The Target

I sit in the dark of my cheap Manhattan hotel room, peeking through the curtains. Downstairs and across the street is a police cruiser parked outside Private Eyes. That’s not a detective agency. It’s a strip club.

It’s 4:20 in the morning, and right on cue out walks a trio of girls. Even from the second floor I can see their overdone makeup and chronic fatigue. End of a long night for them, but it’s still early for me. And none of them are the girl I’m looking for.

The bouncer and the police watch them leave, but none of them know what they’re looking for. I know exactly what they’re looking for.

Out she walks. Tall. Blonde. Sexy. All legs. She must be a rookie, because she’s still wearing those stripper shoes. No one told her to bring a comfortable pair of shoes for the walk back home. She lives alone. Fresh off the boat from Russia.

It’s cold here like Russia today. At least she has a warm coat, with one of those crazy fur hats. God I hate those things.

I wait a beat then begin my pursuit. She’s halfway down the block, headed towards Ninth Avenue. I exit the hotel and turn towards Eighth. If I turn to follow her directly I’ll be spotted by even the laziest cop. I can walk at least twice as fast as she can in those heels.

It’s a short block to 44^th Street and a long block back to Ninth Avenue. Longer still without the target in sight. I’m twenty meters from the corner when her stupid hat comes into view.

She crosses the street and turns in to Westway Diner. She’s called ahead and they have her order prepared. Breakfast of champions ready to go in a large white paper bag. It beats cooking at five in the morning. I don’t wait outside as she pays, I keep “following” her from out in front this time. It should take her about 90 seconds to pay and exit the diner.

I look over my shoulder at her reflection in the storefront window of American Apparel. She’s back on track now, presumably headed to her apartment.

I turn towards Tenth Avenue. She follows. I keep on towards Eleventh. Her pace has slowed. Is she on to me? She can’t know what I’m planning, but she has reason to be scared. Four other strippers murdered this month. All blondes.

The image of their lifeblood spiraling down their shower drains is etched in my mind. The thought of it must be etched in hers. Can she know that she’s the fifth target?

No matter. She trucks on in those heels. I’ve come to her apartment building in the bowels of Hell’s Kitchen, just past the abandoned train tracks. I keep walking. She has her keys in hand and quickly lets herself in.

She’s out of sight, and I turn to an alley between the buildings. Garbage gets dumped here. It smells of overripe bananas and spoiled milk. I climb up on a rusted garbage can lid and reach for the bottom of the fire escape of the adjacent building. My gloved hand slides over the bottom rung and I ease it down. It makes more sound than I’d like. Hopefully the neighbors are heavy sleepers.

Her lights go on before I reach the third floor. Will she stop to eat first, or jump right in the shower, eager to clean off the stink of men and perfume. Her bathroom light goes on, informing me of the latter. It won’t be long now. The cheap Venetian blinds are down but not closed all the way.

I draw my .50 Desert Eagle and check the clip.

I observe her form as she removes her clothes for the hundredth and final time today. She’s beautiful in that obvious way that most men like. I don’t see anything unique, though. It’s like she doesn’t really know who she is yet. Her hands shake as she pulls back the shower curtain.

I wait.

Nerves. My palms still sweat, and after how many kills? I’m almost embarrassed at my increasing heart rate. Not the cool detachment I portray. A few deep breaths is always the tonic. It’s comforting to know that she’s nervous, too. The soap slips from her grasp and she leaves it on the floor of the shower. That’s dangerous. Someone could slip and die.

I wait.

She’s rinsing now.

I wait.

She pulls back the curtain and stares death in the face. The moment lasts a blink, not forever like they say.

I shoot.

She screams, her face a mask of fresh warm blood. She doesn’t understand.

The face of death has been wiped away. He’s beyond dead. Brains on the wall. Blood everywhere. Sound is muted from the blast of my gun. The smell of powder flares my nostrils.

I feel the familiar rush. Fear. Pain. Sadness. Guilt. Rage. Adrenaline. Hate. Vindication. Satisfaction. Joy.

I could have used a silencer, but it mutes the emotions, too. I like to feel what I’m doing. My connection to life and death.

She looks out the window now. She sees my form, but not much more. How will she explain the body when the police show up? She won't have to. Faceless middle-aged white male found dead in the home of a stripper. They’ll put it together. Even cops aren’t that dumb.

I have to go now. It’s rooftop to rooftop, then down a fire escape on 44^th Street, over a railing, and down to the abandoned train tracks. No one will find me there. No one ever has.

For more of Paul's work, check out Zen Madman's Flash Fiction Folio.