Old Sammy
Just after
The heavy revolver in George Pruent’s hand sounded three times; three ear ringing, head pounding bursts that echoed down the halls and passageways and ventilation ducts that encompassed the unseen amongst the land of sin known as the
The eyes of Jules, Nathan, and Sammy all took turns shifting from fallen body to the revolver clutching Golem. That revolver was pocketed without haste or fear as the Golem, George Pruent, struck up a new Marlboro Red. No one said anything as the first drag was sent out to mingle with the hanging scents of cordite and death.
“We’d better get that body out of here,” the shark-grinned Golem broke the silence with words riding out on the blue-gray stream of smoke.
“You want us to just pick it up and carry it out?” the words were delivered a bit heavy on the sarcastic side thanks to the Siren’s English accent.
“No. There’s a custodial closet down the hall, third door on the left. His instructions were to leave it unlocked. Inside there’ll be trash bags, twine, and Dry Sweep.”
It was as the body was taken care of and the mess cleaned up that the relationship between John Doe and George Pruent came to life.
“He, as you referred to him, became a very high liability quite suddenly in light of the information you’ve given to me.”
“Christ George, sounds like you’ve come over to my side on this one,” the wheelchair bound Nathan Wilde added in as he slowly wheeled himself down the flickering corridor. Old Sammy was mute as he stumbled along behind him, one pale hand resting on the back of the wheelchair. Nathan’s comment was given a very hard glare from across the body mummified in plastic that George Pruent, with the aid of the Siren, was carrying.
Before the glower lost its affect the George responded, “I killed a man because a new angle was presented. I didn’t change sides. I didn’t give in, or up. I just took a moment, a pause, so I could consider if I needed to revise my intended actions.”
“In the few days I’ve had the pleasure, not once have you been able to take a joke.” The feeble attempt at satire was issued from none other than Old Sammy himself.
“In the few days that you’ve ‘known’ me you’ve spent a great deal of them bound and being beaten, by a man now dead mind you. Feel free to think of that as something of an apology, or perhaps something of a prediction Sammy.” There was enough of a threat buried between the lines, and enough blatantly out in the open, that it seemed to quiet the group for a good while. Until they reached the truck all that could be heard was the shuffling of feet, the groans of strain at the realization of just how heavy a dead man is, and the slight squeal of Nathan Wilde’s wheelchair.
But as with all silences, this one too was broken. Jules’ smooth English tone cut into the chill of the level one underground parking garage. “So, it seems that the question we’re all without an answer to is who on Earth is Joanna?”
George Pruent’s fixed stare flared back up, this time to the opposite end of the body, this time to the Siren. “Something tells me that you know.”
“Oh? You’ve met her at least once, that puts you as the subject matter expert, not me.”
“Let’s just get the fucking body into the van okay?”
The humid cold air was already starting to feel the bite of winter, as the body, mummified in Hefty bags, was heaved into the back of the just-off white van labeled on the side with the simple, blocked, and black lettered word Steve’s. Sammy stood and watched with one hand still bearing down on a handle of Nathan’s wheelchair. He couldn’t help but wonder if that treatment was previously intended for him or Jules or if George Pruent had intended on killing his own gunman all along. Whatever it was, the icy and slick figure that Nathan associated with on purely a first name basis was an enigma to Old Sammy. That Golem could have been pulled out of a movie, his lines so precise, all right on cue, it was a smooth and dark nature that bore an amazing contrast to his grizzled and dank appearance that was still quite difficult for Sammy to get used to seeing. He was doing better at it though; he was certainly relieved when Nathan had entered into the room. Perhaps an Old Sammy could be taught new tricks, for acceptance was certainly a trick.
“Where are you going to hide the body?” Sammy’s question didn’t get the “glare.” No, George’s attention was focused on pulling down the sliding rear door to the Steve’s van. But he did get a taste of the Golem’s biting sarcasm, a bite that was so much harsher than the chill held in the November air.
