I hopped out of the vehicle and headed toward the front porch, ready to wash away all of the grime, dust, and sweat from our war games. But Fletcher stayed by the van, as was his usual routine, scanning the dark woods that lay to one side of the house before his gaze moved across the yard and over to the rocky cliff that marked the edge of the property.
I didn’t know why he bothered. Fletcher was extremely careful as the Tin Man, using all sorts of cutouts, aliases, and back doors to book jobs and then being even more careful to leave no evidence behind at the scenes of his crimes, much less any clues to who he really was. There was no way that anyone could trace what he did—what we did now—back to us, but every time we came home, he still stopped, looked, and listened like he expected an attack at any second.
I sighed and waited by the front door, my arms crossed over my chest and my right foot tapping a staccato pattern against the weathered wooden porch. I was all for being cautious, but this bordered on the ridiculously paranoid.
After about three minutes, Fletcher was finally satisfied that no one was lying in wait to try to kill us, and he left the van and headed toward the house. He inserted his key in the lock, turning the knob to open the door, but the wood wouldn’t budge.
“Stupid door,” he muttered. “The wood always sticks in this humidity. I should go ahead and get that black granite one installed like I’ve been thinking about.”
I rolled my eyes. The house was already a hulking monstrosity. Several folks had owned it over the years, and each of them had added on a room or two. All in different styles, colors, and materials, including white clapboard, brown brick, and gray stone. And Fletcher had only added to the oddness by installing a bright, shiny tin roof and coal-black shutters a few months ago. I always wondered why he didn’t remodel the entire structure and give it some sort of cohesive style, but he seemed to like the strange angles and mismatched pieces of wood and stone. I supposed that a black granite door would fit right in with the eclectic feel of the rest of the house.
Fletcher put his shoulder into the wood, and the door finally wrenched open with a violent screech.
We stepped inside the house, which had as many odd corners and incongruous styles as the outside did, and went our separate ways. I headed upstairs, took a shower, and threw on a thin blue cotton robe over a white T-shirt and some short pink pajama bottoms patterned with garish green limes. Then I went back downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat.
I rustled around in the refrigerator, grabbing cold cuts, cheese, and more, before taking everything over to the counter, where a fresh loaf of Sophia’s sourdough bread was waiting. I hummed under my breath as I built my meal. Thin slices of smoked turkey and honey ham; thick slabs of sharp cheddar cheese; sweet, crispy romaine lettuce; a couple of rings of red onion; sliced fresh tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper; all of it topped off with a hearty layer of mayonnaise, a dollop of mustard, and another piece of bread. Three minutes later, I had the perfect sandwich.
Too hungry to get a plate, I stood at the counter and sank my teeth into the layers of goodness. The tomatoes were like a bright burst of summer in my mouth, brought out by the creamy mayonnaise. The meats were the ideal blend of smoky and sweet, while the lettuce and onions gave every bite a healthy bit of crunch. I quickly finished that sandwich and made myself another one.
Fletcher entered the kitchen, still dressed in his blue work clothes, although he’d taken the time to wash his hands and face. He wandered over to the counter.
“That looks good.” His stomach rumbled in time with his words.
I gave Fletcher the second sandwich and fixed a third one. He put it on a napkin, poured himself a glass of sweet iced sun tea that I’d made this morning, and carried everything into the den. I thought he might turn on the TV, but the area remained quiet. I stayed in the kitchen, finished my sandwich, and opened the fridge again, wondering what I could whip up for dessert. I had some chocolate chip cookies that I’d baked yesterday. Maybe I’d use them and a pint of fudge ice cream to make some quick and easy ice cream sandwiches—
“Gin,” Fletcher called out. “Come here, please.”
I sighed at the interruption, but I closed the refrigerator and trooped into the den, where he was sitting on the worn plaid sofa. “Yeah?”
He hesitated, then picked up a manila folder from the scarred wooden coffee table and waved it at me.
I perked up, forgetting all about dessert. “What’s that?”
“A job—maybe.”
I sat down on the sofa next to him. “Why is it just a maybe?”
He shrugged.
Fletcher wasn’t an elemental, so the stones never whispered to him of any potential dangers like they did to me. But more than once, he’d turned down a job because something didn’t feel right to him. And more than once, he’d found out after the fact that he’d been right to refuse it. That the assignment had been some sort of trap or double-cross or that the client was only going to pay half the money and then try to take him out after the job was done. I might have my magic, but Fletcher had his instincts.
He hesitated a moment longer, then handed me the file. “I was going to wait on this. At least until I could check out a few more things, like exactly who the client is and why they want this person dead. But apparently, the client wants to remain as anonymous as I do, because I haven’t been able to find out anything about them so far.”
“How did they make contact?” I asked.
“I answered a rather cryptic newspaper classified ad asking for information about pork prices, followed up by some more pointed conversations through one of my anonymous e-mail accounts.”
Newspaper ads, untraceable e-mails, and throwaway cell phones were some of Fletcher’s standard ways of booking jobs, while the mention of pork prices was one of his codes. Other codes included more tongue-in-cheek references to Wizard of Oz memorabilia, given that the Tin Man was Fletcher’s assassin alias. That way, all he had to do was scan the newspaper every morning to see if someone might want the services of an assassin and then follow up on the info he spied there. Even then, he remained anonymous, and he still screened potential clients as much as possible, in case of setups and traps.
“There was nothing unusual about how the client contacted me, but something still feels a little off.” He shrugged. “But the down payment is already sitting in the bank, and everything else seems legit, so I figured that we might as well talk about it.”