A String of Beads

by Thomas Perry

  Jane breathed deeply, watching and waiting, judging the two men’s course as they backed toward the tunnel that would lead them out of the mine and up to the parking lot. Thirty-two feet per second, she thought. Thirty-two, then sixty-four, then ninety-six. Now. She dropped the heavy rock. It fell, gaining speed.

  One of the men seemed to hear something, or maybe have a vague premonition. He lifted his face just as the heavy rock plummeted down from the sky, obliterated his skull, and pinned his lifeless body to the ground.

  His companion spun and ran into the tunnel. Earlier Jane had looked down the tunnel when she’d seen it from the car, and she knew it was at least 150 feet long, a 20-­degree upward slope on gravel and perpetually wet stone. She turned and began to run.

  Jane was up and over the gentle rise at the top of the hill in seconds, and then she made her way downward quickly, sliding when she needed to, until she was just above the tunnel entrance and to the right. She looked around her for any object she might use as a weapon—a stone, a piece of wood—but she saw nothing.

  Jane heard him coming. His feet slapped into a stream of water, scraped when they slipped on loose stones, and squished when he stepped in mud. His breathing was loud and rasping, the run burning his lungs and sapping his strength. Jane took out her lock-blade knife and opened the blade.

  The man reached the end of the tunnel. He was big, but he was gasping for breath and walking unsteadily. He still carried his pistol in his right hand and a flashlight in his left. As he took his first step into the open, Jane sprang, landing at his back. He started to spin to bring his gun around but she thrust her knife into his back and withdrew it. He seemed to ignore the wound, maybe wasn’t aware of it yet. He turned, trying to bring the gun around toward her, but she stayed behind him.

  She couldn’t let him pivot to face her, so she threw her left forearm around his head to cover his face and hold on, brought her knife across his throat, and stepped back. He fell before he could complete the turn, and the gun and flashlight fell beside him as he did. Jane stood still for a few seconds while the blood pooled on the carved-out rock under him and then seeped down to mix with the trickle of water that flowed into the tunnel. Then she began the walk down the tunnel into the open-pit of the mine.

  When Jane approached the end of the tunnel, she stopped and called out in Seneca, “Come out now. They’re all dead.”

  30

  Beautiful summer days like today were precious, and ­Lorenzo Malconi knew that at his age he had probably seen most of the ones he’d see. He felt secure and content, sitting on the chaise longue with his feet up, his eyes closed behind his dark sunglasses. He knew Andy Spato was in the kitchen with Vacci drinking coffee, probably telling each other stories full of exaggerations, the way young guys did. Every thirty seconds or so, one of them would take a look through the sliding glass door at him to be sure he was okay. Knowing that made him feel safe while he was weighing options, working on plans and speculations.

  Sometimes he would remind himself of things to keep his memory strong. He had never liked the feeling of suddenly realizing he had overlooked a detail or forgotten to keep track of an operation for a while. Whenever that happened, he would send somebody to invite the people involved to his house to report directly to him how things were going.

  This afternoon he was thinking about the storage business outside Avon. Little Angela was now serving as the official owner for him, but of course, the business was his. There were many things an imaginative man could do with that business, more than just storing things that Daniel Crane’s crew of half-wit burglars stole from suburban homes. People—customers—drove through that gate, parked inside the high fence, and went into the office. They drove vans and trucks right up to their storage bays to load or unload. What better place could there be to handle the sale and distribution of merchandise of any kind? One storage bay, ten by fifteen feet, would probably hold all the heroin ever sold in Buffalo. A few bays would hold all the cocaine. He left that idea to mature in the recesses of his brain and settled back into his chair, seeing the orange-red glow of the sun through his eyelids.

  A shadow fell on Mr. Malconi, like a cloud across the sun. He was still warm, but the shadow gave him a chill. He opened his eyes, and there was a person standing at the foot of his chair, back to the sun, so at first it was only a black silhouette.

  He hadn’t heard the sliding door open, so he turned his head toward it. He could see Spato and Vacci through the glass. Spato was still sitting at the table, but his head was down on the tabletop, cradled in his arms, as though he were in a deep sleep. His coffee cup was on its side, and the coffee formed a pool on the kitchen table and dripped onto the floor. Vacci was lying on the floor at the other side of the room. “Spato!” Malconi shouted. “Spato! Get out here!”

  “Don’t bother. He’s going to be asleep for a long time. So is the other one.” The voice was a woman’s. “There was GHB in their coffee. I knew it was good stuff because I got it from Daniel Crane’s supply.”

  Malconi looked in her direction and started to sit up, but he could see now that she had a gun in her right hand. She held it downward with her arm straight, but all she had to do was lift it. “Who are you?” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter. I brought you something.” She tossed a manila envelope on his lap.

  He picked up the envelope and peered into the open end. There were a couple of sheets of paper printed with photographs from a computer, and he could feel some smaller stuff loose in there. He emptied it onto his lap.