“Want to find out?” The door clicked shut and the Golem started for the driver’s door. “I’m not new at this kid. But neither is your crippled friend. There are quite a few confirmed kills between the two of us.”
“Only I never grew to enjoy them George.”
“No. No you didn’t. But that didn’t stop you now did it?”
* * *
Driving off with a few hours of darkness still to cover him, George Pruent finally let go of his breath. He finally let the long held in fears slip out amongst his shark-like teeth and into the still chilled cabin of the van. Long digits with longer nails reached down and flicked on the radio, tuning into Arrow 94.7 who just happened to be playing a bit of Pink Floyd at the moment. George didn’t particularly care what song it was, it was something from “The Wall” and it was dark and it was fitting and that was all that mattered. Dark was fitting because quite suddenly tonight he had realized that Nathan Wilde had actually gotten the best of him and now George was left with the quite large question of admitting guilt to something he had no control over or starting a war that perhaps he just wasn’t ready for.
That human, oh he was going to be the end of George, the thought traipsed across the half mind that George wasn’t paying to the road and anger spurned him to smoke another cigarette. It was something of a stress reliever; the warm smoke filled him and cooled as it left, as if it were dragging his anger away with it. It was hard to find a constructive way to release stress when even admitting so to another was admitting fear. And admitting fear was the same as admitting weakness and that, that was something that George couldn’t have. The very thought of it gave the Golem cause to slam his hand against the steering wheel as he turned from 95 onto 495, one desolate highway to the next, well desolate for the next three hours anyway.
Time was rapidly becoming an enemy of George Pruent, and perhaps an enemy of everyone involved in this little tangle of events, an enemy that was largely his creation. He could do that, admit that this was his fault, for, and if they knew this they’d probably not take it too well, he was the one who hired an assassin who’d gone rogue on him. The knowledge that he’d been unable to contact his shooter since the day prior to the election would eventually have to come out. George was playing both sides on this issue, and two front wars always lead to defeat, but assured failure was something that sparked George Pruent’s drive. You tell that Golem that he can’t and he’s going to do so just to prove you wrong. Oh, he’s got restraint; he’s not like Michael J. Fox’s character in Back to the Future. He won’t be manipulated into actions just by being called a chicken. But if the situation permitted, George Pruent would often make an occasion simply to rise to it. And now was just one of those times, now George Pruent was being forced to put a spin on a story to the Golem Council and to Nathan Wilde and his likes.
The flash of oncoming headlights washed over the Golem and shook him from his train, or tangent, of thought. A smile spread across the lips, a harsh predatory smile, George was going to do this somehow, he always did, a simple car ride, a cigarette that he’d taken maybe three drags from prior to tossing it out the window and a classic rock station playing itself into a commercial break. George spun the dial and drove on into the morning, which was racing its way towards dawn.
Old Sammy’s Apartment
The car ride had been a rather tense one. Sammy was in no condition to drive and Nathan Wilde had the ultimate excuse not to which left Jules McCleary behind the wheel of his rented Lexus to cruise the streets of Washington D.C. in the hours so early in the morning that even the crack slingers and coke-heads had long since retired for the evening. Needless to say the traffic was light. Sammy was fighting hard to maintain an alert state as he kept snuggling deeper and deeper into the leather interior and finding just that much more comfort from the heaters wafting that box-scented warm air onto him. Nathan, on the other hand, was as much the picture of cool as a Golem can be. To be honest his thin lips had twisted into a sort
of smug grin as he managed to give directions to Jules and worked him to Sammy’s dilapidated apartment building.
“Christ, has this thing seen paint since the fifties?” The mumble parted the Perfect One’s lips as he exited the car and started for the already popped trunk. A slight breeze had worked over the city, the remnants of the gusts that build on the
“Is it safe to stop here? Couldn’t we have been followed?”
