain as the cold liquid works its way up my vein. “But not the kind you think. Keep looking at me, right at me.” I toss the empty syringe aside, its contents now wending their way toward my nervous system. And after crushing my cigarette under my heel, I grab the vagrant’s face and pull it to mine.
“What the—?” He grips my arms but holds still. His nails bite through my shirt into my biceps, and the tang of nervous sweat stings the back of my throat. With each faltering breath we stare deeper into each other.
“Don’t move … This won’t take long now.”
“What the fuck is this? What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you the second half of your payment. A gift.”
He’s probably too frightened to ask what I mean, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll soon understand. When the baton is passed he’ll run with it just as I did when the killer of my parents, Zachary Cox, handed it to me. I only wish I could still be around to witness my legacy, but I’ll not mourn in my last few minutes while the camera catches these precious moments of shared revelation. He’ll think this moment is unique, a special bond between the two of us, and it is, but such wonder can be found in the heart of any man, woman, or child; one has only to look into their eyes to see it. No, not look—one must wallow, breathe, drink, gorge on the moments given.
I look deeper into the vagrant’s eyes and see beyond. As dark as apocalypse night, as deep as death’s abyss, I drift down and allow my will to follow. There is nothing darker, nothing more consuming than the soul, and as if the goddess desired to make this plain to all who chose to see, that circle of black is ringed by a myriad of colored fibers, a million spokes pointing to the deep. A marvel like no other is the eye.
His muscles are stiff like stone under my grip, the body odor intensifying, and though I sense the connection, there is no epiphany for him yet. But I will not lose heart. I have not failed any of Fate’s tests so far, and this one will be no exception. She has been a faithful goddess—always rewarding my desire with new souls to un-wrap—and we will be face-to-face soon. There I will gaze into her eyes and know sweet satisfaction forever. She has teased me too long. Like a drop of wine touched to the end of my tongue, I have tasted this bliss many times but never long enough to savor completely. Taste is not enough. To drink is not enough. I want to swim in it, drown in it.
A low moan escapes my subject’s lips. Still he does not feel it, even as I feel the cold poison in my veins. Wet slivers tremble on the rims of his lower lids as his eyes say stop. But I can’t and I won’t. The taste is too close now to break away, the perfect circle that shields the human soul holds me—the hollow with its hunger never satisfied, eating my mind, howling for more. Or is that the whoosh of my heart thudding through my ears like a boat master driving his slaves?
Through my delirium I hear the creak of the door, catch the flap of a black coat in my peripheral vision, feel the cold breeze of a body passing by our side, and my successor is ripped from me as he looks to my right, his eyes widening with an even greater terror than I could instill. And now the smell! Formaldehyde overwhelming the stench of sweat. I should have known Keitus Vieta would come here at the end. But no matter. My only regret is that I learned nothing more about him, but that doesn’t matter, either. Fate is whom I serve. She comes now with her reward—the circle of black is exchanged for its white negative, and I drop forward, hardly noticing the floorboards as they slap my cheek. A tunnel of godly light engulfs me.
Come, Fate. I am ready for your embrace.