Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  He debated briefly about opening the door, worried that it might squeak. But he shrugged any concern off. After all, the security team had already been disabled. Their lifeless bodies littered the yard outside, already growing as cold as the winds that blew across them.

  He pushed the door open.

  It didn't squeak.

  He brought the gun up again, sighting by instinct along the barrel, artificially lengthened thanks to the homemade suppressor he'd fashioned earlier tonight.

  "Wake up."

  The snores continued. The man repeated his instruction. This time he kicked the bed frame of effect.

  The snores ceased.

  The heavy body turned over. The springs underneath the mattress creaked and protested the weight that was being shifted across them.

  One eye opened.

  Then another.

  Surprise registered first.

  Then shock.

  The old man sat straight up and Stahl marveled at his ability to do just that.

  "You."

  Stahl smiled. "Me."

  "I'd heard you died. In the explosion."

  "What you mean," said Stahl, "is you'd hoped I'd died over there. That didn't happen."

  "But the bomb-"

  "Detonated. Yes. Your little package of bio agent did not, however."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Stahl smiled. "Of course you don't." He nodded at the robe laying across the bed. "Get up. We're going to the study."

  "My guards will-"

  "Your guards are dead. All of them. Now move."

  The old man put the robe on carefully and then navigated the steps with difficulty. Inside the study again, he stopped and turned around.

  "Now what?"

  "The computer," said Stahl. "Turn it on."

  The old man frowned. "What is this all about?"

  "Log on to your bank account, please."

  The old man's eyes lit up. "So. It's always been about the money for you, hasn't it? You gave up your desire to see the struggle furthered. You've gone soft."

  "I became a father. And I learned something about life in the process."

  "Touching."

  "Go to your accounts and transfer the money we agreed upon at the start of this little venture." Stahl handed him a slip of paper. "That's the account number."

  The old man took it and then bent over the keyboard. Stahl watched him stroke the keys until the process appeared complete.

  "It's done," said the old man.

  Stahl removed a cell phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial function. He heard the phone ringing on the other end. A voice answered and Stahl spoke to him briefly, making sure the money had been transferred to his account. Satisfied, he hung up the phone and pocketed it again.

  The old man slumped into his chair. "Your son-"

  "Is safe. No thanks to you." Stahl regarded him. "Did you really think you'd get away with it? Did you really think she could do it?"

  "You were unstable. Karen was our insurance."

  "And what would have happened to my son?"

  The old man looked at him and said nothing.

  Stahl nodded. "That's what I thought." He pointed with the tip of the gun. "Do you have a pistol in the top drawer of your desk there?"

  The old man frowned. "Of course not."

  "Pity," said Stahl. He leveled his gun on the old man's forehead and squeezed the trigger twice. The gun coughed and two small holes overlapped suddenly on the old man's forehead. Blood sprayed the wall behind him, staining the white curtains a lazy shade of crimson.

  Stahl watched the body slump in the chair. Then he checked the pulse on the old man's neck.

  Satisfied, he left the study the same way he'd come in.

  In seconds, he was gone.

  *** *** ***

  TWO

  BostonÉ.two months later

  The black granite headstone stood out among the pink marble and older sandstone monuments nearby. At the base, a wreath of flowers reached up for the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  Stahl laid a bouquet of carnations across the top of the headstone. He stepped back and waited.

  Behind him, he heard the footsteps approach. Stahl didn't turn around.

  The man next to him seemed young, but Stahl knew he was older. The man looked at Stahl.

  Stahl waited.

  "You knew this guy?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  Stahl looked into the younger man's eyes. He could see the venom oozing out of them. He could see the desire to test himself against the perils of the world. And suddenly Stahl felt very old.

  "We worked together. Once."

  The younger man pointed at the grave. "This guy here? He was a bum."

  Stahl smiled. "If you say so."

  The younger man nodded. "So you worked together, huh?"

  "That's right."

  "You looking for a job right now?"

  Stahl smiled. "I don't think so."

