by Rachel Ford
“Our guy says, ‘Two at a time is messy. It’s going to be extra. The standard rate, plus the bystander fee.’
“Burner replies, ‘Fine. COD.’ Cash on delivery, I guess?
“And our guy says, ‘Alright. Consider it done.’ That’s the last one.”
Nancy returned to her conversation, and Alfred’s brow knit in concentration, recalling the texts. He’s either at the office, or with the wife. Two at a time is messy.
Who were they talking about? And what? Another killing?
Nancy hung up the phone. “He’s in town, now. His cell pinged off towers north of here.”
All at once, Alfred understood. He jerked the wheel to the right hard and fast and came to a screeching halt. Nancy stared at him with wide eyes. “It’s Dixon,” he said. “It’s Dixon, Nance: the killer’s coming into town to kill him, and his wife.”
Nancy’s jaw dropped. “Shit. He wasn’t in the clear, was he? He never was. The killer just needed the right opportunity.”
“We need to phone Caspersen, and the PD.”
She nodded. “On it. You call Caspersen. I’ll call Will back.”
So they did. Alfred whipped out his phone and dialed the director. She answered on the second ring, “Alfred?”
“Caspersen, the killer’s on his way into town. He’s coming for the Dixons.”
She required a little more than that by way of explanation, but not much. Once she understood that they had text messages talking about a second hit, she got the point. “Dixon’s not picking up his phone, Alfred. He said he was going to take a nap. I can’t raise him. And we don’t have his wife’s cell.”
“Sugar.”
“I’m going to call Harlow, stat. They might have her number. Dammit, I hope we’re not too late.”
“Right.” But Caspersen had already hung up. Alfred glanced over at Nancy, whose own conversation seemed to be concluding. He waited another ten seconds, and then she hung up too.
“They’re on their way,” she said. But she didn’t look hopeful. “They’re five minutes out, at least.”
“They’ll never make it in time. Not if our killer is already there.”
Nance nodded, but then her expression changed. “Wait a minute.” A second later, she fished the time travel device out of her pocket. “I didn’t put it away earlier. I wanted to get back to the office first.”
Alfred could feel his excitement mounting. They’d be able to jump to Dixon’s house. Except, one fact tempered his enthusiasm. “We don’t know where he lives, though.”
She shook her head. “I do. Dispatch was sending cars out. I heard them when I was on with Will. The address is 1230 Elm Ave.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t give us the coordinates either.”
“No. But Google Earth will.” Nancy’s thumbs flew across her phone screen, and once or twice she muttered, “Come on. Hurry up.” But then, she glanced up grinning. “Got it.”
Half a dozen seconds later, she’d entered the coordinates, and she and Alfred spawned in the driveway of a large, two story home. Strangely enough, their vehicle spawned with them.
The taxman didn’t quite know how that worked, but he suspected it had something to do with the seatbelts, and how anything attached to their person went with them when they time traveled: clothes, backpacks – and apparently vehicles too.
That, though, was a mystery for later. Alfred unfastened his seatbelt and leaped outside. He left his door open; he didn’t want the sound of a slamming door to catch the killer’s attention. Nancy did the same, gesturing toward a dark, nondescript sedan parked at the end of the driveway. “That’s him. It’s got to be.”
Alfred nodded. He figured the Dixons vehicles were inside their two-car garage. Anyway, he didn’t know what Mrs. Dixon drove, but he figured her husband’s vehicle of choice would match his work vehicle: a huge, important looking SUV.
The sedan, then, likely didn’t belong to either of them. And the houses here were too far apart for it to be anyone visiting a neighbor. And the car was empty. Which meant the killer had already gotten here, and gotten inside.
“You…you wait by the car, Nance,” he whispered. “I’ll go inside.”
“He’s already inside. We need to go, now.” She didn’t wait for him to argue, or to point out that they’d be going up against a professional killer, and that neither of them were armed. She just headed straight for the house.
