Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (18 page)

 
          
I
went to Greenhill the next day. It was Sunday, and the compound was crowded
with tourists and other membership applicants. A sign out front indicated that
Reverend Charlie Wilkins was on the premises and was preaching that day. I had
already missed the morning service. That was all right; I didn’t particularly
want to hear it anyway. I’d get plenty of chances.

 
          
I
dressed down for the role I’d be playing. For some reason, when I assumed a
phony identity, the clothes helped me get in character. I became a farm boy
from Iowa, so I wore farm clothes. I couldn’t do much about my bald head, so I
left it alone. I didn’t want to have to fuss with a toupee for however many
days I’d be there.

 
          
There
were a couple of people at desks doing intake.
A man and a
woman.
I chose to get in the woman’s queue. I knew who she was from my
research. Helen McAdams.
One of Wilkins’s personal
assistants.

 
          
Perfect.

 
          
I
supposed she was attractive, not that something like that mattered to me. But I
sensed she was a bird with a wing down. There was something in her eyes and
mannerisms. She was a troubled person.
Vulnerable.
Lonely.
Unhappy.
Someone I could
manipulate.

 
          
When
it was my turn, I introduced myself as Stan Johnson. It was as good a name as
any. I did my best to appear shy and nervous. I said I was currently unemployed
but had experience on a farm. I told her I was seeking more spirituality in my
life and thought the Church of Will could help me.

 
          
I’d
put on the application form that I was good with my hands, and she immediately
offered me the job of groundskeeper and maintenance man—the position at the
compound that became vacant that very day. She said I was lucky. I’d even get
an apartment of my own, the rent for which would come out of my pay.

 
          
Fancy
that.

 
          
I
think she must have taken to me, for she told her colleague she was going to
give me a tour of the compound. She made a call to Mitch Carson. I knew him to
be the manager of the facility, but I feigned ignorance. When she hung up,
Helen said we were to meet him in the cafeteria. Apparently my apartment
wouldn’t be ready for an hour or two. Helen let me store my backpack full of
clothes and my briefcase in a locker for the time being.

 
          
I
met Carson in the cafeteria. He was awfully officious and treated me as an
inferior human being because of my newfound lowly janitorial job, but I was
polite and shook his clammy hand. He took my paperwork from Helen and said he
had to go to a meeting “up at the house.” We said goodbye and Helen asked if I
was hungry. I told her no, but she explained how the cafeteria was available
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A snack room with vending machines was open
twenty-four hours a day. Church employees were issued a meal ticket that was
swiped each time we had a meal. A small fee was once again taken out of our
pay. For the most part, it turned out
that Church employees
worked in exchange for room and board. Not a bad deal.

 
          
Helen
showed me the huge sanctuary. I appreciated the artwork. I’d spent time in Rome
and befriended a Catholic priest at one time, so I knew what I was looking at.

 
          
I
suppose there was some kind of beauty there.

 
          
There
was a Main Street at Greenhill. It had a convenience store, a small medical
office, a bank, a florist, a clothing shop, and a grocery store with fresh
produce, a bakery, and a butcher. It was like a small village. The staff got
around in little golf-cart-like vehicles, as if it was some kind of country
club.

 
          
Then
she pointed out the section of Greenhill I was most interested in.
The off-limits area.
Where the mansion was
located.

 
          
“Only
authorized personnel are allowed inside the gate,” Helen said as she indicated
the high fence surrounding the space. I knew it was electrified. Why would a
supposedly peace-loving reverend of a religious group have an electrified fence
around his property? Helen had a keycard to swipe at the gate, because her
office was in the mansion. Someday, she said, maybe she’d get permission to
bring me inside and show it to me. As a groundskeeper and maintenance man,
however, I would be allowed inside the fence during work hours. There was a
team of workers and I’d be supervised. Helen pointed out the extensive gardens
on the right side of the house. I told her that was my specialty, and she
hinted that she’d see what she could do about that. On the left side of the
house was a small building. She said it was the guardhouse. Next to that was a
large barn.

 
          
Helen
also pointed out the section of the mansion that fronted the lake. She said
Wilkins’s office had a large plate-glass window that faced it, and when he was
on the premises he always made it a point to pray in that spot at midnight.

 
          
Of
course, I knew that window was bulletproof. Again, why would Wilkins
bulletproof his office? He must be pretty paranoid.
Especially
now that he was running for president.

 
          
Finally,
we entered one of the three housing buildings. My room was on the first floor.
It was a studio apartment, complete with a kitchenette and my own bathroom. I
asked Helen where she lived.
Next building over, second
floor.

 
          
Convenient.

 
          
By
now it was almost six o’clock. Helen’s
cellphone
rang. She spoke to “Charlie” and said she’d be right there. Wilkins.

