There is no ill omen the equal of an assassin's contract. Someone must die. If not the name on the contract, then the assassin's life will do. Perhaps that serves as motivation superior to bounty. The assassin must be devoted but not fanatical. The nuance is one of emotional degree--devotion can elude passion while being pragmatic. The profession of an assassin is anything but perverse--it is an honorable profession, where dedicated men and women hone their craft to the same high standard a manufacturer does when building surgical instruments that slice flesh from navel to sternum. There is no self-reproach in the assassin's mind--in the end, it is the coroner's knife that makes the final cut.
Shortly after the evening news ended, a man gave up the relative comfort of a hotel bed and walked to a 3-drawer table next to the room's window. He grappled with closing the curtains over the expansive window and then thought otherwise; the seventh floor offered all required anonymity. He opened the table's top drawer and pulled out a singular photo. Taken from a great distance, the image was sharp and crisp. A scribbled name ran along the thin, white border.
Dorothy McNally.
She is pretty, he noted. He found blonde women attractive. The photo showed her staring straight at him, as if she sensed his presence.
Dorothy McNally owned 126 acres of prime farming land in Iowa that buttoned up to a string of north sprouting gambling casinos. Her finger-shaped farm almost touched the Missouri river. Gambling interests had exhausted their northern flank and they badly needed Dorothy's land for expansion.
The casino had offered Dorothy money for her land, an inflated offer. No price tempted her. The assassin used the last offer to boost his own fee. In retrospect, he wished he had asked for more.
He placed her photo on the table and turned his attention to the outside world. The picturesque, nighttime Omaha, Nebraska skyline stood before him. The Missouri River was a few miles east, and then Dorothy's farm. A wave of opulent self-satisfaction washed across his face; it seemed appropriate to be so high above the city, staring down at its occupants. Empty lives, he told himself--strip away the counterfeit smiles, remove the stylistic metaphors and what's left were spiritual vagabonds, useless and fake lives; echoes of youth and perpetual regret. At times like these, he actually felt he was doing the most good--ridding the world of obstacles. His thoughts drifted to Dorothy. He wondered if she were gazing now, into the night, laughing at her own situation. Doubtful. Most likely, she was staring, like him, into the night sky, reaching up and touching the secrets of her own soul as if omniscient, for she seemed to know all that she wanted.
He turned away and picked up the American Paranormal Association of World Tours packet that lay next to the photo. Dorothy was a member. A ticket to Transylvania, Romania, via cruise ship, plane, and train, was in one pocket.
The trip was just a glitch in his budget. Actually, not even that. The cruise wasn't necessary for those in the Paranormal Association, rather an option. His research of Dorothy's past exposed habits: each year she took the same cruise out of Boston on her way to Romania. Thus far, his research had been unable to identify her Boston hotel. No need to panic, he assured himself. There were other ways to track his prey. His instructions were to kill her in Romania. His faceless employer felt the local authorities would more easily identify a death as an accident. Too many cruise ship deaths generated questions best left unanswered. Accidents in his profession were contracts well fulfilled. His instructions neatly matched his own inclination.
The next day he left Omaha for Cruiseport, Boston and camped everyday in Black Falcon Cruise Terminal, located in the Boston Marine Industrial Park. He waited until Dorothy arrived to pick up her paperwork, recognizing her instantly from the photo.
When she left the terminal, he followed her on foot until the congestion seemed to thin near Seaport Boulevard. Why so far away from the port, he wondered. She certainly didn't seem to mind the seven-mile walk to reach her hostel.
Her bungalow was part of the Banana Bungalow chain. The rooms were clean and tightly decorated. The hostel was strictly no frills and catered to the young social crowd, with a host of activities centered on the beach.
He left his luggage in a dorm-like room and walked to a common area to observe. When he spotted Dorothy, he would wait a few minutes and follow. He did this for several days.
He became piqued when she brought a young man with a surfer tan to her room the night before the cruise. In the universe, nothing bothered him more than variables that spawned entropy. The tan man was an unknown quantity that might lead to chaos. Moreover, if for some last minute decision this man was to accompany Dorothy on the cruise ... well, the assassin couldn't let that happen.
Later that night, he returned to the lobby of the hostel and using one of the open-booth phones, called her room.
"Ms. McNally."
"Yes."
"You have a package at the desk."
"A package? What is it? Who is it from?"
"Ma'am, I don't know ... possibly a cake. Anyway, it needs to be signed for."
The line went silent for a moment as muffled conversation followed on her end. Then, "I'll come over and get it."
That's what the assassin wanted. Come and get it, Dorothy.
He made his way to her room and knocked.
"Who is it?" The tan man had his mouth close to the door.
"I have a package for Ms. McNally."
The voice on the other end sounded agitated. "She just left to pick it up, Slick."
"Will you sign for this, sir?"
"Slick ... didn't you hear me...?"
"The box is cold, sir. It might be a cake."
After a moment's pause: "Okay ... yeah ... I guess so." The door's lock clicked and the assassin kicked it in.
Years earlier, the assassin had used a stun weapon on a target with a high tolerance for electrical stimulation. The target refused to go down and offered more fight than wanted. The assassin replaced that stun gun with one almost twice as powerful. The new weapon not only disrupted the signals within the nervous system, it forced the muscles to contract until the target was in the fetal position.
The tan, young man coiled and contracted to the floor like a spring tightening. Fortunately, hostel's--especially those catering to the youthful--tended to be clamorous with laughter and shouting. No one noticed the short cry of shock. The assassin quickly choked his victim into unconsciousness. The evening dusk provided cover as the assassin hoisted the man onto his shoulders.
Back in his room, the assassin opened a small, dark bag and withdrew a syringe. With practiced efficiency, he medicated the unconscious man, and after covering the pierced skin, stood, satisfied. This will keep you out of my way. He relaxed with drink and cigarette in hand, looking forward to the cruise; it was time someone waited on him; still, it would be a working vacation. He thought of Dorothy and the ship: a slip, a fall, a splash; however, that type of happenstance wasn't in his plans. She would die in Romania.
He figured she was back in her room now, perplexed about the young man's disappearance. She would spend most of the evening looking for him if only to return his clothes. Since the cruise was tomorrow, it was highly unlikely she would pick up another companion.
Relieved, he decided it was safe to stop for the day. Tomorrow, he and Dorothy would board the cruise ship. Pricks of excitement flooded over him like a hot bath as he contemplated getting closer to her. He finished off a glass of vodka, but didn't refill it. Alcohol made amateurs of assassins.
)
In Romania, in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, lies a huge castle. Once, the castle belonged to a powerful noble family--and memories of their deeds and hatred for the church linger on. Some say the castle is haunted. Others doubt any sort of haunt, but the castle has been unlucky for centuries. When a group of Americans receive invitations to visit the castle on a day trip, though, it seems like simply a fun adventure. Until, that is, some of those legends of the past begin to take on a very real, if sometimes incomplete, life.
