Double Image

by David Morrell

  Nolan shook his head in frustration. He opened a desk drawer and removed a videocassette. “There’s a room down the hall that has a TV and a video player.”

  Coltrane waited for him to lead the way.

  “But I want to emphasize—” Nolan said.

  “That you don’t think this is a good idea,” Coltrane said. “Fine. Now let’s go.”

  Jennifer held back.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No.”

  “I understand,” Coltrane said. As she sank into a chair, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “Take it easy. I won’t be long.”

  He considered her another moment, his emotions in chaos, then followed Nolan and McCoy out of the office.

  In the corridor, Nolan said, “You might be wrong about how soon you’re going to be back.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ilkovic set this tape for a six-hour recording speed.”

  “So?”

  “All six hours are full.”

  5

  T HE SHADOWY ROOM WAS NARROW . It had no windows. The TV was a battered nineteen-inch with a video player on a shelf underneath it. As Nolan put the tape into the player, Coltrane shifted a metal chair in front of the screen.

  Solemn, McCoy shut the door.

  Although the image, recorded on slow speed, was grainy, it struck Coltrane with horrifying vividness. The yellow glare of an overhead bulb in his grandparents’ basement—how well Coltrane remembered the time he had spent down there in his youth—showed his grandmother and grandfather standing on tiptoes on a bench. Their hands were secured behind their backs. Their mouths were covered with duct tape. Their aged eyes bulged from panic and from the rope that was tied around each neck, secured to a rafter in the ceiling. Coltrane’s grandfather was wearing pajamas, his grandmother a housecoat. Both had slippers, their bare heels angled upward as they braced themselves on their toes.

  “My grandmother has asthma.” Coltrane could hardly speak. “That duct tape on her mouth must be agony. Look at her chest heave.”

  A guttural voice with a Slavic accent spoke from behind the camera. “Are we comfortable? Are the ropes too tight? I hope I haven’t cut off your circulation.”

  Coltrane’s grandfather strained to speak through the duct tape.

  “Please,” the guttural voice said. “My instructions were clear. Don’t make any unnecessary motions.”

  Coltrane’s grandfather stopped trying to speak. He closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate on controlling his breathing.

  “Good,” the voice said. “Now I’m going to have to be rude and leave you alone for a moment. I haven’t had breakfast. I’m sure you won’t mind if I go upstairs and make a plate of those waffles you didn’t have a chance to eat. Blueberries are my favorite. I’d bring you some, but you’re occupied.”

  Wood creaked, the sound diminishing, as if someone was climbing stairs.

  Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother exchanged looks of desperation. And other emotions: determination to survive, sorrow for what the other was suffering, most of all love.

  The image blurred. Tasting salt, Coltrane realized that he was crying. He wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes, one of the most effortful things he had ever done. But not as hard as the effort his grandparents were making to stand on their toes. Their posture wasn’t exaggerated. They weren’t in the extreme stance of ballet dancers on their toes. The space between their heels and the bench they stood on was only about an inch and a half. Nonetheless, Coltrane inwardly cringed at the thought of the effort they would have to make to stand in that position for any length of time, especially because each had arthritis.

  Wood creaked, but this time the sound grew louder, someone returning down the stairs. Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother tensed.

  “There,” the guttural voice said. “I hope you didn’t get into mischief while I was gone.”

  Coltrane identified the sounds of a plate being set onto something, then a knife and fork scraping on it, food being cut.

  “I can’t recall when I ate waffles this delicious,” the voice said. “You’re a lucky man to have a wife who’s such a good cook.”

  From behind the duct tape on his mouth, Coltrane’s grandfather made a sound that might have been “Please.”

  “Six hours of torturing them like this?” Coltrane’s emotions tore him apart.

  “I’m afraid so,” Nolan said. “I told you this would be rough. I think it would be best if I turned it off.”

  “Give me the remote control.”

  Coltrane aimed it toward the video player and pushed a button that fast-forwarded the tape while still allowing him to see the image. The picture quality became more grainy. Streaks ran through it. But Coltrane was still able to see his grandparents. What disturbed him was that normally, when a tape was fast-forwarded, the motions of the people on the screen became frantic and jerky. In this case, there was virtually no movement at all. His grandparents were struggling to stand perfectly still on their toes.

  The counter on the tape machine showed that the elapsed time was forty-six minutes. Coltrane released the button on the remote control. The picture returned to normal, if that word could possibly be applied to what Coltrane was seeing. At first, nothing seemed to have changed, but as he looked closer, concentrating on his grandparents’ feet, he could see that their heels were lower. The effort of standing in that position, combined with the pain of arthritis, had weakened his grandparents. They were lowering their weight, and as they did, the rope that stretched from their necks to the rafter became tighter. Not taut. Not yet. Ilkovic had made sure to leave enough slack that the process would be prolonged.

  In dismay, Coltrane fast-forwarded the tape again. Except for the increased grain and the streaks, nothing seemed to change on the screen. At an elapsed time of one hour and forty-eight minutes, he again released the button.

