Chapter 19 To Kind of Kill #3
Although autumn, the day was stiflingly, unseasonably hot.
Mitch hoped the French doors on the first floor of Salinas’s mansion would be open – it would spare him the trouble of picking the lock.
He’d planned everything down to the last detail: the wisteria climbing up the facade would serve as a makeshift ladder.
In his pocket, he carried everything he needed to finally settle the score and rid himself, once and for all, of the man who had been standing in the way of his happiness.
At 12:30, he stepped onto the private road. The cul-de-sac was deserted. He lingered on the sidewalk for a few minutes to make sure none of the neighbours were looking out their windows, then made his move toward the house.
During his time in prison, rope climbing had been the only physical activity he could participate in after his forced walk on the Death Path; it was the only thing his damaged leg hadn’t kept him from doing.
After a year of relentless practice, he’d been able to reach the hook in the ceiling faster than any other inmate – and that was using the strength in his arms alone.
His record was two consecutive five-metre ascents in under 9.
54 seconds. The balcony, he estimated, was about six metres off the ground.
The wisteria wasn’t as cooperative as the hemp rope in prison, but it took him seven seconds to climb up to the balcony, and another two to swing himself over the railing.
The windows were slightly ajar, held in place by espagnolette latches, and all he had to do was lift the handle to slip into the room.
The room was elegantly furnished, with two blue velvet armchairs facing a matching sofa across a lapis lazuli coffee table.
Mitch glanced at his watch: he had about ten minutes before Salinas got home.
But then he heard footsteps upstairs. He hadn’t factored in the household staff.
Spotting a door at the far end of the living room, he peeked through and discovered the prosecutor’s office, which contained two magnificent bookcases and a row of floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinets that took up the entire wall opposite the French doors.
A flush of rage rose under Mitch’s skin. Lining the shelves were titles were on the banned list: a first edition of Fahrenheit 451 and another of The Handmaid’s Tale. Salinas had used books from his own library as evidence to convict Mitch.
He was reaching for one of the books when a voice echoed from the next room. Salinas. He was followed by a butler, who announced that lunch was served.
“I need to make a phone call,” he heard the prosecutor say. “Urgent. Can’t wait.”
Mitch dashed toward the nearest cabinet.
No luck hiding in there; it was crammed with files.
The second was a coat closet: three overcoats, an old hunting rifle and an umbrella – just enough space for him to squeeze in.
He did – just in time. Salinas entered, poured himself a glass of port, and picked up the phone. He took a deep, deliberate breath.
“Thank you for taking my call,” he began, in a wheedling tone. “I know how valuable your time is. I know I’m asking a lot, and I’ll owe you more than I can say. I have to win this trial.” There was a desperate edge to the words.
He clutched the base of the phone, twisting the cord around his fingers, nodding eagerly at the voice on the other end.
Mitch, face pressed into the crack of the closet door, should have jumped out and ended it right then and there.
But something about the scene held him frozen in place – an unfamiliar, twisted sense of elation.
The beautiful mansion, the snobbish butler, the blue sedan that matched the living room furniture – none of it mattered.
Salinas had abandoned his usual self-satisfaction.
He was grovelling. The poverty of his soul glistened on his forehead in a sheen of nervous sweat.
“You won’t regret this, I promise,” he was saying. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Yes, of course, you can count on me, it’s all arranged. I can’t thank you enough.”
Ah, the burdens of justice.
Relieved, Salinas hung up the phone and returned to the living room. Mitch remained hidden, listening silently. Then the butler’s voice was back, announcing that someone was there asking to speak to Monsieur.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” the prosecutor huffed impatiently.
“I informed them of that myself, Monsieur, before coming up, but the visitor insists. Says it’s urgent – something to, ah, reveal.”
“Fine. Let’s see what this is all about.”
Salinas and the butler left the room.
* * *
When he was sure the coast was clear, Mitch emerged from the closet. He moved behind the massive desk and sat down in Salinas’s chair. He surveyed the room, unsettled by the feeling creeping over him.
Pity.
Not compassion, or empathy – pity. It was condescending, arrogant, smug.
Everything Mitch wasn’t. And yet, that was exactly what he was feeling.
Salinas had wealth, power, status. But he was terribly alone – far more so than Mitch had ever been in his prison cell, because it was a loneliness of his own making.
Still, that didn’t change anything. Mitch had made up his mind. He looked at the glass of port, picked it up, set it back down a few seconds later, and left the mansion the same way he’d come.