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But to what end? Surely not blackmail. She was loaded, and he was broke.
Write about what you know.
Make the guilt and fear palpable.
Her words shot through his brain like an electric arc. She was his metaphorical revenant. And his penance was having to flesh out his own guilt. His own revenge. She didn’t like it, and she was coming with the perfect payback.
No way! Impossible.
So is this freak thunder-and-lightning snowstorm.
No!
Maybe this was all Maggie’s doing. In a drunken moment years ago he had told her about Jessica. What if all three of them were in collusion and they concocted this scheme, recruiting this Lauren Grant or whatever her name was—a hit woman to get back for Jessie, for his cheating on Maggie, for all his indiscretions against women?
Even more far-fetched, he told himself. Maggie was happily involved with another guy and didn’t give a shit about him anymore. And Jessica could be dead for all he knew.
Outside the landscape lit up as if by strobe lights, and a moment later boulders rumbled across the sky. He stared through the window as lightning turn the stripped black trees behind the house into an X-rayed forest. As he watched and waited for the thunder, another thought cut across him mind like a shark fin. One that made all the sense in the world.
Because he was bad. Because he was selfish.
Because blood debts must be paid.
Suddenly he felt his gorge rise and he shot to the toilet where he flopped to his knees and threw up the contents of his stomach. As he hung over the bowl, gagging, the bathroom light began to flicker. The power lines. Every time Carleton experienced a heavy snow, sections of the town got hit with a brownout.
He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet when he heard the doorbell ring. Jesus! He shot back into the bedroom. He was tearing through his bureau drawers, underwear and pullovers spilling to the floor, when he heard something from downstairs.
“Geoffrey.”
She was inside. Had he forgotten to lock the door after the FedEx man left?
“Geoffrey, I’m here.”
He did not respond.
“Geoffrey?”
Suddenly the lights flickered again. Then they blinked out. Black. The place was dead black. Not a stray photon in the room. Not even any light seepage from the outside. The whole neighborhood was out.
“Geoffrey, please come down.”
He heard himself whimper, frozen in black, completely disoriented in his own bedroom, unable to move.
“I know you’re there.”
The next moment, the lights flickered back on.
“Come down and see what I’ve got.”
He didn’t answer. His brain still felt stu
“Geoffrey.”
The lights were back on, and he took several deep breaths to compose himself.
“Shall I come up?”
“No.”
“In the living room.”
After a few moments, he felt centered again and crept his way out of the bedroom and down, the creaking of the stairs sounding like bones snapping. The only other sound was that of the furnace kicking on. At the bottom, the foyer overhead burned. The living room was still dark because the lamps had not been turned on. He inched his way to the entrance and braced himself against the frame.
She was in there, standing by the dead fireplace. Her long black shearling defining her form in negative. “Surprise.”
His forehead was an aspic of fear. “I know what you want,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I know what you’re pla
“You do?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was barely audible. Over her shoulder hung her case. He could not see her hands. But in the foyer light he could see the white oval of her face. A weird grin distorted her features.
Satisfaction. Fulfillment. Retribution.
“I didn’t think you’d guess.” She removed the shoulder bag and began to open it.
“I know who you are,” he said. His fingers were nearly bloodless with cold. “I know.”
“Of course, but you can’t imagine—”
But she never finished her sentence. Without thought, he pulled the gun from his back pocket and shot her three times. She collapsed to the floor without a sound.
He snapped on the lamp. The bullets had hit her face, reducing it to a bloodied mess.
He pulled the shoulder bag from under her and tore it open.
Inside was his copy of the fully executed contract and clipped to it a bank check for $20,000. Also hard-bound copies of his books that she had wanted him to autograph for her and her parents for Christmas next week. And a sheet with her ending: He takes his own life.
His neighbors must have heard gunshots, because sometime later he heard sirens wailing their approach.
As he sat there, looking down at the blasted red pulp of her face, he thought, Well, we got our bloody surprise ending.
Then he shot himself in the head.
KATHLEEN ANTRIM
With her speculative thriller Capital Offense, Kathleen Antrim leveraged an intimate knowledge of today’s political landscape to send tremors through the Washington beltway and her readers. Unafraid of ruffling feathers attached to some very powerful government arms, Kathleen’s work as an award-wi
A dystopian tomorrow is under investigation in “Through a Veil Darkly,” a timely story that taps into our secret fears and hidden biases. Kathleen shows us how a tense political climate can evolve into an environment where even murder can be justified and patriotic.
THROUGH A VEIL DARKLY
It’s time to kill my husband. Izaan Bekkar. The forty-eighth president of the United States.
I suppose assassination is the correct term. No matter. It’s my responsibility. Once done, I’ll be a hero. Go figure. Only in America, where killing for religious reasons is deemed sacrilegious. Hypocrites, every damn one of them.
I’m alone now, sitting in my room. Outside, trees bare as brooms claw at my window, just as Izaan’s deception scrapes at my raw conscience. A winter wind rattles the thick pane of glass. My only comfort comes from thoughts of retribution and the monotonous drip…drip…drip of a leaky faucet. I’ve listened to that torturous sound ever since Izaan locked me up. It’s all I have for entertainment. I’ve noticed that its pitch is different at night—more baritone—than in the afternoon, when the water sings like a soprano.
Interesting what we notice when alone.
A digital clock reads 4:49 a.m.
Eleven minutes before the morning call to prayer. Five hours and eleven minutes before my meeting with Dr. Truman North. Fourteen hours and eleven minutes until lights out and another sleepless night.
There are people, like the self-righteous Dr. North, who want me to accept their version of my predicament. But I silently refuse, and play along. I’ll do anything to guarantee my release from this hell.
The key is the burqa.
My life didn’t start in a burqa.
But it may end in one.
I stood backstage, listening, wearing a navy St. John suit that Izaan bought for me.
“America is on the brink of destruction,” Izaan boomed to a packed auditorium.
Network and cable news cameras focused on his keen blue eyes and crisp, angular features. “Global warming. Oil dependence. Nuclear war. America needs leadership she can believe in.”
Izaan ran his life and his campaign on high-octane fear. Constituents guzzled his message. When he swerved for emphasis, they leaned into his turn. He’d brake for effect, and they’d relax. He’d race his cadence, their hearts seemed to pound.
“That’s why, at your insistence, I’m a
The crowd roared their approval.