Letters From an Assassin

The letter arrived on a Tuesday. Vincent Rossi had just finished an unbelievably grueling day pouring and smoothing cement for a client. It wasn’t a big job, just a four-foot by six-foot slab for a little outdoor patio, but with Vince everything had to be perfect. A result of his upbringing and requirement in his previous line of work. Details mattered. It was how he operated. How he lived. It was also how he knew who had sent the letter before he even touched it.

The envelope had been sealed with tiny dots of glue, the stamp placed perfectly so that the edges above and to the left were spaced evenly. The return address had been left blank and the receiving address had been handwritten, every letter labored over to ensure perfection. It was the penmanship of a man who left nothing to chance. Who insisted on every aspect of everything being flawless. The letter was from Carl and that was enough to feel the fire light inside his chest.

He held it in his hands, unopened, as he stood on the wobbly porch of his one-bedroom rental. He knew what was next. He didn’t know the particulars, but he knew without a hint of doubt that whatever was inside the envelope was going to change his world all over again. He turned and looked out over the small town he'd settled in. The rental resided on a hill, so he could see most of the village from where he stood. Bath, Maine wasn’t a place one traveled to for tourism. It was a place where people grew up and stayed forever. Seven years Vincent had been trying to build his little handyman service in a town that didn’t accept outsiders. He was just beginning to feel like a member of the community, and it was all about to change.

Vin,

It's been a long time, son. Too long. I've kept tabs on you, tried to stay in tune with where you were in the world at any given time. I know we've had our differences, but I thought you might be interested in what I am doing now days. If you can make the time to come back home, look up the Ashford Center for Youth. We are helping boys make it, just like I once helped you. Hope to see you.

Carl

As he finished reading the contents of the letter, his stomach balled up tighter than the paper in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. It wasn’t that he had received the letter, it was the fact that Carl had been so assumptive to think that he would ever go back to Ashford, Alabama. He stuffed the crumpled-up parchment into the pocket of his jacket and stomped inside, not stopping until he reached the cabinet he'd earmarked for holding liquor. No vodka. Not today. Vodka was what he drank to celebrate. Today it would be the liquor he drank when he was angry. Jameson. He started out by pouring a hefty shot into a whiskey glass, but very quickly resorted to drinking straight from the handle.

Never again. He'd made the promise to himself the day he'd left Ashford twenty-three years earlier. He'd allowed the place to turn him into what he became, and it was all he had, but he vowed never to return. Even so, he found himself numbly packing an unbranded duffle bag with the necessities. Once he'd sobered up enough to drive, he threw the bag into the back of his twelve year old Toyota Camry and got on the road. He had a lot of time to think on the way. A plane ride would've only taken a few hours, but that wasn’t an option. He only traveled private, and that often required planning, scheduling, FAA approval. He didn’t want anyone to know he was coming, especially Carl. So he'd opted for the twenty-two hour drive.

It went by faster than expected, mainly because he wasn’t in the car for a single second of the trip. He was somewhere else. Lost in the past. Lost in remembering who he became thanks to Carl Desmond. Carl had taken a scared, helpless, unassuming child and turned him into a cold-blooded killer. An assassin. A gun for hire. On one hand, he owed Carl everything he had. He owed him for plucking him out of that orphanage. He owed him for keeping a roof over his head and food in his stomach. He owed him for teaching him skills that meant he could operate off the grid. Exist as nobody.

On the other, Carl's was the one name on the list he'd never been able to cross out. Everything Vincent had gained had come at a cost. It'd started out small. Little things that Vincent hadn't thought much of. A foot rub or a shoulder massage. He'd figured it was the least he could do. Carl had pulled him from nothing and given him a life, what was a small favor now and again? But it hadn’t ended there. Somehow, Carl had been able to turn Vincent into someone who could take a life without a moment's thought while simultaneously maintaining control ensuring that the animal never turned on its owner.

Just like he'd been trained, Vincent staked out the youth center from afar with enough distance that he wouldn’t be noticed but close enough he could spectate. Carl had apparently taken over a decrepit church that had shut down, replacing the cross at the top with a mural consisting of a pair of outstretched hands releasing painted doves into freedom. Vincent shook his head at the narrative. Giving underprivileged boys freedom that wouldn’t have been possibly without him. What the mural didn’t show was the hell those boys would have to endure to get to the other side, nor did it depict the reality of the other side. Full of blood, bullets and bodies.

