At five minutes of five, the morning DJ topped off his radio program with a sleek number by Norah Jones. Her smoky sound seeped through the chill of the wee morning hours, filling the interior of his '92 Accord. Agent Jackson Parks kept the car radio tuned so low that the rhythm was a whisper, Norah's voice like a memory in his mind. As the song drifted towards the end, Jackson turned off the radio, cupped his hands around the dashboard's lighter, and lit another cigarette.
When he'd taken the last slow drag, he eased the car door open and stood out in the crisp, predawn air. Four weeks of waiting and watching had left him stiff and tired, and the tiredness was deep in him—a lead-muscle, saggy-nerve weariness.
Jackson leaned against the hood of his faded maroon car, waiting for a sign that the neighborhood was alive. As if on cue, through the sediment of night, came the far-off sigh and pant of a train. There'd been other times in his life—sitting through the lectures in Sociology 101, waiting in line at the DMV, or on the ship to the Persian Gulf—when boredom jostled with lassitude, leaving him bone-tired, but this was different. There was no definite end in sight. No date that Jackson could stick a thumbtack on in his mental calendar. He was at the mercy of the Bureau. And the Bureau was at the mercy of a killer.
At eight, Jackson would be relieved by Agent Dixon who would be relieved in turn at four in the afternoon by Agent Prugh, who would carry on until midnight, when once again Jackson Parks, with his thermos of coffee, a bundle of sandwiches, and a canister of Pringles, would begin the vigil that had begun to seem pointless. But no agent who'd been part of the Bureau for only two years could point out to the Special Agent in Charge that this assignment, in his measured opinion, was fruitless. Patience was a quality more valuable than gold to the Bureau. Impatient agents didn't last long, and Jackson Parks had plans to be around a good long time.
So, night after night, Jackson followed his routine, kissing the spent twenty-eight nights goodbye and begrudging the possible loss of the twenty-eight nights to come. Each shift adding another cumulative factor to Jackson's deathly weariness. A constant state of alertness took its toll. Adrenalin pumped through his blood, hard and fast, whenever a car on the road slowed, or an unfamiliar sound needed to be investigated. But mostly there was just hour after hour of nothing.
All because the Bureau was gambling that Denver Jones would return to see the girl he had intended to marry. Jackson wasn't a gambling man, but he didn't figure the odds to be too good. Denver Jones didn't strike Jackson as the monogamous type. The "Butcher" was most likely miles away, cozying up to some other skirt and sticking her with his blade.
As dawn paled the eastern sky, the bedroom lights in the tiny house that Jackson had been watching, flipped on. He checked his watch. She was like clockwork. Jackson inched his way to the only tree around, a maple that allowed the yard to cling to the charade of a natural environment. Its low branches shielded him as Jackson leaned heavily against the tree's trunk. This was his favorite part of this job. Libby Doyle slept in the nude and, at night, didn't bother to close her curtains. She moved about her bedroom in slow, graceful strides - like Norah's voice come to life—making the bed, fluffing the pillows, stretching her limbs before finally, still nude, making her way to the kitchen, where the window was bigger. When she put on the coffee and reached for the eggs, Jackson could see her bare feet as well as her tousled black hair. The frying pan was kept in an under-the-counter cabinet. Each morning as she bent to get the pan, Libby Doyle proved that keeping her cunt shaved bald was also part of her daily routine.
Jackson had only meant to unzip his pants to let his penis breathe. But the morning-after-morning ritual had worn down his resistance. He forgot about his job, forgot where he was, and ignored any ethical twinge that might nag him. He palmed the shaft of his cock, stroking as slow as Libby Doyle moved. By the time Miss Doyle walked back to the bedroom and slipped into pants and a sweatshirt, Jackson had spilled his seed at the base of the maple, the puddle glistening like morning dew from a street lamp's glow.
Her sweatshirt was well-worn with the words "Natural Born Killer" printed on its front. It was too large for her, and Jackson suspected it once belonged to Denver Jones, a callous coincidence based on Jones's history. The man had killed a dozen people, with no particular motive in mind except cold-blooded malice. When Jackson thought of Libby Doyle wearing Jones's sweatshirt, an ugly anger thickened in his gut. He recognized the potential danger of this attitude, but twenty-eight days of staking out the same house had drained the brooding out of him. He let the anger flare.
