A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  “Hi, kid.” Despite the agony, Hack’s eyes still burned brightly with the spirit of the vital man he’d been. His voice was brittle, frail but suffused with affection. “Damned good of you to come.”

  “You know I had to.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Garrett shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Did you bring it?”

  Lie to him. Just say no.

  But Garrett couldn’t do that, take the easy way out. So he walked closer in his wet shoes and reached into the pocket of the raincoat with his gloved left hand.

  “No fingerprints, no serial number,” Garrett said. Tom Garrett surprised himself by offering up the gun without hesitation and in one, smooth motion it was done. Hack took it without comment, wiped it on the bed sheet. He reached into a stack of thick books by his bedside and extracted one that was hollowed out and filled with some bills and a little spare change. He set the weapon inside and replaced the book.

  “I’m obliged.”

  The two men stared awkwardly at one another, their tired eyes reddening. Garrett broke contact to pick at his fingernails.

  “Hell, I ain’t decided yet,” Hack said.

  “I know.”

  “I won’t do it unless things…unless it gets so bad I got nothing else left but the choice itself, you know?”

  “I understand.”

  “I appreciate you keeping your promise.”

  “Sure.”

  Hack contorted, moaned and a dark pink froth appeared on his lower lip. Clearly embarrassed, he wiped it away with a tissue. “Guess you got places to go, people to see.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You do that.”

  The younger man backed away. He turned and looked down and to his left, both to find the doorknob and to hide his tears. “I’ll see you.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  Garrett smiled in a minor key and went out into the hallway. The floor was as still and shadowed as before. He walked to the emergency exit, checked again and went out into the stairwell. As he trotted down the steps he surprised himself by emitting a barking sob. He gripped the railing and moved faster, though he could barely see. He paused at the foot of the steps to compose himself.

  Outside, time expanded and briefly froze and cubed. The rain had stopped and the air was perfumed by renewal, the scent of things fresh and clean. The cosmogonic cycle was at work, and he was still alive. At once guilty and grateful, Garrett pictured the arriving multitude of brand-new children, tender plants and animals; all destined to come apart again in the harsh way of things. It seemed a miracle and a tragic paradox, both bitter and sweet, to be a human and alive.

  When the metal door slammed behind him with a bang, he began to run.

  A Handful of Dust

  Pike had short brown hair speckled with grey. He wore blue Armani with a salmon tie. He rode down in the elevator alone, well after midnight, rolling a lightweight suitcase behind, crossed the loud, garishly furnished lobby and casino, bought a copy of the New York Times and carried it to a back table. He sat behind a potted plant and ate mozzarella with fresh tomatoes and a side of Canadian bacon. After two espressos and a cold bottle of mineral water from France, Pike called the valet to order up a brand-new rented mustang ragtop that had been charged to a fraudulent credit card. He tipped the sleepy carhop appropriately, without once meeting his eyes.

  Pike drove away. He paused at the mouth of the driveway, in the neon glare of the massive, pyramid-shaped casino, and put some of his favorite music on the CD player; Hans Biber’s melancholy “Die Rosarie Sonaten.” He waited for some drunken tourists to pass, flipped on his headlights. He cruised down the strip to the freeway entrance and headed northeast.

  Later, when the highway forked, Pike took the back road, a little-known ribbon of cracked asphalt that paralleled the main highway up to Elko and then Dry Wells. The desert night was chill and the indigo sky freckled with winking stars.

  Pike knew his way around Nevada, but wasn’t terribly fond of the state. To him, the high desert was merely a cratered landscape littered with pale fists of bleached tumbleweed, devoid of charm and empty as the surface of the moon. Pike checked his platinum Rolex, activated the radar scanner and drove as fast as he dared. After four listens, he changed to Biber’s heartbreaking “Requiem,” but eventually even that familiar work began to grate on him. Pike tried to find a radio station, but he was already too far from civilization. He opted to avoid satellite systems for security reasons. He drove on in silence, mind empty and handsome face bland.

  Before dawn, when the rising sun would smear red and orange chalk along the rocky peaks, Pike reached the city limits. To his left, in his headlights, stood a weather-beaten metal sign, chains squeaking in a light breeze, announcing “Historic” Dry Wells. Pike sniffed with disdain. In the dark, the battered wooden storefronts looked like some abandoned movie set. The cracked windows were streaked with dust, many were broken. This part of town seemed deserted.

  Pike went to the right, past a closed gas station and liquor store, until he saw the small neon sign that read TAPS. He parked out of sight around the side, next to a dented white pickup truck, and got out for a stretch. A man in a black cowboy shirt sat in the cab, lighting what smelled like a decent cigar. He never looked up. Pike strolled to the front of the ramshackle building, past a bug zapper that was doing brisk business. He looked around carefully before entering through a squeaking pair of old wooden batwing doors.

  Tap’s was furnished with card tables and folding chairs. A small, geriatric television set was mounted on the far wall. Despite the hour, it was tuned to a sports network and the sound was muted. Pike looked around, searching for surprise customers or hiding places. He found none, and as promised there seemed only one way in or out.

