Postcards from an Assassin: Life After Death

By Janice Dougherty and Mat van Guilder

Who is Matthijs van Guilder? Walt, the sheriff, thinks he is a devil. Margaret, Walts wife, thinks he is an angel. Bryan, Walts son, thinks he is a hero. Janice thinks hes the best thing thats ever happened to her. Nigel, who has known him for a long time, thinks he is an arrogant, quirky, cold-blooded assassin and one of his best employees. Mat sees himself as alternately angry, funny, deadly, damaged, clever, well read, a film buff, successful and homeless. Can they all be right? Is this ghost real?
This is a story of identity; of the unlikely romance between two middle-aged misfits, along with some dog behavior, paganism and a good chase, all intrinsic to the tale. It is a story about what is said and what is not said; a story of fate, fact and fiction all tangled up. It is a story that intruded itself, pre-formed, intact, to a reluctant consciousness and insisted on being written downfor better or worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477236932

Janice Dougherty

Janice Dougherty was born, educated and worked in New York City, and many of the details in these stories are easily verifiable. The character, Mat van Guilder could be referred to in some circles as a "ghost". Many of the others are largely fictional, or adapted from current events.

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© 2012 by Janice Dougherty, LVT, RN, BSN & Matthijs van Guilder. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/19/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3694-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3693-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911964

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Yule Logs

Chapter 2: New Years Eve

Chapter 3: A Hair of the Dog

Chapter 4: A Minor Inquiry

Chapter 5: The Armoire Upstairs

Chapter 6: The Jacuzzi

Chapter 7: Not So Ancient History

Chapter 8: Passing Time With Dogs

Chapter 9: For Whom the Bell Tolls

Chapter 10: Into the Woods

Chapter 11: Face the Music

Chapter 12: Short Flight/Quick Change

Chapter 13. Paris Plus

Chapter 14: UPS Delivers Omaha

Chapter 15: Greetings

Chapter 16: The New Ritual

Chapter 17: One Year Later

Chapter 18: Down to the Wire

Chapter 19: Checking Out

Chapter 20: The Flight Home

Chapter 21: High Summer

Chapter 22: Assassin in the House

Chapter 23—Coming Out

Chapter 24: Two Live Bodies

Chapter 25: Adaptation

Chapter 26: ADL’s (Activities of Daily Living)

Chapter 27: Partners

Chapter 28: Young Guns

Chapter 29: Weekend Mentor

Chapter 30: The Watcher in the Woods

Chapter 31: Lasting Impression

Chapter 32: Ready to Roll

Chapter 33: Nigel Signs Off

Chapter 34: Trip to the Shrink

Chapter 35: New Toys, New Problems

Chapter 36: The Gathering Storm

Chapter 37: The Clearing

Chapter 38: Family

Chapter 39: Thanksgiving, or Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner!

Chapter 40: Three Year Solstice

Chapter 41: Career Day

Chapter 42: Public Speaker

Chapter 43: Showdown at the Okay Chorale

Chapter 44: Celebration

Chapter 45: Another One of Mat’s Stories

"Death is not a lover.

Oh yes he is…

A person who had no one, would be well advised to cobble together some passable ghost. Breathe it into being and coax it along with words of love"

Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Authors’ note:

Many places and things in this story are entirely real. Others are fictional. Of the characters in this tale, Janice Dougherty is a real person with an easily verifiable history, almost entirely as depicted. The character, Mat van Guilder could be referred to in some circles as a ghost. The others are largely fictional.

Chapter 1: Yule Logs

The little clapboard house across the road had been routinely rented out at certain predictable times of year, but late December was not one of them. Families with small children in Summer, occasional college students for interterm recess parties, a couple of deer hunters in the Autumn. They were the most welcome in the community, if they were real hunters and not just drunks in camouflage outfits. Deer had become such a plague to gardeners; they were disease carriers and an ever-present hazard to traffic; and in addition, if there was a good possibility of some nice venison for gourmet restaurants, well…

So it was of some small note of surprise, and possible annoyance, that a late model, dark sedan was seen pulling into the driveway of the Moczydlowska’s rental cottage, just prior to the Winter Solstice. The plates indicated it was a rental. The woman peering out her window from across the road, had worked for the DMV long ago, but remembered some of the clues. It must be someone from the city, she thought. It hadn’t really snowed yet that Winter, but sooner or later whoever they were, they were going to need four wheel drive or wait for the plow!

