A Drop of Blood

The end of the world began with a single drop of blood. 

While not a very large drop, it clung tenaciously to the back of my father’s trousers as he moved around the living room. Bright and wet, the offending blotch had to be fresh. Father was too meticulous about his appearance to have missed it. But his ability to keep the stain sandwiched between himself and the wall of our vacation suite, away from the eyes of the Parisian police was masterful, if not deeply disturbing. He glided from fireplace to stairwell, from window to radiator with such nuance that if I’d not seen the stain, I’d have never realized his intentions. But now having seen it, I was riveted. 

“So, you have not visited the suite next door?” Officer Sartre stared into Father’s face.

“No sir. As I’ve already told you twice, I haven’t knocked on the door, made any calls, or had any interaction with anyone there.” Father shifted slightly right, keeping the red droplet next to the corner hutch, while maintaining eye contact with the investigator. “I didn’t even know there was someone next door.”

Almost unconsciously, I rubbed the sparse hairs of my pubescent beard. Father’s response sounded odd, considering that I knew someone was there. I’d seen the man exit with his wife yesterday. Heard them return. But of course, that didn’t mean Father had seen them.

Sartre raised a bushy eyebrow. “And you heard nothing? No commotion, no cries for help?” 

“No sir. Nothing.”

“Monsieur Kerr, do I need to remind you that an act of extreme violence took place just beyond that wall?” He pointed to the area behind Father. “I can hear our own investigators working there right now. Yet you claim to have heard nothing.”

Father shook his head. “Not a peep.” 

I had to admit, I’d heard nothing either. But my fears argued back. A violent act doesn’t always mean a loud act. Why was Sartre so persistent about Father?

Sartre took a step closer. “You don’t seem to have any problem hearing me.”

My heart pounded as Father slid his leg an inch backward toward the hutch. “With all respect sir, as I’ve said before, I wasn’t here when it happened. My wife and I were out to purchase some wine, and arrived back just before you came. You can see for yourself. The bottle is in the bag on the table.” Father pointed to the dining area. “The receipt’s in there too, attached to my money clip.” 

Mom stood to the side in the kitchen, placing flowers in a vase while she silently watched the discussion.

Sartre walked over to the table. Opened the bag and removed the bottle. “Chateau Mouton Rothschild. 2009. You have expensive tastes.”

“Quite expensive. One could say it’s my weakness, but I prefer to consider it one of my strengths.” A confident, almost cocky smile asserted itself between his cheeks. “If you need that for evidence of my innocence, I will not protest. I understand there are protocols. You may take the uh, receipt as well. It will verify the time of the purchase.”

After a slight pause in which Sartre nailed his eyes to Father’s, the detective withdrew the receipt from the bag, still attached to the amply filled money clip. He studied the paper for a moment, then placed both the clip and the bottle back in the bag. “We will hold these for now. You may retrieve them once they are no longer needed.”

“A satisfactory arrangement.” Father offered his hand. 

The officer considered the gesture with a look, then lifted his gaze to Father’s face. “Thank you for your time, sir. May you and your family enjoy your vacation.”

I had to stop my jaw from falling open. Father had just bribed a cop! About a murder! A clammy sweat peppered the back of my neck. I pushed against the urge to vomit.

“We will, sir. Thank you.” Father nodded to the man, then turned his head and grinned at me. Mom placed the vase on the table, a satisfied smile gracing her own countenance.

I could only hang my head and try not to puke. Enjoy our vacation? How could I ever enjoy another vacation, or even the treasured memories of those gone by. 

I’d seen behind the mask. Reality had vanished and the nightmare’d begun.

Father was a killer.

What I didn’t realize at the time was,  Father was a professional killer.

###

“Joshua! Grab your gear. Let’s go!” Father’s measured but commanding voice from the first floor of our cabin rental outside of Billings woke me from my memories. So much had happened in three years.

“Be right there!” I hollered. I put the phone back to my ear and whispered “Sorry, Wallace. Father’s ready to head out. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, be careful.” My new friend’s words were calm and probably meant to be reassuring, but did little to erase the anxiety gnawing at my gut.

I clicked off the call and pocketed the phone. Adjusted my camo suit and hat, then picked up the Nosler 21 from the bed. Last year’s birthday gift, the rifle had bagged three deer since then with its power and accuracy. It’d come with a scope and a tripod, which were tucked away in my pack, flopping against my back as I hustled down the stairs.  My knee gave a slight buckle near the last step and I caught myself on the railing. Dad turned, his eyes narrowed with concern. Or was it dark curiosity?

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just nerves.” A verbal misstep.

“What do you have to be nervous about?” Father’s weighty gaze scanned my face, my posture, my reaction, reading me like an x-ray. “This isn’t your first hunting trip.”

