They reported the front door being open and the security alarms shut down. Nothing taken, apparently. He relayed instructions for them to check one of the back bedrooms. They found a mess, some overturned furniture, a table fountain upset and broken. A brass bowl some six inches across? No, nothing like that here. Why?
"They're looking for fingerprints," he said to Bourland. "Doubt if they'll find any."
"But why did he go there afterwards? What did he want?"
Richard shrugged.
"You know. What is it?"
"He was after a memento of hers." Richard gave a lean description of the Grail.
"All that for a brass bowl?"
"It's an antique. Very old. Priceless in some circles. His way of rubbing my nose in it."
"Has it worked?"
"No. I'll get it back for her."
* * *
Mortality sucked. That's it, that's all there was to it. It purely, grade-A homogenized, top to bottom, in your ear, out your ass sucked.
Charon felt the gradual loss of strength creeping over him already. Damn, you'd think the drain hole would be plugged up by now with all the juice he was pouring in. He didn't believe in things like Fate and that he was destined to die from the cancer and that would explain why it was using so much freaking effort to fight it and keep going.
The power he'd taken from the cab driver was slowly failing against the stuff eating him up from the inside. His sweet little brass prize was handy at translating other energies for his needs and could indefinitely sustain him, but it was like grease through a goose. He'd have to keep the feeding tap in the on position just to maintain himself. Not a problem if he had to, but the opposition was bound to notice a thing like that and come after him.
Just because he'd taken out one of them while she was flat on her assets didn't mean there weren't others around to fill her hobnailed boots. And chances were they'd be able to walk all over him once they figured out what was going down. Didn't she have eight sisters wandering around out there doing their Earth Mother scene and saving the rain forests and other crap? Whether they were on this Side or not, they would close in on him.
Then there was the other thing: there was no substitute for the rush that people-energy gave him. However, he'd have to go easy snacking on human targets. Fang-boy and his friends would just love following a trail of bodies to the Cambridge's penthouse suite. They were cruisin' to give a bruisin'.
Frying witchy-girl had made one hell of a royal stinkola, much more than Charon had reckoned on. His police-band radio sputtered all night and all day with reports and traffic on this and that. He'd been in the lobby when a couple of guys in plainclothes came in flashing their badges all over the place and waving a composite picture of himself.
Oh, yeah, keeping the eye patch on for his venture had been a very good ploy. They thought they'd gotten around it by having a second photo done without it. Part of his face in that one was puckered with lines of scar tissue, but still no good to them. Mr. Snaky's oh-so-sweet blood had fixed that. He should open himself a franchise offering face-lifts to aging actresses.
But the bottom line was this city was sealed up. Lance had some heavy guns on his side for some reason. He must have increased his level of influence over the local politicos in the last few years. That meant there'd be more cops at the airports, train, and bus stations than passengers, and not all could be counted on to screw up and miss a beauty like Charon. All they had to do was correctly identify the left side of his face, then the moose shit would hit the fan. Yes, he could probably drain a few dry, but he'd still be stuck here. They'd take away his toy, lob him in jail, and then the dickster knight would come in all full of righteous vengeance . . .
Nope-nope and nada. Had to take him out and get across the border, or the other way around. Whatever. Dickie's death would keep the hounds distracted, chasing their tails, especially if they had lots of false trails to play on. Those were easy enough to arrange. How the cops loved to backtrack the forensic evidence stuff, could keep 'em busy for months.
Dun was a tough bastard, though. Have to make sure he was gone, gone, gone and bye-bye three times over. Shouldn't be too hard. Charon had had a lot of time in the last few years to work up several scenarios. Pick one.
Not standing up to his ass in snow-covered bushes, though. Charon scowled. What had he been thinking? Make that taking. Damn pills . . .
So . . . what was a good Plan B?
With the pain dulled down and some of the drugs out of his system he was able to think better. He still had hours to go yet before he'd need another refreshing hit, better make the most of them.
All Dun wanted was a push in the right direction, and he'd trip on his own feet running to his death. Push. Pushing was good. Yeah, that was a good one. Big distraction, too.
Charon worked out his deadline, measuring it against his declining strength and the tools he had at hand, deciding what he could set up the fastest with the least effort. A side trip to a special storage garage where he'd hidden some valuable professional toys a few years back was needed, but he could get the rest at Eaton Centre. Man, they had everything.
Wasn't modern living great?
* * *
In the late afternoon Richard's cell phone trilled. His caller ID display blinked 'unknown'. Useless things. Maybe it was from that young woman in the Yucatán.
"Hallo?"
"Hey, this Richard Dun?"
He shot upright as though touched by a hot wire. The voice was electronically disguised, but there was only one man who would bother with such games. But why a direct call? The smart thing would be to lie in wait and pick him off with a long rifle, then move in and finish the job. Play it carefully, old lad. Pretend you haven't a clue. "Who is this?" He hit a button on some highly specialized hardware linked to all the phones in the room, including his own. It would both record and trace the call. The sudden motion attracted Bourland's notice; he came across to listen in.
