by Maureen Tan
“Nothing,” she said, “clues a suspect onto us faster than an accumulation of cigarette butts.”
Her name was Josephine Jones—JoJo—and, during my first few years with the organization, we were often assigned together. She was systematic and logical, rarely intuitive. A leveling influence, Mac had called her. We were on assignment at Ballyshannon when her car blew up with her in it.
I took a deep breath, considered having another cigarette, then froze as I heard a footstep crunch on the driveway’s crushed pecan shell surface. I focused in the direction of the sound and saw nothing but swirling fog.
Noiselessly, I stepped back into the flower bed, crouched beside the steps in the deep shadows at the front of the house.
Now the footsteps approaching the house were more cautious, making only the slightest noise with each new step. Visibility was no more than five feet, so I doubted I’d been seen. But I knew the smell of my cigarette would linger in the damp night air.
Long past time I gave up smoking.
A figure wearing a hat, dark jeans, and a waterproof poncho emerged from the fog. A canvas sack hung from one of his shoulders. He wore leather gloves. Undoubtedly, a Browning 9mm was somewhere near at hand.
It was foolhardy to startle an armed man.
I cleared my throat noisily, stood slowly, held my hands wide spread and away from my body. I waited, giving him a moment to register my identity. Then I leaned back against the white balustrade, dug the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, shook one out, and lit it.
“Damn it all, John! You scared the hell out of me.”
* * *
We sat, side by side, on the bottom step, alert for the sounds of an approaching vehicle.
“Polite people call before dropping by. It keeps them from getting shot. Which I would have done, if I’d had a gun.”
John grimaced.
“Sorry, but I wasn’t planning a visit.”
“Worse yet. Means you were skulking about and got caught. Sad, what old age does to a man. Happy birthday, by the way. Fifty-four, isn’t it?”
“Fifty-three, thank you very much. And I wasn’t skulking. I was checking the bloody perimeter.”
“On whose orders?”
“Mac said something about protecting you.”
I tensed. Mac had betrayed me after all, I thought. He was endangering Alex just as he had the other residents of my building in London. If anything happened to Alex because of him . . . After I’d killed Sir William, Mac would be safe nowhere.
I took a long drag on my cigarette, exhaled slowly, and, when I could do it without emotion, spoke.
“Is there some reason I need protection?”
“That’s something only you know. The arson team reported that the fire started inside your flat. In the bedroom closet.”
I pressed my eyes shut briefly, shook my head, cursing myself for assuming Mac’s people were the only ones who had entered my flat.
“Bad news?” John said.
“Joey—Alex’s sister—called me. She left a message on my answering machine and included her phone number. With an area code. And someone took a shot at me yesterday.”
John accepted the information as matter-of-factly as I offered it.
“Mac was right to send me.”
I sighed.
“Yes, he was. When did you arrive?”
“This morning. I bought a motorbike without a title for cash. An older Harley. It’s quite nice. I rode out here and set up shop in a shack not too far away, in the nearest habitable structure along this stretch of bug-infested swamp.”
“An abandoned bait shop?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Talk is, Willie’s spirit is a bit restless. Seen any ghosts?”
“No self-respecting ghost would live in those conditions. Only person I’ve seen in the area—besides you, of course—was a black man. Fishing.”
I couldn’t resist.
“What did the fisherman look like?”
“Old, thin, and wiry. Why?”
“Nothing, really. Did you ride your motorbike over here? I didn’t hear an engine.”
“Actually, it’s an easy, if very damp, walk from there to here. Once you’ve crossed the bridge, there’s a path. It’s muddy, what with the river lapping at its edge. But it’s a bit of a lark hiking in warm weather and not having some sniper looking on.”
He would think that.
“Be careful, John. This isn’t the English countryside. Among other things, this perimeter has venom and fangs.”
“I remembered from last time and came prepared.”
He pulled a penlight from his pocket and briefly spotlighted a pair of thick-soled leather boots. What little leather I could see beneath the red mud was pebblegrained and golden brown.
He flicked off the light.
“Bullhide lacers. The salesgirl at the Western shop assured me that all the cowboys love them.”
I responded to the hint of self-mockery in his voice.
“So, naturally, you bought them.”
“Naturally. Right after she convinced me they were impervious to snake bites.”
I laughed, then said: “Unfortunately, the problem involves a bit more than the occasional wandering reptile. There’s someone out there who seems to enjoy leaving venomous snakes in unexpected places.”
I told him about Alex’s stalker.
“Nasty,” he said. “Callaghan strikes me as the consummate team player. I’d think he’d have every cop in Savannah—every cop in Chatham County—on alert.”
I nodded.
“You should have seen them when Alex was shot. They swarmed like angry bees, pursued every lead, furious that someone dared strike at one of their own. Tommy thinks that fellow actually ended up in prison in Miami. Unrelated charges. But he wouldn’t admit to the shooting. He died in a knife fight right around the time I left for London.”
“Callaghan must have his reasons for protecting the stalker.”
