by Mark Allen
Kain glanced at Larissa again. She had lapsed back into silence, blinded eyes staring lifelessly out the window. He hated to see her this way. She was a strong, vibrant woman, always ready with a laugh, and seeing her spirit broken like this infuriated him. He wondered if he would ever hear her laugh again. The thought that he might not was sobering, like the taste of ashes in his mouth.
Impulsively, he reached out and touched her shoulder. Just a gentle, comforting touch, and then he pulled his hand back.
Larissa turned toward him and Kain saw tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Kain nodded. No more words were needed.
******
Twenty minutes later, as Kain pulled the Jeep into the garage and hit the remote to lower the overhead door, he felt uneasy. No woman had stepped foot inside this house since Karen’s death and it felt a little strange to have one here now, especially one that he had once loved. A vague sense of guilt gnawed at him; he felt like he was betraying Karen’s memory. Sure it was foolish, but that didn’t make the feeling go away.
Once the garage doors finished rumbling down on their rails, he turned to Larissa. “I’ve got to grab some gear. We won’t be here long. This is one of the first places they’ll look for us, so we’ll be in and out in five.”
Larissa nodded. “Whatever you say. I’m just the passenger. This is your field of expertise, not mine.”
He helped her out of the Jeep, up the stairs into the kitchen, and guided her to a chair at the table. “Here,” he said, “have a seat.”
“I think I would rather just walk around, check out the place.” Her head swiveled from side to side as if she could actually see. Only her unfocused eyes gave away her blindness.
Kain tried to keep his voice as gentle as he could. “Listen, Larissa, we don’t have a lot of time and right now saving our asses is a bit more important than giving you the ten dollar tour.”
A look of mild hurt came over her face. “You can take that condescending tone and shove it up that ass you’re trying to save,” she said. “I don’t need your help. Just go about your business and let me wander around.” She smiled to take the caustic edge off her words.
Kain let go of her arm. “All right,” he said, “make yourself at home.” As he went into the bedroom, he heard the shuffle of her feet as she explored the kitchen. He admired her fiery independence. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told him to shove something up his ass. Life might have kicked Larissa in the teeth, but she was a fighter.
He went to the closet, pulled out a large duffel bag, and began loading it up. As he did, he heard Larissa make her way into the adjoining bathroom. He glanced at her as she passed the bedroom doorway. Her hands were stretched out in front of her, guiding her through the unfamiliarity of her surroundings.
Kain felt a fresh surge of anger at Macklin. Executing rogue assassins, men with blood on their hands, was one thing. But putting bullets into innocents was something else, something wicked, a violation of all that Kain held sacred. He tossed some spare magazines for the Colt into the duffel bag. Some people packed extra socks; he packed extra ammo.
Larissa called to him from the bathroom, her voice soft and hesitant. “Is this where...” She let the question hang there, perhaps realizing she had no right to ask it.
Kain felt the sting of the question, but he also knew Larissa had not meant to hurt him. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s where it happened.”
“Kain, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Really.”
She appeared in the doorway as he added boxes of shells for the shotgun to the duffel bag. “Todd and I wanted to come to the funeral,” she said, “but we weren’t sure if you wanted to see us or not, so I just sent a card. I’m sure you don’t remember, but...” Her voice trailed off and it was clear she didn’t know what else to say.
“I remember,” Kain said, but it was a lie. He remembered a lot of things about that day. He remembered the feelings of loss and grief that had torn his heart in two. He remembered hating God for taking Karen away and he remembered thanking God for the cold rain when they buried her because it hid his tears. He remembered how few people had turned out to pay their final respects to his wife. He remembered thinking that he had done this to her, forced her into a life of isolation, without a real family, without children, without friends, and now there was nobody to stand beside her grave and say goodbye. He did not, however, remember who sent him sympathy cards. But there was no reason to hurt Larissa’s feelings by telling her that. She had enough problems of her own. He took some fragmentation grenades from the top shelf of the closet and added them to the growing pile of firepower.