  "Yeah, well, you ever need one, you come and see me. Much of a skunk as this guy was, he was damned talented at what he did." He turned and started to walk away.

  "I didn't get your name," said Stahl.

  The younger man stopped. "Giordano. Bobby Giordano."

  Stahl nodded. "I'll keep you in mind."

  "You do that."

  Stahl watched him climb back into the black Oldsmobile and drive away. He turned and saw Alois coming toward him, kicking up leaves in his wake.

  "Papa."

  "Son."

  Alois stopped at the headstone next to his father. "Who was that you were talking to?"

  Stahl shrugged. "I don't know. But maybe we'll see each other again." He smiled. "Soon."

  Alois pointed at the headstone. "Who was this, Papa?"

  Stahl knelt next to his son and hugged him close. "This was the man who gave me my life back, son. And yours as well."

  Alois studied the headstone. "Frank Jolino."

  "Yes."

  "It sounds like a good name."

  "It was a good name," said Stahl. "And he was a good man." He turned. "Come on. We'll be late for our flight."

  "I'm excited about this trip, Papa."

  Stahl laid his hand across his son's shoulders. "Me, too. In fact, I haven't been this excited about a trip in years."

  *** *** ***

  12 Hours LaterÉThe Caribbean

  The blue of the sky and the warm breezes washed over the sugar-fine sand as the blue green waves rolled in toward the shore. From his vantage point on the lounge, he watched the waves part and almost magically, a figure emerge from them. She could have been a mermaid for the curves of her body, but he could see she had no tail. And there were no scales on her body. In fact, he thought it looked perfect just the way it was.

  She came up on the sand.

  He smiled at her. And she at him.

  "You're looking good."

  He shrugged. "A few more days I think. Maybe I'll join you."

  "You still need rest."

  "I rest any more and I'll go nuts."

  She kissed him. He felt the salty touch of her lips, felt the droplets of water cascade out of her hair onto his bronzed skin. She hugged him close.

  "Are you in love with me yet?"

  She pulled back, a broad smile splaying across her face. "Almost."

  "Almost?"

  "Maybe one more kiss will do it."

  Frank tugged her close. "Let's find out." He would have kissed her then, too, if Gumshoe hadn't inserted herself between them with a loud purr.

  Gia glanced down. "I'm going to have to get used to her."

  Frank stroked Gumshoe's fur. "Just be grateful Mrs. Morello looked after her when I didn't turn back up for a while."

  "Fattened her up by the look of it."

  "Well, she can catch as many fish as she wants now," said Frank. "She'll slim back down in no time."

  The doorbell to the house sounded. Frank turned slightly in his seat. G
ia turned with him. They looked at each other then. Frank felt a familiar tug of instinct warning him to get his gun.

  He resisted.

  Instead he called out. "We're around back. On the beach."

  Within twenty seconds, he could see his visitors coming toward him, one tall and one small silhouette making their way down the seashelled walkway, their feet crunching the hardened calcium bits together.

  "Look at the beach, Papa!"

  Frank's smile exploded across his face. Stahl followed closely behind his son. He stopped next to Frank's chair.

  "Alois, where are your manners?"

  The young boy's smile drooped. "Sorry." He held out his hand to Frank. "I'm Alois."

  Frank took his hand solemnly. "My name's Jim."

  "Hi, Jim."

  Gia leaned over him. "And I'm Veronica."

  "Hi." Alois' eyes went from Gia to Gumshoe. "Is this your cat? She's beautiful!"

  Frank nodded. "Spoiled more likely. Her name's Gumshoe."

  Alois knelt and Gumshoe nuzzled the hand he held out to her. The young boy stroked her fur and then looked up, his eyes fascinated by the expanse of the blue green water before him.

  Gia pointed out toward the ocean. "Want to go down there with me and chase a few waves?"

  Alois' face lit up. "Would I!" He turned to Stahl. "Is it okay, Papa?"

  "No running," said Stahl. "But go ahead."

  Gia and Alois walked toward the waves. Frank watched them go and then turned to Stahl. "Any problems?"

