The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  'Don't bother. Look!' She pointed ahead. As the road curved the town came into view, nestled in a high mountain valley, surrounded by snowcapped peaks. Overlooking the town to the right was a large hotel with white walls and a red roof, set against a backdrop of towering cliffs.

  'Pretty, isn't it?' Freeman said.

  'It's the Stanley Hotel,' Mersiha said. 'Stephen King stayed there for a few nights when he was working on The Shining: 'How do you know that?'

  'Research,' she said, tapping the side of her nose. 'I thought it'd be covered in snow, like the hotel he described in the book.

  How high are we?'

  'About seven and a half thousand feet above sea level. There's snow on the mountains.'

  'Yeah, but none around the town.' Between the road and the hotel was a large lake, most of which was frozen over. Geese were walking unsteadily across the ice, flapping their wings to keep their balance.

  'What road are we looking for?'

  Mersiha scrutinised the map and a photocopied sheet of directions. 'Elkhorn Avenue. We have to go through three sets of traffic lights.' They drove down the main street, which was lined with quaint gift shops and charming restaurants and cafes, all with a rustic feel. Through shop windows they saw displays of wooden howling coyotes, silver jewellery, Indian rugs, pottery and headdresses. The tourists on the sidewalks were mainly young and dressed casually: ski jackets, jeans and sunglasses.

  Mersiha directed him to the rental agent's office and they parked outside. It was surprisingly warm when they climbed out of the Bronco, especially considering the time of year. Like Mersiha, he'd expected the town to be deep in snow.

  They went into the office where an overweight middle-aged woman was typing a letter on an old battered typewriter. She looked up and smiled. 'Is Mr Hellings here?' Freeman asked.

  'Not right now,' the woman said. 'I'm expecting him any minute. Are you Tony Freeman?'

  'That's right. We've come to pick up the keys.'

  The office door opened and a small balding man appeared, polishing a pair of wire-framed spectacles. 'Oh, Sam, this is Mr Freeman,' the woman said.

  'Good to see you,' said the new arrival, shaking Freeman's hand firmly. He took off his suede jacket and hung it on the back of a chair while the woman handed Freeman a bunch of keys and a photocopied map.

  'Is there anywhere around here I can hire a portable phone?'

  Freeman asked.

  Hellings grinned. 'Most of our guests prefer privacy,' he said.

  'We don't get much call for phones.'

  'I guess so. But I could sure do with one to keep in touch with my office.'

  'I'll see what I can do,' Hellings said. 'Come around tomorrow afternoon.'

  'Will do,' Freeman agreed. He studied the map. The route had been highlighted with a fluorescent marker pen. He handed it to Mersiha. 'There you go. You can navigate.'

  'Does this mean I get to yell at you and blame you for not following my directions?'

  'Ha ha. Get in the car.'

  'You should visit the supermarket first,' the woman said.

  'There's milk in the refrigerator, but that's all.'

  Freeman waved goodbye and headed for the Bronco. The supermarket was marked on the map and they bought steaks, coffee, eggs, bacon, bread and vegetables. Mersiha was quiet, and several times Freeman caught her looking off into the middle distance, frowning and biting her nails.

  The cabin was at the end of a long, winding track that crossed a bubbling stream and followed the treeline for almost a mile. It was built of pine logs with a deck at the rear which overlooked the wooded hillside. There was a stone chimney at the side of the cabin and by the side of the track was a stack of cut wood that was almost as high as the Bronco. There was an axe embedded in a tree-trunk on the ground, but Freeman clearly wouldn't need to use it – there was enough firewood for an entire winter. The cabin's shutters were open and they could see red and white gingham curtains gently moving in the wind.

  'It's beautiful,' he said as he parked. Mersiha seemed strangely subdued. She walked slowly up the flight of wooden steps that went up to the deck from which the main door led off. She held out her hands and Freeman threw her the keys. 'Wow. Look,' she said, pointing above his head. High above was a brightly coloured hot-air balloon moving across the sky. The only sound was the distant roar of its propane burners.

  'Yeah, we'll see about doing that, if you like,' he said. He carried the bags up the steps as Mersiha opened the door. The cabin was furnished with big leather sofas with Indian rugs on the wooden walls and floors. On a rugged carved sideboard was a Panasonic stereo system, a big-screen television and a video recorder.

