Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (37 page)

 
          
She
sat on the sofa and switched off the TV with the remote.

 
          
What
was she going to do about him? It was clear to her that she cared a great deal
for him, and at first he seemed to share that sentiment toward her. And yet he
was a “cold fish” when it came to intimacy. It was as if he didn’t know how to
be a lover. And after her return from Cyprus he had acted differently. His
former warmth toward her had vanished. His attitude this evening was detached
and distant. Was there someone else in his life? No, Helen didn’t think that
was possible. How many hints did she have to drop? Didn’t all men want to have
sex? She had already ruled out that he might not like women, but, again, that
didn’t feel right either. She had heard of some people being asexual. Perhaps
that was the case with Stan. Whatever it was, there was something in his past
that prevented him from letting go and being totally with her.

 
          
Who
was Stan Johnson?

 
          
Helen
considered undressing and going back to bed, but the fog of sleep had lifted.
Now she was wide awake. What she really wanted was—

 
          
Oh,
no.

 
          
The
idea of shooting heroin suddenly occurred to her. Though she felt the urge from
time to time, it had been largely absent for a few years. Now, though, the urge
to get high was stronger than ever. Was it the anxiety over Stan that caused
it? The last few days had been very stressful. When she was under pressure,
whether it was from work or personal matters, she craved the drugs she’d fought
so hard to forget.

 
          
Think
of the Will! The Will inside the soul!

 
          
As
much as she attempted to block it, the craving was more powerful than anything
she’d experienced since quitting. If she’d possessed some, she would have
definitely used it. If she’d had a source to phone, she would have certainly
called.

 
          
Find
the Will! Fight the evil!

 
          
She
had to get busy. Occupy her mind. Distract
herself
with something.
Anything.

 
          
There
was all that paperwork still to do up at the mansion. Charlie was probably
there, getting ready for his nightly prayer in his office. He was leaving on a
campaign trip in the morning. Why not go up the hill and do some work?

 
          
Helen
returned to the bathroom and
freshened
her makeup.
Then she poured tap water into a cup and drank it. There were tranquilizers in
the medicine cabinet, but she didn’t like to take them. The side effects were
very unpleasant.

 
          
What
the heck. Stan didn’t love her, she’d be a spinster the rest of her life, and
she was a drug addict.…

 
          
She
got the bottle of
Xanax
and took one.

 
          
Back
in the living room, she checked her mobile. Stan hadn’t returned her message.
She stuck the phone in her purse, put on a jacket, and left the apartment.

 
          
Fall
was in full swing. Brown, red, yellow, and golden leaves littered the ground. A
chilly breeze spread through Greenhill as Helen walked up the hill to the
fence. It wasn’t one of her favorite times of the year. Things died in the
autumn. It was also the harbinger of the holiday season, which she dreaded. She
hated the commercialism and phony “good cheer” that everyone put on. All her
life she had been an outcast, a misfit, someone who’d never received a kiss
under the mistletoe or had family with which to share presents. No man had ever
given her a gift, wrapped and tied with a red bow. She was never invited to
Christmas parties. When Helen was in college, strung out on drugs, her roommate
flatly told her that she was “no fun,” and that’s why she was left out of so
many social activities.

 
          
There
had been one man.
A boy, really.
He had introduced her
to heroin. They had been intimate. They were in love.
For a
while.

 
          
Then
he overdosed and she fell into the darkest depression. After she dropped out of
school, the drugs turned her into a misanthrope nobody wanted to know. Or love.

 
          
Why
was she dwelling on this? Was she that upset about Stan?

 
          
She
reached the gate and dug in her purse for the keycard. It wasn’t there.
Frowning, she opened the bag wider and thoroughly searched it. She could have
sworn she’d put it there. It’s where she always kept it. Had it fallen out? Was
it in her apartment?

 
          
Annoyed,
she didn’t want to walk all the way back to her building, but there was nothing
else she could do. Then she noticed one of the night guards patrolling in front
of the fence to the west.

 
          
“Excuse
me!” she called and waved. The guard acknowledged her and hurried to see what
she wanted. “I’m sorry, I can’t find my keycard. I must have lost it, or it’s
in my apartment, and I don’t want to go back and look. It’s cold out. Can you
let me in? I want to do some work for Charlie.”

 
          
“Sure,
Miss McAdams,” the guard said. She might not have many friends at Greenhill,
but nearly everyone knew her. He used his card to unlock the gate, and Helen
pushed through. She thanked him and walked up the path. As usual, she took the
right fork and hurried up the west side of the mansion. When she got to the
employees’ entrance, she could have kicked herself.

 
          
She
didn’t have her keycard! Duh!

