“Yeah?”
“Was it this exciting for you? With Barbie? Is it always like this?” There was that genuine note of candor in his voice that sprang to the surface spontaneously every so often. Mitch had often both envied and admired it. It was what ingratiated Mario to him and to others. He would open himself to you, trust himself with you, with an honesty and vulnerability that Mitch knew he himself did not possess. Mario, he had often thought, is simply a nicer guy than I am. And I’m glad to be his friend.
“Mario,” he said, finally. “It’s the pinnacle. If we live to be a hundred and fifty, there may never be anything as good. Understand?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Thanks, Mitch.”
“Get some sleep. And congratulations again. Say hello to Angela for us. See you tonight.”
“Mitch?”
“What is it now?”
“I think I found what I’m not looking for.” This time, Mitch noted, he did not giggle as he recited Angela’s thesis title. It was the first time.
“And Mitch?”
“Yes, Mario?” he answered patiently.
“I’m gonna call Max.”
“Max?”
“Max Rosen. In Greenland.”
“You’re gonna call Greenland?”
“Why not? You said this is the pinnacle. This is as good as it gets.”
Mitch softened. “You’re right. Do it. Call fucking Greenland.” He paused. “And Mario...”
“Yeah?”
“Enjoy it. Every minute of it. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Mitch. See you.”
“See you.” He hung up the phone and sat in the dark for a minute without moving, until goose bumps finally rose on his shoulders in the cold room.
“What is it?” Elaine asked.
“Greenland. Fucking Greenland.”
32
Hovering like iridescent silicon bones, the overhead fluorescents blipped past Mitch’s windshield as he eased the Chevrolet up the ramp from the parkway and accelerated west on the Gardiner Expressway. On his left were the faceless, gray shapes of the waterfront warehouses—grain and storage depots holding cargo from the ships that ventured down the St. Lawrence Seaway into the heart of the continent’s east. Beyond them, the dark expanse of the inner harbor was lit only by random lights, and farther out, the shoreline lights of the Toronto Islands. He watched as the blinking reds and whites of a small private plane headed down on an angle toward the local Island Airport.
On his right, the landmark sign appeared on the billboard where it had been anchored for thirty years: JESUS SAVES: call jim...and a phone number. The bottom left section of paper was hanging disconsolately from the sign, a stilled pendulum on the commercial road to salvation. Perhaps Jim didn’t answer anymore, thought Mitch.
He drove on, sliding down the next ramp to the Lakeshore, then onto Queen’s Quay, ever closer to the waterfront.
There were two cars, never far behind him.
It’s happening, Mitch thought. They’re sticking with me.
The adrenaline continued to pump, sharpening and tightening his senses.
Once on Queen’s Quay, he pulled into a municipal parking lot, paid the flat evening fee, and maneuvered the Chevrolet into a spot in the midst of hundreds of other vehicles, constantly alert to his shadows. They were not far behind now. First came the Buick, then within seconds came a Lincoln Continental of similar vintage and color; both had been selected, he assumed, for their power, opulence, and lack of outstanding features. They blended nicely, as they were supposed to do.
Mitch checked his digital: 6:55 p.m. The weather for October was about right—nippy and bleak. And it was dark already, as the remnants of daylight saving time sputtered to a grinding halt. The wind off the lake made it even cooler. He pulled the nylon zipper on his Korean-made Impulse jacket to his neck, snapped the buttons tight around his wrists, cut the jarring chords from the radio in half at the same time he cut the engine, then picked up the two lasers from the seat beside him and slipped one into each of his jacket’s side pockets, securing them with the Velcro press fasteners.
His two shadows were sliding into berths a couple of aisles away. He watched as their headlights were extinguished, each in turn. The island ferry’s foghorn sounded across the harbor.
He breathed deeply and opened the door, stepping out into the night. His heart rate quickened a touch—just enough to pump him full of wary vigilance, to sharpen his alertness. Squinting, he scanned the bleak waterfront, confirming decisions, rerouting others instantaneously. The wind tugged at his jacket and swept a lock of hair the wrong way across his forehead. He ignored it, concentrating instead on his situation, his surroundings, and his plans; ranking priorities clearly, he understood, came from certainty of purpose. And he was certain of his purpose.
