by Dan Simmons
Don Farino shook his head sadly.
Leonard Miles took the moment to jump to his feet and run for the door, leaping over the body of William as he ran.
Without raising the Beretta, the Dane shot Miles in the back of the head.
Don Farino had not even looked up. Without raising his head, he said, “You know the price for such betrayal, Sophia.”
“I went to Wellesley, Papa,” she said. Her legs were still pulled up under her like a little girl’s. “I read Machiavelli. If you try to kill the prince, do not miss.”
Don Farino sighed heavily. The Dane looked to the old man for instructions. Don Farino nodded.
The Dane lifted the Beretta, swung it slightly, and blew the back of Don Farino’s head off.
The old man pitched forward out of the wheelchair. What remained of his face banged into the glass coffee table. Then his body slid sideways onto the carpet.
Sophia looked away with an expression of mild distaste.
Kurtz did not move. The Dane was aiming the Beretta at him now. Kurtz knew that it was a Model 8000 with ten rounds in the magazine. Three were left. The Dane kept a good, professional distance between them. Kurtz, could try to rush him, of course, but the Dane could put all three slugs into him before Kurtz could get off the couch.
“Joe, Joe, Joe,” said Sophia. “Why did you have to go and fuck everything up?”
Kurtz had no answer to that.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
The basement office was overflowing with police and paramedics. Half a dozen of the police were plainclothes detectives and one of them was a woman with auburn hair. She pulled Arlene aside as the others stood around Cutter’s body and talked.
“Mrs. Demarco? I’m Officer O’Toole. I’m Joseph Kurtz’s parole officer.”
“I thought you were…homicide,” said Arlene. She was still shaking, even though one of the paramedics had draped a thermal blanket over her after they had checked her out.
Peg O’Toole shook her head. “They just called me because someone knew I’m Mr. Kurtz’s P.O. If he was involved with this in any way—”
“He wasn’t,” Arlene said quickly. “Joe wasn’t here. He doesn’t even know about this.”
Officer O’Toole nodded. “Still, if he was involved, it would go better for him if you and he told us up front.”
Arlene had to steady her hand to drink from the Styrofoam cup of water one of the homicide detectives had given her. “No,” she said firmly. “Joe wasn’t here. Joe had nothing to do with this. I looked on the monitor and saw this…this person…come in and stab Tommy. Then the man went for the two customers. Then he came down here.”
“How did he know there was a basement, Mrs. Demarco?”
“How should I know?” Arlene said. She met the parole officer’s gaze.
“Does the name James Walter Heron mean anything to you?”
Arlene shook her head. “Is that…his name?”
“Yes,” said Officer O’Toole. “Although everyone in town knew him as ‘Cutter.’ Does that ring a bell?”
Arlene shook her head again.
“And you’ve never seen him before?”
Arlene put the cup of water down. “I’ve told about six of the police officers that. I don’t know the man. If I’ve seen him on the street or somewhere…well, I don’t know him, but how could anyone recognize him with all those terrible burns?”
O’Toole folded her arms. “Do you have any idea where he received those burns?”
Arlene shook her head and looked away.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Demarco. You do understand that one of those tests the officers performed will tell us if you actually fired the gun.”
Arlene looked at her hand and then at the parole officer. “Good,” she said. “Then you’ll know that Joe wasn’t involved.”
“Do you have any idea where we can find Mr. Kurtz?” said Officer O’Toole. “Since this is also his office, we’ll have some questions for him.”
“No. He said that he had a meeting this afternoon, but I don’t know where or with whom.”
“But you’ll tell him to call us as soon as he checks in with you?”
Arlene nodded.
One of the plainclothes detectives walked over with the night-vision goggles in a plastic bag. “Mrs. Demarco? Could you answer another question, please?”
Arlene waited.
“You say that the assailant was wearing these when he came into the basement?”
“No.” Arlene took a breath. “I didn’t say that. I told the other officers that the…the man…took those out of his raincoat pocket and held them up to his eyes.”
