KILLER FATE

She looked familiar. Of course, I had seen the picture, had memorized it in fact. When you are charged with killing someone, you have to know what they look like. 

Let’s go back a little bit. I am Terry Harveson but that is just my name. I am a security guard at Maryville Auto Parts, a manufacturing company in the middle of Tennessee, but that is just my occupation. I am also ex-military that trained as a sniper with the 82nd Airborne and had seen action in a couple of places that I am forbidden to mention. After returning to the states, I left the military and moved here. I started out working on the line, but when they posted an announcement for a security guard, I figured that my military experience would come in handy. The job doesn’t pay much, but I don’t need much. My apartment is dirt cheap and looks like it, my food needs are basic, and the company provides insurance. Plus, I get a little extra from the Army for a disability that they said I had. Who was I to argue.  

I say I didn’t need much but let me clarify that. As stated, I didn’t need much but my ex-wife, Jennifer, and 3-year-old son, Aaron, did. They needed more than I was able to provide. They lived about twenty miles from me, obviously one reason that I ended up here after getting out the Army.  

Their need and my inability to satisfy it contributed to my desperation and willingness to listen to a fellow security guard when he approached me about a gig that might fit my particular, and hard to find, skill set. Very few people at the factory knew much about my time in the Army. They knew I was a veteran, but they didn’t know about my specialized training nor about my assignments overseas. Franklin Veracello, Frankie for short, was one of the few exceptions. Since there were always two guards on duty, he and I had become somewhat friends. So, when he mentioned that he knew someone who might have a way that I could earn some extra money, I listened.  

“I talked with the man that I mentioned,” he said to me as we finished our graveyard shift that Thursday morning. I looked at him questioningly? “He asked me to bring you over after we got off today. 

“Bring me over where?” 

“We are meeting at an office that he rents.” 

“Are you going to tell me his name,” I said? 

 “He will tell you everything you need to know,” he replied.  

The office that we parked in front of was indeed small, a brownstone, one story, flat roof affair with one window facing the four-car parking lot. Frankie walked to the back of the office, peered around the wall and said a few words that I couldn’t make out. He headed back out the front door. 

Suddenly, a young brown-haired man walked through the doorway and took the seat in front of the table, his eyes piercingly fixated on me. I figured he was my age or a little older. He was wearing a brown suit and blue shirt with no tie. His face was thin, his eyes blue and piercing and his lips were covered by a small, thin almost white mustache. 

“You must be Harveson,” the man said. 

I nodded, although it didn’t need any reply on my part. “And you are,” I asked? 

“You can call me John,” he smiled. 

“Smith,” I asked. 

“Whatever,” he answered. 

“Do you know why you are here,” he asked? 

I shook my head. “All I was told was that you might have a job that would fit my skill set. What skill set that might happen to be, I don’t know. I am assuming that it is not the skill set of checking locked doors.” 

He smiled again. “Correct,” he replied. “You were in the Army?” 

Iodded. 

He continued, “I understand you were a sniper. Did you see any action?” 

I thought for a minute, and then nodded. 

“Did you ever kill anyone,” he asked, he voice purposeful?  

“I could answer that,” I finally replied, “but then I would have to kill you,” I smiled. 

He looked at me, his face contorted in a confused, exasperated manner, then he smiled. “I will take that as a yes.” 

“Why do you want to know,” I asked? 

He looked at me in surprise. “I would think that would be obvious,” he answered. “I want you to kill someone.” 

Although not shocked, I was somewhat surprised by his candor and lack of emotion. 

“Who,” I asked, finally? 

“Not yet,” he said. “First of all are you willing to do it?” 

Why was I even hesitating? I wasn’t a murderer, at least not yet, but I was trained to kill, and given the right and motivation, I could pull it off, or could I? Even more importantly, I was desperate. My job barely paid enough for me to live on. I couldn’t provide any support for my ex-wife and son. This could be my chance.” 

“How much,” I asked? 

He looked a little startled then he smiled happily, understanding that we were finally moving forward. “$10,000,” he replied. “$1,000 now and the rest when the job is done.” 

I thought for a minute or two. Was I ready to go through with this? Yes, I was trained as a sniper. No, I was not a killer. There was a difference between fighting in hostile environment and shooting someone in cold blood. Then I thought about my ex-wife who had just lost her job, my son who needed taking care of who was my responsibility. Did I really have any choice? 

“Ok,” I said, not trusting myself to negotiate the terms or try to get more up front. Mainly, I just wanted to get out of there. 

