Victor said Monica had done nothing wrong and wanted to know if that was a problem for me. I said, “She’s obviously guilty of something or you wouldn’t want her dead. That’s good enough for me.”
Something in my comment struck a chord that resonated with the metal-voiced weasel, and he asked me to “E… la… borate.” I explained, “We who kill people for a living avoid making personal judgments about our targets. In Monica’s case, I’m not her attorney. Not her judge. Not her jury. I’m not being paid to determine her innocence. I’m being paid to render justice. Whether it’s you, Sal, Homeland, or Captain Kangaroo, all I need to know is that someone, somewhere, has found Monica Childers guilty of something and sentenced her to death. My job is to carry out the execution.”
Victor told me where to find Monica and how he wanted her to die. He said she ran at daybreak every morning and would do so even while on vacation at Amelia Island Plantation. So Callie waited for Monica by the ninth tee box, decked out in the latest dri-fi t Nike athletic apparel. To complete the ensemble, she wore custom running shoes and a high-tech runner’s watch. When she heard Monica coming her way, she started running and timed her approach to hit the intersection a few seconds after Monica passed. The two ladies noticed each other and nodded. Callie rounded the corner, increased her speed, and fell into step with Monica.
“Mind if I run with you?” Callie asked.
Monica pressed her lips into a tight frown. “As you can see, I’m not very fast.”
“Actually, you are!” Callie said. “I had to sprint like a boiled owl to catch you!”
Monica wrinkled her nose. “Boiled owl? I hope no actual event occurred to inspire such an expression!”
Callie giggled. “Oh my God, I hope so, too!”
Monica smiled in spite of herself.
“In any case,” Callie said, “this is a good pace for me. Plus, I hate running alone, especially when I don’t know the area.”
That was all it took to form a runner’s bond: two very pretty, fashionable ladies who shared a passion for running. I imagined them jogging fluidly over the plantation road, the cadence of their stride adding a human counterpoint to the morning sounds of the island’s bird and insect population.
Monica cast an envious glance at her running mate. “You have perfect legs!” she said.
Callie, caught a bit off guard, responded, “What a nice thing to say!”
Monica flashed a friendly smile and said, “You’re a model, right? I could grow to hate you!” After laughing, she added, “Are you staying at the plantation?”
