Plan B

Word Count: 4,270


He stood in front of the apartment door looking every inch the maintenance man, the unsung and often maligned hero of the building dweller. His overalls dirty and stained, but not too dirty; still presentable enough to be worn in these slightly upper-class hallways. His over-sized toolbox just battered enough to give the assurance that it held the tool to fix whatever might be wrong, resting on the floor beside him. Aside from the fact that no resident had ever seen this particular maintenance man before, the only thing that might tip the casual passerby was the way he looked up and down the hallway before knocking. The supposedly offhand glance just to make sure no one was around.

As his hand rose to knock, his mind ran through the possibilities. Either Plan A, the plan where no one saw him, would continue and no one would be home or Plan B would commence and people would die.

*knock* *knock* *knock*

A pause. It was early on a Saturday, only 9am and the couple who lived here were elderly and it would only do to be polite and give them time to answer. Leaning close, he heard movement. His left hand slipped into an overall pocket and his breathing evened, Plan B was about to go into effect.

A faint, "Hello?" As if not sure someone had knocked.

Keeping in character, a clearing of his throat, "Er, yes. Hello. Maintenance."

"Who?" It was the lady of the house. "Nothing’s wrong here."

Doing his best to keep his voice soft, "I’m sorry to disturb you ma’am, but there’s some water spots downstairs. Just need to check a few things."

At the mention of the bane of all building dwellers, the leaking pipes that cause water spots, he heard a soft "Oh dear…" and she was fiddling with the deadbolt to let him in.

Slowly, the door swung open and he greeted her with a smile, "I’m sorry ma’am, but this won’t take long."

She smiled back and then it faltered, almost becoming a small frown. Perhaps she sensed something was wrong, some people are just perceptive like that. Perhaps she realized she didn’t recognize man, but she could hardly be expected to know all the maintenance people. Perhaps she saw the semi-translucent gloves he’d pulled over his hands just before knocking. Perhaps she saw his left hand rising, gripping the TASER.

The man never learned what made the smile wane, there simply wasn’t time. A firm stride towards her, an outstretching of the arm, a press of the trigger as the TASER reached her belly, and then the right hand catching her as she fell. Gently, he laid her on the ground. A moments pause to take stock, to take in the apartment. There was no outcry from the husband, nothing to cause alarm. The clunk of the toolbox being set inside was louder than her body. The door latch and sharp click of the deadbolt the loudest.

From around the corner, "Martha? Who was at the door?"

TASER in hand, the man crept to the corner, listening. He didn’t have much time; the lady wouldn’t be incapacitated for long. A tight smile as he heard the shuffle of slipper shod feet coming towards him.

A faint touch of concern in his voice, "Martha?"

The shadow on the floor grew, getting closer and closer, making it far too easy for the man to judge his pounce. As before, TASER to belly and them the right arm lowering him to the ground.

Now, he’s a flurry of action. Dropping the TASER with one hand and pulling tie wraps from a pocket with the other. First, around her wrists and then ankles. Her eyes fluttering as the toolbox flips open and the distinctive ripping of duct tape fills the silent room. Two long strips of duct tape, one around her mouth and head. Short quick steps to him, the second strip around his head and then, ties to his wrists and ankles. Another pause, always time to take a second or two to think, to review, to listen, to analyze. Was anyone else here? Anyone to scream or call the police? Silence, bliss full silence.

Plan B isn’t the plan he wanted. They were supposed to be out. The weather was good, they should have been out taking a walk. Why were they here? Was someone going to come to visit? Plan B was messy enough, going to C or D was enough to give him pause. His mind racing, computing the information.

Careful not to get to close to the window, he gazed out at the park. Before this gets too much farther, time to verify the view is right. It is. The stage just where he knew it would be. The line of sight clear. The angle. The distance. All just how they should be. No surprises from the inanimate objects, exactly why he always liked them best.

Already people were milling about the park, supporters and gawkers. The tight smile slowly spreading on his lips as the answer to the old couple came to him. The park was crowded. Well, not crowded, but busier than usual, full of strangers, so they’d opted to skip their walk. No doubt annoyed at all the hubbub. His gaze fell back to them, struggling weakly in their bounds and he wondered which way they would have voted.

Time for Phase Two of Plan B and then it would be back on track, but to Plan A. First her and then him, carried to the bathroom and laid side-by-side in the tube. A sentimental gesture, he laid them face to face. His demeanor, cold and unflinching. They’d chosen not to go out and so sealed their fate. .22 pistol with silencer in hand, left hand gripping the silencer, trying to turn it tighter. Again, a pause. Had he missed anything so far?