 
          
So
Helen knocked. Surely Charlie or someone else was inside and would hear her.
She knocked again, louder.
And again.
Finally, she
heard Charlie’s voice.

 
          
“Just a second!”
Then, when he was closer
to the door, “Who’s there?”

 
          
“It’s
Helen, Charlie. I don’t have my key!”

 
          
The
door opened and the reverend held it for her. “What are you doing here at this
time of night?”

 
          
“I
couldn’t sleep, so I decided to catch up on some work. Sorry to disturb you.”

 
          
“It’s
not a problem.” He let the door go behind them as he ushered her inside.
Usually Helen made sure the door was shut tightly and locked, but Wilkins had
an arm around her shoulders and escorted her out of the foyer and into the
corridor.

 
          
“It’s
almost prayer time,” she said.

 
          
“Yes,
it is. Helen, you really don’t have to be here. Why don’t you go on back home
and try to sleep? You know the Will allows you to drift off when you
concentrate properly.”

 
          
“Charlie,
that never works for me. Sorry.”

 
          
He
nodded as if he understood. “No need to apologize. It’s like meditation. Some
people get it, some don’t. You’ll learn.”

 
          
They
reached her office. She said, “Call me if you need me.”

 
          
“I’m
going downstairs and don’t wish to be disturbed,” he said. “But I’ll be back up
in time to pray.”

 
          
He
left her and moved on. She opened her office door, went inside, shut it behind
her, flicked on the lights, and booted up her computer.

 
          
Wilkins
was leaving on the campaign trail. There was a lot to do. She had to work on
itineraries, set up meetings, and make copies of speeches he had written. She
needed to coordinate all the traveling logistics with the campaign committee.
Helen wasn’t sure how much she could do that late at night with most businesses
closed, but she would try.

 
          
The
clock on her wall read 11:51.

 
          
Where
was Stan?

 
          
Once
again, she pulled out her mobile and dialed his number.

 
          
“This
is Stan. Leave a message.”

 
          
She
chose not to do so. Instead, she hung up and focused on her computer monitor.
Opening a folder, she stared at the text on the screen and sighed. She didn’t
feel like working at all. What was wrong with her?
Too
anxious to sleep and too apathetic to work.

 
          
It
was all Stan’s fault.

 
          
The
office phone rang. The blinking light indicated it was Charlie’s “hot” line, as
opposed to the regular office line. He gave the number out only to important
people to whom he’d want to talk no matter what. She picked up the receiver.

 
          
“Charlie
Wilkins’s office,” she announced.

 
          
“Who
is this?”

 
          
“Helen
McAdams, personal assistant to Reverend Wilkins.”

 
          
The
man spoke in a thick accent. “This is Inspector
Karopoulos
calling from Cyprus. I expected him to answer; I’m sorry. I need to speak to
the reverend immediately. It is important.”

 
          
Charlie
didn’t want to be disturbed, but Helen thought this was serious enough to
interrupt him. She asked the inspector to hold while she fetched him. Helen got
up, left the office, and ran to the stairwell.

 
          
“Charlie?”
she called.

 
          
No
answer.

 
          
She
went down to the first landing and faced the basement floor below. There was no
doubt the reverend was in the room that was off-limits to everyone but a few
people.
The storage space for all the alleged treasures.

 
          
Louder.
“Charlie?”

 
          
After
a moment, his voice came from behind the closed door. “Helen? I’ll be right
there! Wait for me upstairs!”

 
          
She
did as he instructed, ascended to the ground floor, and lingered. Eventually he
appeared. There was a strange, wild look in his eyes, and he didn’t appear
happy.

 
          
“What
is it?” he snapped.

 
          
“Inspector
Karopoulos
in Cyprus wants you on your hot line. He
says it’s important.”

 
          
Wilkins
made a face and nodded. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take it in your office, since
that’s closer, if you don’t mind.”

 
          
“Not at all.”

 
          
She
followed him as he hurried down the corridor to her open door. “Charlie? You
haven’t seen Stan, have you?”

 
          
Wilkins
whirled around.
“Who?”

 
          
“Stan
Johnson. You know, my friend?
The new maintenance man?”

 
          
“Oh,
right. Stan. No, I haven’t. I’m a little busy, Helen.”

 
          
He
went into the office and shut the door, leaving her in the hallway. She could
hear his voice inside but couldn’t understand what he was saying. Helen glanced
at her watch. It was 11:59.
Time for Charlie to pray in his
office.
Would he miss it? She supposed that it wasn’t a hard-and-fast
necessity for him. After all, he could always pray at five minutes after the
hour, or ten minutes after. What did it matter?

 
          
The
conversation in her office went on as she patiently waited. She felt awkward
standing there. Perhaps she should go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee or
something.
Maybe a snack.
A candy
bar out of the vending machine.