Chapter 5

Washington D.C.

When you escape the scene of the crime, relax, if you accepted the fact that the manhunt for you won't affect your sleep – third rule of the assassin on the run.

Rose Wardle wasn't supposed to be at home. She was supposed to be at work and return in the evening. And that is how it was. Her absence enabled him to take his time and unwind from the built up tension. That feeling, known only to him, of blazing internal fire now had to be smothered and extinguished. He needed perfect calmness. Now he had to free himself from the impression of the completed masterpiece. To stop admiring himself and forget about the hours left behind him. The urge that drove him thus far would present a great threat in the future. The news that he'd wanted to break would be broken by others. He would be left with his own complacency and that was good enough for him.

Will anyone be able to grasp the sheer scale of the committed act? he wondered. After this, all other assassinations would be taken down a few notches, and between those and his there would be a huge, empty gap. His faceless figure would be on a pedestal and on it, it would be written 'The man who accomplished the impossible'.

While he waited for the bathtub to fill with hot water, he paced to the TV several times, before changing his mind in the last moment with the thoughts there's time. First, I should relax. He turned his gaze to the shining new computer, which he'd gifted to Rose Wardle, and then he decidedly went to the bathroom.

He took all of his clothes.

He examined his face in the mirror, in front of which his expensive set of toiletries was perfectly ordered – horse hair shaving brush, razor with ivory handle, ivory comb, exclusive aftershave lotion and expensive musk perfume.

Small traces of make-up were still visible on his face.

He'd perfected the make-up craft when he realized that the paranoia of absolute control over places and people caused by the advances and availability of tech inventions could be best countered with identity change. Sinister acts were always committed under the shroud of darkness. That sense of invisibility encouraged the actors. Like an individual in a crowd felt that their identity was concealed by the masses, he also felt more protected and safer when he wasn't himself.

The hot water brought a moment of release from all thoughts. His mind was enveloped in a sweet wave of blissfulness that slowly sent him into half-sleep.

*

The sun burned, but not as much as the hot tears that were streaming down his gentle, young face. From the moment he was left alone on the desert sand, up until the car had completely vanished from the horizon, he choked on tears and pain.

This was supposed to be a regular walk into the vastness of the savannah with his father and brother, but everything took a strange turn when the car suddenly drove off. At first, he didn't know what to make of it, but then he realized that he'd fallen victim to his father's whims once again. That wasn't unusual in itself, but this time it was terrifying. Alone, left at the mercy of the wilderness and its inhabitants. If wild cats didn't devour him, the cannibals would. But that wasn't the cause of his pain. He was torn from the inside by the feeling of betrayal. His father shouldn't be messing with him like this. All the cruelty and ruthlessness to which he and his brother were subjected while growing up didn't break their faith in their father. They may've lost their love, but trust still glimmered in their young hearts. And now, cast away on the scorching African sun, with nothing on his person, save scant clothes – shorts and long-sleeved shirt, shoes and knee-high socks – he stared in direction of the dust settling and wondered will he find his brother somewhere along the way.

He walked while his tears evaporated on the sun.

If it was any consolation, he knew which way he was headed. At least, he thought that at first. The further he went, the more the seed of doubt began to take hold in him. Wasn't he supposed to stay on the place where he was left and wait for the return of his father? He was bound to return, bonded by the responsibility to his closest family members. He wanted to believe in that innate human instinct. He wanted to believe in many things he noticed in the fathers of his friends, but his wishful thinking didn't give him much hope.

His father wasn't like other fathers.

Aart Crump was the earthly incarnation of the devil himself.

And he, Ernest Crump, was the devil's spawn.

Tough and persistent as he was, he clenched his teeth and kept going.

The eleven-year-old boy walked through his ordeal in the African savannah. His emotions settled and the sound of the wilderness slowly took their place. At first, there was an absolute silence. An unusual silence. Very distinct and beautiful, if it wasn't for his trembling heart, and then a cacophony of sounds crashed from all sides. As he threaded deeper in the brush, his senses were overwhelmed and he couldn't distinguish and interpret every noise, move, crack and wild animal sound. He always felt comfortable in such surroundings. But beyond that comfort, human settlements were nearby.

