What She Heard

By Robert Liddycoat

The small resort town of Seaside, Oregon has become the flash point for an international problem. Powerful foreign and domestic agencies vie to see who can capture and use a renowned international assassin. The enhanced man has been shot by a Seaside resident during a botched assassination attempt. A young girl witnesses the killing of a journal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Liddycoat
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218145507

Robert Liddycoat

Robert Liddycoat lives in Seaside, Oregon. He is spending his retirement, hiking, visiting historical places, target shooting and writing (hopefully) entertaining stories.

Book preview

Prologue

The letter arrived in a nondescript post office box in the city of Talcahuano, Republic of Chile on Oct 1, 2021. It was in a plain white envelope. It had been routed from an offshore account, through a mailbox in Salem Oregon, then through a mailbox in New York, and finally to the sleepy seaside city. It sat in the local postal office's small ornamental lock box for almost a week.

No one paid any attention.

Then the man, who lived somewhere up off Avenida Tumbes, walked down and opened the box. He put the letter in one of his well-used pockets and started back up to his house. It was an easy half-mile walk down the Avenida and then back up for him.

There were times during his weekly walk when the man would stop at Café Marbella for a leisurely lunch. The owners would serve him carefully. The man was very insular and particular. He spoke rarely and with precision. He seemed to want only enough interaction with people to communicate the service he required. His words were clipped and exact. The service was expected to be the same. The owners thought that was just fine because he paid cash and tipped generously. Yet they did their best to make sure he stayed no longer than necessary. They did not want to have him around. He had a tendency to drive others away. His very being seemed to repel other customers.

Actually, it repelled everyone.

Yet the man’s IQ was significant. His ability to plan and execute was remarkable. He had an eidetic memory. He could be an engineer or scientist if he were not so frightening to be around. A psychiatrist would not know what to call his disorder and would not know how to treat it. If any came into actual contact with this man, whomever it was would decline to opine and would move away quickly. He was not a sociopath. He was not a psychopath. He simply had no personality. Yet there was something animating and driving him. Psychologists could not explain it. Nor did any try who had to interact with him. They felt the aura of death when he was near.

He was unable to be around people for long. He had no marketable skills except one. He was an adept killer. Therefore, he was an assassin. This was suspected but ignored by the townspeople.

The people of Talcahuano did not try to look closely at this man. But when they did, they saw a larger-than-average, stiff, dark-haired man with big hands and dead eyes. Once a young boy said that he thought they were shark’s eyes. His mother shushed him and said never say that again and do not look at that man. The boy saw the fear in his mother. He never said it again but he thought it. He did not need to be told not to look closely. He never did again. The first time was enough even without his mother’s admonition.

There were times when the man would be gone for a time. He would get into his older Nissan and drive away. He would be gone sometimes a week, sometimes a month. During those times, the city would breathe easier.

But he always came back.

Today he did not stop at the café. He strode with his signature quick, precise measure back up the hill. He opened his unlocked front door and settled into his sparsely furnished dimly lit den and opened the letter. Inside was a picture, an address, a date, and instructions on accessing USD 100,000 from an offshore account. He memorized the face, address, date, router, and account numbers. He put the letter into his fireplace and lit it. The small smoke plume went up unnoticed through the trees and drifted invisibly over the canopy overlooking the town, dispersing the remnants into the ether. The order that would end a man’s life was no more. The action it started was assured.

In the assassination trade, he was unknown. If there were a name ascribed to him it would be The Editor. There were several accomplished assassins available through the dark web. But only he did business by mail. And only one other knew the correct address. Other assassins used various weapons to accomplish their assignments. Guns, knives, poisons. Murders made to look like suicides. They required support. Their kills were recorded. Some were investigated, some were caught, and some were prosecuted. Some were not. Yet all were known to authorities. Except one.

The Editor was not even known to the people who hired him, but his work was.

