He had parked his rental car down the hill of Hummingbird Lane at the entrance of the Bon Temps cemetery. It was the most generic car he could rent in a boring shade of grey. It was indistinguishable with local license plates. His 6”4” frame hardly fit but he had not selected the vehicle on comfort. It served its purpose as transportation to the job he was about to execute by order of an L. Krasiki. It was not an easy task to appear indistinguishable at his height but he had perfected it to an art form. Living in the shadows was his mode of survival and tonight like any other night it would expedite his mission.
The old whitewashed boards of the homestead had seen better days, as had the other elements that held together what at best could be described as a ramshackle. Despite the building’s dishevelled appearance they had managed to find a buyer evident by the SOLD sign next to the mailbox. The fact that the house had been on the market had eased his reconnaissance of the target’s surroundings. Any trespassing would simply be explained as an interest in the property.
Bill Compton had been missing in action, this was of course not a coincidence. There was no such thing as coincidence in his world. The target’s fiancé was conveniently called away by the very same L. Krasiki.
He moved past the sold sign into the driveway quietly navigating over the gravel until he reached the soft ground. His large feet would leave a distinguishing print behind. They were anything but an average size and he had, as ever taken this into account. For this night was not simply an opportune interval, it was a carefully selected one. Chance of rain in the early hours of the morning: 100%.
The area was particularly known for its heavy showers, any trace would be absolved before anyone would even think to check in on the target. Even if they would find a trace of his imprints the forensics would discover it to be a standard issue military boot in pristine condition. A boot worn by hundreds of thousands and therefore deemed an utterly useless find.
The most likely person to find her missing would be said fiancé and he was not due to arrive back in 3 days. Perhaps in 2 if her lack of response would alarm him but an automated texting service would be put in place to delay him.
He would leave behind a calling card per instruction of L. Krasiki. Her son would know exactly what it meant. There would be no call to the police, Sookie Stackhouse will simply disappear without a trace. The citizens of Bon Temps would assume she had simply left to Arlington, Virginia. Off to join her fiancé as she had announced mere weeks ago. The fact that she did not bid anyone goodbye would not come as a shock to anyone.
Her file indicated her brother and she had fallen out over her grandmother’s inheritance and any communication between the siblings had been through the mediations of lawyers neither one could afford. Her circle of friends was small and those that would be considered her confidents; a Tara Thornton, Lafayette Reynolds and Samuel Merlotte had met a similar fate as her brother. For all three had a restraining order filed against them. They had unsuccessfully tried to persuade the target that her fiancé, whom she had known a mere 42 days before his proposal of marriage, was a danger to her person.
They were undoubtedly right. It was after all why he was approaching her doorstep with a loaded gun expertly fitted with a suppressor. Her friends had however based their assumptions on their gut instinct and the changes her fiancé had brought upon her since entering her life. Eric Northman was far more knowledgeable of Bill Compton’s sordid past and present. He could have easily supplied the necessary evidence had that been his task. Too bad her friends were looking into a Connor Thompson, a fabricated identity that had stalled the scrutiny of a mediocre private investigator based in Monroe.
Frankly Eric didn’t give a shit; he was here to do a job. That job was to make Sookie Stackhouse permanently disappear. He would take her out cleanly as per his expertise, hence the loaded gun. He would then drive her away in her car, dispose of her body at a gator farm that was run by an associate of Russell’s. He would then drive to Arlington in the vehicle where it would be disposed of. Trey Dawson the local salvage yard operator would be paid an extra $100 to destroy the vehicle with no questions asked. As prearranged his rental would be retrieved by the rental car company the following morning. The keys locked in the glove compartment.
He took another look at the beat up yellow hatchback assessing if he would make it to Arlington without issue. A new set of tires indicated she had prepared the vehicle herself to make the trip. Assuring himself of the knowledge he had already possessed he proceeded.
He tapped the holster of his gun thrice. A nervous habit he had never been able to rescind. His nerves had nothing to do with what he was about to do next. He had killed many without issue from the age of 16. No the nerves that made him mentally assure himself were a remnant of his former life. His life as it was before Russell.
