darwin's nightmare

by Mike Knowles

MIKE KNOWLES (right) studied writing at McMaster University before pursuing a career in education. He became an elementary teacher and currently teaches in Hamilton where he lives with his wife and dog. Darwin’s Nightmare is his first novel.

 

Chapter 1

Watching for the switch was the easiest part. This guy was such an amateur that he drew attention to himself just standing there. The bag, the object of my interest, was being held by a young kid with blond highlighted hair and several days’ worth of dark scruff growing on his face. His small mouth was chewing gum, hard, and his head was looking around one hundred eighty degrees left then right. If he were capable he would have spun his head in a constant rotation taking in everything in the airport. He couldn’t even dress the part; he was wearing a long beige trench coat—unbuttoned with the collar turned up. The only thing missing was a fedora. I was sure he watched spy movies to pump himself up for the deal.

The deal itself was the only thing hard to figure. I had been paid to steal a package from an unknown person, and I had no knowledge about the courier, size, contents, or nature of the package. I knew only the location, Hamilton International Airport, which made any tools I wanted to bring pretty much useless. The airport was small in comparison to its counterpart, ninety minutes away in Toronto. The Hamilton airport ran about three hundred flights per week. Only one-third of those flights were international. Most of the passengers who used the airport were businessmen on domestic flights to Ottawa or Montreal.

It was eight in the morning in mid-October, and the airport was in a lull. The passengers who had arrived on the red-eye had collected their luggage and gone outside, leaving only a hundred or so customers in the terminal. I had to intercept the bag before it got to a plane, and that meant I might have to follow it to a gate. So I came in light.

There were only a few minimum-wage rent-a-cops working as airport security near the entrance; there was no need for more. The crowds were sparse and half-asleep, and the real action took place after you bought your ticket. The blond kid moved around the terminal looking at brochures and the candy on display in the convenience store. I watched him and everything else in the terminal from a seat near a row of pay phones. No one else seemed to be watching the kid, which made me think the deal was going to happen on the other side of the metal detectors. Every so often, my gaze would catch the boy’s blond hair, and I would focus on him. He was young, no more than twenty-five, and under the trench coat he wore a black Juventus soccer warm-up suit. The flashy labels on the casual clothes under the coat made the kid easy to spot. His light olive skin put his ancestors around the Mediterranean; the warm-up suit narrowed the geography to Italy. His hair had been dyed blond a few weeks ago, judging from the inch of dark roots visible above his forehead. He augmented his faux blond hair with a lot of gel, making him taller and more colourful than anyone around him. Everything about his outfit, his features, and the way he carried himself screamed, “Look at me!” He made no effort to be anonymous, to be invisible, like me. It made me wonder what I was doing involved with this kid, and it made me wonder about the bag. What could a kid like this be trying to move? And why would it be important to my employer?

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, a watch started beeping. It was the kid’s watch; the beeping startled him, and he shut it off so he could complete another full scan around the room. He moved towards a gate, and produced a ticket from an inner coat pocket. He would have to pass several small restaurants and stores to reach the double doors that led to the metal detectors. Only one of the doors was open, and there was a backup of ten or twelve passengers. I moved in behind the kid and took the roll of quarters from my pocket. If this guy was as amateur as he looked, it would all work out. I moved his coat to the side with my left hand and shoved the roll hard into his back right on top of his kidney.

“Turn around and walk to the bathroom now,” I said, and shoved the roll of coins harder into his back like a gun barrel.

“What?... What are you doing? W…w…why?” he stuttered.

“Too bad, kid. If you didn’t know, you would have screamed,” I said into his ear. “Move out of line and walk to the bathroom. If you don’t I’ll just clip you here. The gun is silenced. I’ll be in the car before anyone figures out you’ve been shot.”

The kid didn’t question me; he moved away from the line and turned towards the washroom as though he was being pulled by marionette strings. As we walked, the back collar of the beige coat became brown with sweat. The bathrooms were down a long hall, and we had to weave around several people to get to the door. If this poser had been anyone else he would have shoved off and been mixed into the people before I could get any shots off. But he wasn’t anyone else.

“Stop here,” I said as we neared the handicap washroom. I pulled down an out-of-order sign I had taped to the door and ushered him in. I eased up on his kidney, and he made his move, just like I hoped he would. He pushed back, trying to trap me against the door, and spread his arms, ready to take the pistol. If I had a gun he might have taken it, though more than likely I would have put a bullet in him. My foot found the back of his knee, and his body shifted down until his knees hit the tiles on the floor. I drove my forearm across his jaw, hard, and heard the sound of it coming out of socket; his mouth must have been open. Both hands had risen up near his face when I palmed the roll of quarters and went to work on his back. Two hooks to each side of the kid’s body put him flat on the floor gasping. I lifted the bag. It was light, lighter than I expected, almost as if it was empty. I got over my surprise and got back to the task at hand. It was time to go. I eased the blond kid back onto his feet and laid a tight uppercut into his jaw using the quarters.

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Copyright © Mike Knowles, 2008

Click here to read Mike's interview with John McFetrdige