by Andrew Grant
“I didn’t say I’d seen dogs. I said these were dog cages. Which they are. Look.” She pointed with her right foot to a metal tag attached to the mesh low down at the side of her cage. It said HOUND COMPOUND INC.
If these were dog cages, where were the dogs? I’d had more than my fill of trouble with them in the past, and there was no room in my plans for them now. Especially not big, angry ones. I scanned the rest of the basement. There were no leads or bowls or baskets. No packets or cans of dog food. No dog paraphernalia of any kind. No dog hairs on the floor. No smell of dogs. And no sound of barking.
Maybe the dogs were dead.
Maybe a previous owner had left the cages behind.
Or maybe these cages hadn’t been bought with dogs in mind.
A door banged above us, then I heard footsteps on the stairs again. The three guys reappeared. The older one was carrying a rectangular tray. It was brown plastic with fake wood grain like they use in cheap cafeterias. Two items were on it. Something tall and square wrapped in shiny white paper, and a small bottle of Coke. It was plastic. There was no cutlery.
The driver took the tray and the older man fished in his pocket for the keys. He motioned for me to move back then opened the door. The driver put the tray down just inside the cage. He moved slowly and kept his eyes on me until he’d stepped back out and fixed the padlock into place.
“There you go,” the older man said. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Maybe I will. Then what?”
He studied me for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer.
“Someone wants to speak to you,” he said, finally.
“Who?” I said. “When?”
“Someone important. They’re on their way now. Be here soon. Better eat. Might not get the chance, later.”
He stayed and looked at me levelly for another few seconds. It didn’t seem threatening. More like he was curious about me. Then he turned and led the others back upstairs.
I picked up the tray, took it to the back of the cage and sat down. I took a mouthful of Coke—nice and cold—and then unwrapped the white paper package. A sandwich was inside. The largest sandwich I’d ever seen in my life. It was fully three inches thick. There were two large chunks of white bread crammed with dozens of slices of pastrami and big wedges of Swiss cheese. Mustard was dripping out between the layers. Fitting it into my mouth would be quite a challenge.
“This is huge,” I said to the woman. “Like some? There’s plenty for both of us.”
She came across to the boundary of the cages and had a look.
“Don’t like pastrami,” she said.
I shrugged and picked up the sandwich.
“Suit yourself.”
The woman waited until I’d finished eating and then moved down inside her cage so she was level with me. She leaned forward and took hold of the wire. Her hands were close together, about shoulder height, and I could see her wrists were bound with the same kind of cable tie as mine.
“Same jeweler?” I said, raising my arms. She smiled.
“Sorry about before,” she said. “If I was rude.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“ ’Cause I could really use a friend right now. Think we could be friends?”
“No. I shouldn’t think so.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“Different taste in sandwiches. I might want more pastrami, you’d insist on something wholesome—it would be a disaster. We’d probably kill each other inside a week.”
“Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Could be a problem, the food thing. Think we could work around it?”
“Maybe. In the circumstances.”
“That’s good. ’Cause I really need to talk. You mind? You’re not one of these silent, solitary-type guys are you?”
“Me? No. I’m like the village gossip.”
“Good. But, you know, I’m not normally chatty like this. If we were in a bar right now, I’d be trying to decide whether to take my hat off to you or punch you in the face.”
“Well, given you’re not wearing a hat, I’m glad we’re where we are.”
“Nothing personal. Just I’ve got a funny feeling you’re in the same line of work as me.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“How so?”
“Bit of a coincidence, both of us ending up here, if we were.”
“I don’t agree. You follow the same story, you end up in the same place. You’re bound to.”
“You’re following a story? You’re a reporter?”
“Like you’re not. And forget about following. You’re not following. You’re stealing. My exclusive. And somehow getting further with it than me. You asshole. You must be very good.”
“Listen, don’t worry. A reporter is the last thing I am. Journalists and me—we’re like oil and water.”
“Really? I’m offended now. What’s wrong with reporters? Everyone should mix with us.”
“Nothing’s wrong. But let’s just say we don’t really seek publicity, where I work.”
“Where do you work?”
“My office is in London. I do a lot of telecoms consultancy. For the government. Tend to be a bit secretive, some of those guys.”
“Sounds interesting. That why you’re in New York?”
“See? That’s why we don’t mix. Can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Sorry. But my problem is, if you were lying, that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say.”
“Good point. Maybe next time we meet I’ll be picking up the Pulitzer and you’ll be on table Z, crying into your Chardonnay.”
“You know about the Chardonnay? Now I’m really suspicious.”
“Yeah—I was there last year, at the ceremony. Hiding behind the curtains, deciding which big scoop to steal.”
“Then you would never have got mine. I never talk about a story until it’s published. Except to my editor. It brings bad luck.”
“It brought bad luck anyway. I’m guessing it was your story that got you in trouble?”
“So it would seem.”
“What happened?”
“Two guys—the same two that got you—set up a meeting. In a parking lot. Said they had information for me. Then they pulled guns. Put me in the trunk of their car. Drove me out here. It was horrible. I nearly puked.”
