The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

'Yeah, well it was his gun. And he's got every reason for wanting to see my brother dead.'

  'But Tony wouldn't do anything like that. He'd fight you through the courts, he'd use lawyers, he wouldn't use a gun.'

  Utsyev snorted in disbelief. 'A man will always fight to protect what he thinks he's going to lose,' he said. He climbed out of the car and walked with Vincenti to the front door.

  Anderson trailed behind. 'I don't think there's anyone in,' he said, trying to be helpful.

  'Yeah? What makes you say that?' Utsyev asked.

  . 'Tony's in Colorado. And his wife's car's not here.'

  Vincenti rang the doorbell. When no one answered, they walked around to the back of the house where Kiseleva was waiting. 'Right. Open the door,' Utsyev said.

  Kiseleva put his shoulder to the door, but before he could smash into it Anderson told him to wait. 'Tony keeps a spare key under the birdbath. Let me see if it's there.'

  He went over to the stone birdbath, tilted it and triumphantly pulled out a brass key. He tossed it to Kiseleva who used it to open the back door. Buffy was there and she growled menacingly. Anderson spoke to her soothingly, trying to calm her down.

  Utsyev went through to the sitting room. Buffy barked and chased after him. 'Buffy, come here!' Anderson shouted, but she paid him no heed. She stood behind Utsyev, growling and snapping at his ankles. Utsyev aimed a kick at her head but she dodged away, still barking. She ran back into the kitchen and barked at Kiseleva.

  'Kiseleva, take out the fucking dog, willya?' Utsyev shouted as he pulled the curtains shut.

  To Anderson's amazement, Kiseleva pulled a handgun from underneath his jacket, screwed in a silencer, and shot the dog at point-blank range. Buffy didn't even have time to whimper: one moment she was on her feet, barking for all she was worth, the next she was dead on the floor, her skull smashed and bleeding.

  Anderson felt suddenly sick and he leaned against the wall for support.

  'What the fuck have you done?' Utsyev yelled at Kiseleva.

  'You said…'

  'I said take the dog out, shit-for-brains. Take the fucking dog outside. Not blow its brains all over the kitchen floor. Look what you've done!'

  'Boss, I thought…'

  'Think? You don't fucking think. You need brains to think, not the crap you've got between your ears.' He shook his head sadly. 'I've just about had it with you, Kiseleva.'

  'Sorry, boss.' Kiseleva put the gun back in its holster as Utsyev picked up a large manila envelope. He opened it and took out glossy colour photographs. He held one out to Anderson.

  'Who's this?'

  'That's Mersiha. Tony's daughter. She's in Colorado with him.'

  Vincenti looked over Anderson's shoulder. 'That's her,' he said. That's the girl that killed Mr Sabatino.'

  'It can't be,' Anderson said. 'She's only just turned sixteen.

  She's a kid.'

  'Are you sure, Vincenti?' Utsyev asked as he scrutinised the pictures.

  'That's her, boss. No doubt about it.' He examined the rest of the photographs. 'That's the dress she was wearing on Thursday night.'

  'This is ridiculous,' Anderson said. 'She's a sixteen-year-old girl, she still…'

  Utsyev slapped him across the face, hard. 'Where are they?' he asked.

  'Colorado, that's all I know.'

  'Where in Colorado?'

  'Tony didn't say. A cabin somewhere. He wanted to spend quality time with her.'

  'I'll fucking give them quality time. Did he leave a number?'

  'There's no phone in the cabin.'

  Utsyev put his face up close to Anderson. His breath was sickly-sweet, like rotting meat. 'If you're lying…' He left the threat unfinished.

  'Boss, look at this,' Kiseleva shouted from the kitchen. He came back into the sitting room, waving a brochure. 'This was on the fridge.'

  Utsyev scanned the brochure and nodded. 'Estes Park,' he said.

  'That's where they've gone.' He looked at Kiseleva. 'Get us on the next plane there. Then call Carelli's people in Denver. They owe us, big time, for that business we took care of for them. Tell Carelli what's happened and say we'd like his help. Then call New York.

  Tell Jenny to get out there with three of the crew. And Kiseleva?'

  'Yes, boss?'

