Trust Your Eyes

by Barclay, Linwood

  The Scarface guys tried a little too hard to look tough, but they were always well dressed. Nice suits, shined shoes, hair combed back all in place, a few too many gold rings, the high-end sunglasses that were a total cliché. But they looked like guys who worked for someone who cared about appearances. Who didn’t want his employees going out looking anything less than professional.

  But these guys, from the Explorer, they looked to Nicole liked they’d just come in from milking the cows. Jeans, plaid shirts, boots. Weren’t those cowboy hats she’d seen on the dash of their car? One had dirty blond hair; the other one didn’t have any hair at all. But he was too young to have gone bald. Had to have shaved it to look like that. Some kind of skinhead who held his Nazi meetings in a barn.

  “Hey, fellas,” Chester said, getting to within a couple feet of them. “Don’t believe we’ve met before.”

  The blond one reached behind his back with his right hand, pulled out a gun that had been tucked into his jeans, and shot Chester through the head.

  Made a hell of a noise in that big empty warehouse.

  The second he started reaching for the gun, Nicole knew what was coming. And she knew she’d have to go for him first. The bald one hadn’t gone for a weapon. It didn’t mean he didn’t have one, but the fact was, he didn’t have one in his hand, so she had to go for the one who did.

  Nicole had been standing behind and to the side of Chester when the gun went off. Just as well she wasn’t standing directly behind him, given that the bullet went clear through his head and out the other side.

  Chester hadn’t even hit the ground before she had the knife out of her back pocket. The one she used to cut Chester’s apples. A four-inch blade, solid handle. Very sharp. All she’d been able to tuck into her jean pocket was the blade. The handle was sticking up, easy to grab.

  Something happened in that moment. It was like she was back in Sydney. Suddenly, her body knew instinctively how to move, how to spring, how to measure distances.

  And there wasn’t that much distance to cover.

  Clearly, Blondie wasn’t expecting Nicole to attack. Who knew what he was expecting. Maybe he was thinking, because she was a girl, she’d just stand there and scream like some dumb chick in a fucking movie. Maybe he thought she’d try to run. Maybe he thought she’d just stand there while he shot her in the head, too.

  But he clearly never considered that she’d come at him. Or that she’d have a knife. Or that she’d have it buried in his neck before he had a chance to train the gun on her.

  The knife went in fast and hard. Blondie made a noise that sounded like he was choking on a pigeon. He didn’t even try to turn the gun on her. He dropped it almost immediately, and then he went down to the cement, too.

  The bald guy jumped back when the blood spurted. Nicole figured it wouldn’t be long before he pulled a gun, if he had one. When he turned and started running for the Explorer, she guessed he didn’t.

  But maybe there was one in the car.

  She could have reached down and grabbed Blondie’s gun, but she knew, almost instinctively, that it was not her weapon of choice.

  She bolted after him, caught up just as he had the door to the car open and was half inside. She threw all her weight against the door, slamming it against him, smashing his head up against the pillar.

  He was seeing stars when she ran the knife into his side. She opened the door, allowing him to slide to the cement.

  She dropped on top of him, plunged the knife into him a second time to let him know she was serious.

  “Who do you work for?” she asked.

  “Jesus,” he said. “I’m fucking dying.”

  “Tell me who you work for and I’ll get you an ambulance.”

  “Higgins,” he gasped.

  Then she slit his throat.

  THEY found the Scarface boys’ Escalade in the middle of the desert. They’d all been shot in the head, the SUV set ablaze.

  Their boss, a man named Victor Trent, offered Nicole a job. He was impressed, and grateful, not only that she had killed the two men who’d murdered his employees, but that she’d had the presence of mind to get the name “Higgins” out of them before finishing them off.

  If he’d known her a little longer, and she’d had a bit more experience, he’d have had her take care of Higgins herself. But he had one of his longtime employees do that. Higgins met his maker in the desert, too, but no one ever found him. Nor did anyone ever find the two men Nicole had killed in the warehouse.

  Victor took Nicole into his inner circle. She had, he quickly determined, abilities that far exceeded other girls—and most boys—her age. She had control. She had discipline. She had a willingness to learn.

  And he was happy to teach her.

  Before long, Nicole was Victor’s go-to girl when he had a problem that needed to be taken care of. Among Victor’s circle of associates, her reputation grew. There was always work for a woman like Nicole.

  She never told him who she used to be, and he never asked. One time, in 2004, he brought her into his office to give her an assignment, and the Athens summer Games were playing on the television. Victor told her how much he loved the Olympics, how he watched as much of them as he could, while Nicole stood there, watching Carly Patterson on the uneven bars. He had no idea, and that was for the best.

  She spent five years working for him and was paid well. At one point, Victor introduced her to a former NYPD officer by the name of Lewis Blocker. Victor had hired Lewis do some surveillance work for him, and in addition wanted him to teach Nicole the craft. She learned a great deal from him.

