He felt bad for Luana, the newest victim of his deception. As with many of his past female quarries, he knew she was falling in love with him. To all of the people he had shared conversation or passion with, he secretly apologized, for he had been known to vanish. He never left a trace to his whereabouts. He would have preferred a long-term relationship with someone special rather than uncommitted bouts of sexual pleasure. With each leave of position, his identity was changed, his language and dialect altered. Men envied his work, his escapades. There were movies about men like him. They were depicted as heroes who were committed to their occupations. There was no room for serious intimacy. He had performed his job to the best of his ability for twenty-seven years, and he was getting tired.

Damn. Why was it the Teamsters? The UAW? Damn Feds. Why do they think they own me? At times, he wondered which side he was really on.

It was his idea. Back then, he was an innocent kid with no direction and more wit than most Paw Down teens. Locally, there was little if any gossip. Mrs. Meyers passed. The latest surveillance update he’d checked indicated just about everyone involved was dead. Their untimely demises took place over a decade to avoid public suspicion.

With everyone involved gone, that meant there was no evidence left. Bryce Meyers. A coincidence in names? Perhaps. Or, was he on the wrong trail? He could not take that chance. He too would eventually perish.

Jobs well-done, he thought.

No one was alive from that summer night by the viaduct when a rural Paw Down warehouse burned to the ground. No one except for that girl they called gimpy.