  "None." He looked at Frank. "You're looking well."

  "Another few days and I'll be back to a hundred percent."

  "A hundred percent?" Stahl grinned.

  "Maybe eighty." Frank chuckled. "That's a good-looking boy you got yourself there."

  "The transplant took. Everything checks out fine. The doctor's are amazed at his recovery. They say he may grow up completely normal now."

  Frank nodded. "Thank God."

  "Thank you," said Stahl. "I couldn't have done this without you."

  "I'm lucky to be alive," said Frank.

  "So are a lot of people. Thanks to you."

  "Some kind of crazy world," said Frank. "What about your former associates?"

  "I don't think anyone will come calling for me. They all seem to be dead."

  Frank nodded. "I just have to keep my face out of sight from now on."

  "Funny thing about that," said Stahl. "I visited your grave in Boston."

  "You saw it?"

  "Nice job. Black granite number. Very classy."

  "Good."

  Stahl sat down next to Frank. "While I was there, I bumped into an old friend of yours. Guy by the name of Bobby Giordano."

  "No shit."

  "No. Rather a rude fellow. Called you a skunk."

  "A skunk?"

  "Yes."

  "Imagine that."

  Stahl smiled. "I wouldn't worry about it. Seems he'll be having a bad experience at dinner tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "How'd you manage that?"

  "Trade secret."

  Frank laughed. "I owe you one."

  "Not at all. We're even." He glanced out toward the ocean. "How goes it with Gia?"

  "Would you believe we're in love?"

  Stahl smirked. "After everything that we've been through? I'd believe almost anything."

  "Almost anything?"

  "Well, anything except that psychic mumbo-jumbo stuff."

  Frank grinned. "Yeah, that's just a bunch of crap."

  "If it's any consolation, I can't see a thing happening inside your head anymore."

  "Me neither," said Frank. "I'm betting the explosion and my brush with death had something to do with severing it."

  "The human mind is truly uncharted territory."

  "And one I have no plans to go exploring," laughed Frank.

  Stahl leaned back on the sand. "So what happens now?"

  Frank shrugged. "Place down the road is for sale."

  "Is it?"

  "Yeah." Frank held out his hand. "Thing is, I could use a good friend down here. Being that me and Gia are all alone."

  Stahl looked at his hand. Then he smiled. "That's the best idea I've heard in a long time."

  "Welcome home, Ernst."

  Stahl glanced out at the ocean and smiled. "Welcome to the rest of our lives, Frank."

  Turn the page for a special sneak-peek at

  THE FIXER

  A Lawson vampire Novel

  by

  Jon F. Merz

  Chapter One

  I sat like I always did: my back to the wall, keeping a good field of fire. That kind of instinctual discipline has kept me alive a long time. Usually, it’s the only thing that does.

  Neither of us spoke while our polyester-clad waiter slid bowls of steaming soup and a plate of appetizers on to our table. A quick bow and he was gone. Finally, McKinley cleared his throat, coughed up some phlegm, and dropped three words.

  "Cosgrove’s in town."

  Jack Dempsey might as well have shot his trademark uppercut into my solar plexus. Keeping the mouthful of hot and sour soup where it belonged took a lot of effort. I chased it down with a gulp of ice water and a healthy intake of O2. "Well…that’s just about the worst goddamned news you could spring on me."

  McKinley’s yellow-toothed grin slithered across his face. He always saved it for particularly nasty stuff. I’d swear he enjoyed seeing me suffer. "It’s the little things that give me the most pleasure, Lawson. I knew your reaction would be worth coming out in this miserable rain for."

  I wiped my mouth. "You really know how to ruin a good meal."

  "Yeah, it’s a gift." He waved his chopsticks. "We think he touched down yesterday."

  "So why tell me? You want me to be his fucking tour guide or something?"

  "Not exactly."

  I sucked down another piece of slippery tofu. "Glad to hear it. Only trip I’d ever give that bastard would be a one-way ticket to hell."

  "You don’t have to be so sarcastic."

  "This isn’t sarcasm. This is me pissed off."