From the back of the car Jules scoffed at the human and his obviously shaken state. “No my dear boy we couldn’t have. There was no one out on the streets. Even the bums have found bus stands and subways to occupy.”
“No we couldn’t have.” Nathan agreed as Jules and Sammy were helping him from the back seat and into his wheel chair. “But not for your reason. We weren’t followed because I don’t think,” his speech was interrupted by the grunt of being set in his chair, “that George has too many people on his side right now.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you inside.”
* * *
“Kill your decorator.” Not quite the first impression that Old Sammy was accustomed to, but his apartment was not the most ideal accommodation for a Siren. Lights were flicked on and the door locked as the trio worked their way into the apartment itself and brought it to life with them. Nathan was left to sit in the split kitchen-living room while Jules walked a very grateful Sammy to his bed. Sammy greeted the overstuffed comforter with a face down dive and he wiggled for only a moment before falling into a slumber that nearly paralleled unconsciousness. Jules returned to one of the recliners in the living room and sat himself there, attempting to finally unwind himself after the first night in quite sometime where he’d nearly been killed by two different gun-toting hooligans.
“Sam’s a bachelor right?” Jules asked as he sent eyes that were threatening to sparkle again if he didn’t change out his contact lenses. Across the room the crippled Golem just nodded and so Jules continued. “Close friends? Relatives? Does he even work?” All the questions were met with minimal answers that all were quite blatantly in the “no” category. “Then why does he have two recliners?” Jules didn’t even wait for a response to that, he simply sighed and shook his head. “He’d have to be the first true contact wouldn’t he?”
“I’m starting to doubt if peace will come from this Jules.” That comment brought a raised eyebrow from Jules but he didn’t reply, he just let the comfort of silence settle onto the room.
“So what’s this you were saying about George before?”
“The two of us have worked together for,” Nathan paused, either for dramatic purposes or recollection, “over a decade now. I think…when he killed his own gunman it was not because he wanted to think. I think, and this is utter speculation, that he was covering his own ass.”
“I’m not following you here Nathan, why does that mean that he couldn’t have us followed if its not for the blatantly obvious reasons?”
“Jules, look at us. My people we don’t have your ability to blend into the upper crust. People don’t aspire to be ugly, don’t aspire to live a life that is based solely on being efficient. Sirens have mastered the art of hiding in plain sight, not just in plain sight but in the public eye, in lifestyles that demand attention. My people, we don’t have that. We have to hide by being what you don’t want to see, lepers, beggars, and bag people. We’ve learned to move about with at least the same ease that you feel, if not more. Mankind has the amazing ability, especially today, to make things go away by simply pretending they don’t see them.”
“Are you saying that George Pruent could have an army of homeless people combing the streets right now looking for us?”
“I’m saying that we can be places that you wouldn’t believe. But that’s not why we weren’t followed. I think George might be operating…outside of the system.” Nathan’s voice dropped to a near whisper with those last four words and for a second and his white, vacant eyes locked onto the sparkling, nearly crystalline blue eyes of the Siren. “This is our time, we’ve got to bring him over to our side. He’s still on the inside as far as I can tell, he’s still tied into the council, but he’s doing a bit of extracurricular work.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“By my tried and true maxim, communication.”
It was the day before Thanksgiving but to Gabriel that didn’t matter much. Back home in the Dakotas there would already be a thick layer of snow fallen but the man who called himself Gabriel would most certainly not have been spending time with his family. No, much closer to the truth, he’d be leaving tracks in the snow for miles on end as with rifle in hand he stalked the wild. But that wasn’t much different than he was doing now, this time though, he was poaching something much more difficult than an elk. A significant advantage he did have was that in
He was checking and double-checking for this all truly had to be perfect. As soon that rifle cracked the Secret Service would be everywhere. No doubt members of the President’s Hundred would be camped out on various roof tops, watching unconcerned about concealment as they studied the world through the unbiased scope of a rifle or a set of spotter’s binoculars. Gabriel had complete faith that his first shot would go according to plan; it was what came after the recoil that gave him reason to ponder. He’d have to leave the rifle there, sneaking out of the shooting area in the midst of the sudden chaos was one thing, but sneaking out with a rifle was something completely different.