Only he could make someone disappear with no trace. Every one of his ‘edits’ that were investigated met a dead end. Someone simply disappeared. These were not insignificant people. To make notable people disappear was an art. One he excelled at.

He required no logistical support. He used no weapons; he left no evidence - not even a trace. No detectable DNA, no hair, no fingerprints, no fiber. No nothing. He lived quietly while he performed his edits. The cleaners that went to the rooms or cars he used could find no evidence of use. The beds were untouched, the showers and toilets sparkling. He watched no TV and used no Wi-Fi. Yet he stayed there. The clerks saw him come and go. The card keys were used but had no fingerprints; if anybody even thought about it.

While on assignment he tried to tone down his aura. He shaded his eyes with contacts. He knew how he affected others and tried to be affable as he was taught. Still, the local hotels and restaurants that served him tried hard to not pay much attention to him.

And every time he acted, an important someone’s story was edited to another’s benefit.

He did not care. Nor did he care about the money. His several accounts in several banks in several countries were approaching a million in US dollars, the currency of the world for now. He could live anywhere he wanted. But he stayed in this town. Like a trapdoor spider, he preyed on unsuspecting people at the behest of those who could not do it themselves and who wished to keep far away from any suspicion.

Back in his den, he sat back and took a deep breath, he made a plan in just a few minutes, loaded his jacket with his needs, and went to his Nissan. He drove to the airport at Carrel Sur, parked the car in the long-term lot, and walked to a local café Wi-Fi station to access the accounts. When the transaction was complete, he went to the Southwest counter and bought a one-way ticket to Santiago. His ID there identified him as John Parnell. At the Comodoro Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport, he walked over to the American Airlines counter and booked a one-way passage to Los Angeles, USA. His passport there identified him as John Vassal. On the flight, he slept. It was best this way. Even with the contact lenses, people who saw his eyes were alarmed. On a plane, he could be taken as a terrorist. The contacts would be removed when he went to work. Their effect on edits was helpful in subduing them. The edits were the only people who saw those eyes. It was the last thing they saw in this life.

When he passed through customs at Los Angeles International Airport, with no luggage, he was asked the purpose of his visit. His answer was sightseeing. The agent looked at the man and his doctored passport picture and looked quickly away. There was something there he did not want to know. He stamped the passport and waved him through.

At the Avis rental car counter, he produced a California driver’s license in the name of John Cassell and drove away in a new Nissan. Twenty hours later he was in Portland Oregon where he stayed the night at a local Holiday Inn outside the Portland International Airport. In the morning he left the Nissan in the long-term parking lot, took the shuttle into the terminal, and rented a compact SUV at the Enterprise counter using an Oregon license in the name of John Masset.

He then carefully drove through downtown Portland on I84, through the I405 exchange to Oregon Highway 26, over Sylvan hill, through the flat Tualatin plains, and over the coast range summit to Seaside, Oregon. He arrived on a gray blustery day in mid-October. He checked in to the Saltline Hotel at First and Downing under the name John Bissell and waited for his appointment to show.

All transactions were in cash. Nobody wanted to remember him.

All the while, inside The Editor, a silent parasite waited and hungered.

Before it found The Editor, the parasite had waited in the void without time. Watching. Hunting. Hungering. It had no form and could not move of its own volition. Potential hosts passed by, some close enough to taste. It tried to spin its seductive web and enter them but it was always met with resistance and cast out. Then this host passed by and was instantly and easily entered without needing to be lured. There was no resistance. The host did not notice or care.

There was an upside and downside to this host. It did not have any appreciable negative emotions for itself. The parasite could not feed on it.

The upside was this host was a formidable provider of fear. With the parasite’s power, the effect of the eyes on his victims was a feast.

The parasite was in its own heaven.

Others would call it Hell.

It waited within its host, savoring the last kill. Longing for the next.

The Editor was not truly alone.