"Never mind that," said the voice. "You wanna chance to get the guy who snuffed your girlfriend?"
"Who are you?" He raised his tone, injecting the right amount of rage and rising frustration, an edgy man barely in control. "What do you know about it? How in hell did you get this number?"
"Not gonna get that info, bud. Deal with me like this or don't deal at all, but I can give you the bad guy for some cash. You want him or not?"
"Of course I do."
The harsh, robotic voice buzzed on. "Then you know how these things run. This ain't amateur night, I'm a player and wanna keep my ass right where it is and not shot off or in jail."
"Keep talking."
"I want half a million in U.S. dollars. That's the bounty. Nonnegotiable, cheap at the price."
It was nicely calculated. Enough to be worth someone's while, but not too much for a wealthy payer to lay out. "In cash?"
"Better believe it."
"Not until I have proof."
"The guy you want wears an eye patch."
"You've seen the police showing the photos around. You're just using the situation to cash in. No, thank you."
"Yo! Dun! Heads up or you'll lose your window from being too smart."
"Give me more proof, then."
"Okay-okay! This dude's got an attitude, makes pit bulls roll over and piss themselves, y'know?"
"Sorry, not enough."
"Okay-okay, the dude is called 'Charon.' Ring a bell?"
Richard held silent, as though stunned. "Are you certain?" he whispered.
"Yeah, I'm certain. Look, I'm the guy he came to to work up a new alias. I've worked for him before and got him set again, but he welshed. The thing is, he did it from a distance. He thinks he's killed me, but he shot another guy instead. A friend of mine. You pay, I tell you where Charon is, you do what you like to him, and we never see each other again. That's the best deal you're gonna get, so what d'ya say?"
"How do you even know about me?"
"Well, this was the weird part: he was t
alking to himself and your name came up. He seemed into nailing you flat. I've heard of you from my side of the street and knew who to call when the smoke cleared."
Richard snorted. "Oh, I'm sure."
"I mean it. The guy's gone loony. He always used to be edgy, but he's gone right over into the rapids. Creeped me out the way he was pacing around and arguing with himself. I figure that's why he wanted me offed, he knew I'd heard too much. He was like Hannibal Lector on crank, y'know? Hyper as hell and nuts. I figure he's into drugs, but his money was clean and then he dusted my pal and . . ."
"Right, and you want some pay out as well as payback."
"Hey—my life's on the line the first hint he gets that he missed me. I need money to scram myself off the map—in case you don't get him. No offence! I heard you were good, but this is Charon we're talking about."
"What's his new name and where is he?"
"You get his name and destination when I get my money. I'm square on that. I don't need the both of you chasing me. When it comes down to it I want you to win, 'cause I know you'll be square as well and let me go, y'know? If you don't like what I have to say, then you don't have to pay, y'know?"
"I know."
"We gotta deal, then?"
"Only if I like the information. I can confirm it within a few minutes of receipt, so you'll stick around that long."
"Nuh-uh, no way. I'm in, I'm out. Faster the better."
"You want your money?"
"Freakin' hell, yes, but—"
"Then that's how it's played. I've got other resources than you to find him, what I'm paying for is saved time."
"Well, okay, but you promise . . ."
"Yes. We'll meet at the CN Tower, that should be public enough."
"Can't, I'm not in town. I got a trip lined already. You come to me."
"Where?"
"Can you get to Niagara by six? With the cash?"
Richard checked a clock. "Barely. Between the bank and the evening rush hour—"
"If you leave now you got lots of time. You get on the Rainbow Bridge, you know where that is?"
"Of course I do."
"Great. I'll meet you there, halfway across on that sidewalk they got on the south side. You bring the money and your phone, and I tell you what you need. Don't be late cause I hate the cold. Brass monkeys gonna be dropping their balls right, left, 'n' center out there."
"Why not pick a warmer place?"
" 'Cause on a bridge you can see who's coming at you, especially that one. Halfway across is too long a shot for a sniper."
Not a sniper like Charon, Richard thought, but agreed. This is Charon's way of arranging things so I'll feel safe. Bollocks.
"You get your info, and we don't see each other again, okay? Okay?"
"Very well. At six tonight." He rang off and looked at Bourland, his eyes blazing. The hunt was up.
Chapter Eleven
Charon's prediction about brass monkey genitalia was correct, though the source of the expression had nothing to do with primates. It was just that cold, more so.
Richard hated being on the Rainbow Bridge, but now that he was in place could agree about the difficulty of anyone achieving a long shot. The wind was high and even an expert like Charon would likely miss under these conditions. Still, Richard felt too much out in the open, with no place to put his back to a wall.
The sky was fortunately dim and gray, almost the same color as the roiling water below, plenty of insulation between himself and the dying sun. The constant roar of the American Falls ahead and to his right competed against the traffic noise on his left. Both were sufficient to get on his nerves; he liked to be able to hear when people came up behind him and kept turning about, using his eyes to compensate for the deficiency. Then again, he was supposed to be projecting unease.
Making a damned thorough job of it, too.
