Free Nobody Dies For Free by Pro Se Press

you’re
located?” the voice said.
    Despite the means used to
disguise the voice’s true qualities, Monroe was sure it was male
and not very young, though not old, either. He tried to listen for
any hint of regional origin in the voice, but came up
empty.
    “ I’m in Boston,
Massachusetts,” Monroe said.
    “ My fees are quite steep,”
the voice said. “Can you afford what you want?”
    “ I have nobody left,” Monroe
said. “Everyone is dead…except for me. I’m perfectly willing to
spend it all: several hundred thousand dollars.”
    “ Perhaps we are on the same
page,” the voice agreed. Monroe could almost hear the anticipation
through the phone. The voice then shifted gears. “Of course, there
always is the possibility that I’m speaking to someone who truly
does not have my best interests in mind: police, perhaps, or the
government. What assurance can you offer me to contradict that
idea?”
    “ I can offer you the truth,”
Monroe said. “I used to be one of those things…but those days are
gone now. Today I’m just a man, and I don’t even want to be that
anymore.”
    “ Will you tell me your
name?”
    “ My name is Richard, Richard
Monroe. And what shall I call you?”
    “ It doesn’t really matter
what you call me.”
    “ Do you know what they call you?”
    “ What?”
    “ Simon Scythe.”
    “ Ha! Thank you for that
information, Mr. Monroe. I like it! And they have no idea who I am
or where I’m to be found?”
    “ Not a clue.”
    “ And which part of their
game did you play in former days, Monroe?”
    “ Naval intelligence, then
CIA, and now I sit on my ass all day and read books and feel the
loneliness closing in faster and faster.”
    “ Most unfortunate,” Scythe
said. “And a man with your background can’t finish the game
yourself?”
    “ No,” Monroe said. “My guts
seem to have shriveled down to nothing, one of the nasty
after-effects of personal tragedy, I suppose. I’ve reached the
point where I can sit here and drink myself to death slowly and
miserably…or I can get somebody to walk me over to the cliff and
give me a good shove.”
    “ I need some time,
Monroe.”
    “ Why?”
    “ Because I’m not in Boston
or anywhere near it and I don’t entirely trust you either, not yet.
You must understand that a man in my profession has to be
absolutely certain before he accepts a commission. I’m the best
there is at what I do. I may be the only man in history who does
exactly what I do. I intend to stay in that position for as long as
I can. And so I must be sure that you’re not playing some game of
subterfuge with me. I do not walk into traps. Is that
understood?”
    “ Clear as day,” Monroe said.
“But hurry up, please. It’s money for you, peace for
me.”
    “ Do not call me again,”
Simon Scythe said. “I will contact you when—if—we are to proceed in
this matter. Good day, Mr. Monroe.”
    Click.
     
    ***
     
    Monroe tried to put himself
in Scythe’s shoes. What would he do in a similar situation, offered
a big contract by a man who admittedly had a past that sparked
suspicion? Monroe was sure he had interested Scythe. The killer
would investigate further. He would probably travel to Boston and
do some spying.
    Monroe had to make it look
real. He had hinted at a drinking habit and also at intense grief
and loneliness. He went to the liquor store, bought several dozen
bottles of scotch, whiskey, and other strong stuff. He would empty
those bottles a few at a time and make sure they went out with his
garbage, as any spy worth his weight in surveillance tapes knows
that the golden path to understanding a target’s life is through
his trash. He bought picture frames too, filled them with
photographs of Genevieve, placed them in prominent places around
the apartment, even breaking one of the frames and leaving the
picture in its shattered house.
    He stopped shaving too,
tried to look tired, kept rings of exhaustion around his eyes,
added a bit of gray to