WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 5)

24

No two jobs are alike for a contract killer. That was what made it so interesting for the man in the silver Toyota Camry. It wasn’t the act of killing itself. Although he never hesitated to do it, he took no particular pleasure in it. It was the challenges that had to be overcome. The thrill of the hunt. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome,” like the Marines always say. Find a way to get it done. It was never personal, and he kept the suffering to an absolute minimum. It was a matter of professionalism, after all.

This particular job should not prove to be too difficult. All he had to do was stick around and kill the guy, do the one other job, and then go home and pack for his trip.

The hardest part was staying awake until the guy returned in his boat. He powered the Camry window down perhaps an inch, in order to better hear the outboard motor that would signal the approach of his intended target. It helped to think of those he was hired to kill as targets rather than people. And he never once considered any of them to be innocent victims. If they were really innocent, they would not have contracts on their lives. Except for the kids. But, he’d done it in the war and he’d told himself then that they were collateral casualties. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong parents. It had only gotten to him once. Now, every year, on the anniversary of his one big mistake, Jared Mulligan visited the grave of the innocent child he had buried in an unmarked grave in Illinois.

He looked at the photograph of the man he’d been sent to kill and thought, ‘Hmm. He looks a lot like me.’ Ironically, under other circumstances, he had killed a handful of other men throughout the country for no pay at all, for no other reason than they bore a striking resemblance to him. But not this fellow. He flipped the photograph over, looked at the name. This was work. And besides, Ty Hamilton had too much baggage.

Why anyone would be out on the water with a storm coming was beyond his imagination. Fishing and golf. Two completely different hobbies, but the people who pursued them all shared one thing in common. They were all raving lunatics.

A mosquito took advantage of the partially-opened driver’s-side window and flew inside the car to buzz around the inside of his ear. The man cursed, pressed a finger inside his ear to mash the mosquito, and closed the window. After a few minutes, the interior of the car began to get stuffy, or perhaps it was his imagination. Even as a child, he had always felt stifled in enclosed spaces. He started the engine. There was plenty of gas in the car, and he could sit there running the air conditioner for hours if necessary. It would increase the level of difficulty somewhat. With the window up and the air conditioner blower on, he would not hear the boat as it drew near. Backed into the parking space as he was, he should still have no problem seeing it.

He’d waited two hours already for this Hamilton guy, but that came with the job. Early on in his career, to avoid death by boredom, he’d learned to bring along a crossword puzzle or a book to help pass the time. Nowadays he carried an iPad with and plenty of e-books to choose from on the Kindle App.

He was more at home in the city, but this remote location did offer its advantages. For one, he could do his job without having to worry about witnesses. In an urban area, he would have to limit himself to minimal consumption of liquids while sitting in the car. When nature called, he would’ve had to make use of a wide-mouth plastic jug, something he never went without on such an assignment. He’d become quite adept at pissing in a jug while seated without getting any on himself. It was an acquired skill, although not one that would ever be found on a resume. Today, though, it didn’t matter. There was no one around, maybe for miles. No need to go without water and suffer dehydration headaches. He’d consumed three bottles, and now it was time to empty his bladder.

He left the key in the ignition—you never know when you’ll need to make a quick departure. As a precaution against locking himself out, he left the door slightly ajar. It would also allow him to get back in more quickly. Unnecessary precautions, perhaps, but precautions were what had kept him alive all this time. He walked a dozen yards or so away from the car to the boat launch, unzipped his fly and began to piss into the river, enjoying the freedom of being able to do such a thing in the great outdoors—it was a guy thing, he supposed—and just as he finished, he sensed rather than heard the presence of another.

Being a professional, he showed no outward sign of fear, nothing to betray any sense of alarm that he felt. He slowly, imperceptibly inhaled deeply, zipped up, and turned around. When he recognized the familiar face, he exhaled, and his shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, it’s you!” he smiled. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.” Then, “What are you doing here?” He saw the hand move, knew what it meant, and dove into the river just as the forty-five caliber hollow point tore into his right shoulder.

25

Ty Hamilton

Heavy thunderstorms were rapidly approaching.  The weather system had come to life as a tropical depression in the Atlantic, built itself up to a tropical storm as it skirted through the Florida Straits, and eventually became a full-fledged hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. After making landfall in the Pensacola area and wreaking havoc on the Gulf coast, it had meandered up through the southern states. What was left of it was now working its way north into the Midwest, making the storm that had blown through my last night on the job look like a non-event. Judging by the darkening sky and the rumbling thunder, it was almost upon me.