  There were four little plastic cards. Drivers’ licenses. He picked one up, and saw the blue print across the top—­Massachusetts—and the man’s photograph twice, one big and one small. A little green silhouette of the state. He looked at each license. Louis Pantola, an address in Boston. Gerald Migli, Michael Tissenti, also Boston. Anthony Bollino, Newton. The names and faces meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly who they were.

  He picked up the first of the printed sheets and looked at the pictures. They had been taken at night, with a couple of bright flashlights on them. One of them was a man with his head crushed and a big stone beside it. Another was lying with his body strangely twisted, as though he’d been hit by a car. The third picture was of a man who had been shot in the chest. The last one was lying facedown in a pool of blood from a wound high up on his body. “Jesus,” he whispered to himself.

  He put the driver’s licenses and the sheets back into the envelope and looked up at the woman. He could see she was tall and thin, and she was dressed in black jeans, a black pullover, even black sneakers.

  “You killed all these guys?” he asked.

  “Some of them. But that’s another thing that doesn’t matter.”

  “Then what does matter?”

  “It matters that you and I understand each other.”

  “Why would I want to understand you?”

  “Because if I think you’re not listening to me during the next two minutes, your life will end in that lawn chair.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “From now on, if any men like the ones in those pictures come near Jimmy Sanders or Chelsea Schnell, you will die. There will be no more warnings, no way to take anything back. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then I’ll leave you now.”

  The woman turned and opened the sliding door into his kitchen, closed it, walked past the unconscious Spato, and then disappeared into the front of the house. Mr. Malconi stood up and listened, holding his breath. He heard his front door slam. He took a deep breath and let it out. She was gone.

  Mr. Malconi reached into his coat pocket, took out his cell phone, and pressed Salamone’s number.

  “Yes?” said Salamone.

  “It’s me. Get over here now. Bring Cantorese and Pistore, and
at least two more guys. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Mr. Malconi ended the call.

  He dialed a number he knew by heart because he would never put it, or any of a few others, in a phone’s memory. He stood up while it rang.

  The phone rang and then he heard the voice. “This is Joe.”

  “Joe,” he said. “This is Lorenzo Malconi. I’m calling with some very bad news.”

  “I know already.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s been all over the Boston TV news yesterday and today. It was a massacre. The reporters act like they won the lottery.”

  Malconi said, “I’m deeply sorry. Of course I’ll help the families. I’ll have a man bring some money to them, and deliver it in person.”

  “Are you going to send some money to make up for what those four were earning for the organization?”

  “You know I can’t hope to make this up to you. But I’ll be sending a man to you too, so you’re not left with a bad feeling. I asked for a favor, and you responded like a friend. I’m sorry.”

  “You told me this was just some guy, and maybe his girlfriend. They had help. I want to know who.”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Malconi.

  “Well, when you find out, maybe you’ll send me their heads in a box,” Joe said. “I’d better be going. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Malconi ended the connection and put the phone back in his pocket. He went to his chair and lay back in the sun, but didn’t close his eyes. This time he listened to his heartbeat. It was faster than normal, but it was still strong and regular. A man his age could have a heart attack after an experience like that, but Lorenzo Malconi was not easily frightened. He began to consider his situation calmly and rationally. He thought about the strange woman with the gun. He had heard threats and ultimatums before, and he was good at detecting whether they were empty bluff or serious. This one he could not ignore. She had come here to show that she could get to him anytime she wanted and put a gun to his head.

  Five minutes later, he was still thinking about what had happened to Joey Corpa’s four men. The man with the crushed skull made him remember the head injuries that football players got. It was a miracle any of them had any brains left when they got to the pros. People were saying that football might be outlawed and then the families would lose the billions they made on the weekly betting slips. He knew that was a stupid worry. America loved its blood sports. Getting them to outlaw pro football would be like getting the rabble of Rome to vote to outlaw gladiators.

  But maybe there was a way to pull an insurance game. If he and one of the New York families formed a clean-looking insurance company, they might be able to sell special concussion insurance to all the mothers of little football players, elementary through high school. He began to play around with names for the company. He liked the names that were midwestern cities. Maybe Topeka Mutual, or Springfield Casualty. It might be even better to use a whole state. Wisconsin seemed to be a good, trustworthy state for insurance. Wisconsin Health and Life.

  He heard something and looked toward it. There was Salamone, coming out through the glass door from the kitchen. Salamone said, “What the hell happened to Spato and Vacci?”

  “They’re just asleep. You can have your guys put them in beds in a minute,” Mr. Malconi said. “That manila envelope on the table. Take a look inside.”

  When Salamone took out the papers, his expression went stony, and Malconi was reminded why he liked the man. Salamone took out the four driver’s licenses and fanned them like a poker hand. He put them all back into the envelope.

  Malconi said, “Those are the four guys Joey Corpa sent from Boston to the address we got for Miss Chelsea. They were going to make sure she wasn’t around to testify against our boy Daniel Crane.”