The overalls weren’t his and any bits of trace evidence they shed was fine with him. The boots, these brown grease stained work boots were a size too small, toes smushed against the steel toes. This didn’t bother him, he’d been wearing shoes too small for weeks. His head freshly shaved, no annoying bits of hair, well, a much reduced risk. Hairs can come from all over. The next phase would take care to muddle up any damning trace he did happen to shed, but now it was time to stop and consider things. Now was the time in Plan B where it was commit or abort.

Frightened, confused eyes strained to see him, to plead with him from the cold white tub. He paid these eyes no mind as the slide the shower door mostly closed, just his gloved hand and gun sticking inside. Should there be any splatter, best to limit it. In the even unlikelier event the little .22 shell should ricochet off the tub, it wouldn’t have the force to pierce the fiberglass door. All nice and self-contained, Plan B was all about making the mess be as small as possible.

The pistol coughed once, then twice and then four more times. Three to each grayed haired head. To be consistent, it was ladies first.

With the shower door open again, he gazed at the old couple. Their blood already mixing and dripping down the drain. It wasn’t with remorse or pity, but with judgment. He wanted to be sure they were dead. His head tilting to one side as he considered, even if they weren’t, they soon would be. Wrists and ankles bound, wounded in the tub, there was no way for them to get free and call for help. A slow final roll of the door and he put them from his mind.

Four hours to the speech and there was much to do.

Step 1, to crack all the windows, not fully open, and turn off the AC. No one did that in the building, just halfway or so. Careful not to expose too much of himself, not the simplest of tasks.

Step 2, back to the tool box, dropping in the used clip and sliding a fresh one into the pistol. Always be prepared. The man had made an excellent boy scout.

Step 3, the slender metal tripod, collapsed so small the longest part was hardly longer than a hand length. The snapping of metal echoed in the silent room as the legs extended, finally standing topless near the kitchen window. The kitchen held the best view, the clearest line. This was all about angles.

Step 4, the most ritualized of the steps; was the assembly of the rifle, the .50 caliber sniper rifle. Piece by piece it went together from pointless, harmless inanimate objects to a finely crafted instrument of death. The rifle itself, of course, wasn’t good or bad. It was just a tool that had been designed with stunning precision to hurl cartridges of metal great distances at high velocities. This shot wouldn’t test it at all. For this shot it was, if you’ll pardon the pun, overkill.

Step 5, secure the rifle to the tripod, keeping a safe distance from the window. No one will see it too soon, hopefully not at all.

A pause, a moment to reflect. Still well over three hours to go. A glance inside the toolbox and four item remained. Three one litter squeeze bottles and one small pack of .50 caliber bullets. He remembered the first time he saw one and how surprised he was as its size. Its weight.

A look around the apartment. The rifle and tripod looking surreal in the heavily floraled apartment. Daises in the kitchen. The remnants of a bagel breakfast in the sink. An idle wondering if they ever used the dishwasher or did each dish by hand. Probably by hand, it would take too long for them to fill up the washer to make it worth running.

He wondered if he’d left too much time. Now was the second most dangerous part. The time with friends knocked or family called. It was important to be in place early though, no changes to the outside, to the windows, close to event. Nothing to alarm security. Everything must appear to be normal until, well until, normalcy was not just shattered, but annihilated.

Step 6, take the squeeze bottles and place them about the apartment. One in the bedroom, one in the living room and one in the kitchen. Each one filled with an odorless, highly flammable liquid. Each one all part of the Final Phase. Much too soon to spread the liquid now, but it was time to plan where each would go. Careful to leave a pathway to the door. Again, the same smile on his face as he placed the zippo lighter, one bought from a truckstop over a month ago, on the accent table next to the door. Right where one might expect a set of keys or a wallet to be kept. Right next to the family portrait complete with smiling grandkids.

Step 7, the worst of the steps. Time to wait. Time to see just what might go wrong. Time to see if the fickle hand fate, the same hand that led the old couple to their death, would lead someone else to theirs.

A glance at the clock, two hours and forty-five minutes. He’d been moving slowly, deliberately. There was no need for haste or waste. He debated disassembling and reassembling the rifle, but that was pointless. It was together right. If he started second guessing himself now, when would it end? Would twice be enough? Five times? What about the old couple? Should he check on them hourly? Every fifteen minutes to make sure they were still dead? As if they could open the door, crawl from the tub and make it to a phone in total silence. With the AC off, any sound was easy to hear.

Should he bother setting up rifle now? No, that needed to be closer to the time, no sense getting ready when positions might change. That’s another reason why he opened all the windows, seating was often fluid at such events and another window might prove better. No sense in the slim chance of drawing attention by opening one.

No, it was time to rest. To sit in what had undoubtedly been the old man’s favorite chair, the wingback chair. Well-worn. Made from a different age, when the idea was to make something last forever. He’d be sure to give the chair a good squirt from the bottle.

