Chapter One

Neil folded his clothes neatly into squares and set them into the suitcase resting on his bed. Four button down shirts, three pairs of chinos, one charcoal gray sweater, five pairs of socks. He’d packed this bag so many times he could let his mind wander as his hands did the work and as the pieces of the puzzle fit neatly into the plaid nylon box that clasped on two sides. He moved a lot, or at least he packed to move a lot. Sometimes he’d stay in one place for as many as a few months, always waiting for the signs that told him it was time to go. They always came. He always followed them.

There was a cheap TV set on the dresser against the wall facing him as he stood between the two queen size beds. He never needed two beds but they were there in almost every room he rented, mocking him for being alone. He always slept in the bed closest the wall and that left the one nearest the door untouched and unneeded. And yet, there it was night after night. He sometimes wondered if he was paying for it even though most of the rooms he rented had set rates and rarely even had an option to not have the second unnecessary bed. Still, it crossed his mind because he had to watch his money. Neil always knew how much money he had on him—to the nickel.

He stood for a long time looking at the TV wondering if he should turn it on and doubting he would even if he decided he should. Unlike a lot of people in his position, Neil avoided word from the outside. He told himself that he actually didn’t want to know if they were on to him or if they’d picked up on his latest moves. He didn’t really care if they’d gotten his last message and how they interpreted it from their over-lit and under imaginative little rooms. They wore bad shoes and ate like monsters. He couldn’t care less whether he impressed them or if they found him interesting. He was beyond that and above them. His mission was something they didn’t even understand. His message was not for them, but they invariably transmitting it for Neil so whenever it was necessary he’d feed them a little something to keep their interest. He’d “slip up” on occasion to change the storyline and they’d breathlessly run to their machines to tell the world the breaking news. They were an inconvenient and inefficient channel for his message but they were the best channel he had. They were…reliable. That was useful.

Tonight he would turn the TV on though. He’d pretend to be channel surfing and looking for something—anything—to take his mind off what he does. But he always ended up on the news stations to see what they were saying…about him, or about what he did.

He finally found a local channel and waited for the news to start. It was ten minutes of mind numbing sitcom stupidity to endure, which was ten minutes too many for Neil. He looked down and realized he’d finished packing and set the suitcase on the funny little suitcase stand most hotel rooms still have even though most unseasoned travelers have no idea what they’re for. He eyed the coffee maker on the desk near the window and thought about setting up for what was sure to be another early morning but decided against it when he realized he’d be tracking her starting in a diner early the next morning. She was so predictable—the target—stopping at the diner first thing in the morning to get coffee and a Country Breakfast she never, ever ate. But they were all predictable, which made his life easy…easier.

Finally, the news started. There they were: Mr. and Mz. Local News Anchors sitting behind their oversized and overstated news desks emblazoned with their station’s channel number and call letters, looking like every single local affiliate in the country. The same shades of red, white and blue (of course) in the logos; the same font type and treatment in the tagline; the same pandering message of “being there first” or “the areas most trusted names.” It was all so hopelessly pathetic and yet these were the people he relied on, and they were nothing if not reliable. Neil wondered if there was a company whose sole business was “branding” local TV stations? Was there some first-year designer out there cranking out the same treatments based on a tired and true (meaning: focus group tested) brand elements? How in the world could every single local TV station look so similar if not for the guiding hand of a marketing wonk? Neil wrote it down in the black Moleskine notebook that was always—ALWAYS—in his pocket:

Local TV branding…who is responsible for this…what does it mean for the disappearing identity of small town America…who the fuck cares…

Finally, they get to it. What would they say? What did they pick up on? Was it the same thing he picked up? Is it the same thing they should have picked up on? Nope. They missed again. God, they are so tiresome. How could they not see what is plainly in front of their eyes? Would he really have to be more obvious? Do they not appreciate subtly? No, they don’t. They’re the media and what feeds that beast is anything but subtle. It is naked, bruised and beaten. That’s what they wants, that’s what they get. Always.

Neil turned the TV off and looked for his wallet and the key card to his hotel room. He found his wallet on the desk but not the key card. He hated those key cards. What was wrong with old fashioned keys? Must everything be reduced to a slip of plastic? He found it where he left it, in his pocket. He walked out and instinctively thumbed the card in his pocket before he let the door shut, just to make sure yet again it was there. He walked down the hall to the elevator and pushed the button. He turned and looked in the mirror facing the elevator and looked at the reflection. He stared. His face tensed and he couldn’t break his own gaze. Then the electronic bell of the elevator dinged and the door opened. Neil’s face relaxed and he turned to face the elevator.

He paused for a moment when he saw someone inside and drew an involuntarily deep breath when he saw her face staring back. She was staying in the same hotel. How did he not know that? How could he not know that? He knew everything about her. He knew stuff she didn’t know. And here she was in his hotel. He was making mistakes again.

He stood silent for an awkward pause as she looked up from her smart phone where she was likely looking for the same sort of reporting he’d been looking for earlier from the local TV station. What were they saying? The elevator was empty save for her so to politely decline and say he’d wait for the next elevator would just make her notice him, and that was the last thing he wanted. That’s when it’s over. He knew guys who lived for that—he hired guys who lived for that—but that wasn’t him; it wasn’t what he did. He worked best when they didn’t know he was working. To be invisible is to be the most effective. And here she is staring him right in the eyes.

Neil straightened his slouch and stepped forward into the elevator. They were no more than three feet apart. He’d been this close before but she never knew. He’d been behind her as she shook hands and froze outside an El stop on Chicago’s north side. He’d been three feet in front of her when she announced her candidacy in the very spot both JFK and RFK had announced their intentions to run for President ("How subtle," he derided at the time). He’d been in countless booths in countless diners on countless Main Streets as she made her way from one stop to the next. They’d been in close quarters many, many times and she never saw him. At least she never seemed to see him. But they rarely do. Mainly because they see countless, faceless people in the course of day but also because his appearance is utterly forgettable. It’s what allows him to do what he does.