“Who is it,” I asked, and even more importantly, “why do you want them killed?” 

He was silent for a minute and then pulled out a picture from his coat pocket and handed it to me. The photo was a side view of a young lady, about our age. She had black hair laying sideways across her shoulders. I couldn’t see her eyes, but her nose was petite and dimpled, her skin slightly tanned. Her arms were bare in a pale dress with one arm turned inward as if stuck in an awkward and unnatural position. That and her posture was disturbing and the image burned into my brain. At that moment, I knew that I was going through with it. 

“Mind if I ask why?” 

He frowned. “If you must know, she kidnapped my child, and I want him back.” 

“I stepped back a little bit. “Why haven’t you called the police,” I asked? 

“I’ll get my child back,” he answered, “but once I do, I don’t want this to ever happen again.” 

There were many questions that I could have asked but didn’t. “How do I find this person,” was all I said? 

He handed me a piece of paper. “I’m meeting her at this location tomorrow afternoon at six o’clock. It is an exercise trail that we used to work out on. It should be light enough at that time, plus there are lights placed periodically along the trail for security. There are large yellow signs placed like street signs showing you how far you have come from the beginning. We are meeting at the sign that has a three on it.” 

“Where am I supposed to be,” I asked? 

He nodded his head. “The trail is bordered by shrubland with bushes and trees providing plenty of cover. Once you find the sign, there should be plenty of places for you to hang out and wait. Get there at least a half hour early.” 

He had this planned out, I thought. He even knew my schedule. My shift didn’t start at the factory until eight so I could take care of the job and be at work in plenty of time. 

“Do not do anything until I get my kid back,” he emphasized. 

I was a little bit shocked. “Your kid is going to be there,” I stammered? 

He nodded. “Don’t worry about him, I will take care of him,” he said. He looked at me strangely. “Don’t mess this up. It has to be done, tomorrow night.” 

“What about witnesses, other people who might be on the trail,” I asked, finally thinking like a hitman. 

“That won’t be a problem. That place is always empty by five in the afternoon. It isn’t in the best part of town.” He finished by handing me an envelope. “The rest will be delivered after the job is done,” he said, “I don’t expect to see you again.” 

I nodded and walked out the door. 

“What did he want,” Frankie asked when I made it back to the car? 

Assuming that Frankie didn’t know anything, and definitely not going to be the one to tell him, I replied, “nothing much, just a little favor.” 

After I left my work the following morning, I went back to my apartment, again tried unsuccessfully to sleep and watched the clock tick through the hours. At half past four, I gathered up a duffle bag where I kept my only gun, a hunting rifle with scope for seeing far off. Ever since I returned from my military stint, I had not been hunting nor had I fired a gun. This would be the first time in a long time. It took almost thirty minutes for me to drive to the address that I had been given. The trail was named McArthur’s Running Trail, no doubt after some local politician, and was located off the main roads in a small suburban neighborhood with 1950’s houses and two-lane roads. I parked at the edge of church parking lot, hopefully far away from any security cameras that might exist and walked across two roads carrying a green army duffle bag over my shoulder. If anyone did notice me, they might see the duffle bag but most likely not my face. I walked away from the main entrance and instead, walked down an hobbled sidewalk until I estimated I was getting close to the area of the park I was expected to be at. I made my way up the slanted mounds that led into trees, bushes, and hole-filled grass.  

Finding a relatively flat spot that provided boxwoods, tree trunks, and foot long weeds for cover and support as well as a straight line of sight to where the target would be, I brought my hunting rifle out of the duffle bag, attached the scope, and lay down on the ground. There was movement on the path. Looking through the scope for clarity, I could see the woman in the picture walking from the direction of the entrance. She was not alone as a young boy followed her, holding tightly to her left hand. It took that sight for me to finally figure it out. This was not a kidnapper, this was a wife or ex-wife. The only crime here was a custody dispute. I wasn’t hired to right a wrong, I was hired to commit one.  

I held the rifle up to my shoulder, the scope in front of my right eye giving me a perfect view of the mark. She looked exactly like I had anticipated that she would like. The picture was a perfect image. Could I really do it, I asked myself? I had no answer as John came into view. Dressed much more casually than I had seen him yesterday, he wore blue jeans, a knit shirt , and a blue and white baseball cap.  

