Children of Paranoia (14 page)

“I wouldn't pick that one,” you said.

“Excuse me?” I responded. Then I remembered that I was standing in the doorway to a strip club staring at the pictures they had wallpapering the entranceway. Quite a first impression.

“I wouldn't pick that one,” you repeated. “You should go to St. Catherine's. That's where all the other American tourists go.” You paused and gave me a complete once-over. “Of course, most of them don't go in the middle of the afternoon, alone.”

“Oh, me. I wasn't . . .” I had suddenly lost my ability to speak in full sentences. “I wasn't planning on going inside,” I finally muttered, realizing only after I said it that standing there on the street gawking at the pictures probably didn't seem much better.

“Whatever. I don't judge,” you replied as you walked past me. I watched you as you walked. I did my best to pull myself together before you walked out of my life forever. I had to say something, anything, to get your attention before you were gone.

“Well, why shouldn't I go to this one?” I shouted to your back as you walked away, not ready to let you go just yet.

You stopped and turned back toward me. “I don't know this from experience, but word on the street is that the strippers here have more tits than teeth.”

“Oh, is that the word on the street?” I responded.

You turned your back to me again and started walking away for the second time. “That's the word on the street,” you yelled without turning back.

“Well, I really wasn't planning on going inside.” I was now shouting down the street, trying to make sure that you could hear me. “But after your review, it sounds like it could be pretty interesting as long as I find at least one stripper with more than one tooth.”

You heard me. You turned around, still walking away from me, your hands still jammed deeply into the pockets of your sweatshirt, and smiled a world-shattering smile. You lifted one hand in a wave without taking it out of its pocket and yelled back to me. “Good-bye, Perv,” you called out. Then you turned away from me for the third time and were gone.

My cover was blown. The Aussie was sure to remember my face now. I had to call it a day, my job barely done. It was worth it. Your smile made it worth it even though I suspected that I'd never see that smile again.

Before heading back to the safe house, I went back over to the other side of Mount Royal to canvas my mark's fortress. I thought that maybe, without professionals there guarding it, I might be able to find some sort of loophole that I could fit through. I investigated the house for a couple of hours, watched the maid move from room to room cleaning the place, watched her leave, and then headed home for the day. My job would start up again tomorrow. It would require extra diligence now. “No more flirting with strangers,” I told myself. Just you.

My mark taught a class at McGill University the following day. The class was big enough that I figured I could sit in the back of the lecture hall without being noticed. I put on a Montreal Canadiens hat that I had purchased and pulled the brim down low enough that, when looking down at a notebook, my entire face would be hidden. I packed my backpack and headed off to class. I knew that if everything went according to plan, this stakeout should be easy. It was rare that taking notes actually enhanced your disguise.

By the time I reached McGill's campus, it was already brimming with life. There were students everywhere. Thousands of students, most only a few years younger than me, were drifting in and out of buildings, carrying books, wandering from lecture to lecture. I stepped through the gates on University Street and felt, for one of the few times in my life, like a normal person going to my first college lecture. I had my notebook, my backpack, and my pencils. It felt surreal. I felt good. The only difference between me and the other students was that I planned on killing my professor.

I headed over to the lecture hall where my mark would be teaching and waited outside as the students began to shuffle in. I counted the heads as they walked through the doors. The class had over 150 students in it and I assumed at least 75 would attend. I waited until 50 other students entered the classroom and then I walked in. I chose my seat carefully, picking a row two rows in front of the students who were sitting the farthest back. I took a seat just off center, doing everything I could to not stand out. I did a quick visual scan of the lecture hall. It had the capacity to hold about three hundred students, and as I found my way to an empty seat, it quickly filled up to near half capacity. Apparently, my mark's lectures were popular. He was already standing at the podium, rifling through his notes and talking to another member of the faculty. I scanned the room for the bodyguards. It didn't take me long to spot the first one. He was standing in the front of the lecture hall, in one of the corners. No suit today. If he weren't so big, he might have blended in with the students. He was wearing khakis and a blue sweatshirt. He stood with his back to the front wall. From where he was standing, he could quickly survey the entire room. It took me a bit longer to find the Aussie. He was stationed in the back of the room. The positioning was logical. From their vantage points, the two bodyguards could easily catch any suspicious movements and put a stop to them before suspicious became dangerous. Still, I was relieved to know that the Aussie would be staring at the back of my head for the next hour and half. He might remember my face from the day before, but that wasn't going to help him from where he was standing.

I watched the students around me and aped their behavior. When they began to take out their notebooks, I did too. Once everyone had reached into the bags and the collective shuffling of the student body died down, my mark began his lecture. He wore a small microphone that wrapped around his neck, making it possible to hear his voice clearly no matter where you were seated in the lecture hall. The class was a second-year chemistry course entitled “Drugs and Disease.”

“Toxicology,” he began. “Toxicology is a subject that each and every one of us practices every day. In fact, I shouldn't be so limiting, it's a subject that each of the members of your family, each of your neighbors, nearly everyone on this continent and most of the people on this planet, practice every day. Yes, even your uneducated, out-of-work uncle.” There was a sputtering of laughter from the class. “In fact, that uncle, depending upon how much time he spends at his local pub each day, may practice it the most.” Again, muffled laughter. “No matter what we do, we are constantly evaluating what we put into our bodies, be it medicine, drugs, alcohol, even food. Why? Because we know that the wrong amount, the wrong dose, can have toxic effects and these toxic effects can lead to myriad results. From euphoria to agonizing pain; from complete but comforting numbness to debilitating disease; from a feeling of raised awareness to death.”

