Carter's Mark - Chapter 1

Chapter One: A First Person Introduction

     The year was 1993.  I sat in the dark living room of my one bedroom studio apartment observing the gentle moon through the floor to ceiling windows.  After a night ripe with excitement I needed this relaxation period.  My hands, however, hadn’t stopped moving.  I glance down, making sure I still had sufficient polish on my gun, as I usually do on nights such as this.  I call it “the cleansing;” a way for me to shed the fresh layer of impurity from such a magnificent piece of modern engineering.  Chrome, with a black and white handle custom made from ebony and ivory.  Yin and Yang. A work of art. The few people that know of me sometimes call me obsessive, because I like extravagant things, and I like all of my possessions to be so.  I simply consider my taste in material items refined.

After about ten minutes of cleaning, I laid my gun down, and took a look around. 

           

       The first thing I noticed when my eyes adjusted to the darkness was the oil portrait of my mother hanging above my fireplace mantle.  My mind registered her beauty almost as instantly as it always does when I stare into her hazel green eyes.  She always seems to penetrate straight through me to the skyline behind.  Her brunette hair seemed to glisten as if it were wet, and her reassuring half-smile always comforted me even in the lowest of times.  It saddened me however when I remembered back when she was alive, that my relationship with her painting now was far more advanced.  There is a lot about my past that I wish I could change, not unlike the majority of the population. 

         Regaining my focus, I went back to the crystalline coffee table and picked up my gun, careful not to leave fingerprints on the glass, and placed it in its casing, a cedar box sitting on the mantle garnished in red velvet.  Only the best for such a fine piece.

         This was the point of the night where I made a glass of hot tea, glanced over the newspaper and went to bed.  Most nights the news was some sort of scandal, murder, rape, or other form of sinful pleasure on the front page; that was the world we lived in.  That night was a little different.  Top story: a man attempting to rob the register of the local diner was stabbed in the throat by a young waitress defending her co-worker.  The article wasn’t what caught my eye however, but the picture associated with it.  The waitress.  The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen: a rare case of innocent beauty captured in a round lens that had more than likely been infested with examples of death and destruction that exemplified exactly what was wrong with this world.  Smooth straight hair down to her shoulders outlined the face of an angel.  She looked to be in her mid twenties, which normally would have been too young for me to even glance twice at, but her seemingly vast and deep blue eyes and naturally blonde hair separated her from every other being on the planet. This woman was pure, and absolutely breathtaking.

          Sipping my tea, I finished the article.  Apparently she was able to maneuver beside the cashier and swiftly take justice into her own hands by way of the pick that was in the ice maker.  Such brutality from such a perfect being.  I decided to stow away this particular paper, as it were the only periodical in months that had actually caught my eye.  I set it on the edge of the counter, washed the glass, dried it, and put it back in the cabinet.  I dried the sink with a paper towel, and tossed it in the garbage.  It was part of my training to have everything kept exactly where it was supposed to be at all times, so that I would immediately know if anything were to ever be moved, or messed with.  Though training had ended years ago, I still practiced it, kept sharp, on my toes, because one slip, one simple detail unnoticed could mean the end of me. One last look over the kitchen and I was off to bed, drying a spot of water from the marble counter on the way into the bedroom.  The countertops accentuated the rest of the apartment, as the entire residence gave hints of elegance, without being overbearing.  Well, except the chandelier.  Having these things were starting to change me into a materialistic man, as in the past I had relied on merely the essentials needed to survive.  Apparently I was growing up.  I was unsure if I liked the person I was becoming, but until I know this isn’t what I want, what’s the harm in having a few extra things?  I never got to appreciate the things I had growing up, as my father never appreciated me or trusted me enough to touch anything in the museum-like house that we had lived in.  So now I surround myself with the silver candlestick holders, a porcelain bust of Ares, the god of war, and a platinum encrusted coffee table I never used for fear of getting something on it.  If even for temporary joy, I bought these pieces because though I enjoy being alone, I do need some form of reassurance that I am a success.  Yes, I have self-esteem issues at times, but who doesn’t?

