I looked at his info card. Daniel J. Rush. Twenty-eight years of age, Six foot two, two hundred pounds. Personal trainer. Got his kicks from drugging girls and taking compromising videos of the vics. He’d have parties and show them to his friends. His main source of income came from his parents. Typical LA boy–-fake tan, fake muscles, no redeeming moral value to society. He looked good though, the all-American boy you could take home to mom.

He was sitting inside a fashionable roadhouse north of PCH. The kind of place that tried for the seedy look, but was as antiseptic as an angel’s wing. I took a seat at the bar and ordered an ice-cold domestic beer.

He was working on a girl, probably a coed at UCLA. Bright-white smile, innocent, though she acted as if she knew–and experienced–all. I watched as she politely excused herself and walked to the restroom. Daniel J. Rush’s eyes followed her gently swaying cheerleader ass until it was out of sight. He looked around, then casually dropped something into her Cosmopolitan. A slight smile appeared on his face. Promises of things to come. I took a sip of my beer and waited. Daniel J. Rush didn’t just want to be with her, he wanted to mark this girl for life. He was going to tear a wound into her that would never heal. I long ago quit trying to figure out what drives people. Sorry, Father Flannigan, but there is such a thing as a bad boy. Whether born a monster or raised to be one, they were out there and in greater numbers than anyone would ever want to imagine. I could tell by his pampered little face that this guy never had to worry about anything in his life. He believed ther
e was nothing in this world he couldn’t get out of. And, until now, he was probably right.

The girl made her way back to the table. She gave him a sly smile and took a big sip of her drink. With each sip, Daniel J. Rush’s eyes grew bigger with anticipation. He could barely contain his smile. I was on my second beer when I noticed she was starting to wobble. I could hear her say to him, “this never happens after just one drink.” Daniel J. Rush smiled and held her. She wasn’t willing or unwilling to be in his arms, she just was. He whispered something in her ear, I don’t think she understood, but she nodded her head. He escorted her out of the roadhouse towards his Humvee. I followed them to the parking lot.

It was warm in the night, the waves crashed loudly and made it hard to hear much, though I could pick up the faint sounds of a couple arguing down by the shore. There must have been a recent oil spill because the breeze off the ocean carried a foul and grimy odor that overwhelmed the salty air. I crept closer, the parking lot empty except for the three of us.

“Daniel J. Rush?” I asked.

He turned to me. “ Do I know you?”

“No.” I said.

He sneered at me. It was very practiced, he probably rehearsed that look in the mirror countless times. I slowly pulled out my German Mauser and before he could change expressions, I shot him in the head. He fell quickly and silently. The girl was too far out it to know what was happening. I took out my cell and gave my location. Within minutes we had two cars there. One for clean-up and disposal of the body, the other to take the girl home. I went back in the roadhouse and had a cup of strong, black coffee before heading home.

The ad in Soldier of Fortune promised a real opportunity to help mankind. I’d been in central America, Angola, and eastern Europe doing things that didn’t always make me proud. This new job was a way to make amends. American society was at a crossroads. Once we stopped caring about how we treated each other, all those values we fought for--and say that we hold so dear--won’t mean a damn thing. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure who I worked for, but I loved what one of the agents told me, “A value free society is a society that isn’t free.” What Daniel J. Rush did was illegal, but the law was never going to make him pay. We made sure he did.

When I got home I turned on some Toby Keith and took a long, hot shower. I had a lot of work lately. Often times the perps were guilty in the eyes of the law. The rest of these assholes, however, knew how to work the system. No, what they did was not against the laws of the land, but they were against everything we know to be moral and right. I took care of them. Each taken out with just one bullet. That was the rule, one clean shot. We could not choose our targets, they were chosen for us. I remember one guy and the look he gave me right before I shot him. He had raised a hand as if he wanted to take it all back. Tell that to your victims, whose hope for all that was good in this world was destroyed by you. No. You can’t take it back. You can’t take anything back. But take this. One shot. Gone for good. Never to mark anyone ever again. But he was soon replaced by others, even worse than he had been. And so it goes on, an endless cycle of monsters, a constant need for someone like me to clean up the mess they made, a mess everyone tries very hard to ignore.