He stopped so as not to get too close to her, whether for his safety given what I was hired to do, or because he couldn’t stand to get too near her for personal reasons, I wasn’t sure. As he approached, he would periodically cast his eyes toward the bushes, obviously wondering if I was actually on hand. I looked through the scope, not at her but at him, curious as to what would happen next. I could see him speaking and her replying but I was too far away to make out any words. I swung my rifle from side to side to check for anyone else in site but saw no one. I slowly lay the rifle back down, supported by my hands and shoulder, the scope zeroed in on the scene at hand. She let go of the boy’s hand and watched as the boy slowly stumbled toward John. The man grabbed him and held him tight before letting the boy back down on the ground. 

Suddenly, he started shouting, causing her to look at him startled and somewhat fearful. Although, I couldn’t hear what he was saying, it didn’t matter. I knew the message that was coming out of his mouth was not meant for her but for me. She looked around as if expecting someone else to show up, however, no one did. I pulled the rifle closer to my body, closed my left eye, and peered through the scope but I still didn’t fire. 

He stopped shouting, and throwing the boy to the ground he pulled a pistol out of the back of his pants. He pointed the gun at the woman and an explosion sounded. I looked at him as he fell to the ground, the pistol flying up in the air. The explosion wasn’t from his gun, it was from mine. I had done what I came to do. 

The woman in the picture had looked familiar and when I saw in person, it only confirmed what I believed to be true. She didn’t look familiar, she was familiar. I not only knew her, I used to be in love with her. Used to be, maybe that was the wrong tense.  

Her name was Victoria, last name to be determined. She grew up three houses down from me. We kissed when I was seventeen and I had never forgotten her. Yes, that was fifteen years ago, yes people change, yes memories fade. But not in this case. 

The reason that I had said yes to whoever John was had nothing to do with money, had nothing to do with killing someone. It had everything to do with love. Love for a woman that I had seen since High School, and fear that if I didn’t take the job, someone else would and she would be dead.  

Suddenly, I was grabbed on each shoulder by policemen standing to each side of me. I didn’t struggle or say anything. Instead I meekly stood between them, let my hands be cuffed behind my back, and walked between them down the hill to a group of police cars.  

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in an interview room at the sheriff’s office, my hands still cuffed together, waiting for someone to come in and ask me questions. Two hours later, I was still waiting when the door opened and a man, about twice my age, with grey hair, a white mustache, slightly wrinkled skin and eyes that gave nothing away entered. A patrol woman entered behind him, moved behind me, unlocked and removed the handcuffs.  

“Mr. Harveson, did you make this call,” he inquired, pushing a button on top of the desk? 

Suddenly a voice spoke up from a speaker hanging from the wall. “911, what is your emergency?" 

“There is going to be a murder tomorrow night,” another voice said. 

“A murder?” 

“Yes, at the McArthur Running Trail, marker 3, at six PM.” 

“How do you know, this,” the police dispatcher replied? 

“Because I was hired to carry it out.” 

“Please tell me your name, Sir,” the dispatcher continued only to be met by a disconnected phone line. 

“Did you make that call? 

I nodded. 

“Why,” he asked?  

“Because I wanted all bases covered. I wasn’t going to do it, but I didn’t want something else to happen to her.” 

“I understand that you know the intended victim?” 

“Yes.” 

“How well do you know her,” he asked? 

“It was a long time ago,” was all I said. 

“I understand that you had sniper training in the military?” 

I didn’t ask how he knew that. Probably he had access to my military records. 

“How many people did you kill as a sniper,” he asked me the same question that my proposed employer had the day before? 

Only this time, I told the truth. “None.”. 

“None,” he repeated? 

I shook my head. “When it came down to it, I couldn’t fire, I couldn’t kill anyone, even in the heat of battle. That is what led to me being transferred and eventually released.” 

“If you couldn’t do it in battle, how were you able to do it today?” 

“Fate,” I answered. 

“Fate,” he asked? 

“Fate,” I nodded, “I had a greater motivation today.” 

“To save the life of someone I believe you really care about,” he asked? 

I nodded. 

He shook his head. “As they often say, better late than never, I guess.” 

“I will need a statement from you,” he finished after a minute, “but as far as we are concerned, this was self-defense, an act meant to save the life of an innocent victim. You can go.” 

Surprised, exhilarated, and suddenly exhausted, I nodded and stood up to walk out the door. Waiting in the hallway was Vicky and her young son. 

“Terry,” she stood up, her mouth open, her eyes tearing at the sight of me. 

“When they told me it was you, I couldn’t believe it.” 

“I had to protect you,” I said. 

Suddenly she was in my arms. “Thank you so much,” she cried. 

I was crying as well. “Better late than never,” I mumbled, and I wasn’t talking about the gun shot.