Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  “I know,” he said.

  “How did he find you? He just took you off the street?”

  Richard paused again. Caity watched him stare out the window. She wanted to shake him until he gave her some answers. “I was a soldier,” he said, “in Iraq. I was in a convoy and an IED got us, an explosive device.” He sucked in a breath. “Blew up my Humvee. Killed a bunch of my friends. It fucked me up good.”

  He’d pressed himself back in the seat. Screwed his eyes closed. Every word sounded like a thousand-pound weight. “They brought me back to America,” he said. “Some veterans’ hospital in I-don’t-know-where. They kept me in a bed for a while and then checked me out. I had to come back every week for, like, a psych test. That’s where I first saw this guy, the man. He was waiting for me outside the clinic one day.”

  She waited. “Yeah?” she said. “And then?”

  “And then, I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Every time I try to remember, I feel like my head is going to explode. Like I want to claw out my own eyeballs. I can’t take it.”

  “You can’t remember,” she said. “But somehow he brainwashed you. Turned you into a killer. And this other guy, too.”

  O’Brien nodded. “And more, maybe. Who knows?”

  “So this guy who attacked us, he was a brainwashed killer. And you still couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  He was quiet for a while, a couple miles. Then he looked at her. “I’ve killed people,” he said. “I didn’t want to, but I did. The man made me think I didn’t have a choice. He made that guy back there believe the same thing.”

  Caity shook her head. “No,” she said. “No way. That guy was evil.”

  “If he’s evil, then I’m evil, too,” Richard said. He was staring out the window again, out into the night. She turned back to the road and just drove and said nothing.

  Finally, she shook her head. “We have to go to the police, Richard.”

  He looked up. “No.”

  “Did you hear what you told me? There’s a murderer on the loose. We have to tell someone.”

  “I’m a murderer, too,” he said. “By the time anyone gets around to listening to my story, the man will have found out they got me. He’ll have time to escape.”

  “So, what?” she said. “What are you proposing we do?”

  He looked at her. “I want to find him,” he said. “I want to find him and shut him down myself.”

  Caity didn’t say anything for a moment. She drove in silence. “God damn it,” she said finally. “Just once, I want to meet a normal guy.”

  168

  The asset called David Gilmour drove south on Interstate 95 in the old Chevy pickup. He drove until he’d put a few miles between the truck and the Jiffy Lube. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the man’s number. The man answered quickly. “Tell me you got them.”

  “The targets are gone,” the asset told him. “They escaped.”

  For a long moment, there was no answer. Then the man swore, and the asset could hear something breaking on the other end of the line. When the man came back, he was breathing heavily. “Where are you?”

  “On Interstate 95. Approaching Wilmington.”

  “And you let them get away.”

  “I intercepted the woman in the parking lot. Before I could eliminate her, the man attacked me. He was armed, as expected. I was unable to overpower him.”

  “You were armed, too, god damn it. What happened?”

  The asset paused. “I didn’t sufficiently disable the woman, sir. She rejoined the fight. The targets managed to stall me until law enforcement arrived.”

  “Police?” The man swore again. “You got away, though?”

  “Yes, sir. I abandoned the rental car and escaped into the woods. Found another vehicle and neutralized the occupants.”

  “Neutralized them.” The man paused. “Exactly how did you neutralize them?”

  The asset glanced at the bloody knife on the passenger seat. “Completely.”

  169

  Parkerson put down the phone. Looked around the den and slammed his fist on the table. “God damn it.”

  On the other end of the line, the asset waited. Let him wait. This was a whole new pile of bullshit to wade through. A big knot to untie. It had been a mistake to send Gray to Philadelphia alone. He’d fucked up two killings, and now Lind and his mystery girlfriend were on the run, headed who knows where. Plus the collateral damage. One dead in Lind’s building. Two more “neutralized” somewhere in goddamn Delaware. A big fucking mess. Bigger than a mess. An unmitigated disaster.

  Someone knocked, softly, at the door. Parkerson turned to see his wife peering in at him. “You say something, honey?”

  Parkerson glanced at the Killswitch phone in his hand. He shook his head. “Just talking to myself.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Work stuff.” He shrugged. “Tight deadline. High pressure, as always.”

  “Oh, no.” Rachel walked into the room and put her hands on his shoulders. Squeezed. “You’re so tense.”

  “Gonna be this way for a while, I’m afraid.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  Parkerson leaned into her hands. Closed his eyes and enjoyed her touch. Then he shook his head. “I just have to work through it. Pray it ends soon.”

  Rachel leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t work too hard,” she said. “It’s only life and death.”

  Parkerson forced himself to smile. It was a little joke she was always telling him, though this time his wife had no idea just how right she was. He leaned up and kissed her briefly, and gave a little wave as she slipped back out of the den. Then he picked up the Killswitch phone and stared at it.

  The girl could drag Lind to the cops. Maybe Lind would remember his training and run; maybe he would kill the girl, or she’d flake out and get scared and they’d both disappear. It was a nice fantasy, but Parkerson knew he should plan for the worst.

