Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  “Amtrak,” he told the agents, out in the hall. “Figured I’d check out the bus stations, train stations, charter aircraft companies. Maybe our boys ditched the Cadillac somewhere.”

  “Amtrak,” said Stevens. “They took the train?”

  “Just O’Brien. The kid bought a one-way ticket from Palatka, Florida, to Philadelphia the night of the shooting. Would have made it home the next evening. Guess he didn’t bolt after all.”

  Windermere looked at Stevens. “Where the heck is Palatka?”

  “Don’t look at me. You used to live in this state.”

  “Palatka, Florida,” said Ojeda. “Just south of Jacksonville. Just east of Gainesville. Home of the Florida Azalea Festival.”

  Windermere shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask, Roman. It’s a hell of a drive from Miami, isn’t it?”

  “Train came in around ten,” said Ojeda. “The kid had time.”

  “Drove all that way to climb on a train? They don’t have Amtrak in Miami?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Stevens. “What matters is he got on that train, and he rode it back home. He’s in Philadelphia, that’s the point.”

  Windermere grinned. “Well, shit, Stevens. If O’Brien’s in Philadelphia, I’d say we should be, too.”

  87

  Parkerson wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep. Right now, though, sleep wasn’t an option.

  He endured the board meeting. Slogged through the rest of the day. Waited for Jamie to leave, and then set to work establishing new identities for the assets. For Lind and Gray both.

  There would have to be changes in procedure. The Liberty trick was over. That loophole was closed. Even if the rental company didn’t realize what had happened, it was too risky to assume the FBI wasn’t watching. Parkerson would have to establish a new protocol for ground transportation. He would need a new credit card, too. Another pain in the ass. He’d hoped to use the Triple A backdrop for more than just a handful of scores.

  Hell, he’d have to review every aspect of the jobs. The FBI would be looking. They no doubt had a handle on the Killswitch MO. They’d be looking for patterns and waiting for recurrences.

  Parkerson reopened the Killswitch database and typed messages to the two clients he’d already screened, informing them of the need for advanced security measures. Reassuring them their jobs would still be completed as scheduled. Asking them to kindly change their database passwords, for good measure.

  Satisfied, he logged out of the database and left the office. Drove out of the complex and headed north on the interstate for a half hour and pulled off near the lake. There was a McDonald’s near the off-ramp; he picked up a bag of hamburgers and a couple of Cokes at the drive-through and brought them with him to the lake house.

  Wendell Gray had torn his room apart. He’d hurled the bed at the door. Clawed at the walls. Upturned his waste bucket. The room stank like shit. Parkerson looked in at him. Set his jaw. “This place is a mess,” he said. “Clean it.”

  Gray stared at him. Wide, terrified eyes. Quick, shallow breaths. He sat on the floor, arms hugging his knees. His whole body shook. “Clean it,” Parkerson told him. Then he closed the door again.

  He turned on the projections and waited ten minutes. The asset hadn’t moved when he opened the door. Parkerson sighed and left him again. Went into the locker where he stored the guns and ammunition and came back with a sap. The asset still hadn’t moved.

  Parkerson hit him. Hit him hard. The asset gasped and fell back. “Clean it,” Parkerson told him. “Clean this damn room or you won’t eat, understand?” He walked to the door. “Clean it,” he said, “or the visions come back.”

  This time, the asset listened. When Parkerson opened the door again, ten minutes later, the bed was remade and moved back to its corner. The floor was scrubbed clean. The bucket was upright.

  The room still smelled like shit.

  Parkerson smiled at the asset. “Good work,” he said. “Great job. You had another nightmare. It’s okay.”

  The asset sat huddled at the edge of the bed. He was still shaking. He favored his right shoulder, where Parkerson had hit him. Parkerson sat down beside him with the McDonald’s bag. “You’re okay,” he said. “Everything’s fine. You just had a nightmare. I’m here now.”