  “I see,” said Salamone. “How did you get these?”

  Malconi said, “Joey Corpa had a guy fly here to deliver them.” There was no practical reason to tell Salamone about the woman. “The licenses have the addresses of the dead guys. You ought to send somebody to give each family some money. And some for Joey too. He took a big loss.”

  Salamone sighed. Every time he saw Mr. Malconi, it cost him money. “I’ll do it today.”

  Malconi squinted up at him. “One more thing. We’ve gone about as far as we can for Daniel Crane. I’m tired of thinking about him.”

  TECH SERGEANT REID OF THE state police sat in the passenger seat of the large surveillance van as it drove toward the parking lot of Box Farm Personal Storage. He didn’t like the vehicle, and he didn’t like leading an operation from the rear. But in the open space in the back was his friend Tech Sergeant Ike Lloyd. Ike was belted into the bench seat, and bouncing him around too much was not a good idea while he was still recovering from his bullet wound.

  Reid watched the first state police cruiser pull up to the gate and the driver pull out a ticket so the automatic gate would open. As the gate rolled aside, a trooper got out of the passenger seat and stuck a steel pipe through the chain link of the gate to keep it from closing. Then he wrapped a chain through the gate and around the steel support pole, and clapped a padlock on it to lock the gate open. The state police car pulled into the lot and parked.

  The next seven cars pulled in after it and parked. Out of each car came four troopers, a few of them carrying shotguns or assault rifles. The first men into the building clambered up the stairs, and by the time the van carrying Reid and Lloyd cleared the gate, the place had been secured.

  “I’ve got to go up and find Mr. Crane, and serve the warrant,” said Reid.

  “This looks like the time for it,” Lloyd said. He watched Reid go inside and up the stairs. This was the first really good morning Ike Lloyd could recall having since he’d been shot. There were now teams of technicians and auditors and men from the DA’s office waiting out on the road for a radio call from Reid inviting them to come in, and he judged it wouldn’t be more than a few minutes before they’d get their invitation.

  Reid came back and got into the van. “Crane’s not here. There’s a guy named Thompson who’s supposed to be in charge today, so he’s been served.”

  Reid picked up his handheld radio and said, “All right, ladies and gentlemen. You may proceed into the lot and begin your work.”

  Before he put his radio down, the other vehicles began to move, each one entering the lot and parking in one of the customers’ spaces. Others kept going out to the ends of the rows of storage bays to begin their search and inventory. Some of the troopers in the office would be going over the list of bays and the people who had rented them, looking for familiar names or the names of people who didn’t exist.

  Reid said, “Ike, what were those bay numbers again?”

  “J-nineteen and C-fifteen.”

  “Okay, let’s start with J-nineteen.”

  A few minutes later, Ike Lloyd was standing with his crutches beside Reid while a trooper used a pair of bolt cutters to take off the lock of J-19. As soon as the lock was off, the trooper opened the hasp and raised the metal garage door. The bay was empty except for two plastic coolers, each about five feet long and two feet deep.

  One of the technicians took photographs from outside the bay, then more photographs as he moved inside. After a few minutes of examining the floor and the two coolers and a period of fingerprinting, another pair of technicians arrived.

  They removed the duct tape from the first of the two coolers using a pair of needle-nose pliers. They put the tape in a plastic bag to preserve any fingerprints they might have missed. Then they flipped the latches holding the cover down tight.

  One technician lifted the top up on its hinges and recoiled visibly, and then recovered. There was a young man,
dead, wearing a dark shirt and an open black windbreaker and jeans. The smell was the distinctive and terrible reek of a corpse.

  Reid and Lloyd stepped closer. “I’m not sure who this is,” said Reid. “You know him?”

  Lloyd said, “Not by name. But I would say he’s the missing man from my night at Slawicky’s. See the holes in his shirt? Looks like number four buckshot. That’s the load from the shotgun in my car.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Reid. “Double aught has only nine pellets. He’s got at least a dozen holes I can see, and probably the rest were still clumped together when they hit his chest.”

  The technicians went to work on the second cooler, removing the tape and putting it in another evidence bag, and then flipping the latches and opening the cooler.

  Lloyd and Reid stepped closer. Reid said, “Who do you suppose this is, Ike?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s Mr. Daniel Crane himself.”

  31

  The sounds of heavy traffic woke Mattie Sanders. She had never lived in such a noisy place. She didn’t mind getting up, because she had always been an early riser. But here she was in a city where the sirens of fire trucks competed with the horns of the taxi drivers to keep a person from sleeping.

  Each morning when she opened her eyes it took a few seconds to place herself on the planet. There was always a surprise that she wasn’t in her house on the reservation where she had lived with Clinton Sanders until he’d died, and where she had raised their boy, Jimmy. The sounds her brain had been listening for had been the chirps and warbles of birds, maybe the distant scream of a hawk far overhead, but she heard cars instead, and her mind jumped to Hanover. But after that she had become fully awake and remembered they were in Philadelphia now.