She avoided the front door, heading instead to a side entrance off the garage. Alfred followed, trying to get her attention and convince her to stay back – all without giving them away to any killer who might be lurking in the area.
He succeed in the latter, but not the former. Nancy reached the door, and cautiously – very cautiously – turned the handle. It opened and swung inward.
Alfred peered into a darkened garage, and saw two vehicles parked inside: a small, sporty red convertible, and a huge black SUV. As far as he could tell, the room was empty. But the SUV’s windows bore a tint so dark, he couldn’t see through them. “Nance,” he whispered, “you should wait here and call Caspersen.”
She ducked inside, dropping beside the SUV and checking under it. Then, she flashed a grin and a thumbs up. “Clear. No one on the other side.”
He crept past the vehicle, and past the convertible, and toward the far door leading inside. He could see a light on somewhere in the interior, and a little entry room directly ahead. Jackets hung from pegs on the wall. He turned the handle this time, slowly and cautiously. Again, the door opened.
Now, he could see more of the entry. Shoes and boots had been lined up against the wall under the coats. A print bearing an Irish proverb hung on the opposite wall, saying, “There’s no hearth like your own.” Framed photos of adults in their thirties and toddlers surrounded the print.
Alfred headed inward, toward the light. He found himself in a large kitchen. The smell of cinnamon hung in the air, although he suspected that was a product of the red jar candle burning on the central table.
Nancy tapped his arm and gestured toward the far countertop and the wooden block sporting an array of knives on it.
He nodded. They were up against a professional throat cutter. It wouldn’t hurt to have a knife on hand. So he crept over and withdrew the largest, longest butcher knife in the block. Nance grabbed a knife too. Then, they headed on, through an unoccupied dining room. Beyond that, a hall led to a staircase, a bathroom, a kind of study, and a brightly painted, well-lit space at the south end of the house. A sunroom, probably, the taxman surmised.
The pair paused at the foot of the steps. He gestured to Nancy and the remaining rooms, then at himself, and the upstairs. She frowned and looked like she might argue. But he tapped his wrist, like he was tapping an invisible time piece on it. And, looking no happier about it, she nodded.
It did make sense to split up to cover as much ground as possible. But he figured the odds of the killer being downstairs were low. Dixon had gone home to nap. That put him on the top floor. Better, Alfred thought, that he should face the killer than Nance.
Not that, even with a butcher knife in hand, he was particularly keen to do so. So he crept up the stairs slowly and cautiously, taking each step one at a time. He reached the landing and saw nothing – no lights, no signs of habitation. He headed for the first door. It opened into a medium sized room sporting two very small beds, and a neatly arranged bin of toys. He supposed this is probably where those grandkids whose photos hung in the hall stayed when they visited. Other than toys and furniture, the room was empty.
He turned around to leave, and almost yelped with surprise. Nance was two steps behind him. She shrugged as he gaped at her, mouthing a word. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like, “Empty.” By which he assumed she meant the downstairs was empty.
He frowned, annoyed that she’d moved so quickly to thwart his efforts to keep her safe. But then Nance’s eyes widened, and she darted forward. Quickly, quietly, she closed the door, but did not latch it. The
n, turning to Alfred, she touched a finger to her lips.
And there was no mistaking the words she mouthed: “It’s him.”
Alfred crept toward the door, swinging it just a hair. And he felt his blood chill. At the far end of the hall, a man he’d never seen before was making his way to the final door. He was dressed in dark blue or black trousers. The taxman couldn’t be sure which in the lighting. But he wore a dark jacket of average cut and quality and sported a neat, if average, haircut. He looked a lot like the car parked outside: professional and nondescript. The only thing that set him apart were the gloves he wore, and the knife he carried.
“We have to go, now,” Alfred hissed to Nancy.
She, though, shook her head. He could understand her thinking. There was a good bit of hall between them and the killer. And just because throat cutting had been the other man’s preferred method so far, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t have a gun. And either way, Alfred felt it was a safe bet that this trained killer could handle a knife better than either of them. But they couldn’t do nothing, either.