 
          
Apparently
there was going to be an impromptu memorial service for a Church member who had
died, and Wilkins was going to lead it. She had to get to the sanctuary. She
told me that in a moment the compound loudspeaker system would make the
announcement. She encouraged me to go and that perhaps she’d see me there.

 
          
I
said I wouldn’t miss it.

 
          
Helen
left me alone in my apartment. I unpacked and gave the room
a
once-over to make sure it wasn’t bugged. I didn’t expect it to be, but one
can’t be too careful. After taking one of the
oxycodone
pills, I reflected on what I was doing at Greenhill.

 
          
Helen
McAdams was a nice person. Too bad she felt she had to cover the scars on the
inside of her forearms with the long sleeves of her blouse. Yes, I detected a
susceptible personality there, and she would suit my purposes.

 
          
The
closer I could get to her, the closer I’d be to Charlie Wilkins.

 
          
SIXTEEN

 
          
More
than three hundred people gathered in the sanctuary after the announcement was
made throughout the compound that Wilkins was going to speak again that day.
Agent 47 dutifully followed the crowd and sat in a pew near the back. He saw
Helen McAdams sitting in the front row. Mitch Carson paced the sanctuary foyer
and greeted members that he knew personally.

 
          
When
Wilkins got up to address the congregation, Agent 47 was immediately struck by
the man’s charisma and charm. On television, the reverend was extremely
engaging; in person, he was magnetic. His voice was smooth and rich in timbre.
The shock of white hair caught the overhead lights just right, providing a
subliminal divine illusion. The assassin figured the reverend had personally
spent some time with his lighting designers to achieve the effect.

 
          
“My
friends and fellow followers of the Will,” he began. “This evening we’re
holding an impromptu memorial service for Philip McHenry, who went to his maker
during the night after a long illness. Many of you probably knew him as a quiet
groundskeeper and maintenance man who always had a twinkle in his eye.”

 
          
He
went on for two or three more minutes, performing a eulogy for someone to whom
he had most likely never spoken except for an occasional “Hello, how are you?”

 
          
Agent
47 tuned out the details of the fallen maintenance man. They weren’t anything
he particularly wanted to hear. He spent the time looking around the room,
studying the members. They were of all ages, including several families with
children. There were more women than men. Harmless, friendly people, except for
the man standing at the exit looking more like a guard than a church usher.
Several bodies down from Helen sat a man wearing a military uniform. He was a
colonel in the U.S. Army.

 
          
Maybe.

 
          
The
hitman
was jolted out of his musings when he heard
the reverend say his name.

 
          
“…
and a Mr. Stan Johnson joined the Church of Will today, and he’ll be taking
over for Philip. Mr. Johnson? Where is Mr. Stan Johnson?”

 
          
47
hesitantly raised his hand.

 
          
“Oh,
Mr. Johnson, there you are. Please stand up! Don’t be shy. We’re all friends
here.”

 
          
The
bald-headed man stood awkwardly and waved reticently. He caught Helen smiling
at him.

 
          
“Welcome,
Stan. I’m sure everyone will introduce him or herself to you in the next few
days. Good luck remembering everybody’s name!”

 
          
Laughs.
Applause.

 
          
47
quickly sat down.

 
          
Wilkins
took a sip from a glass of water that was sitting on the podium. “Now, my
friends, as you know, I’m running for president.”

 
          
Cheers.
Hoots and hollers.

 
          
“I’m
holding a big campaign rally in D.C. a few days before the election. I’m
looking for Church volunteers to ride in some buses from here to the rally. I
know some of you have been looking for a way to protest against the current
administration and show your support for me, so here’s your chance.”

 
          
The
congregation erupted in bigger applause.

 
          
Wilkins
quieted them down with his hands. “Now, unfortunately, there won’t be enough
seats to fill every request. So it’ll be a lottery. If you want to go, there’s
a little form to fill out. Mitch Carson will have a drop box in the cafeteria.
Names will be drawn until all the seats are filled, okay?”

 
          
Everyone
thought that was fair.

 
          
He
then changed the subject and went back to Philip the maintenance man for a
benediction and final word. Wilkins spoke about the importance of the
community’s spirit and its ability to coexist as one big, happy family.

 
          
“We
all have the Will,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”

 
          
That
made sense to everyone but Agent 47.

 
          
The
ceremony ended with a prayer. After that, the congregation stood and made their
way out, 47 among them. With respect for the service’s purpose, people spoke in
low voices. Once they were outside, several men stepped up to the assassin and
shook his hand.

 
          
“Welcome
to Greenhill, Mr. Johnson.”

 
          
“Glad
to have you aboard, Mr. Johnson.”

 
          
Although
Agent 47 had expected some degree of non-anonymity during his stay at the
compound, he hadn’t anticipated this. Nevertheless, he played the introverted
farmer and smoothly deflected earnest attempts at conversation. 47
wasn’t
worried. The more well known he was at Greenhill, the
more people would trust him.