“Before or after he knocked the lightbulbs out with that umbrella?” asked the officer.
Arlene managed a smile. “There was no other light, Officer. I couldn’t very well have seen him take those goggle things out of his pocket if he’d done so after he smashed the lights, could I?”
“No, I guess not,” said the detective. “But if it was so pitch-dark, how is it that you could see the assailant to fire at him?”
“I couldn’t see him,” Arlene said truthfully. “But I could smell him and hear him…and feel him as he towered over me.” She began shaking again, and Officer O’Toole touched her arm.
The homicide detective handed the night-vision goggles back to an assistant and stood there rubbing his chin.
“I’m sure he wasn’t wearing them when I saw him upstairs on the security monitor,” Arlene said.
“Yeah,” said the male cop. “We’ve looked at the tape.” He looked at Officer O’Toole. “It’s part of the Dunkirk arsenal inventory. They just raided a place out by SUNY where Kibunte had a hundred other weapons stored. The Bloods were dipping into them in this war they’re having with the white-supremacist assholes. If we hadn’t been tipped about this warehouse before the Bloods got there in force, Buffalo would have looked like Beirut on a bad day.”
O’Toole nodded, obviously ill at ease speaking in front of Arlene.
“Are you ready to go down to the station with us, Mrs. Demarco?” said the male cop.
Arlene bit her lip. “Am I under arrest?”
The male cop chuckled. “For stopping a piece of shit like this Cutter after he killed at least three people this afternoon? I’ll be surprised if the mayor doesn’t give you a medal—” He stopped when O’Toole caught his eye. “No, Mrs. Demarco,” he said formally, “you’re not under arrest at this time. There’ll be an investigation, of course; and you’ll have to answer a lot of questions tonight and make yourself available to the investigating officers in the coming days, but I’d bet you’d be home by”—he looked at his watch—“oh, eleven at the latest.”
“Good,” said Arlene. “I want to watch the local news. Maybe they’ll explain what happened here.”
CHAPTER
FORTY
The Dane held the Beretta steady, its muzzle zeroed on Kurtz’s chest and never wavering for an instant. Sophia sucked at her thumbnail and seemed to pout. “Joe,” she said, “do you have any idea where you are right now?”
Kurtz looked around him. “It looks like the last scene of fucking Hamlet,” he said.
The Dane’s mouth twitched ever so slightly in what might have been a smile.
Sophia dropped her hand from her mouth. “Don’t tell me that you’ve seen Hamlet, Joe.”
“I see all of Mel Gibson’s movies,” said Kurtz.
Sophia sighed. “Where you are, Joe, is about half a minute away from being dead.”
Kurtz had no comment on that.
“And there’s no reason that this had to be the way things went,” she continued. “Why didn’t you just let me keep fucking you and leave the rest of this mess alone?”
Kurtz considered not commenting on that either, but finally he said, “Your dad hired me. I had a job to do.”
Sophia glanced at her father’s corpse and shook her head again. “Some job. Some outcome.” She looked at the Dane. “Well,
Nils, as I told you on our way to the airport, I hoped it wouldn’t come to this—but it has.”
Kurtz moved his gaze to the Dane. The man had never relaxed his attention—or the Beretta’s aim—for a microsecond. “Nils?” said Kurtz.
“It amuses her to call me that,” said the Dane.
“She must be paying you a lot,” Kurtz said.
The Dane nodded almost imperceptibly.
Kurtz looked back at Sophia. “One question before the party ends,” he said. “Did you hire the homicide cop—Hathaway—to kill me?”
“Sure,” Sophia said. She reached into her handbag. Kurtz expected her to pull out a pistol and his stomach tensed, but she raised only a small cassette tape. “Hathaway even brought me the tape of you calling the gun salesperson…what was his name? Doc. Hathaway thought I might use it to blackmail you or get your parole revoked, but we decided that a more permanent solution would be better.”
“Makes sense,” said Kurtz.
