The Contract

0500, the man awakens without an alarm. His sneakers are tightened left to right every day, as it should be. A seven-and-a-half-mile run is chosen, his third favorite course. 

0545 run complete. Fifteen minutes of stretching is conducted in preparation for one hour of a comprehensive weightlifting regime, hitting every major muscle group and its stabilizers. 

0645, weightlifting complete. Another fifteen minutes of stretching, then a half hour swim in his pool. 

0730, swim complete.

In his line of work, it is of the utmost importance to maintain the highest level of physical fitness. The power of repetition and continuity motivates him to complete his routine like clockwork, as it should be.

Following his exercise routine, he showers and washes up in order to begin breakfast.

0815, carefully measure protein shake, two meticulously prepared eggs, a spinach salad with six strawberries sliced from top to bottom. Finally, a fresh cut grapefruit cut into four equal pieces sits on a separate plate.

This is the most effective meal for the climate and time of year, carefully prepared by his hand. The mess of cooking is cleaned immediately after its creation, the disorder of the pan in his sink distracts him from the meal. The importance of timeliness and methodical approach to tasks is paramount in his profession.

After his morning routine he reads news around the world. The man never wants to be surprised by some local trouble in the area he is operating. He pays particular attention to the political stability of the countries he frequents the most. A tumultuous country can get you killed when you are on the job. A true professional gives credence to the most extreme of anomalies, he is never surprised, as it should be.

 By the time he has read the latest news, and digested the information presented, he has begun to prepare an afternoon meal. The arrayed fruits and vegetables from the island are well nurtured and provide a healthy meal for him. It provides him the necessary energy for the next portion of his day.

The small armory in the basement is plain and white. The construction allows no sound to escape, and he finds his tools arrayed neatly. Each is polished and carefully placed on hooks and tables. Various high-powered rifles, explosives, and edged weapons sit to one side. Ropes of various length and thickness sit on the other side. Down the hall lay various targets and dummies. For two hours he goes through a battery of shooting drills, presenting each weapon and firing rounds at each target. He strives for perfection, always self-critiquing his form.

After he finishes his training session, he returns to the house proper. He changes again into a well fitted suit. The attire is formal enough to blend in, but not in such a way to highlight himself. He stands in the mirror to adjust his clothes for thirty minutes. Each detail is correct and purposefully placed.

In his suit he exits the house and walks down the road to check for contracts. To receive a contract, the requests follow a very intricately laid out path, passing from one anonymous messenger to another before finally ending up at his mail drop on the small island he calls home. It took years to perfect, but he is confident in its ability to inform him of the next contract. 

As he walks out of his home, he turns his shoulder to admire his home. Everything was just as it should be, orderly, properly maintained, and meticulously groomed.

He loved his work, but it vexed him how his grass could get so out of check in the short time that he would be gone on a hit. He stopped mid stride as he noticed something out of place in his garden. A single blade of grass stood in defiance of him amidst his perfectly kept vegetable garden. He strode over and placed a glove from his pocket over his left hand and reached down to pluck the grass from the ground. He then placed it and the glove into a plastic bag, sealed it and placed it back into one of his pockets, and returned to his trip to the mail drop.

He did not receive a request every day. He did not even receive one every week. This was just fine with him, seeing as how they usually paid rather well, and he was able to sustain his desired lifestyle off of this funding. The man had been much busier when he began his career, but eventually he had saved up enough to conduct jobs at his leisure.

Today there was one envelope in the box, the address on the outside was handwritten. Donning another pair of gloves, he reached out to retrieve it. The envelope was heavier than it should have been. The man shook it to determine its contents. Was that coins jingling inside of the envelope?

He opened the letter and emptied the contents into a gloved hand. Counting out the coins, there was $15.72 in loose change, then adding in the small bills, brought the total to $23.72. The letter inside was also handwritten. It continued on a few folded pieces of paper and looked to be written in a shaky hand.

Was this some kind of joke? The man was furious. But he began to scan through the letter as he walked back to his home.