  “Evening, Tap,” Pike ventured. He waved one hand in the air.

  The bartender, a white-haired old-timer with long white hair in a pony-tail who’d been paid to stay open all night, wore a ripped, tie-dye wife-beater T-shirt and blue overalls. He was festooned with fading tattoos and sat clipping his toenails with grim resolve. His feet were filthy. He squinted at his handiwork before replying.

  “Want a beer?”

  “Do you have anything German?”

  Tap squinted, shook his head. “Just the Coors. Want one or not?”

  Pike nodded, enunciated carefully. “That would be nice.” He walked closer, annoyed that his new Gucci shoes were already coated with sawdust. The bar itself was made of long plywood sheeting nailed to a couple of sawhorses. Pike took the cold bottle of beer and backed away. He chose a table that would allow him to keep an eye on both the owner and the front door, took an unopened pack of cigarettes from his jacket and set it on the table. The desert night looked like a velvet drape. Insects droned.

  Pike was on his second beer when yellow headlights splashed the dirty windows. Someone else was arriving. The engine sounded small, maybe Japanese. Pike glanced outside. The driver waited quite a while before stepping out into the graveled driveway, under the street lamp. He approached the door heavily, like a man on the way to the gallows. Pike reached around, under his shirt, to adjust the small .9 mm Firestar seated in the holster at the small of his back.

  The batwing doors opened with a horror-film creak. From the voice on the phone, Pike half expected ‘Mr. Smith’ to be a jumpy little weasel. Pike was somewhat surprised to see a stocky, pleasant-looking, balding businessman perhaps fifty years old. Smith stepped into the room and did a pathetic job of acting casual. He smiled, asked for a can of soda. Tap was still occupied with his toenails. He looked up and offered a beer instead.

  Moments later, Smith brought the unopened bottle to the table. Pike moved the pack of cigarettes to one side.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Smith’s voice was higher than one would expect, and broke on the last syllable. “I’ve been driving all night.” That was definitely the voice Pike had heard on th
e phone. Smith swallowed nervously and positioned himself with his back to the room, another clear sign of an amateur. His eyes were pink spiderwebs. “Have you read anything by James Michener?”

  “Only ‘The Source.’”

  “You should really read ‘Hawaii,’ then.”

  “I don’t get much time to read these days.”

  With a look Pike pinned Smith to the chair, lowered his voice. “Now that we have that nonsense out of the way, why don’t you tell me why you dragged me up here to this God forsaken part of the country in the middle of the night?”

  “Ah.” Smith swallowed again, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You chose the time and place, sir.”

  “I know that,” Pike sighed. “I just don’t want to go through all this for nothing. Now, tell me who it is and why.”

  “Why?” Smith seemed surprised. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “I don’t, except if I don’t know everything there may be some surprises that pop up along the way and put me in danger. You look like a businessman, I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “Certainly,” Smith said. “Of course.” He glanced back at the indifferent, now dozing bartender. “Are you sure it’s safe to talk in here?”

  “Don’t worry, Old Tap is nearly deaf. He’s also bought and paid for.”

  “Are you satisfied you can trust me, sir?”

  “Of course, Mr. Smith.” Pike leaned forward. “After all, Reggie himself vouched for you.” His elbows shifted the table and his empty beer bottle clanked against the ashtray. “So just briefly fill me in. The wife?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s usually the wife.”

  “No,” Smith said. He leaned closer. His eyes seemed glassy. He was perspiring heavily and his breath smelled like cinnamon breath mints. “It’s a business associate, actually. I’m trying to close the deal of a lifetime, and he’s in the way.”

  “Do you have any special requirements?”

  Smith cocked his head, bemused. “I don’t understand.”

  “For example, does it matter to you if he suffers first?”

  “No,” Smith blanched and shook his head rapidly. “No, it doesn’t matter at all.”

  “Okay, good,” Pike said. “That keeps things simple.”

  A long silence followed. The bug zapper on the porch snapped and crackled like distant thunder. Mr. Smith wiped his brow. “It’s really hot in here.” Pike sipped his beer without answering and Smith got the hint. “Okay, one question. How will you…do it?”

  Pike shrugged. “That all depends. An accident is best. Maybe we cut his brake line before a trip, or arrange for a burglar to break in and shoot him. Sometimes I set up a fatal heart attack.”

  “You can do that?”

  “For the right amount of money, Mr. Smith, I can do anything.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Indulge me for a second,” Mr. Smith said, ignoring Pike’s response. He had abruptly stopped sweating, and his eyes were no longer shining. “How does somebody get into your line of work?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d like an answer anyway.”

  Pike decided to give him two more minutes. “If you know Reggie, then you know the Russians have moved into LA. I started running errands for them maybe ten years ago. I made myself useful and let them know I was a team player. A chance came along and I took it.”

  “You eliminated someone they found troublesome.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Were you scared that first time?”

  A burst of laughter, short and low as a lion’s cough. “I don’t scare very easy, Mr. Smith. If I did, I’d find myself another line of work.”

  “I’ll accept that…but does it ever bother you?”

  For some reason the question, routine and somewhat expected, made Pike feel unusually uncomfortable. “Not really, Mr. Smith. It’s just a job to me. I’m a professional.”

