The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

T H E H I T M A
N
:

DIRTY ROTTERS

SEAN
MCKENZIE

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Sean McKenzie

Cover design and illustration by Steven James
Catizone

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The Hitman: Dirty
Rotters
is a work of fiction. Names,
places, and incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Views and opinions expressed
are not necessarily that of the author.

For:

Those damn kids on the
hill

Chapter 1

Saturday afternoon.

It is darker than I
remembered. Maybe it’s because there are only three candles burning
this time as opposed to seven the last.
Was it seven? Eight?
I don’t
remember. It was a long time ago. And there were several anyhow.
The smell is the same. It isn’t awful by any means, but a bit
stuffy. Old and stale, like basement carpet. I’m sure the candles
have something to do with it. The feel is the same, too. Always is.
A lot of guilt. A little uncertainty. Like coming home to find that
your dog chewed up the armrests on your couch and he’s walking
towards you with that look like he’s not sure if you are going to
beat him with the stick.

I kneel on the narrow beam of wood
covered by a thin pad. Not too comfortable on my knees. I can
picture a group of kids in some Third World country stuffing the
padding and sewing it up, then other kids stapling it onto the
beam. Small hands working fast. Cut and bandaged fingers moving
faster than they should ever have to. Maybe if the hand whipping
them with a stick was stuffing the pads instead they would feel
better to my knees. A bigger hand might mean a better wad of
stuffing.

I clear my throat quietly to let him
know I’m here and to suggest that I am ready to begin. It’s either
that or knock against the window frame like a moron. Besides, I am
not comfortable intruding on someone else’s quiet time. I enjoy my
own, so I respect it. I’m ready when he is. No hurry.

Almost instantly the sound of two
pieces of aged wood sliding against one another, in almost a
whispering groan, draws my attention and I watch the window pane
slide away to the right, disappearing into the wall. I catch a
glimpse of the purple robe easing back as he settles in out of my
sight. Always happens that way. There’s never a smiling face, never
a hand extending in greeting. Secrecy. It’s all about secrecy.
Almost like we both have done something wrong.

I wait. Not because I don’t know what
to do, but because in my head the first few seconds of silence
makes them almost as uncomfortable as I am. Or that I should be,
rather. I should be wracked with fear and trembling uncontrollably.
But my hands are steady. My breathing calm. I’ll wait it out. They
usually catch on around five seconds.

One…two…three…four…

He says, “Go ahead, child of God.
Confess your sins.”

Right on cue.

His voice is thin and frail. Old. Very
old. Might be the oldest I’ve ever heard. I wonder for a second
what he looks like. Wrinkles no doubt. Loose, drooping skin. Is he
pushing ninety? He’s probably bald on top with short white hair
from one ear wrapping around to the other. He’s probably wearing a
wool shawl under the robe. Knee high socks, definitely. It’s
cooling down outside now and it’s not exactly room temperature in
here either. There’s probably a cup of hot tea next to
him.

He clears his throat now. I catch
on.

“
Forgive me father, I have
sinned.”

I stop there. It starts to bother me
now. Is he bald or not?

“
God is
listening.”

I don’t know how he managed the
strength to say that. I feel obligated to whisper back. I think
anything else and the old man might simply be swept apart. Poof! A
cloud of dust slowly falling. I’ll whisper. I didn’t come here to
commit another murder.

“
My last confession was
several months ago.” Very casual. Hands still steady. I doubt he
has a stick in there. Cane, maybe.

“
Go on.”

I pause for reflection. Sometimes I
do. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just spit it all out without
much discretion. Sometimes I’ve practiced what to say for minutes
before so the five words come out smooth and even and
gentle.

“
I killed a man,
father.”

Quiet.

I imagine his eyes are now wide open,
filled with disbelief. Probably a little startled. I probably just
woke him up.

I can hear him breathing.
Maybe a foot away. Just beyond the thin, poorly framed wall. He’s
gathering his thoughts. They never expect it. Not the
kill
word. Swearing,
adultery, stealing, and immoral thoughts all come every week by
dozens. But no one ever just walks in and drops
I killed a man, what about it?

But I do it. Have to. In fifteen
minutes I’ll be in Wendy’s enjoying a Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger
and I can’t have all this on my conscious. I might even get fries
and a chocolate Frosty.

“
When?” He says with
genuine concern.

“
That depends.”

“
On what?”

“
On which time.”

“
There’s been more than one
occurrence?”

“
Several, in
fact.”

Quiet again. Long deep breaths. This
isn’t his ordinary five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marries session. I
can hear his body adjusting in the chair. He must be sitting
forward now. His breathing is closer, a little raspy.

“
How do you feel about
this?”

“
Which part?”

“
The killing.”

“
Well, it had to be
done.”

“
You don’t sound
remorseful.”

I say nothing. The old man’s
right.