Sinking his hands into his pants’ pockets against the cold and hunching his shoulders against the wind, Mitch strode out of the parking lot and along the quay toward the ferry entrance. As he passed the lights of the Harbor Castle Hilton he stopped, ostensibly to peruse a sign posted at its entrance. It gave him a chance, though, to glance fleetingly out of the corner of his eye, without fully turning his head, at the pedestrians behind him. He saw them slow their pace, about thirty meters back: two men, with greatcoats done up tightly at the necks. He read the notice of entertainers and lounges with marked indifference, taking just long enough for at least surface credibility, then turned and walked onward into the wind.
At his back, he could feel, without looking, the unhurried pursuit of his dual harriers, and his mouth tightened in a grim line as he clenched his teeth. Come on, you fuckers. Come on. Keep coming. His hands balled into fists inside his pockets.
He turned abruptly left at the west side of the Hilton and headed for the ferries’ ticket booths. Only a handful of people were awaiting the boats’ arrival at this time of night and in this weather: maintenance personnel, a couple of lovers stuck for a place to be alone, and the few others were probably all headed for the Island Airport. Usually, he thought, the owners of the planes and their associates did not need to rely on public transportation across; perhaps, though, at this time of night...
Not that it mattered. Idle speculation. A few residents of the old, dilapidated, city-owned cottages on Ward’s Island might be among them. And in a city of two and a half million, there was always somebody doing something that defied rational explanation. I know a lot about that, he thought.
The Sam McBride was plunging back across the choppy waters about halfway out, its lights pinpoints in the gray evening. Mitch had chosen it instead of the newer Ned Hanlan, which boarded a bit farther west at the new docks. He liked the tradition of the old ferry; he remembered the excitement of day-trips to the Islands with his parents when he was a kid. The Sam McBride had always been a part of it. The Ned Hanlan, the new hydrofoil, was much more popular, always more crowded, and certainly quicker; for all these reasons Mitch didn’t want to use it. He looked around at the other people and wondered again what their reasons were. We wait, he thought, in the twenty-first century, for a vehicle from the nineteenth century, to carry us to an island that serves no logical purpose anymore. Unless the purpose is personal. He felt the contours of the lasers in his pockets, the security of his Silent Guard under his shirt; then he thought again—bizarrely, he felt—about the times that his parents had taken him across for the day, for relief from the sweltering city, amid the black willows that hemmed the lagoons. He remembered the time his father had rented the quadricycle on Hanlan’s Point, and they had all ridden in it to Centre Island and back. He was musing about his inability to give up the past when the Sam McBride lowed loudly, drawing him from his reverie.
The two gray shadows behind him bought their tickets and attempted to adopt the casual idleness of those about them. Separating, they loitered at opposite ends of the waiting area, their collars turned up against the chill, masking them partially. One of them lit a cigarette.
Mitch could hear th
e Sam McBride slicing through the waves now, could see its foaming wake, a white V churning madly on black water. A minute later, its engines had stopped, then reversed, as it shuddered its way into berth, its two-storied rings of lights bobbing rhythmically to a halt. The landing planks were positioned; the gates opened. A few passengers disembarked, then the handful surrounding Mitch began to flow through the neck of the gates and onto the lower deck, where they scattered randomly, like billiard balls broken from a clump by a slow-moving white ball. Mitch strode halfway to the front, then sat down, his back to the central wall housing the engines, his eyes staring at his reflection in the windows that kept the cold from total invasion. In his peripheral vision, he saw one man sit down very close to where they had entered; the other appeared a moment later at the vessel’s front, apparently having skirted the center section and come around from the other side. He too sat down.
Mitch was between them. He smiled to himself, relaxed, and prepared to enjoy the ride.