I collected myself and headed for the door. “You’re right. But we’re usually in a group. Today it’s just you and me for the first time. I want to make a good impression.”

He placed his hand heavily on my shoulder as I stepped through doorway onto the landing. “Don’t worry, son. I’m already impressed.”

I smiled back, hoping to cover my fear. By now I’d seen through our numerous extravagant vacations. All of them with whispered private business on the side. Trash bags disposed in remote locations. Sudden disappearances with vague explanations. But what if this time, Father wanted to bring me in on the family trade? Or worse yet, what if he suspected I’d found out…

And wanted to eliminate the risk?

We loaded the rifles in the back of the rented Navigator. My Nosler, his Russian Dragunov. Mine was made for small to medium game. His excelled at sniper duty and urban warfare. And sure, you could kill a buck with it, after the round had already passed through two enemy combatants, or the length of their Humvee. As I climbed into the passenger seat, I rubbed my fingers over my right thigh. The sturdy shape of my pocket knife answered back. 

Father, as always, noticed. “I’m glad you remembered to bring your blade. It shows you’re thinking ahead. Shows organization. Preparation.” He tapped his six inch buck knife hanging in his belt scabbard. “I’ve got mine too if we need it for anything, like prepping our deer.”

Or prepping his escape. Of course Father had to show me his knife was bigger, a sign that he was in control. He was always in control. I watched him as he put the Navigator in reverse, then backed out using the camera and mirrors. Could that be why he’d chosen this dark profession? Was assassination his way of exercising control? To demonstrate that he held the lives of powerful men in his hands? The studded gold rings on his fingers gleamed in the early morning sun as he shifted into drive and turned the wheel. Sure, his line of work paid handsomely. But money wasn’t enough to fight off the night demons. As a rich kid, I knew that all too well. When the beasts of futile mortality lick their teeth in the wee hours and remind you they’re waiting to end your meaningless existence. To separate you from your riches forever. In moments like those you need a bigger defense. Like power. Like control.

About an hour and a half from departure, Father turned off the asphalt onto an isolated dirt road flanked by tall grass. We rumbled up the side of the mountain, bouncing about in the cab like some deranged carnival ride. Even the girth of the Navigator couldn’t smooth out the violent journey. Was this a sign of what lay ahead? My mouth turned to cotton as I surveyed the area. There was no one around. Just me, the woods, and my paternal murderer. A glance at my phone deepened my fears. No cell service. I fingered the metal bulge in my pocket. 

As the road finally leveled off, Father put the car in park. Shut off the engine. Threw me a quick smile as he opened his door. “Let’s get our gear.” 

I nodded and slid on my gloves. Wiped my brow.  The anxiety building on the way over had started to peak. Hoping not to hurl any breakfast, I clenched my stomach muscles.

When we’d gotten our guns and packs from the rear storage area, Father led the way to a dirt ridge overlooking a wide Montana expanse of natural beauty. A half-million evergreens floated upon a sea of flowered fields below us, all beneath an expanse of majestic cobalt skies. Yet my wonder was cut short by the vivid realization that it was in Paradise where the devil first made his appearance. 

“Joshua?”

I turned my head toward Father and raised my brows. 

Sitting on a large rock, he held his rifle across his lap, rubbing the barrel. “Son, I’ve been wanting to share something important with you for a long time, and I believe the time has come to reveal this information.”

“Oh?” So he couldn’t share this on the highway.? He’d waited until there were no witnesses to our conversation or its aftermath? I swallowed a lump.

“Yes. Son, this world is full of wicked people. People of tremendous power and wealth that will stop at nothing to get what they want. People who don’t care who or how many innocent lives they have to hurt to achieve their goals. Would you agree?”

Well, I hadn’t expected him to open with a confession, but yeah, I’d definitely have to agree. “Yes,” I managed to squeak out as my throat tightened nearly shut.

“Good.” Father moved his head up and down, almost a nod were it not so grave. “My own father was part of an organization committed to stopping these evil people without all the interference of a corrupt legal system in the way. A system so hopelessly corrupt it was impossible to render justice.”

A jolt shot through me as a black snake wriggled into the tall grass nearby. An omen?

Father continued. “When I became your age, my father introduced me to the organization by way of a ritual. A ritual in which I took part in eliminating some of that very evil myself.”

My fingers trembled against the barrel of my Nosler. A ritual? To eliminate evil?

“How- how did you eliminate the evil?”

“Joshua,” Father’s voice became deep. Commanding. “You need to understand that evil is not some force that floats around in the air like a germ.” Father waved his hands around as if to demonstrate. “Evil is entwined in the hearts of men. The only way to eliminate the evil of wicked men,” he put his hands back on the gun, “is to eliminate the wicked men themselves.”

