Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

  “Try to keep low.”

  Noelle nodded and hunched herself down. “Was the second guy Guildenstern?”

  Crane shook his head.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s in the house.” Then the gunshots came back to him and he added, “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Should we go inside?” Noelle was already reaching for the handle, but Crane reached over and put his hand on her wrist. She looked back at him.

  “Let’s give it five minutes to make sure no threats are still in there.”

  “We can’t, Roddie. Someone is bound to call 911, and we need to get inside and find out if Norwood is okay. We need to find out if he’s linked to Dennis Winslow.”

  “Oh, he’s linked, Noelle.” Crane put a cigarette to his lips, thought better of it and put it in the ashtray. “The man who ran after Rosencrantz looked just like the picture the Winslow sisters gave me, only a hell of a lot bigger. Stronger. But either way, Dennis Winslow just ran out of Norwood’s house.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  He’d only been in bed a minute or two before his cell phone rang.

  It was Gladys. “Miss me already?” he asked and felt stupid for asking. She told him she did but was only calling to patch through a call from one of the operatives. “Okay, thank you. Put him through.”

  “Jesus Christ, boss! He killed Smith!” In the background came the roar of an engine, and the man was out of breath. “He crushed his fucking head with his bare hands! Jesus, oh Jesus!”

  “Calm down. Where are you now?”

  “I’m driving as fast as I fucking can back to the office.”

  God, don’t we train these people anymore? “No. You’re not driving to the office. You’re going to a safe house, remember?” He was sitting on the edge of the bed now. “You have two designated safe houses in Minneapolis. Choose one and head there.”

  “Yeah, right, boss. Sorry. It’s just—Jesus!” The man had likely never been in a situation where his targets hit back. “I gotta make sure the guy isn’t following me.”

  “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.” He pressed a house intercom button, and Alex was at his door as the operative began relating the story. He lifted his empty bourbon glass, and the butler nodded.

  By the time Alex returned with another drink, the operative had finished. The CEO took the bourbon from him with a nod and sipped.

  “Describe the man.”

  “He was a goddamn mountain. He looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he was old, you know, white hair and wrinkles.”

  He’s talking about Sage.

  “And he moved fast, boss. He moved faster than anybody I’ve ever seen. Fuck, it was like he some kind of superhero like Superman or Spiderman or … or…”

  “I know what a superhero is.” He sighed and took another drink. “Get to the safe house and call Aiken when you get there.”

  He hung up and put the cell phone down. Part of him just wanted to go to bed. It’s time for me to retire.

  Instead of laying back down, he picked the phone back up and called Gladys, verifying arrival times for the returning operatives from overseas. He briefed her on the situation and told her to keep her phone on.

  It was a stupid request. In all the years she’d worked for him, she never turned her phone off.

  When he’d finished with Gladys, he tried to determine how the events of the evening altered the current situation. He called her again and told her to see about getting a team to Norwood’s place or making sure that a friendly detective worked the case when the time came. He hung up again and realized that he’d likely make ten or twenty such calls throughout the evening. He buzzed for Alex again and ordered a pot of coffee.

  Sage had now killed three people working for the company. Two had been unprovoked, and one could be considered defensive in nature. What in the world was he planning? With Norwood dead, how would that alter his strategy?

  The CEO thought about the Leopard Project. If Sage was planning on waging war with the company until it ended there would be a great many more lifeless bodies.

  He sipped his bourbon and dialed Gladys again.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  He still saw the red haze. Dr. Kruntin told him years ago that the specific programming that improved his night vision and visual reaction times was probably responsible for the side-effect. When the adrenaline from battle overcame him, the pinkish cloud descended over him as though he were swimming in clear red water. And it wasn’t always in battle that it happened, either; sometimes it was when he was excited or angry.

  Sage was seeing red metaphorically as well. The company was going to pay. He was going to rip the arms off of this son of a bitch. He was going to take his time killing him. Sage was good at keeping people alive while inflicting astounding amounts of pain.

  The man would beg. The man would cry. The man would scream.

  Sage was looking forward to it.

  He’d lost sight of the SUV before he ever reached his car, but he figured the man was heading toward the company so he drove that direction. He thought of Norwood, and sadness hit him like a punch to the gut.

  I never could have killed him. Oh, Tommy. I’m sorry.

  Of course, there was another problem, too. Tommy was the one who handled all of the money, and Sage had no idea how to check the book sales or how to change the money they got online into cash.

  He did some quick calculations. He could let it all go and still live okay. Never going to finish the fucking Costa Rica book.

  The redness was disappearing from his vision. He felt his heart rate slowing, his blood pressure returning to normal.

  He considered, for a moment, just leaving. He could turn the damn car around and go back underground. They hadn’t found him for more than twenty years. This wouldn’t change that. They wouldn’t have found him at all if it weren’t for that stupid picture.

  The thought brought him back to Tommy and he felt a rush of sadness, this time tinged with guilt.

  No fucking way. They’re going to pay.

