He heard a door close, then another open and close, heard the kid with the limp calling to someone. The car shot forward, then skidded to a stop a second later. The passenger door opened and someone climbed in, the door closed and the car took off again. Kane braced himself for another stop but the car kept moving. The man in the passenger seat turned and leaned over the seat back and looked down at Kane. Kane looked up at him. His vision had cleared enough so he could see the face clearly. A large, dark moon, staring down at him. Though it was a familiar face, Kane wasn’t made at all easy by the sight of it. He was in the middle of something he didn’t understand, and how could anything at all comfort him after what he’d just seen, what he had been unable to stop? He felt motion then, felt the car moving at a great speed, making turn after turn. Left, right, left again. With each corner the car took, Kane felt himself being tugged in a new direction, held by a new and unseen force. The speed at which they moved never diminished, and Kane could do nothing but lie there in its solid grip.
Eventually, Kane said Colette’s name again, got it out in one breath. The man in the passenger seat was facing forward now. Kane said his name, then said hers again, as clearly as he could. The man turned in his seat, looked at Kane, moved his head from side to side.
“I’m sorry,” Clay said.
Kane closed his eyes then, tight. He had known she was dead, had seen it. But hearing it from Clay made it somehow official. Maybe Kane had been mistaken, maybe Colette had pretended to be dead, had fooled Dean. There were no maybes about it now. Colette was dead.
Kane kept his eyes closed, held them closed, and when he opened them again, the car was flying beneath a morning sky. It was full light out now, and the car was on a straightaway, moving at a steady speed. No more tugging, just the feeling of being carried along. He must have passed out, had no idea for how long or where he was now. Kane heard a voice from the front seat, Clay’s voice. He was speaking on the phone.
“Tell Mercer we got him,” Clay said. He was losing reception, had to shout to be heard. “Tell Mercer we got him, to meet us there as soon as he can. We’re almost there. Another ten minutes.”
Kane’s stomach tightened. It was the last thing he knew for a while. He closed his eyes and slipped back into darkness, sank like a stone to the bottom of some vast emptiness and stayed there.
Eight
HE DROVE HIS BLACK JETTA TOWARD RIVERHEAD.
He was wearing a long black overcoat, thick black trousers and a heavy black sweater, black shoes, black leather gloves. He didn’t usually wear black, was dressed today for the part. His hair was white, had turned so prematurely four decades ago. Coarse, it hung all one length now to his shoulders. His entire life he’d worn his hair short and neatly trimmed, wanted to look always like a man who had money and standing, a man of culture, a polished man. The women he’d known, pursued perhaps out of vanity, had valued that. But he had let his hair grow out during the past three months—a necessary evil, or so he had thought at first, till finally he came to admit to himself that he liked the way it made him look. Savage, part biker when he was in jeans, part mad puritanical minister when he was done up in all this black. But more than that, women seemed to like it. Different women. Younger women. Women perhaps looking for trouble, or for father, or for both. Of course he liked that. What man, really, wouldn’t? Who didn’t want to feel power? Who, stuck in daily life, didn’t want nights of danger? He was handsome, had always done well with women in his circle—refined women, women with money, other men’s bored wives. He’d made almost a second career out of the women he had loved. But this, the attention he was getting, this was something altogether different. Long looks—stares, even. Bold. At times downright hungry. He’d never known this before, and the only thing he could think of to explain it was that, with his white hair long, he appeared now maybe just a little dangerous. If only they knew, he thought. Of course he had never harmed a woman in his life, never would. Still, he smiled as he steered through the early morning toward Riverhead, smiled at the thought of this new self, this new image, and the abundant possibilities it seemed to promise him—once, of course, all this was done, once he had time again to indulge himself. A new start so late in life, but that was precisely what all this was about. Rebirth. A second chance. Vita Nuova, as Dante would call it. Maybe, he thought, he’d keep this look—the long hair, the black clothing, like some tragic poet or demented clergyman. Maybe this was the new him, not just a part for which he was dressed.
Once this was done, there’d be all the time in the world for women again.
He was tall, still strong for his age, strong enough to have carried this out on his own, easily. But he had realized early on that he’d do well for himself to find someone to do the work for him. A legman or henchman, that was what they were called in those old movies he watched well into the night. Years ago he had watched them for escape, unable to sleep. Now he watched them for inspiration, seeing himself in the men who do what needs to be done. He didn’t really need someone to do the work, maybe he would have even enjoyed it, but he was thinking more along the lines of creating a buffer, finding someone who would allow him to remain behind the scenes, not as much as possible but entirely, a shadow among shadows. That was what he needed, and this very thought was one of the first things that came to him when he began to plan his project. The more he considered it during the months of deliberation, turning it over and over in his powerful mind, the more it seemed to him the smart thing to do. A risk, yes, that was true. It would require trust, and leave him, to a degree, vulnerable. But it was a necessary risk, all things considered—and for a number of reasons, enough reasons to make the gamble worth it.
