Upside Down

by John Ramsey Miller

  “I've tracked the female.”

  “I'll just bet you have,” Nicky said.

  Winter couldn't believe his eyes when Nicky leaned forward and pressed Hank's cocked .45 against Adams's head.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Winter demanded.

  “Stay calm, Winter. Don't nobody do nothing at all but sit and listen. Mr. Adams here can't call in his FBI pals, because he don't have any.”

  “What?” Winter said.

  Adams turned his eyes up into the mirror.

  “Put that gun away, Green,” he said softly.

  “I don't know who this here feller is, but he sure as hell ain't Special FBI Agent John Everett Adams,” Nicky said.

  “Of course I am,” Adams said.

  “What makes you think he isn't?” Winter asked.

  “Makes me know he isn't, you mean. If you so much as quiver, old buddy, I'll spread your brains all over the dashboard.” Nicky reached his left hand into his left coat pocket and handed Winter three envelopes.

  77

  “What the hell are you thinking, Nicky?” Winter said, looking from the gun at Adams's head back down at the envelopes Nicky had just handed him.

  “Open 'em up and see for yourself,” Nicky said. “If the FBI knows who this bird is, it's probably because they're looking for him. That I.D. he's carrying might as well have come out of a cereal box.”

  “You're making a big mistake,” Adams said.

  “I doubt it.”

  Winter opened one of the envelopes and poured the contents into his palm. A passport. Four credit cards. Wallet-size pictures of smiling people, business cards for a chemical company bearing the same name as the passport. Three business cards from associates to show business contacts, a list of names and telephone numbers.

  “Each one of those envelopes contains a complete identity, down to wallet clutter. I didn't take but half of the ones in the secret compartment in his traveling case, which included two handguns, one fitted with a noise suppressor. Adams here also travels with makeup, wigs, false eyebrows and mustaches, and eyeglasses.”

  “I can explain all that,” Adams said. His face was white with anger.

  “Let's hear it,” Winter demanded curtly.

  “Maybe you ask your pet cowboy to lower his weapon before he pulls a Pulp Fiction here?”

  “No, I don't think I can.” Winter reached into Adams's jacket and took his Glock. “So, let's hear it.”

  “If Green will get out, I will explain everything to your satisfaction.”

  “Yeah, right,” Nicky said. “I'd bet you'd just love that. Being a professional and all.”

  “Who's paying you?” Winter asked. “Bennett? Suggs?”

  “Neither. It isn't anything like that,” Adams said.

  “You kill people for kicks?” Nicky said.

  “Nicky isn't going anywhere,” Winter told Adams. “So let's have it.”

  Adams shrugged. “You might wish he had.”

  “Then I'll just have to regret it later.”

  “I'm not an FBI agent.”

  “No shit?” Nicky said. “I think I already established that. You're a hit man. What I don't know yet is for who.”

  “Did you murder Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked.

  “No.”

  “Where were you when she was killed?”

  “North Carolina.”

  “Even that's true, you know who did. Maybe those assistants you said you had handy,” Nicky said.

  Winter ignored him. “Doing what in North Carolina?”

  “Watching you.”

  “Bull,” Nicky said.

  “I bet you were killing Kimberly Porter, posing as a cop. I bet you ran down Hank and Millie while you were trying to silence Faith Ann and then joined us so we'd find her so you could finish her. Who hired you?”

  “I was in North Carolina,” Adams insisted.

  “And you arrived here when?”

  “I was on the flight with you, Massey. US Air 443. I was in coach. Seat 23-A.”

  “I didn't see you,” Winter said.

  “You weren't supposed to.”

  “He's a lying sack,” Nicky said. “You killed my friend Millie, you son of a bitch.” He pushed the gun harder against Adams's skull, tilting his head to the side.

  “No, I didn't. But I know who did.”

  “Who?” Winter asked.

  “The name won't mean anything to you.”

  “I just bet not,” Nicky said. “Pick an easy one, like Doe or Smith.”