At ten past four in the afternoon, Carl emerged from the front entrance flanked by three boys appearing to be in their early teens. Carl had changed in the two decades since Vincent had last seen him. Carl would say he was black, but Vincent had always considered it to be more of a golden brown. It had weathered over the years, the surface worn and toughened like he spent too much time in the sun. His hair showed his age as well, from the signs of recession to the patches of gray. He wore a stubble beard, the gray within matching the spots on his head.

Vincent watched as he smiled and spoke to the three boys. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but it resulted in a laugh from the boys. Vincent recognized the gesture. They were forced laughs. Manufactured smiles. Learned behavior to make Carl feel like the funniest and most beloved man on the planet. It was an unspoken requirement. Make him feel like a king and he will give you the world. Begin to question him and he takes it all away even faster than he gave it to you.

Carl gave each of the boys a hug that lasted a moment too long before they walked off together as a group, being careful not to being speaking amongst themselves until they were well out of earshot. It was like watching his own life, just multiplied. It was the same show, just a bigger stage and more performers. Vincent was silent as he stepped out of his car and approached Carl, who was fumbling with the keys of his blacked-out Navigator. Vincent was just shy of twenty feet from Carl before his voice echoed like it was being transmitted from an intercom.

"You think I don’t know you're there?" he asked, not turning around.

Vincent didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

"You know better than that," Carl went on. "There are things you never forget. Like the way the air changes when someone gets close. That tingling you get when someone is watching you. The smell of aftershave that seems to appear out of nowhere but is really just hitting you because you're downwind."

"I guess some things never change," Vincent said.

"You're right. Home never changes Vin. Welcome home," he said, finally turning with a smile.

An intense feeling of disgust rose inside of Vincent's chest as he took in that smile. The kind of smile a proud dad would wear when his son leads the team to a state championship or finishes bootcamp. Carl took a step toward him, his arms opening wide. Vincent took a step back showing no intention of accepting the embrace.

"I see. Not exactly the reunion I was expecting," Carl said.

"Why'd you write me Carl?"

"The better question is; why didn’t I write you years ago? You were my protégé. My proudest achievement. I was able to take a boy who the world had given up on and turn him into something spectacular."

"Just like I remember. Take all the credit, but when the discussion around blame comes up, you're nowhere to be found," Vincent said.

"Blame? Blame for what? What is this anger you're harboring for me Vin?"

"I didn't come here to walk down memory lane Carl. I came here to see what you want."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a step back and looked Vincent up and down, analyzing him. Taking him in. Inspecting him like a canvas he had just created his latest masterpiece upon. That smile stayed on his lips and it took every ounce of restraint for Vincent to keep from removing it permanently.

"Come inside," Carl said, turning away from Vincent and starting back into the building.

He didn’t wait for a response. He knew Vincent would follow. To Carl he was like a dog that had received world-renowned training. The kind of program where a difficult animal is sent away and six weeks later, they return a soldier, obeying every command to the letter as if their life depends on it. And he was right. Vincent wanted so badly to turn around and walk away, but he couldn’t. He dropped his head, exhaled heavily and followed his former mentor inside.

The walked through the facility, the inside a complete contrast to the exterior. The outside made it look like the building could crumble at any moment, but one step inside and it was clear where the money had been spent. It looked nothing like a church. It looked more like a wonderland for underprivileged kids. Areas to run and play, activity stations, even nap pods and game rooms. It was a safe haven, but there was nothing safe about it.

They finally arrived at Carl's office; his name prominently displayed on a placard on the door. At face value the door looked as though it may have led into a janitorial closet. There were no windows and no other indications that it was the entrance to an office. Vincent knew this was on purpose. Anyone else who owned such a facility would have had grand, wide stretched windows where they could look over their own little kingdom, but not Carl. No windows meant no one could see what was happening inside.

The space was clean. Methodically so. Every file, book, and sheet of paper was placed perfectly in its designated spot. Nothing was out of place. The room smelled of lavender, a scent designed to calm and relax those surrounded by it. The desk looked freshly polished, and Vincent guessed it was because it had been. If he were to bet, he would wager that Carl polished it at least once per day. The shine was brilliant, not a single smudge or fingerprint to be found. Carl gestured toward a luxurious leather sofa, but Vincent remained standing, having no intention of getting comfortable. Carl stood standing as well.

