by John Altman
He stepped on the gas.
Hitting the puddle caused two hissing waves to arc away from the Toyota. He pressed harder, flooring it. The engine welled, struggling. Then the car was drifting to the left—not drifting, but floating. He struggled to hold the wheel straight.
The engine whined. The tires hit solid ground. With a thudding lurch, the Corolla was mounting the hill. His premonition had been wrong after all.
He defogged the windshield with tight, quick circles of one hand. The radio was still playing quiet static. He snapped it off. He considered lighting another cigarette—but now he was almost there; he wouldn’t have time to finish it. The stale stench rising from the ashtray made him feel nauseous anyway. Too much smoke, too much bad coffee, not enough real food or rest.
But once he had seen with his own eyes that all was well, he would be able to relax. Then he would eat, and sleep. In the morning he would face the problem of what to do with the rest of his life, now that the DCI had let him go. “A vacation,” he’d called it. It was not that. But it may have been an opportunity.
Coming up on his right: the gravel road, leading to the log gate.
He took the turn, sending another arc of water up from the Toyota’s tires.
The nine-o’clock patrol was wrapping up.
Rain-soaked leaves had clogged the paths; each step taken by man or dog sloshed heavily. Soon enough, the wet and bedraggled team headed back toward barrack and kennel.
Still the rain continued to fall.
His body was wet, and cold, and stiff. His mind was far away, observing the discomfort from a remove.
The ten-thirty patrol lasted only twelve minutes. From the gait of the marines, he guessed that some amount of alcohol had been consumed.
He waited.
At midnight, the patrol’s intoxication was even more clear. One man told a joke to the second; the second laughed too hard. The second man continued chuckling beneath his breath as they returned to the guardhouse.
Then a shadow detached itself from the other shadows around the parking lot.
It moved low to the ground, trickling through the wet and the leaves and the night, pouring itself slowly but steadily in the direction of the farmhouse.
Inside, a light was on. But he would avoid the light; he would avoid the hidden interior cameras. Just as long as he could keep his concentration, until he reached the porch. Just as long as he didn’t give in to uncertainty and haste …
The wasplike sound of an engine reached him, tinny at first, deepening as the car approached.
He saw headlights heliographing through the rain. Who was this, driving up in the middle of the night? No time to wonder now. The splintered wood of the lowest porch step was just in front of him. He drew himself up the stairs. Then he was out of range of the sensors and cameras. He exhaled with a shudder, sagging.
He slinked away from the door, into the deep shadows at the porch’s end. Then he flicked a blade into his hand, dropping to a crouch.
This time Finney knew he had heard something.
He left the bed to look out the window. In the murk he could make out a car, drawing to a stop. The taillights winked; the headlights died. It would be Tom Warren, he thought. Returning to duty. Perhaps Quinlan would be with him. And so perhaps Finney could arrange his own departure, even sooner than expected.
From the closet he withdrew his white bathrobe. He was stepping out of the bedroom when a flash on the nightstand caught his eye: the doubloon.
He stopped, returned to the room, slipped the coin into the robe’s pocket, then stepped out into the wood-smelling hall.
The roof overhead pattered softly. He took the stairs to the first floor, where all was dark except for the glow of the reading lamp from the living room. He went there, expecting to find Warren and Hawthorne and possibly Quinlan.
But there was only Hawthorne. The agent looked up from his book, knitting his brow.
“Where’s Warren?” Finney asked.
Hawthorne gave him a blank look.
“A car just pulled up,” Finney said. “Out front.”
The knot in Hawthorne’s brow complicated itself.
He set down the book. Then stood and moved toward the front door, resting one hand on the grip of the holstered gun as Finney followed.
Thomas Warren II reached the parking lot before the farmhouse at 12:27 A.M.—within three minutes of his ETA.
The engine died with a murmur. He rolled the window up the last inch, sealing out the storm, and opened the door.
Puddles splashed underfoot; his hair, already slicked to his skin from the adventure with the police blockade, promptly became plastered to his forehead. He clambered onto the porch, pushing the wet hair back. His hand touched the knob. On the other side of the door, James Hawthorne was reaching forward as Louis Finney—one step behind—flicked on the porch light.
The bulb blazed to life, silvering the rain that drifted beneath the overhang.
The shadows on the porch shriveled. Thomas Warren II experienced a dawning awareness of a presence to his left. He turned his head, even as his hand fell from the knob.
Someone was on the porch with him.
A small man, wearing black.
The dark magician.
18
Josh Wayne Abbott, PFC, Marine Corps, turned away from the row of monitors to reach for the bottle of Jim Beam.
He dashed two slugs of whiskey into his coffee. Outside, thunder echoed across the valley. The rain showed no sign of letting up. It was going to be a long night, he thought. He added another finger before capping the bottle, then raised the Irish coffee and took a bracing sip.
Over the rim of the mug, his eyes returned to the monitors. The microwave sensors were dormant. The motion-activated cameras remained inactive. He looked to the bank on his right: the house’s internal surveillance system. James Hawthorne, who had been sitting in the living room reading a book, had disappeared.
