by Dan Simmons
He dressed quickly, adjusting the suit jacket just so, buttoning his collar button, and making sure that his tie was knotted perfectly and that his cuffs shot properly.
“You need a snap-brim fedora,” said Arlene as Joe headed for the back door, his car keys in his hand. She did not ask him about the meeting, and he did not offer any information before he left. Arlene knew from experience that it might be something as mundane as a request for a bank loan or something else altogether—something that Joe might not return from. She never asked. He almost never told.
Arlene finished a few e-mails to clients and wondered if she should tell Joe that their sweetheart-search business looked as if it was going to show a profit of eight or ten thousand dollars by the end of the first month. She decided to wait.
It was almost 5:00, she was finished with the day’s Web searches and notices, and she was about ready to call it a day when unusual movement on the small security monitor caught her eye.
A monster had come in the front door of the porn store. The man’s face was half burned away, one eye was swollen shut under inflamed tissue, and only a few white clumps of hair remained on a skull that had been cracked and cooked. The man wore a raincoat open and even through the black-and-white monitor, Arlene could see that his chest was covered with makeshift bandages and raw burns.
The clerk, Tommy, went for the shotgun he kept on the lowest shelf behind the counter.
The monster grabbed Tommy by his ponytail, pulled his head back, and cut his throat from ear to ear with one vicious sweep of his arm.
There were only two customers in the store. One ran for the front door, trying to squeeze past the monster, but the burned man spun quickly and ripped the man from his pubic bone to his throat. The man went down in the entrance and collapsed against the glass counter.
The other customer clutched his dirty magazines to his chest and ran between shelves to hide. The monster followed in three huge steps. The camera showed the mirror in the corner reflecting the monster stabbing downward—three, four, five times.
Arlene’s breath had frozen in her chest. Now she lifted the telephone and dialed 911. A voice answered, but Arlene could not speak. She could not tear her eyes from the security-camera monitor.
The monster, raincoat open and bandages flying like a mummy’s wrappings, burned face distorted into a snarl, was rushing down the short corridor toward the door to the basement…toward her.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Don Farino assembled everyone in the mansion’s drawing room. Kurtz had never been in a drawing room—he’d always been amused when he encountered the phrase in books—and was curious about exactly what a drawing room was. After being seated in it, he still didn’t know. The room was huge and dark, heavy drapes drawn over deep-set bay windows so that it could have been night for all one could tell from inside, and there were some bookshelves, two large fireplaces—no fires burning—and multiple seating areas scattered around like those in an old hotel lobby. There were six of them in the room, counting the two bodyguards in blazers: Don Farino in his wheelchair next to the black-shaded lamp, Sophia sitting in a plush chair to the don’s right, Kurtz on a deep-tufted but uncomfortable leather sofa, and the lawyer, Leonard Miles, sitting opposite everyone in a straight-backed chair. The two bodyguards stood with their meaty hands clasped over their crotches immediately behind Miles.
Kurtz had been met at the gate and ordered to leave his Volvo parked outside the compound. He wondered if they were afraid of car bombs. The two security goons frisked him very carefully—he’d left the polymer H&K pistol under the front seat—and then drove him up to the big house in a golf cart. The day was cold and gray, and it was getting dark by 4:00 P.M.
The old don greeted Kurtz with a curt nod and waved him to his place on the sofa. Sophia was lovely, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that was almost—not quite—a smirk. The lawyer Miles seemed nervous.
The four sat in silence for what seemed like a long moment. Kurtz brushed a speck of lint from the crease in his gray trousers. No one offered drinks.
“Have you seen or heard the news today, Mr. Kurtz?” the old man said at last.
Kurtz shook his head.
“It seems that the city’s black street gangs and some religious white-supremacist group are at war,” Don Farino continued.
Kurtz waited.