His eyes scanned his surroundings restlessly. His frightened, wild imagination materialized all kinds of dangerous situations in front of him.

If a rhino appeared, he would run straight away. He relied on his speed. He was faster even than the black children of his age. And he would hide behind the undergrowth.

If he ran into a herd of elephants, he would do the same, but using a different tactics. He would hide right away and gradually retreat.

If he encountered a giraffe, zebra or antelope, they would run from him. Their fearfulness was his defensive weapon.

He would smack a hyena with a stone between her eyes.

He'd do the same with a wild dog.

A cheetah or a panther would also get a stone in the head. His accuracy in throwing stones was equal to the accuracy of a sniper's rifle. He also believed his father's advice that giving resistance would halve the aggressor's audacity.

But what would he do if he ran into a pride of lions?

Running away from herbivorous giants wasn't an act of fear, but a wise evasive maneuver, because none of them would give into a wild chase after him.

They weren't predators.

The lions were. And he was their pray. Their meal.

The fear of running into them kept him restless. In such an encounter, he would be in an inferior position. Surrounded and isolated. Susceptible to an attack without any means for defense. Death would come at him with gaping jaws and razor-sharp canines. He would feel them tearing into his flesh. Breaking his bones and tearing apart his body. And he would be alive and watching how parts of his body are devoured in the lions' mouths. A horrible end. An undeserved end. In any case, an unfair end. All of his past sins would end up in the jaws of the lions. And the last words he would remember would be his father's adage, that 'in the wild, you either lose your fear… or your life'.

He wanted to live. He wanted to continue sharing the joys of life with his brother, which were quite sparse in their short lives. He felt fulfilled only when the two of them were together. And he felt terrible when he bore witness to his brother's abuse by their father.

That thought, the memory of the unpleasant and painful experiences from the past, sent chills down his spine. He felt that dreary feeling of ominous trepidation, the oncoming pain, the powerlessness to defend himself.

Here, in the savannah, there was none of that, until he remembered what he hated.

Indeed, how calming was the relaxedness that the vast expanse offered. It healed all wounds on his heart, it opened his mind, discovered the value of freedom to him. Why then was he mindlessly running towards his home, when nothing like the things he'd felt in the desert awaited him there? There was no love waiting for him there. No freedom, dignity, carelessness. Why then not to reconsider and change his mind? Why not to seize this opportunity and leave his father for good?

The thought surprised him as well. It was the first time he thought of something without fear, something that was born of his own mind. He started to think for himself, something that he was too scared to do in the presence of his father. At last, he'd thought of that, if he didn't return, it would be his father's fault, not his. That way, he would spare himself from the punishment which awaited if his father by any chance found him. Later, when he would get settled, he would come back to take his brother with him.

He slowed his pace and gave himself to his fantasies.

He felt relieved now. He was alone and free. Each step was a step towards freedom. He definitely would not be returning home.

The pleasant thoughts took his mind off his initial fear of wild animals. He was brimming with confidence due to the decision he made. Even the beasts now became his friends. Everything around him was beautiful. Along the way, he picked up a fallen branch and broke off the small sprouts from it. To ease his boredom, he swung with it through the tall grass along the path. He'd hoped to reach the nearest settlement soon. And perhaps, he would run into a group of hunters along the way, since they were plentiful in this area. While they were driving here, they encountered quite a lot of vehicles packed with hunters and tourists. And until then, he would make do without food or water.

The piercing roar in the distance rekindled an old fear in him. All his illusions dispersed into thin air. He stopped for a moment, unnerved. From the distance, the lion's roar sounded once again. And unquestionably, this time it was closer. And unquestionably, it belonged to a lion. A familiar sound he'd heard many times in the zoo, but also in the wild, while he was hunting with his father.

