As we walked back, I realized he wasn't going to mention Aldrich. Not now. Maybe not ever. He'd found him. He'd told me what he thought I should do. He'd related his own experience. The ball was now in my court, and if I chose to quietly slip off the field, he wouldn't comment.
"I'm going to do it," I said.
He looked back at me.
"Aldrich," I said. "You're right. If I don't, I'll be constantly scouring the news, worrying that he'll go after another girl."
He stopped walking. "You rather I never found him?"
I shook my head. "If Amy was here, she wouldn't tell me to turn the other cheek. She'd want him to pay. He's had twenty years of freedom. Time to end this."
One would think that having made the decision, we should have proceeded amicably into planning and execution. Didn't happen. In fact, the first thing we did was argue.
"You doing it?" Jack asked as we pulled onto the highway. "Or you want me to?"
"I am. Thanks for the offer, but there's no way I can justify--"
"Don't need to justify. I'm offering."
I took a deep breath. "I don't feel any overwhelming need to pull the trigger myself. It isn't about killing him--it's about seeing him dead. But I don't have an aversion to doing it, so that's best."
A few minutes of quiet driving. Then, "If I disagree?"
"I'm not going to screw this up, Jack. I won't see his face and flip out and--"
"Never said that. But I presume you plan to look him in the eye. Tell him why he's dying. Might bring shit up."
"Bring shit up?"
"Stuff you've forgotten."
I stiffened. "I know it's going to bring back memories, Jack."
"Do you?" He glanced over. "Really?"
I glared at him. "Yes, really."
He said nothing more until he turned off into the city. "I'm not a shrink. Never been to one. Shot a couple. Don't think that counts. Point is, I don't know how this works. Memories and shit. Better off confronted? Or buried?"
"Confronted," I said. "I'm sure there are things I've forgotten or repressed that might come back when I see him. But I choose to take that risk. I choose to deal with it."
"You gonna remember that?"
Another glare aimed his way. "If you're asking me to remember my choice if it all goes to hell, I will."
"Know that. Just . . ." He looked over now as we paused at a stoplight. "I want this to help you, Nadia. Make things better. If it makes them worse? Really do not want that."
"I know," I said, and we resumed driving in silence.
I called Emma to say I wouldn't be home for the weekend. It was Friday, and we couldn't pull this hit until Sunday at the earliest.
The next step was disguises. In Michigan I'd been wearing a variation on my usual hitman outfit. Not leather and stilettos, as much as I'm sure that would fulfill someone's idea of a female assassin. I go the polar opposite route. I wear no makeup and sweats with padding to add an extra thirty pounds. My own hairstyle doesn't exactly rock the fashion world--shoulder-length auburn curls--but the wig is worse, nondescript brown hair trimmed with scissors to give it that "I cut my own hair" look. Middle-aged nobody. The invisible woman.
It's a lot harder to be invisible when there's two of you. So Jack usually picks our disguises, which have two basic variations, depending on the locale. Aldrich's neighborhood was nice enough that the biker-and-bitch combo we sometimes use wasn't going to work, so we went with working-class guy and second wife.
I got straight, dark hair and dark contacts. Jack got gray-free hair and contacts that turned his dark eyes hazel. He also got dark beard stubble, which he didn't need to fake, having not been near a razor in a few days. He added a small tattoo on the back of his hand, some youthful whim that I'm sure his character regretted now. I added bright red glasses. The tattoo and glasses were "distinguishing features." They're what people notice, often at the expense of more mundane but important things like face shape and body size.
We set out to Newport, where Aldrich worked. To pull a good hit, you need to know the target's routine. That's not how every pro operates. In fact, contrary to what Hollywood shows, your average hitman isn't a skilled assassin, slipping up on his target in some clever disguise, killing him in some endlessly creative fashion before vanishing into the night. The average hitman is just a thug who doesn't mind killing people. He finds his target alone, walks up, and pulls the trigger.