Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

If they were here on a special, they were here for Sage. It made no sense, though. Unless …

  If all of the company’s operatives were overseas there would be a logistics delay getting them back to the states. The company occasionally took on projects that were quick and dirty, the military equivalent of smash and grab robberies, but those were usually accepted only when the client was valuable, and the expense usually made them cost-prohibitive.

  Much more common were deep operations that required delicate extraction. The men were likely here because none of the company’s employees were yet available.

  In a worst-case scenario, it would take two weeks to extract a team, but most of the time you could get personnel back in a week or less. Either way, this time they’d brought in outside talent. That meant the company was getting worried. That meant that Sage wasn’t just a foggy threat in the back of management’s mind but was upgraded to an urgent priority.

  Dammit, I should have killed Tommy.

  The assassin looked at his watch and said something to the sergeant. The sergeant shrugged, walked to the little coffee stand and ordered something. They were still early for their meeting.

  If the company thought these two could take him, someone didn’t read the file.

  No, more likely the two were here to stir things up. Get me to react and get out in the open. Sage wondered idly if the two knew that they were being sacrificed. The Sergeant might have big enough balls to think he could take him, but that was stupidity and bluster. There was no way the intelligence guy would take on the job if he had access to any of Sage’s information.

  So, the ball was rolling. Two weeks. He could push Tommy and finish the book in one week, and he’d probably have to do that. One week, and the last book was out. Give them a month or two and they’d have a few million in combined sales.

  Back to the island to spend the rest of his life in comfort.

  He sighed. The two guys weren’t bad; they were just doing their jobs. Still …

  Sage’s first shot hit the right temple of the assassin and felled him, spraying the sergeant with blood. The sergeant dove for cover, but Sage’s bullet caught him behind his left ear, the bullet travelling at a diagonal through his brain and out his right eye to wedge in the brick façade of the building.

  Sage sighed again. He methodically dismantled the rifle, and slipped back into the shadows.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It took a supreme act of will, but Crane didn’t touch any alcohol before heading to the Winslow sisters’ estate.

  He did, however, drink about a gallon of coffee, give or take. He drove up the long driveway, where a man in a slightly old-fashioned valet-type uniform explained that gardeners would be performing work on the drive and that he’d be happy to park his car for him. Crane shrugged, took his briefcase, in which he’d already placed the gun, and headed for the house.

  The front door was manned by a butler Crane hadn’t seen before. The man looked like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. He was definitely the guy who did it.

  The butler looked Crane up and down with barely concealed disdain. Crane presented his card and explained that Olive and Evelyn Winslow expected him. The butler turned to leave, but Crane added, “I take my coffee with just a touch of cream, Jeeves.” The servant tensed satisfyingly, and Crane stepped into the foyer without waiting for an invitation.

  A few minutes later, the man came back with a coffee tray and directed Crane to the same parlor he’d seen … Jesus, only two days ago? Maybe three. Maybe I do need to cut down on the vodka. Nah, it’s been a tough few days, that’s the problem.

  He sat alone for a moment before Evelyn and Olive walked in. Olive had a manila file folder and handed it to him directly. He opened it and saw an 8x10 picture of the man he’d already seen on the back of Lester Twill’s books. He was older, and of course, his hair could be any style at all, but it seemed reasonable to believe that Dennis might look as the picture suggested.

  Evelyn asked, “Have you made any progress, Mr. Crane?” Straight to business. No surprise there.

  “I need to go to Minneapolis. I don’t know if your brother is there, but the man who wrote the books certainly is. I’d like to leave this afternoon, and I’ll need you to arrange a ticket.” Crane sipped his coffee. This one was good; no need for the three sip limit this time.

  “I’ll have a ticket waiting. Do you have an airline preference?” Evelyn didn’t wait for an answer but called over her shoulder, “Harold, would you please come in here.”