  “Paulus Styer,” Adams said.

  “And of course he's a foreign-coated professional killer,” Nicky mocked.

  “He was born in East Germany. Styer was trained from childhood by the Soviet KGB at their academy. After the country went broke, his handler for the KGB, Yuri Chenchenko turned the group of specialists into a for-profit business. These guys handle wet work for clients all over the world. The Russian Mafia gives them a lot of work,” Adams said.

  “So you're working with Styer?” Nicky said.

  “Not with him. I'm supposed to kill him,” Adams replied. “And I will if you don't sneeze and blow my brains out.”

  “Why did Styer kill Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked intently.

  “He didn't.”

  “How do you know that?” Winter repeated.

  “There wouldn't have been any point. Despite the odds against such a coincidence, I doubt the two events are related.”

  “But you said he ran down Hank and Millie,” Winter reminded him.

  “It's classified,” he said. “I can't tell Green.”

  “I could lock you up in the USMS holding cell,” Winter said. “Incognito for days. If you know anything about me, you know I always keep my word.”

  Winter saw that finally something frightened Adams.

  “You do that and you're dead,” Adams said.

  “Threaten away, you two-bit . . .” Nicky started.

  “Nicky is going to hear this,” Winter said.

  “It isn't a threat, it's a fact. Styer will kill you both. Paulus Styer is a different sort of killer. He is a temperamental kill artist who is as idiosyncratic and brilliant as Bobby Fisher. And he kills like it's all a deadly chess game. He hit Hank as a gambit—solely to draw his opponent to him.”

  “How much money does this super-killer get paid?” Nicky said. He saw the expression of impatience in Winter's eyes and shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  “Who is his real target, his opponent?” Winter asked.

  “There was silence for a moment. Then Adams told Winter: “You are.”

  “He'll wish he had a checker player to kill,” Nicky said, laughing. “Massey here will eat him alive.”

  “You are a worthy opponent for Styer, but you won't get a shot at him, Massey.”

  “Sniper, is he?” Nicky said.

  Adams shook his head slowly.

  “You've been running surveillance on me?” Winter asked.

  “Yes,” Adams said. “Audio bugs, phone taps, GPS trackers. But we've been careful to keep our numbers down so neither Styer nor you would make us.”

  “You've seen him watching me?”

  “We've never seen him, but he has amazing sources for intelligence, and he's a master at disguising himself. We don't think he's been piggybacking our communications, but it is possible. That's why I communicate with my handler only through encrypted e-mails.”

  “How long have you been on me?”

  “Awhile.”

  “Days?”

  Adams nodded.

  “Weeks?”

  “Yes. Weeks.”

  “Your job is to protect me from Styer?” Winter said.

  “Yes.”

  Winter was sure Adams was lying. “Why is he after me?” he asked.

  “That is classified.” Adams glanced up into the mirror at Nicky. “Lock me up. Styer'll kill you, and they'll kill me for letting him do it.”

  “How do you know he's after me?”

 
; “We turned Styer's handler. The—”

  “Who the pink fuck is we?” Nicky interrupted, exasperated.

  “Let him finish,” Winter snapped.

  “The handler's a businessman. Yuri Chenchenko sold us Styer for enough benefits that it's a zero-sum decision. We want Styer because he kills people we don't want dead. He's an enemy of the state, so making a deal with his handler for him was a no-brainer.”

  “If you are who I think you want me to believe you are, you sure as hell aren't here to protect me. If you are assigned to kill this Styer, I'm your bait, so you owe me the truth.”

  “It might be because . . .” He shook his head slightly. “This is just between us, it has to stay that way.”

  “Fine,” Winter said. “My word.”

  “Cross my heart,” Nicky said.

  “It could be sort of our fault that he's after you.”

  “Define ‘sort of.'”

  “Look, I know you aren't going to shoot me, Green. So aim that damn gun somewhere else.”

  “So far, you ain't bought yourself a thing but a .45-caliber hollow point. I hope you got extra gore insurance on this car when you rented it.”