  By this time, the company was only a block or so away, and Sage began to scan the area for the SUV. Nothing. He drove slowly past the building. No lights. He circled the block a few times and still saw nothing. He could feel his anger growing, and the red haze was closing in from the corners of his eyes.

  Sage yelled and slammed his fist on the dashboard. It left a dent.

  He turned away from the office and started back toward Norwood’s place. The company was likely to send operatives, and he hoped he would get there before them. He could already hear the pleas and the cries.

  There was something pushing at him. Something the men had said. He couldn’t bring it to mind, his body growing more furious. He practiced his breathing exercises, the ones that helped bring him out of the furies. Gradually, the redness subsided again.

  He tried to focus. What had those fuckers said right before Tommy died?

  They said tell someone, tell someone to back off. Who was it? He tried to push the images of blood and Tommy’s slumped body out of his head.

  Tell someone …

  He visualized climbing in through the kitchen window, listening to the men.

  Tell …

  Tell …

  Finally, he had it.

  Crane.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  It was a scene out of a horror movie. One step into the door and Crane nearly threw up.

  Noelle, however, seemed oddly detached. She pointed to the giant man on the wheelchair and softly told him that it was Twill.

  Crane saw a man on the floor with a red pulpy mass where the head should have been. “I think that’s Tenille.”

  “Tenille?”

  “Sorry.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Captain and Tenille, Mutt and Jeff, Mork and Mindy. I think it’s the guy with the watch cap.”

  There was a gun beside him, and it was covered in blood. Crane reached
down to pick it up and changed his mind. “Whatever you want to get in here, you’d better do it fast.”

  Noelle began a quick circuit of the house. Crane found himself staring at Twill. “Hey, what did you say this guy’s real name was?”

  She called it back. Crane shook his head. “Well, Thomas Norwood, you were a hell of a writer.” What a horrible way to go.

  Noelle tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped, nearly slipping and falling over the headless man. “Jesus Christ, Elle!”

  He turned and saw that she was reaching for the laptop. “Wait!” He walked to her and picked it up. “Did you touch anything else in here?”

  “No.” She was starting to lose composure, looked a bit green, and he could see the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. He wondered if that was how she’d looked when he’d made the call breaking off the relationship all those years ago.

  “Okay, look. I’m going to call the police. You take the car back to the hotel with the laptop.” She started to protest, but he held up his hand. “I think I touched a few things, the table for sure. If the police find evidence of me and I’m not here, it’s going to be a problem. I’m going to be tied up for hours, so I really need you to do your magic with the guy’s computer.”

  Noelle was silent. Crane thought she looked beautiful when she looked vulnerable and immediately felt like an asshole for thinking that way. Idiot. Nothing like a dead body to make her hot as hell. “Can you do this for me, sweetheart?”

  Finally, she nodded, and Crane handed her the car keys. She took them and wordlessly left through the front door.

  Crane took a deep breath, a breath filled with the scent of gunpowder and the coppery smell of blood. He suppressed a gag, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed 911.

  When the operator answered, he said, “My name is Rodney Crane. I’m a private investigator out of Maryland. I’ve just stumbled upon a couple of dead bodies.”

  He gave the operator the address and then answered what seemed to be an unending series of questions until he realized she was only keeping him on the line, afraid he’d leave the scene if he hung up. He hung up.

  He quickly searched the headless man’s pockets and came up empty. In the distance, he could hear sirens, so he sat down at the table to wait.

  He thought about Noelle, about her body, about feeling her below him and above him and next to him just an hour or so ago. He thought about the years he could have had with her and had lost. He thought that this might have been the first time Noelle had seen bodies first hand. It was his, although he’d seen crime scene photos time and time again. He thought about her crying in the hotel room, about her crying in her dorm room. Finally, as blue and red lights reflected on the wall through the open doorway, he thought about the Winslow sisters and the case.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  He set the appointment for late because he wanted to make sure Lewis wouldn’t think he was invited to lunch.

  Nero poured himself a full goblet of red and gulped it down. He hated the man. A guy like Crane was a fuck up, sure, but he was basically a good guy. Corrupt as hell, yeah, but you could trust him. He never lied to you. No bullshit about “We’ll get you off” or “They really don’t have evidence.”

  No, with Crane it was, “Shut your fucking mouth. You don’t talk to the cops. You don’t talk to the guards. You don’t talk to the other prisoners. You don’t talk to your mom if she shows up.” Crane wasn’t honest; he just didn’t lie to his clients. The truth was that Nero had no doubt the Crane would pay eventually. He only pressured him on principle.

  Lewis, though. That guy was a slimy fuck. Crane took money and made magic things happen in court. Lewis took money and bought off politicians with it. Then the prick expects you to pay for favors from the politicians he bought with your money.

  Nero hated Lewis for the way he screwed over Crane, too. With Crane around, there was almost nothing off limits. The guy would get you off, that simple. When Lewis threw him under the bus, it meant that Nero had to be careful. Nero hated being careful.