  The asset stared at the floor, his breathing slowly calming. He didn’t say anything. Parkerson brought out a burger. Lifted a Coke. “I brought food. Are you hungry?”

  The asset nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Eat up,” Parkerson told him. “Eat your burger before it gets cold.”

  The asset looked up from the floor. Stared at the bag of food. Then he reached in and took out a burger in wax paper. Parkerson watched the kid eat. Watched his shoulders straighten, his spirits start to lift. There was life in his eyes again. A shame. It wasn’t going to last.

  Parkerson stood and walked to the doorway. “Good work,” he said. “Great job. Great first day.”

  The asset looked at him. Chewed his burger.

  “Tomorrow, try not to spill your waste bucket. This place reeks.”

  The asset didn’t say anything. Parkerson looked back at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Be good.” Then he closed the door again and locked it. Turned on the nightmares and walked out of the house.

  88

  The plane shuddered, some minor turbulence. Stevens barely noticed. He was too wired. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, had had Ojeda dig him up a stack of unsolved assassination-type murders from around the country over the last year or so. Had the junior agent pare down the obvious drug killings, the gang shootings. Focused on victims who looked like they associated with people who could drop two hundred grand on a murder.

  He’d flipped through the file all night. Hadn’t gotten far. No reports of zombie-eyed killers. No gray Cadillacs. Just bodies, lots of them, and no answers.

  He’d tried calling Nancy, too. Got Andrea. “You catch the killer yet, Dad?”

  Stevens caught himself grinning at the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Not yet, kiddo,” he told her. “In fact, we might need you for this one.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” Stevens nodded. “It’s all computers and websites and the like. Too complicated for your old dad.”

  “What about Windermere? She’s younger than you.”

  “Smarter, too.”

  Andrea laughed. “I didn’t say it.”

  “This stuff is too tough even for Windermere,” Stevens said. “We need someone whip smart. Of the new generation.”

  “Fly me down,” Andrea told him. “I’ll solve your case in the morning and spend the rest of the day at the beach.”

  Stevens grinned. “Not much of a beach in Philadelphia, I’m afraid.”

  “Mom said you were in Miami.”

  “Heading north in the morning.”

  “Oh.” Andrea paused. “Never mind, then. Solve the case yourself.”

  Stevens laughed. “Tell your mother I called, would you?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “Love you, kiddo.”

  “You, too.” She paused. “Be careful, Daddy. I mean it.” Then she hung up the phone. Stevens sat in the hotel room for a while, thinking about his daughter. His son. His wife. He wondered if people got used to the absences, the cops who did this full-time, and their families. Or maybe, he thought, glancing at Windermere now, maybe they just stayed alone.

  Windermere shook her head and looked longingly out the plane’s window. “Didn’t even get to take you for ceviche,” she said. “Best thing about Miami.”

  Stevens smiled. “Best thing?”

  “That and the nightlife,” she said. “Salsa dancing. You dance?”

  “Not since prom.”

  Windermere clucked. “Your poor wife.” She exhaled and stared up at
the ceiling. “Mathers is going to meet us in Philly. We’ll get half the goddamn Eastern Seaboard looking for this guy, Stevens. Full statewide manhunt. New Jersey, too, and Delaware. FBI, state police, the works.”

  Stevens nodded. “Good stuff.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Just tell me we catch him.”

  “We’ll catch him,” said Stevens. “We’d better. Something tells me Killswitch isn’t packing it in yet.”

  89

  Lind watched TV in his apartment and waited for the man to call with instructions. Stayed hidden and tried to fend off the visions. It was what he’d always done between assignments. This time, though, something was different.

  The visions still came. Lind woke up every few hours on his couch, sweating, screaming, heart pounding. He closed his eyes and saw Showtime and Hang Ten and the targets, the man in Miami reeling from the gunshot. Saw blood and bone. Heard the screams.

  He couldn’t escape them. They followed him everywhere, every night. He thought about what the man had said before he boarded the train, what the man had promised. Just a few more assignments. Then the man would save him.