  “Any direct flight will do, Miss Winslow. I want you to know there is still a very good possibility that your brother is not alive. The picture on the book is a soldier’s picture, and it makes marketing sense to use—”

  “Our brother is alive, Mr. Crane,” Olive interjected. “The author changed his picture.”

  She handed him another piece of paper, a printout of the book cover. Sure enough, the picture of the author was now a soldier in fatigues, but the face was obscured entirely.

  The butler was back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Harold, secure a flight to Minneapolis for Mr. Crane. Wait.” To Crane, Evelyn asked, “Did you bring your gun?”

  “Uh, yes.” He opened his briefcase, opened the gun case, and showed her the pistol.

  “May I have it, please?”

  Crane didn’t exactly know what to do, so he handed it to Evelyn, who in turn handed it to the butler. “See that it’s loaded, Harold.”

  “Uh, Miss Winslow, what are—”

  “Daddy’s company made guns and ammunition, Mr. Crane,” Olive answered for her sister. “We would like you to have some special ammunition. It’s developed to be faster and more accurate than normal bullets. It will be especially important with a gun like your 38, which is really only useful at short ranges.”

  “Look,” Crane said; he was getting flustered, “why would I need any ammunition, much less special ammunition? I don’t plan on using this gun at all. How could I even get it past security?”

  “You can never be too careful, Mr. Crane,” Evelyn said, “and you can declare your gun and send it with your baggage. Your license to carry is fully current.”

  “But why do I need the gun in the first place?”

  Olive looked at Crane in something approximating hurt and disbelief. “Mr. Crane, somebody kidnapped our brother forty years ago. Why wouldn’t you want to be protected?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “I have Aiken on the line, sir. Shall I take a message?”

  “No, I’ll take it.” For a moment the phone went dead, and then Aiken’s voice came through.

  “Essentially, there’s no fallout, here. We were able to recover their weapons before the police arrived and we’ve arranged for outside talent to take out a few people with a sniper rifle over the next two days to deflect interest in us.”

  He thought a moment before answering. “Take out the Councilman’s wife. Make the other one completely random; a factory worker or something. Let’s make it three – add someone at a gas station, no rhyme or reason.”

  He knew it was Sage. The man was sending a warning, loud and clear. It’s like he dared the company to take action when he wrote the books and then double dared us right away. “Did we recover the bullet?”

  “Recovered both and returned replacements to the bricks. It’s nothing special, a standard .306, and the ones we replaced will match the new sniper rifle.”

  “Aiken, any ballistics expert in the world will know they’re not the bullets that killed the men.” He shook his head. This was spiraling out of control.

  “We’ll have the first additional victim get hit tonight, before the bullets are even there. They’ll match them before they know what’s going on and it’ll be a random killer instead of anything to do with us.”

  He nodded before he remembered that Aiken couldn’t see him through the phone line. “Okay. It’s the best we can do.” He paused for a moment and nodded to himself. “Good job, Aiken. Un
der the circumstances you’re containing it as well as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir. There’s one other thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Crane just booked a ticket to Minneapolis. He’s leaving on Delta’s 11:45 flight.”

  “Interesting. I’ll handle that.”

  Evidently, Crane wasn’t just lucky; he was good. Well, that would put both Sage and Crane in Minneapolis.

  He pressed the intercom button and called Gladys in. She walked in a few moments later with a bourbon he hadn’t requested, but felt grateful to receive.

  “Thank you, Gladys.” He took a sip and let it warm its way down his throat. “Is there any word?”

  “Drake’s men arrive in three days, the rest in five. We could call off the Chechnya project and have them here in four.”

  “No, we’ll live with the timeframe.” He sighed and looked at her. She was still attractive, though not stunning. “Uh, Gladys.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Doing, sir?”

  “I mean in life. How are you … oh, forget it. Thank you.”

  She looked at him strangely, maybe even wistfully, for a moment. Then she stood and walked out. He reached for the phone and dialed. When the other line answered he said, “Crane is catching the 11:45 Delta flight to here. Make sure you’re on the plane.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  They were easily the craziest clients he’d ever had.

