He reached a row of shipping containers perhaps two miles from where I lived and turned down a side street. I slowed my pace and watched him from the corner of my eye. The street was not long, only ten or eleven containers arranged around a cul-de-sac. I walked past, waited a five count, then turned and walked the other way. This time, I saw him climb a ladder, open a roof hatch, and disappear inside.

Looking around, I committed as much information about the area to memory as possible. The first smooth, uncoiling tendrils of a plan begin to stir.

It was long past time to pay a visit to Tyrel.

*****

After nearly two weeks of diligent surveillance and very little sleep, the time had come to make contact.

The target’s name was Tom Dills. I sincerely doubted that was his real name, but the Army was still prosecuting deserters, so it made sense for Dills to assume a new identity. Another three months would pass before the president would realize the stupidity of what the Army was doing and issue an amnesty decree.

Dills worked as a laborer on a construction crew on the south side of town; brick masonry, for the most part. He was a creature of habit, always walking the same route to and from work, occasionally stopping in for food and drinks at the tavern where I first saw him. He had very few friends, mostly just people he worked with, and occasionally visited a widow with a ten-year-old son who lived a few streets over. He was not the only man who visited her, and she did not appear to have a day job. It did not take much imagination to figure out what she did for a living.

He seemed to live a mostly solitary life, almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Almost. I’m sure he thought keeping his head down and minding his own business would make it tough for anyone to figure out who he really was. I did not know all of his story, but I knew one small, extremely important detail of it.

I knew where he got that medallion.

It had belonged to Blake, once. His mother sent it to him for his nineteenth birthday, a plain gold disk inlaid with a silver cross surrounded by delicate ivy and roses in white gold. Blake was rarely without it.

Now that is was in Dills’ possession, he wore it everywhere. Made no attempt to hide it. I even heard a few people comment on how nice it was. An Air Force officer tried to buy it from him, saying he wanted to give it to his nephew for his birthday. Dills politely refused. Why it meant so much to him, I could only guess.

The setup was simple. Tyrel rented a horse and wagon from a man who knew better than to ask questions. We loaded it with a few relatively non-valuable salvage items: bundles of cloth, scrap wood, lawn furniture, empty buckets, and, most importantly, several large tarps. Ty parked the wagon not far from Dills’ container on an empty side street and pretended to brush down the horse while he waited.

For my part, I walked slowly from one end of the main road to the other, eyes roving, waiting for the now familiar shape of Tom Dills to appear.

True to his pattern, he showed up just after ten at night, head down, hands in his pockets, trudging wearily toward his favorite watering hole: the same tavern where I first saw him. I tailed him from a safe distance and waited at the end of the street until he went through the door.

“Moving in,” I said to my radio.

“Copy. Advise when en route.”

“Wilco. Out.” I turned off the radio and hid it in my jacket.

I waited a while longer. Dills usually spent an hour or so eating and nursing a few drinks before walking home for the night. When I thought he would be halfway done, I turned down the street and entered the tavern.

It was much more crowded this night than the first time I had come here. It was also much earlier in the evening, and I was not waking up from my second drunk of the day. Despite my recent efforts at sobriety, which is to say, weaning myself off the booze, I could feel the first tremblings of withdrawal kicking in. Not as bad as a couple of weeks ago, but enough I felt compelled to have a drink to settle my nerves. It would not do to let the anxiety and paranoia that came in absentia of alcohol rattle me into making a mistake.

Dave the bartender did not recognize me. A shave and a haircut and a couple of weeks of not trying to drink myself to death had altered my appearance. I had gained back some of the weight I lost, and my eyes no longer looked like dim blue lights at the end of a long dark tunnel. So when I gave him the name Bacchus, he blinked a couple of times.

“Well I’ll be damned. You’re looking a hell of a lot better.”

“Semi-clean living, my friend. You still have my bottle back there?”

“Sure do.” He retrieved it and brought it to me.

“Thanks.” I took the bottle to a table on the other side of the room and sat down near the fire. From there, I could watch the bar without arousing suspicion.

It is difficult to explain what that first drink feels like when you have been abstaining for a while. I was at the point if I did not drink at all for two or three days, the withdrawal would cease to plague me. Not the cravings, mind you, just the worst of the symptoms. But when I poured a glass of grog and sipped it a few times, and the burn hit my stomach, and the pace of my heart slowed, and heat spread through my limbs and face, it was like a warm hug from a dear old friend. A tension I did not realize I was feeling began to ease.

The urge to empty the glass quickly and pour another tall one was strong. It would have been very easy to pound the half-bottle, order another one, and see how fast I could drink it. Tom Dills was not going anywhere, after all. I could take him any time I wanted, and-

NO.

The time for waiting was over. No more drowning myself. I had a purpose now. And besides, Tyrel had paid good trade for the horse and cart. If I screwed this up because I got drunk, he would probably shoot me. Or at the very least dole out a sincere ass-kicking.

I nursed my drink, felt it settle my nerves, and waited. If anyone sitting at the bar had turned and looked at me, they would have seen a young man sitting alone staring at the fire. Several other people at nearby tables were doing the same thing, further reinforcing the illusion. But the fire was the last thing on my mind.

Tom Dills, or whatever his name was, finished a bowl of stew and ordered a drink. He sipped it slowly until it was empty, then ordered another. I palmed the Rohypnol pill in my pocket, dropped it into the last of the grog in my bottle, let it dissolve, and carried it to the bar.

All the stools were taken, a few patrons standing behind them waiting for drinks. Dave worked busily to fill the orders, sweat standing out on his bald pate. I pushed in next to Tom Dills, bumping into him a little to get his attention.

“Hey Dave,” I shouted, slurring my speech. “I’m done with this shit. You want it?”

He looked up, flipped a hand at me, and went back to what he was doing. I looked at Dills. “What about you man? You want the rest of this? I’m done with it.”

He blinked at me, eyes going to the bottle. “You sure, man?”

“I gotta quit drinking this shit. It’s fuckin’ killing me.”

Dills shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I’ll take it. Thanks.” He took the bottle. I backed away, shouting something about the dangers of grog to Dave the bartender, who studiously ignored me.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Dills uncork the bottle, sniff it, shrug, and pour himself a glass. He tossed it back in a single gulp. Inwardly, I laughed.

Perfect.

There was only enough left for two drinks, so I probably would not have long to wait. I went outside and took position across the street, leaning against the side of a building. A few minutes later, Dills emerged from the tavern looking unsteady on his feet.