The stranger

The Stranger

As the evening sun cast its shadows on the ground, a small red Audi A5 pulled up to the driveway of a large colonial house on Thorn Street. The man wearing a Perkins Pea Coat exited the car. He walked from the car to the front door, but before he turned the key, he took another glance both to the right and then to the left, verified that no one had followed him.

After he entered the home, he punched in his alarm code and checked his surveillance system. Before proceedings, he reengaged his alarm and surveillance system. He took a deep breath to relax, turned,and looked into the antique mirror that hung across from the window. He looked at his reflection, studied himself, shook his head, and then sighed. He thought to himself, sideburns a little long, hair needs a trim, maybe a different color this time. He took in a long, deep breath, held it for just a few seconds, then slowly let it out.

He lowered his head and said to himself, “Why now, why did she have to be here, why did she have to ask that question?” Earlier in the evening, he was walking out of his favorite restaurant when a lady walking in said, “You look familiar, have we met before?” Smiling, he said, “No, I’m afraid you are mistaken.” He started to leave, but she grabbed his arm. “It’s Albert Misener, from Calgary, right?” “I’m very sorry, miss, I’ve never been to Calgary, or even Canada for that matter.” He turned, walked to his car, got in, and left. He looked in his rearview as he drove off. She stood there watching him.

Under his breath, he said, “It’s time, time to leave.” He knew this day would come; it always did, but it snuck up on him this time. Why did she have to make that comment? Every time he heard those words, he knew he’d stayed too long. He thought,“Let’s see, where to now? Boston, no, San Francisco, GOD no, he always hated it there.” He wanted to go somewhere, somewhere different, somewhere he’d never been. The firm had other ideas; they had homes all over the world set up and ready to go in an instant. He just had to say where he wanted to go next. He thought “San Antonio wasn’t bad, but that wasn’t that long ago. St. Louis, oh, how he missed the St. Louis area. Yeah, that’s where he needed to be.”

He contacted the firm and told them what was needed. If all went well, he would be gone in a week. This time, he hoped all would be done correctly, not like Boston or New York; those were bad days. He was rushed then, left too much undone. He couldn’t do that again. He hadto do it right this time.

He rushed around the town all week, arranging to have his mail forwarded, and had his home packed and closed. He told the neighbors his mother had died and that he would be at his family’s home in Toledo, Ohio. His previous neighbors all wished him well and said their goodbyes. It was sad to leave; he grown to like it here. He walked into his backyard one last time. Held his arms to the sky, looked upwards towards the heavens, and took in a deep breath. With his eyes closed, he let the air flow through his veins. He took in all he dared. There, he thought that would be enough to see him through the journey.

Outside the house, he heard a Taxi beep. He walked out to the front yard, glanced around, waved to a few neighbors who were out and about, got in the Taxi and left this life, all because she had recognized him.

John Davison took the Taxi to the airport. As they drove, he reviewed his list. “New name, new address, new job, new personality, new look that should do it. He boarded the plane to Toledo and smiled. After the plane landed and the passenger unloaded, he walked out of the airport and disappeared, never to be seen again. Paul Michaels, however, walked to the end of the terminal and boarded a plane to St. Louis. This phase of his life was always easy to remember. Paul Michaels was his in-between name, his traveling name. A man no one ever looked for, a man no one could ever find, because he was a man who didn’t exist. He walked off the plane in St. Louis, and as he had done so many times before, Paul Michaels vanished, and Jake Matthews started his new life.

The long flight allowed him time to read the profile the brothers gave him. Jake Matthews was a self-made man who came from nothing and made something of himself. His parents were killed in 1953 when an F5 tornado hit Flint, Michigan. The 1953 Beecher Tornado devastated Flint and took 125 lives. Jake was 3 months old at the time and somehow survived. Taken in by a family who lost everything that day, Jake was raised as their son and remained with them until they died during the Detroit riots in 1967. Jake graduated from Flushing High School and then went to Mott Community College, where he graduated with a BA in Fine Arts. He proceeded to the University of Michigan and received a Master's in Business.

The firm's documentation included graduation pictures and references, bogus, of course, but no one would ever know. They had been doing this for so many years now; they knew what to do. Jake Matthews, however, was 45, and the man didn’t look much older than 30, he smiled and said to himself; that can be fixed.

Jake found the Blue Mazda the brothers had left for him. Heclosed the door and turned on the GPS, typed in the address, and began the same journey he had taken countless other times, each in a different city, each with a different name. It was strange, the many names he used, but the outcome was always the same. He’d settle in, meet people, and start a project or two, then in a few short years move on. Someday, maybe he could stay a little longer; that would be nice, if only. His longest stay was a little over 15 years, his shortest was two weeks. He wondered how long this one would last.