Immediately upon his arrival, the man stared coldly at the house diagonally across from his new temporary residence. Letting out a long, controlled, almost hissing breath, he flipped open his cell phone, pressed speed dial and, in a low voice, spoke without identifying himself. I said isolated! There’s a house across the road!

It’s just some retired woman, was the answer, after a brief silent, satellite gap. I’ll send you a background check on your laptop. You insisted that it not be too far from major roads, with proximity to an airstrip or airport. There’s just so much I can pick from after all, and at this distance! Look, the freezer and pantry are stocked, the wood’s been delivered and there’s oil in the furnace. Just rest up and stay low until you’re ready. Three months and a bit, you should be quite fit. Can you manage?

Maybe he answered, and terminated the connection. But now, not even out of the vehicle yet, he felt compelled to assess the possible threat/question mark that was his neighbor. And if she’s a real problem, I’ll have to remove her, and then I’ll have to move again.

Another slight aggravation was soon apparent. The wood had indeed been delivered, but the logs were far too large for the woodstove, or the fireplace and there were none but hand tools. Count it as exercise, but I really don’t need this now!

Time passed. The woman had not seen any movement for a few days, but there was smoke coming from the chimney, and a frequent sound of chopping coming from the backyard. Suits me fine! she thought. Her own supplies of wood were not where they should be this time of year, and the rack by her door was starting to look empty. I’d better order some, or collect some soon.

Then the next morning, as she was cleaning up the backyard of the dogs’ debris, she heard some movement approaching down her driveway. There had been no sound of a motor vehicle, but the footsteps and a creaking sound were clear. She looked through an opening in the fence to see a man walking toward her wood rack with a load of split firewood on a hand drawn cart. Was he selling it, she wondered? Keeping silent, she watched as he stacked the wood into her rack and turned to walk away. Now there’s a surprise. More likely someone would swipe it than leave a gift, she thought!

I saw you! she called aloud, thinking to acknowledge this introductory act. He did not startle, as though he had known she was watching all along. In fact, the absolute icy stillness of the man as he slowly and smoothly turned back to her was the most noticeable thing about him. Nor did he offer any modest gestures or expressions but looked her over coolly, as she came forward through the gate; he then scanned the house, the yard and property. The dogs did not vocalize but anyone could have heard their movement behind the fence.

I saw your woodpile was a little low, he said, softly, voice as smooth as his movement. Then abruptly, almost mechanically, he smiled a little, as though he had just reminded himself to do so. Nice and quiet around here he continued. But sometimes I hear howling, not like hounds, and too low for coyotes… I was wanting to ask if you knew what it was.

Oh here we go, a complaint, she thought. I’m sorry, it’s my dogs. Does it bother you?

No, I like it. It’s kind of mournful

A neighbor where I used to live said it was the sound of death she said jokingly, then thought she should have kept her mouth shut.

He said nothing, staring at her with astonishingly blue eyes, and after an odd, brief silence, he nodded, turned and left. Something more than what he had anticipated.

Thank you! She called out after him. He did not turn to acknowledge her remark, but extended his arm out to the side with his thumb up. Merry Christmas! he said. Did it sound smug?

So . . . she is polite. Okay; but why is there a windmill in the front garden?

The instant sizing up was reflexive and automatic. After a lifetime of living and working in New York with an assortment of rough and curious characters, this one was, so far, just data. She had learned long ago to open her senses and absorb energy. It worked on jobs, it worked in the subway, it worked with animals and it worked with patients. She recalled once having been observed watching an infant in an incubator during clinicals by a senior nurse preceptor, who had smiled knowingly.

Now, this new neighbor was both confident and cautious. He simultaneously exuded both, although she also acknowledged that many people might perceive him as a bit unsettling. She recognized that he was assessing her as much as she was him. But so far there were no alarm bells from the gut. (see The Second Brain: The Scientific Basis of Gut Instinct, by Dr. Michael Gershon, Harper Collins, 1998)

The man thought it was some dark irony that their first remarks to each other should mention death. It was his business, after all. He already knew her name from the background check, as well as the implications of its derivative root.

So, that’s the new neighbor, she thought. What’s the old saying, ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’? So, he doesn’t look Greek, (ha ha) more Central or Northern European. Can’t place the accent, it’s too slight. Nice looking man. Masculine, not overdone, and not too pretty. Maybe even close to my age. Strange, though! Still, I’ll take the firewood, no problem! Merry Christmas, indeed!

