Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  53

  Mathers put down the phone. “No sign of this guy anywhere,” he said. “Miami PD swept the whole airport. Canines, roadblocks, you name it. He straight-up disappeared.”

  “Damn it.” Windermere sat heavy in her seat. “So where the hell did he go?”

  “He abandoned the car at the entry to the rental car return building,” said Stevens. “Left a traffic jam behind him. Stranded the tail. So what did the other drivers see?”

  “Didn’t see much,” said Mathers. “The guy right behind O’Brien’s Chevy is a Filipino national, doesn’t speak much English. We’re working on an interpreter, but it sounds like he’s scared pretty damn shitless of the cops.”

  “Of course he is,” said Windermere. “What about the other drivers?”

  Mathers shook his head. “I guess there was a curve in the ramp,” he said. “Bad visibility. Somebody said they saw another guy with O’Brien, but nobody’s been able to get a decent description. For all we know, it’s bogus.”

  Windermere and Stevens swapped glances. “Another guy?” said Stevens. “What, in the Chevy?”

  “Like I said, it’s chaos down there. Nobody’s entirely sure.” Mathers reached for the phone. “I’ll call Miami back,” he said. “Get some answers.”

  “Bullshit.” Windermere stood. “I’m through with this armchair quarterbacking routine. O’Brien’s still in Miami. We’re going down there, and we’re going to find him.”

  Mathers frowned. “I thought Harris said—”

  “Things done changed, Mathers.” She fixed her eyes on him. “I’ll clear our travel with Harris. You go pack a bag.”

  54

  Stevens watched from an empty cubicle as his FBI colleagues bustled around him, all excitement and nerves as they prepared for Miami.

  This was FBI stuff. This was real hotshot policing. Stevens had tasted it once, when he’d chased down Arthur Pender, and it had been the most fun he’d ever had as a cop. Now Windermere was off to do it again, except this time she was bringing Mathers instead. Stevens watched them get ready, feeling extraneous and, if he were honest with himself, more than a little jealous.

  You’re a BCA agent, he thought. This is how you wanted it. No cowboy stuff. No heroics. This is how you wanted your life, for you and Nancy both.

  Windermere came hustling past. Grinned at Stevens. Slapped him on the shoulder. “We’re going to nail this bastard, Stevens,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  “Damn right.” Stevens cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll step back and let you guys earn your paychecks,” he said. “Not much use for me around here anymore.”

  Windermere stopped. “Bullshit. You’re coming to Miami.”

  “This is FBI territory,” he said. “What do you need with an old BCA agent?”

  “Can’t be the Lone Ranger without Tonto. Batman without Robin.”

  “Han Solo without Chewbacca,” said Mathers.

  Stevens laughed. “Anyone’s the sidekick around here, it’s you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Windermere grinned at him. “We’ll discuss it on the flight, Stevens. Unless you’re too busy puking your guts out.”

  “Very funny. My boss would eat me for lunch.”

  “You’re working the Pyatt angle, right? How do we know today’s victim isn’t Spenser Pyatt’s long-lost cousin or something?”

  “We don’t,” Stevens said, “but I can’t just go bombing down to South Beach on a hunch, Carla.”

  “I’ll clear it with Lesley.” This wasn’t Windermere. Stevens turned to find Drew Harris standing at Windermere’s cubicle.

  “Thank you, sir,” Stevens said, “but I don’t think you guys need me. Windermere and Agent Mathers are both more than capable.”

  “No doubt about that,” Harris said, “but I need Mathers here.”

  Mathers blinked. “What?”

  “I can’t afford to send two of my agents on this manhunt, not the way this office is staffed. We’re short manpower in CID as is, thanks to Homeland Security.”

  “So you’re going to send the state cop to Miami,” Mathers said slowly. “And keep me behind a desk in Minnesota?”

