A Natural Kill

Stacy was the first to sit, finding a place on the sofa. She fully expected Clint to sit next to her, but instead he pulled one of the chairs that flanked the coffee table and settled in across from her.

He began, “I have something I have to tell you.”

“You’re scaring me…what’s wrong?”

“I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“O-k-a-y.” You could hear the apprehension in her voice.

“I’m not who I seem…I don’t create web sites for a living…I’m a hit man.”

She stared wide eyed at him, but looking relieved, responded, “I thought you were going to tell me you cheated on me…and met someone else.”

Clint was dumbfounded. Women, you got to love em. I’m a stone-cold killer, but that’s okay as long as you didn’t cheat on me.

“A hit man…is that like a DJ or something?” continued Stacy.

Was she really that naive? Could her Christian background so totally shield her from reality that she didn’t even know what a hit man did?

“No…a hit man is paid money to kill people.

It took a few seconds to register. She stared at him with the look of someone who had learned for the first time what went on in the Nazi concentration camps. Her delicate blond eyebrows inched skyward as her lips pressed together in a frown. It was then that tears began to flow. At that moment Clint realized the enormity of his past actions. He had never felt guilt or remorse, but if he could take the pain away that he saw in Stacy’s eyes he would have done anything. He looked at her angelic face and saw a child’s eyes gazing back at him.

Once Stacy calmed from the initial shock Clint continued, touching on aspects of his work, the natural kill phenomena, his code name, disguises, video surveillance techniques, and the function the bookstore played.

“The people I killed were the dregs of society; they kind of deserved it…except for Peter.” He told her about Peter and how by witnessing his daily life he had transformed his own.

“What about your family…do they know?”

Clint told her the truth about his family, regaling her with stories of his father’s alcoholic fits of rage. He told her of the countless beatings and the verbal abuse he withstood.

“How many people have you killed?”

There was a long pause before Clint answered, “Forty.”

“My God!” There was a pregnant pause. “You’re obviously not a Christian, are you?”

“No.”

A long moment of silence ensued. Then Stacy uttered the words that cut into his very being, “I’m so disappointed in you.”

Clint looked down; he could not bear to look into her eyes. It seemed like a half hour passed before Stacy spoke again.

“Do you even believe in God?”

“I want to believe.”

Suddenly Stacy’s calm demeanor changed, and she was once again the wounded child as she bent her head down and sobbed. Seeing her cry was more than he could handle. Leaving his chair, he knelt at her feet putting his hands on her knees.

“I’m sorry sweetheart…I’m sorry,” Clint said, his voice cracking with emotion.

“How could you,” muttered Stacy through her tears.

“I’m sorry sweetheart…please forgive me,” whispered Clint. Finally, he could hold it in no more; he cried. He laid his head in her lap as his arms wrapped around her waist.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded through his tears.

Stacy looked down on the tortured soul before her, his head still resting in her lap, and gently ran her hand through his thick sandy brown hair.

“I forgive you…but it’s not my forgiveness you need. Only the Lord can forgive you for what you’ve done. You took it upon yourself to play God. I don’t care how bad you thought these people were or how much you suffered when you were young. Do you really believe that you’re the only one that’s had a traumatic childhood? That doesn’t give you the right.”

Clint was now gazing up at her. “I know, but how do I make myself straight with God? Will you help me?”

Stacy flashed him that ‘melt your heart’ smile of hers and said, “Yes, I’ll help you as best I can…my precious Rod.” Both of her hands were still imbedded in his dense locks as she said these words.

He thought to himself, “Aw geez, now I’ve got to tell her that it’s not precious Rod, its precious Clint…that’s going to go over big.”

“Ah…concealment and disguise were a big part of what I used to do…and…ah…that went as far as names too. My real name’s Clint.”

“What!” she yelled as she pushed him back off her.

“It’s…Clint…I can’t call you …Clint, I can’t. I don’t know what to call you,” she said, anger dripping from every word.

“I can think of a couple names you could use, but I know you don’t swear.”

Stacy frowned and shook her head in disgust.

“Maybe go the opposite way, use terms of endearment…like sweetheart or honey.

Stacy flashed him a look that could kill.

“I take it, from the dagger stare you’re giving me that ‘Snuggle Buns’ is out of the question.”

Stacy’s frown turned to a smile, then to a wide grin, and finally she laughed. Clint joined in with his own laughter as he sat on the sofa next to her. Once the laughter subsided, he took her into his arms and kissed her. It was a passionate kiss; one she wouldn’t forget.