He found the agent on another monitor—approaching the front door, with the doctor trailing behind. Going to meet Thomas Warren II, Abbott thought. Ninety seconds before, Warren had passed through the gate outside this very guardhouse.
He drank more whiskey-laced coffee. On the other side of the room, Toby Grant was bent over a crossword puzzle.
“‘Carpet type,’” Grant said. “Four letters.”
Something about it struck Abbott as funny. He guffawed. Then he turned in his chair, unsteadily. “Have a drink,” he told Grant, and held forth the bottle.
The lights came on; the man at the door saw him.
The assassin’s arm whipsawed. The blade left his hand, arcing through the silver raindrops, and buried itself in Thomas Warren II’s right eye.
Warren bared his teeth. He let out a gasp—almost a bleat. Then he was folding forward, collapsing onto the porch. He landed facedown; the haft of the knife hit unyielding plankboard, driving the blade squarely into his brain.
The front door was opening.
The assassin straightened, putting his back to the wall. He slipped another blade into his hand with a flick of his wrist. Only two remained in the sleeve.
They would suffice. Whoever stepped out would join the man lying facedown on the porch. As long as the guards did not realize he was here within the next ninety seconds—that was all he needed. Into the house, into the pantry, down to the cell. Do what he had come here to do. Then back up again, and out.
The door was open. But nobody stepped out. Because the corpse was lying there in plain view, of course.
They would not come to him.
So he would go to them.
He took his back from the wall.
James Hawthorne saw the body lying facedown on the porch.
It was Thomas Warren; he recognized the wet hair on the back of the head. Dark blood spread below the man in an expanding puddle. The puddle was expanding even as he looked at it. Because Warren had just died, Hawthorne thought. And so the cause of his death would be—
Hawthorne withdrew his gun from its holster. But he was too slow, and he knew it. Already a weapon was leaving the intruder’s hand. It arced forward and kissed James Hawthorne in the throat, stealing his breath. Suddenly he was halfway to death … watching himself go, waving a melancholy goodbye.
Behind him was the doctor. Past him, in the bowels of the house, the prisoner. The intruder was here to kill Zattout, Hawthorne understood. But he would never make it. There were too many guards, too many cameras. These thoughts crossed his mind in a millisecond, as blood began to trickle from the knife stuck quivering in his throat.
He saw a pink glow in the night sky, behind the clouds. The northern lights?
One hand continued to raise the gun, tugging it up through cold molasses. The other reached for the door-jamb, to steady him. But now his legs were turning hollow. He was sinking down, deflating.
The man who had killed him was pushing past. Trying to enter the house. Hawthorne felt the flesh pressing against his, surprisingly cold through wet cloth. You killed me, he thought dreamily.
His throat burned. That vicious kiss. It would leave a mark.
Then he was on his knees. He was falling backward as his killer rudely shoved his body out of the way. His head touched the floor; his eyes rolled up. He saw the doctor, upside-down, backing away into the gloom. And the killer, stepping forward.
He had raised the gun over his head. But he didn’t have the strength to aim. His finger tightened on the trigger. A wild shot—
—Huzzah, he thought.
Then the clouds parted. Beyond them was space, and a million brilliant stars.
“‘Shag,’” Grant said. “Gotta be—right?”
Josh Wayne Abbott didn’t answer. He lowered the bottle, looking back over his shoulder.
Something was happening inside the house.
The cameras did not cover the porch. But the doctor was backing away from the front door, reacting to something there. Then a shadow melted through the doorway. It bucked violently, spinning halfway around.
He blinked.
The shadow disappeared. Slipping exactly out of range of the cameras. As if the shadow had known just where the cameras were located. The doctor was moving—turning to barrel through the foyer, ramming into a piece of furniture, then continuing into the kitchen.
“Or is it ‘pile’?” Grant asked.
Abbott flicked the cover off the alarm by his right hand. He slapped down; a klaxon shattered the night.
Finney saw a flash of light touch Hawthorne’s throat.
Beyond Hawthorne, on the porch, was an object. He caught a sense of clumsy lifelessness, of dead weight. And a sense of the opposite—something fleet and fast, moving like quicksilver.
Then the second thing, the fast one, was coming at him. It was trying to push past Hawthorne, who stood blocking the doorway, the light still touching his throat like a jeweled necklace.
By then Finney was stepping away.
He backpedaled through the foyer, bumping solidly against the Pennsylvania cupboard without feeling it, passing the antique sideboard and the shadowed oil paintings. The pantry. The pantry was secure; the dead bolt would buy him time.
When death had come for Lila, it had not been fleet, not like this. It had come leisurely, treading softly. In her eyes had been fear and pain and anger. Those eyes had pushed him away, even as he’d tried to get closer. But Lila’s death belonged only to Lila. Despite their years together, he could not share her burden now. Did that explain the anger in her eyes? Had she expected more of him, at her moment of extremis? He had done his best to be with her. But his best had not been good enough. He had been sitting by the bed. But she had died alone.
Everybody died alone.
Something exploded: the gun in Hawthorne’s hand.
The intruder spun around, buying Finney the seconds he needed to reach the kitchen—shot, he understood remotely.