  Although not scary crazy. He’d had plenty of defendants that were crazy in a scary way, and one cuckold who wanted to hire him to kill his cheating wife after Crane showed him the photographs.

  No, the Winslow ladies were just bizarre crazy like the old ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace. Still, their money was good, and they didn’t flinch at expenses. He picked up the cell phone and dialed Noelle.

  “Roddie?” she answered. She sounded like she was in a good mood.

  “Hi, Elle. I’m on the 11:45 to Minneapolis, so I’m heading straight to the airport. Can you meet me there with that laptop you were going to lend me?”

  An asshole in an old Chevy Nova cut him off and he yelled an obscenity out of his shattered window.

  “Still the friendly defensive driver we all know and love, huh? Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “The son of a bitch just cut me off and I—”

  “I meant go to Minneapolis, Roddie. I don’t think it—”

  “Hold on, someone on the other line … Hello?”

  “Mr. Crane. Nero and I are concerned to find you on a flight out of town.” Jesus. How the hell did Ray-Ray figure it out? Ray-Ray is definitely one of my scary crazy clients.

  “It’s part of the job that’s allowing me to give Nero money, Ray-Ray. I’ll be there for a week or two, maybe a little longer. Maybe a little shorter.”

  “Mr. Crane, Nero’s business is successful because at all times he resists the use of the word ‘maybe’. Your obligation to him is such that all uncertainty about your whereabouts or activities causes us general unease.”

  “Hey, I gave Nero the cash I had, and I’ll have more coming in. The money you picked up was only from the initial deposit. I’m telling you, I’m getting the money.”

  “Perhaps the only reason Nero won’t allow me to do what is clearly the correct thing to do with you is that you have made minimal payments recently.”

  “Or perhaps it’s because I kept his ass, his father’s ass, and your ass out of prison more times than you can count.” Being tough with Ray-Ray was a whole hell of a lot easier when she was on the phone instead of right there with you.

  “Mr. Crane. I expect you to answer your phone while you’re away. On the first ring. If you leave Minneapolis, I expect you to call Nero and let us know. If you plan on extending your stay, I expect you to call Nero and let us know. And if you plan on referring to my ass in any way whatsoever in the future, I expect you to prepare for a long and slow death.”

  “Jesus, Ray-Ray, I was just saying…Ray-Ray? Ray-Ray?” The line was dead. He pressed the button. “Noelle, are you still there?” But there was nothing on that line, too.

  This was such bullshit. Why the scare tactics, why did Nero send Tom and Jerry after him? Predictability, that’s what he was used to with guys like Nero. He was unpredictable as hell, lately.

  I want a goddamn drink.

  He wouldn’t get a drink, of course, not until he got to the plane. Unless … he glanced behind him. Sure enough, the other gallon jug of vodka was right on the back seat. Miraculously, traffic on the 50 was very light. He maneuvered himself to reach behind while driving, thanked God for small cars, and got the jug.

  A long pull later, and things started evening out for him.

  That’s when he saw the black SUV.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tommy eased his chair back against the wall and rested his arm against the bar table. It was only about nine a.m., but there were still a number of people at the pub. The bartender walked up to him. “Another special drink, Mr. Norwood—or should I call you Mr. Twill now?”

  “Just a beer for now, Andy, uh, Drew. You know, I’m here today to kind of take a break from everything, so it would be great if we could just keep the Fortley books a little quiet for now.”

  The Village People started on the jukebox, and Norwood wondered if every gay bar in the world played that band four or five times a day.

  “No problem, Mr. Norwood.” Drew turned to get the beer.

  “Hey, Drew?”

  Tommy said it quietly, but the bartender turned around and lifted his eyebrows. “Something else, too?”