  Winter opened the breech of the Glock he'd removed from Adams's pocket and saw the glint of brass. He pointed the weapon at Adams. “Put the Colt away, Nicky. He knows I'll shoot him.”

  “When a certain Russian mobster, who wasn't technically guilty of what he was convicted of last year, whom you helped the A.G. frame, made an attempt to hire a hit on the attorney general, the FBI intercepted the messenger and came to see us about it. We saw an opportunity to thwart that hit and to get Styer, someone we wanted. We offered Yuri a deal, and Yuri offered Styer an assignment to get you, which he took because of your stellar reputation, Massey.”

  Winter asked. “Why didn't y'all get Yuri to point him out to you—give you his hideout?”

  “Styer moves constantly, keeps everything secret, so if there was a mole in his group, or someone gets turned, he'll be safe. He trusts Yuri, but even Yuri never knows where Styer is, so all he could do was send him to us like he did. If Styer survives and figures out he was set up, he'll go straight back to Russia and kill Yuri. He has independent ties into intelligence and helpers.”

  “Styer ran over Hank and Millie because he wanted Winter?” Nicky said, obviously stunned. “That makes you people responsible.”

  “Does my director know about this?” Winter asked.

  “No. Nobody outside my group does.”

  “You're gonna kill this Styer?” Nicky said. “How?”

  “When he comes for Massey, I'll be there. He'll be coming soon. He will want to take you man to man, pit his skills against yours. That's why he used Trammell. Styer wants you angry, motivated, so you'll be on your game.”

  “If he is watching, what effect will you showing up have on his plan?”

  “He'll just think an FBI agent was sent in to evaluate the Trammels' accident. He'll check up on me using his intelligence resources, and he'll believe it.”

  “What about my family? Will he go after them?” The Russians, like the Colombian cartels, were notorious for killing entire families as an object lesson.

  “Not a chance Styer would do that.”

  “He doesn't kill women or children?” Nicky asked, sounding skeptical.

  “It would serve no purpose.”

  “Last year I killed some men. Were any of them friends of yours?” Winter asked Adams.

  “I don't have any friends,” Adams answered.

  “If you are who I think you are, you know who Fifteen is.”

  “He runs our organization.”

  “Your boss goes by a number?” Nicky asked.

  “It's not his real name,” Adams said.

  “He like the fifteenth in line for the throne?” Nicky said. “This is horse dookie.”

  “Fifteen ran into a blowtorch while he was on a mission in East Germany during the Cold War. Fifteen hours is how long he was interrogated without talking.”

  “Can't be true,” Nicky argued. “He's lying, Winter.”

  Winter handed Adams back his Glock.

  The cutout made Winter uneasy, in the same way sharing the interior of the car with a coiled cottonmouth might. But since the agent was a specialist—something Winter was painfully familiar with—that uneasy feeling wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If Adams so much as sneezed wrong, Winter would kill him.

  The cells run by Fifteen, the groups Adams was affiliated with, were ex-military Special Forces–trained cleaners, assassins called cutouts because their identities were fictitious. Fifteen was powerful. And he was at the top of the list of the most poisonous and frightening individuals Winter had ever met.

  “Green,” Adams said, “I'm going to give you this one.”

  “One what?”

  “Breaking into my rooms and putting that gun to my head. I understand why you did it and, even though I would have done the same thing, the next time you aim that gun at me you'd better pull the trigger.”

  “If I feel called on to draw down on you again, that won't be a problem.”

  Adams laughed.

  78

  Hood cinched tight, hands clenched together in the front pocket, Faith Ann lay flat in the narrow space between the hard cases, duffels, and rucksacks piled inside the tall steel cage on the van's roof. The raised flat bars that comprised the floor of the cage allowed the air to come at her from above and below, adding to the chilling effect of the wind. If she could have huddled up more, it would have made the ride more comfortable. At least she was hidden. By her watch it had been two hours of driving up and down rural roads. How long did it take to get to a Bible bee? She ventured a peek. Peter had mentioned sightseeing before the contest, but not that it would take hours. Below her, the kids started singing. Their voices filtered up to her from the open van windows.