  The kitchen led off the main room. There was a huge fridge freezer and Mersiha helped transfer the provisions. 'Think we've enough food?' Freeman asked, but she just shrugged. He ruffled her hair and she smiled, but her heart didn't seem to be in it.

  'We could barbecue, if you wanted,' he offered. 'There's one on the deck.'

  'Sure.'

  'Are you all right?' She nodded and Freeman didn't press it.

  There were three bedrooms upstairs and he let Mersiha have first choice. She selected the smallest of the rooms and dropped her bag at the end of the single bed.

  Later they cooked the steaks outside over glowing charcoal and Freeman boiled sweetcorn and potatoes on the massive electric stove in the kitchen. They decided against eating on the deck. As the sun went down cold air came spilling down the hillside and Freeman had to light a fire in the grate. The food tasted all the better for the mountain air, he thought, but Mersiha didn't seem to derive much enjoyment from the meal.

  She washed up and then told him she wanted an early night.

  'Sure,' he said. 'It's probably the altitude. They say it makes you tired until you get used to it.'

  'Yeah, it must be that.' She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the forehead, then hugged him tightly. 'I love you, Dad,' she whispered.

  Freeman patted her on the back, frowning. She was behaving like someone who was about to leave on a long journey, and he was suddenly worried. She broke away and went upstairs. He sat down to read as he heard her turn on the shower. She seemed to stand under the water for ages, as if trying to scrub away a lifetime of dirt, but eventually the flow of water stopped and he heard her pad to her room. After a while he climbed the stairs. The door to her bedroom was ajar and he saw her sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror, a hairbrush in her hand. She seemed frozen, the brush suspended in mid-air, a faraway look in her eyes. She jumped when he pushed the door open, then smiled, albeit tensely.

  'Let me do that,' he said softly, taking the brush. He brushed her air with long, slow strokes, watching her in the mirror. 'You can tell me anything, you know that.'

  She nodded. Her eyes seemed to be brimming with tears, though it could just have been a trick of the light. 'I know,' she said.

  'I mean anything. You're my daughter. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, that you could tell me that would ever change that, Mersiha.'

  'I know,' she repeated as he continued to brush her hair.

  'I'll always love you, no matter what. You'll always have my support, one hundred per cent.'

  She reached around behind her back and held his hand, keeping her eyes on his reflection. 'Dad, it's all right, I know.'

  Freeman put the brush on the dressing table and leaned against it so that he could face her. He stroked her hair and she smiled up at him. The white hairs caught his eye and he held one between his finger and thumb. 'Don't pull it out!' she said quickly.

  'I wasn't going to.' He ran it through his hand and then let it fall back into place. 'Have you always had them?'

  'No. Not always. Stjepan used to say…' She fell silent and avoided his eyes.

  'Stjepan said what?'

  'All my hair used to be the same, black,' she said, still not looking at him. 'Then they started to go white when I was twelve.' Mersiha began to tremble. 'Stjepan said… he said that every
time I killed a Serb, one of my hairs would turn white. So that I'd never forget.' She looked up suddenly, and this time there was no mistake. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She stood up and flung herself at his chest, hugging him with all her might. Freeman held her in his arms and told her that everything was all right, that she was safe and that he loved her. As he comforted her he couldn't stop himself trying to count the white hairs. There were more than a dozen.

  The telephone jerked Katherine awake. She groaned and stuck an arm out of the quilt, groping around until she found the receiver. It was Mersiha. 'Hiya, kiddo. What time is it?'

  'It's seven o'clock, so it must be nine where you are,' she said.

  'Are you still in bed?'

  'I was just getting up. How come you're up so early?'

  'The mountain air, I guess. Plus, I'm still on Baltimore time.'

  'How's the cabin?' Katherine kept her eyes closed, trying to block out the sunlight that was streaming through the gap in the curtains.

  'The cabin's great. Dad and I are going snowshoeing.'

  'Snowshoeing. Be careful, won't you?'

  Mersiha tutted. 'Of course. What are you doing today?

  Shopping?'

  'Food shopping, young lady.'

  'Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do you want to speak to Dad?'

  'No.'

  'No?'