Then he was in the kitchen. A second later, in the pantry. He scrabbled for the hidden door. Canned food rained from the shelves, clattering.
He opened the door and went through it, and by the grace of God found the dead bolt on his first try.
The assassin felt no pain.
Instead he felt a terrific pressure. A locomotive had slammed into his shoulder. The force of the collision spun him around. He lost his footing and tumbled down
(no)
but retained enough of his wits to immediately withdraw from the range of the cameras mounted in the foyer.
Back onto his feet. The pressure in his shoulder welled. The man he’d killed had shot him. Already the man was dead; it had been only reflex. But bad luck
(no, not luck)
bad luck
(fate)
bad luck, beyond any doubt.
The other man was turning, slamming into a piece of furniture and then slipping away.
The secondary exit route, he thought. He still could escape.
But he was so close. Too close to give up now.
The gunshot would attract attention. But how long would it take guards to reach the house? Thirty seconds? Forty-five? It would be enough.
He sucked in a breath, and followed the man who had run into the kitchen.
The alarm broke open the world.
Finney’s eyes moved to the row of video screens that pictured the countryside surrounding the house. All were flooded with light: night turned to day, rain frozen in glittering still life.
Then to the reverse landscapes. The study, the living room, the dining room, the foyer. All dark, except for the marginally lit living room. But the thing was not there. The thing was just outside the pantry—
—trying the knob.
Finney spun to face the low table lined with syringes and vials and microphones. He tore through the equipment, ripped a fresh syringe from its paper packaging, then found 75 milligrams of morphine and filled the hypo with hands that shook violently.
The doorknob stopped rattling.
The dead bolt would keep the intruder out. The alarm was whining; help was on the way.
His tongue crossed dusty lips. He held the syringe in his right hand as his left clawed at the bathrobe’s pocket, finding the doubloon and bringing it out. For Hawthorne, it was too late. But for him and Zattout …
He heard a small, metallic sound, even over the keening alarm.
Then another.
The dead bolt.
He backed into a corner. His heart was trying to climb up through his throat, to burst out of his chest. He thought of the knife growing from Hawthorne’s neck like an aberrant tumor. Then, crazily, he thought of his father: showing him the library book, poring over images that played tricks with the eye.
The door was opening.
At the sound of the klaxon, the assassin’s arms burst into gooseflesh.
Then light was flooding the kitchen, burning into the pantry through the open door.
So close. Too close to turn away.
Calm, he thought desperately.
He got the lock casing off. He pushed the retaining pin into the housing. He turned the plug nut counterclockwise until it came free. All within two seconds. He released the pressure on the retaining pin—too fast; it shot from the lock, along with its spring, over his wounded shoulder. No matter. He concentrated. He finished picking the lock.
He returned the slim tool to his sleeve, then palmed one of the two remaining blades. He needed to reach the target and then proceed to the secondary escape route—which emphasized speed—immediately.
He moved to one side and pushed open the door. The remaining man was in there, stinking of fear, trembling, holding something. A weapon.
The assassin angled the blade, using it as a mirror. The narrow reflection revealed an older man, bearded, wearing a white robe. As the spot of light crossed his face, he flinched. The weapon in his hands was not a gun—only a syringe.
The assassin moved into the space, disar
ming the man with a swipe, driving the knife into his ribs.
The blade penetrated skin, penetrated flesh, and then stuck. The assassin tried to withdraw it, giving the haft two sharp tugs, without success. He let go, slipping down the stairs even as the man slumped to the floor behind him.
It had not been a clean strike. Because he was rattled, by the alarm and the floodlights and the bullet in his shoulder. The man had managed to block the thrust with one hand. But he could not afford the delay of backtracking to finish the job.
The alarm howled, up and down. They would be closing on the house now. All those lights …
… he never would make it out of here alive.
Sonya Jacobs was laughing.
He reached the bottom of the stairs with three loping strides.
The door to the cell was reinforced. He was forced to pause, to fumble again with the lock pick. Calm, he thought, but it was only a word, meaningless.
Through the window was Zattout—roused to his feet by the alarm, facing the glass under the merciless glare of the bare bulb.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Zattout froze.
Then cried out; but already the assassin was inside the cell.
He shot the last blade into his palm. Zattout was reacting to his presence, but with a delay, almost in slow motion. What had they done to their captive? Something diabolical. It was not a man he faced, but half a man. Death would be a mercy.
He cupped Zattout’s chin with his left hand, lifting it. The half-man made a show of resistance—but he was working on some other clock, running slow.
The assassin drew the blade across the trachea. Zattout made a gurgling sound, like a man blowing bubbles on the surface of a bath.
The assassin flung the body backward, onto the cot.
From somewhere beyond death, Sonya Jacobs continued to laugh.
He moved out of the cell, and up the stairs.
A peregrine falcon wheeled through a clean blue sky.
Louis Finney watched. Then he raised his arms. He was going to fly himself, now. He would soar up beside the falcon and then past it, and perhaps Lila would be there, arms open, eyes smiling.
But he wasn’t lifting off the ground. He was holding out his arms for no reason. He could not fly; he was not going to join the falcon, nor Lila, in that clean blue sky. Not yet.