  “The beer’s fine, Drew. You know, when I was a kid, that was back in the 1970s, profanity was still something kids didn’t do much.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it was still a kind of forbidden thing. So my friends and I used to hang out, you know, play hide and seek, walk to the little store on the corner and get Red Hots and Lemonheads, that kind of stuff.” Norwood could see Mike and that girl who lived across the street walking ahead of him, and Carlos walking by his side. What was that girl’s name?

  “Sounds nice, Mr. Norwood.”

  “So when this song came out, we—”

  “This one?”

  “Yeah, YMCA.” Beverly, that was it, although everyone called her Bev. “When it came out, you know they have that line, ‘you can have a good meal, you can do whatever you feel.’” He wasn’t fat back then. He was big, but it was the kind of big that prompted adults to point out that he’d make an incredible linebacker or boxer or wrestler when he grew up.

  “Yeah, I know that line.”

  “But they don’t sing it like that, they say ‘you can do wah-the-vuh you feel.” He could climb trees back then, hide in relatively small places until everyone called ‘Ollie-Ollie-Oxenfree’. Deanna, the next-door neighbor, even played doctor with him in his dad’s camper shell.

  “Yeah, that is how they say it.”

  “So, my buddies and I thought they were saying ‘what the fuck’. We thought the line was ‘you can do what the fuck you feel’. It was like we were in on some awesome naughty joke, you know, like Tommy Norwood, his friends, and the Village People had some inside joke that our parents didn’t know about.”

  “Hmm.”

  Norwood sighed, “I guess I’m a better writer than a storyteller, Drew.”

  “You’re a great writer, Mr. Norwood, and your stories are just fine. I’ll go get your beer for you.”

  Those had been good days, full of promise and excitement. He was going to be a robotics engineer, Mike was going to be a firefighter, and Carlos was going to pitch for the Dodgers.

  When Drew brought back the beer, he thanked him and took a sip.

  What was Sage going to say—hell, what will he do—when Tommy told him he didn’t want to finish the Costa Rica book?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The SUV was a good quarter-mile ahead of him. Crane didn’t know if
Abercombie and Fitch knew he was behind them, but Nero was definitely serious about keeping tabs on him.

  He toyed with the idea of driving right up next to them and flipping them off.

  Jesus, Roddie, it might not even be them. But it was them. He could see the scratch on the SUV’s back left side.

  He glanced at his watch. It was only a little after nine, so he had some wiggle room with time. He maintained his speed until a gas exit up ahead came into view. He kept driving – then, at the last possible moment, he pulled off the freeway, entered the gas station, and waited.

  Five minutes. Nothing. He took another sip of vodka and then walked inside the station. The girl at the counter smiled at him, and he smiled back, bought a pack of cigarettes, and walked back out.

  Still no sign of the SUV. He got back in the car and took another sip before getting back on the 50.

  He glanced over at his briefcase. The gun was inside. He’d already decided not to take it to Minneapolis with him, but in retrospect, it would have been fun to see how accurate the bullets really were. He wondered how Black and Decker would feel if he’d blown out a tire or two. The thought made him smile.

  Alright, let’s focus on the case. Kid disappears forty years ago and shows up writing realistic books about covert operations that my incredibly-intelligent-and-above-all-normal-literature ex-girlfriend thinks are incredible. Of course, he might not be writing them; some guy might’ve just used his picture. Kid’s sisters are worried about danger and give me super bullets. Daddy – well, great granddaddy or something – made the family bazillions of dollars that this kid still owns.

  A thought occurred to him and he called Noelle. As the phone rang, he tried to put together the germ of an idea that was trying to form. If I can just… No, it wasn’t coming. Still ringing. After eight rings, he gave up. Must already be on the way with the laptop.

  Crane turned on the radio and listened to forgettable songs from even more forgettable stars as he made his way along the 50, merged onto I-365 and finally exited on MD-16 to head to the long-term parking. He looked at his watch. It was just past ten o’clock. He went through the hoops with the parking attendants and was finally directed to park.