Eyes closed and mind keeping track of the time. He was good, very good, at judging time. Even when going to a restful, almost meditation like state. Senses sharp and waiting for the fickle hand of fate to push him to Plan C or D or E. Option after option accounted for in the planning. Silenced .22 resting in his lap. Breathing slow and steady, calm and peaceful. Things weren’t so bad, not considering the two dead people in the tub. Two people who would be a nothing but a footnote to the overall story.

He let his mind wander to the money, the sizeable payday. Half already his, half about to be transferred to him in just a few hours. He pondered on the trust in that, what if they refused to pay? There was a plan for that. There was always a plan. He knew friends of the payors. Friends who’d start to die slow, horrible deaths. Not exactly direct pressure, since people like this tended not to have close friends. Clues would start to appear in papers about how financed the hit. Damning clues. Yes, this would cause himself some trouble too, but he’d be in more than enough of that.

The money, all of it, was needed to disappear. This was his retirement plan. This was his shot at fame – hopefully anonymous fame. Most would say infamy, but what’s the difference? Infamy probably longer lasting. The positive and negative connotations didn’t matter to him.

Friends and business associates would disappear. Clues would apply great pressure. All this was no doubt thought through by the payors. Undoubtedly they had plans to remove him as a loose-end too. He was ok with that. That was business. That’s what the money was for. His disappearance was all planned. Identities set up, escape ways plotted. A, B, C, D and others.

The easiest way was to pay. To honor the agreement. To make sure he stayed happy, quiet and gone.

He let this worry fall from his mind. 2 hours to go. Nearly time to start the final preparations. He let himself toy with the idea of retirement. No more plotting and planning crimes. No more tense meetings with strangers, trying to decide if it was legit or setup. Still always, yes always, the worry of being found. He’d never life worry free. Too many people would be looking for him, for this and other things. Even in hiding, his life would likely be short. No one hides perfectly for ever. No one.

Of course, he had a plan for that. A plan to minimize the risks.

Had he always been such planner? No, not always. Not to this degree. A child, he’d been prone to long periods of daydreaming. A fantasy life all his own. Plotting and planning in its own way. Never one to be too quick to act, always best to watch and learn. As a teenager, his careful, planning ways had served him well.

An odd image fluttered through his mind, a butterfly. A monarch butterfly. A curious thing to be sure and there was time enough to follow it. Time enough to see just what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Behind closed eyes came the long forgotten image a small pool. His first real job, an apartment complex lifeguard. The irony of his now taking live in an apartment would have sparked a rueful smile, but he was too lost in his mind for a physical reaction. It had been a wonderful job. Over 1,000 people lived in the complex, but only a handful used the pool with any regularity. Easy money, sitting in a chair listening to the radio. A few menial chores like checking the water all for $2 more than minimum wage. A dream job for a sixteen year-old.

A job made even better when joined by his girlfriend. A true perk was to sit with an empty pool and watch her sunbathe. His mind slowly, constantly plotting how to get farther and farther with her. She didn’t know it, not yet, but she was going to be his first. It was only a matter of time. A matter of laying the foundation, of building ever slowly, delicately towards his goal. No that wasn’t quite right, it had to be ‘their’ goal, not just his. She didn’t know it, but it would be exactly what she wanted too.

An image of her standing on the steps, ankle deep in the water. Stretching. Arching her back, chest being pushed out towards him. A lazy Saturday afternoon. Warm, but not hot. Sparse clouds. A perfect day. No sweating just being in the sun and not too cool in the shade, even in just a bathing suit. Head tilting as he gazed at her, wheels churning on the next step of his ‘loss of innocence’ plan. Eyes idly sliding up and down her form as she let her feet get used to water. Eyes finally landing on the small, but unmistakable triangle of light, between her thighs. The top of the triangle pointing exactly to his end goal, to what he’d heard called the ‘promise land.’

A flash and she’s sitting next to him. Feet up on the table, reclined deep into the seat. Talking, but not really. It’s late in the day. She’d like to leave, but he can’t, not yet. Sure no one is in the pool, but there’s still time. Someone might come. He doesn’t want to lose this cushy job, lose this income. He needs it as part of his plan.

There it is, the butterfly. First by the flowers to her right. He’s sitting to her left. They watch it flutter from flower to flower. You can’t help but smile. Such a simple, eloquent feature. She says a butterfly is all she needs for proof of God. At this moment, it’s hard to argue with her logic. The butterfly leaves the flowers and meanders in its herky-jerky way towards her. She’s amazed. She just said that about God and now she’s getting an up close and person look at the proof. Amazement and wonder on her face, in her eyes. Perhaps, he reasons, the look on her face is all the proof he needs for God, but he’s not convinced. Certainly no time to bring it up, that would run contrary to the plan.

