Free Killer by Dave Zeltserman Page B

from Lombard’s organization would’ve called that show.
    About forty minutes into it, a woman’s voice stopped me cold. She was talking about how much pain and suffering I had caused, her voice soft and halting as if she were on the verge of breaking down. I was pretty sure it was my daughter, Allison. I hadn’t heard her voice since she was eighteen, and she’d be thirty-two now, but I was pretty sure it was her. I stood frozen for a minute listening to her, then realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time. I moved quickly to the cleaning cart and turned off the radio. My heart was pounding a mile a minute.
    For a long time I couldn’t move. I just kept playing her voice back in my head, replaying everything she had said as I tried to figure out if that caller had been my daughter. In the end I just wasn’t sure. I almost took out my cell phone with the thought of calling Allison, but I couldn’t do it.
    That night I finished up a few minutes before two. Again, no words were spoken between me and the security guard when I checked in the keys. I wasn’t so much tired when I walked back to my apartment – it was more like listlessness. It was desolate at that hour. No traffic sounds, no sight of anyone else. I couldn’t shake this uneasiness in my gut, like I was walking through a graveyard. And I just couldn’t get that woman’s voice out of my head. The one who might’ve been Allison.
    Later when I dropped on to my bed, I don’t know if I fell asleep or drifted into some sort of unconsciousness, but whichever it was, I was grateful for the reprieve it gave me from all the thoughts buzzing through my head.

    It was two days later that I caught the mouse that had been running around my apartment. I had left a mostly empty peanut butter jar on its side, and when I heard something clattering around inside it, I flipped the jar over. My original plan was to drown the damn thing in the toilet, but when I saw it on its hind legs with its front paws frantically scratching at the inside of the jar, I had a change of heart. Instead I got dressed, put my sweater and jacket on, and carried the jar to a small park four blocks away where I let it down on the grass. After the mouse scurried away from me, I tossed the jar into a trash can and headed back to my apartment. I had just gotten on to Moody Street when my cell phone rang.
    No one should’ve had my number. I took the phone out of my pocket and stared at it before flipping it open. I didn’t say anything, I just stood quietly and listened to what sounded like static on the other end. Then a man’s voice came over the phone and told me I was a dead man. He called me by name so there was no mistaking that it could’ve been a wrong number. I didn’t say anything in response. There was another half a minute of static before a click sounded to show that he had hung up.
    I’d been so absorbed by the call that I’d stopped paying attention to my surroundings. Usually I was more careful about letting my guard down like that, and I looked around quickly, noticing the cars driving past me and the other pedestrians walking about. A man in his forties seemed to notice me looking at him and stared back. I don’t think he had noticed me before that, and I looked away from him. If anyone had been watching me out there, I couldn’t spot them. After giving it some thought, I headed back to the store where I’d bought the cell phone.
    The salesman who had sold me the phone wasn’t there. I tried describing him to the salesgirl on duty. She was in her twenties, very thin, not very attractive. While I explained how I wanted to talk again to this salesman, she stared at me with a humoring expression.
    “Sir, what seems to be the problem?” she said instead of answering my question, a plastic smile stuck on her face.
    “Someone called me on my cell phone,” I said. “I want to talk to the salesman who sold me this. I think he must’ve given my number