He had to make another decision. The realization of the first would depend on its outcome. His mind was racing while he considered what action would save him from the incoming danger. He stood still and listened. Faced with a mortal threat he realized how great a man's powerlessness could be. In a moment, he lost all hope, ideals, dreams for the future. He stood there for some time in confusion. He was consumed by fear never felt before. Even greater than the fear of his father. He was sweating profusely. The stick in his hand started to slip away in his wet palm. He even thought that every resistance with sweaty palms was starting to seem pointless. However, that didn't mean that he should surrender to the predator without a fight. If he charged toward them with the intention to scare them away with his bluff, he would die like a madman, and if he turned on his heels to run, he would die like a coward, and his father always said 'fight until your last breath and die with your dignity'.

Where was his father now to save him? Where was the mother he'd never met to see what trouble had her son gotten himself into? Will God's hand appear from somewhere to rescue him from this nightmare?

He was surrounded with an abundance of trees, which provided the only reliable cover. He started walking towards one, with a trunk thick and tall enough, that seemed to him like a good choice. While he was walking, he looked around him. There were no signs of movement in the thicket, nor the sound of another roar. He stood beneath the tree and took a look around. Everything was still and quiet. He thought it was time to climb it. He left the stick and started climbing with ease. He grabbed the trunk with all of his strength and started pulling himself up. He didn't feel the scrapes on his body along the way. He climbed higher and higher until he felt that he'd reached the top. He propped one of his legs on a branch and gasped for air. On a height of 30 feet there was no more danger. And no signs of danger could be seen bellow the trees. The brief relaxedness owed to the successful climb was soon replaced by an effort to keep himself on the branch. His shoulder and leg muscles were sore. He tried to rest them in turns, but that was also turning into a laborious task that didn't look like a promising solution to his problems anymore. And he was getting hungry and thirsty as well. For how long would he have to endure this high up? His rescue effort started to look more and more like a trap he had gotten himself into. Even if he escaped the danger lurking on the ground, up there, in the sky, he couldn't hide himself from the danger coming from his stomach. Hunger and thirst increasingly agonized him. The scorching sun burned his face. His arms and feet were getting numb.

He couldn't notice any danger below the tree and in the near surroundings. In the distance, as well. The danger had probably passed. The lion most likely changed his direction. He noticed a heard of impalas nearby, moving peacefully. That gave him some confidence. One thing was certain – he couldn't hold on to the tree any longer. His muscles ached, he was tormented by hunger and thirst and the sun had climbed high on the sky. With no imminent threat at sight, every minute spent on that tree undermined his chances for rescue. But he didn't rest his hopes on his father arriving in the right moment. Those thoughts have dispersed like a dewdrop on the blazing African sun. He'd started to rely on himself. He realized that he had to keep moving. Only this way he could expect to escape the wilderness. His sharp mind realized that this solution could be transformed into a life motto: Always be on the move.

The climb down was fast, but agonizing. Because of his uncomfortable position on the branch, his muscles had grown numb and caused him pain on the way down.

Below the tree, he shot a sharp eye on his surroundings. Having noticed no signs of danger, he continued on his way. In his hand he was holding the stick once again. After barely three hundred feet, he felt an uneasiness stir in him. The unnerving feeling made him look back. On his right, there was nothing. On his left, on a distance less than a hundred feet, slightly behind him, in front of a bush, a huge lion stood and stared at him. He was cleverly lured into a trap and it seemed that there was no escape from this situation. He was flooded by sweat, but not fear. There was no fear. Not the kind of fear he thought consumed a man when he is faced with death. He wasn't unmoved, either. Who could be, when death was rushing towards them? He felt something inside himself that he couldn't explain. That vague feeling was telling him not to try to run away, but to calmly continue along his way. He suppressed the thoughts for escape, even though a tree a few feet away offered some hope for salvation, provided that he would move quicker than the lion.

In that moment of hesitation he stood perfectly still, with his gaze fixed on the lion. When their eyes met, each gaze told its own story. The boy's was saying 'I'm not scared of dying, but I'm sorry that because of it, I'll lose the opportunity to turn my shitty life around'.

The lion's eye read understanding. 'My life is shitty as well, and my future is determined by yours'.

He slowly turned and continued walking cautiously. All sorts of things were going through his head, but one thing was certain – if worst comes to worst, at least he wouldn't be facing the horror.

