The Petersons were living in a white double-wide trailer with a brown metal roof. To that they’d added a screened porch that overlooked about two acres of front yard that was few trees and mostly dirt. I parked, cut the power and sat, waiting for dogs. None showed, but I used the time to wonder what the hell I was doing. Years ago I’d been a government assassin for the CIA, and the people I killed had been a threat to national security. When I retired, I took a short break and then began killing terrorists for Homeland Security. But those jobs were infrequent, so I began killing people for mob boss Sal Bonadello on the side. Sal’s victims were always criminals and often murderers, so justifying their deaths hadn’t been a problem.
But at some point I drifted into doing free lance work for Victor, and the types of jobs he was giving me were becoming more and more questionable. This latest series of killings were the result of a proposal Victor had made to my boss at Homeland, to see how far everyday Americans could be trusted. For example, would a couple like Rob and Trish be willing to house a terrorist in return for a specific amount of cash?
The initial results said no.
But would they be willing to allow innocent people to die?
Still no? Hmm. Interesting.
How about anonymous, unpunished murderers?
I put a roll of sealing tape in one of my jacket pockets, and two syringes in the other. The Peterson sisters, like Rob and Trish and half-a-dozen others, had accepted “Rumplestilskin Loans” after being told that by taking the money, an unpunished murderer would die. In Victor’s mind, that made the recipients guilty of conspiracy to murder. Hence, accepting the cash, Rob and Trish were sentencing the Peterson sisters to death by execution. When Callie placed the next suitcase, Rob and Trish would have to die. It was, in all respects, a lethal experiment, and it would continue to be one until the day an applicant refused the money.
I exited the car and climbed the three pre-formed concrete steps in front of the Peterson trailer, thinking,
The Peterson sisters had a tempered glass front door that offered a partial view of the living room. When I knocked on it, the entire front of the trailer shook. Soon a young lady came to the door and peered at me through the glass.
“Elaine?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Donovan Creed, with Homeland Security. May I come in?” I showed her my badge. She had no reason to know that Homeland agents don’t carry badges.
A look of concern crossed her face as she slowly opened the door.
“What is this about, Mr. Creed?”
Elaine Peterson was an attractive, thirty-two year old brunette in the first stage of weight gain. She wore black sweat pants and an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt that probably belonged to her estranged husband, Grady.
“It would save time if I could talk to both of you,” I said. “Is Amber here?”
Not that Amber and Elaine were the most innocent people in town. They had used the bulk of their loan proceeds to buy drugs to resell to local high school kids.
Elaine started to turn her head toward the hallway but caught herself. “What’s this about?” she repeated firmly.
“Please,” I said. “Have a seat.” As she started to sit I bolted past her and raced down the hall. She managed to get off a loud scream, but by then I’d opened the master bedroom door and caught the very large Amber cocking a pistol. I lunged at her and managed to knock her off balance. As she struggled to keep from falling, I snatched the gun from her hand and spun around just in time to avoid Elaine’s flying fists. Elaine was too small to hurt me, but I smacked her in the nose anyway, in order to concentrate on Amber. I heard Elaine fall to the floor and figured that was a good place for her to stay while I dealt with her sister.
“What the fuck do you want?” Amber shouted, trying to make her voice bigger than it was.