  Finally, Nicole reached a point where she did not want to work solely for Victor Trent anymore. She was indebted to him in many ways, but she believed that theirs had grown into a mutually beneficial relationship. She had eliminated many problems for him, and now she wanted the freedom to eliminate them for others, as well.

  Nicole invited him for dinner at Picasso in the Bellagio. Told him what a wonderful mentor he had been to her, how much she’d valued his friendship and guidance these last few years. Worked up to it as gently as she could, finally telling him that she wanted to go it alone. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t still work for him, but she would be a free agent from now on.

  “I need this,” she said. “For myself. This is what I have to do. And I’d never be in a position to do this without your support and guidance.”

  “You fucking ungrateful bitch,” he said, and left without finishing his Maine lobster salad with apple-champagne vinaigrette.

  When you got down to it, men, they were really all the same.

  AND she’d done pretty well on her own, until now.

  Nicole didn’t know anyone in her line of work have something go this wrong. Not that hired killers got together that often and compared notes. But you heard things. There was a grapevine. There were people out there whose work you knew. Some were good at it, some not so much. Sometimes, they made mistakes. It happened in any line of work.

  But Nicole’s mistake, even she had to admit it was up there.

  It was bad enough she’d killed the wrong person. That alone would have pissed off any client. But to have the intended target then show up, see what had happened, and get away?

  Not the sort of thing you put on your résumé.

  Sure, there were other killers out there who’d screwed things up. Sadistic sex killers who convicted themselves by recording their crimes on video. Husbands who were so dumb they turned to the Yellow Pages to find hit men to take care of their wives. Wives with the same thing in mind for their husbands, who didn’t know the contract killers they were conspiring with were actually undercover cops. Desperate businessmen who torched their operations, taking a few lives in the process, and put their gas-soaked sneakers back in their bedroom closet.

  These people got caught, and went to jail. Why? Because they were amateurs. Ending lives was not their day job. They were accountants or stockbrokers or car salesmen or dentists.
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br />   They might be professionals in their own world, but they were not professional killers.

  Nicole was supposed to be a professional. This was her day job. She took it seriously. She had no particular ax to grind with her targets. She didn’t know them. It wasn’t personal. She wasn’t ruled by jealousy or greed or sexual obsession. Those were the qualities that tripped you up, that blinded you to your mistakes. Nicole wasn’t in this line of work because she took pleasure in ending someone’s life, although there was the satisfaction of a job done well. If she could be said to actually enjoy any of her assignments, it was when the subjects were male. She always imagined them to be her coach. Or her father. Or Victor.

  Having screwed up a job, she had an obligation to make it right. All anybody had in this life was their reputation, and she wanted to do what she could to restore hers. Besides, they were expecting it of her.

  Too bad it was taking so much longer than anticipated.

  Nicole had been monitoring Allison Fitch’s mother’s residence for months now. She’d gotten into it within days of Allison’s disappearance, while Doris Fitch was out meeting with Dayton police to discuss what progress was being made in New York to find her daughter. Nicole had used that time to plant a listening device on Doris Fitch’s phone, and another within the apartment itself, and to install a program on the women’s computer that would allow Nicole to monitor it from her own laptop. She’d spoken to Lewis when she ran into a couple of technical hitches and he guided her through it. Nicole was able to read Doris Fitch’s e-mails, anything she wrote on her Word program, even look at all the entries she made on her computer banking program, should Doris make some large, out-of-the-ordinary cash withdrawals. Nicole figured it was only a matter of time before the daughter got in touch.

  Not that this system was foolproof. Allison could conceivably approach a third party to relay a message to her mother. But, if and when such a message was delivered, there’d likely be a change in Doris’s routine. She’d book an airline ticket, for example.

  Nicole remained hopeful Allison would, at some point, make contact. The former bar employee was probably afraid to do so, with good reason. She’d figure they’d be watching her mother. But Allison might also be hoping these same people would let down their guard after all this time, maybe even think she was dead.

  Which was why Nicole had to wait her out. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer. She hadn’t made a dime in months. She was dipping into her reserves.

  Maybe it was time for a career change. Get out of this line of work before her luck ran out, if it hadn’t already. She had a bad feeling about Lewis—that maybe, when this was over, he was going to settle up with her for her mistake.

  She’d have to be ready.

  Waiting for Allison, Nicole had plenty of time to contemplate her situation.

  Doris Fitch lived in a low-rise apartment complex in the Northridge area of Dayton, close to 75. Nicole had found a vacant apartment across the street that allowed her a view not only of the Fitch apartment, but the lot where she parked her car, a black Nissan Versa.

  It wasn’t possible to sit here by the window and watch the woman’s place twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nicole needed provisions. She needed sleep. But she’d covered herself in this area. The surveillance equipment was voice activated. The moment it was engaged, the recording equipment began. If the Versa moved, a tiny beacon would alert Nicole.

  Still, it was prudent to stay close. She worried that the second she took her eyes off the apartment a cab with Allison Fitch in it would stop out front.

  Nicole’s cell rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey,” Lewis said.

  “Yeah,” Nicole said.