“I’m getting bored, Joe,” Sophia said. “Your conversation was never very interesting, and today it’s deadly dull. Also, we have to call the police and report this terrible attack by the late Mr. Kurtz at least before rigor mortis sets in. May I have the Beretta, Nils? I want to take care of this detail myself.”
Kurtz continued sitting the way he had been, but he was very observant. If there was to be a moment in which he could act, it would come here.
There was no such moment. The Dane was the consummate professional, the muzzle of the Beretta never wavering even as the Dane moved sideways and moved the pistol to where Sophia could grasp it with both hands. When she had it, still aimed at Kurtz’s chest, her finger on the trigger, the Dane took a step back out of the lamplight and out of any line of fire.
“Any last words, Joe?” said Sophia.
Joe thought for a second. “You weren’t all that great in the sack, baby. I’ve had sexier encounters with a Hustler magazine and some hand lotion.”
The sound of the unsilenced pistol was very loud. Two shots.
Sophia smirked. Then she dropped the Beretta and fell forward onto her father’s body on the floor.
The Dane pocketed the .22-caliber Beretta Model 21 Bobcat and stepped forward to retrieve the 9mm Beretta from Sophia’s limp hand. Kurtz allowed himself to breathe again when the Dane slipped the larger Beretta into his pocket as well. Kurtz stood up.
The Dane lifted the valise of cash from its place by Don Farino’s wheelchair and then picked up the small audiocassette from Sophia’s empty chair. “These are both yours, I believe,” said the Dane.
“Are they?” Kurtz asked.
The Dane dropped the cassette into the valise and handed the valise to Kurtz. “Yes. I am a hired assassin, not a thief.”
Kurtz took the bag and the two men walked out of the drawing room, Kurtz pausing at the door a second to look back at the five bodies on the floor.
“The last scene of Hamlet,” said the Dane. “I rather liked that.”
The two talked shop as they walked out of the quiet mansion and down the driveway to Kurtz’s car.
“You like Berettas?” asked Kurtz.
“They have never disappointed me,” said the Dane.
Kurtz nodded. Probably the silliest and most sentimental thing he’d ever done had involved his old Beretta many years earlier.
They had passed the bodies of two guards in the foyer and another—dressed in black tactical gear—was lying outside near the drive.
“Extra work for you?” asked Kurtz.
“I thought it wiser on my way in to see to any possible problems that might hinder our way out,” said the Dane. They passed a bush from which two dark legs and a polished pair of loafers protruded.
“Three,” Kurtz said.
“Seven counting the night maid and the butler.”
“Paid for by someone?”
The Dane shook his head. “I count it as part of overhead. Although the Gonzaga contribution could be prorated toward them.”
“I’m glad the Gonzagas came through,” said Kurtz.
“I am sure you are.” They came to the gate. It had been left open. The Dane put his hand in his topcoat pocket, and Kurtz tensed.
The Dane removed his gloved hand and shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about from me, Mr. Kurtz. Our arrangement was explicit. Despite rumors to the contrary, one million dollars is quite generous, even in this profession. And even this profession has its code of ethics.”
“You know the money came from Little Skag,” said Kurtz.
“Of course I do. It makes no difference. You were the one who contacted me on the telephone. The contract is between us.”
Kurtz looked around. “I was a little worried that one of the Farinos might have outbid me.”
The Dane shook his head again. “They were notoriously cheap.” He lifted his face to the evening air. It was quite dark now and raining very softly. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Kurtz,” said the Dane. “I’ve seen his face. You haven’t. This face is no more mine than Nils is my name.”
“Actually,” said Kurtz, hefting the valise higher, “I was thinking about this money and what I was going to do with it.”
The Dane smiled very slightly. “Fifty thousand dollars. Was it worth all of your aggravation, Mr. Kurtz?”
“Yeah,” said Kurtz. “It was.” They walked out through the gate and Kurtz hesitated by the Volvo, jingling the keys in his free hand. He would feel better when he had the H&K in his hand. “One question,” he said. “Or maybe it isn’t a question.”
The Dane waited.
“Little Skag… Stevie Farino…he’s going to get out and take over this mess.”
