Out of Focus #SYTYCW15 Top10 Finalist! [COMPLETED]

29| Jerry

He stopped outside of the gallery, hands tucked into his pockets. The familiar weight of his knife sheathed in the back of his trousers. Subject A was not in today. He'd left her at home, working in her home office. Subjects B, C and D already fettered off for their summer programs.

Acting for B, expressive dance and gymnastics for C. D had soccer. Now that he was rolling into phase two of his observations, this was where he liked to tighten the net, until the roped walls began to close in and the fish, realizing she was snared, began to thrash and kick. Knowing there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape.

The image thrilled him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the black wallet, the exterior scarred and aged. Inside was a thick wad of cash, a whole array of cards, tri-fold of family pictures and a stack of personal business cards.

He slipped one out, stroked a thumb over the expensive, raised print.

Commercial Property Development. Ori Goldman. So today he was a Jew. Lovely. A successful one, at least. Tucking the wallet and cards away, he assessed himself in the reflective pane of window glass. Adjusting the knot of his tie. Fingers cramping, he decided, given the damp chill of an island, it warranted veering off schedule and taking more of his arthritic medication a full half-hour early.

Palming the tablets, he knocked them back and swallowed dry.

Entering the gallery, bells chimed, turning heads in his direction. Lots of people about, more than he'd expected. All of them gawking and speaking in hushed whispers as if they were in the fucking Louvre standing before a Da Vinci or Monet.

Heathens, his lip curled derisively, wouldn't know true art, a true masterpiece if it slit their throat.

"Can I help you?" A hand brushed his shoulder and he jerked, surprised that he'd been so caught in his thoughts he'd failed to notice the offensive waft of overpriced perfume. His eyes must have registered his disgust as her expression wavered.

"Hello. Yes. So sorry, love. I was lost in my head," he said, smiling as he tapped a finger to his temple. "Old noggin of mine goes wandering. Yes, I was hoping to see this fabulous artist the island is buzzing over. Eddie Blake, is it?"

Her polite and professional smile was back in place, but he was a predator, and predators always knew when they'd been spotted by their prey. At the very least, she sensed something was up. This one, though, was no simpleton.

"Well, just this morning we unveiled four new pieces." She roped a hand around his arm, and saw the flicker of surprise at the discovery of hard, packed muscle beneath the beguiling sleeve of his shirt. Though he was older in years, and rangy in build, he'd kept himself in impeccable shape.

"Yes, I'd like to see them," he said, throwing his weight harder on the left so that he walked with what he hoped would be a sympathetic limp. "Old age," he muttered and she smiled again, all fake polish.

He half-listened as she showed him about, all the while his eyes moved about them, taking in angles and vantages. No inside camera, no troublesome alarms. Quiet street, minimal traffic flowing through the back. Lots of bodies on the floor, though. If he ever were to move on Subject A in here, it would have to be late. Very late. And even then he couldn't account for extenuating variables.

Home would be cleanest, he surmised. He rolled his gaze to the gallery manager. Canny. Perceptive. This one would remember him, he thought. A made a mental note that may require a bit of...clean up when the job was done.

"It's an interesting gambit you have going here," he said, smooth as warmed honey. "Secrets are incredibly seductive. I wonder if Ms. Blake would be interested in a bit of commissioned work? I'm a man of...many secrets."