His voice made it a question.
“Damned if I know what they are. Though he did make it clear that he’d arrange for protection for me in a heartbeat. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to take him up on his offer.”
“That would certainly make my job easier.”
I lit another cigarette off the end of my old one, spent a few minutes smoking, looking out at the fog, manipulating scenarios in my mind. Then I said: “If it’s Sir William who’s after me—and Mac seems to think it is—do you think he’s the type to do the job personally?”
“Probably not. No way to know. What are you thinking, Jane?”
“Let’s make Joey’s innocent phone call work for us. Make this location work for us. It’s familiar territory, unpopulated, and the environment is relatively easy to control. Certainly it’s safer for me to take a stand here than to risk being ambushed on some busy London street. There’s a good chance we can take out whoever is behind all of this.”
Beside me, John shifted. I turned my head in his direction. His elbows were on his knees and, as he spoke, his attention remained on the ground between his feet.
“Dangerous,” he said. “You’re better off enlisting the police and getting some numbers on your side. I can’t watch your back around the clock.”
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll stay close to the house. You stay at the bait shop, concentrate on the road. For anyone unfamiliar with the area, that bridge provides the only practical access to Alex’s place. Even the locals won’t risk the river when it’s this high.”
John agreed, sat up straight, faced me.
“So, any progress in the memory department?”
Obviously, Mac had seen fit to give John specifics about my situation. I tensed, certain that he’d also been instructed to probe for details and wondering what John’s involvement would cost me.
I butted my cigarette and shredded it before answering.
“I’ve remembered a few things,” I said warily. “Alex
is helping me.”
John surprised me by changing the subject.
“By the way, do you have a weapon?”
My shoulder muscles relaxed.
“No. I traveled light. Though, given the circumstances, that situation needs to be remedied. Soon.”
“I thought that might be the case. The fellow with the Harley had some other merchandise for sale.”
He opened his canvas bag, pulled out a revolver. A Colt Cobra. With its snub-nosed, two-inch barrel, it was easy to conceal, yet possessed considerable stopping power within an eight-meter range. It was a good defensive weapon.
I took it from him, spent a moment looking it over, touched the side latch, swung out the cylinder chamber. Empty.
I looked at John.
“Ammo?”
He dug around in the bag again, eventually came up with a box of .38 Special cartridges. Before handing them to me, he started to say something, then glanced in the direction of the Colt, stopped speaking, and frowned.
I followed the direction of his gaze, realized that John’s eyes were well adjusted to the dark and that he could see I was supporting my weak right arm with my left hand. I let go, held my left hand out, palm up, and gestured with my fingers for him to give me the box.
“It’s no good without bullets.”
“You think you can manage to load it?”
He sounded worried.
I chose to misinterpret the question.
“It’s been a while since I’ve used a revolver, but if I remember correctly . . . One bullet at a time, isn’t it?”
He laughed.
The sound of a car turning on to the property brought our conversation to an end. John stood hurriedly.
“Time to rush back to my shack for dinner. I do so love MREs, particularly the pork chow mein.”
I made a sympathetic noise. Though they were lightweight, bug- and rodent-proof, and required no refrigeration, Meals, Ready-to-Eat were notoriously unpalatable. American soldiers, for whom the rations were developed, had nicknamed them “Meals, Rejected by Everyone.”
John lingered for a moment longer, rattled off a cell phone number, then opened the canvas bag he carried and handed me four black boxes. They were small enough that I could have closed my hand comfortably around any one of them.
“If you need help, just call. If I see anyone suspicious, I’ll phone, then follow them.”
He turned, walked across the drive, and disappeared into the fog.
I shoved the crystal-controlled room bugs into the pocket with my cigarettes and lighter and hurried up the front steps, already considering the best spots to plant them. John and I had used ones like them on other assignments. They had a transmitting range of about a mile, excellent sound quality, and tiny lithium batteries that were reliable for about five days.
I paused as I reached the door, confirming that the approaching car was, indeed, Alex’s. He drove past the house, low beams on, his speed suggesting familiarity rather than caution. The fog eddied and swirled around the fast-moving car, reflected the red glow of the brake lights as Alex stopped in front of the carport.
I didn’t wait to see the brake lights go off.
I turned, put my hand on the doorknob—
Gasped.
A rattlesnake’s severed head was tacked over the knocker on the front door. Mouth open, fangs extended, eyes sunken. There were smears of blood across the white door.
I went inside, locked the door carefully, rearmed the alarm, and went into the library. I put the revolver, bullets, and listening devices into my purse.
I was still wearing Alex’s coat when I went into the kitchen and opened the back door for him.
He smiled when he saw me, shifting the brown paper sack he carried into the crook of his left arm and putting his other arm around my shoulders. Our lips met, and casual greeting slipped into enthusiasm.
After a time, he noticed my coat.
“I went out front to smoke a cigarette and found another souvenir.”
I showed Alex the front door.
The blood streaks spelled the word “die.”
