The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  I didn’t believe her, yet her words rang … true? Something close to the truth? Reasonable, perhaps.

  But I still didn’t want to believe her. It complicated an already very complicated situation.

  “If … if you don’t help me … they’ll kill me … honest … please help me … please … ”

  The phone was taken back. “Well?”

  “George, who the hell are you?”

  A chuckle. “What, you want my driver’s license? My Social Security number? My waist size? Not coming your way.”

  “I know that, but what are you? What do you do?”

  “Oh, that … I guess I can tell you that much. You’re the negotiator, eh? Well, I’m the securer. The one who gets things. For a price, I’ll get you what you want, or desire, or need. No matter what.”

  “All for a percentage.”

  “Nothing ever happens for free.”

  “And what you want, need, or desire is what I have, what once belonged to Clarence.”

  “Now you get it. Congratulations. So are we on? What you have in exchange for this federal employee?”

  I closed my eyes. It seemed like the laundry upstairs was still going on. “Yes,” I said. “We’re on.”

  “Good, this is what we’re going to do.”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”

  “Fuck you, pal, this is—”

  “No,” I replied. “This is how it’s going to happen. Or you can keep Carla. Sell her into white slavery, harvest her body for organs, it doesn’t matter to me. But I know you’ve done a lot, and paid a lot, to get to this point. Hiring men, chasing me around, setting up the initial sting, losing Kate Salzi, Mike Dillman … I get the feeling you’re running out of time, maybe running up the bill.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “See? I know I’m right, because you’re starting to repeat yourself, George. So this is the arrangement. Eleven a.m. tomorrow, off the Yukon Road, there’s an abandoned school. The Cornerstone School for Exceptional Children. There’s a playing field out back, two roads leading in. I’ll take the south road, you take the north, we walk and meet out in the field.”

  No answer.

  “We’ll make it quick and simple. Carla for what I’ve got. Then you’ve secured what’s needed for your boss, and we each leave by the way we came in.”

  There was the briefest of pauses that seemed to go on for an hour.

  “Okay,” George said. “We do this—and do it right—and we’ll all end the day happy. No guns, though. I know you carry a shoulder holster. You get to that playing field, before you start walking, you show me that you’re not carrying. Or the deal’s off.”

  “Can I expect the same from you?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But pal, don’t fuck with me. Or I’ll take what I want, and I’ll make sure I leave the two of you behind, dead.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  Eighteen

  Tracy came downstairs to find me stretched out on her couch, her robe wrapped loosely around me, my pistol on my chest. She gently kissed me and pulled up a footstool, upon which she sat.

  “Laundry’s almost done,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Getting blood stains out … always a challenge.”

  “Thanks again,” I said. “I’ve never had anyone extend me this courtesy.”

  “You have lots of experience getting blood stains out?”

  “Some experience, but then again, I usually try harder.”

  “Why?”

  “I always try harder when it’s somebody else’s blood,” I explained “I don’t want a reminder kicking around.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me. “That sounds disgusting … and perfectly reasonable. How’s your pain doing?”

  “The pain seems fine,” I said. “It’s the rest of me that’s not doing well.”

  “You feel like dinner?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Can I help?”

  One more kiss, and she got up from the footstool. “Yes,” she said. “By staying out here and out of the way.”

  Tracy bustled around in the kitchen and I worked very hard to stay awake, mostly by running through options and scenarios of what was going to happen tomorrow. I worked very hard at imagining what was going through George’s mind, how he might be evaluating my talents, and what his options might be. It was a long list, it was a long exercise, and that’s what kept me going, kept me conscious.

  Eventually Tracy came out to retrieve me, and I went into the dining room. It was a simple meal—homemade macaroni and cheese, a salad, and fresh heated rolls. She offered me wine and to her surprise, I declined.

  “You’re really hurting, aren’t you,” she said.

  “You should see the van,” I said. “Looks much worse.”

  “I doubt it.”

  I offered to help her clean up and she kissed my forehead and said, “You stay there and just heal.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She cleaned up the kitchen and then left to get my laundry, which she folded and placed on the couch in the living room.

  Dessert was coffee made from one of those funky Kuerig coffee makers that I always resolve to get one of these days, and a slice of cheesecake with frozen strawberries dribbled over the top. It was so damn homey and domestic that it almost made me forget about the Beretta I had placed on the spare chair next to me.

  She said, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the man called George … who killed your coworker … he’s going to be there, too?”

  “Yep.”

  She made to say something and I raised a fork that had a nice healthy chunk of cheesecake dangling from it. I said, “M’dear, there’s a chance that things won’t go well tomorrow, and in tracing my movements, the Vermont state police might be able to track me back here. If that happens, and if you’re interrogated, I want you to be able to say in good faith and conscience that I kept you in the dark.”

  “Sometimes I don’t like being in the dark.”

  “Gee, that’s a surprise.”

  Tracy licked her fork and said, “Want to go upstairs?”

  “Would love to, but as you say, I’m healing.”

  “I promise not to hurt you. Much.”