         Shaking away my thoughts, I headed towards the bedroom, saying “Good-night, Ma.” on the way.  Attention to detail.  The next morning I woke up feeling really well, almost too well.  I can slightly remember eating breakfast at a small diner…

          Taking my dream as a signal, I headed towards the conclusion that that day, I would meet Gwen Spears, the woman from the photo.  After a shower, a shave, and a quick cleanup of the bathroom, a quick “Have a good day” to the oil painting was all that was left before heading out for the day.  I thought I had dressed rather nicely considering I had nothing else planned but the breakfast venture.  Maybe, I thought, somewhere in my deep conscience, I needed to impress this woman.  I remember hoping that her mind and her personality would be even a sliver of what I saw in her face.  I had made a point to wear the good black dress coat and even wore new socks.  Whether that would help my situation didn’t matter.  I felt good on this day.  I did not own a car, as it seemed vehicles were one of the top reasons people got caught doing the things that they tried to hide from society.  I took taxis wherever I went.

          As I approached the diner, I tried to figure out what I had in common with this woman.  She had an element of elegance, but I couldn’t assume that she liked the same fancies as myself. I mean, she was a waitress after all.  Her courage was what I remembered admiring the most.  Any other time, with any other beautiful woman I saw in the paper, I would have merely given her a once over and gone about my business.  This woman though had something else that made me stop and stare.  I lusted over her, and that feeling of weakness was unlike anything I had felt before.  Upon entering, I found a booth at the far end of the place.  Immediately I could smell the wholesomeness of the diner, the eggs, the sausage, the pancakes.  Finding out quickly that I had a different waitress, and soon after realizing that my reason for coming was nowhere in sight, I finished my meal, and then struck up a conversation with the woman with the “Alice” name tag.

           “I’m sorry to bother you… Alice is it?” she nodded. “Do you know if Gwen is working today?” You could see her expression change.

           “Oh, I’m sorry sir, Gwen has taken off today, due to the recent events here.  Should I tell her you stopped by?”  These words didn’t shock me.  Not many things surprise me nowadays, I’ve heard almost everything, and my training had me predicting all angles of such encounters as this.

           “Hmm.  Just give her something for me, will you?”  I took out the newspaper from the day before, and wrote “Radiance separates angels from mortals.” below her picture, and handed it to Alice. “Please see to it that she gets this okay?” This seemed to be the best alternative to not speaking to her directly.

            “Does she know you?”

            “No.”

            “Well, what do I say when I deliver this without a name to her?”

            I thought for only a second, then responded.  “You seem like an intelligent woman, I think you should use your judgment.”  A slight smile sealed the deal.  The wheels were in motion.  Alice’s expression changed only slightly, and then she nodded.  After wiping down the table with my napkin, and making a stack out of my plates and silver, I left an unnecessarily large tip, and headed out of the diner, feeling a sense of accomplishment different from the feeling I got from finishing a job.  It was a good feeling, an unusual one.  Not much made me feel that way anymore…

. . .

           “Wow,” said Gwen.  “You know, at first I thought you were a reporter, or a cop of some kind.  But when Alice told me there was something about you, something different, I felt compelled to meet you.  But you left no number or address or anything.”

            I couldn’t help but wonder how the next few minutes would go.  Even though I have very good social skills, I hadn’t really had a conversation of this magnitude in many years.  Here I was, sitting in a booth across from this goddess from the paper, and I could possibly lose her interest if I even hinted as to what it is I was.  The diner was already closed, and I found myself being blown away again by her willingness to meet me, but mostly by how we were the only two people left in the diner.  Just three days before, a man had just walked in and tried to rob the store.  This woman sure saw the world differently than most.

            “Not that I minded,” she continued.  “I mean, anyone who has the guts to come walking into a place looking for a woman he’s never met before, just to talk to her, isn’t going to forget about her just because she isn’t there when he wanted her to be.”  With that, she smiled.  Words could not express this moment.  Then, something unexpected came out of her mouth.  “Wanna get outta here?” With this question, she stared at me for a few seconds.  Then without a reply from me, she said “C‘mon, let‘s take a walk.”  She stood up, and motioned for me to follow.  Walking down the sidewalk, the conversation became a little more personal.

            “So I’m sure you want to know about me now.”

            “I only wish to know what you wish to tell me,” she responded.

            “Well,” I started.  How much should I share with her this early? “I live in a studio apartment, close to here, and I live alone.”

            “Why?”

            This was an interesting question.  “Well… I guess because there’s not that many people out there I can relate to.”

            “Can I see it? Your apartment?”  Now usually men don’t ask questions when a beautiful woman asks to see his apartment.  I on the other hand, wanted to know why this particular woman was so intrigued.  I stopped walking, and looked at her.

            “Why?”