I thought of all the storms I’d flown through throughout my career. The worst was without a doubt when I was getting checked out to fly the Boeing 767 on our Asian routes. We departed Tokyo and just before reaching our destination of Dalian, China, we got into some nasty, NASTY weather. The remnants of a typhoon were still lingering in the area, and we got the living snot kicked out of us. English is the official language of aviation worldwide, but there was still a communication problem. Visibility was below our landing minimums, and we were issued holding instructions at an intersection sitting right smack dab in the middle of the worst of the storm. We were not able to get clearance to hold anywhere else, so there we were, flying racetrack pattern over and over again, circling in the center of the weather. 

Eventually the visibility came up, just enough for us to make it in. I still shudder when I think of that flight.

I decided to call an early end to my day. The fishing hadn’t been all that good anyway. I’d caught and released a couple of catfish in the three to four pound range. With all the chemical runoff and sewage that gets in the water, it’s just not safe to eat anything taken from the river anymore.

My mind wasn’t really on fishing anyway. I went out on the river, as I often do, to just get away, to have a little time alone, sort things out. On the river, for me anyway, it seems like all things are possible. The river eventually feeds into the ocean. From there you can go anywhere. Do anything. Be whoever you want to be. You are free. All things are possible.

Just to give you an idea, here’s how the day that would forever change my life had started:

I’d just gotten back from taking Pepper for a walk so he could do his business, and was seated at the kitchen table eating cereal when my wife, Dianna shuffled into the kitchen in her bathrobe. She yawned and poured a cup of coffee, then turned her attention toward me. “What are you doing today?”

I shrugged. “Thought I might go fishing.”

“Fishing.” She sighed heavily, scowled and shook her head. “Heaven forbid you go out and look for a job,” she muttered.

“Sorry.” I said.

“And what exactly is it that are you sorry for, Ty?”

“For whatever I did. Or said. Or you dreamed that I did or said,” I replied, adding, “Sorry for believing that this time Travis was going to follow through on something. Sorry I took the security job. Definitely sorry I took the early retirement.” Sorry I walked across the room to introduce myself way back when. But I didn’t say that.

I stood there, imagining a parallel universe where Ty Hamilton had chosen Door Number 2, and stayed single, what his life must be like. Dianna rolled her eyes, slowly shook her head, and exhaled. “So now you wish you were still flying? All you used to talk about was how you couldn’t wait to retire.”

She had me there. For the last few years of my career, I was burned out. Being gone two weeks or more at a time, living out of a suitcase. Missing holidays, birthdays and anniversaries. Battling thunderstorms, gusty crosswinds on snow-packed runways, icing, freezing rain, and fog. Suffering sleep deprivation and, every now and then, a copilot with a bad attitude. Like many airline pilots, I no longer appreciated the good things—flying jets around the world, going places other people only read about or see on television, staying in four and five star hotels, making damn good money. I thought I was burned out on flying. Turns out, all I really needed was a long vacation.

“I just wanted more time at home,” I said as I took my empty bowl to rinse it and put it in the dishwasher, the way Dianna insisted on doing it. Rinse it clean and then put it in the dishwasher. I never saw the point in that, but after thirty-plus years living with a woman, you learn to go with the flow.

Dianna leaned back against the kitchen counter, sipping from her “World’s Greatest Mom” cup. She wasn’t aware of it, but her robe was slightly open, accidentally giving me a peek at her ample bosom.  Seeing her like that, I felt something stirring south of my belt buckle. Despite the fact that we appeared to be heading for another argument, I decided to turn on the old Hamilton charm, make my best move on her, knowing the odds were against success. “And now I can spend some of that time with the woman I love,” I said as I slipped both arms around her and leaned in for a kiss.”

She turned her head. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

“A little morning breath never killed anyone.” I leaned in again.

“Look, I’m just not in the mood today, Ty.” She slipped out of my grasp and left me standing there.

“Help me out here, Dianna,” I said. “I’m trying to remember the last time you were in the mood. Two months ago? No, longer than that. More like three, maybe four?”

“Enjoy your fishing trip,” she said, her voice dull, monotone.

I reached out, gently placed my hand on her upper arm. “Look,” I said. “Getting fired hurts. Even from a dead-end job that pays peanuts. I’m going to give myself a few days, okay?” I said.  “I need to lick my wounds. Get my head back on straight. I don’t want to just jump at the first thing that comes along.” “Plus, I am a bit overqualified for most jobs . . . You know how it is.”

Dianna wasn’t ready to declare a truce. “I do know how it is, Tyler,” she said. “I know you should be out looking for a job. I know you should sell that stupid boat! And get rid of your motorcycle! Why a man your age thinks he has any business riding around on one of those things is beyond me. I’ll tell you one thing—I’m not going to be the one spoon-feeding you and wiping your ass for the next twenty years if you wrap that thing around a tree and are paralyzed from the neck down.

“And, I know why you don’t want to go looking for a job. You’re used to being in charge. You were a captain for what, twenty years? And the idea of taking orders from someone else is hard for you to accept.”

