Page 9

NINE

R ichard pushed a shopping cart down the aisle in the big box hardware store, more proof that multinational corporations took all the heart out of retail. This stuff was generic and poorly made, as though all this company cared about was making as much off the consumer as possible.

Gone were the days of quality workmanship, integrity in business, or caring about the customer.

Things just weren’t the same anymore. Not like they used to be.

He added a couple of tubes of caulk to his cart, beside the insulation and duct tape. A couple of PVC pipes, and he should be done.

Richard found those easily enough. The employee with the vest who was on his phone didn’t even offer to help him find what he was looking for.

When he rolled up to the checkout, the attendant made eye contact. “How’s it going?”

Richard had to be perfectly unremarkable. Thanks to genetics, he figured it worked. The man he looked like right now was a nobody in a line of nobodies that came through here. Even if the police talked to the cashier, he probably wouldn’t be able to remember much about Richard.

“Fine, thanks.” He nodded, then turned away to shift items in his cart so the guy could scan each one. “How’s it going with you?”

Beep. “Can’t complain.” Beep. “Friday, so not as bad as it could be.”

“Exactly.”

“Got any plans for the weekend?” The cashier looked around his cart. “Looks like an interesting job.”

“Couple of different ones, actually.”

The guy nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Just some odd jobs around town.”

“Handyman. Nice.” The guy rang him up.

Richard paid with cash so it left no record. The police wouldn’t bother running fingerprint tests. Too much work on the off chance they’d be able to find his print on a bill—which they wouldn’t. The results would just net them a bunch of partials, and random matches that made no sense and would take days or weeks to sort through.

“Here you go.”

He accepted the change and the receipt. “Thanks.”

With any luck, this man would barely remember him. Any security footage would show a guy at least fifty pounds heavier than him, with completely different hair. No shot of his earlobes, so they wouldn’t be able to ID him that way.

He knew what the police and the feds could do. And though he’d drawn the line at prosthetics, it didn’t matter. They had no way to find him. No trace. No leads. No hope of stopping him.

Everything had been designed to outsmart them, and he would succeed.

Richard pushed the cart out, through the sliding doors. The line for the food truck outside stretched nearly in front of the doors. He shoved around a couple of guys who looked like landscapers and headed for his car.

The bland gold-colored car would need to be changed out for a new shade within a few days. It had served its purpose, but keeping it much longer was too risky.

He turned the engine on, flipping the air-conditioning to full blast so it could cool the car while he loaded the stuff in the back. When he was done, he sat in the driver’s seat and eased the little notebook out of his pocket. He crossed off everything he’d bought and wrote down the final totals.

He’d underestimated the cost. He was going to run out of the old lady’s funds if he wasn’t careful with how much he drove.

Gas prices these days. It’s enough to make a guy crazy .

Richard’s own amusement reached his ears when he hadn’t even realized he’d been laughing.

No more trips to look at the wreckage he’d caused, the burned-out buildings that were now symbols of what he could achieve.

Okay, maybe one quick look at the last one.

He’d figure out how to get some cash together another way. The old lady had been useful, but she’d served her purpose and that was done. He wondered if any of the others would turn out to be hiding money under their mattresses.

He could hope.

Right now, Richard wanted to see what he had achieved. His hands shook as he drove there, the curly strands of the wig flicked against his face as the air-conditioning vent moved the air around. A couple of blocks away from the hardware store, he’d tugged off the hair and scrubbed a hand over his scalp. His rough hand scratched across the skin on top of his head, and the strands around the sides that remained.

The spot where he’d had skin cancer a few years ago. The counselor he’d seen at the time told him to find his passion, to try to dedicate the rest of his life to meaningful work that fulfilled him.

And here we are.

He pulled over to the curb, close enough he could see the warehouse from this spot. Police tape blocked off the whole area, and technicians were still going through every inch of it. As if they would figure out his true motive. They could search and search, and still they wouldn’t find him in the center of anything. He was a ghost, a remnant of the past. And he would be up until it all came together, and he completed the task.

He felt his lips curl up, just thinking about the master plan he had in the works. How the police and that new arson investigation team they’d put together would be spinning their wheels trying to figure out who he was.

By the time they did, it would be far too late. He would have what he wanted.

Ascension.

He would become the best version of himself. The ultimate.

The truth.