  “Something’s come up,” he said.

  “I’m occupied.”

  “You have to go to Chicago.”

  The way this son of a bitch was talking to her lately. She didn’t like it.

  “Can’t,” she said.

  “Not up for debate. It’s as important as what you’re waiting on now.”

  “What’s in Chicago?”

  “You got your laptop in front of you?”

  “Hang on. Okay, go ahead.”

  “Go to the Whirl360 site. You know it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go to New York. Orchard Street. I’m guessing you know the address.”

  Nicole thought, Huh? She opened a browser, went to the site, entered the relevant address. It took a few seconds for the images of the street to load.

  “Okay, so I’m on the street,” she said. “What’s the deal?”

  “Pan up.”

  Nicole clicked and dragged her finger down across the laptop’s track pad, altering the perspective on the image as the focal point moved from street level to the building’s third floor. To the apartment she had been in one time.

  She saw the window.

  She clicked to blow up the image.

  “Tell me I’m not seeing this,” she said.

  SHE never even thought about flying. She could drive to Chicago in four hours. Take I-70 West, skirt the north side of Indianapolis, grab I-65 all the way to Gary, then follow I-90 the rest of the way.

  She hoped that if Allison Fitch decided to visit her mother over the next day, she’d make it an extended visit.

  Lewis had given Nicole a name: Kyle Billings. Thirty-two years old. Had worked for Whirl360, at their Chicago head office, for three years. According to the information Nicole had, Kyle was responsible for, among other things, overseeing the program that deleted selected portions of the streetscapes when they were posted online. Vehicle license plates, people’s faces. It was supposed to happen automatically, and Kyle Billings was the lead person entrusted to make sure it did. He’d devised the program.

  Nicole needed Kyle to go back into that program and delete an image on Orchard Street before anyone else found it. How the hell had Lewis been tipped to this, she wanted to know. Some guy had shown up at the door, a Whirl360 printout in hand. Lewis was on it, trying to figure out who the guy was.

  What a clusterfuck.

  First, killing the wrong person.

  Then Allison Fitch getting away.

  Now this.

  Focus.

  Wasn’t that what she’d done in Sydney? Focused? Concentrated on the task at hand. Put everything else out of her head. No crowd. No television cameras. No commentators.

  Just her and the bars.

  That was what she had to do now. Think about what must be accomplished today. Not what she had to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

  Today.

  What she had to do today was find Kyle Billings, and use all her powers of persuasion to get him to go into the Whirl360 database of streetscapes, erase that image in that third-floor window, and purge it from the database forever.

  She knew Kyle Billings would do exactly what she wanted.

  Kyle Billings had a wife.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “THOMAS?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Bill Clinton.”

  “It is?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, hi. It’s good to hear from you.”

  “How are things going?”

  “They are going very well. I’m memorizing more streets every day. Have you been getting my updates?”

  “Of course, of course. You’re doing very well. Just terrific work. Everyone’s amazed by what you can do.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “But, Thomas, there is something I’m a little worried about.”

  “Yes?”

  “I understand the FBI came to see you the other day.”

  “That’s right. Remember we talked about this? I think they were just making sure I was staying on task, you know?”

  “Sure, sure. But you have to be very careful these days, Thomas, about who you talk to. FBI, CIA, even the Promise Falls police. Even people who are close to you.”

  �
�What do you mean?”

  “Just be very prudent about what you tell anyone. Never reveal anything very personal. For example, your father just passed away, and I understand that you might find that upsetting, but you need to present a strong front, or you might be perceived as being weak. This would be true for any traumatic incidents in your life. You keep them to yourself, and you move forward. Do you understand?”

  “I believe so.”

  “That’s good. And you also need to cover your tracks. Like erase your computer history—”

  “I already do that.”

  “And your call history, too.”

  “Sure. I do all that, Bill.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you, Thomas. Everyone at the agency is very impressed.”

  “I won’t let you down. Since I have you on the line, I wanted to tell you about something. When I was memorizing the streets of New York, I saw—”

  “Thomas, I have to go. Maybe next time, okay?”

  “Okay, Bill. Okay. Good-bye.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  THOMAS wouldn’t tell me anything about his chat with the landlord after Julie left. He said he was too annoyed with me. He went back up to his room and closed the door. I could hear him in there, chatting with one of our former presidents.

  So the following morning when he came down to the kitchen, rather than beg him for details, I asked nothing. Except for what kind of cereal he wanted.

  Halfway through the bowl, as I was pouring myself a second cup of coffee, Thomas said, “Don’t you want to know about my conversation?”

  “Who with?” I asked, figuring he meant Bill Clinton.

  “With the landlord. Mr. Papadapolous.”

  “If you want to tell me. You didn’t last night, so it’s up to you.”

  “I think I woke him up,” Thomas said. “He seemed very angry. And I had some trouble understanding him. He had some kind of accent.”

  “I’d bet Greek.”

  “Why?” Thomas asked.

  “Never mind. Carry on with your story.”

  “I told him who I was, and that I am a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency.”