Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (17 page)

 
          
“Very sweet.
Quiet. Poor woman got cancer and passed away
some years after her husband. Charlie took that hard. They became close after
Wendy lost her husband.”

 
          
A
murmur of excitement grew among the applicants in line until it peaked with
cheers. Carson perked up. “There they are.”

 
          
Charlie
Wilkins was outside the door, shaking hands and signing autographs. His guest,
“Colonel” Bruce Ashton, stood at attention behind the reverend. Ashton’s hand
cautiously cradled the ivory-handled, nickel-plated Colt Single-Action Army .45
“Peacemaker” on his belt, allegedly chosen because it was the same revolver
carried by famed World War II general George S. Patton.

 
          
Ashton
had arrived from overseas and accepted the job as director of campaign security
for the candidate. Everyone always called Ashton “the Colonel,” although he
wasn’t currently an enlisted officer. Helen had met the man on the few
occasions when he visited Greenhill, but she knew very little about him. In her
time at the compound, he had appeared only twice. He lived in the Middle East
somewhere. A mysterious character, Ashton was in his fifties, always wore
military garb, and conducted
himself
as if he was
giving orders to enlisted men. The truth was that he was once in the U.S. Armed
Forces, served in the first Gulf War and some in Iraq, and then retired.
Afterward he set up a security business for Americans on business in the
Mediterranean area. Apparently he and Wilkins were longtime friends, so when
the post became available, the reverend made the call to Ashton.

 
          
Several
tourists and applicants wanted photographs with Wilkins, and the candidate
warmly obliged. It took nearly fifteen minutes before Wilkins and Ashton were
able to get inside the center.

 
          
“…
not so safe, in my opinion,” Ashton was saying. “You can’t just expose yourself
like that from now on.”

 
          
“Colonel,
that’s hogwash,” Wilkins replied. “These people are here to see me, they’re
here to volunteer for the Church, and they’re the folks who will elect me to
office. Of course I’m going to greet them and sign autographs and pose for pictures.
That’s what presidential candidates do, Colonel.”

 
          
“Well,
we’ll have to be more careful when we’re outside the compound, that’s all I’m
saying.”

 
          
Wilkins
looked at Carson. “Mitch, we need you in the conference room up at the house in
one hour.”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“Helen,
you know the Colonel, don’t you?”

 
          
Ashton
squinted at her and held out his hand.

 
          
“Yes,
we’ve met before,” Helen said as she shook his palm.

 
          
“I
remember,” Ashton said. “How are you?”

 
          
“Fine.”

 
          
“Helen
is one of my personal assistants in the mansion,” Wilkins said. “She’s also the
liaison between the campaign committee and the Greenhill administration.
Anything you need, talk to Helen here, or to Mitch.”

 
          
Ashton
nodded at both of them.

 
          
Wilkins
led him away. “Are you hungry? We could get a bite to eat in the cafeteria
before the meeting.…”

 
          
When
they were gone, Carson shot Helen a look and said, “I don’t like that man. Why
would Charlie hire a mercenary to be his head of security?” Then he walked away
too, following Wilkins and Ashton.

 
          
Helen
paid no attention to Carson’s rhetorical question. He always seemed to be
cranky about something. She tolerated her boss as much as anyone could. Helen
figured he resented her being appointed liaison to the campaign committee over
him. Wilkins had quite correctly informed Carson that his knowledge and
experience running Greenhill was invaluable and that he couldn’t be pulled away
from that responsibility.

 
          
“Helen?
Could you come here, please?” She got up from the intake desk and went over to
Gordy, who was interviewing applicants. “Can you help do interviews? Unless
you’re busy doing something else?”

 
          
“No,
no, I can do that.” She addressed the next person in line and said, “Follow me,
please.” She went across the room to an empty desk and sat, gesturing to a
chair in front of her. A woman handed over her paperwork and told Helen that
she came all the way from California to join Wilkins’s group in Virginia.

 
          
“There
are two branches in California,” Helen said. “One near San
Francisco,
and one near L.A.”

 
          
“I
know, but I understand Reverend Wilkins spends most of his time here. After
all, this is where his mansion is. It was so exciting to see him outside just
now!” the woman gushed.

 
          
Helen
had to disappoint the woman and tell her there were no openings for apartments,
but if she’d like to find a place to live in one of the neighboring villages,
she was welcome to become a member.

 
          
It
was like that for the next hour. One by one, they entered and sat at her desk,
mostly women of all ages, but also a few men who were more interested in the
sexier job of working on Wilkins’s television program.

 
          
It
was nearly five in the afternoon when a tall, bald-headed man approached
Helen’s desk. She was immediately struck by his presence, for he emitted a powerful
charisma and intangible sense of high intelligence. He wore blue jeans, a plaid
flannel shirt, and a backpack. Incongruously, he carried a leather briefcase
with an odd flowery symbol embossed on the side.