Moments after the boat pulled into the Centre Island dock, Mitch rose and walked in the direction of the exit. The shadow ahead of him also rose inconspicuously, and eased into the small group huddled in waiting. Behind him, Mitch knew that the other shadow was also in steady movement. He pressed forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the one ahead of him. A partial success: he noted hawklike features, large, bony ridges shaping the face, as a dull putty knife might carve an apple’s interior; a big man, with dirty blond hair, thinning on top. He turned his back flush to Mitch, preventing further inventory.
The gates opened, beckoning them onto the dark terrain of this flat, fragmented bow of shattered prehistoric peninsula, the land masses that had sheltered the former town of York, making of its shoreline a natural haven for shipping, a place where nature embraced the land in open, arms-wide sanctuary.
A place, Mitch was sure, where people would die tonight. Soon.
They filed out.
It was cold. But that only served to heighten Mitch’s senses. They had been walking about five minutes, Mitch leading his trackers ever farther into the dark isolation of the island’s interior. He relished the reversal of roles. Apparently stalked, but very much the stalker, he was acutely aware that the jackals behind him regarded him as merely another unwary prey.
The wire from his Barking Dog tickled his side with the chill of anticipation.
When he reached the far side of the island, he turned right and headed west, in the direction of Hanlan’s Point, along the vacant asphalt pathway. There was only a sliver of moon, but it hung brightly over the water, the clouds having been scattered widely by the biting wind. Soon, he knew. Soon.
Some trees up ahead. Yes. And a bend in the pathway.
Without even bothering to check, he knew that they were back there—perhaps a hundred meters, perhaps less—shrouded in the darkness and muffled by the wind and the waves flooding rhythmically up onto the beach nearby. They feel safe. And hidden.
Long strands from the black willows undulated weirdly, their tips trailing blindly across the sprouts of dying October grass, swishing noises in the night. Mitch ducked quickly in among them, pressing against the bole of a tree. From there he turned and watched. And waited.
He saw them. Thirty meters. Twenty. He squinted, tensed. There was the one he had identified on the ferry, his thinning blond hair whipping with the wind, his brow beetled. With him came the other man, whom Mitch could see face-on for the first time. Even in the darkness and at a distance he felt their coldness and their menace.
Coldness and menace. The words played in his head. Come and meet your fucking match. Right here. Yes. Here.
The biggest problem was simply that there were two of them. That would be his eventual edge, he knew. But the immediate edge was theirs. He had been hoping they would trail one another with a lengthy interval between, allowing him to deal with them separately. This would be another matter.
Ten meters. Five. No more time.
He reached into his pocket and took out the Bausch & Lomb, feeling a perverse kinship with it. Bonds, after all, are forged with memories and events, and it had served him faithfully.
They passed. As they did so, he stepped silently out from his seclusion within the willow branches onto the pathway, positioned himself firmly, and raised the laser, steadying his right wrist with his left hand.
“Freeze!”
For a moment, they did, stunned at the voice from behind them. Then, it seemed to Mitch, all hell broke loose. In an instant, they rolled in opposite directions, a practiced move that took Mitch by surprise.
He squeezed the trigger. A bolt of blue frost pierced the night, searing the asphalt and the grass as he held the trigger down, arcing his arm in the direction of the one who had rolled off to his right.
A scream! Mitch’s heart pounded. He had made contact. He broke into a run, heading for the sound. Within five long strides, he was there, peering over the squirming body of the man whose face he had just seen for the first time only a minute ago. He was clutching his thigh, where the blood was gushing freely over his hands, and his leg was jerking convulsively. His face was contorted in pain, but beneath the pain, the danger was registering, and he let his leg jerk with its severed muscles as he tried desperately to reach inside his greatcoat and withdraw a weapon.
Mitch kicked him full in the face, snapping his head backward. The man sprawled out unconscious on the grass. Blood appeared slowly from his mouth and nose. Bending, Mitch checked his breathing. He was alive, and would stay alive for a while—if he didn’t bleed to death. Mitch looked down at the leg. Ripping the coat open on the prone figure, Mitch pulled the flannel scarf from around the neck, and used it quickly and crudely as a pressure bandage, stopping the flow from the thigh as best as he could.
