Postcards from an Assassin: Devil in Your Corner

By Janice Dougherty and Mat van Guilder

Devil In Your Corner continues where Life After Death left off, as Matthijs van Guilder, the erstwhile mercenary, adapts to his new, retired life, revealing more of the history and core character that propelled him to now be able to reinvent, reclaim, and rediscover a life. While their home on upper Ridge Road is far from an exotic locale, and the action does not require any special effects, his old skills continue to serve them both. And the body count continues to rise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477236956

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.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1: Song of the Heart

Chapter 2: Chores

Chapter 3: Ancestors

Chapter 4: Fun & Games

Chapter 5: Meet the Neighbors

Chapter 6: Talisman of the 13 Skulls

Chapter 7: Day trip/Nightmare

Chapter 8: Honey, I’m Home!

Chapter 9: Rescue

Chapter 10: The Closer

Chapter 11: Wrap Up

Chapter 12: Amanda Bates

Chapter 13: War Stories

Chapter 14: More Stories

Chapter 15: Diamond Reo

Chapter 16: On the Job

Chapter 17: Written Invitation

Chapter 18: After Due Consideration

Chapter 19: Male Bonding

Chapter 20: Uniform of the Day

Chapter 21: Old Connections

Chapter 22: A Walk in the Park(ing Lot)

Chapter 23: Survey Says . . .

Chapter 24: The Crazy World of Arthur Brown

Chapter 24: School’s Out

Chapter 25: Road Trip

Chapter 26: Idle/Idol Conversations

Chapter 27: Sundown

Chapter 28: Home Safe

Chapter 29: Evolution/Revolution

Chapter 30: Trick or Treat?

Chapter 31: A Minor Proposal

Chapter 32: What’s In a Name?

Chapter 33: A Blip on the Radar

Chapter 34: Talking Turkey

Chapter 35: Career Moves

Chapter 36: Reeling in the Years

Chapter 37: Bryan’s Swan Song

Chapter 38: Cernunnos’ Gift

Chapter 39: ER

Chapter 40: Social Call

Chapter 41: Back to Normal

Chapter 42: Open for Business

Chapter 43: Green Acres

Chapter 44: Tea Party

Chapter 45: Poster Child

Chapter 46: The Barber Steps Up to the Plate

Chapter 47: Next

Appendix

This second tale is dedicated to my co-author, the insistent task master who defied all limitations, especially mine; and including the summons of eternity, to present me with his tales.

Authors’ note:

After the first story, we decided not to kill off our characters as originally planned. The proposed funereal epilogue had actually been written before the last chapter, but when it came time to tie things up, we just couldn’t do it, at least not yet! So it was deleted, and these tales were substituted.

. . . he had collected enough scars . . . put away enough money . . . this was a new life, unlike all the little lives he once lived in all those cities.

The Nearest Exit by Olen Steinhauer

Chapter 1: Song of the Heart

As she came awake, she was instantly aware of the assassin’s body draped over her own. He was warm and breathing quietly. At such intimate proximity, she could readily see the hinted shape of his eye beneath the shuttered lid, roll and shift as he also soon awoke. His eyes flickered open briefly, and closed again as he rolled off of her, onto his back, their legs still remained entangled.

So it had been for the past few years. The heart pounding adrenalin rushes and sweaty starts were much less frequent now, limited almost entirely to brief, middle of the night events, less than once every couple of weeks or even longer. Pretty good, considering his protracted history and the total absence of pharmaceutical aids . . . and only an occasional vodka.

After a few minutes, he shifted to his other side, extending a leg backward until they were touching again. Are you still there? She snuggled up against his back. This always elicited a response, a small sigh of release and relief. An unspoken ritual restatement that she still had his back, that he could go back to sleep for as long as he needed. Presenting his wounded back to her had been his first tentative act of trust. And it had remained symbolic between them. For various reasons, she was the only person he had actually slept near for many years. The first event had been a powerful but wordless signal to his waking consciousness that she was his answer. And he still felt this was his most successful escape.

Mat—I’m going to take a shower and then I think I’m in the mood for waffles. I’ll wake you when they’re ready. You want that buttermilk recipe? It was her turn to make breakfast.

Okay he said, sleepily, Good . . . I took the sausages out of the freezer last night, they should be thawed by now . . . hmm . . . He drifted off again. But he always had an appetite when he woke up.