“Why do you have roses in your fridge?”
The question came out of nowhere, catching Kain off guard. His mind raced. How much should he tell her? He decided to keep it simple. “They’re for my work,” he said, putting a few bricks of C-4 into the bag. “I use white roses to mark my kills.”
“Why white roses?” Larissa asked.
Kain threw some spare clothes into the bag and zipped it up. “They were Karen’s favorite. I guess I use them to remember her.”
“Do you think she would approve?”
“Don’t know, and she’s not here to ask,” Kain said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Once they were back on the road, Larissa said, “What about this car? Won’t they be looking for a vehicle matching this description?”
“That’s why we’re ditching it,” Kain said. “I’ll drop you off at a motel, then go find another set of wheels.”
They crossed a bridge which took them over a canal and into the town of Fort Edward, named after the colonial garrison that had once stood nearby. A mile up the road they came to the White Pine Motel, a seedy establishment located off the town’s main drag, a scant two miles from Kain’s house. Kain had no clue why the place was named the White Pine Motel, for it wasn’t white and there were no pine trees in sight. All he knew about the White Pine Motel was that it served as a flophouse for the local whores to turn their tricks, the kind of place where cash was king, you paid by the hour, and you didn’t want to examine the bed sheets too closely.
Kain was acutely aware that no matter where they holed up, Silas would eventually find them. The best they could hope to gain by staying close to home, at ground zero, was a little time. How much, he didn’t know. At least a few hours, a couple of days if they got lucky. But sooner rather than later, they would have to run.
The clerk—and probably part-time pimp—behind the desk was a short, fat man in his late forties. A small fan whirred away on the corner of the desk but it didn’t seem to be doing much good; the man’s few stray wisps of black, sweaty hair clung to his otherwise bald head like a wet cobweb and his grime-white t-shirt clung to his fat rolls like sausage skin. He glanced up from his dog-eared copy of Hustler as Kain and Larissa walked in. He looked at Kain with boredom, but stripped Larissa with his eyes. Kain wanted to break his face.
“I need a room,” Kain said, glancing around at what passed for a lobby. Cigarette butts and condom wrappers littered the floor.
“I’ll betcha do,” the clerk leered. His right hand was out of sight behind the desk, no doubt massaging the bulge in his pants. With his left hand, he slid a thin, hard-cover book across the desk. “Care to sign the register?”
Kain shook his head.
“Why am I not surprised?” the clerk drawled sarcastically. “Nobody ever wants to sign my register.” He pulled his hand out of his crotch long enough to reach behind him and pluck a key off the rack. He turned back to Kain and jerked his double chins toward Larissa. “So what’s her story, huh? Her eyes look all screwed up. She blind or something?”
“Obviously you’re not,” Kain replied with an edge in his voice. The clerk’s crassness was as repulsive as his body odor. “Give me the
key.”
“Jeez.” The clerk gave Kain an excuse-the-hell-outa-me look. “What’s up your butt, pal? I was just making conversation.”
“If I want conversation, I’ll join a chat room,” Kain said. “So do yourself a favor and mind your own business.”
The clerk held out his hand, room-key dangling from his fingers. But when Kain went to take it, the fat man jerked it back just out of his reach and gave Kain a taunting grin. “This place is my business, pal, and I wanna know what kind of girl you’re en-ter-tain-in’.” He jingled the key mockingly. “After all, I can’t allow some skank ho to ply her trade here, now can I? Not in a fine, upscale establishment such as this.” He jingled the key again.
Kain’s asshole tolerance levels had bottomed out. “This place is full of skank whores,” he rasped, “so cut the crap and give me the key before I kick your balls through the bottom of your spine.”
“Oh, my.” The clerk held out his hand and shook it with an exaggerated motion, making the keys jingle yet again. “I’m so scared I’m shaking. I … I … I think I’m gonna piss my pants, you scared me so much.”