  Lind ate what remained of Caity Sherman’s dinner. He stared out his vast picture windows to the street and wondered what she was doing. He’d kept her phone number. He tried to imagine what it would be like to call her. He couldn’t. Every time he looked at the phone he felt the panic.

  He knew he should call the man and tell him about the girl. He knew that the man would be angry, and that he’d tell him to kill the girl. So he didn’t tell the man. Somewhere inside him, for some reason, he didn’t want the girl to have to die.

  He sat in his apartment and tried to fend off the visions, and he waited for the man to call with new instructions.

  90

  Mathers was waiting when Windermere and Stevens stepped off the plane. He wore a cocky grin and a raincoat. “April showers,” he said, leading them out of the airport and into the parking garages. “You guys get sick of Miami?”

  Windermere shook her head. “We’re headed back to the beach the minute we find O’Brien,” she said. “Harris finally let you off-leash, huh?”

  “Figured you all could use a little assistance.” Mathers stopped in front of an unmarked Crown Victoria sedan. “Forgot to tell me to pack my umbrella, though.”

  Windermere climbed in the front seat. “Wasn’t any rain in Miami.” She grinned wickedly back at Stevens. “You dance, Mathers?”

  Mathers shrugged. “I could learn.”

  Windermere laughed. “Good answer,” she said. “Guess we should have brought you along, after all.”

  THE FBI’S PHILADELPHIA OFFICES were housed in the monolithic William J. Green Jr. Federal Building downtown. Mathers led them up to the eighth floor, where he’d found himself an office and promptly filled it with every phone book and telephone registry in the Delaware Valley. “Here it is,” he said, gesturing through the door. “Home sweet home.”

  Windermere turned up her nose. “Looks like a dorm room,” she said. “Smells like one, too. Your mother still picking up after you, Mathers?”

  “Ha ha.” Mathers shook his head. “You sent me on a paper chase, Supercop.”

  Stevens looked around. “Looks like you caught it.”

  “Don’t you start.” Mathers ducked out of the office and came back with a couple of rolling chairs. Shoved them into the room and cleared a spot on the desk. “Welcome to my world,” he said, settling behind a precipitous stack. “Come on in.”

  Stevens and Windermere swapped glances. Stood at the doorway and looked in at the mess. Then Windermere waded in and sat down. “We gotta solve this case, Stevens,” she said. “I can’t stay here for long.”

  Stevens laughed. “We’ll find O’Brien.”

  “Might be tough,” said Mathers. “I’ve pretty much cleared through metro Philadelphia. There are fifteen Richard O’Briens in the metro area. Five or six Ricks, and forty O’Brien, Rs. None of them have ever heard of our guy.”

  “I’ve got O’Brien’s sketch out to local law enforcement,” said Windermere. “We’ll start working outside the city. Cover as much ground as we can. Maybe this kid has a brother or something, a grandmother.”

  Mathers nodded. “And if not?”

  Stevens rummaged in his briefcase. Found Ojeda’s folder, the thick stack of unsolved murders. “Assassinations,” he told Mathers. “The whole country, the last year or so.”

  Mathers’s eyes goggled. “That’s a lot of murders.”

  “We can cross-reference them,” said Windermere. “Get a list of the days O’Brien flew, the destinations. I’ll call the FAA.”

  “Every Richard O’Brien over the last year? We’d get about a million hits.”

  “Narrow it down to Philadelphia departures,” said Stevens. “Quick trips. If we know where this guy flew, I can start paring down murders in the destination cities. Maybe we find something that gives him away.”

  Windermere nodded. “Good thinking, Stevens,” she said, looking out at the rain. “I just wish you’d thought of this in Miami.”

  91

  Parkerson spent the week in constant motion. He had projects at the office to maintain. He had to create new identities for the assets. Order new weapons, take delivery, file off the serial numbers, and hide them at the lake house. He had to check on the asset morning and night, feed him, and continue his training. He stayed late at work, monitoring the Killswitch database, double-checking that the FBI hadn’t somehow found its way inside. He spent his evenings in his office at home, poring over paperwork for his day job and vetting new applications for Killswitch.