  He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. What could the girl know? What could Lind know, for that matter? The kid had been brainwashed pretty good. He’d forgotten his own goddamn name, for Christ’s sake. What did either of them know about Killswitch?

  Wendell Gray was still out there, though. Someone, somewhere, would have seen him. Somebody would find the bodies of the poor bastards he’d “neutralized” and report their car missing. Wilmington wasn’t big enough to hide out in for long.

  Parkerson checked his watch. It was late. Too late to think about flying to Delaware. Something had to be done, though. Wendell Gray was a failure. Too risky to keep him around any longer.

  Parkerson picked up the Killswitch phone. “You there?”

  The asset coughed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Parkerson stared up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. “Drive south,” he said. “Don’t stop. Come on home.”

  170

  Stevens glanced at Windermere across the aisle. The cabin was dim; outside the windows, night had set in. Most of the plane was asleep. Windermere, though, was awake. She sat ramrod straight in her seat, flipping through a copy of the week’s Time magazine. Stevens watched her and wondered if she ever slept.

  “You think he finds anything in Philly?” he asked her. “Mathers, I mean. Think this Charlotte thing’s a mistake?”

  Windermere looked up. Cocked her head. “You having second thoughts, Stevens?”

  “I’m just sick of coming in second,” he said. “I want to be waiting for these guys at the finish line for once.”

  “And you’re sure the finish line’s in North Carolina.”

  “No,” he said. “But I’m damn sure it’s not in Philadelphia.”

  “So what’s with all the second-guessing?”

  Stevens sighed. “I’m just not sure what the heck’s ou
r next move. We’re back in needle-haystack territory down here. At least Mathers’s got some rubble to poke through.”

  Windermere nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Right.”

  “What’s up with you two, anyway?” Stevens said, frowning. “Mathers was weird the whole trip to Vegas. Did I miss something back in Philly or what?”

  Windermere made a face. “Nothing, Stevens,” she said. “Don’t even worry about it. You didn’t miss a thing.”

  “Come on.” He grinned at her. “There’s definitely some tension there, Carla. Don’t deny it. What happened? You shut him down again? Put him in his place?”

  Windermere sighed and sat back in her seat. “Don’t worry about it, Stevens. Okay?”

  Stevens studied Windermere for a beat. Then he reached for his in-flight magazine. “Huh,” he said. “Sorry I asked.”

  171

  They checked into a motel in Newport, Delaware. Caity paid with her credit card and parked outside the room. Lind followed her inside.

  He wasn’t sure what he was doing. He wasn’t sure of anything at the moment. Hadn’t really been sure of much since he’d returned from Vegas. Longer, even. Since he’d met the man.

  He was a killer. Somehow, the man had brainwashed him. Had turned the visions on him until he was nothing—a hollow, murderous shell. A killer.

  Lind pushed past Caity Sherman to the motel room’s bathroom. He stood over the toilet in flickering fluorescent light and retched, violent, until he puked. It didn’t take long.

  He was a killer. He remembered every kill. He didn’t remember his name, or his birthday, or what his mother looked like, but he remembered the bodies. He remembered the man.

  Lind puked again. He puked until his stomach was empty and he could only retch, dry, into the bowl. Until Caity Sherman came to the doorway and sighed and wet a washcloth and wiped his face clean. She flushed the toilet and helped him to his feet, led him out to the bed, and eased him down on it.

  “You really didn’t know,” she said, “did you?”

  Lind stared up at her. He was shaking. He felt feverish. “I knew,” he said. “Somewhere inside, I knew.”

  “You’re different now.” She swabbed his forehead with the washcloth. “You’re a human again. You’re not brainwashed anymore, I can tell.”

  Lind closed his eyes. Felt the cool, wet cloth on his skin. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

  Caity stared down at him. He could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty. He knew she didn’t trust him, either. Finally, she looked away. “So what are you going to do?”

  Lind closed his eyes and saw the faces again, in Miami and Duluth, in Saint Paul and New York and Los Angeles. He saw the face of the scared kid in the dark little room, and he saw the man pressing the revolver into his hands. He saw the man smile, heard his voice, and he shivered and opened his eyes.

  “I’m going to give in to the visions,” he said. “I’m going to let them drag me back in and hope he brainwashed me well enough to find him.”

  Caity stared at him. “Holy shit.”

  Lind nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m not thrilled about it, either.”

  172

  The flight landed in Charlotte a few minutes before midnight. Windermere rented a Camry from a half-conscious Avis clerk and headed into the city with Stevens.

  She didn’t say anything as she drove. Neither of them had really spoken since she’d brushed off Stevens on the plane. She knew Stevens would have more questions about Mathers, and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to face them.

  She drove from the airport east into downtown Charlotte. Pulled into a Marriott in the city center and parked and turned off the ignition. She sat there in the quiet for a moment. Then she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  “I’ll hook us up with the locals in the morning,” she said. “Work out a plan of attack. If Gilmour flies home, the FAA’s going to call me. With any luck we can pick him up at the airport.”

  “Or tail him to Thomas Gardham,” said Stevens.