Both of them had just received their gifts, but would take a while to open. The Norns were twisting some loose, old threads into a new link.

The next day, the man began his customary mental mapping of the surrounding area, walking out behind his rental cottage after breakfast, then later driving up and down the road in his car, adding visual landmarks of stands of trees, stone outcropping and bends in the road to his internalized maps. He noted the type of stone, the fallow fields, until he had satisfied his need for a three dimensional picture of his surroundings. He would expand on that core as time went on.

Toward sunset, which was still so early at this time of year, he headed back, having to turn on his headlights for a minute or two. As he neared his driveway, heading straight toward him were ten almond shaped eyes, reflecting the golden green glow of tapetum, and approaching in formation at a rapid pace. Before he could even think what it could be, the team of sled dogs pulling the woman on a wheeled metal cart rumbled across his line of sight and veered into his new neighbor’s far driveway, disappearing behind the house. Well, he thought, that’s one way of taking the dogs out all at the same time! Apparently some details had not made it into the background check.

The following morning, on her way out to go shopping, the woman saw her new neighbor, the firewood man, standing in his driveway, scraping frost off his car’s windshield. I’m going to Costco, do you need anything? she called as she rolled down the window of her car.

What’s Costco? he asked. More points for good manners!

It’s a warehouse store, you know: food, paper products, electronics, clothes, laundry detergent, books. Everything! They have good croissants!

Croissants? He arched an eyebrow. There were none in his cottage.

She noted immediately that he pronounced the word correctly.

Yeah, by the tray. But they keep very well in the freezer.

Yes he said, nodding thoughtfully, I’d like that. See you later.

She nodded in return and drove off. Hmm! He can pronounce ‘croissant’, but doesn’t know what Costco is! Not from around these parts!

The man watched her drive away. When she comes back, he thought, I will get inside that house. Things were moving along well in his plan.

A few hours passed. He must have been watching at the window, she thought, because she had barely pulled into the garage and opened the back door of the Rav4 when he just sort of appeared. Can I help you unload the groceries? he asked. She stiffened a little, but handed him an old canvas tote bag with his cardboard bakery tray of croissants, shrink wrapped in plastic, which she had purposefully separated from her items while loading in the store parking lot. Here’s yours, she said I hope you like them.

He accepted the bag, then picked up several others in the same hand, lifting the oversized box of Tide in the other hand. Where do you want this?

Just through there, just dump them, she pointed through to the combined utility room and pantry that connected the garage with the kitchen. I’ll put them away later. She picked up the insulated totes with the dairy and meats, and walked to her freezer. But the man un-bagged everything onto the counter tops, then reaching up to the high shelves, put all the packaged and canned food, correctly sorted, in place near her other stock. Maybe he worked in a restaurant, she wondered?

As his back was turned to her, she noticed a moist red stain spreading, soaking through his waffle weave thermal shirt on his lower left back, just at the end of the ribcage. You know you’re bleeding, she said, matter-of-factly.

He continued putting up the six-pack of black olives, then the big jar of marinated artichoke hearts. He was stalling. Then as he turned to her, he shook his head: It’s okay, I’ll take care of it!

I’m sure you can take care of it, but it is in a hard to see, hard to reach place. Look, I’m a nurse, retired but still legal. I worked in an ER, I can clean it up, patch it up easier than your using a mirror or bending around. No charge! she shrugged, trying to keep it casual. She owed him for the firewood.

The man did not like to reveal any weaknesses, especially to strangers. But he had been concerned that the wound was not healing in a normal timeframe. He already knew she was a nurse from the background check. At least that was her most recent position! Yes, it would be better if you looked at it he conceded.

Go sit down in the kitchen, she nodded toward the next doorway, I’ll get my stuff.

As he entered the kitchen and looked around, he felt a little softening of his wariness. The threat potential had somehow just decreased. No, I don’t have to kill her. And there were so many teapots of all sizes and shapes; blue and white delft tiles, some with windmills, some with old sailing ships, on the backsplash wall above the counter tops. Now there’s some symbolism for me! Clear glass panes in the kitchen cabinet doors, making the contents easily visible. Knowing what was inside had always been compulsively important to him. Hanging plants claimed space in the widows. I like your kitchen, he announced, loud enough for her to hear.