The butterfly, only a few seconds from the flowers, though it seems much longer to her, flutters and lands. The landing is the key. He knows it. He can feel it. Tonight, the next phase of his plan comes to fulfillment. He’s grinning. She’s grinning. Both feeling giddy from what their eyes see, but not quite for the same reason. She doesn’t know it yet, but this colorful fluttering proof of God that’s just landed on her big toe is all he needs to complete his plan. This image, this memory, this perfect day with the storybook ending is all he needs.

The flash is gone. He’s back in the dead couple’s living room. Surrounded by patterns of flowers he can’t name and doesn’t want to name. What does he care for dead people’s things?

Nearly time for step 8, only an hour to go. He can hear the people in the park, the chatter of their conversation. Each one about to be a witness to history. He’s a long way gone from that youthful boy. He has no time to ponder the path that’s brought him here. No time to muse about how she got her miracle of a butterfly landing on her and later that night they both enjoyed a different sort of miracle.

Step 8, sighting the shot. Keeping the rifle back from the window, so no one outside will see. Lining it up just right on some techie fiddling with a chair that seems to rock instead of sitting still. The side of the head is much better target that most people would suppose. It’s mostly flat, the bone isn’t quite so strong as the forehead. Of course, the back of the head is best, but that’s too much to ask for. This will be a shot to the side/top of the head. Not quite ideal, but no issue for a mammoth .50 caliber bullet.

Step 9, the bottles. Time to set up the final act. First the living room, squirting the liquid here and there, he’s careful to leave the path from the kitchen to the door. Then the kitchen, only part of a bottle here. Finally the bedroom. In each room, all over. Up on the walls. In closets. On chairs. On the bed. The half bottle from the kitchen is for the bathroom, up the side of the tube and all over the dead old couple. Still dead. Still laying there. This isn’t some fanciful Hollywood movie where one or both live and have called the cops. No, this is reality.

Step 10, a little plastic sandwich bag from his pocket. It’s full of hair, dust and three Turkish cigarette butts. The butts carefully picked this morning from the park, an old man who thoughtfully choose to litter while feeding the pigeons. He doesn’t expect much, if any, of this to survive the fire, but that’s the point. A butt carefully placed behind the toilette, which should survive. No liquid near it. Something a person would carelessly toss and miss in the cleanup. A few hairs here and there and some dust and dirt. Any bit of which would confound the experts and point to someone other than himself. No doubt at some point they’ll decide the evidence was placed and that’s fine. Any trace of himself will be just as likely to be planted as what he’s actually planted. It is all about confusion and doubt. That’s what’s needed for the first part of his escape. Anything to toss the hounds off his scent for the first few days. That’s all he needs. A few days of peace and he’s free, well, provided the money is there.

Time is ticking now. A towel into the tub to stop the liquid from going down the drain, but no doubt some has. All three bottles into the tub, it will burn hot, very hot. Twenty minutes to go. All the windows being open also makes for a nice influx of air to feed the fire.

Who’s the target? The name doesn’t matter, not to him. He knew once, he knew all the details. But today, a senator? A governor? Doesn’t matter, just some guy in a suit. Squinting through the eye piece he moves from person to person, always at the shoulders. It’s the third person, just where he should be. A small stain, only visible with special lenses of his scope, on the shoulder. Easy to spot. Up to the head. He’s clapping, the next speaker is about to start. Best not to do it at the podium. No, podiums have things like airbags in them. They are designed to explode out upon detecting an incoming bullet. Most people don’t know that. And all the attention is on the speaker. All the focus. The speaker, a lady, talks. She’s from the seat next to him. All the better, not that she was blocking the shot, far too short, but less attention on him.

A deep, slow breath. A deep, slow breath. His finger tightens on the trigger. The crowd applauds. He waits a moment, the man is shifting in his seat.

Perhaps he’ll go and track her down, this high school lover. Perhaps he’ll invite her to disappear with him. It’s all planned out. A second person, a total innocent person, would be easy to add. Easy as lighting the Zippo by the door and dropping in the pool by the door. He’d watch just long to see it burn spread all over. Not so long for the smoke detector to go off. The overalls would, designed to just be ripped off his body, he’d toss to the flames. The gun was clean, never once touched with his hands. Wiped clean five times the night before. A final goodbye to what had been a faithful friend.

Underneath the overalls he wore a simple gray and blue jogging outfit; shorts and a t-shirt. The stairway door was just a few feet down the hall. He’d be jogging out the back entrance. Away from the park. Away from the fire. Away from the police. Away from everything.

The man settled. The woman started speaking again.

A deep, slow breath. A deep, slow breath. Yes, he thinks is going to find her. Not at first, but after a while. See what she’s become. See if she stayed true to the dreams they used to whisper about.

A final deep, slow breath and his finger tightens on the trigger. Slow, gradual pressure. People applaud again. The rifle barks. People scream.

Plan A of the escape is now in effect.