  'I was joking, kiddo. Put him on.'

  Katherine heard Mersiha whisper that she was still in bed, then Tony came on the line. 'Kat?'

  'Snowshoeing, huh?'

  'Hiking, but we'll take the snowshoes in case we go above the snowline.'

  'Just be careful, okay?'

  'Cross my heart.'

  'I miss you, Tony.'

  'I miss you too.'

  'No, I really miss you.'

  'That's nice.' **Not from where I'm lying, it's not.'

  'We'll be back soon.'

  'Yeah, I know. Take care, honey. Oh, do you have a number there?'

  'Not yet, but the agent says he might have a portable for me this afternoon. I'll call you if he comes through.'

  'I'd feel better knowing that I could get you in an emergency.'

  'We'll be fine. There's not a flake of snow around the cabin, I promise.'

  'That's good to hear. Make sure you eat well. And be careful.'

  She yawned and she heard Freeman laugh.

  'Go back to sleep, Kat. I'll call you again soon.'

  'Bye, honey.' She dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

  Thirty seconds later she was asleep.

  Bzuchar Utsyev slept until almost midday. He didn't shower or shave, just dragged on his clothes and headed downstairs.

  Vincenti was cooking up a batch of spaghetti sauce in a huge stainless-steel pot and he looked up when Utsyev walked into the kitchen. 'Coffee, boss?' he said.

  Utsyev wasn't sure when Vincenti had started calling him 'boss', but at least he seemed respectful when he said it. He'd quickly adapted to working as part of Utsyev's team, and seemed eager to help, but Utsyev still resented him for allowing the girl to get close to Gilani. 'Yeah, coffee.'

  'Black, two sugars,' Vincenti said. He must have asked one of the crew, Utsyev realised. He was sharp, all right. Maybe too sharp. Time would tell whether or not young Vincenti would get taken on a picnic or not.

  'Where's Kiseleva?' he asked.

  'With Nikko in the car outside.'

  Utsyev nodded. He'd told the two men to cover the house, just in case. He sat down at the large oak table that dominated his brother's kitchen as Vincenti poured the coffee. 'So, when's your man gonna call?' he growled.

  'Jeez, I dunno, boss. I don't wanna call him again because…'

  'I don't wanna hear no becauses, Vincenti. I just wanna know who killed my brother.'

  'I'll call him after lunch.'

  As if on cue the telephone rang. Utsyev indicated with his head that Vincenti should answer it. Vincenti turned down the heat under the pan before picking up the phone. Typical Italian, thought Utsyev, concerned more about his stomach than the job at hand. He sipped his coffee. It was good. At least Italians could make a decent cup of coffee.

  Vincenti grunted and scribbled on a notepad, then hung up.

  Other than to say his name when he'd answered the phone, he hadn't uttered a word. He grinned at Utsyev. 'Got it,' he said.

  'The suspense is fucking killing me,' Utsyev said coldly.

  'Sorry, boss.' He read his notes. 'Guy called Freeman owns the HK-4. Anthony Freeman.' He handed him the paper.

  'That's his address.'

  'So it's not a woman?' Utsyev said, frowning.

  'Anthony Freeman, that's what he said.'

  'I know that name.' Utsyev tapped the piece of paper against his chin. 'Freeman. Freeman. Freeman.' He repeated the name like a mantra. 'Shit, now I remember. He's the guy who owns CRW.'

  'The company that Mr Sabatino was interested in? Yeah, you're right. Tony Freeman.'

  Utsyev stood up. 'Let's go and see Mr Freeman.'

  Vincenti glanced at his spaghetti sauce, a look of intense disappointment on his face, but he didn't say anything. He followed Utsyev outside.

  Kiseleva was asleep, drooling against the window of the limousine. He jerked awake as Utsyev rapped on the glass.

  'Come on, we've got work to do,' Utsyev growled.

  As he climbed into the back of the car with Vincenti, Utsyev had a thought. 'Hey, this CRW guy that was working with my brother. The coke-head. What was his name?'

  'Anderson,' Vincenti said. 'Maury Anderson.'

  'Yeah, that's the guy. Let's go pick him up first.'

  .

  'Can you manage?' he asked Mersiha, who was grappling with the fasteners on her own shoes.