  She might not freeze to death this time of year, but darkness would drop the temperature, and she was bone tired—not to mention that she had important things to do. Sometimes it was as if she had dreamed the murders, had confused real life with a scary movie, and that her mother was really at the office, or at home, and perfectly fine.

  Faith Ann saw the approaching sunset as an accusation against her. Horace Pond was sitting in a cell in the isolated Death House Unit at Angola. Faith Ann imagined him praying with Sister Ellen, his small voice telling God that he didn't kill anybody. Maybe Sister Ellen believed him, but Faith Ann knew hardly anybody, except a convicted killer's family and maybe a lawyer like her mother, ever really believed people in Horace Pond's position.

  With four hours to go, she imagined Horace Pond eating his last meal, which she thought was probably something he never got to eat in prison. She thought about Horace Pond's family, his wife and four children, and how sad and afraid they had to be knowing he was going to be dead in a few hours. Thinking about it made Faith Ann sad. The fact that he was innocent made her angry. Thinking about justice made her think about her mother.

  Faith Ann thought about the fact that her mother died knowing that Horace Pond was innocent. Her mother knew that the only chance he had to live was if Faith Ann survived and told the truth to somebody who could make the state stop the execution. And Faith Ann had to make that happen somehow. If I can't stop it tonight, they'll all be sorry to find out they murdered an innocent man. They'll have to quit murdering people on Death Row.

  Faith Ann realized that it wouldn't be just as good if people found out Horace Pond was innocent after he was executed. No matter what, she couldn't let that happen.

  It occurred to her that she could have done something and hadn't. If she had run out the front door before he fired his gun, and the killer had chased her, knowing a witness was escaping he wouldn't have dared kill the women. She knew that the elevators always went back down to the lobby and waited down there until someone called them up. She should have raced down the stairs. Then she could have escaped and called for help.

  Her
mind wrapped itself around that scenario. Faith Ann could see everything. Sliding out from under the table. Slipping to the front door. Slamming it as she ran out. Straight to the stairwell. Through that door. Down the four flights of stairs. Screaming bloody murder. Out in the street, waving down cars. A police cruiser, a cab, a mother taking her children to school. Her mother calling 911. The killer trapped. Horace Pond freed. Her mother a hero. Herself a hero.

  I could have done it.

  I could have saved her.

  Mama, I'm so sorry.

  It's all my fault.

  I was afraid.

  I didn't do anything but lie there safe.

  Now you are dead forever.

  Now Aunt Millie is dead forever.

  Uncle Hank will know it's all my fault.

  Mama, I'm so sorry . . .

  Faith Ann started crying.

  The van slowed and pulled off the highway. It stopped beneath a corrugated steel awning.

  The doors opened and the passengers started getting out.

  She smelled gasoline fumes.

  I can get down and find a phone. I'll call Rush . . .

  She sneaked a peek over the luggage and her heart stopped. A police car was parked outside the gas station; the khaki-uniformed cop leaned against it, holding a soda.

  The kids were going into the station convenience store to get snacks while the adults put gas in the van. She lay there, her thoughts racing, unable to decide what to do. Now she knew how rats felt in a trap. She felt the van shift ever so slightly and she froze.

  She sensed someone standing on the ladder and she looked up to see Peter.

  He put a finger to his lips to warn her to stay quiet. He took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto her. He made a gesture of putting his hand in his pockets and climbed down.

  Faith Ann slipped the coat on. Inside the pockets she found a bottle of water, two packages of peanut butter crackers, and a candy bar.

  Thank you, sir. Mama always said angels don't always need swords.

  79

  Harvey Suggs sat at a small table in a private dining room at a family-owned restaurant he frequented. The police captain had decided that he needed a sit-down meal and a stiff drink or two so he could calmly examine this mess and figure out his escape opportunities.