The Silver Bear

with her job. Again, I didn’t know. My middleman made sure I stayed in the dark. It kept curiosity at bay, like a leash on an angry dog. The less we knew about the “whys,” the less tempted we were to learn more about our clients. It was just an assignment, an impersonal killing, something I was expected to do by rote.

I was sleeping a dreamless sleep when Jim’s voice cut through the darkness. He said something about the phone, and it took me a moment to realize he was standing in the doorway with a cordless receiver in his hand.

“I’m sorry . . . ?” I asked, still trying to shake out the cobwebs.

“There’s a gentleman on the phone for you. He said it was urgent.”

Waking in this bed, in this room, at this time was so foreign, it didn’t register to me what was happening as I sat up in the bed and Jim handed me the receiver. He backed out of the room to give me some privacy.

“Hello?” I said into the phone, my eyes still adjusting to the darkness.

Vespucci’s voice reached through the receiver. “It’s a go.”

Vespucci. He had found me. He knew exactly what I was up to, had even obtained the home number to Jake’s parents’ house. The middleman, the fence, whose job it was to find out everything he could about a target, had also found out everything he could about me. These thoughts were ripping through my head in an instant, only to be broken when the dark Italian spoke again. “Twenty-four hours.” And then the phone clicked off.

It’s a go. Twenty-four hours. Six words packed with a meaning that stretched all the way from this bedroom to a town house off of Beacon Street. I stood up, suddenly awake, as though smelling salts had been twirled under my nose, and started to dress.

When I came out of the bedroom, carrying my pack, Jim was stooped over a pot of coffee, pouring it into two large mugs.

“I’m sorry the call woke you,” I offered.

He handed me a mug. “I’m a hopeless insomniac,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I usually get up by four. It gives me time to think.”

“What time is it now?” The coffee tasted very good.

“Four,” he said, a twinkle to his eye. “You need to split?”

“Yes, sir. Something came up at work. They need me to fill in.”

“No problem. Take the mug with you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Don’t be silly.”

Just then, Jake’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “What’s going on?” she managed. She looked beautiful, standing in an oversized nightshirt, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Looking at her there, it was all I could do to speak.

“I’m sorry . . . I got an emergency call. Everyone’s calling in sick to work today and they need me to fill in. Must be the flu or something. But they said it would be double pay if I could get there by seven. I can’t pass it up.”

She yawned and looked at her dad. “Any more of that java?”

“Half a pot.”

“Well then, pour me a mug while I get dressed, old man.”

“You don’t have to go. I’ll just call a cab to take me to a rental car place. Company said they’d pay for it.”

She moved over and kissed me on the lips, sleepily, right in front of her dad. “Don’t be silly,” she said, sounding just like her father. “I’ll drive you. Pop . . . apologize to Mom for us.”

WE rode most of the way talking about innocuous things . . . my impression of her parents, the neighborhood, the house, the bed, the dinner. I was glad not to have to concentrate on what we were saying; my thoughts were on the file in my backpack.

When we arrived at my front stoop, I kissed her on the cheek, mumbled a few words of thanks, and hurried up into my apartment without looking back. Already, my heart was beating as though it had been shocked with a charger. I made my way to my closet and selected a pair of brown slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt. Over this, I pulled down a navy blue blazer. The same clothes fifty thousand men in Boston were putting on at that very moment. Nothing memorable, nothing that stood out. There is a way of dressing, of walking, of casting your eyes, that people looking right at you don’t even register your presence. This is a skill boys learn at Waxham, another reason I’m sure Hap recommended me to Vespucci.

I eased open the suitcase I kept under the bed. Inside, the tools of my trade, given to me by Vespucci when I stepped out of the Columbus Textile warehouse: a Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol; a box of fifty 9-millimeter hollow-point bullets; a serrated knife with a spiked handle; a cache of false IDs, credit cards, business cards. In case I was struck down doing my duty, my identity would be difficult to determine, giving Vespucci enough time to cover his tracks, probably by burning down this apartment.

I had not graduated yet to a sniper rifle, and though I am semi-proficient in its use now, it is not my preferred modus operandi. There is an adage that says the closer you can get to a mark, the more skilled you are as an assassin, but I think that adage is as porous as a sieve. Some of the dumbest killers in the world have stood two feet from their prey and pulled the trigger, and some of the most skilled riflemen have toppled their marks from distances greater than five city blocks. A close-contact killer may have to negotiate startled bystanders, while a marksman has to balance wind speed, sunlight, elements, obstructions, and the occasional spotter. Each takes expert skill. The trick, even as green as I was then, was to get in a position that would give me the most comfort . . . comfort in locating the target, comfort in killing the target, and comfort in escaping from the murder scene directly after the assassination.

I was standing near a bus stop on Beacon Street, reading the Globe like any other bored commuter, checking my watch occasionally, humming to myself a bland tune. The door to Janet Stephens’s town house opened and she emerged, wearing a navy dress and white walking sneakers for her short hike to the courthouse.

As soon as she entered the Common, I folded my paper, tucked it under my arm, and followed from thirty yards away, adjusting my pace to match hers, so that we would remain the same distance apart. I felt certain that somewhere Vespucci was watching me like the eye of God to see how his newest charge would handle the pressure of his first assignment.

Janet passed a couple of tourists looking at the duck sculptures, then took a left down one of the paths dissecting the park. She walked at a pace somewhere between brisk and leisurely, not enough to break a sweat but quick enough to keep me on my toes. I could feel my pulse rising in my ears, like a phantom drumbeat, pounding, pounding. The middle of her back stayed tight as she swung her arms, and it seemed wider than the way it was described in the file, certainly wide enough to hit, to split open, to shatter the spine, even from thirty yards away.

She slowed as she left the park and came to a crosswalk. A blinking red hand on the light-box across the street forced her to a stop, and she used the chance to stoop down and tie a loose shoelace. I had no choice but to approach the same crosswalk; there were several other pedestrians also waiting for the light to change, so it wasn’t as though I would be the only one joining her on the corner.

Still, it seemed like a giant spotlight was trained right on me. I looked past the businessman in front of me and concentrated on the middle of Janet Stephens’s back, less than two feet away now, stooped over, the cloth on her dress fluttering slightly as she tightened the lace. Two feet away. The Glock felt heavy where it hugged my ribs, hidden behind the loose-fitting blazer. I scratched my belly with my right hand, a casual gesture, then reached further in my jacket, as though I were scratching a rib. The metal of the gun barrel felt cold on my fingertips. Right now. I could do it right here, at the corner of the park, pull the gun, and then. . . .

The blinking red hand changed to the universal sign for “walk.” Janet sprung up and quickly returned to her previous pace. I let the other commuters pass in front of me and held back until I had returned to a comfortable distance. I was still thirty yards behind when Janet Stephens disappeared up the steps of the courthouse.

Was Vespucci watching? Did he see me hesitate and make a mental note, maybe even write something down in a notebook? Was he judging me, right now, this instant? “Columbus hesitated. A waste of an opportunity. Will