On the night watch, Jackson could think of taking Libby Doyle, with her ignorance and her naivety, and becoming a Pygmalion. Her slim loveliness was more than just an attribute of youth. Jackson knew she worked at keeping herself beautiful. Prugh had shared with him her evening ritual of bathing, waxing, and pampering while candles flickered throughout the house. Libby Doyle would take beauty to her grave. She seemed like a woman who needed to be taken care of, like decisions were hard to come by. Jackson was more of a share-the-lead kind of guy. But maybe this once?
In the long nights, he had thought of her softly breathing in sleep and how her warm breath might escape from her parted lips. He thought about her ebony hair splayed over the pillow and her naked body snuggled deep under the covers. She was three hundred feet away, and in four weeks time, only Jackson's professional restraint had kept him huddled under the maple branches instead of knocking on her front door. So what if he shot a wad once or twice? He was confident enough to think if he'd wanted, he could have been sharing her bed, suckling those pert dark nipples and tonguing her smooth, rosy pussy.
Jackson Parks wasn't a bad guy. Though sometimes cocky, he still had a line in his mind separating right from wrong. The frequency with which his thoughts were turning to Libby Doyle disturbed him. It was blatantly wrong for an agent to involve himself personally with any female in any case. Even if the female was the moll of a butcher and her involvement in his activities was questionable. But Jackson was still just a man, with a man's needs, and a man's lust.
Dixon and Prugh both made the usual expected jokes about the midnight-to-eight shift, and the obvious advantages pertaining to the hour. In the beginning, Jackson had laughed in the expected way and hinted broadly of the mythical delights of such an assignment. But lately, when the jokes flared, Jackson's neck flushed and laughing with them was getting harder. Libby Doyle should have somebody to protect her.
When she returned to the kitchen, the rising sun peeked over the horizon. She opened the back door and looked over toward the small side road where Jackson had parked his car. The light behind her outlined her frame, and the morning wind teased the strands of her long, dark hair.
Jackson had rationalized a while ago that eating breakfast with her every morning didn't compromise any bureau directives. They'd all agreed that it would be impossible to watch the girl day-after-day without tipping her off. So his conscience was clear, and breakfast had become a morning custom.
He strolled across the yard, pulling the magnum from his shoulder holster when he was forty feet from her door, pointing it toward the ground. She stepped aside, as usual, ushering him into her house.
"Morning 007," she said with a look of amusement on her face.
"Good Morning Miss Doyle," he answered, feeling a little bit like a five-year-old boy playing an absurd variation of cops and robbers.
He went through the house as he had been taught at the Academy—gun at the ready, reflexes alert. It didn't take long. The house was small with four rooms, like little boxes, all on one floor – kitchen, bedroom, living room, and bathroom - each meticulously clean. Dolls lived in bigger homes. The closets were organized, the floors shined, and no dust particle touched a single piece of furniture.
When Jackson came back into the kitchen, she had put the coffee cups on the table, taking, as usual, the mug with the bleeding heart picture on its side.
She stood at the stove, turning the eggs and waiting for the toast to pop. Without turning she said, "Find any crooks in my house, Mr. Spy Man?"
"Not today."
"You don't trust me much, do ya?"
"Of course I trust you, Libby. I just have to follow orders."
"Ain't you got a mind of your own? she asked wearily. "It gives me the willies, you sneakin' around my house with your gun out."
He tucked the magnum back in his holster and sat down in his usual place—his back to the wall. She brought over the two plates loaded with eggs and strips of thick-cut bacon. The toast popped, and she mechanically buttered each slice.
They ate in silence, and like every morning, she lowered her face almost to the plate, nearly shoveling each forkful into her mouth. From another woman it might have amused him, or partially revolted him. In Libby, it seemed pathetic. He'd studied her graceful movements day after day. He knew what she was capable of. Her eating habits seemed more like a girl playing a part. And in the depths of her gray eyes, the deadness, the nothingness resting there, was just part of the act. Libby Doyle needed someone to teach her.
They finished breakfast, and he found the ten-dollar-bill in his pocket. He slipped it under the edge of the plate without her seeing him do it. They had never spoken of the fee he had arbitrarily selected as proper for the morning breakfast, and he knew that she would not take the plate away until he left.
"When you all gonna give up?" she asked.
"When we get Jones."
"He's pretty smart, eh?"