He understood that he must part with the rifle, he’d even come to grips with the notion despite holding it at a level much more difficult than it would seem to an ordinary person. But with Headline News prattling away in the background the Hunter bothered himself with his actual question, could he succeed with a second shot? To him that was where the actual challenge lay.
It was an assassination from afar, a ranged game that broke down into a matter of seconds of time versus the human heartbeat. As the first shot left the muzzle of the rifle and shattered the office window luck would probably be on the Hunter’s side. The shot would either hit or miss a second before either the grandstands or the stage heard the report. But in the seconds immediately following the initial trigger squeeze Gabriel understood he was working against a great many variables. Any shooter or spotting team close enough to actually hear the blast as it happened would have to take the time necessary to simply report and investigate, a scant few seconds, but that was a good bit of time in the Hunter’s favour. The reaction on the stage by the Secret Service agents there would be to take the President Elect down and into a protective posture as soon as possible, that variable was simply a test. Could the agents respond to the sight of Ken Morrison exploding into a spray of red before a second round was chambered and sent away? To be truthful, charging the rifle to chamber a second round took almost no time, but regaining the calm necessary to steady one’s pulse and breathing would take even someone as accomplished as the Hunter a few very vital seconds. If he rushed that second shot before he was ready it would probably mean a capture, his capture, and almost a certain miss. When shooting at a target five hundred yards away if the barrel of the rifle were to tremble one tenth of an inch while he squeezed the trigger the strike of his round would be off by roughly ten feet. That would surely mean a capture in vain for Gabriel.
Inderal. The name floated into the Hunter’s mind. Seconds later the cracks and chirps of a modem mingled into only to drown out the sound of Headline News rolling into its Second Watch.
Old Sammy’s Apartment
“Any luck reaching the guy?”
“No, other than that brief phone call yesterday George Pruent seems to have dropped off the face of the world.” The Golem sighed as he turned his wheelchair to face the apartment window and the slight bit of warmth that hugged to the shaft of light cutting through it. He’d been trapped here, sitting, waiting and watching as the clocked ticked down towards a war that he’d seen brewing for so terribly long now and of all the moments, now was when Nathan Wilde was beginning to lose faith.
“So where could he have gone? You seem to know the guy pretty well.” Sammy on the other hand had come to collect himself, and the steaming cup of coffee brushing his face with its heavy Columbian grown scent seemed to amplify that.
“George Pruent is a mystery to himself. One minute he’s this, another he’s that.” The Golem’s voice trickled down into nothing as his pure white eyes remained fixed on some distant, undetermined point outside.
“So you’re just going to quit?” The Golem’s depression had begun to grow old with Sammy. Sammy might not have always been a man of action, but after being jumped into this little political gang he felt that he was being let down. It put a bad taste in his mouth as Sammy watched his friend, the one who by all means should know what was going on, fall to wallow in his own self pity. Nathan had been through a great deal, he’d lost the use of his legs and that was probably as much of a mental crippling as it was a physical one, but Sammy wasn’t finding ground to offer pity for self-loathers. Nathan didn’t respond though, he just continued to stare at a point probably unknown even to him. “Who’s the guy he’s having killed again?”
“Kenneth M. Morison, aide to George W. Bush.”
“Has he done this sorta thing before…? Assassination.” Sammy was goading the Golem, question after question, and it was quite obvious that Nathan simply wanted silence. But it was working, the questions had caused a cracking in the stone façade of the Golem.
“He’s had people killed before. Some Golems, those were usually pretty easy. A great deal were Siren, and those were a bit trickier, they tend to be public figures, but those were usually disguised as suicides or overdoses or whatever the morte du jour was.” The Golem paused as he forced himself to remember the meeting, his last meeting with the council. “Sammy?”