He went on. My classmates followed along, clicking away on their keyboards and writing furiously in their notebooks. It didn't take long for the science to be lost on me. Since I was having trouble following the lecture, I began to simply watch my mark to see how he moved, to see how he held himself, to see if there were any idiosyncrasies that I might be able to use to my advantage. To this point, I had paid more attention to the bodyguards than to the man himself. But now, in my disguise, I could sit back and watch the man who had already caused so much death.

He wore a dark suit again, perfectly tailored. Though not tall, he carried himself as if he were the tallest man in the room. His movements were fluid and graceful. He generally spoke with one hand at his side and one on the podium. He moderated his voice to match the lecture. At times, it would rise and he would hold his hands about shoulder length apart, clutching his fists for emphasis. However, during the moments when he truly wanted attention, the volume of his voice would actually lower to just above a whisper and he would stand motionless, holding each syllable for an extra beat. During those times, the students were rapt with attention. The large lecture hall would get so quiet that if a pin dropped I would hear it and the bodyguards would hear it but the students probably wouldn't notice. If circumstances were different, he might have had a lot to offer the world. These students of his, rising and falling on his every word, one of them could cure cancer. It was almost a shame I had to kill him. But he understood the War and still embraced it. He understood the ramifications of his actions. He would have no one to blame for his death but himself.

The class ended with some unpleasantries about an exam and then the students began to shuffle back out of the classroom. I fell in line, put my head down, and walked out with everyone else, being sure that the big Australian did not get a look at my face.

The hallway was crowded, so I simply walked in the direction of the flowing crowd. When I got to a small set of stairs, I turned to take a quick look back. I saw my mark exiting the lecture hall through the same doors that the students had just used. He was in an intense conversation with one of the students. The two bodyguards were walking about two steps behind them. The American kept a stern eye on the student. He looked ready to rip the poor kid's head off if the kid were to make even the slightest awkward move. The student didn't seem to notice. So much for educating the youth. The kid might one day become a brilliant scientist, but he wouldn't have survived one day in my job.

Then I heard your voice. It was coming from across the hallway. I recognized it instantly. For the second day in a row, you nearly blew my cover. It was becoming an annoying little hobby of yours.

“Hey, Perv!” you shouted, stepping toward me, standing on the stairs about three steps above me. As you spoke, you flicked the brim of my hat. Before I even had a chance to look at you again, my reflexes kicked in. I looked back at the big Australian to see if he'd heard you. He had. His head popped up and he began to scan the hallway looking for something, anything. I was certain that he was looking for me, even if he didn't know it. He recognized your voice too. I turned, grabbed you under your armpit, nearly lifting you off the ground, and pulled you down one of the side corridors. I didn't have time to be gentle. I couldn't afford to have the bodyguard recognize me.

“Hey! Hands off!” you shouted, slapping my hand as you found your feet again.

I had to think of something quick, some lie to justify grabbing you like that. “Listen, you can't call me a pervert in front of my professor. He's already got it in for me.”

You began to move your arm in circles, looking as if you were testing to see if your shoulder was still firmly implanted in its socket. “Fine, but you could have just asked me to be quiet. You didn't have to grab me like that.”

“I'm sorry.” The last thing that I wanted to do was hurt you. “It won't happen again,” I promised.

“Yeah, it won't happen again. I'm leaving.” You threw your backpack over your shoulder and started walking away.

“Wait. Let me do something to make it up to you. Let me buy you a coffee or something,” I called out to you as you walked away.

“Really?” You turned back toward me. “I'm supposed to go to get coffee with the strip club guy?”

“I was just looking at the pictures. I'm not used to seeing things like that on the street. Besides, you're one to talk making friends with guys who stand out on the street in front of strip clubs.”

“Who said we were friends?” you asked, though you were smiling when you did so. You couldn't help yourself. I love that smile.

“Coffee?” I asked again. You were standing about ten feet from me in the hallway. I forgot all about my mark. I forgot about the bodyguards. My whole world at that moment was you. I had never felt like this before. It happened so quickly.

“You're buying?” you asked.

“Of course,” I responded.

So we went for coffee, despite the fact that I didn't drink coffee. I just figured that's what regular people do. I was trying my best to be normal. I wanted to make sure that I didn't scare you away. You led me to a coffee shop just off campus. That was good. It made it less likely that I would suddenly have to hide from my mark's bodyguards. We chatted as we walked. You asked me how my trip to the strip club had gone. Eventually, I think that I convinced you that I hadn't gone inside. It was strange talking to you. You seemed to have no poker face. Everything was out in the open. I wasn't used to that. In my world, everyone is covering up something. Everyone's a liar.

We sat down for coffee, although I ordered hot chocolate, which you made fun of me for, and continued to talk. You pulled the hood of your sweatshirt off and unleashed a wild torrent of dark hair. The crazy mass of curls made you seem even more alive. Twenty minutes into our conversation and I had told you more about my life than I had ever told any woman before. I told you about growing up in New Jersey. I told you what I could about losing my father and my grandparents. I told you about my life, traveling around the world for business.

“You're not a student?” you asked.

“I take classes when I can,” I replied, trying to cover my tracks, realizing that being too truthful too soon might scare you away. I turned the questions back on you. How old were you? “I'm a second-year.” What were you studying? “Debating between Psychology and Religious Studies. I'm really interested in what makes people tick.” What do you do for fun? “Pick up strange Americans in front of strip clubs and start wild, torrid affairs.” I nearly choked on my hot chocolate. You just giggled at my reaction. Where did you grow up? “Outside of Toronto in London, Ontario.” Family? “Typical cookie-cutter family. I'm an only child.” The conversation went on like that as the afternoon slipped away. I completely forgot about the job that I was supposed to be doing. You completely lost track of time too. You suddenly looked at your watch. “Oh, shit, I'm late for class.” You jumped up, swung your backpack over one shoulder, and headed for the door.