Later, he sat across the kitchen table in his usual spot, watching her write in a leather bound notebook he had given her, all the while busying himself with condiments and half watching the morning news on TV. He was the more silent one in the relationship, but whenever she was quiet, his curiosity always got the better of him. What are you writing there? He gave it his best, boyish, innocent look for added leverage. As if she could refuse him anything.

The assassin is my lover—I shall not want.

He who dealt in death now dallies to bring me life

As he reveals his true self.

I could not have invented him: he is like no one I have known

Yet with aspects so familiar and real,

Qualities and quirks so earthly . . . yet his essence so eternal.

Just to say his name makes me smile.

Mercenary monster, master masseur, constant companion

Orphaned child, player at puzzles, wizard of weapons,

Pretty good cook!.

He glances over at me now . . . Sly smile.

He will wait until the pen stops writing, and then . . .

Oh, here he comes!.

I’ll get you for this! You write poetry about me? Why? And so irreverent! He put his hands on her, as he stood behind her chair, reading over her shoulder, and kissed the back of her neck. She could smell the maple syrup and fennel sausages on his breath. I would send a copy to Nigel, if I could find him discreetly!

You know, words just come, sometimes, and demand to be exorcised on paper or they will keep intruding until they’re written down. I have stopped trying to resist, or figure it out . . . So what’s on your agenda for today, anything special? Oh, she knew he would get her for that. He was a man of his word. She could count on it.

That afternoon, passing by the lighting fixtures section of Home Depot, Sheriff Walt Corrigan spied his neighbor. Hey, Mat, what’s up?

Walt! Mat gave his characteristic royal nod. He had already seen him, and allowed himself to be found. I’m thinking about a new lighting fixture for my bench in the garage, just getting some ideas. Now that I think about it, perhaps I am really looking for something like that used in jewelry—circular with a magnifying lens for fine work. I am a bit obsessive about such things, especially with the guns, and my close vision is not what it was when I was younger.

So, where’s your other half?

Janice does not like to leave the big pressure cooker un-attended. She is cooking some meat scraps and bones for the dogs today.

And you cook for her. Walt rolled his eyes. Margaret, Walt’s wife, had been suggesting that Walt start to cook at home sometimes, ever since Mat arrived back in the community. Walt was still uncomfortable with the idea.

Oh, we take turns. And I got a bonus this morning with my waffles and sausages! He nodded his head; he had still not gotten over the poem.

Walt was surprised at any revelation about Mat’s private life. It was an ongoing source of curiosity between him and Margaret. What kind of bonus? And when was the last time we had homemade waffles? Hmm!

Janice wrote a poem for me. At my age, a love poem.

You could have knocked Walt over with a feather, in this case, from the wing of a fallen angel. As business-like as Janice had always seemed to him, and as icy, deadly as he knew Mat had been in the not so distant past, they were apparently soft with each other. He and Margaret had chuckled privately at the occasionally shared clothing. Now this!

Maybe I will stop and bring home some flowers. It would be what the Brits call ‘bad form’ not to acknowledge it somehow. Mat was a life long student of cultural expressions and manners in the many countries where he had worked; English was not his mother tongue. Not what one might initially expect of a professional assassin, albeit retired, but Mat was a unique character, to say the least.

I haven’t done anything romantic with Margaret for a long time, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to do something like that for me either, Walt thought, almost guiltily, out loud. Better than having to cook! He added silently to himself.

The sales associate from Home Depot approached the two men. Something in lighting I can help you with?

Just getting ideas, Mat responded, but maybe we’ve both just ‘seen the light’. Mat laughed at what he thought was his own clever remark. Walt just shook his head with a longsuffering expression.

Chapter 2: Chores

When Mat arrived home with the flowers, Janice was surprised, and touched and then told him she would now have to add a last line to the poem, about a bouquet of flowers.

I think we’ve got new neighbors across the road she told him. They’ve got a dog. I hope they can keep him under control.

What kind of dog, asked Mat?

They say he’s a lab mix, but I see Rottweiler and pit bull. A tough combination, not for amateurs or casual, passive type owners, and I think they get off on his aggressive displays. I don’t know if they were told that he was part lab by someone at a shelter who didn’t want to scare off potential adopters with awkward history or whether the staff was told to say that to avoid prejudiced opinions. What I see, essentially, is a poorly managed dog who needs a lot of work that he is not likely to get from those people.

