Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  So he didn’t understand the alarmed reaction. “No, no, you don’t want to do that!” Now, Upshaw’s hybrid complexion paled. The resulting color was eerie. “Look, let’s forget it. Please.” He was begging. “You want some breakfast? It’ll be on the house, for old times’ sake.”

  Ransom tightened the grip on Upshaw’s arm then flattened his hands on the bar, as if planting himself, never to leave until he had some answers.

  Upshaw swallowed and went to get himself some coffee he didn’t seem to want. He returned and fiddled with the sugar shaker, poured in what seemed like a half cup. He didn’t stir it. “You’re not…you’re not law, are you?”

  “Law?”

  “Police, or whatever?”

  Confused, Ransom muttered, “I’m a salesman, computer products.”

  Now Upshaw’s own gaze grew tight, as if he were a truth detector.

  Instinct told Ransom to relent. “Look, Bud, my dad was a mystery to me. This was his favorite hangout after he’d get home from his company. I thought you could tell me a little about who he was, what he talked about, what he did. That’s all.”

  Now, lapsing back to his whisper, Upshaw looked around the tavern. “Okay, sir. Well, first of all, this wasn’t a place he’d stop in after work. This was his office. And as for who he was, please, I’m sorry. Your father was an enforcer.”

  “A what?”

  “He killed people for a living.”

  * * *

  BUD UPSHAW WAS LEANING BACK, now clutching the coffee as if he was going to fling it Ransom’s way and flee in the event of an attack.

  But Ransom Fells simply laughed. “You’re crazy. You’re out of your fucking mind.” Maybe the old guy was senile.

  “No, no. I wish I was. It’s true, sir.”

  Not smiling any longer. “Bullshit.” Still, though, Ransom remembered the look of relief on Upshaw’s face when he learned that his father was dead. Maybe, for some reason, Upshaw had lived in fear of his father. And the old man now said with complete sincerity, “No, it’s not.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Mr. Kale I mentioned?”

  At the ghost table.

  “He was Stephan Kale.”

  Ransom had no clue.

  “Kale was a lieutenant for Doyle back in the seventies and eighties.”

  “Wait. Bobby Doyle?”

  “You heard of him?”

  “Something on A&E or the Discovery Channel.” Head of a largely Irish gang on the South Side of Chicago and in Cicero. Here, too, northern Indiana. Doyle was dead or in prison but the outfit was still around, Ransom believed.

  “Stephan Kale ran their Gary operation from here.” Upshaw waved his arms, indicating the Ironworks. “This was sort of their unofficial office. Your dad was one of the first ones Mr. Kale recruited. It was, I guess, forty years ago, maybe more. Mr. Kale had him kidnap Vince Giacomo’s wife, in River Forest.”

  “The Mafia guy?”

  “Yeah, who’d been moving into Chicago Heights, Doyle’s territory. Giacomo backed off—and paid a half million to get his wife returned. Was your dad’s first job and it went so smooth he was in like Flynn after that. He and the rest of the crew would come in during the day, hang out, get their assignments. Protection money here, bombing a competitor’s restaurant there, more kidnappings, drugs and money laundering. Sopranos stuff. They’d come back at night and hand off the money or report about what’d happened on the job.”

  “That’s not killing people,” Ransom whispered firmly.

  Even more quietly: “But he did that, too. I know it. Oh, hell, yeah, I know.”

  “Impossible.”

  The drippy rag was gone and Upshaw was sipping his coffee, hunched over and leaning close to Ransom. “Swear to God. Sure, they never talked about it out in the open. They weren’t stupid, none of the Round Table crew was. But one day, I found out. See, there was this pipe started leaking in the utility room. I went in to fix it and I was behind the water heater, working away. And your dad and Mr. Kale come in and they must’ve thought the room was empty because he says to your dad, ‘Good job with Krazinski. The DA suspects but my contact tells me they can’t make a case. The coroner’s gonna go with accidental. Doyle’s happy about that, real happy.’ And your father didn’t say anything. Course, he was always pretty quiet.”