“
You don’t have remorse but
you want forgiveness?”

“
Maybe not forgiveness.
Maybe an understanding.”

“
Understanding?”

“
It had to be
done.”

A slight pause. He’s interested now.
“You were being attacked? Your life was threatened and you fought
to survive?”

“
No. The other
kind.”

“
Other?”

“
Yeah. You know,
premeditated. Planned. Sought out. I mean, I had to wait. I had to
choose the right time.”

“
You
chose
to.”

“
Yes.”

“
How often?”

I pause now. I count them in my head,
take my time and think back, remember each of their faces. I don’t
want to leave anyone out. They earned it. But then my stomach
grumbles and I lose focus, drifting ahead twenty minutes or so.
Does Wendy’s have curly fries? No, that’s Arby’s. Arby’s is on the
other side of town though. I’m not going that way. Wendy’s
will-

“
How often?” He interrupts.
Annoyance in his voice.

“
Plenty.”

He moved in closer. His breath is
nearly reaching my own. Hot tea for sure. With lemon. I can see
just the tip of his nose. “If you are not sorry, then why are you
here? God cannot forgive you if you cannot see how terrible your
choices were. You want Him to understand your choices to kill, but
do you understand he cannot accept that without first knowing your
remorse? And you’re not remorseful, right?”

I pause. Give him time to catch his
breath. Sounds like he ran a marathon.

“
Have you ever believed in
something so intensively, with all your being, knowing that it was
going to happen, and were completely wrong? Something that left you
wondering if God is even with you?”

“
God is always with us. We
have to listen-”

“
Can you say that to
someone locked away, hidden from the world, left to suffer and die
at the hands of a killer? Someone who prayed for help every day?
Someone who knew God was going to save them?”

He says, “Is this why you killed
people? You think that God has left you or hurt you or abandoned
you so you have taken actions into your own hands?”

“
There’s an awful lot wrong
with this world. I’m just a simple man out there working to make
things right, father.”

“
Are you a cop?”

“
No.”
Why does everyone keep asking me that?

We’re quiet for a moment.

“
How do you know when God
has stopped listening, father?”

“
God does not stop
listening. It is we that stop listening to Him. You must understand
that. And if you ask for forgiveness now-”

“
They had to die. That was
the choice. The right one. And I think you’re wrong. I think he
does understand. That is all, father. I have a cab waiting. I have
to go now.”

I stood. My knees hurt. I see his
frail hand in the window and his body moving. He’s going to look in
here. He wants to see my face. But I turn. I’m out of there before
he gets the chance.

I step back into the church. To exit I
would turn right, but I turn left instead, moving purposefully.
It’s about a quarter to five in the afternoon and folks are slowly
coming in for Saturday mass. No suits or formal dresses. They’re
Catholic. I fit in nicely with my jeans and leather jacket, hair
slightly brushed.

I walk up a few pews and huddle in
close to a woman knelt in deep prayer. I do the same. We could
easily be mistaken for a couple. She is about my age, blond, with a
long leather jacket. She smells good, too. Vanilla. Probably a
lotion. Good choice. It was one of Pamela’s favorites.

Instantly, right here, right now, not
even a second to consider it, I feel the air in my lungs being
sucked out and the weight of the world crushing down onto my heart,
leaving me paralyzed to do anything but face it. A second was all
it took. Just a whiff in the air. A memory opening the door I have
worked so hard to lock shut. The pain was still so dominant even
after five years. My hands curled into tight fists, squeezing the
pain right out through my white knuckles. I looked up to the cross,
gathered my composure, took a few deep breaths and buried it.
Suffocated its life so I could live on. It took time to learn how
to manage, how to cope, not only with the sudden attacks like I
just had, but with the everyday ache of her being gone.

My God I miss her so
much.

Another deep breath. Then another. I
can do this.

I focus on the present. I stare
straight ahead and wait. I admire the craftsmanship all around. The
pillars, the small angels carved from stone, the ceiling paintings
of angels in clouds. Beautiful. Nothing like this outside of a
Catholic church. It feels like home, as strange as that
sounds.

Click.

I heard it. The confessional door just
shut closed behind me. Always the same. For some reason the priests
always walk out into the church and try to catch me. At least catch
a glimpse of me. Something for the cop sketch artist to draw.
Something to trace me.

I hear the scrape as the massive
engraved doors open behind me and feel the rush of the cool air
fill the church. He’s not going to find me out there. He’ll look
into the busy traffic anyway. He’ll see a cab or two driving and
think one of them was me. He’ll know he was too late. He’ll shut
the door and come back inside in defeat. He’ll wonder if he should
have said something else. Something to get me to stay. Something to
help me turn a new leaf. Then he’ll realize that he can only do so
much and he’ll get back to it with someone else. I often wonder if
the next person gets a stronger dose because of me. Hope they
do.