Young people?

Thirties, I guess. Maybe early forties; I don’t see or hear any sign of kids.

Janice, I want to tell you that I was thinking of buying that place and having it torn down, just to avoid this kind of thing. You know I like my privacy. Every new tenant there is a question for me. Besides, he mused, owning property might make that proposal he was toying with seem more solid.

I still remember when you were the new tenant! she recalled, fondly.

And I remember when you were the question! And he laughed to himself to think that she was also, ultimately, the answer.

Mat, what would you do with the property if it was leveled?

Plant trees for an investment. Hardwoods that are native, disease resistant, drought tolerant and help maintain the water table. It could be taxed as agricultural instead of residential. That’s also a plus. I can ask the county agricultural extension office for suggestions. It would also make him a property owner of record, something he was beginning to realize more and more that he also wanted. The ghost was always reinventing himself.

Where do you pick up all this stuff?

I told you, I always did a lot of reading, living in my own head. And the year after I left, after you helped me escape, you and this place were almost all I ever thought about, other than work. He had never mentioned it, but on his dual time zone watch, one of the chronographs had remained permanently set to New York time during his travels, his adventures.

I figured something was up when I started getting those postcards. It made her want to pull them out and look at them again. It was not that many years ago, but much had happened since.

Speaking of trees, I’m going to make the rounds on the property and trim whatever dead wood or extra branches I can. Nice leverage on that new pruner/lopper we got last week, by the way. Effective tools were always a good score with Mat. Then maybe I’ll get Bryan and one of his friends to remove the debris and haul it all to the woodpile, prepare it for the Winter. How did you manage before?

Partly I ordered from the firewood company. I guess I wasn’t so good at trimming dead wood, but whatever was available for gathering, I had the dogs drag it for me. When I went out with the wheeled training cart, I’d put them on a down/stay and pick up dead wood in the forest, and load it, then go home. Sometimes I worked with a single dog and a chain by skidding a smallish log if it wasn’t too far. It was a combined weight pull training, harness exercise and wood gathering. It was very time consuming but it paid off in their muscle development and discipline. They thought they were having fun! When I lived in Brooklyn years ago, I also used to collect discarded cobblestones from a pile in the golf course via the dog-cart and used them to pave part of the front garden, and edge in the street tree. They came from a roadway resurfacing of Flatbush Avenue. In fact, the cobblestones I have out in the yard came from Brooklyn. One legend has it that they were once ballast in the ships coming here from the Netherlands. Another little link to the ‘Dutch’ going back to my childhood and well before.

The dogs’ strength, stamina and training had also been key to Mat’s escape from the NSA some years prior. Yes, these routines had paid off, indeed!

The next morning, Mat called the sheriff’s office to speak to Walt about hiring Bryan, but finding that he was out, he asked Margaret. Margaret always had a soft spot for Mat anyway. Mat, political animal that he was, made sure to frame the request as non-obligatory. If he’d rather not, I can get the firewood or landscaping people to do it, not a problem, but I’m offering him the job first. Of course they owed Mat for another kind of removal that was more his area of expertise. But that would remain unspoken between the two households.

When Margaret later told Bryan about Mat’s job offer, it was not hard for him to say yes. Bryan still looked up to Mat and could always use the extra money. Margaret then added, Why don’t you take your friend Stephen Gallo along to help. He asked for two of you. I think he could use the money as well. Margaret also counseled troubled students in the high school, and knew Stephen, a foster child, and not the most popular kid, could use both the cash and the prestige that contact with their neighbor, Mr. van Guilder, still carried.

Glad to have you do this, Bryan Mat said when he answered the confirmation call, I still prefer to deal with people I know versus strangers on the property. And I will feed you both. Don’t worry about lunch. But don’t forget heavy gloves and safety goggles.

Chapter 3: Ancestors

When Bryan and Stephen arrived on their bicycles that morning, Mat walked with them to point out all the places where he had dropped branches and saplings, as well as where the wood pile was, where the tools and garden cart were in the garage, and how the kindling was separated from the heavier pieces. Thanks for the job, Mr. van Guilder said Stephen, rather humbly.

It will be my place to thank you when you’re done, said Mat, formally, but make sure to stop and take a lunch break at noon. Just come into the house and sit down in the kitchen. It’s my turn to cook today. Then turning to Bryan, purposefully loud enough for Stephen to hear him, Mat said: your friend is very polite. That can have a powerful effect on people. And then he inclined his head toward Stephen in acknowledgement.

