Page 39 of End of Days

Beyond the identification problem, he had other needs. The rental couldn’t require him to meet the owner or agent of the apartment to gain access. That eliminated “apartments” that were really just makeshift rooms at the back of a house where the owner still lived or apartments that insisted on an in-person meeting with a rental agent to receive the key.

Finally, the location was key. He needed a place that allowed him to get within a hundred meters of the apartment without being seen, and not just by driving up like he had before. He wasn’t going to risk being discovered in his car again, and he would need to remain for possibly hours, which required a site that would allow such a stay.

It seemed to be an exhaustive list, and he’d actually considered renting a trailer himself, parking it somewhere in a dark alley to use, but assumed there was no way a whore would follow him into a sketchy back-alley trailer that she didn’t own.

After six hours of research, he’d stumbled upon a perfect location. It was a VRBO in four-story apartment complex right next to a park called Parco Mattia Preti, on the east side of the EUR neighborhood. With a school across the road—which would be closed at night, ensuring no coincidental eyewitnesses—a myriad of alleys surrounding it, and keypad entry that didn’t require him to meet anyone, he submitted his application. Four hours later, it was approved, and he paid for four days.

He’d driven to the location, carefully looking for surveillance cameras and seeing two mounted on the walls to the front entrance, one focused on the parking lot, the other focused on all who entered. He’d avoided them, entering through a side door and walking up two flights of stairs. He checked numbers, reached his door, and held his breath. He punched in the code he’d been given, and the lock clicked open. He exhaled and entered, taking stock of the surroundings.

It was small, a one-bedroom with a kitchenette and a bathroom, the tiny den barely big enough to hold the two chairs and a coffee table the host had provided, which was perfect for him. He opened his backpack and went to work.

He began installing Wi-Fi cameras and small, covert microphones throughout the apartment, using the cheap artwork on the walls, smoke alarms in each room, lamps on tables, and air vents along the baseboards. When he was done, he connected the system to the apartment Wi-Fi and checked the feed on a tablet. It appeared to work inside the apartment, but the real test would be outside.

He turned on the television, raising the volume to conversation level, then went back to his vehicle and drove to the park entrance a scant hundred meters away. He entered it, walking with a backpack until he reached a bench, ignoring the people out enjoying the sunshine. He opened the pack, pulled out the tablet, and attempted to connect to the apartment complex Wi-Fi. The signal was too weak. He stood up and began walking back toward the complex, looking at his tablet. He entered a wooded section, the fence to the park only twenty meters away, and feared his plan wouldn’t work. He found another bench and sat down again, waiting.

The tablet found the signal and connected. He dialed up his network of surveillance devices and smiled. The system worked perfectly. He had a clear view of both the bedroom and the den and could hearthe television even inside the bedroom. He tapped the tablet, shifting cameras, pleased. Sometimes it paid to have specialized training and equipment.

He’d started to put away his tablet when a dog ran up to him with a ball, a young boy of about thirteen scampering behind. The boy approached and said, “What’s that?”

Before Garrett could answer, the boy saw the camera feeds and said, “Are you flying a drone? Can I see?”

Flustered, Garrett stood and said, “No, no. It’s pictures of my apartment.”

He walked rapidly away, regretting the contact and his reaction to it. The boy would remember Garrett. If he lived around here, he might be contacted in a canvas of the neighborhood.

Maybe he should kill the boy, too. Right now, before he could return to his parents. The thought made him physically ill.

He returned to his car, slammed his fist into the dash, and then began praying for his soul. He was on the verge of creating the return of Christ, but he was burning his afterlife to do so. He couldn’t believe he’d actually considered killing a thirteen-year-old child simply because he’d seen the tablet.

Three hours later, he was waiting for the sun to set next to the lake, trying to return to the promise of the mission. He feared he was losing focus of what constituted the work of Satan and what was for the greater good of humanity. The woman would be the greater good. The boy was not.

He thought it no different than Rahab in the Bible, a harlot who had protected Israelite spies in Jericho. She’d hidden them, and when the Israelites came to sack the city using the spies’ information, she had been spared by hanging a crimson rope outside her window.

This whore would be doing the same thing. Protecting a spy forthe promised land. With that thought, he closed his eyes, waiting on the sun to set.

Two hours later, someone bumped his hood, startling him awake. Under the harsh glare of a streetlight, he saw a couple headed into the park. It was full night now, and the usual hookers were stalking around the greenspace next to the lake.

He left his vehicle and entered the park, surveying the various prostitutes walking about. He saw a black woman with a tube top, tight shorts, and sandals sitting on a bench, her hair in cornrows. She caught him looking her way and smiled. He went to her.

He knew how the game was played. Prostitution wasn’t technically illegal, but solicitation was, meaning the women couldn’t come to you and ask if you “wanted a good time.” You had to go to them.

She was small, about five foot four, which was in his favor. She was also a different race, which would help throw off the investigation. His other victims had been someone he was sexually attracted to, but he had none of that here, and any confusion he could interject on the case would only help.

In his broken Italian, he said, “You out here by yourself?”

She looked him up and down, saw no threat, and said, “Yes.”

He nodded and said, “You want some company?”

Hearing the magic words, she smiled. She hadn’t solicited him, so it was okay. “Sure. What would you like to do?”

He said, “My Italian isn’t that good. Do you speak English?”

She smiled again and, in English, said, “Yes. My Italian is better, but I speak English. You are American?”

He sat down next to her and said, “Yes, I am. Here on business. I have a rental apartment about a mile away. You want to go get some drinks?”

She stood, threw her purse over her shoulder, and said, “Sure. I can do that. What’s your name?”

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