No great achievement was without its risks.
As he approached Riverhead he thought that maybe he should have been more careful and chosen someone else. During his first meeting with Dean he had detected something, sensed something. It would have been difficult to miss. The guy wasn’t all there. But Dean’s obvious shortcomings, he thought, could work to his advantage in the end. He had spent months planning—maybe too long, but this was tricky stuff—and had found himself with not much time at all left for his search. Maybe Dean wasn’t the best choice, but, really, he had been the only choice. Who else could they have asked? Who would even have considered such a thing? Colette had recommended Dean, had known him before, said she could predict what he would do in almost any situation, knew him that well. That was something of value, considering all that was at stake. Dean wasn’t a very complicated guy at all, wanted only one thing from her, she had said. Of course that could prove most helpful, particularly when it came time to lead Dean to his inevitable end.
But just a few moments ago, Dean had called to tell the white-haired man that he needed to see him, that it was urgent. Dean had sounded frightened. There was no ignoring this, the man knew. First there had been the angry call from the chapel. And now this. Dean wasn’t of much use if he couldn’t control his emotions. There was no room for hysterics here, for sloppiness. Precision, care—this was delicate work. A lot to lose, a lot to gain. If he had known Dean was like this, if she had told him that the kid was prone to anger and depression and wild mood swings, then he would have bit the bullet and put his project on hold as he looked for someone else. Or so he thought now. But Colette had kept Dean’s true nature from the man, mentioned many of Dean’s faults but never said anything about his deeper emotional problems. The white-haired man and Colette had talked at length about his plan. Long into the night, many nights. She was in it as deep as he was, with him almost from the start. Why the omission, then? What exactly did her having held back crucial facts mean? He didn’t know for sure, but there wasn’t time to think about that now. Everything was in motion, no turning back. They were long past that.
Dean’s house was a small clapboard cottage on the end of a dirt road, just south of Riverhead. It sat on the edge of Peconic Bay, far enough removed from the neighbors’ homes to make it safe enough for the
white-haired man to go there in daylight. He’d been here once before, had come then dressed in black like today, and if for some reason that didn’t work, or if some neighbor took note of his license plate and later gave it to the cops—all contingencies considered—he had that covered: he was planning on selling his Jetta, he would say, and Dean had been interested in buying it. He had gone to the extent of running an ad in the paper for two weeks just to make that story ironclad. This, now, could be a second trip—again, if anyone saw him, took note, thought to mention it to anyone later on, after Dean was dead and the cops had had a look down in his basement. A second trip so Dean could take one more look at the car and make an offer, which of course would have been followed by brief but polite haggling over the price, to the benefit of neither. If the man still owned the Jetta by the time anyone came around asking questions, if they ever came around to ask questions, then he would say that he had decided to keep it, that the money he had been counting on that would allow him to dump the car and pick up the vintage Benz he’d had his eye on hadn’t come through as planned.
And if for some reason he did have that Benz by then, if his luck suddenly changed with this act of karmic justice, well, then all the better.
He steered into the dirt drive that ran alongside the house, followed it to its end. The white van was parked in the yard directly behind the house, not far from the back door. It would be unseen from the road here, would make bringing “things” in and out of the house easier, and safer. He reached into his coat pocket, took out his chrome-plated .357, dropped open the cylinder, checked that it was loaded, then flipped the cylinder back and returned the gun to his pocket. He would never go anywhere near Dean without it, had decided that right at the start. Thinking moves ahead, taking all possibilities into account. He got out and walked through the cold to the back door. The screen door was still attached, one of the hinges broken, the other barely hanging on. The house itself was a wreck, paint peeling, stone foundation cracked. An old washing machine lay on its side in the backyard, rusting. Looking around, he was aware that a tall man with long white hair, dressed in a long black Brooks Brothers overcoat, would certainly stand out in this setting. But there was nothing he could do about that. And his story would hold, he was sure of that.
He knocked on the screen door. It rattled against the door frame. A moment went by, no sign at all of Dean. He stood there, waiting, looked around casually. Nothing to hide, no reason to bother with keeping his face hidden. But Dean had sounded frightened on the phone. Something had gone wrong, something was wrong. What, though? What could frighten Dean? Too big to be afraid of any man, to dumb to be afraid of anything else. Something the white-haired man hadn’t thought of, hadn’t seen coming. But what could that be? He had covered everything, had thought of nothing else but this every day and night for months. Frontward, backward, inside and out, he knew every possible thread, every player, what they would do, what they would think. All this was nothing more than parts of an equation leading to the inevitable sum. Simple mathematics.