  Still, when a guy wants to meet with you because there’s somebody he wants dead, you meet with the guy. Actually, although Nero hated the idea of doing anything that made Lewis’ life better, having something like this to hang over his head would be a good thing. The next time the bastard wanted ten grand to call a councilman, he could make him shit the money himself.

  The thought brought a smile to Nero’s face. He tried to figure how high he should go and settled on twenty-five grand. Unless it’s a girl. I’ll make him pay more for a girl.

  He signaled for the waiter to clear off the table and bring a fresh tablecloth. He poured another glass of wine and waited. Five minutes later, just as the waiter put the centerpiece back on over the clean table linens, Lewis walked through the door. The guy looked corrupt the way some guys look smart or some guys look mean. Squirrely-assed bastard.

  Lewis didn’t walk right up to the table. Even he knew better than that. Nero made him squirm for a while before he finally lifted his hand and waved him over. The asshole practically ran to him.

  He didn’t make small talk. “Fifty thousand dollars, Nero. Fifty thousand dollars for the hit.”

  The number was too high. Way too high. Nero had a momentary surge of panic. “What are you talking about, Mr. Lewis? What do you mean a hit?” As he said it, he waved over one of his men and pointed at Lewis. The goon lifted Lewis to his feet and began to pat him down. Finally, he looked at Nero and said that Lewis was clean.

  Nero shook his head. “Open up his shirt and make sure he don’t have a wire.”

  The man grabbed both sides of Lewis’ shirt and pulled, spraying buttons in both directions. He reached around to check his back and said again that he was clean, stepping back. Lewis sat down, “Jesus, Nero. This is—was—a two hundred dollar shirt.”

  “Yeah, and to think you make it look like an eight dollar special from Wal-Mart. Besides, if you got fifty-thousand lying around, who the fuck needs to worry about a shirt?”

  “Still, what did you think? You thought I would wear a wire to screw over a client?”

  “Ex-client, Lewis. Ex-client.” Nero finished off the wine. “Now tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to kill Rodney Crane.”

  Chapter Seventy

  They made Crane wait outside, sitting on the step while a uniform watched him. He was glad to be away from the blood. He never liked blood, never. He wasn’t squeamish so much as he just didn’t like it.

  When Sienna was diagnosed with the blood disease, it became even worse for him. Blood had an entirely new significance with red blood cell counts, t-cell counts, plasma viscosity and a hundred other goddamn terms the doctors insisted on bringing up over and over. Fucking stupid, really. All you had to do was tell me she was gonna die.

  Instead, they gave him hope, and not the kind of hope they should have given him. Crane knew all about it. You tell a client the truth, and you tell him what you can do to fix the consequences of the truth. You sure as hell don’t say this procedure is almost certain to work, so let’s try this first before her condition gets worse.

  The worst part about it was they probably suggested the damn thing because it was a hundred grand. He hadn’t even thought about that.

  Sienna had this thing she did. She’d lie down at bedtime and he would lie down next to her and give her a kiss goodnight. Then, she’d say, “Poof.” That was his cue to act surprised as hell like she’d just cursed like a sailor. He’d tickle her until she begged him to stop and they’d calm down a minute or two before she’d say it again and the whole episode repeated. It usually lasted four or five poofs before she was tired out or he was.

  There was this other thing. From the time she was two, she’d sit him down when he got home and bring him the afternoon paper. He spent forever training the damn dog to do it, but she just took it over. She’d walk over so proudly, but also with this reserved dignity like she was performing a critical solemn duty.
He remembered a day when she was asleep when he got home. He got the paper himself, and when she woke up, she treated him like he’d killed her pet goldfish.

  It was cold, and he needed a drink. Probably should have checked Twill’s cabinets, or Norwood or whatever.

  A detective walked out of the brownstone and up to him. He hadn’t spoken to this one before. The guy wore a suit jacket a couple of sizes too small. He held a small memo pad and glanced at it. “Mr. Crane?”

  Crane nodded.

  “I’m Detective Yurk.” Could be Detective 3-A or Detective 5-1178. “Yeah, I need you to go over what happened with me.”

  “I already told the first responders what happened.” Crane sighed. It was bizarre how on some days the memories of Sienna were so vivid that they seemed almost like 35mm movie reels while other times everything was fuzzy and unclear.

  “I understand that, but I need you go over it with me, too.” Vivid was hard, the memories so clear that the pain was almost visceral.

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” The detective looked stunned. Crane tended to do that to cops.

  “I said ‘no.’ Detective, that’s a word that indicates a negative response. It means that I will not be going over anything with you. I told the officer earlier everything that there was to tell and I won’t be telling it again.” It was remarkable how much work Crane was forced to do because his idiot clients told conflicting versions of stories to the police.

  “You know, I can take you downtown and we can sort it out there.” Threat number one.

  “You can take me downtown, but there is nothing to sort out. I’m sure your officer took very good notes.”

  “Maybe I need to charge you with interfering with a police investigation.” Threat number two.

  “That would be difficult for you to prove. I gave a statement and I called you guys. Still, at least you’d be making it extra easy on my lawyer.”