I felt my eyes go wide at his words. “B-but, how do you know they’re evil? Who makes that decision?”

With one unified motion Father stood to his feet. Brushed off his pants. “That decision is made by the people I trust, by the organization. It’s not my responsibility to render that judgment, only to carry it out.”

“But what if they’re wrong?” I couldn’t contain the shock in my voice.

Father pointed his finger at me. “You’ve lived your entire life on the basis of their judgments. Everything you own, everything you’ve eaten, every pillow you’ve laid your head on at night was provided by their judgments! You might want to consider that before passing judgment on them, because you owe them everything.”

I wobbled. How could this be? Father was a murderer, an assassin! The very epitome of evil. Yet all my life I’d stuffed my face, played my games, and frolicked on the fruits of his killing sprees. At least a normal serial killer was driven by an insatiable madness. Father was driven simply by greed. My stomach wretched.

Father pointed over the ridge to a spot down in the valley. “If you look over there, just beyond the stream, there’s a dirt road that leads up to a greenish-teal cottage, partially hidden by trees.”

I couldn’t bring myself to obey. I wanted nothing to do with his barbaric schemes. He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me. 

“I said look over there!” His tone was so fierce it scared me. I turned in that direction and squinted. Father was right. There actually was a cottage there. We weren’t alone.

He looked at his watch. “In exactly forty seconds the man in that cottage will receive a satellite call instructing him to come out of the front door and wait. The moment he does, you are to shoot him in the chest with a three round burst. You can use my gun to do it, since yours is not an automatic.”

My eyes burned and flooded with tears. “But why? What has he done? You don’t even know who he is!”

Father squared his shoulders. “I know his name. I know his location. That’s all I need to know to do my job!”

I had to stop this madness. This man meant nothing to Father. He was simply a spider on the wall to be crushed. I had to give him some humanity in Father’s mind. I grabbed his arm. “Fine! So what’s his name?”

Father shook off my grip. “Wallace Oberman. The soon-to-be late Wallace Oberman.”

His words staggered me as chills streaked through my limbs. Wallace Oberman! My new friend Wallace Oberman! “No!” I screamed. “We can’t do this!”

He raised the Dragunov to his shoulder. “If you won’t do this, then I will.” A sharp glance. “And you’ll be next.”

I raised the Nosler to my own shoulder. “No! Stop it now! I won’t let you shoot him!”

The look of disgust on Father’s face was unlike any I’d ever seen. Without lowering the Dragunov he turned his face slightly in my direction. “Your hands are already soaked to the elbows in the blood of my targets. If you shoot me, you only add to the weight of your own damnation.”

I groaned at the strength of his words. What defense did I have? With a loud cry I threw the rifle in the dirt. It bounced once then rolled several times. “This ends right here. I refuse to carry on your filthy legacy.”

Father never bothered to respond. He leaned against a tree, then aimed carefully while my stomach sank. Placed his finger around the trigger. Paused his breath. 

“No,” I gasped. The door opened. A moment later, out stepped the figure… of a woman.

A woman? 

Dumbfounded, Father raised his head from the scope. “Emily?”

I nearly swooned, but as I looked, it was true. “Mom!” I screamed.

With a quick shake of his head, Father put his eyes back to the scope. My gun was too far away to stop him. With a roar I lunged toward him, then tripped on my laces and fell into the dirt. “No! Don’t do it!” I crawled toward him hoping if only to grab his ankles and throw off his aim.

In that very moment my soul was crushed by the echoing boom of a gun. The unmistakable voice of death. Forcefully, I lifted my head and stared at Father. A single drop of blood appeared for a moment in the center of his chest, then spread outwardly into a full, red circle. His shirt dipped slightly into the entrance wound. As he collapsed to the ground the evidence of his exit wound painted the tree behind him.

A familiar voice rang out over my right shoulder. “This is agent Oberman. Subject is down. I repeat, subject is down.”

Oberman was a special agent? My heart skipped as I looked toward the cottage. Mom was okay! 

A moment later Wallace was kneeling next to me. “You alright, buddy? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m- I’m fine, actually.” He helped me to my feet.

“I’m so sorry about your father, Joshua. I had to stop him from shooting your mom. And possibly you as well.” 

“That’s okay. I understand.” I looked at him in wonder as my vitals started to normalize. “I didn’t know you were a special agent. I just figured you were some friendly, older guy.”

“Older guy? Dude, I’m only twenty-nine.” Wallace grinned.

I gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, well, when you’re in high school that seems like a big number.” I looked at Father’s body, now covered in the crimson spread of that single drop. “Especially when you’re convinced your world is about to end at eighteen.”