“It was my understanding,” said the Dane, “that this was what the one million dollars was all about.”
“Yeah,” said Kurtz. “Little Skag is as penny-pinching as the rest of the family, but this was his one shot at getting back in the driver’s seat. But what I meant was that Skag will probably want to tidy up all the loose ends.”
The Dane nodded.
“Hell,” said Kurtz. “Never mind. If we meet again, we meet again.” He got into the Volvo. The Dane remained standing near the car. No bomb. Kurtz started the engine, backed into the empty road, and glanced into his rearview mirror.
The Dane was gone.
Kurtz pulled his pistol out from under the seat and set it on his lap anyway. He put the car in gear and drove away with one hand touching the valise on the passenger seat. Kurtz drove at or under the speed limit. He had no driver’s license, and this would be a bad time to be stopped by the Orchard Park sheriff.
He’d driven less than two miles when a cell phone rang in his backseat.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Kurtz slid the Volvo to a stop on a grassy berm and was out the door, rolling in the grass. He didn’t own a cell phone.
The phone kept ringing.
Semtex, thought Kurtz. C4. The Israelis and Palestinians had specialized in telephone bombs.
Fuck, thought Kurtz. The money. He went back to the car, removed the valise, and set it a safe distance from the vehicle.
The phone kept ringing. Kurtz realized that he was pointing his H&K .45 at a cell phone.
What the hell is wrong with me? He retrieved the valise, slid the pistol into his suit pocket, picked up the phone, and hit the answer button.
“Kurtz?”
A man’s voice. He didn’t recognize it.
“Kurtz?”
He listened.
“Kurtz, I’m sitting outside a little house in Lockport. I can see the little girl through the window. In about ten seconds, I’m going to knock on the door, kill that fucker who’s pretending to be her father, and take the teenaged bitch out and have a little fun with her. Goodbye, Kurtz.” The man hung up.
Normally it would have been a thirty-minute drive from Orchard Park to Lockport. Kurtz made it in ten minutes, doing well over a hundred on I-90 and almost that speed on the Lockport stre
ets.
He slid the Volvo to a screeching stop in front of Rachel’s house.
The gate to the picket fence was open.
Kurtz jumped the fence, .45 raised and ready. The front door was closed. The lights were out on the first floor. Kurtz decided to go in the back way. He moved around the side of the house—not quite running, paying attention but still in a hurry, his heart pounding wildly.
One of the goddamned bushes rose up as he passed.
Kurtz swung the .45 to bear, but too late—a man’s arm from the bushes, some sort of camouflage suit, something black and stubby in the man’s right hand.
A great, hot force exploded against Kurtz’s chest and God’s flashbulbs went off in his skull.
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
Pain.
Good. He was alive.
Kurtz came back to consciousness slowly, very painfully, muscle by muscle. His eyes were open and there was no blindfold, but he could see nothing. He was in great pain. His body did not respond to commands. He was having problems breathing.
It’s all right. I may be hurt bad but I’m alive. I’ll kill the fucker and get Rachel free before I die. Kurtz concentrated on forcing breath into his lungs and calming his pounding heart and screaming muscles.
Minutes passed. More minutes. Kurtz slowly became oriented in his body and around it.
He was in the trunk of a car. Big trunk, big car. Lincoln or Cadillac. The car was moving. Kurtz’s body wasn’t moving. His muscles were alternating between cramps and involuntary spasms. His chest was on fire, he was nauseated, and his skull rang like a Buddhist gong. He’d been shot, but not with bullets. Stun gun, thought Kurtz. Taser. Probably rated about 250,000 volts. Even as his muscles and nerves came back on line, he found he could barely move. His wrists were manacled or handcuffed behind him, cruelly, and somehow attached to manacles around his ankles.
He was naked. The floor of the trunk was covered with crinkled plastic, like a shower curtain.
Whoever it is had it all planned. Followed me to Farino’s. Put the phone in the Volvo. Wanted me, not Rachel. At least Kurtz prayed to whatever dark god that the last was true.