The woman quickly came in and heaved what appeared to be a carpenter’s bag onto the long, heavy legged kitchen table. She handed him an old business card. That’s me, phone number’s different… it’s an old card; I had them printed up when I graduated. Hardly ever used them professionally. My name is Janice.

He took the card and looked at it. He already knew her name. You’re a Licensed Veterinary Technician as well?

Yeah, but you get paid more for people than for puppies, ponies and parakeets. Without waiting for a reply, she put an enameled saucepan on the stove and began heating water. Then she laid out a collection of equipment in front of him: a stethoscope, sphygmomanometer, old fashioned glass thermometer, packages of sterile bandages, tape, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, alcohol, scissors, sterile swabs, exam gloves, brightly colored Coflex bandage rolls and some stainless steel forceps. He could see syringes and needles still in their sterile wrappings left in the bag. Also several sealed glass ampoules of Lidocaine solution, along with some packages of pre-threaded suture needles.

She piled up several sheets of paper towel and said: Okay, neighbor-with-no-name, I’m going to pull your shirt up; you hold it for me. His cooperation was implied consent, without which any touching could be considered an assault from a legal point of view. They taught that in nursing school.

My name is Mat, he said reflexively, momentarily distracted by her directness. Oh fuck it, he thought, so what if I give her my first name?

Janice, he considered, a feminine form of Janus, ancient god of doorways, of gateways, of beginnings and endings and the rising and setting of the sun. Two faces on one head looking in opposite directions, at life and death, past and future. Nurse, vet tech, and apparent keeper of dogs and houseplants. A person concerned with preserving life. And now here I am. How amusing!

She pulled his shirt up high to expose his back, bunching it up at his shoulders until he held it in place.

Hello, Mat. You have an abscess. It’s going to hurt to clean it. What I’m going to do is first put some Lidocaine in the open wound. I don’t need to inject it because the flesh is already broken open. It’ll take a few minutes to absorb, to work. Then I’ll clean out the dead stuff, put in some Bacitracin ointment, cover it with sterile gauze. Okay? I want you to know that Lidocaine has been discovered to have some anti-inflammatory properties as well as being a nerve block. I even read it in Equus magazine!

Equus?

A horse magazine. It’s really all the same.

Wary of all drugs, of possible deception, but noting these were sealed ampoules, he asked her Where did you get the Lidocaine?

When they did lumbar punctures in the hospital, the sterile tray came with these ampoules, but they’re messy to work with, with the breaking glass, and the doctors preferred to used the larger vials supplied by the hospital. So when it was over, and I cleaned up and disposed of the used equipment, I used to pocket the Lidocaine instead of discarding it. Sometimes the dogs get into fights and they need a staple or a stitch. Not so much anymore, but I keep it in the bag.

He noted immediately that she did not hesitate in the explanation, and his instincts told him she was telling him the truth.

Janice had not failed to notice the other, older scars, but decided to say nothing at the moment. I want you to lean forward over the table, so when I drip the Lidocaine into the wound, it pools in there and doesn’t spill out. He positioned himself over the table. She could not help but notice that he had a pleasing form, despite the apparent rough history. She had an eye for conformation, animal or human.

When Janice began to clean out the pus and dead tissue, she saw something black, way down deep in the center of the crescent shaped wound. Don’t move yet, you have something in there. It may be causing the abscess. She had previously put the forceps in the boiling water. It hadn’t boiled long enough, so she wiped them with alcohol and returned to him at the table. He turned his head away, continuing to scan the house.

I’ve got it, it looks like a piece of old fashioned woven silk suture. They don’t use that anymore (immediately she thought that this had been a backroom job) because it can act like a wick and draw in contamination. Maybe your body was trying to eject it.

Mat noted to himself that he wouldn’t be using his previous caregiver a second time.

She knew the wound needed to drain so there would be no stitches; and that the adhesive type tape initially would not hold well on a wound that size, in an area like that, so she gave him a wrap covered with the lime green Coflex to stabilize the gauze bandages. Okay, Mat, sit down. She did not wait for him to say anything. Handing him the thermometer, she took out the blood pressure gauge, put on her stethoscope and took his blood pressure. He knew enough to put the thermometer under his tongue without being told. As he watched the routine, he was sure she had done this many times.

She wrote down his readings on an index card, put all the equipment back in the bag, wiping up with a spray that smelled of bleach. "I’d like