A good night’s sleep was still a problem. I often thought about the nuns in El Salvador, the teacher in Africa, or the aid workers in Peru. Of course, at the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. History has a way of making the truth clear, though many would still say I did the right thing, I now knew better. I crawled into bed and thought about the girl at the roadhouse. What would of happened to her if I wasn’t there? Rape and humiliation. Yes, I saved her from that, but I still couldn’t sleep well. Just like that poem, I had miles to go before I could sleep.

There was a waitress at the corner coffee shop that I had taken an interest in. She was from Nicaragua and her family had fled to the U.S. during the last conflict. I was in Nicaragua at the time of the revolution, though she must have only been a child. Her father stayed as he believed in the cause. She told me he was shot on a train in the mountains. It had crossed my mind more than once if I had been the assassin. I have conditioned myself not to believe in coincidences, but there was something familiar about the waitress that shook whatever was left of my soul.

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. My eyes revealed nothing, but sleepless nights. I tried praying, but God wasn’t with me. Maria, the waitress, gave me a smile as she refilled my coffee. Her dark eyes scarred by growing up in a part of the world where the favorite past time was betting on the daily body count. I vowed that no pain would ever mark her again. Sometimes life was not only just unfair, it was deliberately cruel. While I knew she was here illegally, I couldn’t see that she had done anything wrong by living and working in this country. Laws and morals didn’t always walk side by side. For a while now I had been saving money for Maria. I felt responsible and I was going to take care of her.

“Mr. McBride,” she said “don’t you ever smile?”

I forced a grin, but no words came out.

“Someday you will trust me enough to tell me what makes you so quiet. It is nothing that can’t be forgiven.” She must have seen the look in my eyes. “You’d be surprised,” she said as she walked away.

I went to the post office to check my mail. There was only one letter. I opened the envelope and read about my next job. Robert Huston. Listed with his name was his place of employment and his home address. A real sweetheart, this one. He led male tour groups to southeast Asia and central America where both he and his customers feasted on underage boys and girls.

That night, before going to meet Robert Huston, I stood outside St. Christopher’s church. The Santa Anas, the devil winds, were blowing hot and hard. The wind had pushed the dirt and smog out of the basin and there were more stars out than I could ever remember. The locals called this earthquake weather. Every Wednesday night Maria went to church. She was in there now. Alone. Sitting at a pew counting her rosary beads as if each one were a precious jewel whose value only she knew. The church stood bright and white among abandon store fronts and vacant lots, like a new promise flowering among a field of forgotten lies. I stood across the street. For a moment I couldn’t move. I didn’t even know where I didn’t belong.

I drove out to a coffee shop off interstate 10 in the San Gabriel Valley. I saw him as soon as I entered. Robert Huston gave me a glance and then turned to his clients. It looked like a simple night out with the boys. He and four other men were having pie and coffee and quietly laughing it up. It was hard to believe, but these guys looked normal, like teachers and cops and store owners. But then again, the reason evil is so frightening is because it’s often wearing an acceptable uniform. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, shamefully, though, I could imagine the words. I took a seat at the counter, ordered coffee and waited. While I sat there, Maria was in church, praying. Hopeful. With all she’d been through in life she could still see something I couldn’t see. While I believed in God, I knew I could never be forgiven. Sometimes there’s a reason why certain roads are not taken. What was the old punch line? I must have made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

I took a sip of coffee and heard them getting up. They were all smiles and handshakes. The other men were leaving, probably going home to their wives and children. I could picture their kids rushing into their father’s arms. Safe and warm. “Daddy” that one word could make everything in their lives good once more. What we believe and what actually is are so often universes apart. Someday they’ll find out about their fathers, and everything they thought they knew about the world they lived in would never be the same again. It is inevitable and no one can stop it. Marking these kids for life–the ones they abuse overseas and to own children who look up to them like Gods. Sealing their fate before they reach the starting gate. Robert Huston walked up to the register to pay. He looked over at me and determined that he didn’t know me. I sensed that my presence was making him uneasy. Still, he nodded his head.