  "You’re over-reacting. It’s just Cosgrove."

  I frowned. "What are you guys – poker buddies now?"

  McKinley speared a pan-fried dumpling with one of his plastic chopsticks, the kind with the faded characters running down the side, and shrugged. "Maybe my viewpoint’s a bit more objective. After all, he’s not gunning for me."

  "You know, you’re a lot of things. But Guardian Angel ain’t one of them."

  Soy sauce dribbled down five miles of his chin. "Hey, I’m just a middle man. ‘Life Preserver’ wasn’t in the job description."

  "Be like clutching a cinder block in an ocean if it was." I shook my head. "You’re off the diet again, aren’t you?"

  He stopped chewing. "Give me a break, will you? We

  can’t all look like we were built by the local bricklayers union."

  "Taking care of myself goes with the job. You know that."

  "Yeah I know that. So what. I like to eat. Fuck off, will ya? At least I’m not obsessing over some two-bit psycho job."

  I leaned closer to him. "I don’t appreciate being dragged out on a crappy night like this. And I don’t like being told I’m overreacting by an out-of-shape-has-been who hasn’t seen the business end of a field assignment in a decade."

  He pulled away, gulped and reached for another victim. "Yeah well, maybe I just don’t consider Cosgrove to be all that dangerous. Maybe I just think he’s a pushover. A ‘has-been’, to use your phrase."

  "Maybe you weren’t on the receiving end of his last little killing spree here in town. Cosgrove is a dangerous bastard. For you to tell me otherwise is just plain stupid."

  McKinley nodded. "I suppose I should bow to your extensive, if not obsessive, knowledge of the subject."

  "Call it what you want. I know him. You don’t." I looked around the darkened interior of the restaurant. A quarter mile outside
of Kenmore Square, they served the best Chinese food in Boston here. As usual, the place was packed, but McKinley and I had privacy, courtesy of the hostess who always gets an extra twenty bucks to keep a table for me at the back of the restaurant. Our only neighbors were stoic characters painted on the walls depicting scenes from the Ming Dynasty. Outside, the percolating drizzle we’d arrived with thirty minutes ago exploded into a cold November downpour.

  I faced him again. "So. Where’s he holing up?"

  McKinley yawned. "Guy like Cosgrove has more rocks to crawl under than a miner."

  "Jesus, I could have stayed home and played this twenty questions bullshit over the phone. Are you going to tell me where he is or do I have to walk out on a good dinner? I’m not in the mood for games."

  "He’s here."

  I jumped out of my chair, instantly feeling a surge of adrenaline flood my bloodstream. I searched for Cosgrove’s face in the crowd. McKinley laughed.

  "Whoa, cowboy. I mean he’s in town. In Boston."

  I sucked in a lungful of air; waning adrenaline always left me queasy. It’d be a shame to puke a good meal. "How do you know?"

  McKinley eyed me as he reached into the inside pocket of his muted plaid sport coat and withdrew a long manila envelope folded in half. "Everything okay? You seem a little jumpy."

  "Now who’s being sarcastic?" I frowned and took the envelope from him. "I’m fine." But I wasn’t. I cursed Cosgrove silently for making me act like some goddamned amateur.

  A single photograph spilled out of the envelope and landed next to the tarnished silver teapot. Even in the shadows I could easily make out the corpse on the gurney.

  "Looks like the Boston City Hospital morgue."

  "You should know, you’ve been there enough."

  "Enough to know how easy it is to slip a body into the incinerator. Real convenient way to head-off some uncomfortable questions."

  McKinley’s voice wafted over the scent of sizzling rice soup being served a few tables away. "ME made the time of death around two in the morning."

  "Right after last call." I frowned. "That’s his MO, all right." I looked up. "What else?"

  He pointed at the picture. "They took that upon receipt of the corpse. Look at the skin color."

  I looked closer at the corpse. White: like somebody had used a correcting pen on every inch of flesh.

  "No fluids," said McKinley. "Absolutely drained. The sick bastard bled him dry."