“Any idea where we are?”
“Not really. But it’s quiet. And from the length of the drive I’d guess maybe Connecticut? Upstate New York?”
“When did they grab you?”
“Three days ago.”
“Been here all that time?”
“Apart from trips upstairs, to the bathroom.”
“Will anyone have missed you? Raised the alarm?”
“No.”
“What about your editor?”
“Haven’t got one yet. I pitched it to everyone. No one bit.”
“So you’re working it on your own, anyway?”
“Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“No. I like that. It shows commitment. But what were you stirring up that’s worth all this trouble?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Wouldn’t waste my time asking if I did.”
“Could take a while.”
“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.”
“OK then. It basically started as a social justice piece. I got details of all the homicides in Manhattan over the last twelve months. It was a long list, so I broke it down by clear-up rate. Then I looked at the NYPD’s results. I wanted to see how much is based on the victim’s background.”
“What did you find? Anything conclusive?”
“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. Institutionalized discrimination, from one end of the city to the other.”
“Based on what?”
“It’s like this. If a Wall Street guy gets hit, the police go hell-for-leather. The killer’s as good as caught before the knot gets tied on the toe tag. But if it’s a bum, the detectives go straight t
o the paperwork. Kick it down to Open Unsolved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. They even have their own code for it. ‘NHI’—No Human Involved.”
“It wasn’t like that last night. I found a bum’s body and the NYPD were all over me like a rash.”
“That was different. The way I heard it, there was something a bit special about the victim.”
“How did you hear that? I thought you were locked up in here?”
“I overheard the guys talking, before they went to pick you up.”
“How did they know?”
“I just heard them talking,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “So is it true? The victim was an FBI agent?”
“Yes, he was,” I said. “But they only found that out later. The NYPD didn’t know at the time.”
“See, this federal thing is confusing me. I looked into all the organized groups that could possibly enjoy killing bums. Or benefit from it. Gangs, property developers, white supremacists, psychos, other bums, you name it. And the bureau didn’t factor in once.”
“So?”
“So what am I missing? I’ve got a lot riding on this story. If there’s a huge hole in it, I need to know.”
“There’s no hole. The feds aren’t involved in your story.”
“But their guy was disguised as a bum. He was killed in Manhattan. That’s a coincidence?”
“Why not? It’s a big city. Must be dozens of investigations going on, all the time.”
“What were they looking at, then, the guys you spoke to?”
“Don’t know,” I said. After all, she was still a reporter. “They kept their cards pretty close. But it was clear they were only looking at things that happened outside the city.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then thank goodness,” she said, turning her back to the dividing wall and sinking to the floor. “I thought I’d missed something. If all this was for nothing . . .”
I shifted around the corner so I was sitting nearer to her. We ended up almost back to back, our right shoulders separated by the mesh. Her thick black hair was spilling through into my cage. Some of it was touching my arm. She twisted her head to look at me and a strand tickled my cheek. It smelled of coconut.
“What’s your name?” I said. “I want to look out for your byline.”
She smiled.
“Julianne,” she said. “Julianne Morgan. You?”
“David Trevellyan.”
“David, can I ask you something? I’m curious.”
“Sure.”
“About the FBI. Did they give you a hard time?”
“Not especially.”
“Why did they pull you in, then?”
“The NYPD had a tip from a bogus eyewitness. It threw them off the scent for a while.”
“But the feds believed you in the end?”
“We came to an understanding.”
“They didn’t want to throw you in jail while they checked out your alibi, or whatever?”
“They may have preferred me to hang around a little longer.”
“So why let you go? Did you pull some lawyer trick?”
“Dialogue had stalled. It was time to explore other avenues.”
“What does that mean?”
“I felt I could contribute more to solving the case if I was free to operate in a less restricted environment.”
“In other words, you escaped?”
“If you like.”
“Oh yes, I do like. How? What did you do?”
“Not much. Just walked out the door when they weren’t looking.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Any chance of fixing it so these guys aren’t looking? So you could walk out of here, too? And take me with you?”
“Absolutely. When the time is right.”
“When the time is right? When will that be?”
“Someone’s coming to talk to me. It would be rude to leave without having a chat.”
“Screw ‘rude.’ I’ve been here three days.”
“Another couple of hours won’t hurt.”
“David, ever thought what they’ll do when they don’t need us anymore? Like maybe after they’ve talked to us?”
There was another bang above our heads, then two people’s footsteps clattered down the stairs. Julianne slumped forward like she’d been shot.
“Too late,” she said.
The two younger guys appeared from the bottom of the staircase.
“Your boss here?” I said.
They ignored me and crossed to the front of Julianne’s cage. The guy who’d driven me here had the keys. He opened her door. Julianne stood up and backed away.
“Where are you going?” he said. “Come on. Out.”
Julianne didn’t move. The driver stepped into her cage. She retreated. He followed her into the corner, grabbed her upper arm and hauled her out. The passenger pulled the door shut after him.