“Some anonymous caller informed the white supremacists that four of their members had been killed by some Bloods,” continued the old man, his voice sounding raspy but amused. “Someone—perhaps the same caller—informed the Bloods that a rival street gang had started a fire at one of their gathering places. Also this morning, it seems that the police received an anonymous call connecting the death of one of their homicide detectives with the same group of Bloods. So, as the day ends, we have blacks shooting blacks, cops rousting gangbangers, and idiot white supremacists fighting everyone.”
After a spell of silence, Kurtz said, “It sounds as if Anonymous has been busy.”
“Indeed,” said Don Farino.
“Do you give a rat’s ass about blacks killing blacks, or the Aryan Nation Types live or die?” asked Kurtz.
“No,” said Don Farino.
Kurtz nodded and waited.
The Mafia patriarch reached down beside his wheelchair and lifted a small leather valise. When he opened it, Kurtz could see stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” said Don Farino. “As we agreed.”
“Plus expenses,” said Kurtz.
“Expenses as well.” The don closed the bag and set it down. “If you have brought us any useful information.”
Kurtz gestured with his hand. “What would you like to know?”
The old man’s rheumy gray eyes seemed very cold as he squinted at Kurtz. “Who killed our accountant, Buell Richardson, Mr. Kurtz?”
Kurtz smiled and pointed one finger at Leonard Miles. “He did. The lawyer did it.”
Miles shot to his feet. “That’s a goddamned lie. I’ve never killed anyone. Why are we listening to this crap when—”
“Sit down, Leonard,” Don Farino said in flat tones.
The two goons in blazers stepped forward and laid heavy hands on Leonard Miles’s shoulders.
The lawyer sat down.
“What evidence do you have, Mr. Kurtz?” asked Don Farino.
Kurtz shrugged. “Malcolm Kibunte, the drug dealer who was hired to kill Richardson, said that Miles had hired him.”
Miles was on his feet again. “I’ve never seen Malcolm Kibunte out of a courtroom where I was defending him. I resent this absurd—”
Farino nodded and the goons stepped forward again. Miles sat down.
“Why would Leonard do this?” Sophia asked in her soft purr.
Kurtz shifted his gaze to her. “Maybe you know.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she said.
“It means that Malcolm and his pal Cutter were the hit men and Miles here was the go-between, but maybe someone else in the family gave Miles the orders.”
Sophia smiled pleasantly and shifted so that she was looking at her father. “Mr. Kurtz is crazy, Papa.”
Farino said nothing. The old man was rubbing his jaw with one mottled hand. “Why did Miles have Buell Richardson killed, Mr. Kurtz?”
“Your accountant stumbled across quite a few million dollars being laundered through family sources,” said Kurtz. “He knew it wasn’t from the usual family revenue. He wanted some of it.”
Don Farino leaned forward in his chair. “How many million dollars?”
Sophia was still smiling. “Yes, Joe, how many million dollars?” At the use of Kurtz’s first name, Don Farino shot a glance at his daughter, but then turned his gaze back in Kurtz’s direction.
Kurtz shrugged. “How the hell should I know? Little Skag knew that something weird was going on. That’s why he suggested I get in touch with you, Don Farino. He doesn’t give a shit about a missing accountant.”
Farino blinked. “What are you saying? Why is Stephen interested?”
Kurtz sighed. He wished he was carrying a weapon, but it was too late for that. “Skag started screwing around in the drug business, started sampling his product, and was sent to jail. You and the other families let that happen.”
Farino glared. “Mr. Kurtz, it took almost twenty years for the New York State families to come to some accommodation with the Colombians, the Mexicans, the Vietnamese, and all of the other—”
“Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Kurtz, “I know all about your little treaties and arrangements and quotas. Who gives a shit? Skag rocked the boat, trying to get more heroin on the streets and money in his pocket, and you let him be sent up for it. But someone using the family contacts opened those floodgates again just a few months ago. Little Skag thinks it’s an end run around you, Don Farino.”