  “Fair enough.”

  As we later rested in bed, Tracy whispered, “You scared?”

  “Of you?”

  “Ha. No, are you scared about tomorrow?”

  “Not right now.”

  She said, “I did what you asked me to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw The Maltese Falcon movie, the one you talked about.” She started making long, looping scratches on my chest with her painted fingernails. “After his partner gets killed, Sam Spade says something about having to do something about having his partner killed. Didn’t matter what you thought of him, you had to do something about it, or else the killer would get away. Which would be a bad thing for everyone … everyone in the business.”

  “Good memory.”

  “That’s what you’re doing, right? Taking care of it because otherwise, it’s bad for you and your business.”

  I thought about a widow and her two sons, living alone and scared in a small home in Saugus, with the drone of the highway hammering at you, hour after hour, day after day.

  “Among other things.”

  She kissed my chest. “Be careful … and will you come back to me? To tell me what it was like?”

  “I’ll come back to you.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “That’s how I answered.”

  She murmured some more, kissed me more,
and then fell asleep on my chest. I kept still for long minutes, her weight upon me both comforting yet oppressive. I kept still, waited during the night, as she murmured, shifted. At some point, she made to roll to the side and I slipped away, so we were at last separated.

  I waited some more. I wanted Tracy to be in a deep REM sleep and so I kept still. I stayed awake from the choices running through my mind, and the pain starting to reassert itself as the Ibuprofen wore off.

  A deep rattling snore from Tracy next to me, and it was time.

  I slipped out of the bed on my bare feet, waited again. Nothing from Tracy. From the nightstand I picked up my pistol and holster, and then paused. I nearly shook from the dark thoughts that suddenly coursed through me.

  No loose ends, came the whisper. No loose ends. Loose ends can be tugged and tugged and then made into a rope that will bind and eventually capture you.

  Those words … whispered to me by old vets above me. Maybe they were top car salesmen in my region in Southern California. Or grizzled lawyers on Wall Street. Or master sergeants in the Army. Whatever, they were whispered, again and again.

  No loose ends.

  It would be so easy to climb back on the bed, put a pillow over Tracy’s head, push the muzzle end of my 9mm Beretta, and with two pulls of the trigger, remove her from the complicated equations I was dealing with.

  So easy.

  Pistol in hand, I quietly walked around the other side of the bed, to where she was sleeping. In the ambient light from the clocks, telephone and cable box, it was so easy to make out her sleeping form, the pillow she was resting on.

  I bent down. Brushed my lips across her forehead. Stood back up.

  “Damn,” I whispered to myself, “what’s wrong with you?”

  I got out of her bedroom.

  Downstairs I got dressed and then left her condo, walking as fast as I could across the parking lot. At my Ford, I got in and didn’t slam the door … I just gently closed it and then started up the SUV, and then slid out of the parking lot without turning on my headlights.

  When I got on the main road, I opened and slammed the door, switched on the headlights, and drove out into the darkness.

  Maybe it was karma, or my sick sense of humor, or God’s even sicker sense of humor, but I needed a place to rest up for a few hours, and the only place that came to mind was the Chester Motel. So that’s where I went. I went to the office and rang a doorbell, then an older man, yawning, came out from a doorway and unlocked the door.

  “Hey,” he said, scratching at his chin. He had gray-white stubble on his worn face.

  “Hey,” I replied.

  I went in and we made it quick, as he yawned some more. From his demeanor and the way he moved around, I guessed that he was the owner. He had on blue sweatpants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a baseball cap that said vietnam veteran up front, complete with a couple of badges, one depicting a rectangular blue bar representing the awarding of a Purple Heart and the other showing the wreathed musket for a Combat Infantry Badge, indicating the older man before me had been in some rice paddies decades ago, getting fired upon.

  I signed some paperwork and he passed over a plastic room key that had the numeral 9 imprinted on it … thankfully, not Room 14. I’m not particularly superstitious, but why tempt whatever fates are out there?

  I paid for one night and he said, “All set?”

  “I am,” I said. I slid over an extra twenty-dollar bill. His eyes widened some.

  “For waking you up.”

  “Hey, my job.”

  “Still, I woke you up.”

  He grinned, pocketed the cash. “I guess the hell you did.”

  After I settled into Room 9, I locked the door and its deadbolt and then dragged a chair over and shoved it under the doorknob. I also drew the curtains and then went into the bathroom to check my wounds. Scrapes, bruises, and contusions, but I was still secure, still serviceable.

  I went to the small writing desk next to the bed and spent some time scribbling around on a sheet of paper, drawing arrows and crosses, thinking things through.

  Then I stretched out on the bed and let my mind relax and decompress. Jitters. Pre-op, pre-job, pre-sale jitters. They can always happen, but I find that if I’ve done enough research and planning, I’m able to sleep.

  Which I did.

