I scrambled out from under the desk, not wanting to appear obvious, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
At least there wasn't an alarm system. At least not one I could find. In a few minutes, it wouldn't matter. He could push as many buttons as he wanted. It would all be over soon.
My phone chimed from Maria's housekeeping apron. Ding! Eight minutes to go.
I thought that was a rather clever touch on my part, setting little alarms every minute. And eight was my lucky number. I was approaching the final countdown, and the cameras wouldn't catch me glancing at a watch or a phone to check the time.
Perpetual time-checking is a sure sign of a nervous person. I was nervous as hell, but I wasn't showing it. Nobody would suspect my plot, my ploy. My ulterior motive. I couldn't afford to raise a single eyebrow.
I did a quick calculation as I replaced the mop in its holder. Dickhead Petersen's meeting would be over at six, and according to his anal retentiveness, he would be back in his corner suite exactly five minutes after.
I'd done a lot of homework on Maddox Petersen, using the computers and internet at the library. I used assumed names, assumed passwords.
I couldn't raise a flag of any kind. I couldn’t alert any cyber watch dog that I was stalking him. Like I said, I couldn't raise a single eyebrow. And my name, my internet presence, my former company was sadly, forever entwined with his. Maybe I was being paranoid, but premeditated murder requires a great deal of paranoia.
Ding...
After Maddox was dead, well, I honestly didn't have much of a plan. There wasn't a need for one. I'd thought of maybe sitting on the corner of his desk, crossing my legs, folding my arms over my chest, and smiling and waving at the security camera. Maybe I’d flip it off. Give a thumbs up and a wink. Or maybe I would remain completely stoic as Petersen's lifeless body lay at my feet. A huntress and her trophy.
I liked that.
In the meantime, Maria needed to keep busy. Keep up her legit appearance.
I spritzed some Pledge on my dust cloth, and went to polish the shit head's bookshelves.
Ding…
The typical collection of volumes and reference books. Classics he's probably never read, but keeps displayed so he looks smarter than he is. For Whom the Bell Tolls, Moby Dick, A Farewell to Arms. I snorted. Maddox couldn't tell Hemingway from a herring bone if his life depended on it.
I pushed the cloth around a geode paperweight, noting the sparkling purples and blues in the middle of it like a pretty granite bruise, then moved on to his crystal trophies and awards. They all recognized him as Business Executive of the Year, CEO of the Decade, Forbes 500 Douchebag Extraordinaire, etc.
Asshole.
Ding...
What stopped me in motion for a moment was the framed picture. Just the one. It was Maddox, his arms draped over the shoulders of a very nice looking older couple, and a guy that may pass as a brother.
It looked as though it was taken a few years ago, given the touristy fashions of the day – tropical prints and Bermuda shorts. They were on an island of some sort. Maybe Hawaii. Probably Hawaii. All the rich assholes went to Hawaii. And these people all had the same smile. The same facial structure, strong and chiseled. Even the woman.
I wondered how much he paid them –
Ding…
– to pose like that. If he knew them at all, or if they were just another prop like his bullshit literature.
Or if they really were his family, and they would miss him.
Well, you know what? Screw them. They had boatloads of money, obviously. Maddox came from money. They could buy happiness, and the best PTSD therapy available. If the picture wasn't a lie, the older couple had an extra offspring, too. They'd be just fine. They could cry on their other son’s shoulder while they lowered Maddox six feet under.
As much as my grievances weren’t with them, I wasn’t going to let their impending sorry work as a deterrent.
Maddox Petersen had this coming from the day he was born. And, sorry, Mister and Mrs. P, but you spawned a cold, soulless bastard. Your son, the one with the winning, chemically whitened smile, big green eyes and shiny, shaved head killed my sister.
And payback’s a bitch.
Ding…
According to the fourth chime, it was time for Maria to head for the bathroom.
Which, of course, was a gold plated shrine. Bigger than most people's apartments, and more lavish and ornate than what may belong to the oiliest Arabian sheik. Marble countertops, double vanity, shower with waterfall heads, and this goes without saying – a bidet.
A god damn bidet. In America? What kind of point was he trying to prove with that? And to whom?
No, the world was not going to miss this guy. A part of me hoped like hell he would come in here after his meeting. It would be so befitting for him to die in the shitter with his pants down and his balls bare for the world to see.
Ding…
Okay. Five minutes to go. Or was it four?
Shit. Did I seriously lose count?
No matter. Five minutes or four, I was at the point of no return. There was no turning back, now. Maddox would be here soon. And then, he wouldn't be here at all.
I removed the toilet brush from the cart, and stood above the bidet like a weird, alternative universe version of Arthur after