“Hey, how’s it going? He asked in a way that didn’t expect a reply.

I nodded to him. Robert Huston walked outside. I noticed he left a generous tip. I finished my coffee and followed him out. He was getting into a Jaguar. His job, no doubt, was a lucrative one. The rules of capitalism were supply and demand. Morals and the American way were often at odds. One thing you can always count on is that people will continue to surprise you in ways you can never imagine.

“Robert Huston?”

He turned my way. “Do I know you?”

I started to go for my gun, but Robert Huston must have had a sixth sense, because was off and running through the parking lot. The rules of procedure stated that if the mission started to go south, to abort and try again some other time. But I went after him, realizing I was on my own now. No agency to protect or support me. I’d broken the rules, but all I could think about was stopping him, preventing what this one man was doing to the world.

We ran through quiet residential streets. Every other house there was the flicker of a television set. I was worried he was leading me somewhere. A place that he knew, where people knew him. None of this felt right. I was out of my element. I wasn’t sure I could find my way back to the coffee shop. Without warning, he started to stumble and fell to the ground. I slowed down and watched him as he rolled to a stop. As he rose to his feet, I saw a flash of metal in one of his hands. I raised my gun, but couldn’t get a fix on him. He raised the metal object and I was sure he was going to fire on me. I pulled off two shots and I heard a woman scream. Robert Huston looked behind him and then looked at me. He shook his head and ran. Behind him I saw a woman crouched over a man who was laid out on the sidewalk. She was crying.

“Oh, God, Rick, wake-up. Oh, God, please wake up.”

She saw me and she saw my gun. Then she did something I would never have suspected. She went after me. I put my gun away and waited for her. I didn’t know what else to do. She showed no fear as she grabbed my shoulders, digging her nails into me trying to drag me down. I grabbed her and threw her to the ground. She got up and again I threw her down. This time she just lay there, crying. I looked down to her and
noticed she was wearing a wedding ring, and one of those key chains you wear on your wrist. Attached to that, a picture of a young baby. A
beautiful innocent child that I had just marked for life. As I ran off I could hear the woman crying.

I found my way back to the coffee shop. I could hear sirens in the distance and overhead a helicopter. Robert Huston’s Jaguar was gone. I walked into the diner and ordered coffee. I noticed blood on the palms of my hands. I got up and walked to the restroom. Surprisingly, the blood washed off easily. As if I’d never pulled the trigger. As if I never threw down the young mother to the street. As if a young baby still had her father. I sat back down and marveled how, if you chose it to be, life could just keep going on as if nothing bad had ever happened. I took a sip of the coffee, but I couldn’t taste it. I could see the steam coming from the cup, though I felt nothing but a cold chill that I knew would never go away.

That night the nuns came back to me. All three with a bullet hole in the middle of their foreheads. All three asking me for sexual favors. Bright red lipstick, dripping like blood from their lips. Then they disappeared and I could hear babies crying. I ran down a dimly lit hallway that never seemed to end. The crying got louder, but I couldn’t find them. Suddenly a gun was in my hand and I could see the babies. Their were three of them, strapped in their high-chairs and wearing blindfolds. Someone started counting. “5, 4, 3...” I raised the gun and felt my finger on the trigger. I couldn’t stop myself. “2, 1...” The babies cried louder and then I heard the shot go off. The smell of smoke and gun powder hung in the air like bad cologne. I looked down and the gun was gone, but there was blood pouring from the palms of my hands. I started laughing because it tickled. And there was Maria, wearing a blood soaked apron, asking me what I had done to her father.