Kain struck like a cobra. His fingers closed around the clerk’s wrist so tightly he could feel the man’s pulse.
“Hey!” The clerk’s piggish eyes bulged from their sockets. “Let go of me, you motherf—”
Kain wrenched the man’s wrist, grinding bones. The clerk’s obscenity became a hiss of pain. His fingers spasmed open. The key clattered to the desk top. Kain reached for it with his free hand.
But as his fingers closed around it, Larissa covered his hand with her own. “Enough,” she said. “Let him go.”
Kain’s anger immediately ebbed. He felt the warmth of her hand and though it was just an innocent touch, he felt himself wanting to respond to it. But he immediately stifled the urge. He could never allow himself to open up to another woman again. He pulled his hand away from hers, released the clerk with a shove, and turned away, black duster swirling around him like the shadows around his heart.
CHAPTER 13
They holed up in the room for the day, surviving on granola bars and bottled water from the vending machine. When evening arrived, Kain ventured out and fetched supper from a greasy spoon down the street. He returned with a feast of blackened hamburgers, half-cooked French fries, and tepid soda. They sat at the table by the window, the glow from the motel’s sputtering neon sign painting the glass pink.
Larissa bit into a fry. It crunched like a carrot stick. She made a face, then smiled. “You know what this reminds me of?”
“What?” Kain tentatively tried a burger. Burnt on the outside, bleeding in the middle. A steaming pile of dog crap would probably taste better.
“Our first date,” Larissa said. “Remember?”
Kain managed a small smile. “Yeah, I remember. I take you out to one of the finest steakhouses in the city and what do you order? A burger and fries.”
“Not fries,” she corrected. “Potato slices cooked in a special wine sauce. They were supposed to be a house specialty. The waiter recommended them. Too bad he forgot to mention they would be served raw!”
“That’s okay.” Kain grinned. “I tipped him with a fake fifty from my last assignment.”
Larissa laughed and Kain was glad to hear the sound. Her eyes were still haunted, but the numbing shock that had gripped her since the attack at her apartment seemed to have faded.
Then her laughter trailed off and her face grew more somber. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet. “You know, that was also the first night you ever kissed me.”
Kain said nothing and a gaping, heavy, awkward chasm of silence opened up between them. Through the thin walls he could hear the sounds of lust, the grunts and groans and rhythmic slapping of flesh that signified human coupling. He pushed aside his food, no longer hungry. He turned his head and looked out the window. The darkness beckoned to him.
He abruptly pushed back his chair. “I have to go.” The walls were closing in on him. There was simply too much history in the room. And the sound of sex next door wasn’t helping any; it made him think things best left unthought.
Larissa said, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He cut her off. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just need some air. And I still have to get us some new wheels. I’ll leave the shotgun, so you should be fine. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
Larissa bit her lower lip, but said nothing.
Once outside, Kain let the cool evening wash over him and tried to let go of his anger toward Larissa. What did she want from him? Their time together had been fleeting and those days were long gone. Didn’t she realize he wasn’t the same man he had been back then? She needed to stop trying to build a bridge between their past and present. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work.
Or you won’t let it work, said an inner voice.
Kain got into the Jeep and headed for the country, leaving the lights of town behind. His headlamps pierced the darkness and every now and then he heard the wet splat of insects dying against his windshield. He wondered if bugs felt pain. If not, maybe he should be reincarnated as one. This life had been nothing but pain; maybe in his next one he could be spared the torment of humanity. It was a strange thought for him, and told him that his mind was in turmoil, his mental processes jumbled.
He punched the steering wheel in frustration. Having Larissa come back into his life had really messed him up. Especially since her return was so unexpected, so improbable, that it defied all odds and bordered on the miraculous. And that begged thoughts of God, fate, destiny; in other words, thoughts he didn’t want to think.