  I woke up when the sun started beating through the drawn shades, and I checked the time. 6:06 a.m. I got up, dressed, and after packing up my belongings, departed the tender care of the Chester Motel, a recommended waypoint for murder victims and avenging … well, knights, angels, and the forces of good really didn’t describe me, so I left it at avenging fill-in-the-blank.

  Assisted by the directions provided by Tracy Zahn—who was probably waking up puzzled about my quiet departure—I found Yukon Road and carefully drove down its length. It had a mix of farmhouses, doublewide trailers, and two nice old renovated Colonials. At the left was a faded blue and white sign, stating Cornerstone School For Exceptional Children, and painted on the sign as well were old-fashioned building blocks and two teddy bears. There were bullet holes in the forehead of each teddy bear. I hoped that wasn’t a sign.

  I drove past without stopping, took a left onto MacKenzie Road, and pulled over and stopped. Time check: 6:21 a.m.

  Plenty of time.

  I got out and then really went to work.

  I carefully walked through some heavy woods on my way to the grounds of the Cornerstone School. It was quiet and I took my time, going from tree to tree—mostly pine—and then slowed down as I saw the woods ahead thin out. I went to the edge of the tree line, scanned the field. For some reason it was still being mowed, so the grass was short. There were faded lines on the field, marking a baseball diamond and a soccer pitch. I took out the notes I made back at the motel room, sat against a birch tree trunk, did some more sketching.

  From where I sat, the one-story school building was to the left. The windows were covered from the inside by sheets of brown paper. From the building the ground gradually sloped to the playing field, about a hundred yards wide. Two single-lane roads were on either side of the school building, leading to a rear parking lot.

  I waited. The morning sun felt good on my face. I relaxed, my eyes flickering around the field before me, again running everything through. Something caught my eye and I saw a red-tailed fox scurry along the opposite wood line. So peaceful, so safe. My stomach grumbled and I had an urge to leave, get a cup of coffee and some sort of breakfast sandwich, and just return here and watch the sun slide its way across the morning. Just have breakfast and ignore a man escorting a woman across the field in a few hours, wait and ignore some more, and then get on with life.

  It certainly sounded attractive. Just to get up and walk away and ignore it all, for in my absence, somehow, things would be concluded, without my knowledge or activity. Just leave.

  The fox disappeared from view.

  But I wouldn’t—or, more accurately, I couldn’t.

  Two lines of poetry echoed in my mind, from the famed British-Canadian poet Robert Service:

  There’s a race of men, that don’t fit in A race that can’t stay still

  I got up from my viewing point. “Ain’t that the truth, Bob.” I slowly made my way back through the woods. I got into my Ford, started her up, and with my stomach grumbling even louder, I went to make one more stop before the day’s activities were to begin.

  The time passed quickly. Later I went back to the school, made a left, and drove down the short lane, stopping before it moved right into the rear parking lot. I got out, left my keys in the ignition—having a brief pang of memory of Clarence doing that in Chester so many days ago—and then I removed my Beretta, slid it under the front seat. I walked away, keys jingling in my coat pocket. Earlier I had decided against wearing a Kevlar vest. The vest offered protection, of course, but also a
dvertised to my opponent that perhaps concluding a satisfactory deal for the two of us wasn’t forefront in my mind.

  I left the woods and walked across the field, thinking of the scores of children who had played here before the school had shut down. All those children, playing and having fun, running around, screaming and yelling, and now there was just silence, and for the moment, just me.

  I went out about a third of the way and stopped. I opened my jacket, turned in a circle. With my jacket up, I also pulled up my shirt and moved the same way again, making sure anybody out there could see there was nothing hidden in my waistband. My clothes went back down. I lifted up each pants leg, showing that I wasn’t wearing an ankle holster.

  I checked my watch. It was exactly 11:00 a.m. A gunman out there could very easily cut me down with no fuss and no witnesses, but that would leave open the possibility that I didn’t have in my possession the very valuable thing that Clarence had stolen from George’s employer. So if I was killed now, George and his paymaster would risk not getting anything today.

  I checked my watch again. 11:09. George was late, and that wasn’t a surprise. He was no doubt pissed at me for having tried to kill him the other day, along with my lack of respect in my dealings with him. George was just going to play the delay game, to prove he was the man in charge, that he could show up any old time he wanted to.

  Fine. I would allow him that satisfaction.

  Another watch check. I didn’t really care at the moment what time it was, but I knew I was under observation, and I wanted my watcher out there—either George or someone in his employ—to see my continuous glances and assume I was getting worried or anxious about the passing of time.

  Fine. I would also allow him, or them, those thoughts.

  I guess one would say that I was feeling in a pretty generous mood.

  Movement then.

  It seemed like I was holding my breath. I resumed my breathing and three figures emerged from the other wood line.

  Three. How about that?

  There was George, then the muscley friend I had noted on the front porch of the Putney Homestead, and Carla Pope. They walked in a ragged line, George walking by himself, and Muscular Friend walking with one long and beefy arm around Carla’s waist, and his other arm held up at an angle. That arm ended in an equally beefy hand, which was holding a revolver, which was right against Carla’s right temple.