“Well hell, Di,” I lashed out. “I should be used to taking orders by now. I’ve been married to you for thirty-some years.”

I had done it again. Dianna glared at me. She said nothing, just turned and walked away, back toward the bedroom. The bedroom I would not likely see anytime soon.

I hated to admit it, but she was right. An older guy like me, with my background, would not be inclined to take any crap from some snot-nosed twenty-something MBA middle-management asswipe.

So, that is how people like me end up working security jobs all alone in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. Except now I wasn’t even doing that. I’d been fired. There is nothing worse than a man with time on his hands.

26

Ty Hamilton

Ten minutes before my life changed forever, I was sitting in my boat, feeling frustrated, discouraged. My life had not gone according to plan. Not even close. I was now in my sixties, and time was running out. Not that I was dying. Not physically. Much worse than that. My dreams were dying. And worse still, I might hang on for another thirty or forty years, living every day in regret. I remember once, years ago, hearing someone say that as you sit in your rocking chair reflecting on your life, you won’t regret the things that you did. You will only regret the things that you didn’t do. That always stayed with me.  At one time, I had a bucket list of about thirty-five, maybe forty things I wanted to do before I died. Now, I could see all those things I’d ever hoped to do slipping away from me one by one. Like reconciling with my daughter, Rocky.

I used to bring a handgun along whenever I went out alone on the river, for protection. If you’ve ever spent time on the river, you know why. Lately, I’d been leaving the gun at home. I felt less threatened by the people I encountered than by my own self, given my present state of mind.

Before going home, I still needed to drop off my security uniform at the Sheepdog Security office. two pairs of black cargo pants—the kind with all the pockets—and two white polo shirts, along with a jacket and a baseball-style cap, each with the Sheepdog  logo and the word SECURITY on them. And I needed to stop by the flower shop to get something for Dianna. I’d been acting like a jerk the past few days. But then I thought of her and Dallas Remington. How I’d pretended not to see them in one another’s arms last week when I’d walked down the hill to watch Dianna training. Forget the flowers. I checked my watch. I’d better get moving.

It was getting chilly, and the first heavy raindrops splattered on the floor and seats of the boat. My yellow poncho was on the floor of the boat, next to my tackle box. As I reached for it, I knocked the Styrofoam container full of night crawlers onto it. I wanted to stay dry, so I slipped on the poncho despite the mess.

With the immediate threat of the weather, none of that mattered to me right now, eight minutes before my life would change forever, as much as getting back to the safety of my truck. The outboard motor came to life on the second pull of the start cord. I pulled the loose end of the double-braided nylon dock line, releasing the slipknot from a willow limb that extended out over the riverbank, and pointed the flat-bottomed boat upstream.

We’d had above average rainfall this year, and the river was deep, with a swift current that carried mud from washed-out river banks, making the water look like creamed coffee. No wonder the fish weren’t biting. But like I said, I go out on the river for more than just fishing. I had to run full throttle just to work my way upstream to the boat launch. I was concerned, because I didn’t have much fuel left in the tank.

In just under five minutes, my life would change forever. I didn’t know that, of course, so my mind was preoccupied with annoyance at my son Travis, who had taken the boat out earlier in the week, and despite my reminder, neglected to top off the tank or fill the spare can that I keep in the boat. As much as I would have liked to, I really couldn’t put all the blame on Travis. I should have checked it myself when I stopped in at the convenience store up the road before launching the boat. I’d fueled up my truck, stocked up with beer and ice, beef jerky, a dozen night crawlers and a lottery ticket, but it did not occur to me to check the fuel for the boat. To make matters worse, I hadn’t even noticed it until after I had gone a mile or so downstream and tied up to the limb of the willow tree. I do dumb things when my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of a trashed career, a boring job, a broken marriage, an estranged relationship with my daughter, and a son who couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

It was late in the afternoon, and getting darker by the minute with the storm clouds filtering out the sun. As I pulled up alongside the dock, my life would be changing forever in only two more minutes.

27

Ty Hamilton

I wrapped the rope around the dock cleat, hopped out, and hustled up the hill to my truck.

The storm was getting close now, raindrops were splattering the pavement on the boat launch, and I could hear the rumbling thunder getting closer and closer. I wasn’t about to wear the worm-slime-covered poncho in my truck cab, so I quickly removed it and tossed it into the truck bed.

A gust of wind hit the door of my truck just as I was getting in, slamming it against my leg and pinning it against the doorframe. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was only pain, not a severe injury. I pushed the door against the wind and brought my leg up into the cab. Overhead, the treetops swayed like a drunken chorus line.

I backed the trailer down the ramp and into the water without swerving. With less than a minute remaining before my life changed forever, I placed the shift selector into PARK, set the emergency brake, and got out. A moment later, I was back in the boat, motoring toward the awaiting trailer. That was when I saw him. That was the moment when my life changed forever.