by Joseph Flynn
Emilie studied him. Thought about how he’d changed over the past year.
“Maybe total is too strong.” She smiled when she said that.
Almost made Kinnard cry again right there.
Emilie’s forgiveness inspired him that night under the Pont d’Iéna.
Maybe the thing to do, he thought, was hold on to Suzi’s ashes until he croaked. Then have Em bring the two of them back to the Seine and—No, he’d leave Suzi’s remains in Paris, buy a space for them at some cemetery or something. That way, Em would have to carry only his urn with her. She could bring their ashes to where he was standing right now. Open the two urns, let their ashes mix in the air and flow away in the river.
Together forever. He’d make sure to treat Em right, live like a monk, do good works, make people forget the old Glen Kinnard. He was sure his daughter would honor his request.
The idea pleased Kinnard right down the soul he never knew he had. He didn’t know how long he stood beneath the Pont d’Iéna lost in thought, but he was certain what brought him out of his reverie. An angry female voice. Screeching in French.
He looked to his left and saw a young couple approaching. The guy was having trouble keeping his balance as they walked. The woman’s voice was loud; the man’s was low. The man was slurring his words; the woman was bellowing hers. The woman put a foot wrong, lost her balance and started windmilling her arms. She tottered toward the water with a shriek.
The man caught a wrist and yanked her back. For a second, Kinnard thought they were going to kiss and make up, be on their way and leave him in peace. Only the guy didn’t kiss her, he said something too quiet for Kinnard to hear. Whatever he said, it wasn’t well received. The woman replied with a shrill rant. Her voice was enough to make Kinnard’s ears ache.
Back home, on the job, he would have taken a billy club to both of them.
But he remembered where he was and how well he’d been treated up until now.
The Frenchman, though, had heard enough from the woman.
He finally raised his voice. “Mon Dieu, ferme la bouche!” Jesus, shut up!
Mademoiselle wasn’t of a mind to turn down the volume. She planted her feet wide, put her left hand on her hip, and vigorously waved her right index finger under the guy’s nose. She kept that up, Kinnard thought, things were going to take a definite turn for the worse.
As if to confirm his expectation, the guy’s face grew tight with anger and he began to shake his head back and forth with increasing vigor. Kinnard was sure he was about to clock the broad: break her nose, blacken her eyes, knock out a few teeth.
The prospect of which made Kinnard’s own jaw tighten. He’d learned enough about France from Suzi to know the country had a Good Samaritan law. It said people were legally obliged to come to the aid of someone in danger or distress, as long as you could help without putting your own precious backside at risk. What you couldn’t do, though, was just turn your back and walk away. The least you were expected to do was call for help.
Kinnard didn’t have a cell phone on him. Didn’t know the police emergency number even if he could find a public phone. There wasn’t a cop or anybody else in sight. So maybe he was in a legal gray area, had a loophole. Yeah, right. A gutless wonder with a microdot conscience might rationalize the situation that way. But a street cop with twenty-five years experience? No way could he split. Even if a hassle was the last thing he needed right now.
His temper climbing fast into the red zone, Kinnard was about to speak out when the Frenchman took him by surprise. Kinnard thought he’d seen it all, but this guy showed him something new. He caught the woman’s wagging finger in his teeth. Bit down hard enough that she couldn’t yank it free.
The woman’s voice, now filled with pain, rose to operatic heights. So the guy decided to give her something more to complain about. He started whacking her with rights and lefts to the head. Openhanded blows, but hard enough to make her head jerk back and forth.
For a dizzying second, Kinnard’s subconscious projected his face onto the Frenchman and Suzi’s face onto the woman. He felt flush with shame. But self-loathing turned quickly into fury. The shout that erupted from his chest drowned out the sounds of the fight.
“Hey, asshole, leave her the hell alone!”