He was driving through his old haunts now, past the fields and farms where he and Silas had played together as boys during simpler, more innocent times. They had been blissfully unaware of how much pain awaited them down the road, how many tears they would leave in the dust and ashes of their friendship.
Kain sped past the turn off for Gordon Hill Road. He glanced up the hill at the Perelli estate, crouched above the hamlet like some medieval castle. Lights shone in the windows and Kain had little doubt that Rene Perelli sat behind one of those windows, plotting her next move against Frank Giadello.
A mile up the road he came to Church Hill Cemetery. He parked the Jeep just outside the wrought-iron gates and walked up the path. A sickle-shaped moon punctured the thin, wispy clouds and Kain could feel its cold light and see its stark reflection on the endless array of marble gravestones and stone angels. Dead leaves scuttled across his path, the sound startlingly loud in the stillness of this barren land of ghosts and memories.
When he reached the grave he had come to visit, he reached down and traced the inscription, shadows pooling in the etched letters.
KAREN J. KAIN
1974-2008
LIFE
LOVE
DEATH
WE HAVE KNOWN THEM ALL
He had carved the words into the stone with his own hands. This was his sanctuary, his place of solace, where he came to find slivers of peace and respite from the hell of his existence. Touching the gravestone made him feel closer to Karen.
A twig snapped behind him. He started to turn, but before he could, he felt a gun pressed against the back of his head. He froze, fingers inches from his own firearm.
“Take your gun out.” The voice was male, so harsh and raspy the words were barely intelligible. The guy sounded like he gargled with broken glass. “Do it slowly. Two fingers and neither one of them better go near the trigger.”
Kain complied. Not like he had a choice.
“Remove the clip and hand it to me.”
Kain popped the magazine and handed it back over his shoulder. It was snatched out of his hand and tossed into the darkness. He heard it bounce off a gravestone to his left.
“Now throw your gun in the opposite direction I threw the clip.”
“You forgot to say please,” said Kain, but he tossed the .45 off to his right.
“A guy with a gun to his head shouldn’t run his mouth,” the man rasped. Kain felt the gun lift away from his head, then savage pain blasted through his skull. As he fell to the ground, banging his forehead against Karen’s tombstone, he realized he had just been pistol-whipped. Groaning, he crawled into a sitting position, his back against Karen’s marker. Blood ran into his eye. He wiped it away and looked up at his attacker.
The man was tall, dressed in a long black coat much like Kain’s own duster. His face, tinted silver by the moonlight, consisted of sharp angles and rugged lines. But it was not the face that drew Kain’s attention, but what was beneath it. A thick line of scar tissue curled across the man’s throat like a vicious smile, the sort of wound not even the devil himself should have been able to walk away from. “I’ll be damned,” Kain said. “Macklin.”
“So you know who I am.”
Kain’s skull throbbed with pain. “I thought you couldn’t speak.”
“A myth. When the Colombians cut my throat, they damaged my vocal cords, which is why I sound like I do. But I can still speak.”
Kain studied the vicious scar. “How did you even survive that?”
Macklin’s chuckle sounded like razor blades grinding together. “Believe what you will, because you would never believe the truth.”
“Try me.”
“I think not.”
Kain looked the assassin dead in the eye. “Make it quick, you son of a bitch.”
“I did not come here tonight to kill you,” Macklin said. “I came to pay my respects to your wife.”
Something in the way he said it made Kain’s skin crawl.
“But rest assured,” Macklin continued, “that one day I will kill you, and when you die, I hope you do so more quietly than your wife did. She kept screaming your name.”
Kain’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
“Your wife,” Macklin repeated. “She died screaming your name.”
“How the fuck do you know how my wife died?” Even as he asked the question, Kain knew the answer, sensed the terrible truth, the dark revelation that everything he believed about Karen’s death was a lie. The pieces came together swiftly in his mind. Karen had not killed herself; she had been murdered by Macklin who then masked her death as a suicide.