Chapter 35
Ace
"We're sure that Wren is sure?" I ask Hemlock.
"Kincaid says he puts complete faith in Wren's ability to use technology to find this guy."
"This guy?" I ask pointing to the man who is around my age. "They picked him up from the golf course."
I was all for tracking this piece of shit down, thinking he was lurking around the Preston Estate possibly planning on tying up loose ends and considering Cora to be one of those, but this guy looks like he has cataracts and is wearing a button-down shirt and plaid shorts, despite the fact that it's January.
"How he looks has probably helped him avoid detection for so long," Hemlock says.
"He has three kids, two are lawyers and one is a doctor. Nine grandchildren," Jericho says, reading from the file we printed from Wren's information. "He has only missed one men's breakfast at his church in seven years, and the one he did miss he was hospitalized having his gallbladder removed."
I walk toward Jericho, looking around his shoulder to read details on this guy. I'm all for taking out a bad guy, but Grandpa over there doesn't seem the type.
"He volunteers for Habitat for Humanity," I tell Hemlock. "He only recently retired from his job as an accountant. "
"Look at him," Hemlock urges, pointing toward the man sitting at the table. "He's as cool as a cucumber. Who do you know that would just sit there like a docile little lamb when they've been plucked from their lives and brought in for questioning?"
"I'd be pissed," Jericho says. "He's answered every question, and it all adds up. How can someone remember such fine details of their lives from so long ago? I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday."
"Wait until you're in your fifties," I mutter.
"There's one way to find out the real truth," Hemlock says, reaching into a bag and pulling out a leather pouch.
I've heard what the man is capable of, and where his skill set lies, and although it's a gory thing, sometimes it's necessary.
"And if we're wrong?" I ask, pointing to the man on the other side of the one-way glass. "You're just going to chop up some elderly dude to prove a point."
Hemlock looks up from the toolset he has. "Kincaid trusts Wren, and I trust Kincaid, fully. That's all the information I need."
"I'm with the Prez on this one," Jericho says.
"And if he doesn't talk?"
"They always talk," Hemlock says with a devious smile, and I wonder how long he's been waiting for another chance to do this. "After a certain amount of blood loss, everyone tells the truth."
I can't argue with his reasoning, and just like he said, I too have unquestionable confidence in Kincaid. If he's sanctioning this, then I guess I can be okay with it too.
I watch Hemlock walk into the room and fully expect the man's eyes to widen when Hemlock rolls the tool set out on the table in front of him.
The man doesn't flinch, and my faith in what's going on strengthens. I'd probably shit my pants if I were him, so his lack of reaction is beyond abnormal .
Hemlock pulls his chair from the table, giving him the ability to walk around him, and he does, circling him like a buzzard waiting for flesh to rot in the heat of the sun. The man continues to look ahead as if resigned to whatever it is that's about to happen to him. He doesn't demand answers or ask what's going on. He doesn't even ask for an attorney as if he knows requesting one makes him look guilty.
But I don't think that's it either. The man is so confident in his ability to win whatever battle is happening between him and Hemlock that he'll never talk. He has already decided to take his secrets to the grave, and I sort of envy that of him, doubting I could ever be that brave.
"Have you seen him do this before?" I ask Jericho, not pulling my eyes from the two men in the other room.
"Nope," he says. "But I've been hoping to get the chance."
"I think we're ready to begin," Hemlock says, the first words he has spoken since entering the room.
Jericho rubs his hands together like a psycho. I'm all for putting a bullet in some bad guy's head, but this is something I'd never be capable of doing.
I know at this moment it's being done because we need information, but I can't help but wonder if this is something Hemlock would do just for fun. The idea of that makes my stomach turn.
I know it's not too close of a comparison, but is Hemlock any better or worse than Wren? This isn't even close to legal, and neither is how Wren obtained the information that led us here. What would their worlds look like if they weren't on our side of the law? Hell, they aren't on the right side of the law right now, and I guess since I'm just standing here watching this play out, neither am I.
But that's sort of why this organization was created in the first place. There are things that ICE or other governmental agencies can't do because of oversight, and as much as this particular situation would make most Americans sick to their stomachs, I feel like it's a necessary evil. Honestly, how many people would be upset that someone was essentially torturing a serial killer for hire? Not many I imagine if they knew the details of his crimes, but what if it turns out this old man isn't such a heinous villain? The finger-pointing should definitely point toward those who hire him, but in the end, he's the one who pulls the trigger for cash.
"Sadie Preston," Hemlock says, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag he pulls from his kit.
The old man lifts his head, his smile coated with red.
That's when I know for certain that he is exactly who Wren said he is.
"Motherfucker," I mutter.
"Yeah," Jericho agrees. "He's good."