  “I know you don’t like it, son, but I’m short good agents. I can’t afford to lose you and Windermere both.” Harris turned to Stevens. “You’re a part of this case, Agent Stevens,” he said. “I know you work well with Agent Windermere. Don’t you want to see this thing through?”

  Stevens glanced at Mathers, who stared back, goggle-eyed. “I do,” he said.

  “Then pack a bag. I’ll clear it with Tim Lesley.”

  Stevens nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. But who’s going to clear it with my wife?

  55

  If the asset knew he was going to die, he didn’t show it.

  Parkerson drove blindly until the road beneath the Cadillac turned to dirt. The sun had set; it was dark beyond his headlights. Fog swirled up and across the road. The Cadillac was suddenly stifling hot.

  Parkerson flipped on the AC and drove in silence, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was afraid, he realized. And sickened, nauseated by the messiness that was sure to come.

  The asset sat beside him and didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window and waited.

  The road petered out ahead. So did the trees. Parkerson killed the engine and cut off the headlights. Climbed out of the Cadillac and stood in the gloom. There was water ahead; Parkerson could hear it. Hell, he was practically swimming already, the air was so humid. The night seemed to close in around him.

  Parkerson walked ahead of the Cadillac to the edge of the road. Looked down and saw water, brackish and swampy. The fog swirled around him. There was no one around. This was as good a spot as any.

  He walked back to the Cadillac, every nerve in his body tingling. He’d left his door slightly open, and the dome light burned through the gloom, the only light for miles. The night around the car was dead dark.

  Parkerson studied the asset through the windshield of the Cadillac. He’d trained assets for nearly five years now. The assets had killed nearly forty people. Parkerson figured the twenty years he’d put in at his straight job had resulted, indirectly, in the deaths of thousands more. But he still hadn’t grown comfortable taking lives himself. Not yet. Death was easy in the abstract. When it was numbers and figures, clean and absolute. Killing itself, though, was always messy. Parkerson looked at the kid and wished he had a gun. Something quick and efficient, at least.

  There was rope in the trunk of the car. A tire iron. Parkerson popped the trunk and picked up the tire iron. Tested its weight. His stomach churned. His pulse roared in his ears. Was he doing this?

  The asset still hadn’t moved. Didn’t he know what was coming, somewhere in that fucked-up brain of his? Did he care?

  Parkerson swung the tire iron experimentally. Wondered how it would feel when it struck flesh and bone. How much blood it would draw. How long the kid would take to die. He felt suddenly nauseous. Tried to spit, found his mouth dry. He swore. Shook out his arms. The asset watched him.

  Something in the car was chiming, electronic. Parkerson realized he’d left the keys in the ignition. The car had been chiming the whole time. Parkerson hadn’t noticed. Either the asset hadn’t, either, or he just didn’t care.

  It just seemed like such a waste. The other assets had earned their deaths. They had failed, each of them, had grown soft, developed defects. This asset here was still perfectly good. He could still follow orders. He could still kill at will.

  Parkerson tapped the tire iron against his palm. So the Richard O’Brien alias was shot. So what? The apartment in Philadelphia was registered corporate. Another shell company, untraceable. Even if the police knew the asset came from Philly, they didn’t have an address. The kid could grow a beard if he needed to. Wear a disguise.

  A new alias. That’s
all the asset needed. The rental car scam was shot, too, but Parkerson could work around that. The asset was still valid. He was still fundamentally intact. He still had at least a couple kills left.

  Parkerson looked back at the car. The asset hadn’t moved. Parkerson swore and threw the tire iron in the backseat. Slid behind the wheel and sat there a moment, feeling the sweat drip down the back of his shirt, feeling his heart slow to normal pace. He took a long breath and turned the key in the ignition. “Fuck it,” he said, shifting into reverse. “Let’s get out of here.”

  56

  Tim Lesley didn’t need much convincing. “You want to do this?” he asked Stevens. “You think you can contribute?”

  Stevens looked around the FBI bullpen, the phone to his ear. Windermere watched him. Met his eyes and smiled, encouraging. “I do,” Stevens told his boss. “I want this.”

