When Davis Moore shoved Mickey the Gerund back into the hotel elevator cab, it took just about all the willpower Mickey had not to laugh, or to grab Moore’s arm, or even to shout some epithet after him while remaining in drunken character. Instead, he stumbled silently back and watched the doors close and felt the elevator lurch upward. Mickey thought Moore was an affront to God, an obstacle to God’s will, and he had shot him once because of it. It was a source of some irritation to Mickey, all these years later, that he hadn’t killed Davis Moore. That he hadn’t felled him with a head shot the way he intended. Mickey hadn’t missed many times in his career. Occasionally he killed a person he didn’t intend to – collateral damage – but he rarely missed a doctor he wanted dead.
Sometimes he fantasized about a second chance at the man. Maybe someday, after he had finished the mission, he could go back and correct his mistakes. Others in the movement never gave it a second thought, probably, but to Mickey, his errant shot at Davis Moore was an irritating black mark on his own fearsome reputation.
Still, Moore wasn’t the reason he was here. Moore had left his practice, at least, and although the man’s public advocacy would still make him a legitimate target, the ex-doctor had become a sympathetic public character over the years. Taking another shot at him now would do more harm than good. Mickey was trying to make dead doctors, not unnecessary martyrs.
Because Moore had palmed the control panel, the doors opened and closed four times before Mickey arrived at the twenty-second floor. He stumbled out, still pretending to be drunk although he was alone in the halls (except for security cameras, he reminded himself) and made his way, head down, to room 2240. In his pocket was a gift from Harold Devereaux.
Phillip had advised him not to go to the CALS conference. There were too many people who might remember him from the scene of a previous operation. Given Mickey’s busy schedule over the last four years, there were probably two dozen doctors and lab rats in the ballroom downstairs who had seen him before. Whether they could connect him to a shooting or bombing or specific act of intimidation was another matter. Mickey didn’t much care, anyway. He hadn’t planned on showing himself at any of the seminars. The Hands of God didn’t make his agenda anymore. He’d earned the right to designate an appropriate target, to determine what was an acceptable risk. And although he had already ninety percent decided to come to Palm Springs, the envelope from Harold Devereaux had sealed the deal.
Who knows where Harold got it. He had friends and supporters everywhere. Many of them were so timid they wouldn’t even enter into an argument about religion or science with their families and coworkers, but privately they did what was right. What had Reverend Falwell called them years and years ago? The silent majority? One member of the silent majority must have mailed this to Harold, and Harold knew just what to do with it. He sent it to the Hands of God with a note to forward it on to the Gerund. The envelope had a message in Harold’s handwriting and all it said was, “Good at any Prince Resort Hotel worldwide.” Mickey hadn’t even told Harold of his plans to be here, but Harold knew a device like this would come in handy sometime.
A master key card.
Mickey slid it through the vertical slot of the lock at room 2240. The security light blinked once yellow, then Mickey heard a click and the light blinked green and he opened the door and slipped inside. The room was dark and empty and cold. He sidestepped into the bathroom to see if the shower had a curtain or a door. It had a frosted-glass door, translucent enough to make for a poor hiding space. He walked back into the room and slid open the mirrored closet. The hangers were bare. The couple must have been vacationing out of their suitcases, or possibly they had hung up their formal wear, the clothes they were wearing tonight, and left bathing suits and blue jeans and golf shirts folded in their bags. They were scheduled to be here for only three days.
Inside the closet, Mickey slid the door shut and scooted to the opposite end, the side least likely to be opened. He grabbed a pillow from a high shelf, placed it between his aching back and a miniature ironing board, and cracked the door a few centimeters in case he had to stay in here for several hours.
Dr. Poonwalla and his wife arrived forty minutes later, announcing themselves with exhausted sighs and loud whispers.
“That Davis Moore is a charmer, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Poonwalla.
Dr. Poonwalla said, “Yes, such a tragedy what has happened to him, although I’d like to know the real story behind that unpleasantness in Chicago. His story about secret experiments was a bit hard to swallow, I’ll admit.”
“Still, a good man.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.”
After washing up, the Poonwallas draped their clothes someplace other than the closet and went to bed with a kiss reaffirming their vows. Mickey waited until he heard snoring, then stepped out of the closet and through the fat extra pillow fired two shots from a pistol at close range, one into each of their foreheads.