He cursed Russell internally for what he was about to do. For his whole career he had prided himself on not taking out the innocent. Sookie Stackhouse was the embodiment of innocence. Her only crime was getting herself involved with Bill Compton. By all appearances her incrimination had escalated by making him fall in love with her, simply by being herself. As he had studied her photographs in the file he had observed she was the type of innocent you would gladly introduce to your mother. Not that Eric would entertain such a thought for he no longer had a mother. The closest he would come was Talbot and that would be the last person Eric would ever introduce an innocent to.
Under any other circumstances Eric would have refused this job. Other circumstances meant it would be Russell himself who would be standing in his shoes on this eve. Fate had intercepted and Eric needed to get this ticket off the docket so he could proceed with what he had been preparing all of his 16 years as an assassin for. Circumstances had not only messed up his work schedule it had intervened his timeline. A timeline that meant everything to him.
He approached her back porch providing him plenty of cover from any potential onlooker even though he was certain there would be none in this isolated inlet in the dead of night. He had placed protective plastic socks over his shoes before he stepped upon the porch. His leather gloved hands expertly picked away at the flimsy lock which a teenager with a credit card would probably be able to open in a similar amount of time. Entering through the old fashioned kitchen with the oversized porcelain sink he manoeuvred around the carefully labelled boxes into the living room, which was similarly stacked with moving boxes.
He knew exactly where his destination was and he knew exactly how long it would take him to get there. He would be cleaned up and out to the gator farm in eight minutes. One did not excel at this job without expedience after all. Tonight however his expedience had been interrupted, a first in his longstanding career.
Sookie had always been a light sleeper and since her decision to leave behind her hometown of Bon Temps it had become an even more fruitless attempt than before. The emotional strain of her first real relationship that had awakened the vitriol in her friends and remaining family weighed heavily upon her. She was happy with Connor. For the first time in her life she had found a perspective that led her beyond the bounds of her small-minded community. The price she was paying for it was a steep, it had certainly encroached on her rest. That is why tonight she had succumbed to her physical exhaustion and taken a sleeping pill for the first time in her life. A decision she would never repeat again. It had knocked her out immediately contrary to the packaging’s description and she had therefore fallen asleep hours prior to her normal routine.
It was for this reason that Sookie had awoken at three a.m. in a partial haze. She couldn’t be certain but she was sure she heard footsteps. She enthusiastically thought it was Connor, here to surprise her and help her move after all. Sookie jumped out of bed, quickly realising she should probably slow down on account of her haziness but her excitement urged her on. Flinging open her bedroom door she screamed as she saw the approaching figure on her landing. He was far too tall and far too blonde to be her fiancé. She screeched running back into her bedroom startling her assailant. At his discovery he lunged towards her only to slide his plastic covered feet over the protective covering the movers had placed on the landing. Falling inelegantly over the stacked boxes with a loud thud.
Sookie ran through her bathroom that opened up into her brother’s former bedroom hoping to bypass her attacker. He was still flailing on the floor as she ran down the stairs. Cursing profusely in a language Sookie could not understand. She ran for her life exiting the living room through the front door, which never in her time living there had ever been locked, leaving behind a trail of moving boxes blocking her pursuer’s path.
She continued to cry for help once she made it outside in a futile attempt to get away. As remote as the old family homestead was, the only one to hear her screams was the one sent here to kill her who was quickly gaining speed on her. Sookie had seen it in every single Hollywood movie and now she was living it but she was determined to survive. Urging herself to keep running to safety she dashed into the graveyard that she considered her playground throughout her childhood. Before Sookie dared stop she glanced over her shoulder all too aware how close this chase of her was coming to an end.
Despite her advantage in the knowledge of the terrain, her momentary lapse to assess her attacker was ultimately her undoing. She tripped over a tree root landing her on an old grave that had never caught her attention before. Her last thoughts before darkness took her was ‘Here lies Connor Thompson Lt. Sg. Confederate Army 1838-1865 what a coincidence….’
Eric aimed his firearm with expert precision between the doe like eyes staring up at him and pulled the trigger. The whisper of a sound that emerged ended the evening’s unexpected struggle as the warm liquid exited her body and dripped off the ancient slab of stone. He counted to thirty seconds and not a single noise escaped.
All Eric could think was ‘what a fucking mess.’