Target 84 by K Larsen Page B

wave it at him through the metal grate. "Danny Haskell says good riddance." I point the barrel in the direction of his head and let off two rounds. I’m not one for melodramatic messages but this Joe character had insisted those be the priest’s final words to hear. When I’m certain my friend through the metal screen is no longer breathing, I exit the confessional. I fish my cell phone from my purse and dial the speed dial preset number one. The line picks up after two rings.
    “Arrange transport of the body.” I hit end and keep walking. The victims and methods vary but no one will find a pattern. I'm a ghost. I tailor my attacks to the person.
    Pearl Lounge. A favorite of mine after a strenuous day’s work is conveniently just a hop, skip, and a jump from the church. A curved copper bar swoops beneath art-glass sconces, backlit by soft blue accent lighting. I focus on the trio standing by the bar. A half-Mexican girl in her late twenties is talking to two guys. They look to be around the same age. The girl is gesturing wildly to emphasize some part of the funny story being shared. The guys look bored. I almost feel bad for her. Getting men to pay attention to you when you want them to is a tricky challenge that comes with pushing all emotion aside and lots of practice. I slide in next to the girl and order myself a vodka tonic. One of the guys smirks at me devilishly. I ignore him. Sorry, buddy, but I’m not into jail bait or whiny babies. I may only be twenty-nine but I feel much older. Twenty-one-year-old men hold no appeal.
    I watch my surroundings, curious to what other people do with their time. There’s a couple in an impassioned argument in the corner. She’s viciously jabbing her finger across the bar to a leggy redhead who’s completely oblivious. Obviously there’s trouble in paradise there.
    After a second vodka tonic I slide off my stool, toss a fifty onto the bar, and make my way to the door. The wind picked up, making the door hard to push open. A mist of rain and fog makes the air sparkle in the street lights. I’m content now to go home. Tomorrow I can head back to Christiansburg. Home . The word alone sends my mind spiraling.
    Twenty-eight was removed from class. It’s been three weeks since the waterboarding incident and no one has seen him. He shouldn’t have tried to protect me. I was his weakness. I saw it in his eyes. I heard it in his voice. But now they know. We aren’t allowed weaknesses. He wouldn’t be the first classmate to disappear but I hope he isn’t gone. I hope he is just taking his punishment somewhere. They surely realize how well groomed he is. How valuable he is to them. Do the weak students get sent home? I trust the words spoken to me years ago: “It’s a game, but it’s not a very nice game. Be careful.”
    No.
    No one goes home again.
    I fish a cigarette out of my bag and light it. Leaning against the building, I let myself enjoy the smoke filling my lungs. Eighty-three cigarettes. I’ve smoked eighty-three since I turned sixteen.
    Inhale.
    Exhale.
    Watch the smoke dissipate.
    The door to the bar swings open again, the light from inside spilling its yellow glow across the damp asphalt. A man crosses the street a few yards left of me. His movements are lazy but graceful, like a panther’s. He has a mischievous smile. The man is in a one-piece, black, leather racing outfit. He walks to a motorcycle, one of those high-tech racing-style ones wrapped in black fiberglass. He straddles the bike and tugs on a helmet ten feet to my left. The full-face helmet swivels toward me and the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. My senses go on high alert and the tension in my body triples.
    There are moments that mark your life. The moments that create a before , and after in your life. Sometimes you can sense a life-splitting moment nearing. That's the test, or so I tell myself. I tell myself that at times like that, strong people keep moving forward, no matter what