  “You’re my best man,” said Lesley. “I don’t blame Harris for poaching you, especially not with that firecracker Windermere involved.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stevens. “Thank you.”

  “Catch the bastard, Stevens. And when you do, tell him the BCA sent you.”

  “Yes, sir, will do. Thank you, sir.” Stevens hung up the phone. Threw a thumbs-up at Windermere. Okay, he thought, exhaling. So the easy part’s done.

  “MIAMI.” Nancy Stevens stared across the kitchen at him. “Windermere.”

  Stevens nodded. He’d driven home from Brooklyn Center. Needed to pack a bag. Anyway, he figured Nancy deserved to hear it in person. “I know this is sudden,” he said, “but it sounds like the FBI could really use me.”

  His wife sucked her teeth. Looked around the room. She’d been swamped with paperwork when he’d come through the door, barricaded behind piles of briefs and motions. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t know why they can’t solve their own cases,” she said.

  Stevens sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Nancy looked at him. “You didn’t see this coming, Kirk? You didn’t think you’d get mixed up in this one like you did with the kidnappers and Carter Tomlin?”

  “Nancy—”

  “This isn’t sudden, Kirk. I saw this coming the moment you told me Windermere had a case. I knew you’d walk in here one night with that goofy look on your face and tell me you were going off to be a hero again.”

  “I won’t risk my life,” he said. “I’ll let the FBI guys be the cowboys.”

  “Look,” Nancy said, “I don’t want to be the bad guy here. I don’t want to be the naggy wife who keeps you from doing what you want.”

  “You’re not the bad guy, Nancy. That’s not it at all.”

  “It is, though. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be right out the door.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She looked at him. “Isn’t it?”

  Stevens didn’t say anything. After a moment, Nancy shook her head. “I guess you have to get going.”

  Stevens nodded. “Pretty quick.”

  “You packed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You should pack.” She looked at him. “I guess we’ll talk this thing out when you get back. Assuming you do get back, Agent Stevens, and some psycho killer doesn’t put you in a box first.”

  Stevens wanted to laugh. His wife looked so small at the kitchen table, though, tired and sad and alone. His heart ached for her. “I’ll come back, Nancy,” he said. “Soon. I promise.”

  She didn’t look at him. “You’d better,” she said. “Now get out of here.”

  57

  Parkerson drove the asset to the old Atlantic Coast Line depot in Palatka, Florida. He bought a ticket from the Amtrak agent inside, and then walked back out to the parking lot to sit in the Cadillac and wait for the train.

  The asset still hadn’t said anything. He’d sat in silence as Parkerson reversed the big Cadillac down that godforsaken dirt road, unaware of how close he’d been to death. He’d sat and said nothing as Parkerson drove north, and he said nothing now, in the Amtrak parking lot.

  The train station was nearly deserted. An older couple waited on the platform, surrounded by suitcases and overstuffed plastic bags. They were the only other people Parkerson could see. He checked the time and stared out the window down the tracks, searching for the train’s headlight in the darkness.

  He handed the asset the train ticket. “This will get you to Philadelphia,” he said. “Get you home. Go back to your apartment and stay there. Understand?”

  The kid nodded. “Yes.”

  “You’re no longer Richard O’Brien.” Parkerson held out his hand. “As soon as they take your ticket, you throw out whatever ID you have with that name on it. Everything. Give me your wallet.”

  Wordless, the kid produced his wallet. Parkerson took it, removed the Triple A Industries credit card. Thought for a moment, and then dug in his own pocket and handed the kid a hundred dollars in twenties. “In case you need to eat.”

  The kid folded the money into his wallet. Didn’t speak.

  “Stay in the apartment,” Parkerson told him. “Don’t leave. Wait for my instructions. I’ll have your new name and ID ready in a couple of days.”

  The kid put his wallet away. Parkerson studied his face. “What did I just say?”

