Upon A Pale Horse (Bio-Thriller)

by Russell Blake

  “Becky?”

  “Who is this?” she snapped.

  “It’s me. Jeffrey. Keith’s brother?” he responded, wondering if he hadn’t been the only one to hit the bottle after the service.

  “Oh…Jeffrey. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice…”

  “Is everything all right? You sound–”

  “No, Jeff, it’s not. I…somebody broke in while I was at the funeral home this morning. I’ve been burglarized. The police are here right now, taking a report…”

  “Jesus. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m fine. It looks like they only got a few things. My laptop, the stereo…it’s not like I stored diamonds here. Still…it’s an invasion.”

  “I’m sure. Good Lord, I don’t even know what to say…”

  “I don’t think there is anything. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m kind of tied up right now…what did you need?”

  “I wanted to see if I could stop by and get the key to my brother’s place, and then I realized that I have no idea where you live, or where he did,” Jeffrey admitted sheepishly.

  “Oh, the key. Of course. I’ll give you my address and you can come by. I think it’s safe to say I’ll be here for the duration.”

  Becky lived nine blocks north of the hotel, and Jeffrey was able to pull up a map on his phone to see the best way to get there. He debated taking a taxi but decided to walk, hopefully burning off the last of the toxic residue from his brief flirtation with alcohol poisoning. He paid the bill and used the bathroom, then pulled his coat on and exited onto the main street, striding purposefully, the sun’s rays warming him in spite of the frigid air. When he reached the building he saw a squad car parked in the red zone to one side of the doors, and hurried up the four steps to the intercom panel with Becky’s name neatly handwritten in blue ink on a glass-protected tab to the right of a black button. Twenty seconds later the door buzzed in response to his call. He pushed it open and climbed the stairs to the third floor, as instructed.

  Becky was standing in the hall by the first door on the left, speaking in a hushed voice to a uniformed officer taking notes, his radio squawking intermittently as he completed a form. His face was slack, his eyes revealing nothing as they shifted to give Jeffrey the once over before returning to his pad and checking off another box. Jeffrey waited until he was done and had handed Becky a pen and the clipboard to sign before he approached.

  Becky’s eyes glistened as she looked up at him and smiled wistfully. “You found the place,” she said.

  “Yes. Exactly where you said it would be.” Jeffrey returned the smile.

  “I guess I should have said to look for the building with the cop cars in front. Nice neighborhood we have here…”

  Jeffrey stepped closer and tipped his head in the direction of her door. “How bad is it?”

  “See for yourself. They’re about done. But there’s not a lot they can do, according to Officer Klutsky here and his twin. Everyone’s just going through the motions. Best they can offer is that my computer or stereo might show up on a hot sheet if the thieves try to sell them.”

  Jeffrey followed her a few yards to the door. She pushed it open and motioned with an open hand for him to take a look.

  The room was in shambles, drawers dumped out on the floor, papers everywhere.

  “Damn. Looks like it’s been hit by a tornado.”

  “Now you know how I’ll be spending my evening. The cops think it was junkies. Apparently there’ve been a host of robberies in the last week. The only thing that’s weird to them is that it looks like the lock was picked. There’s no sign of a forced entry, so they’re not sure it’s the same gang. The others were obvious break-ins where they jammed the lock or broke a window to get inside.”

  Her voice cracked as she finished and her shoulders sagged, and a small part of Jeffrey’s heart broke. After all she’d been through, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Before either knew what was happening, she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest as he held her tentatively, unsure what to do next. The moment only lasted a few heartbeats and then she pulled away, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. He looked at the two officers conferring by the bedroom door, giving her a chance to compose herself.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Jeff. Some days really suck, you know?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  The two uniforms walked towards them, as unenthusiastic as any humans Jeffrey had ever seen, and offered a few insincere platitudes before excusing themselves and leaving, their work done. Becky’s eyes swept around the room. She sighed, went into the kitchen, and returned holding a shiny brass ring with two keys dangling from it.

  “The keys to Keith’s kingdom. You’re lucky – at least they didn’t steal them. Oh, and here, I wrote down his address. It’s about fifteen to twenty minutes away, over by Logan Circle.” She checked her watch. “Unless you try it during rush hour, in which case you can double or triple that.”

  “Are you going to be okay here?” he asked, eyeing the mess on the floor.

  “Sure. It looks worse than it is. It’ll actually give me something to do besides sit here and cry, so maybe they did me a favor…”

  “You’re taking it way better than I would.”

  “What’s the alternative? If I stop to consider how much bad has happened in just the last few days, I’d probably wind up in a padded room.”

  He nodded. “Then I’m going to get going. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Do you want to take your brother’s stuff? I have it in a box over there…Had. Had it in a box. Now it’s that pile over by the window.”

  “Can I ask you to hold onto it for now? I don’t know what I’m walking into at his place, and I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. Unless you want it out of here…”

  “No, that’s not it at all. I’ll keep it until you get things under control. Don’t worry about it. It’s all just odds and ends, anyway. Nothing super important,” she said.