“He’s crazy!” shouted Miles and got to his feet again.
Kurtz looked at the lawyer. “Malcolm Kibunte’s gangbangers knocked over the Dunkirk military arsenal last August…”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Sophia snapped.
“…and Miles…and whoever’s sponsoring Miles…has been trading the weapons for yaba and China White and advanced methamphetamine recipes with Vancouver…”
“Vancouver?” Don Farino repeated, his tone sincerely puzzled. “Who’s in Vancouver?”
“The Triads,” said Kurtz. “Malcolm was shipping the guns overland. The drugs came in through the Niagara border checkpoints along with the electronic hand-me-downs from the Vancouver families. Malcolm and his boys knocked over some of the other truck shipments from Florida and New York just to hide what they were really doing. They were just using your family contacts to get the heroin and yaba here, then dumping the junk on the street market, creating a new generation of addicts.”
There was a silence. Finally Don Farino stared hard at Leonard Miles. “You traded weapons for drugs with our deadliest enemies?”
“It’s a lie.” Miles’s tone was no longer frightened.
“William.” Don Farino, addressed one of the guards. “Charles.” To the other man.
The two bodyguards stepped forward and pulled long-barreled .38 revolvers from their shoulder holsters.
“Take Mr. Miles outside and make him talk.” The old man sounded very tired. “Then take him somewhere and kill him.”
William and Charles stood there, but they did not aim their guns at Leonard Miles. One of the muzzles was pointed at Don Farino and the other at Kurtz.
Leonard Miles had now dropped all of his act of fear and desperation. He showed a particularly nasty grin as he stood between the two guards. “More than one hundred and twenty million dollars,” he said in conversational tones. “Right under your nose, old man. Do you think I wouldn’t use some of it to buy off everyone on your family payroll?”
Don Farino’s head jerked up. Sophia seemed to be meditating. Kurtz sat very still, his palms flat on his thighs.
“William, Charles,” said Miles. “Kill the old man and that bastard Kurtz. Here. Now.”
Four gunshots roared and the room filled with the stink of cordite and blood.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Please state the nature of your emergency,” said the bored 911 voice.
“There’s a madman killing people,” said Arlene. She gave the porn shop’s address and hung up.
The burned monster was battering the locked door. While the rear door was reinforced by metal, this inner door was just wood. It began to splinter and tear from the hinges as Arlene watched on the small TV monitor.
Arlene grabbed her purse and prepared to run. Which way? Out the back door and she could probably get the Buick unlocked and started before the burned man caught her. Probably.
Through the hidden door into the old parking garage. He wouldn’t find the hidden door. Unless he knew about it. Then she would be wandering through an empty parking garage with this creature behind her.
The door shook on its hinges. The cheap lock rattled and gave.
He might be after Joe, thought Arlene. Which means he might come back.
She had only a few seconds before the madman would be in the basement with her. Arlene grabbed her umbrella from beneath the wall rack and smashed both overhead lightbulbs. Now, with the computer monitor off, the only light came from the small lamp at her desk and the flickering black-and-white security monitor.
Arlene ran back to the desk, switched off the lamp, pushed back her chair, and crouched on one knee. The security monitor showed a static-lashed image of the burned and bandaged monster kicking the door off its hinges.
Arlene turned the monitor off. The long room was suddenly a cave, in near absolute darkness.
Oh God, oh God, I should have put the thing on first. Arlene fumbled in the lower right drawer. She found the heavy goggles, but the straps were too complicated to fit in the dark.
The madman was lurching down the steps. She could hear him—heavy breathing, gasping—she could smell him—but she could not see him.
Arlene held the night-vision goggles up to her face and fumbled the switch on. Luckily, she had played a bit with the strange thing during her free time. The motor inside the apparatus hummed slightly—and suddenly she could see the basement glowing in green fire.