"What am I doing here Carl?" Vincent asked, growing tired of the mind games.

"I think that is for you to answer son. I sent the letter, but you chose to take me up on my offer."

"I'm not your son."

"I know that Vin. I know that, but you might as well be. You never had a father, and I played that role. I never had kids—"

"Thank god for that," Vincent said, cutting Carl off.

"Is that what you think? That these kids, that you, would have been better off without me? Hmm? I pulled you out of the gutter. You had nothing when I found you. Now look at you. You have your own life. You made it out. What are the chances that happens without me?"

"Listen to you," Vincent said, almost laughing as he did. "Talking like everything you gave me was for free."

"Nothing in this life is free, boy. You know that."

"You made sure I would know that. You made damn sure. Is that what you're doing with this new facility? Saving these kids. Giving them something because they got nothing? Just like you did for me. Give them a taste of a life better than what they have, only to show them exactly what they have to give up to keep it."

"You came here asking what you were doing here, now I have the same question," Carl said. "I want to know why you're here. If I was so evil, if I represented the monster under your bed, why come back? Prove something to yourself? That you're not that same, scared little boy anymore? Why? Because you have a few hits under your belt? You think that makes you a man?"

Vincent remained silent.

"Well, I have news for you son, you're still that same, scared-shitless little kid. Inside, that is still who you are and to answer the question of why you're here; it's because you need me Vin. You always have, and you always will. Just like all these other boys need me. You may not like the means, but everything in life has a price and here, that price pays for a way out. That avenue doesn’t exist if I don’t create it. I am a necessary evil."

Vincent looked away from Carl and his eyes landed on a framed photo of Carl and a group of four young boys at his cabin in the mountains. It was remote. Isolated. Noone around for miles. It was in that moment that Vincent realized just how right Carl was. He created the path to freedom for these kids and he brainwashed them into believing it was the only path. That becoming a killer was the only path. That doing whatever Carl wanted them to do was the only path. The same way he'd brainwashed Vincent.

"Come on Vin, let's just move past this. No one loves every part of their upbringing, but it wouldn’t be much of a story without conflict. No one's life is easy. At least yours led you to freedom. A freedom that most people can't even imagine. The least you can do is shake my hand and thank me. I don’t think I ever got that from you, even after everything I did for you."

"Everything you did for me," Vincent repeated in a whisper, still eyeing the photograph and remembering all the weekends he had spent there alone with Carl. "You're right when you say these boys need help Carl, but what you give them isn’t help. You control them. Groom them. Turn them into whatever you want. Whatever your sick mind comes up with. You tie it up in ribbons and bows and call it help. It's not."

As he finished his statement, Vincent pulled a small, black, semi-automatic pistol from his jacket pocket and slowly aimed it at Carl's chest. Carl didn’t move. He didn’t so much as flinch, and the smile on his face gave no indication that it was going anywhere. He truly believed in the power he held. He thought he was immortal. Untouchable.

"Don't be silly Vin. What are you going to do? Kill me? It's not in you."

"Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe when I was a scared shitless little kid, it wasn’t in me to fight back, no matter how much I wanted to. Here's the thing though Carl, I do have to thank you. Thanks to you, I have no fear inside of me anymore. Thanks to you, I spent years killing bad men in every corner of the world. I just never realized I started with the wrong one."

Before Carl could respond, the barrel exploded and the bullet drove Carl backwards onto his desk. He looked down at the small hole in his shirt, the blood just beginning to trickle from it. The smile faded slightly, but not completely. His expression turned from one of amusement, to one of astonishment.

"Vin…I never meant—"

The second shot echoed so loudly that Vincent didn’t truly know if Carl had finished his sentence or not, but he didn’t care. He watched as Carl's lifeless body slid off the desk and crumpled onto the floor in front of him. He worked quickly, utilizing the skills that the man on the floor had instill in him. It would be considered a robbery gone wrong. Local police would canvas the surrounding neighborhood, look into past associates or business deals that may have gone wrong, but ultimately, the case would go cold. As he worked, he tried to feel something. Relief. Justice. But all he felt was empty.

He exited the building and just as he was about to get into his car, he felt something familiar. That sixth sense was kicking in. He was being watched. He looked back at the church and spotted the boy. Maybe thirteen years old. He didn’t scream and didn’t run. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Vincent nodded and disappeared into the night.