  So it wasn’t just me, Ransom reflected. Despite the horrific nature of the conversation, Ransom was oddly pleased.

  Upshaw continued, glancing cautiously around. “Two days before, this star witness in a union embezzlement case, Leo Krazinski, died in a boating accident on Lake Michigan.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And then Mr. Kale goes, ‘There’s this numbers guy in Gary who’s been skimming. He told Ig to go fuck himself. He needs to be gone.’ And then they got all quiet and they must’ve heard me breathing, even though I was trying not to, ’cause next thing I know I look up and there they are staring down at me. I started to cry, I’ll admit it. I was blubbering like a kid. And your dad bends down and helps me up. And reaches into his pocket and takes out some Kleenex. And hands me one.”

  “Yeah, he always carried that packet.” Ransom now realized they maybe weren’t to wipe his nose but were to take care of fingerprints.

  “And he looks at Mr. Kale and he nods and I’m sure I’m dead. You know, this was it. Then Stan bends down and picks up the wrench I was using. And, what the fuck, he unscrews the L-joint I was working on. He looks at it and goes, “Your water’s too hard.” And he looks at me in this way, I can’t describe it, just looks and hands me back the pipe. That’s all he says. I got the message. Just that look, and I got the message.”

  “And the numbers guy?”

  “Ended up in a bad car crash two days later. Both him and his wife burned up.”

  “His wife, too?” Ransom asked.

  “Yeah, I guess because it looked more real, or something. So the cops wouldn’t think it was murder.”

  Ransom Fells closed his eyes and exhaled long.

  “That’s why I was so freaked out, sir, when I seen you. I didn’t know why at first, I just felt somebody stepped on my grave. ’Cause you look like him, you know.”

  This had always irritated Ransom.

  “And, hell, when you told me who you were, I thought maybe the law was after your dad, and you and him were going around taking out witnesses. Or he’d been caught and you were here to settle the score.”

  Though his thoughts were reeling, Ransom actually smiled at this. He felt a curious need to reassure the poor old guy. “No, I just wanted to find out a little about him.”

  “And, man, I sure told you more than you’d ever wanna know. I’m sorry.”

  Ransom now wondered if the car crash in Pennsylvania had in fact been an accident. From the few times he’d driven with the man, Ransom knew his father was a good driver. Maybe back then, car crashes were a popular way for hit men to cover up their crimes.

  Upshaw added, “Maybe he got out of the business, I don’t know. Probably did. He was a decent guy.”

  “Decent?”

  “Well, I mean, he never caused no trouble here. Tipped good. Never saw him drunk.” Upshaw shrugged. “Wish I could tell you more, sir.”

  Ransom pushed off the stool and asked for a coffee to go. When the old man gave it to him and Ransom had doctored it with cream just right, he laid a couple of dollars on the bar but Upshaw handed him back the money. “Naw, don’t worry about it.”

  As he walked to the door Ransom debated furiously. Yes, no?

  Do it, don’t.

  He turned. “Hey, Bud, did he ever mention me?”

  Upshaw squinted, as if trying to wring out memories like water from the dishrag. “Family stuff, things about home, it wasn’t right to talk about them here. This was business. It was like it would disrespect the wives and kids to do that.”

  “Sure.”

  But when he got to the door, his hand on the knob, he heard the man call, “Hey, wait, sir. Wait. You know,
one time, I remember, Stan did say something. Did you go to Thoreau High?”

  “Yeah.” Ransom stared back at the man.

  “Well, I heard him talking about this great play in the last few minutes of a Thoreau–Woodrow Wilson game, a sixty-yard touchdown. He was smiling. He said his kid did a great job. The best play he’d ever seen.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ransom nodded and walked outside, dropping into the front seat of the car and firing it up.

  Reflecting that what Stan actually would have said was, “the kid,” not “his kid.”

  Ransom had never played football.