  'Yeah, no problem,' she said. 'They're just like tennis racquets, aren't they?' She stood up and held her arms out to the side. 'All done.'

  'Let's see you walk, then,' he said. She waddled across the snow, the shoes making hissing sounds as they brushed the surface. Freeman was impressed. 'You've done this before,' he said.

  'My father taught me, years ago.' She looked suddenly embarrassed as if she regretted mentioning her real father.

  She turned her back on him and walked away. Freeman fumbled with his straps and hurried after her, throwing the rucksack over his shoulders.

  Mersiha stopped and let him catch up. 'Your dad taught you well,' he said, trying to let her know that it was okay, that he didn't mind her talking about him. In fact, the more she talked about her family, the better he felt.

  'Yeah,' she agreed. 'We went hiking a lot in the hills. He loved walking and stuff but he was a doctor so he didn't get much free time. A doctor in Bosnia wasn't like a doctor in the States. It didn't pay so well and he had to work really hard. I hardly saw him except in the evenings. But we went for a week's skiing holiday when I was ten, the whole family. He taught me to ski and to snowshoe.' She looked up at the snow-covered hillside. 'Race you to the top?'

  'Winner cooks dinner?'

  'Okay.' She frowned. 'Wait a minute, don't you mean the loser cooks dinner?'

  Freeman raised an eyebrow. 'You heard what I said.'

  'But that's not fair!'

  'Pumpkin, life isn't fair.'

  Maury Anderson opened his front door to find Vincenti standing there, a wide grin on his face. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he asked.

  'Mr Utsyev wants to see you,' Vincenti said. He stood to the side so that Anderson could see the stretch limo parked at the end of his drive.

  'Christ, what are the neighbours going to think?'

  'I don't think Mr Utsyev gives a shit what your neighbours think. And I don't reckon it's smart of you to keep him waiting.'

  Anderson's eyes narrowed. 'Where's Sabatino?'

  'Sabatino's dead.'

  'Dead?'

  'Look, Anderson, get your arse into the limo and talk to Mr Utsyev.'

  Anderson took the door keys from a hall table and locked the door. His wife had gone to visit her
mother again, which was the only bright spot in what had all the hallmarks of becoming a very shitty day. What Anderson really wanted just then was a hit of the cocaine he had in his medicine cabinet, but he didn't think that Vincenti would let him go back inside the house.

  'What happened to Sabatino?' he asked, but Vincenti ignored him, opening the door of the limo and sliding in. Utsyev looked like death warmed up, unshaven and bleary-eyed, and he smelt of stale sweat and booze. Anderson tried to smile but he was too frightened. He just about managed to bare his teeth. Utsyev waved to Nikko to drive off. 'Where are we going, Mr Utsyev?'

  Anderson asked. Utsyev said nothing. 'I'm sorry to hear about your brother, he…'

  Utsyev glared at him. 'Shut the fuck up,' he said.

  They drove in silence, with Anderson frantically trying to work out where they were going. He feared for his life and his hands began to shake in his lap.

  'My brother was murdered,' Utsyev said eventually.

  'Oh Jesus, I'm sorry.' Anderson suddenly realised what the implications were and he began to stammer. 'It wasn't me. I didn't, hey, I'd never, I wouldn't…'

  Utsyev held up a hand to silence him. 'He was shot. By a girl.'

  'Jesus Christ.' Anderson slumped in the seat, his arms folded protectively across his chest. At least Utsyev didn't think that he was responsible for his brother's death. After a while he realised that they were heading towards Tony Freeman's house, but he didn't say anything. He could sense that he was on very dangerous ground. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. God, he wanted coke and he wanted it bad. He caught Utsyev looking at him with undisguised contempt, and he pretended to stare out of the window. He tried not to react when the limo pulled into the driveway of Freeman's house. Freeman's car was there, parked in the garage, but Katherine's wasn't.

  'Check the back,' Utsyev said to Kiseleva. He turned to Anderson. 'This Freeman. What's he like?'

  'What do you mean, what's he like?'

  'Is he a hard man?'

  'Tony? No. He's just a regular guy.'

  'The gun the girl used is registered in his name.'

  'No.'

  'Whaddya mean, no?'

  'I mean, it's just not like Tony. He hates guns.'