Andy House, impressed with how fast Frank Schulz had arranged his escape, decided to grab a quick nap to recoup some of the sleep Frank's coming had interrupted. When he awoke he would give Russ a call in San Diego. Andy and his brother would make the identification of Frank's erstwhile assassins their first priority.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
Everywhere he looked, Cong were coming out of the ground. A few were running and screaming, but many more were crawling or staggering. Some of the ugly bastards were lying down on their backs kicking their feet in the air. None of the soldiers had weapons.
Russ and President Nixon were talking to each other and smiling. Little blond-haired children, both boys and girls were singing in chorus, "they're all dead, they're all dead," to the tune of three blind mice.
A beautiful woman, wearing a diaphanous full-length gown that suggested perfect breasts, walked languorously toward him--
The doorbell ended Andy's dream. Not the lightest sleeper in the world, he still managed to jump to his feet within a few seconds, and put on his robe. Taking a furtive glance from a small window overlooking the driveway and part of the street, Andy spotted a delivery truck bearing a large red DHL decal. He went to the front door, and opened it.
"Are you Andy House? Sign on the first empty line. Thank you. Have a good one."
The package was the size and weight of a two-pound box of candy. Andy guessed immediately his family was feeling guilty for abandoning him for the week, and had sent his favorite thing, Godiva Cherry Cordials. That no mail service delivers packages at six-thirty in the morning was a thought that didn't occur to him. The packaging was a bit greasy, for no apparent reason. He found he couldn't tear the ribbons around it. Pulling harder and harder, he managed to produce several superficial abrasions on his index fingers. Had he reached the age where he needed scissors for such a simple thing?
Andy resorted to his penknife and cut the ribbons. The lid to the flat unmarked cardboard box under the paper wrappings was easily lifted.
What was going on? Andy was staring at a brick? The plain gray object looked and felt like hard clay, even though it was almost as greasy as the paper wrappings. His surprise was quickly followed by panic. What if this sucker was an explosive?
Acting on instinct, Andy opened the front door and threw the unidentified substance to the far end of his driveway. Slamming the door, he ran to the back of the house. As he wondered what to do, Andy felt a generalized stiffening or cramping in his muscles. The feeling seemed to be in his face, lower back, and his chest muscles. He couldn't catch his breath, yet his mind still seemed totally alert.
When the spasms began to ease, a very frightened Andy moved to a nearby desk, retrieved a piece of paper, and started writing, "package delivered DHL contents causing me pain muscle spasm? poisoned?" After his note was written, the symptoms returned. This time, he couldn't move his lower legs. Each short interval of relief from the spasms and weakness was followed by a longer interval of cramps, which were becoming more and more painful. He realized he was doomed unless someone could help him soon. He started to pray.
The man who delivered the package returned one hour later. Finding the front door unlocked, the assassin embarked on a systematic search. He found Andy lying on the floor of his office. Even though the prostrate owner of the house was smiling, he evidenced no other sign of life. The gloved intruder checked the kitchen, taking note of the two pilsner glasses and the three empty beer bottles. The items still felt slightly chilled. His audio and thermogenic surveillance had correctly indicated one present occupant. The assassin retrieved the wrapping paper and ribbon. He found Andy's note lying a few feet from his body. He took out his lighter and burned the paper, letting the ashes fall on the dirt around a potted Ficus, whose condition suggested it had seen better days. Calling the number provided to him earlier, the man described his actions. When no comment was forthcoming from the person on the other end of the line, the phony DHL courier started to babble, more to himself than to the man who employed him.
"Good old strychnine works every time. The medical examiners in these small towns never heard of the greasy chemical we use to deliver more poison through the skin."
The man to whom he was reporting was no longer listening. Instead, he was shouting. "you mean you just killed him? You didn't try to get him to explain where Schulz had gone? You didn't do anything?
"My instructions were to kill the occupant or occupants with mercy. When I delivered the package, my monitors indicated only one person in the house."
As soon as he heard "with mercy," Buzz Anders recalled the detailed instructions he had been given for the contract. An accidental death was preferred, but poisons were also okay. Torture, guns, or knives were not to be employed. At the time, Anders had known better than to ask questions. Still, he found it difficult to believe murderers would insist on mercy. Anders realized nothing more remained to be said to Andy's killer. He would have to return the fifty thousand received for Schulz's assassination.
After some perfunctory curses under his breath, intended to lower his anger and frustration to a more reasonable level, Buzz Anders ended the conversation. The foreman for Mack Paving knew his superior would be "displeased" when he reported his failure. What if his superior was a mean bastard like him? People didn't go into this business for love.
That thought Buzz Anders found particularly enervating.
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