Shuteye for the Timebroker (24 page)

But I found myself unable to concentrate on the teacher’s presentation. I couldn’t take my eyes off Tony’s hateful profile. (Seeing my victims in profile, I later learned, was not as effective as seeing them full in the face.) And in my raging mind, I couldn’t help picturing him dying in a hundred different ways.

I pictured Tony torn apart by wolves. I pictured him struck by cars. I pictured him impaled on the spiked fence that surrounded the local library. I pictured him writhing from poison. And so on.

I had always had a good imagination. And all these images were as vivid and real as my powerful imagination could make them. In fact, I felt as if I were actually witnessing Tony’s multiple deaths, not just daydreaming them, as if the scenes were playing out before my eyes.

Anyway, after about five minutes of this morbid reverie, I saw Tony keel over onto his desk without making a sound—except for the thump of his head—before bonelessly sliding to the floor. Girls shrieked, boys jumped up, and the teacher dashed out for help.

But there was nothing anyone could do. Tony was quite dead.

His autopsy revealed a fatal congenital heart defect, but one that no prior exam had ever discovered.

For a while, I believed that the whole gruesome affair was sheer coincidence. My imagining Tony dead could have had nothing to do with his actual death.

But it took only a few more experiments to prove to my own satisfaction that I had killed Tony.

Of course, I made sure that those subsequent victims were not my fellow classmates. Even at age thirteen, I knew that a rash of deaths among my peers would’ve alerted even the most skeptical investigator. Bums and strangers, clerks, a nanny in the park, and a policeman or two.

They all got congenital heart defects from me. Or fatal aneurysms.

I couldn’t predict which defect would arise from my evil eye, but it was always one or the other.

* * *

Did I mention my apartment has no mirrors or other reflective surfaces in it?

* * *

The question of who exactly my captors represent offers me endless material for speculation.

The nature of all my victims since coming here convinces me that my talents are currently being employed by the government of the United States of America. But which agency?

The CIA? The FBI? The NSA? Homeland Security? Or some even more covert set of initials? Maybe I’m under the jurisdiction of some branch of the military. Am I an honorary Marine or Seal by now? Will I be freed with medals and a letter of commendation once the war on terror is over? And when exactly will that day come? Does the president know about me? Or am I some special project overseen by some unelected bureaucrat, to maintain ultimate deniability higher up the chain of command? Which black budget contains the minimal expenses connected with my upkeep? Am I listed as general maintenance on some anonymous submarine? Or perhaps as a box of six-hundred-dollar hammers? I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out.

More intriguingly, I spend a lot of time asking myself whether I agree with the uses to which my talents are being put. It might very well be that for the first time in my adult life, I am actually performing some selfless acts and helping with the preservation of my nation. Would I have volunteered for such duties if I had been approached openly? Or would I have disdained any such exercise of my powers in support of the national interests, in favor of the pampered life I once led?

Again, it’s hard to answer such a hypothetical question. I can only confront and judge my actions as they currently exist, under the current conditions.

Most days, I find I’m actually a trifle proud of what I’m doing. (Although sometimes I sink into a kind of numb apathy at the unvarying nature of my kills.) Maybe this is just a rationalization I have to maintain in order not to hate myself.

Discussing such matters with my captors might help. But this is not a luxury I am permitted.

* * *

I think my talent is one that everyone imagines they would like to have.

But believe me, it’s not really that wonderful of a gift.

* * *

Van Tranh was my boss from when I was twenty-two until I was taken by the government. He was an Asian criminal big shot. I met him at the funeral of some people I had helped. I got into a conversation with him. He remarked on the uncanny way that someone connected with the funeral had died. He said how happy and grateful he was that that person had met his untimely death. Somehow I found myself spilling my secret to him; it was the first time I had ever told anyone what I could do. Amazingly, Van expressed no disbelief in my powers. Some traditions from his heritage and ancient culture conduced him to believe me. He asked me if I wanted a job.

I had never gone to college after high school. Although I was a smart kid, I found that I had no ambition, couldn’t sustain any goals. I blame that attitude on my powers. The arbitrary nature of death, as exemplified by my own abilities, left me feeling that life could end at any time, and that nothing was worth struggling for.

So I told Van yes, I’d like a job.

I became his secret hit man. I killed anyone he asked me to. Mostly fellow criminals, but quite often not.

The money was very, very good. And I lived a peaceful, satisfied life.

* * *

No Dave ever uses my name when hailing me over the intercom. I suppose they are only following orders in this regard, too. Instead, they simply call out, “Attention!” Some Daves bark out the word as a command, while others are more polite, even saying, “Attention, please.” The woman is one of the polite ones.

Today I am reading when the call for attention sounds. It’s one of the brusquer Daves. I put down my book. It’s a good book about a guy who is fed up with his life and moves to a little house in the country. Sounds like my situation, except I wasn’t really fed up with my old life, and I didn’t get to choose my retreat.

The command for attention is followed by the instructions I’ve come to know so well.

“There is a photo awaiting you in the door. Retrieve it and perform your standard function on the subject.”

“Sure thing, Dave,” I reply.

I go to the lone door in my apartment. Set midway in the door is a hinged panel. I pull down the panel and a receptacle big enough to hold a cafeteria tray piled with food is revealed. Of course, the far side of this space is blocked by another panel, this one locked. I often speculate about whether this delivery system is a box bolted to the outside of a normal door, or if the door itself is very thick, like one of those blast doors in a government bunker. This is how I get my magazines and fast-food meals delivered. And also, of course, the photos of my victims.