Time slowly passed. From time to time, fearfully, he would glance behind. The lion was still following him, keeping the same distance between them. The hunger and the thirst made him dizzy. He didn't dare to look for something that would quench at least one of his needs. Every thought about unnecessary movement was blocked by the fear of causing the lion to react.

The trees were getting thinner. The scenery was changing. The darkness slowly started to cover the view in front of him and penetrate his mind. All of a sudden, a feeling of great sadness took over him. Streams of tears poured down his grimy face. He felt the need to wail at the top of his lungs, but only muffled sobs broke the African silence. The darkness became thicker, denser. And when even the faintest light lost its glow, absolute darkness covered his eyes like a black veil and sent him into unconsciousness. He fell to the ground.

*

Ernest Crump's hand slipped into the water and he recoiled. While he was dreaming, the warm bath had turned to cold. Without hesitation, he straightened himself and got out of the tub. He wiped himself dry. He wondered how much time had passed since he fell asleep. To his surprise, it wasn't more than half an hour. In total, nearly four hours have passed since he committed the act.

He felt a bit dazed from the unnatural position of his head during his nap. He washed his face with cold water. Again, he examined his handsome face, whose lines weren't changed by the cruel life he had, including his unfortunate childhood. On it, the piercing, glassy look revealed inner strength. When he assured himself that everything was fine with his face, he went to the living room. He switched on the TV.

By now, the entire world must've learned about his exploits. About his impossible, unthinkable act. His euphoric mood rekindled and was growing in expectation of the news he craved for.

He turned up the volume on the TV.

On the first channel, some stupid commercial was on. On the second, some dumb-ass TV show. On the third, a baseball game rerun.

'Did the insensitivity of the broadcast networks' commercial interest knew no bounds?', he thought.

He started flipping through the channels. There were all kinds of stuff all over the place, except the thing he wanted to hear.

By now, the assassination should've been made public. The world should've known.

The strange silence baffled him. Even if the government wasn't prepared to break the tragic news to the nation, the unofficial channels should've spread the story. 'Unofficial sources have confirmed that an assassination of the president of the United States took place in the White House', 'The president Alfred Bagshaw has fallen victim to an unidentified assassin', 'Tragedy in the White House', 'Unprecedented political murder' – those were supposed to be the headlines of the news, from reliable, unofficial sources. But there were none. Perhaps it was all a matter of time.

In the back of his thoughts, the order of the already planned actions determined his movement through the room. He turned on the computer and opened his email. He typed in the recipient address and wrote:

ABIIT AD PLURES[1]

He waited for the message to be sent and after he made sure that the delivery was successful, he deleted it. He turned off the computer and as he was getting up from the chair, satisfied by the fact that another stage of the operation was successfully completed, one thought flashed in his mind and briefly interrupted his cheerful mood – 'Is it possible that they'll steal my glory?'.

Hours went on, and the news of his act didn't come.

Not paying much attention to the bleak thought, he headed to the bedroom.

There, neatly hanged in the closet, were his high-quality clothes, ready for his new styling. Dark brown suit tailored from 120's wool, white silk shirt and a silk tie with a tasteful design. Style that fulfilled his need for a perfect look, the appearance of a successful man. His fondness for fine, elegant clothes was one of his passions. A passion that filled his life with joy.

A couple of hours from now, all those exquisite pieces of clothing will be on him and he'll be far away, with Rose Wardle. And until then, he could lie down and rest. He threw the wardrobe he used during his stay with Rose in various Dumpsters. He left only one casual outfit. Before lying down, he checked the several spots of rash that appeared on his upper torso and itched him from time to time. The itching was gradually increasing and was becoming barely tolerable. Nevertheless, in spite of the irritation, he didn't get medications. He ignored everything that was outside of his commitment to achieve his goal. Nothing was allowed to disrupt his determination and his focus.

He reached to switch on the stereo.

Le vent, le cri by Ennio Morricone flooded the room.

The beautiful music lifted him to the heavens, where there was unlimited space for his enormous ego to grow unobstructed.

[1] He has joined the great majority (Latin).