  “Even better.” Windermere paused. “I’ll call Mathers in the morning, too. See if he’s finding anything useful up there.”

  “Sure.” Stevens looked at her again. “Look, Carla, whatever happened—”

  Windermere shook her head. “I know, Stevens.”

  “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Really none of my business.”

  “I know, Stevens. Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  Stevens held up his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, Carla. Whatever you want.”

  Windermere rubbed her eyes again. “Great,” she said. “Sorry.” She reached for the door handle. “Let’s just get some rest.”

  173

  Lind closed his eyes and tried to focus, conscious of every sound in the room. He could hear Caity breathing from where she sat, facing him, on a chair by the TV set. He could hear the toilet running in the bathroom, and trucks speeding past on the highway outside.

  The motel room was dark. The bed was soft and comfortable. The whole place was as quiet as could be. He’d fallen asleep in louder situations than this. Brighter. He’d slept practically standing up in an ice-cold shower with a full pot of coffee running through him. This should be easy.

  But it wasn’t. Lind kept seeing the attacker. The look on his face as he’d strangled Caity Sherman. The bruises on her neck. The ragged sound she’d made when he’d thrown her against the wall. When he’d turned to come after Lind.

  Lind tried to steady his breathing. Listened to the rush of traffic and tried to clear his mind. He waited. Nothing happened. “It’s not working,” he said, opening his eyes. “I can’t fall asleep.”

  Caity frowned in the dim light. “It’s a bad idea,” she said. “I told you we should go to the cops.”

  Lind shook his head and lay back again. “No cops.”

  Caity didn’t say anything. He heard her stand up, felt her weight on the bed as she lay down beside him. She hesitated a moment, and then wrapped her arm around him. Lind stiffened. “What are you doing?”

  “Hush,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

  Lind started to protest. She shushed him. He forced himself to close his eyes and felt her warmth close to his body, her hand tracing paths on his arm. He listened to her breathing and the sound was hypnotic. He felt himself slipping away.

  Then he was under.

  HE WAS IN THE DESERT. Riding in the Humvee, headed out on patrol. Showtime in the driver’s seat. Mini-Me and Slowpoke in the back. Hang Ten in the turret. Everyone laughing, Showtime saying something about Hang Ten’s Hawaiian girlfriend. It was loud in the Humvee. It was bright and hot outside. The big truck jostled over the bumpy terrain. Lind sat in the shotgun seat and stared out the window at the desert. Let the truck carry him along.

  This isn’t the right vision. This isn’t where you need to be. You need to keep moving. You need to get out of here.

  The convoy slowed to enter the city. Lind stared out the window at the suspicious-eyed men who watched the Humvee pass. Soon, he knew, one of them would push down on a detonator button. Soon the whole world would explode. He didn’t want to be here when it did.

  Lind forced himself to close his eyes. Steadied his breathing and tried to drown out the noise of the truck. Tried to picture the hotel room and Caity, and gradually the rumble of the Humvee’s engine faded away.

  Lind opened his eyes again. Heard screaming. The drone of more engines. He looked around and found he was lying down. Realized he was aboard the army transport plane. Still not right.

  Someone screamed again. The plane jostled with turbulence, and the screaming intensified. The engines roared. Lind closed his eyes. Get me out of here.

  “Hello there.”

  Lind opened his eyes. Quickly closed them again as his heart jolted up-tempo. The man was there, smiling down at him under that blue b
aseball cap. He saw Lind’s expression and laughed.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said. “I’m a friend of yours, soldier.”

  Lind looked around. Saw blue sky, heard traffic in the distance, the whir of automatic doors sliding open and closed behind him. He was outside a hospital. The veterans’ hospital.

  “It’s a big day for you,” the man told him. “We’re taking you home. What do you think of that?”

  Lind stared at the man. Who are you? his mind screamed. Tell me who you are. His body wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t make himself speak.

  Lind followed the man down the sidewalk toward a waiting Cadillac. The man helped him into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt, grinning at him the whole time. Then he circled around to the driver’s-side door.

  This was where the vision usually ended. Lind had climbed into this Cadillac a thousand times in his dreams. He’d never before seen where the Cadillac took him. Today had to be different.

  Lind forced his eyes to stay open. He fought off the blackness that encroached like a blanket, the panic that lurked just beyond. Every moment he stayed in the dream, the panic got worse, the blackness more inviting. Lind fought it off, desperate. He gripped the armrests and made himself focus. He thought about the people he’d killed, and the man who’d made him do it. He thought of Caity Sherman, waiting for him in the motel room. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay conscious. The blackness came for him. The panic clawed at his mind like a wave.

  Then, all at once, it receded. The blackness disappeared. The panic was gone. Lind sat in the passenger seat of the Cadillac as the man pulled away from the curb. He watched the road. Watched the man. Looked for any sign, any clue. He clung to the vision and searched its edges for something, anything that could help him.

  Then he saw.

  174

  Stevens was awake, barely, when the knock came on his door. He was lying in bed watching SportsCenter, waiting for the Timberwolves highlights and missing Nancy and the kids. He’d called home as soon as he checked into the room, woke Nancy to ask about Andrea.