Kinnard’s outburst made the French couple jump a foot into the air, the woman finally freeing her mangled finger. They both turned to gape at him. Kinnard saw it was the first time the Frenchman realized he was there. But the woman…it seemed to Kinnard almost as if she had been expecting him. Was pissed he hadn’t intervened sooner.
By now the Frenchman saw who he was dealing with: a gray-haired fart holding a vase. He snarled at Kinnard, “Va te faire foutre, papie.” Fuck off, grandpa.
The woman tried to seize the moment to flee, but she turned an ankle and fell.
Dismissing Kinnard as inconsequential, the man turned and started to kick the woman hard. Kinnard couldn’t see the guy’s face just then, but nonetheless recognized himself again in the role of the pitiless bully.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he joined the fray.
5
A street fighter to his core, Kinnard never worried about what was fair. He hit the Frenchman with a straight right to his cheek while the guy was still kicking the shit out of the woman. It was a good solid punch with plenty of shoulder and hip behind it, but it was a bit off target. Kinnard had been going for the hinge of the guy’s jaw. Had he hit the nerve bundle there, it would have been all over. As it was, Kinnard had busted the side of the guy’s face for him, but left him upright.
Well, almost. The force of the punch knocked him back into the woman lying on the walkway. The Frenchman lost his footing, but where a normal guy would have keeled over like a felled tree and smacked his head on the pavement, this SOB went horizontal in the air, spun like he was a plane doing a barrel roll, and his right leg came whipping around. As if he had it in mind all along, he locked onto the urn Kinnard cradled in the crook of his left arm. The bastard’s right foot lashed out and kicked the urn free from Kinnard’s grasp. Sent it rocketing into the night.
Kinnard howled, “No!”
The laws of physics ignored his plea. The urn shot out over the Seine, smashed into the bridge’s support pillar and burst into innumerable pieces. Suzanne’s ashes fell into the river, the portion that didn’t become a dark smear on the damp bridge support.
For a moment, Kinnard could do no more than stare in stupefied disbelief.
A clatter of retreating footsteps reminded him that his business under the Pont d’Iéna remained unfinished. He turned to see the battered blonde hobbling off, her high heels resounding off the pavement. The asshole Kinnard had punched was back on his feet, running a hand over his bruised face and wincing. He wasn’t done, though. He didn’t give a damn about the woman now. He wanted Kinnard. Wanted to put him into the river, as lifeless as Suzanne.
But Kinnard wasn’t ready to go.
Not while the French cocksucker was still drawing breath.
Kinnard watched the Frenchman as the guy moved in on him. Even drunk and with his balance less than perfect, he was light on his feet. He had his hands up, but they wouldn’t be his primary weapons. The Frenchman was a kicker. That was when it came to Kinnard where he’d seen a move like the one the prick had used to kick Suzi’s ashes into the river. SportsCenter. When the cable channel didn’t have enough real sports highlights to show they’d put on some of those soccer trick shots. Guys doing somersaults, kicking the ball past the goalie.
So he knew what to expect: feet. Maybe a head butt. Like the guy who cracked that dago’s sternum with his head in a big game a few years back. He’d been French, too. So watch for that.
The Frenchman was smiling at Kinnard, blood on his teeth from Kinnard’s first shot. Looking like he was a wolf about to eat a lamb. Confident little fuck. Kinnard figured he had three inches and thirty pounds on the guy, none of it fat. Maybe it was Kinnard’s gray hair that had him fooled. That was th
e case, hooray for gray.
The Frenchman spat out a gob of blood and started to say something.
Kinnard loved it when assholes talked. Their minds were on getting out whatever it was they had to say. Not on fighting. Kinnard shot forward and hit the prick with two lefts and a right while he was still yapping. The lefts set him back on his heels and the right lifted him off his feet.
Damn, if he didn’t do a backflip instead of going down hard. Fucker went into a roll right out of the flip and popped back up to his feet. Like he was made of rubber or something, the asshole just kept bouncing back. He was still hurting from three shots to the head, though, and Kinnard wasn’t about to give him any time to recover. He closed on the guy fast.