  * * *

  AND NOW, FOUR HOURS LATER, Ransom Fells was still sitting in the rental Toyota, on the meager hill that overlooked the lopsided softball field. He clutched his cool coffee and riffled through Upshaw’s stories again and again.

  His father a killer…and possibly murdered himself.

  Impossible.

  And yet…

  The old man’s account had seemed too specific to be made up and his troubled face had registered genuine fear that Ransom had come to kill him. Ransom lined Upshaw’s words up against the facts he remembered from his childhood:

  How his father never talked about his job or introduced the family to fellow workers. How Ransom and his brother were never invited to his company. How Stan didn’t want Ransom to get into fights—which might draw the police. How he rarely took the family out in public—for fear of jeopardizing them? How he regularly went hunting solo but never came back with a trophy (and what game had he really been after?). How his quiet, retiring manner was similar to, say, a sniper in Iraq that Ransom knew, who’d never boast about his kills and who was a craftsman who treated taking lives as simply another job.

  One big question remained, however: What was Ransom’s reaction to the news? He simply couldn’t tell. He was too confused.

  It was then that he remembered Annie had called. He listened to her message, in which she’d suggested, no commitment, if he wanted to get together that night she’d enjoy it.

  He now called her back.

  “Hey,” she said, recognizing the number.

  “Hey to you, too.”

  “How’s your day been?”

  If you only knew…

  “Good. Productive.”

  “I’m bored,” Annie said breathily.

  “Well, have dinner with me. I’ll cure you.”

  “I’m quite familiar with your course of treatment, Doctor. Can you fit me in at seven?”

  She really had one of the sexiest voices he’d ever heard.

  “The appointment’s been scheduled,” he said playfully.

  He disconnected and, as he stared again at the field, an electric jolt coursed through him. Ransom Fells actually smiled.

  Of all the weird ironies, learning the shocking truth about his father had suddenly put his own concerns in perspective. The edginess, the tension, the guilt he’d felt when connecting with someone like Annie vanished completely.

  The sentimental journey, which he’d avoided for so many years, had paid off in a way he could never have expected.

  More than he would ever have expected.

  Ransom fired up the car and returned to Chesterton. He finished up his business with John Hardwick then hurried to Annie’s.

  On the way he made up a phrase that was worthy of his ex.

  Absentee reconciliation.

  Ransom liked that. The phrase had two meanings when it came to his father: He’d reconciled with someone who was emotionally absent, even when they were living in the same house, and now who was absent physically.

  An exhilarating sense of freedom coursed through him.

  He parked and made his way to Annie’s front door, rang the bell and heard the thump thump thump of steps as she approached. He noticed that she didn’t play any games—like slowing down, or making him wait.

  Then the door was opening and she pulled him inside fast, smiling and kissing him hard on the lips.

  Ransom swung the door shut with his foot and held her tightly. He cradled her neck, stroking her hair teasingly.

  She whispered, “Don’t you want to examine me before dinner, Doctor?”

  Ransom smiled. Silently, he slipped the Smith & Wesson revolver from his pocket and touched her temple with the blunt muzzle. He slipped the index fingertip into his ear—the .38 special rounds were loud as hell.

  “What’s—?” she asked.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Still, the gunshot was stunning and numbed his hearing. It pitched Annie’s head sideways so fast he wondered if the impact had also broken her neck.

  She thudded to the floor like a sack of ice melt.

  The house was at least fifty yards from the nearest neighbors but gunshots are quite distinctive and he knew he didn’t have much time. Pulling on latex gloves, he dropped to his knees and wiped her lips hard with a tissue to lift any DNA he might have left from the kiss. Then, with a new tissue, he wiped his own prints from the gun and nestled it in her still-quivering hand, which he then dusted with the gunshot residue from this particular lot of cartridges. He then planted around her house a half-dozen items he’d lifted from John Hardwick’s house, after he’d killed the man and his wife a half hour before: dirty socks and underwear, a toothbrush, condoms, a coffee mug. (On Hardwick’s corpse he’d also planted some hairs he’d lifted from Annie’s brush that morning in her bathroom and more condoms, the same brand.)