 
          
“Hello,”
she said. “How can I help you?”

 
          
The
man spoke with a shyness that she found endearing. “Um, I’d like to join the
Church of Will. They said I should talk to you.” He handed her the paperwork.

 
          
“Have
a seat, Mr.…”

 
          
“Stan
Johnson.”

 
          
“I’m
glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson.” She held out a hand and he shook it. His skin
was warm and coarse, but, more
significant,
his touch
sent a spark of excitement up her arm and into her chest. She blinked and for a
moment was dumbstruck.

 
          
“Ma’am?”
he asked, releasing her hand. “Are you all right?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes, I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted today; there’s a lot going on here, as you
can imagine. My name is Helen McAdams. Where are you from, Mr. Johnson?”

 
          
“Iowa.”

 
          
She
scanned the application and noticed that for “Skills” he had written: “Good
with hands, tools, gardening, fixing things.”

 
          
“Oh,”
she said. “Mr. Johnson, I think you might be in luck. It just so happens we
have an opening for a groundskeeper and maintenance man. I see here that you do
that sort of thing. Is that something that would interest you?”

 
          
The
bald-headed man’s dark-blue eyes pierced her, almost as if he could see and
study her very soul.

 
          
Then
he smiled warmly.

 
          
“Yes.
It would.”

 
          
FIFTEEN

 
          
Benjamin
Travis and Jade told me they’d get word to me if and when the second hit—the
one on Wilkins—was given the go-ahead. In the meantime, I knew I had to get
close to the target. Now that he was running for president, there could be
opportunities to accomplish the hit in a public place. The same way I did with
Linder. But the client wanted it to appear to be an “inside job.” In order to
get close enough to Wilkins to kill him, I had to join the Church of Will.

 
          
So
I did as much research on the Church’s compound in Virginia as I could. The
place called Greenhill. It’s where Wilkins had a mansion and where he lived
when he wasn’t traveling. It’s where I could integrate myself into the Church
society, become one of them, and execute the assignment within hours of the
green light.

 
          
I
phoned the facility to inquire about jobs and housing at the compound. I told
the person on the end that I desperately wanted to join the Church of Will. She
replied that there were no openings at this time. So I had to figure out
another way to place myself inside their community.

 
          
I
drove a rental car from Chicago to Pittsburgh and then down into Virginia.
Instead of going out of my way to Washington, D.C., and Alexandria, I took side
roads and state highways to Leesburg and Manassas and finally to Greenhill.
Miles from civilization.
If the place hadn’t been next to
Aquia
Lake, it would be nowhere. I parked at the side of
the road, where I could see the comings and goings through the arch that was
the entrance to the compound. But it was after sundown, so I figured I’d find a
hotel in a nearby town and wait until the next day—Sunday—to make my move. It
was at that moment that I saw a pickup truck leave the place. An old guy was
driving it. The side of the truck had words painted on it: GREENHILL
MAINTENANCE.

 
          
Interesting.

 
          
I
followed him to nearby Stafford, a nothing of a town. He pulled in to
Dougherty’s Tavern on Jefferson Davis Highway. He got out and went inside. I
estimated his age to be seventy or older.
Walked with a limp.
Wore overalls.

 
          
Interesting.

 
          
He
looked like a maintenance man from Greenhill who liked to have a few rounds on
Saturday night before the Church services the next morning.

 
          
I
went inside the tavern, which was relatively empty. My man had hauled up on a
bar stool and was addressing the bartender. I went over there and took a seat
two down from him. I saw that Old Man Maintenance had ordered a beer, so I told
the bartender I’d have what that guy had.

 
          
The
maintenance guy looked at me and said, “You have good taste in beer, sir.”

 
          
“I
was going to say the same about you.”

 
          
“You’re
not from around here, are you?”

 
          
“No.
Just passing through.
Been driving
all day.
Think I’ll find a hotel room for the night.”

 
          
“Where
you headed?”

 
          
Small talk like that.
Pretty dull.
Said his name was Phil.

 
          
He
complained about his “ticker.” He’d had some bypasses but he couldn’t stop his
craving for beer. He kept coughing into a handkerchief. I could tell his time
was nearly up; perhaps I could save him from a painful, protracted death.

 
          
When
the guy was done with his drink, I offered to buy another. He accepted. I
ordered one for me as well. When the bartender delivered them, I went over and
sat beside the fellow. We
clinked
our glass mugs and
said, “Cheers.”

 
          
People
have many strange rituals.

 
          
We
drank those down,
then
both lifted our mugs. Waved
them at the bartender and asked for refills. I had palmed one of the vials
Birdie sold me and emptied it into the dregs of the guy’s beer before it was
filled again.

 
          
After
one more round, which the maintenance man bought, I left. Found a cheap motel,
got a room, and slept soundly with no bad dreams. The painkillers did their job
for the night.