The photograph this time is generically similar to most of the others I’ve processed so far. It’s a portrait of an Arab-looking young man: largish nose, wispy beard, disorderly black hair, fanatical eyes, grim mouth. An improbably jaunty scarf is tied around his neck. As usual, there is no information given as to his name or age or nationality. His crimes are not detailed, either. All that I need to know is that the people who control me want him dead.

I take the photograph back to my comfortable recliner and go to work.

Something about this victim’s impregnable smugness, his air of righteous zealotry, irritates me, and I decide to go slow and be thorough.

1 picture myself jamming the barrel of a pistol up his nostrils, shattering cartilage. I twist the gun cruelly before I blow the top of his head off, splattering the wall against which he’s posed with his brains. I take an automatic rifle and use every bullet in its magazine to cut him literally in half. I duct-tape several grenades to his crotch and pull the pins. I use a knife on his eyes and tongue before severing his jugular veins. And so on.

At the end of five minutes, I’m quite sure that this man, wherever he is on the planet, is dead.

One less terrorist to undermine global civilization. One less Chechen or Algerian, Taliban or Syrian.

Or so I hope.

* * *

I often wonder if there is anyone else on earth with my powers. If such a being exists, perhaps he or she is in the employ of rival powers, and one day my own photo will fall into their hands.

This is a strangely comforting thought.

* * *

Maybe you’ve read about the study that investigated the efficacy of prayers in the healing process. The researchers found that patients who were prayed for by friends and relatives and who knew about the prayers healed faster. But then the experimenters went one step further. They got strangers to pray remotely for certain patients and never even told the patients they were getting such special attention.

And the subjects still healed faster than average.

That study seems to provide some sort of explanation for what I do.

Except I don’t say prayers. I say curses.

And I doubt the same god is answering mine.

* * *

The way I found out that my power worked on photographs of people, on shadows of their souls, as well as if I were standing right next to them, was like this.

One day when I was about twenty-two, I was reading the newspaper and came across an article about a local drunken driver who had wiped out an entire Asian family while they were crossing a street. He was one of those unrepentant types who refused even to admit he was at fault. Said something about the family jaywalking. I had actually known the people who were killed. They weren’t close friends or relatives, but they ran a variety store in my neighborhood. I stopped in there a lot, and the owners were always nice to me.

Upon learning how these people had died, I got so pissed off that I started doing my thing on the newspaper photo of the drunken driver at his arrest.

On the evening news I heard he had died in custody of natural causes.

This was the mysteriously apt death I would discuss with Van Tranh at the funeral.

Just like when I had first discovered my powers, I had to do a little experimenting with this new photo trick. I found out that a photo had to be no more than twenty-four hours old for me to succeed in killing the victim. Freshness counted. There must be something about a persons nature that continually changes with time and makes them a different person than they were the day before. I don’t like to use the word
soul
, but maybe that’s the part that changes, gets updated with experience. Also, the image of the victim’s face had to be highly detailed. Remote shots of little human smudges didn’t cut it.

I wondered if television pictures would work as well. I tried, but the results were inconclusive. You know why? No single image stayed on the screen long enough for me to concentrate on! When was the last time you saw a person’s face occupy the screen for three minutes without some kind of interruption, even if it is only a change in camera angles? And that was enough to reset my efforts to zero. But my captors must’ve thought there was a possibility I could do it, since they blocked the TV here from reception.

I would have liked to have seen certain obnoxious TV personalities keel over live on camera. But I never got the chance to make it happen.

* * *

Of course I sometimes wonder if I am insane, if I am not alone in a padded cell hallucinating all this. But then I remember killing Tony Grasso, and all the killings that followed over the years, in such clear and vivid detail that I am again convinced of the reality of my present situation. And I don’t believe I could have come up with such a delusion on my own. Mutant soldier in the war on terrorism. Before my capture, I never gave two thoughts to the war on terrorism.

Now, of course, it’s with me all the time.

* * *

Two weeks after I killed the young Arab wearing the scarf, I got my usual delivery of delayed newsmagazines. My employer makes sure the issues aren’t current, just in case any photos were taken twenty-four hours before distribution. In the coverage of the Middle East, I saw pictures of a public funeral where my victim was the corpse. The text claimed he was a Hamas organizer who had been poisoned by infidels.

Well, yes, I suppose so, after a fashion.

* * *

I don’t believe I’ve yet specified exactly how long I’ve been doing this job, playing my part in the war on terror. Almost three years now. I was abducted in early 2002.

Is my activity the reason why the United States has not experienced a domestic terror attack since September 11?

I like to think so.

But I can’t be sure.

* * *

It’s not as easy to get a suitable photo of a terrorist as you might imagine, but it’s not that hard, either. I keep waiting for a picture of bin Laden, for instance, but it hasn’t shown up yet. He must be hiding really well. Or maybe for some reason they don’t want him dead yet. Generally speaking, if a Western operative could snap such a photo, they’d also be in a position just to assassinate the guy outright, and they wouldn’t need me. But lots of times, it seems, unwitting and greedy people close to the victim will provide a photo for money, thinking, what harm could it do?