He paced up and down with a shiny new briefcase in his left hand. It was full of marked bills, minute tracking bugs attached to them and the case, along with sufficient explosive to blow his arm off. He carried one trigger, and Bourland had the other. The idea behind that was to take out Charon in the event he was successful in his hit and stupid enough to pick up the money. The infernal device had been prepared by Bourland's pet group as though they kept such items ready and waiting on a shelf for similar occasions. Hell's teeth, they probably did.
Richard had a good view of the more spectacular Horseshoe Falls, or would have were they not nearly obscured by the thick cloud of vapor rising from them. Both American and Canadian courses were framed by gigantic formations of icicles that covered the tumbled rocks on either side. The frosty layers from the constant spray must have been yards thick in some places. On occasion the river below the falls could freeze making an ice bridge, creating uneven mounds piling up to fifty feet thick. Not this year, though, not nearly cold enough yet. The river flowed endlessly under his feet, fast, gray, and perilous.
He scanned each of the pedestrians on the ten-foot-wide sidewalk that ran along only the south face of the bridge. Apparently the northern view wasn't deemed interesting enough to warrant the expense of placing a walk there. In the warm months this place would be jammed with people. The few around now were only the most hardy tourist types, and they were on the move, taking their well-wrapped selves back to their hotels; the multicolored lights on the falls weren't enough to keep them out in this wind. Good, the fewer on the scene the better. Bourland was all for clearing the bridge entirely, but the group judged it would be too much of a tip-off to Charon. They did agree to prevent others from wandering on after Richard was in place, sending their own people in as substitutes. They were set dressing . . . in body armor with semiautomatic weapons.
Despite increased security by the border guards on both sides looking for the more ordinary—if there was such an animal—type of terrorist, plenty of car and truck traffic rolled past. He'd have to watch that. He was vulnerable to a drive-by, but did not think that was quite Charon's style. Risky, too, since the shooter could be stopped at the other end.
Besides, guns were notoriously hard to explain to the border guards, especially these days, so a shooter would have a hard time smuggling one through from either direction. Nonetheless, if Richard fell, safeguards were in place to deal with aftermath and capture. Against that possibility Richard's torso was encased in plated Kevlar. He could survive getting shot, but it would be damned inconvenient waiting to heal, so he submitted. His body armor took him back to the days when he wore the articulated sort now displayed in museums. In a way it had been like suiting up again, but with fewer pieces. This weighed him down and was bulky, but his big leather coat covered it. He wished for a muffler and something more substantial for his head than a knitted ski hat, but that might have further restricted his movement; his face and neck burned in the wind.
"You all right?" Bourland's voice in his right ear. It came through clear, the receiver smaller than a hearing aid. Very sophisticated, very expensive.
Richard adjusted the front of the cap to indicate "yes." Had he touched the back it would have told them he wanted help. There'd been no chance to work out a signal that meant "I'm bloody cold and feel like hell, so stop bothering me."
Bourland was in a shelter on the Canadian side of the bridge, watching the target area as best he could in the waning light with field glasses. They'd grabbed another office to use as a field HQ for the operation, filling it with laptops, radios, small arms, and grim-looking people in sunglasses.
"Count your blessings," Bourland continued. "The Americans have gotten wind of this. They know something's up, but haven't any details. They want to swoop in and be helpful."
Richard made no signal back to that one. If things did not go right, then they just might want to invite over some well-armed and armored Yank troops to help with the mess. But God help them if Charon was already on their end of the bridge.
"We've got a man putting them off for the moment, though. The premise is it's a domestic crimi
nal we're after. Thanks, chaps, but we can deal with it."
Richard touched his cap-front again, then turned away. He hoped Bourland would correctly read the body language signal as annoyed impatience and stop the chatter. He usually wasn't this nerved up. Likely impatient himself for things to come together.
The wind knifed right through Richard despite the lined leather, metal, and plastic; the cold penetrated his boots and worked up his legs. He was more immune to it than most, but could still freeze. Which might happen in the next few minutes if Charon didn't shift himself. Richard considered the possibility of a magical attack, of another freak wind. At this height, over two hundred feet above free-running water . . . yes, Charon knew exactly what he was doing when he picked this spot.
Past six, but Richard continued to loiter at the halfway point. It had taken a hell of a lot of fast and frantic behind-the-scenes work to bring him here, not the least of which was getting Bourland on his side for it.
"You're not going out there," he'd said.
"Oh, yes I am. Cooperate with me on this." And with no qualm or conscience for the attack Richard brusquely hammered the point home with a hypnotic clout that rocked the man back a step. There was no time to stand there and convince him. "Did we get a trace on Charon's phone call?"
Bourland was a moment answering, first shaking his head from the mental assault, then checking the communications hardware. "No, dammit. Too many protections. He could have phoned from the hospital lobby for all the good this junk is. You do understand it's a trap?"
"Yes, and before you ask, no, I've not the faintest idea why Charon's showing his hand."
"It is odd. He's prone to strike from cover. A clean kill and get away fast. He's got a good location in Niagara with access to the rest of Canada or the States. Unless that's what he wants us to think."
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