Chapter 1

The evening of October 31, 2021. Halloween in Seaside Oregon. The westering sun belatedly peeked out from under the grey low scudding clouds bending over Tillamook Head. It lit both the mist and the seaward side of the iconic Promenade with weak yellow beams and a soft orange halo. Ghostly shadows briefly formed on the walkway through the balustrade. The sea and sky began to blend into one luminous pale palette at the horizon.

The Promenade, to visitors, was a wonderful eight thousand-foot straight wide walk bordering the Pacific Ocean with views over the surf and sometimes out to infinity. A great place to bike, skateboard, or stroll. The coastal climate provided a mix of ever-changing scenic clouds, storms, mists, and sometimes dazzling sunny days and brilliant sunsets.

To the people of the town, the Prom was either a noisy bother or a money maker. Today, however, it was neither.

This year, a few Trick-or-Treaters in Seaside proper would haunt the city’s inner streets seeking free-for-the-asking booty that comes only once a year. They would mostly haunt the Malls and Rec Centers, but a few would venture into the city.

They would not haunt the Prom.

There was very little Trick-or-Treating on the eight thousand-foot walkway. Most of the buildings near the town center were commercial hotels, condos, and vacation resorts. The south Prom did have big, beautiful homes built in earlier times when having an expensive vacation home on the Prom at Seaside was prestigious. The surf then was right up to the sea wall and balustrade.

Now massive dunes were built up, courtesy of the North and South jetties at the mouth of the Columbia river, and a couple of landslides off the Tillamook Head. The latest landslide in 1987 had moved the south shore out a quarter mile. The redirected outflow of the Columbia River had altered the ocean currents and pushed landslide-spalled rock and sand onshore. Over the years the westerly winds pushed the sand higher and higher. Then invasive beach grass took hold. Forty-foot dunes, covered in beach grass, stunted beach pine, and scotch broom, now obscured the once famous views. The homes were largely expensive rentals now. Not inhabited for Trick-or-Treaters.

Nevertheless, Seaside waited for this year’s Halloween onslaught patiently as the westering sun managed to light the horizon for a moment, turn to burnt orange, and sank into a misty cloud bank riding the rim of the Pacific Ocean. Darkness approached.

Political reaction to the Covid pandemic stifled the last few Halloweens and the city was still recovering. The weather was reluctantly cooperating. With no rain in sight, the afternoon wind calmed, and the temperature dipped to the lower fifties. As it got darker, the western horizon belatedly glowed with the silvery mist for a moment and then true night descended. The iconic ornamental lights on the Prom came online, one section at a time. Doors opened and small princesses, demons, witches, and pirates emerged. Bags and glo-sticks in hand. Mischievous glowing eyes headed for the local malls and parties. Mothers and fathers, some in their own costumes, paced their imps. The truth was not many ventured out on the streets. Local parties were now the fashion.

There may be no Trick-or-Treaters on the Prom but there was a party planned in a south-side rental for those who were too old and too smart for the annual sugar fest. This one was going to be a real blast. The planners knew what they were doing. The house they rented was a massive five-bedroom four-bath colonial revision beauty. The face to the Prom was an arbor with now dormant ivy covering it. Orange and blue lights were strategically placed. There were not too many ghostly decorations. The attendees were too sophisticated for that.

Inside there was a keg of beer, stacks of six packs, and a large bowl of gin-spiked punch. The back sunroom held a stash of marijuana. A professional DJ was ready with the latest style music. Over thirty select teens were invited. Some were new to the scene. Others were not. For those veteran hopefuls, the bedrooms were ready.

As the sky grew darker and the cloud cover lowered, the inside lights came on, the music started, and people began to arrive.

This was going to be a real blast.

Chapter 2

As the party house was being prepared, and the Trick-or-Treaters shot out their doors, up off the Huckleberry Street neighborhood in the western foothills, not far from the new high school complex, Johanna Bergstrom sat at the small desk in her room. She studied her image in the makeup mirror. Lame, she lamented. Who would believe this was supposed to be a witch? It looked more like a zombie.