  The kid repeated his instructions, word for word. No hesitation. Like a robot. When he’d finished, he paused. Shifted his weight and looked at Parkerson like a first-grader with a full bladder.

  “What?” Parkerson said. “What’s the matter?”

  The asset hesitated. Opened his mouth and couldn’t seem to form words. “The visions,” he said at last. “You—”

  “I’ll deal with the visions,” Parkerson told him. “I have a few more jobs I need you to do for me. Then I’ll make everything better. Understand?”

  The kid looked at him, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. It was the first sign of life Parkerson had seen all day.

  THE TRAIN SHOWED UP at a quarter to ten. Parkerson walked the asset onto the platform. Stood him in line beside the gleaming coach cars and watched the asset climb aboard and pick out a seat. The kid didn’t look at him. He stared straight ahead, at the seat back in front of him. Didn’t move, barely blinked, and then the train pulled away.

  Parkerson watched the train inch away from the platform. He kept his eyes on the asset as long as he could. Then the coach car was gone and the train picked up speed, the diner flashing by, then the sleeping cars, until all that was left were the red marker lights on the end of the last car, disappearing into the night.

  Parkerson stood on the platform for a few minutes, listening as the big diesel engine’s throb slowly faded away. When he turned from the tracks, the platform was empty. He walked back to the Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. Closed his eyes and rested there for a moment. Then he straightened and fired up the engine. He still had a long way to go.

  58

  Mathers hates you.” Windermere grinned at Stevens as he settled beside her. “Poor bastard had his heart set on South Beach.”

  Stevens forced a laugh. “Miami’s nothing special in the springtime, anyway.”

  “It’s freaking perfect, Stevens. And manning the fort while we run off and have an adventure is hardly going to turn Mathers on.”

  “Yeah, well.” The plane jolted back from the gate. Stevens gripped the armrests. “Right now, I’m not exactly concerned with what turns Mathers on.”

  “Maybe you should be,” said Windermere. “The big dummy asked me out.”

  Stevens looked at her. “Really?”

  “The other night, yeah. He tried to play it cool, but I could see what he was aiming for.”

  “You turned him down.”

  “I did.” Windermere picked up her magazine. “Don’t know why, though. It might have been fun.”

  She paged
through the magazine and said nothing else, leaving Stevens to clutch the armrests and stare out the window, his stomach churning and his mind working like a hamster in a wheel as the plane shuddered its way down the runway.

  IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT when they landed in Miami. There was a federal agent waiting for them at the arrivals gate. He looked fresh, despite the hour, and he grinned wide when he saw Windermere. “There she is,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “You figure your old friends couldn’t cut it down here, or what?”

  “Roman.” Windermere hugged him back. Then she gestured to Stevens. “This is Kirk Stevens, Minnesota BCA. We’re working this thing together.”

  The agent studied Stevens. “A state cop, too,” he said, deadpan. “You must really think we’re weak down here, Carla.” Then he grinned at Stevens. Held out his hand. “I’m just playing, brother. Roman Ojeda. Pleased to meet you.”

  Ojeda’s energy was infectious, even after the flight, and Stevens smiled as he shook the man’s hand. “Likewise,” he said. “See if I can’t teach the FBI a thing or two.”

  Ojeda grinned at Windermere. “A gamer. I like him already.”

  Stevens and Windermere followed Ojeda to his waiting Crown Vic. They piled in, and Ojeda drove away from the terminal. “Got a couple of rooms at the Golden Glades Hotel, couple blocks from the office.” Ojeda glanced at Windermere. “Kind of shady digs, but we didn’t know where else to put you.”

  Windermere nodded. “It’s cool. We’ll be close to home base, anyway.”

  “Get you your own ride if you want it. Weapons, whatever you need.”

  “Car would be nice. Guns, too. This guy’s not exactly an amateur.”

  “Who is this cat, anyway? What’s the story?”

  “Wish I knew,” she said. “We’re still scrambling.”