Not fast enough. The Frenchman’s right foot shot out, going for Kinnard’s groin. Would have ended the fight right there if he’d connected. Kinnard would have collapsed like a sack of shit and been available for stomping. No fancy getaway moves for him. But he managed to turn just enough to take the kick on his left thigh. It felt like he’d been hit with an axe.
He staggered backward and now the frog pursued, kicking right, left, and right again. Like a boxer throwing combinations and, Jesus Christ, were his legs strong. His first two kicks were directed at Kinnard’s head, only Frenchie hadn’t gotten the range yet, underestimating Kinnard’s height. The kicks caught Kinnard on his shoulders, felt like he’d been hit with sledgehammers. The last kick was another try for Kinnard’s crotch. He managed to sidestep that one completely, get both hands around the guy’s ankle, lift it high into the air, and then hold on so the fucker wouldn’t be able to do any more acrobatics.
Kinnard used his grip on the Frenchman’s leg to drive him straight down to the pavement. The back of the guy’s head hit first, followed by his torso and keister. A series of satisfying cries of pain reached Kinnard’s ears. He’d finally put some real hurt into the sonofabitch. There was a question in Kinnard’s mind, though, whether that last gasp of agony might have his own.
The pain in his left leg was ratcheting up fast. God, had that bastard frog ruptured his femoral artery or something? Was he dying on his feet? Not that he was going to be standing long if the throbbing in his leg kept getting worse.
And, God Almighty, that French bastard was getting to his feet again. No fancy moves this time. He was using both hands to push himself upright. If Kinnard had had his gun with him, he would have emptied the whole clip into this guy. Then crack his skull with the barrel. But he didn’t have his gun, and here came the Frenchman again.
He was trying to take a run at Kinnard but the fall had messed up his wiring. He wasn’t light on his feet anymore. In fact, he was having trouble just staying upright. If Kinnard had had two good legs to work with, he could have stepped out of the way, given the guy a little shove and sent him into the river. With any luck, the prick wouldn’t know how to swim.
But fancy footwork was no more available to Kinnard than his gun. Still, he was able to see what the Frenchman intended to try. No kicks this time. Not with those wobbly legs. Not with the raw hatred in those eyes. The guy was going to try to kill Kinnard with his head. He wasn’t tall enough to go tête à tête—head to head—so he had to try to crack Kinnard’s chest. Just like that other French guy in that big game.
Head butts were fight finishers, sometimes fatally so. There were only two good countermoves. The first was to get out of the way. But it was already too late for that. The second was too meet the hard surface of the attacking skull with something that could absorb the blow without damage, something that would overwhelm the integrity of the cervical spine.
The heel of Kinnard’s right palm shot forward to collide with the Frenchman’s thrusting forehead. The bones of Kinnard’s arm were stronger than those anchoring the Frenchman’s head. The smack of flesh on flesh was followed by the crack of the frog’s neck breaking. He went down like he’d been shot. His legs twitched twice and then he was still.
Kinnard didn’t see any of that. The jolt of hitting his opponent’s head was instantly transmitted to the shoulder the Frenchman had kicked. That pain combined with the agony in his left leg was more than consciousness would tolerate. He collapsed alongside the Frenchman, his head coming to rest atop his opponent’s outstretched arm.
When the cops found them two hours later it looked as if the battered American lay in the fond embrace of the Frenchman he had killed.
Chapter 2
Washington, DC, Sunday — May 31st
1
As much as possible, which was usually not all that much, Sunday was a day of rest for President Patricia Darden Grant and her husband James J. McGill. Thing was, for the majority of the world, Sunday was not the sabbath, and there were plenty of godless cruds who worshipped only their own blood-soaked ambitions. Dealing with them, regardless of the day of the week, was the duty of the president. McGill kept more regular hours, but Saturday and Sunday were often given to maintaining paternal ties to his three young children living in Evanston, Illinois. But on that Sunday at the end of May the world’s more serious miscreants were in passive mode, and Abby, Kenny, and Caitie McGill were all content to speak with their father for five minutes and pass the phone along, ending with their mother, Carolyn.