  The prepaid anonymous cell phone, whose number he’d given Annie earlier, was now scrubbed of his own prints and marked with Hardwick’s; it rested in the dead man’s pocket. The police would find only one message, from Annie—the call he hadn’t picked up earlier. It was “John, hey, it’s me, Annie. If you want to get together tonight, I’d love to. Only if you’re up for it.”

  Ransom had told her his first name was “John.”

  He stood for a minute and surveyed the house, deciding it was a righteous set.

  It was easy to kill someone, of course. What was difficult was setting up a credible scenario so that the police stopped looking for suspects. In the thirty-five killings Ransom was responsible for, he usually found a person to take the rap. The police, forever overworked, were generally happy to take the obvious explanation, even if there were a few holes as to the truth of the incident.

  Murder/suicide was always good.

  The police would conclude that John Hardwick had been having an affair with Annie Colbert and had told her it was over. She’d gone to his house tonight when he got home from work, shot him and his wife and then returned home, taking her own life with the same gun she’d used to kill the couple.

  There were a few people who’d seen Annie and Ransom together. The drunk kid wouldn’t remember anything. The bartender might but the young man had been busy and Ransom had introduced himself as John to him as well.

  Besides, Ransom Fells had a solid cover: a traveling salesman for GKS Tech, based in New Jersey. It was a front, of course, but a very elaborately documented one. And in any case Ransom would be out of this area in twenty minutes.

  Then he was out the door and, sticking to bushes in the backyards of the properties here, he made toward the car, parked several blocks away.

  Ransom’s boss would be pleased. The clients would, too—a money-laundering operation on the East Coast trying to expand into the Midwest and meeting resistance from John Hardwick, who had his own financial game set up here.

  Ransom was pleased, too. And about more than the success of the job.

  Learning what he had about his father had removed one of the biggest draws in his career, one he’d wrestled with ever since joining the operation: the troubled feelings about making a living at murder, so to speak, and the guilt at killing the innocent to enhance your goal.

  Could a death—violent death—ultimately (and ironically) lead to something positive, a reconciliation of sorts?

  Apparently the answer wa
s yes. Not his father’s own death but the killing that was his father’s profession.

  Knowing what he’d learned from the scrawny bar owner had worked a miracle. Now it was clear. He’d been born this way, his father’s son, and there was nothing he could do to change.

  And then another thought struck him like the shockwave from an IED.

  My name!

  Stan’s first job had been the kidnapping of the Mafioso’s wife in the western suburbs of Chicago, at which he’d made his own career…and made Bobby Doyle $500,000—in ransom.

  His father had named his firstborn son after his big break.

  Ransom grinned like he hadn’t done for years.

  He was halfway through Ohio when he received an encrypted email and pulled over; he didn’t want to read it while driving and risk a ticket. His other weapons were carefully hidden under the computer tools, but why tempt fate?

  The message was from his boss at GKS Tech, thanking him for the Indiana job and asking if he was able to take on another assignment—back in his own territory of the New York area. A whistleblower was going to testify against a client—a government contractor, who’d been delivering shoddy military equipment and overcharging for it. The employee had not gone to the authorities yet but was going to do so on Monday. The client needed him dead right away.

  Ransom answered that he’d handle the job.

  A moment later he received another message. It said that Ransom ought to know that the target was presently at home with his wife and two teenage children and would be there all weekend until he left for the DA’s office. It was possible that the entire family would be present when he killed the man. There’d probably have to be collateral damage.

  Ransom typed: That’s not a problem.

  And cut and pasted the address of his victims into his GPS.

  THE OBIT

  a Lincoln Rhyme story

  Memorandum

  From: Robert McNulty, Chief of Department, New York City Police Department

  To:Inspector Frederick Fielding

  Deputy Inspector William Boylston