Nance, meanwhile, had pulled her phone out of her pocket. She dialed something, her fingers flying over the keys, and lifted it to her ear.
Alfred shook his head and waved his arms and did just about every gesture he could think of to stop her. But she didn’t stop. He heard the line connect on her end, faint and metallic. Then, he heard another sound; an unexpected one: the trill of a ringing phone at the end of the hall.
He glanced through the sliver of the open door. The hitman was scrambling for something in his pocket, the something that was screeching out a ring: his phone. He silenced it a moment later and pulled it out. He glanced between the door ahead of him and the phone.
Nancy let her phone ring: one ring, then another, and another. The door at the end of the hall stayed closed. The hitman put the phone to his ear and hissed, “Who is this?”
Nancy spoke, loudly and confidently. “It’s over, asshole. We know who you are, and where you are. You won’t be touching Dixon.”
The hitman’s eyes darted toward them, and the door they’d left ajar. He’d heard Nancy’s voice. Of course he had; she’d been talking plenty loudly. Alfred had no idea what she’d been thinking, but the sight of the other man reaching for something inside his coat – a gun, presumably – put his heart in his mouth. He turned, looking around for an escape. There was nowhere to hide, and nowhere to go. They were on the second story. A jump might very well break bones and leave them unable to escape: targets on the lawn below. But staying put meant quite probably dying long before they got a chance to use their knives.
Then, all at once, a wash of light and white noise flooded the taxman’s senses. A millisecond later, he found himself staring at the back of a black clad figure. The other man had indeed drawn a gun and was raising it for the door – where they had been, a blink of an eye ago. Nancy held the space time manipulator. And Alfred? Well, he held a huge knife.
He didn’t use the blade. He couldn’t quite bring himself to put a three-inch piece of steel through someone’s back. But he used the blade’s heft and heavy handle. In a swift, downward motion, he smashed the back of the knife into the other man’s temple.
The assassin staggered and tried to turn. But Alfred struck again with one hand and grabbed for the gun with the other. The killer seemed dazed and put up only a feeble resistance.
Alfred wrestled the gun away, and delivered a final quick, heavy blow to the other man’s skull with it. Where the knife had stunned him, being pistol whipped at last toppled the other man.
He collapsed into a heap on the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
Their victory celebration proved short-lived, though. They’d barely begun wresting the remaining weapons from the fallen man when a hail of bullets rained down on them.
The pair dove to the ground. By some miracle, Alfred realized he hadn’t been hit. Nance was too busy cursing to indicate if she was alright or not. “It’s us, dammit, Dixon. Stop shooting, you fucking idiot. You’re going to kill us.”
Dixon apparently didn’t hear. And no wonder, since he was blasting away inside a confined space. He emptied an entire magazine into the walls and ceiling. Then, the special agent burst out of the room, clad in pajamas and fuzzy slippers – and screaming like a man possessed.
He started firing all over again – apparently, having swapped his exhausted magazine for a new one. “You won’t catch me sleeping, you son-of-a-” He cut off suddenly. “What in God’s name? Alfred? Nancy?”
The taxman scowled at them. Nancy sprang to her feet and grabbed the gun away from him. “Yes, you damned fool. You nearly killed us.”
Dixon blinked. “But…uh…” He glanced between her, and Alfred, and the prone assassin. “Who is that?”
“The guy trying to kill you. The guy we just saved you from, before you almost killed us as thanks.”
Alfred had, by now, picked himself up off the ground too. He was just about to join Nancy in chewing the other man out when a fourth voice, high and shrill, joined the mix. Mrs. Dixon had poked her head out of the room – and promptly begun to scream it off.
It took Nancy setting the gun down, and Agent Dixon assuring his wife half a dozen times that his colleagues didn’t intend to kill him, to stop her screams.
And by then, the police had arrived – arrived, and burst onto the scene with guns drawn.