"You want me to confess my sins?" Elliot whispers, his voice so weak the words are barely audible.
"I want to know who is responsible for the hired hit on Sadie Preston," Hemlock says, and I'm shocked at his tone.
He's calm and completely unaffected as if he hadn't spent the last half hour carving this man to pieces. It's the strangest thing to witness on both sides.
"You'll let me go if I tell you?"
Hemlock stares at the man as if he can't believe the other guy would ask such a thing, making it very clear what the answer is.
"Hmm," the old man huffs. "You could've lied to me."
"That's one thing I'll never do," Hemlock says. "You won't walk out of here tonight."
I have pulled the trigger on a lot of jobs. I have watched the light fade from dying men's eyes. I have arranged the meeting between really bad guys and their maker, but this feels like murder, and as a man who fights day and night to keep others from breaking the law, I struggle with what I'm witnessing right now, fighting against the urge to either let it happen or step in and try to prevent it.
I don' t stand still out of fear, and it's as if I can feel the moment there's a shift inside of me.
Hemlock is protecting Cora. This man has to be here in Columbia for her, and letting him walk out of here isn't an option. She’d never be safe if he's allowed to live, and that's not a chance I'm willing to take with her safety, no matter the cost to my soul.
"If I'm going to die, then why should I speak?"
It's sound reasoning, honestly.
"You'll speak for Trisha."
The man narrows his eyes as Hemlock drops the bloody hand towel down to the table before picking up a long thin blade. He used it earlier to slice the webbing between the man's fingers.
"You'll speak for Laurie, Clinton, and Jack."
He's listing the names of the man's wife and kids, and before he can start listing the numerous grandkids, the man dips his head.
He's willing to die to protect his family, and there was a time when I never understood that. Well, I understood, because it's what makes people weak. Love gets you killed. It's dangerous, a weakness, but I stand a little taller knowing I'd do the same fucking thing for Cora. I'd die to protect her.
I'd like to think that Hemlock wouldn't honestly go after the man's family, but thankfully Elliot Hockley doesn't know where Hemlock's uncrossable line is.
"Where are you going?" Jericho snaps when I move past him and enter the room Hemlock is in.
The man's head dips again and I can tell he's struggling to stay awake with the amount of blood he has lost.
"The brother," I say, holding out the family picture I snatched from Cora's house. It's several years old, a quick snapshot I imagine was taken by Faye because all four Preston siblings are in the shot, Sadie of course looking like she'd rather be anywhere else but spending time with her family .
I felt guilty for stealing such a thing, but I couldn't leave without taking something, having something in my possession of her image. Online images seemed lesspersonal to me.
The man's eyes look empty when he glances at the picture. There's no emotion in them, not even regret knowing what he's facing as he stares at the family picture.
I pull it back, keeping him from looking at her any longer. Just the thought of his eyes on her makes me want to shove one of Hemlock's knives into his skull.
"He hired me again to come back and take out the entire family," the man says as if he's mentioning what he had for breakfast rather than eliminating a family. "Even the old lady."
I look over my shoulder at Hemlock, and I swear this is just another day in the office for the man.
"He doesn't have long," Hemlock says, pointing to the growing puddle of blood under the man's chair. "Do you have what you need?"
I look between the two, trying to figure out a way to prosecute William Preston, Jr. for hiring this man to kill his sister.
There's not one thing that happened here tonight that would be admissible in court. We could all go to prison for our involvement.
Then I remember this isn't about getting a conviction. It's about protecting Cora, and from the looks of it protecting Chris and Faye as well.
"Did he say why?" I ask, needing to know the man's reasoning.
I sort of understand why he'd want Sadie gone. She was a detriment to his career. She caused problems and brought shame to the family name, but Cora and Chris?
"His political career would be in the spotlight," the man whispers, a cough bubbling up from his throat .
He attempts to spit blood to the floor, but it ends up dribbling down his chin.
"He has aspirations to be president." A wicked smile crosses his face, the blood coating his teeth making him look deranged. "Wouldn't be the first man I helped get into office."
His head dips once again as if he's growing too weak to hold it up.
When he looks up again, he locks glassy eyes on Hemlock, and I see some sort of camaraderie there as if the man not only accepts his death but he knows it's something Hemlock has to do. There's kinship in his eyes, and I inwardly wonder how that makes Hemlock feel to have any level of bond with the killer.
"Make it look like an accident," the man manages. "They have no idea who I really am."
"Goodbye," Hemlock says just as the man's head lolls to the side, eyes wide open.
We got what we needed, but we also have the body of a man and numerous victims’ families that will have no closure because we stole his day in court.
I have to accept what I've participated in, but he'll never be able to take another contract. It doesn't end murder for hire by any means, but it's one less killer on the street, and I call that a win.