Chapter 11
Six Days, Nineteen Hours, Twenty Minutes
** Just outside Washington ** ** EverRest Motor Lodge **
"What can I do for you?"
DeMarco glanced up from his wallet at the elderly gentleman behind the counter. The man wore the lines on his face like badges of honor granted to him by his country, and, without so much as hearing another word, DeMarco knew that he didn't like his host.
Was it the man, or was it the country? Was it the wisdom that came with age, or was it the revelry that came with a nation's revolution? Was it this simpleton, or was it the world's last remaining superpower? He stopped trying to figure out the answer to question that no longer needed asking, and, instead, he reached inside his trench coat for his wallet.
"Good evening," he tried, masquerading his voice in a perfect American accent. Quickly, he suppressed the desire to suddenly lash out across the space dividing them, to fix his fingers into a fleshy dagger, and drive the human spike through the old fellow's right eye and into the man's brain. "I'd like a room."
Easily, the man reached down and slid a white paper slip in front of DeMarco. "Welcome to the EverRest," he offered. "I'll need you to fill out this form, and I'll need to see some identification."
"Yes," DeMarco agreed. "Thank you. I know the drill."
When he looked up, he realized that he had ignited the elder's ire.
"I'm sorry," DeMarco offered. "It's late, and I've had a very long day."
Slowly, dismissively, the old man nodded. "Just fly into Washington, did you?"
"Train, actually."
"Oh," the man said. "That explains the attitude."
"Yes."
DeMarco took the ballpoint pen and, with concentrated precision, began filling out the form in handwriting markedly different from his own. As he knew he must. As he had long practiced.
"As you can guess," he spoke casually as he wrote, "the ride was more than a bit bumpy."
The old man turned toward his hotel supplies. He reached for a room card, asking, "Would you like a single bed, or do you prefer a double?"
"A single," DeMarco answered. "That will be just fine."
"Just yourself?"
"That's correct."
"Smoking or non-smoking?"
With a hint of derision, DeMarco spat, "Is there still a choice in this country?"
Again, he realized he had lost his customary calm, and he glanced up. The gentleman was studying the stranger now with a fixed expression.
"Again, I must apologize," DeMarco said. "It's just . well . I happen to work for the tobacco industry." He smiled. "I'm meeting next week with several representatives in Congress, and . I'm sure you can understand . I'm a bit uneasy."
Slowly, the old fellow smiled. "I guess it'll be smoking."
Placing his free hand on his chest, DeMarco added, "My boss would have more than his share of my hide if I chose otherwise."
"Big business means big business."
"That it does."
DeMarco finished with the room registration card - he had listed one of his aliases, Mr. Walter Chamberlain - and set the pen down on the counter.
"We've really received bad ink in the press," he tried nonchalantly.
Patting his shirt pocket that held a packet of Pendley Cigarettes, the old man said, "You're not telling me anything that I don't know."
"Thanks for supporting the industry."
Smirking, the man added, "Yeah, I only buy American."
"What's your name, sir?"
"Carlson," the man said. "Danny Carlson."
Extending a warm hand, DeMarco shook firmly, insuring all efforts to defuse any rough edges. Danny Carlson would have to die, but not for several days. Between now and his death, the terrorist couldn't afford any unforeseen and unfortunate altercations. Carlson - and the beautiful woman from the airplane - would serve as tests to secure his credibility for as long as he needed.
Then he'd kill them as swiftly and efficiently as his talent would allow.
"Thank you, Danny."
*****
The room smelled of freshly cleaned carpeting as DeMarco stepped in. Easily, he closed the door behind him, walked to the bed, and laid his luggage on the king-sized bed. The bedspread was littered in the pattern of fully bloomed roses, and the pillows were wrapped in rose-colored pillowcases. The walls were simple - standard pearly white - with two patriotic-themed portraits - one featured the thirteen-starred Flag of the Colonial States and another with the colorful fireworks blotting a Fourth of July skyline. The television - black and silent - hung from a downward arch attached to the ceiling, and the heavy oak dresser stood with the bottom drawer slightly open, as if beckoning for someone to deposit clothes inside.
He walked to the bathroom and, reaching behind the red-white-and-blue shower curtain, he turned on the shower. Immediately, a mist of warm air filled his nostrils, invigorating his senses. He had been partially truthful with Danny Carlson: it had been a long, exhausting day, and tomorrow would be the same . as would the next . and the one following that . all the way up until the afternoon of his mission. But there would be time enough tomorrow to dwell on those thoughts.
Slipping out of his trench coat, he tossed the coat on to the bathroom counter. He stripped from his suit - it would have to be destroyed, after all - and stepped naked under the scalding stream of hot water. Ignoring the heat, he closed his eyes and allowed for the water to do its work, to wash over every inch of his body, to ignite his nerve endings sending impulses to his brain. As of late, the pain was all that made him feel alive. He made his heart pump and his blood flow through his veins. It excited him as much as it fatigued him. It gave him hope as much as it made hope fade from his mind. But he needed the pain. He couldn't feel himself without it. He couldn't know his future without his present, and he refused to accept his destiny without living in the moment. His pain threshold was very high, the scientists had told him after their several years of ridiculous testing - verifying a fact he knew all too well - and his threshold would have to remain high if he were to be successful. Higher, he hoped. The next few days, if he served any purpose, it would be to push his body to the physical limits of pain, hoping that - when the end came - his senses would be immune to any such impulse.
In fact, Richard DeMarco hoped he never felt a thing.
Ever.
