He slipped the tape into the VCR methodically, as he had done every Sunday morning for the past few months.
It was from her living room (the sticker on the side read L-R-#63), and had been taken last night. One of his associates had hidden cameras in each of her rooms earlier, and the tapes were rounded up every week. Jackson kept his legal pads close to him, pen in hand.
Monday morning. She hurried out the door before his eyes, and he pushed the fast-forwarding before the film became too tedious. Ah, that's it - five o'clock PM, late afternoon, early evening. She walked back in, raking her hair back with her fingers.
A fly buzzed on the wall.
She slipped out of the room (took one left - she was headed for either the kitchen or bathroom), and Jackson leaned forward again to move to the next part of the tape.
---
He will admit that he watches her change. It's disgusting of him, yes, but it isn't as though he can see very closely. Her back is usually towards the camera, so it's okay, he tells himself. This isn't pornography, this is his job.
Luckily, the camera in her bathroom is outside of the shower. He isn't entirely sure if he would watch her, if it wasn't, but a gentlemanly note in him likes to think he wouldn't.
Jackson Ripner's life is not particularly fascinating; it is dull and tactless and currently revolves around the life of a rather dull woman. From books or television or the movies, the idea of the assassin is sleek and futuristic: clothed in black, they prowl the undercity at night, knife in hand and gun in its holster, as they climb around to rid their victims of life. Exciting work. Of course, Jackson isn't the actual assassin, but the cinema likes to forget about his job. The killer is always the public's subject, not the organizer.
Meanwhile, Jackson sits at home or tails Lisa. Interesting at first, but soon stale. People are boring. Lisa, in particular, is boring. Her life revolves around her work. There is the occasional movie night, the occasional call on he phone from an old acquaintance or family member, but those are few and far between, and Jackson has been regulated to staring at her while she types up hotel schedules or makes macaroni and cheese. The most exciting thing she's done is get up to make scrambled eggs at three in the morning.
In general, the day-to-day order of living is not interesting to the passer-by. Or stalker.
---
Lisa doesn't suspect a thing. That is probably the best part of the job, the glee that smudges him when he imagines the look on her face when he reveals his plans to her. Will she begin to cry? Will she whimper and plead or scream and cause a scene? He has formulated a million excuses for almost any possible antic he could be faced with. Sometimes, he daydreams of accidentally bumping her into the street, or possibly helping her find a book in the bookstore, or something. She'd thank him, perhaps, and he would grin and slip out a secret of her life. Her eyes would widen in shock and he would smile down at her. He hasn't thought what would happen next. He doesn't really plan to.
It is the next day when he marks off the calender that he realizes next week is the flight. Next week, she will be back from her grandmother's funeral, and the plan will go into action. Smoothly. Greased clogs will slide slickly into place and steps will form, new path charted. "If you don't cooperate, your father will die," he whispers, and savors the words, the power that comes from them and the slip of letters from his throat.
He raises his hand and marks a solid black "x" over the day. One more week. Just one more week.