Personal Narrative-Targeted Killing

1971 Words 8 Pages
For two months, as I followed every conceivable lead, Caulder grew nastier, fuming constantly about my incompetence.
“What the fuck have you been doing with your time?” he bellowed. “Do you have any idea the flack the department will take, that I will take, if it comes out we killed a guitar player while trying to dispatch an ambassador’s daughter? I’m not letting you jeopardize my reputation—or my retirement.”
“It’s not my fault. You taught her every trick she knows.”
“She switched sides, Mark. This is a simple targeted killing.”
In training we learned that assassination equaled murder. The U.S. Government did not condone the killing of someone who disagreed with policy. On the other hand, a “targeted kill” was more akin to self-defense in
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The simple acts of eating, drinking, and conversing together lulled me into a sense of domesticity I hadn’t known since Judith.
Once I could predict how long Sarah might be gone on her errands, I picked the lock on her door, slipped on vinyl gloves and snooped.
Not much in the living area. A utilitarian sofa. No phone to tap. No radio. No television. A black leather bag sat by at the front door, filled with her stethoscope and medical paraphernalia. A guitar lounged against the wall. I opened the case and groaned with lust. A Ramirez. As good as the Herman Hauser ruined when I killed Chabat. I ran my fingers over the strings. Badly out of tune, the guitar hadn’t been played recently. I wondered if the instrument was Chabat’s or Sarah’s. Next to the guitar, a CD player.
The bedroom didn’t yield much either. Books in three languages. Lacy underwear stowed in a drawer made my heart race. The armoire held three pairs of jeans. Six T-shirts. One black dress. When I stroked the length of her silky white nightgown, I
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For a brief instant, she leaned into me and rested her head on my chest, seeking comfort. I wanted to taste her hair. Her Azahar swirled around me. With a deep breath, I wrapped my arms around her.
She pulled away.
“You could use a drink.” I held the door for her. “I have a bottle of sherry, but no glasses.”
She shook her head. “Thanks anyway.” She half-smiled. “But I can lend you a glass.”
“Don’t make me drink alone.”
Her lips twitched in surrender.
I dashed across the hall, found the bottle and returned to her apartment.
She handed me glasses. I poured the sherry.
“Give me a minute.” She returned to the kitchen. “I’ll put together tapas.”
Over the tinkle of cutlery and plates I heard her humming that haunting melody again.
I wandered the apartment until, unable to resist, I lifted the guitar from its case. After picking a few sour notes, I began tuning it.
“The high E is still flat,” she observed as she came into the living area carrying a tray of olives, peppers, a sliced baguette, slivered ham and dried apricots. She settled on her sofa and pulled the chopsticks from her hair releasing a tangle of loose

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