He’s a foster kid, and his foster parents are rough on him, said Bryan in a lowered voice; he was always direct, sometimes a bit too unguarded. But Bryan had his own agenda in telling Mat about Stephen.

Mat looked more closely at Stephen as the young man hung his head in embarrassment. Stephen, I was an orphan at twelve. You will survive. Get your education, don’t be afraid to work, move on and you will think better of yourself, because you earned it.

Bryan and Stephen stared at Mat with startled expressions. I didn’t know! said Bryan.

It was not important to tell you. It was all a long time ago Mat replied with typical shrug.

Did you ever get adopted? Stephen asked.

Mat chuckled as much to himself as to them. My partner, who I think you saw leaving from the driveway as you arrived, she gave me a home and a family, as he gestured to the dogs. What was that, Bryan, about four years ago? It was like adoption. But it was a mutual agreement; we adopted each other—even better! Now I must begin our menu. See you later.

With some self-conscious, ambiguous sarcasm, Stephen remarked: Man, he’s really, like, different! But a switch of resilience and potential self-respect had been turned on in Stephen from just those few words.

Yeah, Bryan agreed he’s, ah, really, really different. I, ah . . . never mind. You know, even my parents like him. Let’s go get started. Bryan couldn’t wait to tell his parents this little piece of Mat’s history. But he had learned to keep it in the family.

Stephen had already heard about the group visits to the firing range and the motorcycle restoration, as well as some other male activities. He felt lucky that Bryan, who was generally well liked at school, had befriended him, but a little jealous also. What’s he retired from? asked Stephen.

Ah, um, oh . . . private security, answered Bryan. Stephen had not been in the community when Mat had first arrived, and then returned a year later, so he had missed the firestorm of all the initial gossip. Thinking he’d better change the subject before he made an inadvertent remark, Bryan added and don’t think it’s gonna be Kentucky Fried and pizza for lunch, either. Bryan was smug.

Once Mat put the turkey in the oven, he went up to the deck to see how the young men were doing, without their being able to see him. Everything looked under control, so he went back downstairs. Janice soon returned home with the fresh bread and rolls from the bakery. I’ll help you set the table. Something smells good!

Between your vegetable bean soup, the turkey, a fruit and cheese plate, green salad and that fresh bread, it ought to be a fine lunch! Mat was pleased with himself.

Henri would be proud of his former upstairs neighbor she nodded in agreement.

When Bryan and Stephen came in for their lunch break, Stephen was startled to see such a spread, to say the least. He was more accustomed to bologna and Velveeta on Wonder Bread. Bryan smirked at the expression on Stephen’s face. You two can wash up in the bathroom, I’ll get some fresh towels for you, said Janice. The two boys were pulling off their shirts to make sure their sweaty, garden grimed smells were tamed for the sit down. As she brought in the towels, she noticed the liver and yellow tinted bruises resolving on Stephen’s upper torso, and arms, but said nothing.

Told ’ya! said Bryan, as they sat down to eat. The young men had hearty appetites, whetted even more by the physical labor and the fresh air. Stephen copied Bryan when he saw him put the napkin on his lap. Bryan was being groomed for upward mobility by learning some old fashioned manners from both his parents as well as the couple on upper Ridge Road. Mat and Janice watched them approvingly as they sampled each item, and then went for seconds or thirds. Are we being greedy? asked Stephen guiltily.

Oh no, please, less to clean up afterward. The scraps go to the dogs with their regular food, Janice answered.

So, Stephen, where is your family from? asked Mat, eyeing the boy more intently.

I don’t have a family, I’m a foster kid, he said solemnly.

Well, we all have ancestors, even if we don’t have family. I am Dutch. Do you know what your birth mother and father were?

My father, who died when I was little, was Italian and Polish. My mother’s father was German, from Pennsylvania, and my mother’s mother was born in Jakarta, Indonesia. My mother was in jail, for passing bad checks, and got killed there in a fight. That’s how I ended up in the system.

Interesting city, Jakarta. You should go someday. A city of many contrasts, and multicultural influences, said Mat, not skipping a beat, at once accepting, and moving on from the rough history.

You’ve been to Jakarta? asked Bryan. Stephen’s eyes also intently on Mat. The fact that Mat never discussed any specific details of his own rough