  They walked back to the door and he stepped across the threshold into the hallway, then gave her another hug, realizing as he did so just how little he knew her or about his brother’s life. Time had a way of racing by, especially if you were busy, but that seemed like a facile, inadequate excuse now that Keith was gone forever. He made his way back down the stairs and set out for the larger street two blocks away, where with any luck he could find a taxi.

  The man tailing him moved from between two buildings on the far corner and settled in a comfortable distance behind Jeffrey, who was oblivious to his shadow, his head spinning from the events of the day as he hurried to get a cab before traffic came to a standstill.

  EIGHT

  Legacy

  “What do you mean, you lost him?” Thorn growled, his voice slightly distorted by the cell phone signal.

  “He rounded the corner, and by the time I caught up he was gone. The car was paralleling him up a block, but couldn’t swing around in time.”

  “Do you think he spotted you?”

  “No. The guy’s a boy scout. I think it was just unlucky timing. Besides, based on what we heard at the girl’s apartment, he’s headed for his brother’s condo, so we can pick up the surveillance there. We’ve got it wired; we’ll know if he so much as farts. I just wish we could get the tracking going on his cell – this is doing it the hard way.”

  Three seconds of silence went by, the emptiness on the line hanging heavily in the air.

  “I’m working on it. Should be any minute. In the meantime, get over to the condo. And no more screw-ups. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly. And if I can make a suggestion, until we have his phone live, let’s get a three-man team on him. Obviously two aren’t enough.”

  “Whatever you need. I’ll make the call.”

  The field operative switched the line off, slipped the cell back into his pocket, and glared at his partner, sitting to his left behind the wheel of the sedan they’d bee
n assigned, stopped at a red light.

  “Get over to the condo. We know he’s going there.”

  “Crap. Traffic’s going to be a bitch headed that direction.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know. The big guy wasn’t happy, by the way.”

  “No, I don’t expect he was. But as you pointed out, it’s not a catastrophe. We’ll pick him up on that end.”

  “Besides which, we’re probably wasting our time. You heard him. He doesn’t sound like he knows anything.”

  “Agreed. But that’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

  “Remind me again when that starts?”

  “Soon. Really soon.”

  “Tell me the one about the three bears next.”

  The light turned green and the car in front of them surged forward, the German import’s powerful engine catapulting it down the street like a heat-seeking missile. The driver stepped on the gas and their Dodge sedan lunged after it before the driver eased up with a grin.

  “Wish they’d give us one of those high-roller-mobiles every now and then. Big Benz. Zero to sixty in, what, five something? This thing’s lucky to get out of its own way with a tailwind.”

  The passenger murmured assent and reached over to stab the radio on, then settled back into his seat for another shift of waiting for the brother to do something besides go for walks and sleep.

  “That’s it, over there. Pull into that space. I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” Jeffrey said, pointing to the glowing red sign over the display window, nothing but Chinese characters advertising the shop on a blue fabric awning that provided shade from the afternoon glare.

  “It’s your money. But I gotta run the meter. You sure about this?” the taxi driver grumbled.

  “Yeah. No problem. Like I said, it’ll be quick.”

  The driver twisted the wheel and glided to a stop by the curb. “Suit yourself.”

  They were in Chinatown, having pulled beneath an ornate entrance arch with three pagoda roofs that bridged the street as they made their way to the address on the pawn slip. The sidewalks teemed with pedestrians, a sea of black hair bobbing with the steps of the locals as they rushed to whatever destinations called to them. Jeffrey swung the door open and stepped out, narrowly missing colliding with a paunchy Asian man texting intently on his phone. The man grunted and threw him a dark glare and then continued with his errand, melting back into the crowd as Jeffrey got his bearings.

  The shop was nothing special from the outside, televisions, stereos, and other treasures dust-covered in the window, and Jeffrey wondered what he was doing there as he ambled through the entryway. A chime sounded in the back as he made his way to the glass display case that held watches and rings and also served as the counter. An ancient gray-haired Chinese man who resembled nothing so much as a praying mantis with a Fu Manchu mustache emerged from the rear of the shop, thick coils of cigarette smoke following him out, the city’s business non-smoking ban clearly not rigidly adhered to in this neighborhood. He studied Jeffrey as if evaluating the condition of a boom box and nodded.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked in surprisingly good English. Jeffrey wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but a part of him was prepared to negotiate whatever transaction took place with sign language or in pidgin.

  “I’m here to pick up an item,” Jeffrey said, offering the man the ticket.

  “Number two seventy. It’s in the lockup. I’ll get it. Wait here,” the man said, then spun with surprising agility and ducked behind the beaded curtain that led into the shop’s bowels.

  Jeffrey’s gaze skimmed the collection of odds and ends in the cases, a palpable air of desperation tainting the atmosphere – at least that part had lived up to his expectations. The items were evidence of a last resort, the financial end of the road for their owners, willing to hock them for pennies on the dollar. Jeffrey knew these places existed, but thankfully he’d never had to set foot in one until today – a day of firsts, as it turned out.

  The proprietor returned carrying a guitar with a yellow tag hanging from the headstock and set it carefully on the counter before removing the paper rectangle and squinting at the numbers.

  “This was one I was hoping would go into default. 1969 Fender Stratocaster. I don’t need to tell you what it’s worth.”