Hi. My name is Clair. I am 9. I live in New York and I want you two kill a person. Please. This person is my teacher. A math teacher. Her homework is stupid and dumb and stuff. I hate math. But it’s worse. Her homework is stupid and hard. I mean. HARD. Her name is Clair too. But please don’t kill me too. I don’t know how much it is to get someone killed but I want you to please. My mom also said she wants Clair to be killed. I heard her one night after crying. She doesn’t like her. Probably because she makes me cry. But also, my dad hasn’t come home. He has not come home sense my mom cried. That was a few days ago. I think. Today is Monday. So, it was last Monday, I think. I think dad had a trip, but mom started packing up his stuff after. I don’t understand. Why do you need stuff after you leave? So, mom said I want that Clair dead. Not me though remember. My teacher Clair. She is taller than me. And taller than my mom. I think. She is very pretty. She is not as old as my mom. Mom doesn’t drop me off at school too. She looks really tired. I don’t know if she sleeps. We eat lots of Mac and cheese. Mom cries sometimes and says she is sorry. But I love Mac and cheese. It’s my favorite and I could eat it every day. So, I hope you can kill my teacher Clair. It would make me and my mom very happy. And maybe my dad will come home after.

Sincerely,

Little Clair

P.S I’m not the big Clair.

P.S. I found your address in my dad's stuff. It had a note. It said contract hits. I know that means killing people cause movies.

P.S. My name is Clair. 

The letter was infuriating for the man to read. His face had filled with anger at its simple wording and complicated message. But as he read a part of him remembered. He remembered a broken family. A scared child. Who helped him? No one. Who would help this young girl? Him.

He wrapped the money back into the envelope, carefully closing it to ensure none of the change was lost. He moved back to his home, to gather his gear. The flight to New York would be long.

***

He opens the door onto the scene of his fresh kill. He hated how messy this job could get. Death was so...disorganized. He looked out onto the scene, the remains of a romantic dinner sat in the room, tall candles now burnt almost to stumps. A dinner prepared with hopes to impress, sat growing cold.

Miss Clair’s dead body lay on the floor, a single clean and meticulously placed shot in her head. It had been easy to track the teacher through her daily routine. Surprisingly organized, he had thought. The single shot had taken her directly in the forehead, the caliber not large enough to cause significant damage to the skull.

He switches from his shooting gloves to his cleaning gloves. He slips the protective booties over his shoes and retrieves his cleaning supplies from his backpack. It takes him a while, but he revels in the work, as he sets about cleaning the mess, restoring the room to a semblance of the way it was before he had arrived. The new addition is moved into a pleasing and symmetrical position, the only oddity the dark spot above her brow. As it should be.

Once he is done, he sits down at the dining room table, looking around the room and admiring his handy work. Everything is just where it should be. Nothing was out of place and there is no sign that he was ever there. Almost no sign, he reminds himself.

He pulls the envelope out of his pocket and looks across the table at the man he has tied to the chair. The man is stricken with panic, looking at the man with fear in his eyes. The killer stares at him, the evident lack of emotion, chilling the bones of the bound man.

“Are you little Clair’s father?” He asks evenly.

The sensation of talking to another human feels strange and dirty. His hits are usually so clean, he never needed to interact with other living humans, but this time, it was necessary. The man begins to nod in affirmation to the question.

“How disappointing. Honestly, I was hoping to hear something different. But, since that is the case, I have something I would like to read to you.”

With that, he unfolds the letter and begins to read.

He finishes, folds the paper, and sets it on the table. Tears stream down the bound man’s face. The man sobs the entire time, unable to focus on his surroundings. He does not see the flash of the knife between the tears. His head slumps over, as the smooth cut across his throat drains him of his life.

After finishing a second clean, the killer stands and speaks to himself as he walks to the door.

“As it should be.”

***

Clair is getting ready for school; she is bouncing around the house with the excitement only attainable by young children. 

Her mother shouts at her as she dances through the kitchen.

“Sweetheart, please do not forget to brush your hair today.” 

“OK, Mom!” The little girl says, skipping up the stairs.

It is then that her mother notices an envelope has been pushed underneath the door. No return address is posted, only the words written neatly on the front.

To Clair.

“Clair! You got a letter.” 

The mother shakes the envelope and recognizes the sound of loose change jingling. 

Everything is, as it should be.