“This is classic, and you know it,” I said as he stared at the door. “Your stalker is working himself up. He’s no longer relying on fate—God, if you will—to deliver a death blow. He’s becoming more violent, losing his inhibition about shedding blood. Call for help, Alex.”
He shook his head, murmured: “That’s not like him. Not like him at all.”
“Not like whom?”
He shook his head again.
“Let’s eat, before dinner gets cold.”
21
Dinner was from Morrison’s Cafeteria on Bull Street— fried chicken, turnip greens, and corn bread, with egg-custard pie for dessert. Afterward, Alex went upstairs to change into civvies. By the time he returned to the first floor, I had planted John’s bugs. Kitchen. Foyer. Upstairs hallway. Verandah.
I had poured myself a Scotch and was in the library, sitting in front of the computer. I called out to him, invited him to join me, patted the chair next to mine.
As he sat down, I double-clicked on the document called “Jane.”
“This is what happened,” I said. “This is what I clearly remember. There’s more, but it’s too fragmented. Too unreliable.”
I turned the screen toward him.
He read the document slowly, scrolling down to read the second page. Then he moved the cursor back to the beginning and reread it.
“Jesus Christ, Jane,” he whispered finally, his eyes still on the screen.
He turned toward me, looked as if he were about to cry for the child I had once been. And then he stood and held out his hand.
* * *
I lay on my back beneath the kitchen table.
A very peculiar place to be.
Alex lay beside me, his shoulder against mine.
The kitchen was dark, as was most of the first floor. Even the porch light was off, eliminating the usual glow through the eyelet curtains on the back door. The only light in the room was the eerie green glow of the LCD display on the microwave oven. The luminous digits read 8:56 P.M.
Minutes earlier, I’d followed Alex from room to room, watching as he turned off the lights. He paused only once in his task, snatching a pair of throw pillows from the sofa in the living room. He handed those to me, then continued through the living room to the den, where he left a single lamp glowing. Its light wasn’t visible from the kitchen.
He didn’t volunteer any explanation, and I didn’t ask questions, which made the trip through the first floor a study in silence.
His odd behavior continued into the kitchen, where he took a torch from the utility drawer, switched it on, then turned out the kitchen light. He used the torch’s bright beam to guide our trip to the center of the room, then switched it off as—at his request—I ducked beneath the table.
* * *
“Comfortable?” he asked.
The kitchen was warm, the linoleum smooth and cool, and the pillow beneath my head and neck reasonably soft. So, really, I had no reason to complain.
“Uh-huh.”
“Give me your hand.”
He reached over, touched my arm, and followed it to my hand.
I attempted to interlock my fingers with his.
“No, like this,” he said.
He wrapped his hand around mine. It was large, his fingers long. He easily encircled my wrist, engulfing most of my hand in his.
He was strong enough to restrain me if he wanted to.
I pulled my hand away, uncomfortable with the confinement.
My hand slid freely from beneath the weight of his.
He made no move to retrieve it.
“Please, Jane. I know it’s hard for you. But try to trust me just a little.”
I wanted to shout at him.
I wanted to say: What the hell more do you want? I’ve crawled beneath the fucking kitchen table with you. Isn’t that enough?
But the very thought
of those words inspired a bubble of laughter. I smothered the sound with the back of my hand. It emerged as a strangled hiccup.
Relax, I told myself. We’d shared a bed. We shared space beneath the kitchen table. Doubtful that holding hands could be any riskier.
I slipped my hand back into his.
“Good girl.”
Briefly, he lifted my palm to his lips.
Then he switched on the torch, aiming it at the underside of the table. It was covered with writing—block printing, childish calligraphy, and occasionally an adult cursive I recognized as Alex’s.
He turned off the flashlight before I could do more than glance at the messages. They were written with indelible marker and pencil and ink. Some were dated. Most were not. But each message began and ended the same way.
“Dear Mommy and Daddy.”
“Love, Joey.”
* * *
Alex nudged his body closer to mine and spoke quietly. His accent thickened, the way it always did when he spoke about family or feelings.
“It was a Sunday afternoon. I remember that because Joey’d been home from the hospital just two days, and a couple of ladies from church stopped by to drop off some casserole dishes. After they left, I put the food in the fridge, then called Joey. I didn’t get an answer, but she never wandered far, so I hollered up the stairs and out the back door. No answer.
“Then I happened to glance toward the center of the kitchen and saw one of the chairs shift. I looked under the table and found her. Sitting right here with all the chairs pulled in tight all around her. Not playing and not pretending, like I remembered she was always doing when she was real little. Just sitting and staring out. Like she was trapped in some kind of cage.
“And, God knows, I knew what that was like. The Vietcong favored cages for their prisoners. Bamboo cages so small you never for a moment forgot you were trapped, not even when you were sleeping. Once you’d hung there long enough, once you were hurting bad enough, you began thinking, ‘I just don’t want to be here anymore.’ And you’d just kind of let yourself drift away. To someplace better. Somewhere it didn’t hurt.