            “Well, I don’t usually trust anyone, but I’m beginning to wonder if that’s my problem.  I’ve never held a solid relationship, never even been close to anyone other than my family.  I guess I’m just hoping that you’re just the person I can turn my life around with. There’s not that many people out there that I can relate too also.  Plus, you seem like a harmless guy, despite you‘re mysteriousness.”  She gave a faint smile.  Asking no more questions, I walked her back to the diner, where my cab was still parked (let‘s just say I can afford to have people sit around and wait for me).  After a short drive, I accompanied her through the passageway to the elevator, and then to my apartment.

            “Wow, it’s so clean!” was the first thing she said.  “I thought you were just cleaning up at the diner to be nice to Alice, but no, you have a real problem with cleanliness!”  I took it as an insult until I saw her smile.  “What’s this?” She motioned to the statue.

            “That is Ares, the god of war,” I explained.  “My boss gave me that.”

            “Hmm.”  She didn’t ask what I did for a living.  Interesting.  “And who is this lovely woman?”  She walked to the fireplace and looked up at the magnificent portrait of my mother.  It was nice to see someone else marvel at the glorious items in my house. 

            “My mother, when she was twenty-five.  I like to remember her when she was in her happiest time,” I answered.  As I did so, Gwen noticed the box on the mantle.

            “Do you mind?” She pointed at the box.

            “Open it up,” I said.  The mood seemed to change as she explored the contents of the box.  After allowing her to fully examine the pistol wrapped in velvet, I spoke again.  “Want to sit?”  I noticed however, that she was still looking in the box.  Was she admiring the weapon?  She finally closed the lid after a long pause, and turned around.

            “What a gorgeous place you have here James,” she said. How did she know my first name?  I stared at her intently until she spoke again.  “The portrait of your mother said ‘To James, my only son.’”  She was every bit as smart as I’d hoped, and more.  She walked over, and took the seat next to me.  I decided then and there that I would go outside my comfort zone, and try to confide in her some vague details of my occupation that I had previously never told anyone about. 

            “Gwen, I’m going to tell you something now that I would like you to know, for your sake and mine.  I know I just met you today, but there are some things that lead me to believe that I can trust you.  Before I start, I want to ask you something.”  She nodded, and I continued.  “Why are you opening up to me?  Just three days ago a man could have killed you, yet you are giving me complete trust.  Why?”

            Without any reaction, she answered.  “I’m twenty-four years old.  I work at a diner.  All of my friends have married and moved away.  I guess…” she paused, looking me straight in the eye, “I guess I just want you to be something to me.  I hope… that you can be that one thing that I can hold on to.”

            I took a second to let what she said sink in.  I never thought that this would be how the night would turn out.  Normally, a man would step back and react negatively toward this kind of statement on the first day.  What I thought was interesting, however, was that Gwen didn’t speak through tears, nor did her emotions change when she spoke.  She said what she thought, without hesitation, and she didn’t sound desperate at all.  After a second, I stood up and walked to the bar.  “Would you like something to drink?”

            “No thank you.”  I took a shot glass from the bar, filled it with José Cuervo tequila, and drank it.  After walking to the sink with the glass, washing it, and putting it back, I spoke. 

            “Gwen,” I started, sitting back down on the black leather couch, “I am a mercenary.  You know what that means?”  She nodded silently, listening hard at my words.  “You are now one of three people that know this information.  You understand how important it is that it stays this way?”  She nodded again, this time adding “Of course.”          

            “Are you bothered by this?”  Again she was silent, relying on her head to signal no to me.  “It’s hard to believe that you can be okay with this.  Tell me, what are you thinking?”

            “If I would have met you before the robbery on the restaurant, I probably would’ve been upset.  But ever since then, I can’t help but feel no remorse for that man.  I think you are a good person James, and I believe you are doing what I did, giving bad people what they deserve.  Am I right?”  She yawned, signaling her fatigue. 

            “Well yes, in a way.  But sometimes, I work for the bad guy.  Mercenaries work for whoever is paying the best.  It’s not the best thing to involve myself in, I know, but it’s what I do.”

            At hearing these words, she contemplated for what felt like forever.  Then she straightened up and replied.  “James, what do you think of me?”  At this point, my only reaction was a smile.  I waited for her second yawn to finish. 

            “You continue to amaze me Gwen, and it’s only the first night.”  I got up and grabbed her hand.  “Come with me.”  She took my hand, and I marched her into the bedroom.  “Get in. I’ll sleep in the den.”

            “No, it’s your house James, don’t be silly.”  I reached again for her hand, and leaned over.  Kissing her head softly, I replied, “Good night.”  Smiling, she gave up, and rolled over to sleep.