The Assassination of Landon Stone-part 1

Landon Stone was a quiet whisper of a person.  I met him twice. And twice I was kindly met with softly spoken words and a lowered head. Twice, I was warmly indifferent and twice the thought of Landon Stone was brushed away from my memory as more vivid and/or important moments met my busy mind. 

I heard that Landon Stone often went away on business trips. However, further details concerning these trips were never related before or after the trips came to pass. For some reason Landon Stone felt the need to be very private about them. If ever a question was asked he would simply stutter a quaint, vague response and then would hurriedly leave the presence of the inquirer. Only on his final trip were all the details neatly placed on several black and white columns and rows, and even then, it wasn't because Landon let the details trickle, but because a reporter chose to let them flow almost as swiftly as Landon's blood had flowed from his veins to the cement in a matter of minutes.

He had parted at 4:47am on one of the first flights to Pisa, Italy on AirFrance. He was seen waiting for boarding with a small black and green carry-on a little to the right of his leg and a brown, worn satchel with a small, bronze buckle kept on his lap, his left hand slightly tucked under the flap, his thumb the only digit visible, rubbing the top edge. 28 hours and 2 connections later, the relatively young Mr. Stone left the airport in a white taxi cab driven by an older man whose face wore several creased wrinkles and a slight, close-mouthed smile. They drove out about 19 miles to Marina di Pisa in complete silence as Landon, squinting, gazed out the window at the passing greens, grays, blues, and yellows.  He checked into Boboba Il Villagio, took his key from the small receptionist lady at the front desk, went into his apartment, left his black and green carry-on on the couch in the living room, and, still cradling the worn satchel in his arms, sat on the crisp, white sheets of the queen size bed and stared at the painting of an Italian scene that hung across the way.