Strange,
Helgaard thought--locked in a tool shed, noose around his neck--the
knowledge he wouldn't be breathing much longer. The shed belonged
to Judge Arthur Benson, who, for the past twenty-five years, had waged a
one-man war on crime.
Helgaard
choked on a laugh. Thirty years ago, Benson claimed to be fighting
a different war, a psychological one.
Once
upon a time. Why not start that way? His past had taken on a kind
of hazy unreality. Once upon a time, Helgaard worked for CIA.
Really. He was recruited out of MIT and first assigned as an
observer to Captain Arthur Benson's A-Team.
"Happy
birthday."
Benson's
voice startled him from his report. "Thank you, Captain.
How'd you know?"
"I
can read a file."
"Of
course. I just didn't think--"
"What
say we celebrate at Rosie's?"
"Rosie's?"
"Bar
in Saigon where we've established friendly relations."
"What
do you mean by--?"
"File
says you're twenty-five," Benson said. "You have had
beer before."
"Yes,
sir."
"Have
a few with the guys. Let 'em get to know you. What do you
say?"
"Sure."
"Outstanding."
The
smell of gasoline filled the shed. I'm soaking in it, after all.
He
couldn't recall how much Tsingtao he'd drunk the night of the party.
The toast to his mother melted into a wet dream about a cross-eyed
prostitute.
Maybe
it wasn't a dream. Maybe Benson hired the girl--she called herself
Jasmine--and showed her to Helgaard's bunk at base camp.
From
that night on, his mentor's voice echoed: "No one likes being
watched. A little resentment is to be expected."
More
than a little. Helgaard felt like a guinea pig for the mind games
Benson and his men were supposed to play on the locals.
Feet
balanced on a wooden stool, Helgaard closed his eyes and pictured
Jasmine. He was tempted to jerk off, but he needed clean hands in
case he found the courage to do what he planned.
He
had time. Benson was probably spooning with his wife right now,
not a thought for the man locked in his shed.
Cross-eyed
Jasmine gave way to Benson's smile as he squatted in the bush.
"No
rules, boys. This is our little war. Time to be smart,
sneaky bastards."
Helgaard
choked on another laugh. He returned from six months in Vietnam
feeling years older, yet greener than when he left. His sense of
duty was gone. His last relative, Great Aunt Betty in Saugerties,
died while he was over there. The only jobs he could stomach
anymore were low-stress. Janitor, grocery-bagger, ticket-taker...
His
strongest commitment was to the study of Arthur Benson's life: his
Silver Star, passing the Illinois bar, marriage, two daughters, his love
of gardening.
One
day, Helgaard always told himself, I'll make things right. Destroy
him the way he destroyed me.
Two
years ago, he made his way from San Francisco to Carbondale, Illinois.
Got a delivery job at Godfather's Pizza. Less than a mile from
Benson's house.
He
could've stashed a gun in his car. Held the pizza in one hand, the
gun in the other. Blown Benson to hell when he came to the door.
Remember
me?
But
Helgaard had long since blocked out his weapons training. Besides he
wanted to traumatize Benson, leave the man haunted. One night,
after his last delivery, he would sneak onto Benson's property and . . .
Helgaard
felt like a marionette, legs barely holding him.
He
closed his eyes again. He was bravest when he wasn't looking.
His
right hand felt cold and clammy reaching into his pants pocket.
He
imagined what Benson would find if and when he remembered the shed.
The ultimate mindfuck. "This is my little war."
Helgaard's
left hand came up slowly, pulling a match from the book in his right.
Tightening his grip on the book, he struck the match. He felt
flame on his third try.
There
was still time. Time to back out. Time to go on living like
this.
"No
more," he said. He flicked the match to the gas-soaked floor
and kicked the stool out from under him.
Copyright 2006 by
Gerald So
Freelance Writer, Fiction Editor
for The
Thrilling Detective Web Site, and moderator
of the discussion groups DetecToday, Spenser's Sneakers and CrimeSeen,
Gerald So holds a Master's in Creative Writing from Queens College/CUNY,
and has taught first-year composition at Hofstra University. Visit his
blog at http://geraldso.blogspot.com
