Weird. Paul took out a brand-new NetPhone I-590, fresh out of the box. He went online, activated it, and packaged it for shipping.
A week later, Paul stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. His mind wouldn't accept what he saw.
Kevin Parsons
271 Hawkes Drive
Lincoln, NE 68508
He read it again, for the hundredth time.
This can't be a test. They don't know who I am.
Research time gave him a few months to figure this out. He could invent a delay if he needed to. He read the name again.
This can't be a coincidence.
He read it again.
If I turn it down, they'll send somebody else.
He read it again.
This can't be a trap. It can't be a test.
The phone shattered against the wall. Paul closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths. His heart rate slowed. His mind went through the litany.
Kevin Parsons. Age 66. Retired. Widower, lives alone. One child, 36. No grandchildren. No security on the house, no guards, no dog, no frequent visitors. Clockwork schedule: goes to service on Sundays, then out to breakfast at the Easy Peasy; bowls on Tuesdays, 7:30 PM; jogs every morning at 6:15 AM. An easy kill. But why would anyone want him dead?
* * *
June 26th, 10:45 AM CST; Home of Kevin Parsons; Lincoln, Nebraska.
Paul Renner pulled the rental car up to the driveway of a quaint, 1950s-style split-level, painted a generic off-white with a gray-shingled roof. A plastic trout served as the mailbox, emblazoned Parsons in bold white on the side. He gathered his thoughts, suppressing the façade of Paul Renner into background noise.
He got out of the car, patted the fish-box on the head, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A familiar chime sounded inside the house, followed by his father's gruff voice. "Just a minute!"
The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and had an enormous grin on his face. His dad had long ago lost the battle to a receding hairline and had only wisps of white above his ears. Despite the hour, he wore white boxer shorts and an undershirt stretched comfortably over a bit of a gut.
"Steve!" his dad cried out and wrapped him in a giant hug, almost spilling his coffee in the process.
"Hi, Dad," Paul said, his voice sounding chagrined.
His father pulled back, his face sly. "What're you doing here, after so long with no visits? Need money?"
It was a long-standing joke. Whenever he visited, Paul tried to give his dad money, or a car, or a new TV, or tickets to the theater. Every time, Dad turned him down. His dad had taken to asking him if he needed money before he could offer anything.
"No, Dad. I'm set for cash."
"Have you talked to your cousin Ryan lately?" his dad asked, leading him to the kitchen.
"Not in a few months. We're both busy, I guess." Paul helped himself to a cup of coffee and pointed at the old, battered toaster oven next to the pot. "Hey, where's the one I got you?"
His dad smiled. "That one works just fine. Pastor Jenkins needed a new one for the hospitality room. Theirs died."
"Huh," Paul said. He took a tentative sip. "Sheesh, Dad, you could strip paint with this." He set the cup on the counter and opened the cupboard, looking for some sugar.
His dad chuckled and took a swallow of his own. "Does the body good." He paused. "You should call Ryan, though. Family's important. The most important thing you've got."
Paul smiled, blanking his thoughts. "I will, Dad, I will. I met his new girl, what's-her-name, not too long ago. We saw a show and caught up a little. She seems nice."
"She is nice, Steve. So's that Courtney you brought around that time. I wouldn't mind seeing her around a bit more."
Paul frowned. That time was three years ago. Long-term attachments didn't mesh well with his line of work.
His dad hadn't noticed. "You could use a lady in your life, you know? Your mother…."
Paul looked at his dad, startled. Dad never talked about Mom. Never.
"Your mother…." He smiled sadly. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best."
"I know, Pop," Paul said. He blinked. A blonde woman lay on beige carpet stained red with blood. He pressed his palms into her neck. His hands were too small; he couldn't stop the bleeding. Hot and red, it filled his nostrils, metallic and cloying. Rough hands on his shoulders dragged him to a navy-blue van emblazoned with three yellow letters: FBI. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop screaming. He blinked again. "I wish I'd known her."
They drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, his dad clapped once. "Well, enough moping about the past. What say we go work on that crawl space?"