  'Don't shoot anyone unless I specifically tell you to, okay?'

  'Right, boss,' Kiseleva said contritely.

  Mersiha sat on a large flat rock and looked down the hillside to where her father was slowly making his way up towards her.

  'Come on, slow coach!' she called.

  Freeman looked up, panting for breath. 'Sometimes I think you forget that I'm an old man,' he wheezed.

  'You're just out of condition,' she laughed, leaning back and lying on the snow-covered rock. The sky above was a perfect blue, devoid of clouds. The snow was cold against her back but the jacket she was wearing was waterproof and the sensation wasn't unpleasant.

  She heard her father's snowshoes crunching up the slope and a few minutes later he was standing over her, blocking out the sun. 'Okay, you win,' he said.

  'Race you down?'

  Freeman collapsed on to the rock next to her. 'No way,' he sighed, opening his rucksack and taking out a thermos flask.

  He poured hot coffee into two plastic mugs and handed one to Mersiha as she sat up. They drank together, looking out over the magnificent scenery. To the left was the Roosevelt National Forest and to their right were the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountain National Park, their tops covered in snow, the lower slopes bare rock. Nestled between them was the town. From above it looked almost deserted. A lone car drove down the main street, no bigger than a toy.

  Mersiha took off her wool hat and shook her hair free. Out of the corner of her eye she caught her father staring at her, and she knew that he was looking at the white hairs. She put her hat back on again. Freeman sipped his coffee, deep in thought. 'Does this remind you of Bosnia?' he asked.

  'Sure. The mountains, the forests, the clean air.' Suddenly images of Sabatino, grabbing her, hurting her, and then struggling for the gun with blood on his chest, flooded back. She shuddered and the coffee spilt over her gloves.

  When she'd woken up that morning she'd been bursting with happiness at the prospect of a day in the mountains, but within seconds the fear had hit her, like a cold shower. She'd killed a man, and for that there would be a price to pay. Throughout the day there had been times when the fear had retreated and she'd started to enjoy herself, but it always came back. She looked across at her father, but he hadn't noticed her discomfort. He was bending over his rucksack, searching for the egg sandwiches he'd made. She should never have gone to see Sabatino; she'd been stupid to think that she could have handled a man like him. Now she was going to lose her home and her family, and she was going to hurt the person she loved most in the world.

  It wasn't guilt she felt. She hadn't felt it when she'd pulled the trigger and she didn't feel it now. Sabatino had attacked her, and if she hadn't shot him he would have raped her and possibly even killed her. No, under the circumstances she hadn't been wrong to kill him, but it had been a mistake.

  Freeman straightened up and held out the package of sandwiches. 'Want one?' he asked.

  'Maybe later,' she said. Her stomach felt as if it had been screwed up into a tight ball and food was the last thing she wanted. She had half a mind to tell her father everything, but part of her was still clinging to the hope that she might get away with it, that somehow the police had overlooked the gun and that the bodyguards hadn't given them her description. It was a faint hope at best, but at least she didn't have to see the look of hurt in her father's eyes. That would be more than she could bear.

  'Okay, let me know if you change your mind,' he said, and took a big bite out of one of the sandwiches. 'Mmmmm, is it me or does food taste better the higher up you are?'

  Mersiha smiled. 'It certainly doesn't apply in the coach section of a jet at thirty thousand feet, does it?'


  Freeman choked on his sandwich, shaking his head with laughter. He swallowed with difficulty. 'Good point,' he said.

  Mersiha lay back again, her stomach churning. Far above was a bird of prey, flying into the wind so that it remained static above the ground. It was hunting. Freeman shaded his eyes to see what she was looking at. 'It's a peregrine falcon,' he said. 'I used to see them all the time in Scotland. See the jay over there? The hawk's after it.'

  A bird with dark blue plumage was winging its way over the trees. High in the air, the falcon shifted position. It was waiting until the jay was away from the trees. 'He'll be able to see it better when it's over the snow,' Freeman said. Mersiha felt suddenly afraid, as if she were the intended victim, as if it were her the hawk was stalking. 'There he goes,' Freeman whispered.