  He hurried Gray’s training, pushed him hard. There were too many assignments in the pipeline for Lind alone. Parkerson itched for Gray to be ready. Itched to set him loose into the world. Itched to count the money the kid was going to earn.

  So far, the asset’s training was progressing smoothly, at least. Gray kept his room clean. He obeyed simple commands. Parkerson had used the sap only a couple times since that first troublesome day. He could almost see the asset’s will breaking, watched as he became more and more dependent on Parkerson’s daily visits to maintain his thinning veneer of sanity. The fire was dying in the kid’s eyes. He was losing his grip. He didn’t know where he was, or what happened to him when Parkerson left the room. All he knew was that Parkerson’s presence meant relief. Soon he would be ready for his first real test. Another week, maybe.

  So far, there was no sign the FBI had made further inroads into Killswitch. Parkerson spent the week worrying, nonetheless. He’d labored for years on the database, struggling to get the business off the ground. It was a delicate undertaking; you couldn’t just put an ad in Guns & Ammo touting your services as a killer for hire. You had to be subtle. You had to put the word out and hope that it spread.

  You also had to work for cheap, at first. It was like dealing drugs; the first hit was free, or close to it. Parkerson hadn’t made enough on the first scores to recoup his expenses. It had been a tough slog. A huge undertaking. Parkerson’s head swam at the prospect of having to tear it down. The project was too lucrative now to quit.

  Parkerson trained the asset. He managed the database and supervised his own projects at work. When he was lucky, he caught a few hours’ sleep. Then, midway through the week, the pressure compounded.

  One of the two pending clients logged in to the Killswitch database. Sent Parkerson an urgent message, wanting the kill he’d already partially paid for moved up on the calendar. A hundred-thousand-dollar bonus if completed this weekend. Time-sensitive. ASAP. Parkerson mulled it over that night. “Fine,” he replied finally. “But you pay me up front.”

  The client accepted quickly. Within an hour, the money was transferred. Parkerson stayed late that night at the office. Left Wendell Gray starving and scared catatonic in the lake house basement as he worked overtime. He
had flight arrangements to make. Hotel reservations. A weapon to put in the mail. Killswitch was back in business and humming. It was time to get the Philly asset on line.

  92

  They chased paper for days. Made a long list of O’Briens who’d flown from Philadelphia. Narrowed it down to a handful of likely candidates and took the list to Stevens’s stack of murders. After a couple late nights and far too much fast food, they hit something.

  “New York City,” said Stevens. “Manhattan. February. Maria Nadeau and Johnny Thorsson, her lover. Found shot to death in a suite at the Carlyle. No trace of the killer.”

  “O’Brien was in New York that night,” said Mathers. “Took a shuttle to La Guardia that evening. Left in the morning.”

  “Here’s another,” said Windermere. “Los Angeles. Benjamin Arnaud, the movie producer. January, you remember? O’Brien was there, too.”

  “New York,” said Stevens. “And L.A. Which do we check out first?”

  “I can take Carla to L.A.,” said Mathers. “Hit up the LAPD and take a look at Arnaud’s case. That’d leave Stevens to check out Manhattan. Sound good?”

  Stevens studied the file. “Sure,” he said, “except I’m not sure my BCA badge will open any doors in New York City.”

  “Shit.” Mathers glanced at Windermere. “Can we get him a badge?”

  Windermere shook her head. “Doubtful.”

  “I could take Carla with me,” said Stevens. “Probably easier than trying to deputize me. God knows what I’d do with FBI power.”

  “Wouldn’t fly anywhere, that’s for sure.”

  Mathers frowned. “Okay,” he said. “So you want to take Windermere?”

  Windermere looked at Stevens, a twinkle in her eye. “Or you could take Mathers.”

  Stevens looked away. “Whatever works.”