Free Dirty Deeds by Armand Rosamilia Page B

head. Too personal, even though I wasn’t going to kill them. If I treated them like a human being I might hesitate, especially with an older kid. I’d clubbed a couple over the head in the past because they didn’t cooperate and fought back. Which is the norm, but when you get a wired kid on drugs or someone who’s been lifting weights since they were ten, it gets rough.
    She was standing at the edge of the parking lot with two of her fellow cheerleaders, backpacks over their shoulders like a scene from Beverly Hills: 90210 .
    It was a show when I was this kid’s age and it rocked. Look it up, it might be on Netflix.
    The waiting was the hardest part. Any number of random occurrences could happen before I got to her: a nosy parent or teacher wondering what a pristine white van was doing in the school parking lot, a police cruiser on patrol because the extracurricular stuff was getting out at this time every day, or just bad luck. The only time I almost didn’t finish a job was when the stolen car didn’t start and I had to get a jump from what turned out to be a very friendly off-duty cop.
    A car pulled up to the curb and her two friends got in, leaving her alone. She looked around, maybe trying to find someone else to talk to, but when she saw the rest of the cheerleaders were already gone she began the walk home.
    I wondered why a kid this rich and high profile was hoofing it a few blocks. Didn’t mom or dad want to protect her? Yeah, I know one of them was paying me an indecent amount of money to kill her, but you still needed the premise you loved your kid enough to get a car to pick her up.
    I let her get almost out of sight before I started the van. No use trying to take her with a few cars still in the parking lot. Just ahead, around the first bend in the road, stood a vacant lot and the houses on either side were shielded with trees. The other side of the road had big houses set back. The perfect spot to do the job. I didn’t need to be seen while doing it. I was sure the white van cruising the parking lot a couple of times and then leaving right after she did and heading in her direction would be enough to give the cops something to go on.
    By the time they collected the camera tapes and talked to eyewitnesses I’d be long gone.
    A woman sitting in her car, reading a book and waiting for her son or daughter, looked up and gave a half-smile. I waved and beamed with joy. She’d remember the old man with white hair and thick glasses, and by tomorrow night a police sketch would be on the local news channels.
    The back of the van was ready to go, too. I had rope and a pile of moving rugs to cover her, as well as two pairs of handcuffs I had no intention of using unless she fought back. I’d be able to get the rag over her mouth before she knew what hit her, though, so I wasn’t too worried about her resisting.
    The first time I’d used a similar plan was a long time ago. I was taught by my predecessor. Who had been taught by his, I supposed. You never really talked about too much further back. Maybe the last generation of child abductors was enough. Maybe we all hoped the phone would stop ringing or the e-mails would never come, and the world would right itself and bad people would stop wanting their children dead.
    I needed to hurry up and get back to New York.
    She was just ahead now as I drove at about ten miles an hour, foot lightly tapping the gas to keep momentum. I’d get ahead of her and stop, acting like I was at the house for a reason. I was in a work van, and I was a heavy old man. No harm.
    As I drove past I could see she was oblivious, wearing ear buds and listening to music I’m sure I didn’t get or understand, deep in her high school thoughts.
    She’s a mark, I told myself. You never got too close and I needed to stop worrying about whom she was or what she was thinking about. I knew it was all the running around from city to city that was getting to me, and the change from east to west