The next morning I wrote out a check to Maria. It was everything I had. I put it in an envelope and dropped it off at the mailbox. The sun, I noticed, didn’t show. It was out there, somewhere behind the thick, dark clouds that shaded the city. As I walked back to my apartment I realized there was nothing I could take back or make better. I was as diseased as the people I hunted. If I stayed and tried to help Maria I would only make her life much worse than it already was. Perhaps the check would help her. It was a lot of money and she could get a new start on life. Maybe go to school, anything but continue being a waitress in that dismal little coffee shop. Maybe she could get a second chance, maybe she didn’t have to be marked for life.

Back in my room, I picked up my gun. I sat in my chair and looked out the window. I was out of choices. It was a relief to know that it would soon be all over for me. I gently put the barrel in my mouth. I knew how to position it just right. One clean shot and I’d be gone. I thought about Maria. I wanted to dream of a life with her, but it never came. A nice little house on a sunny street. Sitting on the front porch reading the Sunday paper, cups of coffee in our hands. A life that was not my destiny. As I pulled the trigger, I could see the sun peeking through the clouds.

I was lying on the ground. I couldn’t feel a thing, but I heard voices and a pounding on the door. Then there were people in my room.

“Oh, Jesus” I heard a guy say. “What’s wrong with taking pills. What a mess.”

I could hear a few more people walking around. Couldn’t they see me? I tried to talk, I tried to move, open my eyes, anything, but nothing happened.

“Mother of God,” I heard someone say, “I think he’s still alive.”

“No way,” said another.

“He’s breathing.” Then, “Don’t go away on me buddy, we’ll bring you back. We’ll bring you back.”

“I don’t want to come back,” I screamed inside my head. “I just want to go.”

********

It’s funny how good the world looks when you can no longer live in it.

Now, I just look around. Sometimes they prop up my bed and I can stare out the window. Maria comes by most everyday. She’ll bring me flowers and talk to me. Usually, she just sits with me and will read the bible aloud to me. Such a beautiful voice. Sometimes she will share her thoughts about what she read. It makes the words from the bible clearer to me, though it raises questions that I can’t ask. I just sit there. I can’t move. I can’t talk. I can’t count days, tell time, or even feel her touch. When she’s not there, I’m left with the memories of all I’ve done wrong.

“Hello, McBride.” Her voice like a warm blanket breaking through a never ending cold spell. I try to look to my side, but my eyes only look straight ahead.

“I’m taking on a new job. I’ll be doing house cleaning for an office building on Sunset. Your money won’t last forever, and this place is very expensive, but you deserve the best. It won’t be so bad.” she tells me. “I get off at five from the diner, then I have a two hour break before I clean.”

She was holding me, but I could not feel her touch. I couldn’t smell her perfume.

“You were so good to try and take care of me. I will always make sure you are taken care of–no matter how much I have to do.”

For some strange reason I was having trouble seeing.

“Are those tears?” she whispered. “Are you crying, can you understand what I’m saying?” I saw her hand come up, she was holding a tissue which she then put against my face. I could not feel her. All I could feel was the constant pain that burned through me daily, like hot coals in my soul.

“I told the doctors God and I would take care of you. Letting you die would be a sin. I told them, I will keep you safe and alive no matter what.”

She put my face in her hands and smiled. “Sometimes you remind of my father.” She kissed me. “I have to go clean now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

No, there were no second chances for Maria. I saw to that. I sealed her fate. Working two hellish jobs for the rest of her life just to keep me alive in a good hospital. Though I found the strength to pray for my death, I knew I wasn’t go to die anytime soon. No, God wanted nothing to do with me. He didn’t even want me to die. All I wanted was to make amends, but you know, you can’t make things better. You can’t take anything back. In the end, all you can really do is to make things worse.