  Now his grandparents were standing flat on their feet and the rope was tighter and their breathing was more labored. But by comparison with the fast-forwarded image, everything seemed to be in torturous slow motion. Coltrane could barely imagine what the passage of time must have felt like to his grandparents. An eternity. The force of the rope made their eyes bulge. Their faces, which had been gray with fear, were now red from the pressure around their throats.

  “Mr. Coltrane, I really think,” McCoy started to say.

  “Shut up.” Coltrane pressed the fast-forward button. When the indicator on the tape machine showed two hours and fifty-one minutes, he returned the tape to normal speed and saw a urine stain on his grandfather’s pajamas.

  McCoy left the room.

  On the tape, the guttural voice said, “Well, accidents happen.”

  Their knees began sagging.

  After three more fast-forwards, Coltrane saw his grandmother’s chest stop moving at an elapsed time of 4:07. His grandfather managed to last until four forty-nine.

  “Photographer,” the guttural voice said. “This is nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

  Coltrane’s scream brought McCoy rushing back into the room.

  “I’m going to kill him!” Coltrane screamed. “I’m going to get my hands around his throat and—”

  Other officers rushed in. By then, Coltrane had hurled the remote control at the television screen and was trying to pick up the TV so he could throw it across the room.

  6

  H E ’ S GOING TO BE AT THE CEMETERY TODAY .” Coltrane quivered from the rage that consumed him. His voice was strained, his vocal cords raw. “He’ll need to check out the area before he risks showing up there to look for me tomorrow.”

  Nolan and McCoy glanced at each other.

  “Then we have a second chance to grab him,” McCoy said. “We have a team at the cemetery right now.”

  “Now?” Coltrane said.

  “They’re inspecting it so we know where to place our men tomorrow.”

  “No! Get your m
en away from there.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you understand? If Ilkovic sees your men there today, he’ll realize you’re anticipating him to be there tomorrow. He’ll back off and go to ground. God only knows when he’ll decide to make another move.”

  “But there’s no other way for us to do this. We have to be able to protect you tomorrow,” Nolan said.

  “Not tomorrow. It’s going to be today.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Call your men off,” Coltrane said. “What time is it? Jesus, one o’clock. It might be too late. When is Daniel’s funeral tomorrow?”

  “The same time as now,” Nolan said.

  “Which means the burial will be around two-thirty.” Nerves in turmoil, Coltrane rushed to stand. “If I hurry, I can get there by then.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about,” McCoy said.

  “Ilkovic will want to check out the area today at the same time the burial will happen tomorrow,” Coltrane said. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to see what it’s like at ten in the morning if the patterns in the area are likely to be different by midafternoon. If I can get there by two-thirty, there’s a good chance he’ll see me.”

  “It’s still the same deal,” McCoy said. “When he tries to follow you, we grab him. Nothing’s changed, except that we’ve moved the schedule up twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s not the same deal,” Coltrane said. “If you were Ilkovic, would you try to follow your target if you saw law-enforcement officers in the area?”

  “But how’s Ilkovic going to know who they are?” Nolan raised his hands, frustrated. “They’re not wearing uniforms. They’re not going around staring at everybody. These men are trained to blend in. They look like they’re mourners. They look like they’re groundskeepers. Ilkovic isn’t going to spot them.”

  “The way they look isn’t what bothers me,” Coltrane said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ilkovic is an electronics freak. He likes to play with microphones. He doesn’t need to see your men. All he needs to do is listen to them.”

  “Listen?”

  “Your men have to stay in contact with one another, right?” Coltrane asked. “They’re wearing miniature earphones. They’ve got button-sized microphones on their sleeves or their lapels.”

  “Of course,” McCoy said.

  “Well, how hard do you think it would be for someone as clever as Ilkovic to get his hands on one of those units, set it to the same frequency, and overhear what you’re planning?”

  “He’s right,” Nolan murmured.

  “Tell them to turn the damned things off and get out of there,” Coltrane said. “Now.”

  “Then how are we going to protect you?” McCoy demanded.

  “You’ll be waiting somewhere else. Where I lead him.”

  7

  Y OU HAVE TO PROMISE ME ,” Nolan said. “If you have even the slightest suspicion that Ilkovic knows what you’re trying to do, get away from there.”

  They were hurrying through the police building’s parking garage.

  “There’ll be unmarked cars two blocks in every direction,” Nolan said. “That’s as far back as we can put them and still hope to give you backup. For God sake, don’t take any chances. Drive straight to where we’ll be waiting for him.”

  “I still don’t like this,” McCoy said. “Endangering a civilian.”

  “I’m volunteering,” Coltrane said.

  “But it isn’t bureau policy,” McCoy said. “I don’t have time to clear this with my superiors. I want to go on record—this isn’t sanctioned by the FBI.”

  “I’m glad you told me that.” Coltrane stopped where he’d parked his car. “For a while, I was beginning to think I’d misjudged you, that you weren’t the self-serving jerk I first thought you were.”

  McCoy’s eyes widened.

  Coltrane turned to Jennifer. “Take Sergeant Nolan and the SWAT team to Packard’s house. Explain the layout. They won’t have time to size up everything on their own before I get back there.”