It took a good five minutes before Mrs. Dixon stopped screaming that time, and the taxman was relieved when an ambulance showed up to take her away. The police had questions for the special agent, but they gathered enough to let him go with his wife: he’d woken up to the sound of a phone ringing in the hallway, and then strange noises. Assuming Rodriguez’s killer had come for him, he’d opened fire.
Alfred wanted to brain the other man, but he supposed he couldn’t entirely fault him, either. He might have panicked too, if someone who had already offed three people showed up outside his and Nance’s room.
Their explanation took a little longer. They of course left out any mention of the time travel device or spatial leaps. They maintained that they’d simply raced over at hearing the police’s ETA. Harris gave them a funny look at this, and said, “I’m not even going to ask how fast you lunatics were going.”
“Good,” Nancy said. “That’s probably for the best.”
The officer shook his head, but let it go. The rest of the story presented fewer points for disbelief. They related exactly what had happened, minus the spatial shift. Here, the officer shook his head again, remarking that they’d been incredibly lucky not to have been shot.
“Well,” Alfred chuckled, in his best imitation of easiness, “fortune favors the bold.”
“Hmph. So does death. Plenty of dead dumbasses who acted boldly.”
Still, the case seemed to have reached its resolution. The cops had the assassin in hand, alive and only a little battered. Dixon’s throat was mercifully intact, and Alfred and Nancy had avoided a hail of lead. Indeed, the worst of the group seemed to be Mrs. Dixon, and she’d suffered nothing worse than a terrible fright.
“We’ll figure out who this guy is working for,” Harlow promised. “He’s looking at the death penalty what he’s done. We can always offer him life in prison for turning evidence on his employers.”
Alfred wasn’t sure that would do it. He figured a professional like this one would probably take his secrets to the grave. Then again, what did he know about professional assassins? Not much.
So he’d leave that to the cops.
As for him and Nance, well, once they’d given their statements and debriefed Caspersen, she sent them home. “You’re both absolutely insane, and I should probably be suspending you for being so reckless and stupid.
“On the other hand, you saved two lives today. So go on – get out of here, enjoy the rest of the day before I come to my senses.”
They didn’t need to be told twice. On the contrary, full of adrenaline and riding high on v
ictory, the afternoon off sounded like a fine idea. Nance decided she wanted – of all things – ice cream to celebrate. Never mind that it was thirty degrees outside. So the taxman dutifully zipped his coat to his chin, and they wandered downtown looking for any place that was still crazy enough to be serving ice cream in November.
They found what they were looking for in a candy shop, and Nancy’s eyes sparkled when she saw a sign on the door: Now serving Pumpkin Spice Swirl Ice Cream. Alfred shook his head. That was one of those flavor bridges too far for him, and he refused to even try it. He settled for a concoction called Caramel Latte, which probably would have tasted a lot better in eighty-degree weather than thirty. Still, shivering though he did, he enjoyed it. Then, Nance said, “You know, we never did eat our sandwiches.”
“No.”
“I was thinking…it’s almost dinner time. I could go for eggplant parmigiana. How about you?”
He grinned at her. “Do you have to ask, Nancy?”
So they ate eggplant parmigiana at their favorite Italian restaurant, and strolled back to their car complaining fondly about how much eggplant and how many breadsticks they’d consumed. “I just gained ten pounds. I know it.”
“You? You’re going to have to start rolling me places, Nancy.”
They talked about the case on the way home and laughed about almost being killed, in the way only surviving a hair-raising debacle unscathed can make you laugh. They laughed about the expression on Harris’s face as he considered how fast they would have had to drive, and talked about how they would have haunted Dixon if he’d actually killed them. Indeed, their spirits were so high they completely forgot about the IBTI man waiting for them when they returned.
He, though, had not been so obliging as to return the favor. He was waiting as impatiently as ever and informed them that they had to set out immediately. “I’m on a schedule.”
“You have a time travel device. How can you possibly be on a schedule?”