  The falcon had tucked its wings in and was diving beak-first towards the jay. It accelerated rapidly. The impact was a blur to Mersiha. The jay didn't even have time to cry out. It fell in a flurry of feathers and blood and the falcon swooped down to collect its prize, ripping the flesh with its beak as it kept a wary eye out for other predators.

  'It's horrible,' Mersiha said.

  'It's life,' Freeman responded. 'Survival of the fittest.'

  'The strong kill the weak.' She looked across at him. 'That doesn't make it right.'

  Freeman put down his sandwich. 'Hey, I was talking about animals. I didn't mean…'

  'I know, I know,' she said before he could finish.

  'Killing can never be justified,' he said.

  'What about if someone threatens your family? Wouldn't you kill to protect Katherine?'

  Freeman smiled thinly. 'Only if there was absolutely no alternative.'

  'And if you did? Would you feel guilty?'

  'Of course.'

  Mersiha chewed her lip. Why didn't she feel guilty about Sabatino? Was there something wrong with her, was something missing, a conscience maybe, or a soul? Why was fear the only emotion she felt – fear of getting caught and fear of losing her family? 'Remember last night, what you said about your hair?'

  Mersiha's hand instinctively went up to her head but she stopped herself. 'Sure. Of course I do.'

  'Do you want to tell me about it? Do you want to tell me what happened?'

  She looked at the falcon. It was ripping something long and red from the jay's guts. It hung from the falcon's curved beak like a rasher of bacon. 'I will, Dad. But not just now, okay?'

  She cupped her hands around her coffee as if trying to absorb its warmth.

  Freeman nodded. 'Whenever you're ready, pumpkin.' They sat together in silence as the falcon fed.

  Katherine Freeman opened the front door and dropped the carrier bags on the hall table, sighing gratefully. She took off her coat and checked the answering machine. The red light wasn't flashing. Then she carried the two bags containing food towards the kitchen. 'Supper's here, Buffy!' she called, expecting the dog to come bowling down the hallway, tail wagging and tongue lolling. The silence was a bad sign – Buffy liked nothing better than to go through the rubbish bin looking for scraps, even though she knew she wasn't supposed to. Left on her own, she'd poke through the trash to her heart's content, licking dirty cans and butter wrappers. She'd only be assuaged by guilt when she heard a key in the door. Then she'd go and hide, usually under the kitchen table.

  'What have you been doing?' Katherine called, expecting to hear a guilty growl. Still nothing. Whatever she'd done, it must be really bad. She elbowed the kitchen door open, expecting the worse. The dog lay in a pool of congealing blood, one eye wide open and staring, the other lost in a mass of smashed tissue and bone. Her tongue looked impossibly big as if it had inflated and grown too large for her mouth. The groceries slipped from ^Catherine's arms and spilled on to the floor. A loaf of bread rolled into the puddle of sticky blood. Katherine took a step backwards. She looked around as if expecting to see the dog's killer standing in the corner, then her eyes were dragged back to the dead animal. There was no question that she was dead.

  Her one remaining eye had turned a milky white and the matted fur was quite still.

  Katherine backed out of the kitchen, her breath coming in short gasps. She closed the kitchen door and leaned against it, resting her forehead on the painted wood. She couldn't think why anyone would want to kill Buffy, unless the house had been broken into and Buffy had been defending her territory.

  She frowned and went into the sitting room. There were some valuable silver pill-boxes on a side table, untouched, and a pair of solid silver candelabra, a present from her mother. The fact that they were still there suggested that the house hadn't been burgled. She closed her eyes. Had the dog died of natural causes? she wondered. All she could remember was the blood, and the grotesque tongue. Perhaps Buffy had had a stroke, like Katherine's father. There was only one way to find out. She'd have to go back into the kitchen.

  She took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door. For the first time she noticed the smell of urine and blood, and she put a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. Slowly, taking care to avoid the blood, she knelt down and examined the dog's head.

  There was a small black hole behind its right ear and most of its lower jaw was missing. There were bone and teeth fragments on the tiles and a strip of matted fur against the cupboard under the sink. It was no accident, and it certainly wasn't natural causes.

  Buffy had been shot. Without thinking, Katherine reached out to stroke the dog's flank, but she stopped when she felt how cold it was. Her hand came away bloody.