The sky darkened in the window. It was almost time to leave. The makeup time was getting short.

Johanna was twelve, almost thirteen. Too old to Trick-or-Treat and too young for the unescorted scare-fest parties, or so her parents said. Still, she managed to convince them to allow her to go to her BFF’s house for a tweener party. The house was across the river close to the city center, on North Downing Street, and well-situated for her alternative plans. Several of her contemporary tweeners had arranged to have an all-night Halloween movie franchise binge with a costume party, hosted by her BFF’s parents. Lots of Pepsi, 7-up, chips, and salsa dip. Cheesy scares and boyfriend gossip.

Her own parents were going to a friend’s house for an adult get-together.

She looked at her image in the mirror and sighed. Someday…

Hey! the irritating voice of her irritating older brother blew up the stairs. Get your fanny in gear, we’re ready to leave.

She disdained to answer, put on a last dab, and checked the final result. She wondered if the greasy Vaseline stuff she put in her hair to simulate slime was too much. The pointed hat covered most of it. Too late now. One final assessment. Still not good but passable. She turned and went to the door.

Jack was waiting. The smug look on his face told her he was about to tease her. Instead, he turned and went out into the gathering gloom to his car and opened the door for her. Her parents came out and her mother came over. Now you take care, Johanna. We’ll be at the Brennans. Jack has the number. Call if anything comes up. Her mother had been a teenager once and remembered how things could go wrong. Still, this party was safe enough. She knew the Jorgensons.

Nothing was going wrong tonight alright, thought Johanna. It was going right for once.

I’ll be okay Mom. Johanna climbed carefully into her brother’s worn Toyota, making sure the hat was not dislodged. Jack noted and snorted. He got in and started the car. For a minute he sat and considered.

Alright sister. I know your plans tonight. There was no banter in his voice. This was his serious side talking. Before she could deny anything he continued, You should know that there’ll be guys there looking to take advantage of young witches. His voice began to be lighter. Keep your feet on the ground, both of them.

Johanna was offended. What? D’you think I’m stupid!

Jack wryly smiled, No. But you’re a target now. In case you didn’t notice. Others are beginning to think about you and it. That’s what you’re doing. Sneaking off to test the waters.

How’d you know about this?

Been there. Done that.

No. About me and the party. Johanna was suddenly worried that her parents might find out.

‘I have my sources. Mom and Dad don’t. But they’ll sure know if you get pregnant." Snicker. He pulled out of the driveway, down the street, and onto Cooper. She reached over and hit his arm as they pulled onto Neawana drive to Broadway. They headed over the Veteran’s bridge and past the American Legion building.

Johanna thought about what he said. She had an idea. What did you mean ‘Been there. Done that.’ Anything Mom and Dad need to know about. Blackmail raised its ugly head. She was sorry even before the words came out.

Jack shrugged and shook his head, Ancient history, Joh. All I’m saying is, keep your feet on the ground. I’m the candy man this Halloween so I’ll be home. If things go south, call me.

Johanna looked over at her brother. He was serious. He was being protective. He was also fairly big and played football when the school let the team play. She felt a warm glow for a moment. She shook it off.

Nothing’s going to happen. I’m going to see what it’s like to be older that’s all. And I promise to keep my feet on the ground, both of them.

Keep your pants on too.

What! You cretin! God, you’re insufferable. How could you think of such a thing?

Jack laughed. Got you thinking, huh? Keep on doing that. There are things out there that can be a surprise.

They made the light at Roosevelt, then to Holladay. At the three-way stop, Jack turned to her and said. Look, I mean it. There will be guys there looking to score.

Johanna felt the glow again. I got it, brother. Let’s go.