But he could feel it, standing there at that back door, he could feel a sense of dread. He tried to ignore it, told himself that he could think his way out of this, whatever this was, think his way past yet another sudden obstacle. He had to. Remain calm, let your genius work. He had been confronted by two unexpected obstacles so far, the first just days ago, when he got word that a critical player was on his deathbed. But he had within the hour thought of a way to succeed despite that, to keep his precious project from falling into chaos. The second obstacle was when someone came asking questions far sooner than he had anticipated. But he had dealt with that problem too, kept all this from coming tumbling down around him, could do it again if he had to. He wouldn’t fail, not now. He had been growing more and more confident with each stage of his project that came and went as planned, and with each unexpected twist that arose but did not deter him. His old beloved arrogance was returning, he could feel it, like the presence of a long lost friend. A warmth, a sense of balance in a chaotic world. He had once been called a genius by men who could make or break a career. Then he had been stripped of that title. Now, he was out to reclaim it, if only for himself, for his own satisfaction and pleasure.
A quiet “fuck you” to those who had left him for dead.
He knocked again, waited. Then he heard footsteps inside. When Dean finally opened the door, the white-haired man saw right off the scratches on Dean’s face. Deep, fresh, glistening. Dean turned his back to the man before he could say a word, walked through the small kitchen and disappeared. The man entered, closed the door behind himself, carefully followed Dean into the living room. The shades were drawn there, the room dark. The man kept his left hand in the pocket of his overcoat, the butt of the revolver in his palm. He stopped just inside the front room, looked around. They were, as far as he could tell, alone. But all the furniture was overturned, the place ransacked. Dean kept his back to the man, stood at the far end of the front room. He was breathing heavily, struggling to keep himself still.
A caged animal, ready to lose its mind.
“What happened here?” the man said. He kept his voice even.
Dean didn’t answer.
“Did you do this or someone else?”
Eventually, Dean muttered, “I did it.”
“Why?”
Dean half-turned, glanced tentatively toward the man. The scratches on his wrecked face looked black in the dim light.
“I think she’s dead,” Dean whispered.
“What did you say?”
Dean didn’t answer.
“What did you just say?”
“I think she’s dead. I think I killed her.”
“Who?”
“ Her.”
The man paused. He felt a flash of anger but contained it.
“Colette?”
Dean nodded.
Through his anger the man thought of her—her skin, her mouth, her willingness to please him at all costs. These thoughts came quickly. For an instant he couldn’t move or think of anything but his loss. Where would he find another like her? Then his mind began to clear, he willed it to clear, and there waiting for him was the realization that he had not seen this coming, hadn’t even for a moment considered something like this.
A flaw in his planning? A failure of his genius?
“What happened?” the man said finally. He kept his voice clear of all emotion.
“I went to her place,” Dean said. “I went to her apartment.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I needed to know that she was okay.”
“She wasn’t there.”
“I know.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be there. She was doing her job.”
“I know.”
“So then why did you go?”
Dean shrugged. “In case she came back there for something.”
“She was sticking to the plan, Dean. Like you should have done.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid something bad might happen to her.”
“You were jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous. I just didn’t know where she was and was worried about her.”
“You knew she was with him. That’s all you needed to know.”
“I was afraid he might hurt her or something.”
“What happened after you went to her place?”
“I waited. I got more worried and decided to drive to where she worked, thought maybe she’d be there. I saw her car out front and waited. I couldn’t stop thinking about her being in there with him. And then I saw them leaving. I saw her with him, could tell they had been together. I lost it.”
“Jesus.”
“I couldn’t stop myself. I went after him. She tried to stop me, got in the way.”
“What did you do to her?”
Dean was staring at a spot in the floor somewhere between him and the man. His e
yes were unfocused, and he spoke slowly.
“I grabbed her.”
“And?”
“She kept fighting me. I just wanted her to stop fighting me.”
The man didn’t need to hear the rest. He held the grip of the .357 tightly. His palm was damp.
“What about him?” he said.
“Who?”
“Kane. Is he dead, too?”
Dean shook his head. “No. Someone came.”
“Who?”
“That kid.”
“The one with the limp.”
“Yeah.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Yeah.”
The man thought about that.
“How did he find me?” Dean said.
“I don’t know.”
“Some black guy was with him.”
“What black guy?”
“I don’t know. Fancy clothes, big guy.”
“They were together?”
“Yeah. I think they’re onto us. I think we need to quit this right now. You said no one was going to find out.”
The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, they must be following Kane. If they are, then they suspect him, which is what we want. This will work in our favor. Trust me.”
“I’m not going to prison.”
“You want to live in this dump and mop floors for the rest of your life?”
“No.”
“We’re almost done. You’ll get your money and get your life back. And I think it’s safe to say that if they knew where you were, they would have been here by now, don’t you?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
“Your license plates are registered to a fake address, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So even if they saw it, it wouldn’t do them any good. They were following Kane, they had to be. So we’re going to stick to our plan, okay?”
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