In the car's passenger seat, sat a middle-aged man, graying and heavy, but somewhat handsome in a business suit of dark brown. He said, "Slow down among these houses. If you get stopped for speeding, the deal is off. Also, the roads are slippery. This is early March ... and the bareness has ice in it. Do you know who I am, kid?"
         The driver, a tall, blond man, tanned and youthful, said, "I assume you have power in New Hampshire."
         "I'll be governor in a year or two. Later, today, I'll pocket twenty million dollars." He shrugged his shoulders. "Land development. Not bragging, son…just telling you to be careful. So...you're about twenty-five? How would you characterize yourself?"
         "I'm a murderer," said the driver.
         The passenger said, “Pull into the shopping center ahead. Go to where the cars are gathered."
         They stopped very near another car, causing the passenger to look through his window, apparently to see if he had room to open the door. Then he handed over a white envelope, the size of typing paper.
         "This is the man I want killed. The information is here...and the money. Don't read it now! Get to Concord, and onto a bus for Boston. The jet leaves for Nepal at six." He reached to the driver, and tapped the envelope. "He left yesterday ... and I want you on his heels."
     The driver opened the envelope. "The man's name is Oliver Faulkner?"
     "Yes. A man you should kill quickly. I'd like you to go now."
     The driver removed the contents and put them on the seat. Picking up a photograph and a single sheet of paper, he said "Oliver Faulkner... age thirty-five. He's three years older than I am."
         "You're older than you look."
        "A hundred sixty pounds," continued the driver. "If this is a recent picture, he doesn't weigh that ... he's heavier. How tall is he?"
         The passenger looked away, and leaned away, putting his hand on the door. Then he sat back, and studied the other.
         The driver said "If you want me on his heels, I need to see him."
         "He's about six feet tall," said the passenger.
"It says "Five feet nine," also, "Handsome and intelligent."
         The passenger said "I was planning to change those descriptions, and forgot to."
         "I don't mean to contend, Mr. Wallace. Elmer...?  Is this a picture of Mel Gibson ... movie star?" He held the photo at arms length. "or is it Oliver Faulkner ... a little heavier and taller than you want him to be?"
         Calmly, but with obvious irritation, the passenger said, "I can call this off!"
         "Mr. Wallace, I understand your anger. But I need the truth. You've put him at the top, with handsome and intelligent. And at the bottom ... with skinny and short."
         "Then I corrected it!"
         "So you're afraid of what he knows ... but, also, of what he is. Is that why you sometimes under rate him? In a dismissing ... wishful way."
         "I don't! And you better not!" snapped Wallace.
         "What did he do?" asked the driver. I don't mean to pry! But, if you please, sir, I can do my job better."
         "He slept with my wife!"
         "Mr. Wallace, an hour ago I parked across from your house, and went to the saloon. I mentioned the name Oliver Faulkner, then sat awhile and listened. He didn't sleep with your wife. Sorry to be rude ... but my job is quickly done, as you wish ... if I know he's full of what sinks to the bottom, if given a nudge."
         "He insulted my book!"
           The driver reached inside his leather jacket, black and trim, to the inner chest pocket, and brought out a softcover book, perhaps fifty pages long. Gently, he put it onto the seat, near the passenger's leg.
          On the book sat a small yellowed plastic bag, one blonde, the other brown.
          "What's this?" asked Wallace, picking up the plastic.
          The murderer snatched the plastic bag, and returned it to the inner pocket. He did this with a forced tightness at his mouth, and he looked away from Wallace. Then he referred to the book.
          "'In the Palm of the Lotus.' Is this the work he insulted? Your enemy said that the thoughts herein are taken from others. Why would that bother you? You say, on the back cover, that you get to the highest places by reflecting greatness. So ... he called you a mirror? No! ... he called you a liar, who rearranged words to say they're yours. But his insult is not why you hired me."
         The passenger shouted "You don't need to know why!" 
          "Mr. Wallace ... you often visited the house of your neighbor and his thirteen year old daughter. Or, is it twelve? Sometimes he wouldn't be home. And Oliver Faulkner arrived, one day, and tossed you through the door. She's pregnant! That's it!"
         Mr. Wallace was red-faced.
         "Not that I care," said the driver, in a softer tone. "I don't want your money... other than this." He held up the smaller white envelope. "It's because I need the truth. Oliver Faulkner can nail you down. Elmer Wallace ... goodbye to moving up."
          Wallace said, "She isn't pregnant!" Now he raised his voice almost to a shout. "Listen, kid! I can terminate this! You better shut up about what I did. Now!"
        "Yes, sir!"
         Wallace said "I know where up is! If you want the job... put that photo and money in your pocket. When you return I'll pay the other seventy five thousand."
         The driver put these things into the inside pocket of his jacket, then rested his hands on the steering wheel.
         "My name is Curt. I'm told I had a mother and father until I was a year old. Then I was three years in an orphanage...and I remember being alone and hungry and cold. When I was four ... someone gave me a little plastic bag and said it was my parent's hair in it. I..." He reached inside his jacket, again. "I carried it here, in my shirt pocket."
         Wallace yelled "Maybe you can't handle this job!"
       "Then my parents came back! ...and were there awhile... fighting ... and then my father stopped pretending to care. He got mean to me."
        "You're crazy!" Wallace was shaking his head. "Maybe I'll terminate this! But ... can't you just forget it'?"
        The driver went on. "My father died when I was eight. He leaned through a window... way out... so I nudged him... and watched him bounce. Only my mother guessed it wasn't his choice. She left town, again, and I haven't seen her since. I'm happy to say!"
        Wallace was staring. Softly, he said, "What are you planning to do now, Curt? Will you go  to Nepal?"
        Curt said "You have power... and large plans. But you think of your self only."
        "I give money to charity!" said Wallace. "Yes! And I can... because I'm the best at what I do. You'll be seeing me up there... in my place. So...is it goodbye, Curt? Are you off to Nepal?"
        Curt said, "I was a star athlete, in high school... and managed the newspaper. I was the best waiter in New Haven, Connecticut. In the army I was the sharpest shooter, and dresser. Yes, I'm the best, too... Mr. Wallace. Now I'm going to Nepal, where I'll twist the nose of your handsome, intelligent Oliver Faulkner. The man on the top. You know what else I'll do?"
        "No. What else?"
        "I'll use his girlfriend. After he's dead I'll use his gear ... have a climb ... above what you call the top." 
        Wallace waited a few seconds, then said "Bring me proof that he's dead!" He faced his own door, putting both hands against it. "And don't take forever!"
        Curt reached into an outside pocket of his jacket and, withdrawing a knife, pressed a button on it, causing a narrow, three-sided blade to appear. So did a hand-guard, to prevent his hand sliding along the knife.
        He plunged it into the passenger's back. Four times. And at the last, he was able to hold it there awhile, having pinned the man's jacket collar against the door, to keep the scene intact ... undisturbed by another's will.