“Things really that quiet?” McGill asked his ex-wife, with whom he maintained amicable relations and a common devotion to their children.
“Abby’s bottling something up,” his ex said. “You’ll probably be hearing from her soon.”
“I’m going to London with Patti, remember.”
“We’ll still be able to reach you, won’t we?”
“Yeah,” McGill said. “All I meant was if anyone needs me, it’ll take longer to get home.”
McGill, a former police captain in Chicago and a former chief of police in Winnetka, Illinois, now worked private investigations under the business entity of McGill Investigations, Inc. He was between cases at the moment, conveniently allowing him to accompany his wife to that summer’s G8 meeting in London. The president had told him she’d like him to be her dinner date at a little get-together the Queen of England would be hosting at Buckingham Palace.
Being a dutiful husband, McGill had, of course, accepted.
How often did a private eye get to eat with the president and the queen?
But if any of his kids really needed him, he’d have to express his regrets.
“Hold on a minute,” Carolyn told him.
She must have placed her hand over the phone, but McGill could still hear muffled shouts back and forth between Carolyn and their kids.
“They said they’ll be all right for the next week or so.”
“Caitie want me to get something for her in London?”
“Of course. They all do. Caitie’s just the only one to ask.”
McGill laughed.
“I think she’s got something cooking, too. She’s had some secretive phone calls.”
“A boyfriend already?”
“No, I don’t think so. But something.”
“Kenny’s fine?”
“Yeah.
“How about you?”
“Just had my annual physical. All systems go.”
“That’s great. Say hello to Lars for me.”
“Will do. Tell Patti to keep up the good work.”
2
After brunch, McGill and the president repaired to the cozy room in the Residence known as McGill’s Hideaway. The furnishings were two immensely comfortable leather arm chairs with hassocks and a matching sofa. The chairs were used for reading or, in season, staring at the flames in the fireplace. The sofa, eight feet in length, had been used for moments of First Couple impetuosity, after fluffy White House towels had been spread to keep the leather unblemished.
McGill and Patti had vowed to each other that such instances would never be included in either of their memoirs.
At the moment, the president’s henchman was absorbed by a story in the sports section of the Chicago Tribune. The Bear
s, the headline story said, had shocked the city by pulling off a blockbuster trade for an All-Pro quarterback. This was such an unlikely event that many of the team’s faithful, including McGill, had felt it would be preceded by the return of a Republican mayor to City Hall.
Given the decades of dismal performance the team had suffered at the quarterback position, McGill, like many, was suspicious of this development. He scanned the story to see if there was any mention the incoming player had, say, turned up lame before the Bears acquired him. That, possibly, his old team was going to put the poor fellow down before they got the Chicago team to fall for a chump trade.
The Trib reported no physical defect in the would-be hero.
Daring to hope, McGill looked up from the paper and smiled.
He saw that Patti was looking his way. She’d been amusing herself for the last hour reading briefing books on the upcoming economic summit. There had been a lot of agonizing in the U.S. press lately about China overtaking the United States as the world’s largest economy. McGill thought comparative measures were overvalued. You didn’t see the Swiss sweating things like that. They kept making their chocolate and precision timepieces and yodeling in their mountains.
Individual wellbeing was more important than national aggregates, McGill thought. But what the hell did he know?
“Jim,” the president said, “I’d like you to tutor me.”
Apparently, he knew something.
“In what?” he asked.
“I’d like to learn some basic Dark Alley.”
The anything goes, street-fighting-codified, martial art McGill’s uncle had taught him. He gave Patti a look.
“You intend to kick someone’s ass when you get to London?”
3
Rather than answer directly, Patti gave him a politician’s bob ‘n’ weave.
Sometimes she couldn’t help herself.
“I’ll do a favor for you,” she told him.