The madman swung his head in her direction. In this greenish goggle light, his burns and swollen face and hands and sopping bandages were even more terrible He held a long knife in his right hand. The blade seemed to flicker like a beacon in the amplified night-vision goggles.
The creature was sniffing the air as if searching for her. He began lurching in her direction.
Arlene slid her right hand under the desk drawer, found the hammerless .32 Magnum Ruger revolver there, and lifted the weapon. The goggles slipped in her trembling left hand. Suddenly she was blind.
The burned man ran into the low partition running down the middle of the room. He kicked it to splinters and came on.
My perfume. He smells my perfume.
The creature was ten feet away when Arlene squeezed the Ruger’s trigger.
Nothing.
Oh, dear God. I forgot to load it!
The burned man crashed into the far side of Arlene’s desk. He swung the knife in a wild arc, hitting the computer monitor and sweeping it and stacks of files off the desk with a crash.
Arlene dropped the night-vision goggles and held the useless Ruger up with both hands. Saliva splattered her as the monster began crawling over the desk. It was screaming obscenities. She could hear him, but not see him.
No, I loaded it. The safety! Once a week a mah-jongg at Bernice’s and twice a week to the shooting range since Alan had died.
Arlene clicked off the safety with her forefinger, found the trigger guard, found the trigger, and fired upward into darkness, toward the heat and stench less than a foot above her. She kept firing until the hammer clicked on empty chambers.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Dane stepped out of the darkness of the draped alcove. The bodyguards, William and Charles, were both down from the double taps. William was still, but Charles was still twitching. Leonard Miles stood in the middle of the emptiness where the two armed men had been. The lawyer was blinking.
The Dane walked over, looked at the twitching Charles, and fired another bullet into the fallen man’s head.
Leonard Miles flinched. The Dane pointed one gloved finger at Miles’s empty chair. “Sit, please.”
Miles sat.
Kurtz was sitting exactly as he had been—feet flat on the floor, palms down on his thighs. Don Farino was holding his chest, but smiling. Sophia Farino had pulled her legs up onto the chair and folded them under her as if a mouse were in the room.
The Dane was wearing a tan-checked wool topcoat, a Bavarian-style hat, dark-rimmed glasses, but no mustache. He walked around and stood behind and to one side of Don Farino. The semiautomatic 9mm Bere
tta was not precisely aimed at anyone, but the muzzle pointed in the general direction of Leonard Miles.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Don Farino.
The Dane nodded.
The don turned his heavy gaze on Miles. “Is my daughter involved in this? Was she the one who gave you the orders?”
Miles’s lips were white and trembling. Kurtz saw the yellow silk upholstery on the seat of the upright chair darken as the lawyer urinated in his trousers.
“Speak!” exploded Don Farino. The bark was so loud and fierce that even Kurtz jumped a bit.
“She made me do it, Don Farino,” babbled Miles. “She threatened me, threatened to kill me, threatened to kill my lover. She—” He fell into silence the instant that Don Farino made an impatient gesture with his fingers.
The don looked at his daughter. “You traded weapons to the Triads, brought these new drugs into the community?”
Sophia looked at him calmly.
“Answer me you miserable putana!” screamed the don. His face was mottled red and white.
Sophia said nothing.
“I swear to you, Don Farino,” Miles babbled, “I didn’t want to be involved with this. Sophia was the one who dropped the dime on Stephen. She was the one who ordered Richardson killed. She was—”
Don Farino’s gaze never moved from his daughter. “You are the one who turned Stephen in?”
“Sure,” Sophia said. “Stevie’s a fag and a junkie, Papa. He would have dragged the family down with him.”
Don Farino gripped the arms of his wheelchair until his fingers went white. “Sophia…you would have had everything. You would have been my heir.”
Sophia threw her head back and laughed easily. “Had everything, Papa? What is everything? The family is a joke. Its power gone. Its people spread to the wind. I would have had nothing. I was only a woman. But I want to be don.”