  “You enjoy it, then.”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Okay, then…” Smith lowered his voice even further. “I’ll return to the subject of fear. Do you ever take pleasure in making other people feel afraid, Mr. Pike?”

  “I need to see the color of your money,” Pike said, briskly.

  “I’m sorry, I have offended you.”

  “Not really, but this has already taken too long.”

  “You do. I knew you would.”

  “Do what?

  “Take pleasure in it.” Smith reached into his jacket, removed a thick packet wrapped in brown paper and twine. He held Pike’s eyes as he pried one end open, thumbed through the one hundred dollar bills. He set the money down on the table. “Half in advance, just the way Reggie said I should do it.”

  Pike took the money without counting it and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Now give me the name and address, Mr. Smith, and we’re both out of here.”

  “Fear is nothing more than adrenaline racing through the body.” Smith looked down and away, as if he’d just discovered something hiding on the sawdust floor. His voice went hollow. “And yet there is something about it that fascinates, don’t you agree? We have Halloween, Day of the Dead, horror films, books. All manner of murder mysteries and thrillers are always on the best-seller lists and doing well at the box office. For most of my childhood I avoided fear like the plague. Oh, I went on a roller coaster once. It was rather delicious, though I did wet myself.”

  This guy’s demented,

  Pike thought. He leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Smith, this is all too fascinating, but time is money.”

  Smith seemed not to hear him. “My abusive stepfather introduced me to hunting when I was a teenager. He was a nasty, cruel person. Told my mother it would make a man of me. How cliché! Anyway, that frightened me too, at first, but eventually I got quite used to it.”

  “Killing,” Pike said, “is something of an acquired taste. Not everyone enjoys it.”

  Smith nodded and his mouth went thin. “I never did, to be honest. Oh, I came to quite like the hunt itself, but never the death.”

  “Mr. Smith, I need that name.”

  Smith looked up, and his eyes were suddenly wide with excitement. “What if I changed my mind, Mr. Pike? What if I said I really wanted that man to suffer? What could you do to him?”

  Pike shrugged. “We could maybe cut him up first, smash his toes. Let him hurt a while and then torch his house while he’s still breathing. If the fire burns hot enough, no one would ever need to know how he died.”

  “How would you prove it to me, what you did?”

  “I can make a video if you’d like.” Pike yawned. “Or just tape the sound, if you don’t think you could sit through watching.”

  “Isn’t that risky?”

  “Once you’ve checked it out, I’ll destroy it so there’s no evidence.”

  “Of course, of course. Is there anything else you could suggest?” Smith rubbed his palms together like a pervert at a peep show.

  “To make it bad, really bad?”

  “Yes…if I wanted to make it all very nasty.”

  Pitt yawned. “We could burn his skin with drain cleaner. See, what you do is, you explain it all up front and then take him out bit by bit, even make him swallow some at the end.”

  “Oh, God. That is truly horrific.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the target is always aware of what is going to come next. I’d guess that must engender the deepest fear of all.”

  “It gets their attention.”

  “Then that’s what I want.”

  “Fine, Mr. Smith,” Pike said, briskly. He checked his watch. “There’s just one little problem. I have the deposit, but I still need the man’s name.”

  Smith chuckled. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Tap was not paying attention. “Mr. Pike, I have a confession to make. I have brought you here under what might be considered fal
se pretenses.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I am still going to hire you, in a manner of speaking, but not in quite the way you’d imagined.”

  Pike let his hand creep back toward the 9mm Firestar in his belt. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Well, the real reason I brought you here is because of my long obsession with fear.” Smith drank deeply from his beer, belched politely behind one hand. “As I said, it started when I was a child, and has continued to this very day. So when a friend of mine died under somewhat mysterious circumstances, and a professional hit was suspected, I decided to find out who’d done the job.”

  Pike tensed, gripped his weapon. “You’re here because I did a friend of yours in?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Pike. Please relax. William wasn’t a friend, actually, although I was quite close to his wife, Jane. Very close, if you know what I mean. She was quite relieved to have him out of the way. In any event, it took me several weeks to retrace all the steps, but eventually they led me to our mutual acquaintance, Reggie.” Smith saw Pike’s eyes narrow. He held up his right hand, palm empty and asking for peace. “Please don’t be alarmed. Look, I must say that what you do for a living absolutely fascinates me.”

  Pike showed him the gun. “You’re on real thin ice, here.”

  “I know, I know.” Smith said weakly. “I just want to discuss something with you. You can keep the money.”

  “You paid me thirty large just to talk? You must be a very rich man.”

  “Oh, I am,” Smith said, “but I didn’t go to all that trouble just to talk. First, you must understand one fact. I have recently learned that I am terminally ill. It is a rare form of cancer, quite lethal. Oh, the pain is quite manageable with drugs, and I assure you that I have at least six months, so I’m certainly not asking for your pity.”

  “What the hell are you asking for, then?”

  “Well, I actually came to turn the tables, as it were. Now that I know who you are, and what you look like, my intention is to stalk you, Mr. Pike.”