  Jeffrey looked the cream-colored electric guitar over, the finish faded and nicked, and nodded. He had a rough idea – both he and Keith played guitar, and this was a collector’s item, no question.

  “Does it have a case?” Jeffrey asked, picking the instrument up and strumming a few chords.

  “No. What you see is what it came in like. That’ll be three hundred sixty dollars.”

  “Three hundred? That’s all?” Jeffrey gawped, surprised at the nominal figure.

  “That’s all the owner wanted. Three hundred, plus interest and my fee.”

  “No wonder you were hoping to never see him again,” Jeffrey said, and opened his wallet. He extracted the two hundred-dollar bills he kept folded behind his driver’s license in case of an emergency, and counted out the rest from the twenties he had. It left him with only sixty dollars, but he could stop at an ATM later or get money at the hotel’s machine.

  The owner rang up the deal and asked Jeffrey to sign the receipt. “Where’s the guy who brought it in?” he asked as Jeffrey scrawled a signature.

  “My brother. He had an accident.”

  “Ah.” The single syllable contained a universe of possible meanings, like a hologram, where the smallest element encapsulated all other information within it. Jeffrey set the pen down and hoisted the guitar by the neck, careful not to bang it against anything.

  “That’s it?”

  “Unless you wanna sell a Strat,” the man shot back, his eyes half hoping that Jeffrey would take him up on it.

  “Not today. Thanks…” Jeffrey said, then ducked out the door, mindful of the passers-by as he moved to the waiting taxi.

  The driver didn’t comment when Jeffrey arrived with a Jimi Hendrix guitar in tow. He looked at Jeffrey uninterestedly in the rearview mirror and then edged into traffic, anxious to make it to their final destination so he could finish his long shift, which had started at six that morning.

  Jeffrey watched the sidewalk streak past him as the taxi wove in and out of the stream of cars, heading north towards Keith’s condo, and wondered why his brother would have pawned one of his instruments – especially one that valuable, an easy twelve- to fifteen-thousand-dollar rarity. He supposed he would never know, but could understand why his brother wanted him to have it if anything happened to him. They’d both been rabid Stevie Ray Vaughn fans growing up, and had aspired to emulate the bluesy virtuoso’s talent as teens, before adulthood moved them away from their dreams and into the mundane world of grownups. A 1969 Stratocaster in the right hands sounded like nothing else in the world, and Jeffrey could remember playing it when he’d come to visit, along with several other guitars Keith had acquired over the years.

  The thought of jamming with his brother caused a lump to form in his throat, and he closed his eyes for the remainder of the ride, Keith’s ghost visiting him in his memories as the cab bumped its way north along the shabby streets.

  NINE

  Memory Lane

  “He’s in the flat,” the driver reported, listening to the feed from the condo over his ear bud.

  “We’ll be there in two or three minutes,” his partner said. “Then it’s back to hurry up and wait.”

  “At least he showed up, as predicted. The old man would have gone ballistic if he’d just disappeared and we’d lost him.”

  “Nah. Like I said, the guy’s a civilian. He’s got no idea we’re on him.”

  “Probably true. Which is nothing but good for us.”

  “Roger that.”

  Jeffrey twisted the knob and inched the door open, hesitant to enter his brother’s abode. Even though he knew Keith was dead, it still felt like a violation of his privacy. He d
rew a deep breath and peered inside the gloomy foyer, then bit the bullet and stepped across the threshold, taking care to lock the door behind him.

  He glanced around, eyes roaming over the gleaming hardwood floor and contemporary furniture in the living room directly in front of him. A few pieces of Ikea art hung on the walls for color, framing the large flat screen monitor mounted above a stereo, with an adjacent cabinet containing at least two hundred CDs. Jeffrey walked over to where three guitars stood on stands in a corner and returned the Strat to its vacant stand, then slowly gazed around the room. Nothing surprising – typical Keith, a bachelor who prized music and minimalism. A few magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the inexpensive couch – a Guitar Player and a PC Weekly. Keith’s tastes obviously hadn’t changed much once in D.C., right down to steadfastly refusing to buy a car.

  Jeffrey moved into the bedroom and was struck by how neat and organized everything was; then reasoned that if someone had gone into his apartment back in the Bay Area they would have walked away with the same impression. Old habits died hard.

  The refrigerator contained a carton of milk that didn’t expire for another week, and Jeffrey found a glass and poured it full, more out of looking for something to do than thirst. He drank as he took a mental inventory of the condo’s contents, then when he was finished, carefully rinsed the glass and placed it in the sink, where several others sat – also rinsed, he noted.

  Jeffrey ferreted under the sink and found a box of dark green garbage bags, whipped one open, and proceeded to empty out the refrigerator. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to make it back, given his work schedule, but it could be a while. No point in letting the place turn into a science experiment in his absence.

  A computer station caught his attention in the spare bedroom, which was set up as an office, and once he was done with the kitchen he walked in and slid open the file cabinet next to it. The computer was gone, which would make sense if Keith still toted a laptop everywhere, as he had as long as he’d been working. That was another habit Jeffrey and Keith shared. Of many.