“Yeah?” The response came in the second following a sip of the quite hot coffee and had a bit of a sigh to it.
“If Ken Morrison were to be killed publicly, where would it most likely happen?”
Silence filled the room as Nathan turned from the window to look at the human, those white eyes waiting, expecting, and wondering and Sammy turned his attention down into the dark, bitter brew that had filled his mug. The human didn’t answer though, instead he grabbed the television remote which was resting halfway across the counter and flicked on one of his many choices for twenty-four hour a day news coverage. He watched for perhaps fifteen minutes, long enough to roll through all the politically stories, most of which focused on the
“And news from the Bush camp, out of Austin Texas…”
“There.”
“
“Yeah, Morrison is almost definitely with Bush. And Bush is at his home in
“Are your bags still packed?”
“Do you know how big a city
“No, but George does. I know how to work him into tipping his hand. Trust me.”
Location Undisclosed
It was such a pretty face that was twisted into a sneer as the television droned on and on about
“Only in
In a few days it wouldn’t matter though, that was what she was living for as the sea-laden breeze slipped into the house, carrying with it the familiar scent of salt water and that fresh feeling. Reaching for her cream, Joanna set to removing the day’s make-up. As minimal as it was, the make-up was a necessity to go out and about in human society.
Susan White’s Apartment
It was an informal evening, as informal as a Saturday night could be in
“It’s been a wonderful evening Jules.”
“That it has Susan, been quite some time since I’ve done Broadway.”
“By the looks you were getting you could have had half of the place.”
“The tux was amazing, I felt like I was born for it.”
“Oh Jules, enough with that, we’re old friends, your charms will get you nowhere.”
“You still made me an excellent tuxedo.”
The silence shared between the two was a warm one, a comfortable one. With all the bickering that went on amongst their race, with all the backstabbing and plotting, this was perhaps the must plutonic, most relaxed relationship. It was probably the only one that could be termed a “friendship” out of any of them.
“I’m going to
“For how long?”
“A month at the least, I’ve been invited by a few of the Old Worlders.”
“And you’ll leave us then?” Jules sounded a bit concerned by this. He didn’t want to be selfish, for it was not everyday that someone was invited into a group as prestigious as the Old Worlders, but he honestly valued Susan White.
“I doubt that it will be for good. I honestly feel that perhaps I’m simply the flavour of the moment. They’ll grow tired of me quickly and I’ll grab Jason away from whatever French mess he’s found himself in and return back here.”
“You’ll knock them dead Susan. And you’ll bring Whitehouse Fashions along with you.”
“You’ve too damned much confidence in me Jules.”
Location Undisclosed
That meeting had been one that George Pruent doubted he would ever forget. Convincing the entire Council of Elders was something that he didn’t like doing, he had ended up at some points actually lying through his shark-like teeth. Lying was bad for business, bending the truth was almost always favored.
Returning to his quarters was something just short of Heaven-sent, just short because at the moment, George wasn’t sure just how safe they were. He was starting to think that perhaps he’d crossed a line when he had Wilde imprisoned, not to mention his escape which had only made things worse. One of the guards had died in that; the other had died because of that. The Golem governing body was playing hardball these days and it was forcing George to divert attention there, and that was attention that should have been directed elsewhere, say to regaining control of his rogue assassin.
With a cigarette dangling from his lip, as yet unlit, one of the Golem’s long fingers and its sharp fingernail pushed the button that caused his computer to hum to life. A Zippo flicked out a flame that gave birth to a cherry at the end of the Red. Half a heart was given to the cigarette as George logged onto the Internet to check his priority mail, all the rest really could wait.
Message after message was opened and deleted but it was the final one that dropped George’s jaw and sent his cigarette falling onto the keyboard and sending sparks everywhere.
I’m booking tickets for
N.W.
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