  “I hope to heaven Ilkovic doesn’t move against you before then,” Jennifer said. “Be careful.”

  “Count on it.” Coltrane kissed her. “Just keep reminding yourself—by tonight, this will all be over.”

  Hugging herself, Jennifer glanced toward the police cars in the garage. “I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be safe.”

  Nolan handed him a walkie-talkie. “Take this. Just in case. If you need backup in a hurry, it won’t matter if Ilkovic can overhear.”

  Coltrane was setting out from downtown Los Angeles. When he glanced at the Saturn’s dashboard clock and saw that the time was 1:31, he realized that he had less than an hour to get to the valley. All he could do was hope that the Golden State Freeway wouldn’t be congested.

  His thoughts in a frenzy, he accessed the freeway, relieved when he saw that traffic was moving easily. Now that he was on his own, he couldn’t get over his eagerness. Instead of being afraid, he was filled with anticipation. For a moment, it puzzled him.

  Do you miss dodging bullets in places like Bosnia and Chechyna so much that you can’t wait to put yourself in danger again?

  What I can’t wait for is this to end. In fact, I’m going to make sure it ends.

  I’m going to kill him.

  There, Coltrane thought. I’ve put it in words again.

  What he had screamed after seeing the videotape of what Ilkovic had done to his grandparents was exactly what he hoped to do. Nolan and McCoy had seemed to think that he was exaggerating, that he was merely venting his rage. They had cautioned him about losing control. They had warned him about taking the law into his hands, and he had told them yes, that he was sorry for overreacting.

  It had all been a lie. He couldn’t recall ever having been so seized by an emotion. Not fear. He was absolutely released from fear. The rage within him as he watched the tape of what Ilkovic had done to his grandparents negated his fear. It made him feel liberated. Eager? He was so eager that he trembled. For what Ilkovic had done to Daniel, Greg, and his grandparents, he was going to make Ilkovic pay. He was going to trick Ilkovic into following him. He was going to make Ilkovic think he had taken Coltrane by surprise. He was going to see the big smile on Ilkovic’s face, then the frown of confusion when Ilkovic realized that Coltrane had caught him by surprise.

  8

  I T WASN ’ T UNTIL C OLTRANE HEARD THE ROAR OF ARRIVING AND departing jets that he realized Everlasting Gardens was near the commotion of the Burbank airport.

  As he steered through the cemetery’s entrance, he became viscerally aware of entering Ilkovic’s territory. The hairs on his neck bristled like antenna, his survival instincts possessing him. To get even with Ilkovic, he warned himself, he had to be as cautious as he had ever been in any of the war zones he had photographed. He couldn’t take anything for granted.

  Driving past tombstones, noticing mourners gathered around a casket at an open grave site, seeing groundskeepers trimming hedges and mowing grass, he wondered if Nolan had kept his end of the bargain. He thought about the officers who had come here to check the cemetery in preparation for tomorrow’s surveillance. What if some of them hadn’t left? What if Ilkovic had seen them and snuck away and Coltrane was wasting his time? Or what if they had left and it was Ilkovic who was pretending to be one of those mourners?

  One thing was certain: Coltrane couldn’t make it obvious that he was searching the area. The result would be the same as if Ilkovic realized that there were police officers in the area. He would suspect a trap and leave. It had to seem the most natural thing in the world that Coltrane would be at this cemetery today, and Coltrane knew exactly what his reason for coming here would be. He followed a lane around the treed cemetery, eventually coming back to where he had entered, making it seem that he was trying to orient himself, which was actually the truth. He passed a solemn-looking building that resembled a church bu
t that didn’t have any symbols and would be suitable for services in any religion. Or perhaps it’s a mausoleum, Coltrane thought. When he felt that the movement was natural, he glanced around, appearing to assess his surroundings, all the while alert for anyone who paid attention to him. No one did.

  His muscles tight, Coltrane stopped at a building that reminded him of a cottage. It had sheds and a three-stall garage in back, the open doors revealing large riding lawn mowers and other maintenance equipment. He locked his car and again glanced around in apparent assessment of his surroundings—still no one unusual. Sprinklers watered a section of the cemetery, casting a fragrance in his direction. As a jet roared overhead, he opened a screen door and knocked on a wooden one.

  He knocked again, then studied a sign that read OFFICE HOURS : 9–5. He tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. Easing it open, he peered into a compact, well-lit office and asked, “Anybody here?”

  Apparently not.

  “Hello?” he called.

  What in God’s name am I doing? he thought. For all I know, Ilkovic is in there. He stepped quickly back into the sunlit air, only to jolt against someone.

  He spun, startled.

  It wasn’t Ilkovic. The dignified gray-haired man was tall and thin. He wore a somber suit and touched Coltrane’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Coltrane tried not to seem uneasy. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “I just stepped out of the office for a moment. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for a grave site.”

  The somber man nodded. “It’s always wise to plan ahead. Step into my office and I’ll explain our services.”

  “Excuse me?” Coltrane suddenly realized that he had misunderstood, that the man was actually asking him if he had come here to buy a grave site. “No, what I meant was, a friend of mine is going to be buried here tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” The man now realized that he had misunderstood.