No more than ten or fifteen seconds had elapsed when Mitch stood up and peered into the night in search of the other man, who now matched him in the dark one on one.
He had to move, he realized. Have to get away from this spot. He knows where I am, but I don’t know where he is.
Out there. Somewhere.
As he moved, a streak of cobalt heat burned into the grass where he had been standing. Mitch broke into a run, leaving as much space between himself and the tracking point of the laser as was humanly possible—as quickly as possible. He knew a blind swing of the beam could cut down prey, just as he had done only moments ago. Lunging forward, he rolled on the grass, making himself as elusive a target as he could. Then he was up, poised on his knees, the Bausch & Lomb in his hand once more, his eyes hunting in the darkness for the source of the beam that had now blinked out.
A sudden gust scuttled leaves along the asphalt—insidious, random scraping. Mitch held his breath, listening hard.
Nothing.
Out there. Somewhere.
Even if Mitch could see him, he didn’t want to kill him. Not like this. This was not the plan.
Now anger was surfacing within him, drowning the fear and wariness. Goddamnit! I blew it. Then: No...Calmer: Not yet...His hand tightened on the laser, his eyes penetrated the gloom. He sidled to his left, keeping in a crouch, moving stealthily to where he might dare a quick dart across the pathway.
Then Mitch saw him. He had decided to dart across the pathway to check on his partner beneath the willow tree. Mitch watched without moving, now that he had a fix on his opponent, accepting the whims and reversals of fate without analysis. Sometimes, he knew, there was only what happened; there was no why.
He remained still. Then, when he was certain that he was not being observed, he slipped off into the coal blackness and circled, silently on the grass, to approach from the other side. The man with the face like a carved apple had stood up, suddenly aware that his moment of concern for his partner may have been a tactical error, and froze as he listened.
Mitch froze in response.
The leaves scraped the pathway, eddied and died.
His options: rush the man
and tackle him; cut him down right now, while the opportunity existed; shout for him to “freeze,” as he had done before, and hope that this time he might be insecure enough to obey; or maybe aim low on his legs, in hopes of bringing him down without killing him, as he had inadvertently done to the man’s partner.
Mitch’s mind raced through them all, doubling back, leapfrogging forward, trying to foresee consequences, both likely and unlikely, all within the space of a second. Then the man began to move, and instinct took over.
“Freeze!” His own shout took him by surprise. The laser in his hand was targeted on the man standing beside his unconscious accomplice. But he did freeze this time, as did the entire tableau. Even the leaves stopped their rasping slide, and for an instant, in the silence, Mitch felt his body charge with artificial warmth, as a fresh flush of adrenaline was pumped to all his extremities.
The man did not move.
Mitch stepped forward.
Now the stranger saw him, and even in the darkness Mitch could see his eyes narrow with caution. And with hate.
“Hands in the air!”
The man complied.
“Drop the laser.” It fell noiselessly from his fingers to the grass.
They stared at one another, separated by no more than five meters.
Then the man smiled, a condescending smile, full of pity and contempt and false bravado. “You’re making a big mistake, fella.”
Mitch did not reply.
“You hurt my friend. Do you have any idea what kind of payment will be exacted for that?”
“By whom? You?” Mitch bristled. He stepped closer.
Their eyes met. Neither looked away.
“You’re in over your head. Way over your head. Maybe we can still forget about all this, if you’ll just use some sense and put that thing away.”
“I’ll put it up your nose and press the trigger, if you do anything but what I tell you to. Understand?”
The man stared hard at him for a minute, then nodded.
Mitch nodded in return, lengthening the silence. The man lying beneath the tree with his leg wrapped in his scarf moaned incoherently through swollen lips. Then he rolled onto his side and moaned again, only this time the sound was more like a keening for the dead, muted and soulful. The wind, which had picked up a bit, seemed to catch the low anguish and caress it eerily.
Barking Dogs - A Mitch Helwig Book Page 15