The Plan

Chapter 15

Winter of 2001

It’s her 15th birthday today and the fifth one without a celebration.

She didn’t care anyway.

Because all she cared about was finding the truth. All she cared about was not forgetting the name her father asked the killer that night five years ago…

 

March 30, 2011 (4:30pm)

She turned around, he understood, and followed. They walked to the nearest café without a word.

She chose the farthest and most private corner and after ordering their coffee, she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

He looked at her, his brown eyes calm and serious. “You know the answer to that,” he said.

“If you think I’m doing the killings, why didn’t you notify the authorities? A man in your position and power can easily do that.”

“Because I understand,” he answered almost instantly. “And I don’t just think you’re doing these things—I know.”

“Stay out of this, Lightman,” she warned.

“No, I can’t do that. I want to help you.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, shaking her head.

“I know my parents died because of something other than being a victim of a robbery case. And I want to kill that bastard who killed them.”

She almost rolled her eyes, “I don’t really care about him,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Of course you do—”

“No, I don’t. This is bigger than you think.”

“You mean the cover-up of Peter Thomas’ case?”

Her head snapped in shock, then understanding dawned on her, “I see you’ve been doing some research of your own,” she said, awe in her voice.

“But I still have some questions left unanswered and I know you’re the only one who had the answers.”

“And if I say I don’t want to answer them?” she challenged. She did not like this conversation. Lightman knew too much for his own good.

“I’ll demand that you do. I’m involved in this whether you admit it or not. My parents’ death was because of something that happened in 1996.”

She stayed quiet and that’s when he knew she definitely had the answers.

“I have money,” he continued, “I’ll provide you with anything that you’ll need. I have connections as well. I’ll make things easier and you know it.”

His voice sounded desperate and she was startled to see that he was. It was not in his nature and looks to be sounding desperate. She fixed him with a look, her green eyes thinking hard, considering his offer.

“This is not just your fight anymore. It’s mine too. I don’t care about the system—it’s already rotting with corruption—so you don’t have to worry about me having a sudden attack of nobility. I want justice as much as you do.”

Silence ruled over them for a long time as they stared at eachother, measuring, testing, and proving.

Finally, she said, “Okay,” and he sighed in relief, “but we’ll do it my way.”

“Deal,” he said without argument.

(6:00pm)

The man looked at the bold name pasted on the door and looked at the long hallway, making sure no one was around. Satisfied, he opened the door without bothering to knock.

The spectacled man looked up from the papers he was studying, question in his eyes. “Can I help you?” he asked the stranger.

“Yes,” the man answered, stepping inside the room, closing the door behind him.

Leonard Carlson stood in alarm when he heard the loud clicking sound of the lock.

“Who are you?” he stammered.

“A friend sent me.”

“Who?”

“You know who,” the man answered, stepping forward.

“I’m calling security—” his words were cut off by the man’s hand grabbing his arm that reached for the phone.

His next instinct to cry for help was intercepted by the blade slashing his throat. Blood gurgled out of his mouth as he tried to speak, his last remaining strength centered in his hands clinging at the man’s jacket.

Slowly, as life drained from him, flowing out along the blood oozing out of his throat, he slid to the floor. With eyes still open, Leonard Carlson died and the faces of his family were the last picture that flashed by his eyes.

The man wiped the blood from his blade with his gloved hands and hid it inside his jacket. When his hand reappeared, he held a clear plastic the size of an I.D. He stripped off the outer layer, exposing a red kiss mark. Gently, he pasted it face down on Carlson’s lifeless left cheek and carefully stripped off the last remaining plastic layer, leaving behind a perfect red mark on the dead man’s cheek.

With one last sweeping glance around the room, he left as silently as he came.