He turned north to 1st crossed the Necanicum and north again on Downing. Where Downing ended and Franklin Street began he stopped at the Jorgenson’s. The door opened and Johanna’s BFF Katrin rushed out to meet them. She was dressed as a kind of princess fairy. Jack thought about another warning but kept silent, checked the charge on his cell, and drove away. Johanna ran with Katrin into the decorated house.

Jack drove back to their house. He worried for his sister. He knew how those parties went.

He had no idea of what things could really happen.

Chapter 3

Sitting in his room in the Seaside Saltline hotel, The Editor continued to execute his plan. He had watched his assignment for weeks now. He knew the meetings in the Seaside Convention Center were concluded. He did not care what it was about, only how the edit tracked and moved. October 31st, he knew that the edit would be celebrating his latest scoop with his partner at Finn’s restaurant until late. This time when he returned to the Saltline he would be alone. His partner was staying at the Shilo Inn on the Prom. Whatever they were up to, they were cautious and stayed apart for most of the time.

During the surveillance, he pretended to sightsee and actually traveled to historical sites for show. He could not care less about Lewis and Clark. He did care about body disposal. He bought a small crabbing boat out at the Hammond Marina. The name he used was John Fogger. The boat, named High Adventure, was in sad shape but he needed it only once. This Halloween night there would be a terrible accident at sea. An unskilled would-be-crabber would be lost. People would question why this John Fogger thought he could be a commercial crabber.

He applied for a commercial permit in Astoria and planned a trip on the night both the edit and John Fogger would disappear. He would radio that he was doing a trial run. Shortly after passing over the Columbia bar, his transponder would fail. His radio would lose its antenna. No distressed signal would be detected. The edit and the boat would be scuttled in the trench dug by the Columbia river near the continental shelf. It was thousands of feet deep. Even if by some stroke of luck, the boat were discovered, the weighted body bag with the edit, would never be found. It would be jettisoned miles away and left to the ocean’s depredation.

The Coast Guard would find no trace of him. It would be a story on the back pages of the Daily Astorian for a day, then forgotten. No one who met John Fogger cared. Most were relieved.

The small electric-powered inflatable raft he bought for cash in Longview would be used to return to Hammond and would there be buried in several feet of nearby sand under the dock. The inflated black raft was nearly invisible. If someday it was uncovered by the tides, no one would connect it to the High Adventure tragedy.

John Bissel would then drive the SUV south and stay a few more days at the Seaside Saltline to allay any suspicion. The edit’s disappearance would hit the news for a few days and then go on the back burner. Then he would return to Portland International Airport, turn in the SUV, and retrieve the Nissan for the return trip.

Ten o’clock. Time to execute. He exited the Saltline and moved his SUV to the dark side of the Beach Club tavern. He waited – as still and as certain as the trapdoor spider. Eyes now unshaded, ready to unleash their power.

He had planned his trap at the corner of a small brick-walk mall-type passage between Broadway and Oceanway streets. He waited at the corner of the Beach Club Tavern. A dark corner. The street light there was not working. It was across the street from the mostly empty city public parking lot and within an easy drive to Highway 101. The edit would pass by headed toward the Saltline. It would not arrive there tonight. It would disappear without a trace.

Without needing to see, he felt the edit approach. The Editor exited the SUV and moved to intercept the edit. He snapped on his gloves. He waited. As still and hidden as the trap door spider.

When he was done, he would have no sense of achievement. He would not be proud. It would simply be another edit. A successful plan.

When he returned, the people of Talcahuano would feel the chill as the Nissan pulled up the Avenida.

The Editor did not know or care.

But something did. It would feed and be sated for a while. Inside The Editor, the parasite’s need was growing. It had been a long time since the last kill.

It was now positively ravenous.

Chapter 4

At seven that night, the tweener party was in full swing at the Jorgenson’s on Franklin street. The introductions were complete. The costume judging by Katrin’s mother and father was done. The greasy witch won to Johanna’s surprise. It was deemed better than the sprite, princess, zombie, alien and black cat.

The back room was set up to look like the Addams Family place. That was