END of Chapter 11
Six Days, Nineteen Hours, Twenty Minutes
** Just outside Washington ** ** EverRest Motor Lodge **
"What can I do for you?"
DeMarco glanced up from his wallet at the elderly gentleman behind the counter. The man wore the lines on his face like badges of honor granted to him by his country, and, without so much as hearing another word, DeMarco knew that he didn't like his host.
Was it the man, or was it the country? Was it the wisdom that came with age, or was it the revelry that came with a nation's revolution? Was it this simpleton, or was it the world's last remaining superpower? He stopped trying to figure out the answer to question that no longer needed asking, and, instead, he reached inside his trench coat for his wallet.
"Good evening," he tried, masquerading his voice in a perfect American accent. Quickly, he suppressed the desire to suddenly lash out across the space dividing them, to fix his fingers into a fleshy dagger, and drive the human spike through the old fellow's right eye and into the man's brain. "I'd like a room."
Easily, the man reached down and slid a white paper slip in front of DeMarco. "Welcome to the EverRest," he offered. "I'll need you to fill out this form, and I'll need to see some identification."
"Yes," DeMarco agreed. "Thank you. I know the drill."
When he looked up, he realized that he had ignited the elder's ire.
"I'm sorry," DeMarco offered. "It's late, and I've had a very long day."
Slowly, dismissively, the old man nodded. "Just fly into Washington, did you?"
"Train, actually."
"Oh," the man said. "That explains the attitude."
"Yes."
DeMarco took the ballpoint pen and, with concentrated precision, began filling out the form in handwriting markedly different from his own. As he knew he must. As he had long practiced.
"As you can guess," he spoke casually as he wrote, "the ride was more than a bit bumpy."
The old man turned toward his hotel supplies. He reached for a room card, asking, "Would you like a single bed, or do you prefer a double?"
"A single," DeMarco answered. "That will be just fine."
"Just yourself?"
"That's correct."
"Smoking or non-smoking?"
With a hint of derision, DeMarco spat, "Is there still a choice in this country?"
Again, he realized he had lost his customary calm, and he glanced up. The gentleman was studying the stranger now with a fixed expression.
"Again, I must apologize," DeMarco said. "It's just . well . I happen to work for the tobacco industry." He smiled. "I'm meeting next week with several representatives in Congress, and . I'm sure you can understand . I'm a bit uneasy."
Slowly, the old fellow smiled. "I guess it'll be smoking."
Placing his free hand on his chest, DeMarco added, "My boss would have more than his share of my hide if I chose otherwise."
"Big business means big business."
"That it does."
DeMarco finished with the room registration card - he had listed one of his aliases, Mr. Walter Chamberlain - and set the pen down on the counter.
"We've really received bad ink in the press," he tried nonchalantly.
Patting his shirt pocket that held a packet of Pendley Cigarettes, the old man said, "You're not telling me anything that I don't know."
"Thanks for supporting the industry."
Smirking, the man added, "Yeah, I only buy American."
"What's your name, sir?"
"Carlson," the man said. "Danny Carlson."
Extending a warm hand, DeMarco shook firmly, insuring all efforts to defuse any rough edges. Danny Carlson would have to die, but not for several days. Between now and his death, the terrorist couldn't afford any unforeseen and unfortunate altercations. Carlson - and the beautiful woman from the airplane - would serve as tests to secure his credibility for as long as he needed.
Then he'd kill them as swiftly and efficiently as his talent would allow.
"Thank you, Danny."
*****
The room smelled of freshly cleaned carpeting as DeMarco stepped in. Easily, he closed the door behind him, walked to the bed, and laid his luggage on the king-sized bed. The bedspread was littered in the pattern of fully bloomed roses, and the pillows were wrapped in rose-colored pillowcases. The walls were simple - standard pearly white - with two patriotic-themed portraits - one featured the thirteen-starred Flag of the Colonial States and another with the colorful fireworks blotting a Fourth of July skyline. The television - black and silent - hung from a downward arch attached to the ceiling, and the heavy oak dresser stood with the bottom drawer slightly open, as if beckoning for someone to deposit clothes inside.
He walked to the bathroom and, reaching behind the red-white-and-blue shower curtain, he turned on the shower. Immediately, a mist of warm air filled his nostrils, invigorating his senses. He had been partially truthful with Danny Carlson: it had been a long, exhausting day, and tomorrow would be the same . as would the next . and the one following that . all the way up until the afternoon of his mission. But there would be time enough tomorrow to dwell on those thoughts.
Slipping out of his trench coat, he tossed the coat on to the bathroom counter. He stripped from his suit - it would have to be destroyed, after all - and stepped naked under the scalding stream of hot water. Ignoring the heat, he closed his eyes and allowed for the water to do its work, to wash over every inch of his body, to ignite his nerve endings sending impulses to his brain. As of late, the pain was all that made him feel alive. He made his heart pump and his blood flow through his veins. It excited him as much as it fatigued him. It gave him hope as much as it made hope fade from his mind. But he needed the pain. He couldn't feel himself without it. He couldn't know his future without his present, and he refused to accept his destiny without living in the moment. His pain threshold was very high, the scientists had told him after their several years of ridiculous testing - verifying a fact he knew all too well - and his threshold would have to remain high if he were to be successful. Higher, he hoped. The next few days, if he served any purpose, it would be to push his body to the physical limits of pain, hoping that - when the end came - his senses would be immune to any such impulse.
In fact, Richard DeMarco hoped he never felt a thing.
Ever.
END of Chapter 11