Killer by the Clock

If only Rick Tanner had been warned. Warned before the three chimes from the clocktower – the three seconds for realization that were given, too late, as the shot cracked through the air. The clocktower stood still, presenting itself as a lone witness. The rain bathed the pavers and the blood dissipated.

---

A town sat in pleasant silence, barely a sound made but for a soft wind. Shrubbery and well-kept two-story houses lined the cobbled streets. Orange globes sat on tall, black posts, casting weak, but comforting light. The moon hung – half visible and radiating silver light – but clouds crowded around it slowly, drenching the sky in a churning darkness which leaked across the town. A lone clocktower’s hand clicked over, the white panes of the clock face lit from behind by a muted glow. It stood tall and regal, a sentry to the silent and empty courtyard below. Then the rain started. Torrents crashed down on the scene, each drop hammering the ground. The atmosphere was angry with thousands of furious drops. The tranquility of the town was disrupted, peace turned to havoc in a matter of seconds. The courtyard became loud with roar of the storm and was no longer empty.

A figure stepped out from beneath a ledge jutting from the wall of the clocktower building. A hood was pulled over their head but doing little to protect from the worsening storm. Casting their face about, the figure was revealed to be a man, well-trimmed dark beard and pale skin exposed as he lifted his eyes to the treeline. This is where another individual lay in wait, concealed within the forest at the border of the courtyard.

Following a ten-minute pause, the first man crossed the courtyard, taking a position beneath a lamp post situated at one corner, opposite the forest still. Only now did he open an umbrella and lift it above his head, proceeding to glance about with perturbed apprehension. He shifted from one foot to the other, gloved hand clenched securely around the handle of the umbrella.

As moments became minutes, in wait, he recalled the letter that had been received, barely a day earlier. It had been addressed to his household, which he shared with his brother – a more reserved man, two years his senior. Left unsigned, the letter had been typewritten and brief, indicating a change to be discussed at 2:30 of the current morning, pertaining to their cause.

The group was very cautious with how they communicated. Letters only: typed, not handwritten. Unsigned, to lower risk of being traced back to the individual who wrote it. In a digital age, this approach was preferable. You can’t hack paper; there is less potential for interception. Safety measures must be taken. If any stranger were to gain knowledge of their cause, the entire organization could be at risk. It wasn’t just their unit; there were others stationed in additional locations who would be at risk if any messages were leaked. So, these letters were kept to a minimum. Another necessary precaution.

The man, still alone in the courtyard, paused in thought, pondering on whether he had misunderstood the meeting time. But the matter had been of great enough importance to sacrifice one night’s sleep, therefore, this impromptu arrangement was to be met. Yet, it appeared the one who had made the arrangement was not prepared to do the same, he thought bitterly. Here he was, standing in a storm, alone; he should have passed the message on to his brother and let him endure this instead. But of course, the rivalling instinct in his gut had wanted to take this responsibility and have control. As the older of the two, it was always his brother who represented them. Taking this opportunity to lead had seemed like a clever idea in the moment, however he now predicted he would regret this decision.

His shoulders slumped inwards, hunched against the bite of the cold and with the awkward impatience of anticipating a meeting he now assumed was not going to happen. 

The second figure, having found his own shelter beneath the thick foliage of the trees, readied himself. The standard routine was carried out, with minor alterations due to the circumstances, but the objective remained the same.

The first man, face turning to mild concern, tossed a glance up to the clocktower, just as it chimed. Three times: three am.

The shot cracked through the air.

---

It was as if the black of the sky was blacker and the cold was colder. The air seemed to become malleable, and the wind shift. The last of the night’s life was drained away, leaving bitter silence. A final breath had been breathed. And a mistake made.

Rick Tanner’s arm lowered, the gun in his fist shaking, just slightly, a reflection of his realization.

This had not been the person Tanner had intended the letter for. Or the bullet for. As the man had turned, Tanner had pulled the trigger. But, too late, he had focused properly on the person’s face and comprehended his error. This man had a straight, unbroken nose, and his eyes were closer together than Tanner’s target’s.

He had shot the wrong man, a man who now lay crumpled at the side of the courtyard, his grim form illuminated in a sickly glow.

Rick Tanner exhaled briefly, rain curling down the folds of his dark waterproof jacket. His thoughts were frozen in his mind, as if having come upon a wall, not permitted any further. This was an unfamiliar situation, and one he had not predicted. His target was always the one to take charge, always the representative, always appearing in response to being called upon. So why not now?

Unless – Tanner thought for a moment, casting his gaze on the dead man’s body, surrounded by inky puddles. Unless his target had never known of the arrangement in the first place. Tanner settled on this explanation, not that it made a difference in the matter. However, having a justification provided some reassurance to Tanner. You couldn’t make mistakes in this business – he knew – yet, if ever you did, it was almost always fixable, one way or another. This time was no exception. He always had a back-up plan.