“Yes, sir.” I arranged myself as instructed. I let myself go back in time and relived the memory:
Sixteen days since my father’s burial, fourteen days into my mission, Spyder and I went on our typical six-mile morning run. I thought that Spyder had upped our normal pace considerably. Maybe it just felt that way on three hours’ rest. Sleep hadn’t come to me.
Panting and holding the stitch in my side, we went inside to meditate in front of the altar in my living room. It was adorned with flowers from Dad’s funeral. Mom had added a bowl of salt to represent our tears and a lemon to represent how bitter life could taste. I sank into my practiced place of peace, but it was short-lived. Eventually, Spyder dinged the bell, bringing me back to my earlier state of angst.
We unfolded from our lotus positions and pushed our kneeling pillows under the altar.
“I was surprised by your stamina this morning after such a long night out.”
I went to the counter, poured a glass of green juice for Mom, and put her pills into a small dish. I raised a brow at Spyder as I walked without a word from the kitchen to Mom’s room to wake her just long enough for her to take the pills, then go back to sleep.
I walked back into the living room and sat on the couch as Spyder slid his phone into his pocket. There was no censure waiting for me. There never was. According to Spyder, there is no such thing as a mistake. Everything—the bad and the ugly as well as the beautiful—had a place of teaching in our lives. Once we learned a lesson, that didn’t mean anything except that one’s soul was now free to learn another lesson. A cycle of pain and joy. Both had importance. I hadn’t yet internalized this philosophy. I guessed it would come with maturity. Still, I waited to hear just how much Spyder knew about my activities last night.
“Show me what you found in the backseat.”
Ah, he knew everything. I was out-surveilled. He had been watching me, and I never knew. Obviously, I had more to learn. If I had no clue Spyder was trailing me, then others with his experience could put me in their crosshairs when I was a real intelligence officer working for the government. I chastised myself for not considering the possibility that I, too, would be followed.
I showed him the picture. White label; his name, the name of the antibiotics. Child-proof cap. If I was the woman who gave this guy a blow job, I’d want the antibiotics, too. I didn’t blame her at all for taking them. Spyder examined the photo and video and handed my phone back to me.
“What else?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Hanasal’s key ring. It had a fob, a car key, and what I assumed was a house key.
“Hanasal experienced some grief this morning when he came to. He had to have the dealership tow his car to their lot for repairs. He had to take a cab to his house to get his spare set of keys. A locksmith came to open his door. And then he had to return to get his car. Well done.”
I lifted my chin. Well done? Wait. How would he know this? Spyder was running with me this morning. “Someone just called it in?”
“My partner took over watch when forces split, and you drove away.”
“Two people were watching me? You and who else?”
Spyder chose not to answer me. “What are your plans?”
“To make sure this guy never kills an innocent civilian again.”
He nodded. And waited.
“I don’t know what that means. I’m gathering information and waiting for my anger to calm. There’s another beacon of wisdom I need to follow: ‘Revenge is a dish served best cold.’”
Spyder said nothing.
“I’ll go out every night until I have a better handle on things. I’ll videotape if I see something that I think might be helpful. I’ll keep his car from functioning if he’s drunk.”
And that’s exactly what I did. Night after night. Night after night. Days started to head into weeks. I was exhausted.
And Spyder said nothing more to me.
Mom did, though.
She noticed I wasn’t getting enough rest. It made her worry. Her worry made the pain worse.
It was as if I had invited Hanasal into our living room to hurt us some more.
I was getting tired of my watch duty. Nothing new was happening. The pattern was fairly well set.
One night, I sat in the tree looking down at Hanasal’s newest car. This was the third one. Spyder said that Hanasal was threatening to sue the dealership because the cars didn’t work. This had been going on too long. Certainly, I would be caught on some video feed if I kept this up. To get his newest fob, I had to walk by Hanasal on his way into the bar and sleight-of-hand it from his jacket pocket. I didn’t want my face anywhere near his, no matter how good my disguise was.
XYJ, the license from the person who continued to meet him in the parking lot, showed up again. And again, the windows went down, and a prescription bottle changed hands. Hanasal walked into the bar. I gave him time to settle, then started wiring his car with a remote kill switch and a GPS. I figured it would be a heck of a lot more fun to let him drive down the road a bit, kill his engine when it was safe for other drivers that I do that, wait for the tow truck, and flip it back on. I snapped the panel back in place. That’s when I