The padlock was one of the old-fashioned English kind. You can’t just click them shut with one hand—you have to hold the hasp in place while you turn the key. They’re more awkward to use, but I prefer them. No effort has been wasted on decoration or convenience. It’s all gone into making them solid and functional. They look uncompromising, like they belong in an ancient jail or dungeon. My door had the same kind.
The driver finished with the key and the two guys moved back toward the stairs, dragging Julianne between them.
“Don’t worry,” the driver said as they passed me. “You’re next.”
That would be fine for me.
Maybe not for Julianne.
Certainly not for them.
ELEVEN
So far, all my assignments have been in cities.
All except one, that is. It started out OK. I had a roof over my head, running water, cooked food. But things soon went downhill. It spread into the jungle. In Colombia. And I hated it. The entire place was full of creatures that spent every waking moment trying to kill you. Everything that walked or crawled or slithered or swam or flew was absolutely lethal. Even the frogs were poisonous. Apart from one type. Some exotic species that was all covered in bright red and yellow blotches. They’d evolved that way to fool people into thinking they were dangerous, apparently. Like the guys who’d taken Julianne, in many ways. Only there was a problem with that approach. Some predators fell for it and walked away, unwilling to take the risk. The rest just steamed in harder.
That may have worked for the frogs, half the time.
But neither result was going to suit me.
Julianne was brought back after only twenty minutes. I took a good look at her as the driver shoved her through the cage doorway. She seemed pretty composed. Not in any obvious pain, anyway. I tried to catch her eye but she didn’t lift her head. She wouldn’t stop staring at the floor.
The driver opened my door and glared across at me, alert and anxious. He was standing bolt upright, chest out, chin up.
“Your turn,” the driver said. “The hell you waiting for?”
“Nothing,” I said quietly, making sure not to look him in the face.
I hesitated for a moment, then wearily hauled myself to my feet. I made a real meal of it, slumping my shoulders and bowing my head. Another few seconds slipped away. The driver was beginning to relax, not perceiving a threat. Another long pause dragged by and, finally satisfied, I crept timidly out of the cage.
The passenger took my right arm and held it while the driver swung the cage door shut. When he had both hands on the padlock, concentrating, I stamped my right heel down sideways into the passenger’s left kneecap. He yelled, dropped my arm, and doubled over in pain. Struggling for balance, he hopped drunkenly back, hunched up, hugging his injured leg to his chest.
The padlock hit the floor. The driver was starting to react. His right hand was moving to his waistband, toward the shiny .38. But before he could grab it, my left elbow reached the side of his face. It was hard to get the power with
my wrists bound so close, but I caught him well enough. His head flopped sideways, full into the frame of the cage door, and he went down.
I turned back to the passenger. He’d straightened up and was taking some weight on his left leg again. His face was twisted with fury. His left hand was clenched into a fist, and as I watched his right hand appeared from behind his back, holding his .45. I sprang forward, slamming into him, hands out in front of me, pushing his arm back down. The gun jammed into his groin. I went to twist his arm up and around, ready to break his elbow, but I couldn’t get the leverage with my wrists tied. I was short of options, so I just drove my forehead straight into his face. It was rushed, but still enough to break his nose—I heard the crack—and knock him backward onto the floor.
He dropped the gun as he went down. I kicked it sideways under the nearest set of shelves. He lay still for a moment, then rolled onto his front, struggled onto all fours, and clawed himself upright using the wooden frame like a ladder. He turned to face me. Blood was gushing from his nose, covering his chin, and already soaking into the front of his shirt. He took a limping, unsteady step toward me. I let him take one more, then swung my right knee up hard, high into his rib cage. He folded over in front of me, too winded to yell any more, so I smashed my fists down into the base of his skull, stepped aside, and left him to fall.
The driver’s Colt had fallen out of his waistband when he went down, so I leaned over and retrieved it. It was a nice weapon. The wooden grip felt good in my hand. My thumb hovered over the safety. Two each in the head would seem like a fair return. But that would be too noisy. It would attract the wrong kind of attention.
The driver had landed facedown, so I put his gun in my pocket and knelt down beside him. I put my right knee between his shoulder blades and took hold of his head, hands by his ears, ready to twist.
“David,” Julianne said, in a kind of hissing whisper. “What are you doing?”
She was at the front of her cage, only a couple of feet away. Her fingers were through the mesh and her eyes were wide and staring.
“Oh, my God,” she said slowly, her voice shaking. “You’re going to kill him.”
It was a long time since I’d worked with civilians. I’d forgotten how they can react in this kind of situation. Failing to neutralize those guys would be ridiculously naïve. Let them live, and you know what would happen. They’d pop up later, guaranteed, trying to put a bullet in your back. But on the other hand, I couldn’t tell how she would respond to seeing me do it. If she panicked I wouldn’t be able to take her with me. She’d been upstairs. She might be useful. And if I had to leave her behind, I couldn’t see her getting out on her own.