  She wiped the blood off on her handkerchief as she went into the hallway to use the phone. She couldn't bear to stay in the kitchen. Buffy had been more than a dog; she'd been a member of the family. She dialled 911 with a shaking hand. A bored woman answered. It sounded to Katherine as if she was chewing gum. 'You've got to help me, someone's shot my dog,' she said.

  'Name and address?' Katherine gave the woman her details, becoming increasingly frustrated as the woman insisted on double-checking every spelling. 'Now what happened, ma'am?'

  'My dog. Someone's shot my dog.'

  'The dog's dead?'

  'Yes. Yes, the dog's dead.'

  'What makes you think your dog was killed, ma'am?'

  'What?'

  'How do you know she didn't get run over and crawl into the house to die. I'm sorry, ma'am, but it happens.'

  'There's an entry wound in the back of the head. I've been hunting, I know what a gunshot wound looks like.'

  'And did you see who killed it?'

  'No. She was dead on the floor when I got home.'

  'Do you have any idea who did it? Have you had trouble with your neighbours recently?'

  'My neighbour is a cardiologist at Johns Hopkins. I don't think he fits the normal profile of a dog-killer.'

  The sarcasm was lost on the woman. 'Was anything taken from the house?' she said mechanically.

  'Not that I can see, no.'

  'And you're in no danger?'

  'No,' Katherine said coldly. 'No, I'm not in any danger.'

  'Well, I'll have a patrol car call around later today.'

  'When?'

  'Well, when we have someone available, Mrs Freeman. But to be honest, a dead dog isn't going to rank high on our list of priorities.'

  'So what do I do? Do I leave her where she is for your forensic people?'

  'You can if you want. I'm not sure that they'll send a forensic team out, though. Not for a dog.'

  'But they'll want to find the bullet, won't they?'

  'I really couldn't say, Mrs Freeman. It is only a dog, after all.'

  'It's not only a dog!' Katherine shouted. 'She wasn't just a dog.

  She was…' She realised she wasn't making any impression on the woman on the other end of the line, and she slammed down the receiver. She knew the woman was right. The police weren't going to be over-concerned about the shooting of a pet, not with the city's human murder toll. Baltimore had one of the country's highest murder rates, much of
it drug-related, and barely a day went by without at least one murder. On weekends the toll was more likely to be in double figures.

  She went to pour herself a drink, but stopped in her tracks, staring at the photographs spread out on the table. She was sure that when she left the house all the pictures had been in the manila envelope. She picked up one of the photographs, a close-up of Mersiha, and looked into her daughter's eyes.

  'What's been happening, Mersiha?' she whispered. 'What the hell's going on?' She carried the photograph with her as she went back to recheck the answering machine, just in case Tony had phoned.

  There was no mistake. The red light wasn't blinking; no one had called. She picked up the phone and dialled Maury Anderson's number from memory. He answered on the third ring. 'Maury?

  It's Katherine. Have you heard from Tony?'

  'It wasn't my fault, there was nothing I could do,' he mumbled.

  'What the hell are you talking about?'

  'They made me, Katherine. You don't know what they're like. Utsyev's a killer. Just keep away from them…' The line went dead. His voice had sounded strange, as if his mind hadn't been on what he was saying – the disjointed ramblings of someone having a nightmare. She grabbed her coat and ran out of the house.

  The black limousine pulled up in front of the terminal in a space earmarked for handicapped drivers. 'You wanna wait here while I pick up the tickets, boss?' Kiseleva asked, tugging at the red scarf around his neck, but Utsyev was already reaching for the door handle. Kiseleva caught up with him after a few steps like an eager-to-please puppy. Vincenti followed behind, his gaze sweeping left and right, looking for trouble but finding none.

  There was no queue in front of the first-class counter and within minutes they were heading for the departure gate where their plane was ready for boarding. A black family were loading their hand baggage on to the conveyor belt that fed the Xray machine while a bored security officer was making a young blonde girl remove her hair barrette before going through the metal detector a second time. Utsyev stood in line, tapping the tickets against his leg impatiently.

  'Fuck,' Kiseleva cursed quietly.

  'What's up?' Vincenti asked, chewing on his unlit cigar.