“No.”
Norton’s voice was peremptory. “Do it.”
When Carl hesitated, Norton pulled him in and slammed the door. He let Carl sink into a chair and stood over him. “You’re not going anywhere. You swore fealty to me. And I intend for you to honor that promise until the day one of us dies.”
“That day has already passed.”
“What are you talking about?”
His hands quivering, Carl clutched the chair’s arms. “I was supposed to get killed. Not Fred.”
Norton laughed. “Nothing was supposed to happen to you, except what did happen to you. You’re alive because Fred decided to save you.”
It was like a sword thrusting into him. Carl bent over and sniffed nosily, ashamed of the tears in his eyes. He couldn’t believe he could act like this front of Norton, to have him see him weak and fragile.
The condemnation he expected didn’t come. No demands for him to man up and kill his emotions. Just a quiet tone.
“He knew you were worth saving,” Norton said. “He trained you. You are what you are partly thanks to him. And that’s why you’re not going anywhere. I refuse to release you from your oath to me, and I know you too well; you won’t violate it.”
“What do you want from me? Are you not disgusted by me right now?”
Norton laughed as he picked up his phone and made a short call, then looked back at Carl. “You have no other place to go. This is where you belong. I won’t let one of my creations destroy itself.”
Carl looked at him puzzlingly. “Creation?”
“You are a product of my ideas. Who you are, what you think. I’ve helped mold you. Fred played his part, but you are like me in ways you do not know and will never know.”
Norton turned for a cigarette. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise, but the situation compels me to inquire what happened to your father. When was the last time you saw him?”
“He left when I was a kid. Or so I thought.”
“He never left?”
Carl’s tears dried as an indignant frown appeared on his face. “He was prohibited from seeing me. A court order.”
“When did you learn that?”
His voice was as somber as a man admitting a dark secret in a confession booth. “The day I left to come here.”
Norton raised his head. “Ah. I see. You never thought to look him up?”
“He was already dead.”
Norton got up and came to Carl, touching him on the arm. His voice grew tender. “I don’t have a son. Why that is, is a private affair. But every man wants someone to carry on not his name so much as his values, his beliefs. I want what I believe to survive.”
He put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “As Tennyson wrote of Tithonus, I will have my immortality, but with it I will not have eternal youth. Someday I will die, but my legacy will live on. In you.”
“Me?”
The hand grip tightened even more. “No matter what, you must survive. That is a standing order to you. I want you to pass what I have taught you onto someone else. Perhaps it will be own son. That is for you to decide.”
Carl swallowed hard. An expectation now hung over his head, but with it came a newly found sense of purpose.
“Promise me,” Norton said. “Promise me you will find someone, as I did you.”
Carl’s head was low.
“Look me in the eye, boy.”
He did so and spoke in a hushed voice. “I swear it.”
***
Kaylyn was drinking coffee by his desk when arrived back at his place, studying his handwritten copies of lines from T.S. Elliot. Her head turned when he came in, but she didn’t get up to meet him at the door.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m well.”
She went back to studying the poetry as though he weren’t there.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. You’re not looking at me.”
“I’m reading what you wrote.”
He put his coat on the bed and stood beside her. “You’re reading pretty fast. It’s meant to be read slowly.”
“I guess.”
He took a beer from his fridge and drank it, watching her with a renewed appreciation. Not for what she was doing. He wished she would pay more attention to him at that moment. But she was there with him.
“What did Norton want to say?” she asked.
“Just wanted to talk.”
“Are you alright?”
“Of course not.”
He moved over to the bed and finished the beer, placing the bottle off to the side. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“I don’t. I just want to see what you like.”
He came over to her and tried to embrace her, but she got up and rubbed her arms.
“It’s cold in here,” she said. “Too bad you can’t get a fire going.”
“I can think of a way for us to get warm quickly.”
“Not now, Carl. You’re too hurt. I wouldn’t want you get another injury.”
He paused. This wasn’t like her.
“I’m fine,” he insisted.
“You don’t seem fine.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
She kept rubbing her arms, her voice distracted. “I just don’t know…you’re upset. Earlier today, I’ve never seen you like that.”
The comment struck deep. Carl lost control of himself. “Well, no shit. If a pal of yours got killed saving you, how would you react?”
Her eyes got wide as if growing fearful. She took a step to the side toward the door.
“I think you should rest,” she said. “I’ll be back soon. Please get well.”
Taking her coat, she was out before he could protest. Her footsteps were hasty, and when he looked out the window to see her leave, she stopped at the street corner and braced herself against the old light post.
A terrible dread filled him. He couldn’t lose her. Not anymore.
Whatever it took.
Chapter Seventeen
The cold morning air outside made Usher’s house made it feel inviting when Carl arrived, ambers of a withering fire glowing in the stove to the side of the main room as he took off his coat and placed it on a hanger.
Usher emerged from one his study dressed sharply in a business suit, a freshly dry-cleaned smoking jacket over it. Carl had the man’s routine down to a minute, knowing he transitioned from business to pleasure and back again with seamless ease that made his vices an integrated part of his life.
Usher took the fire poker and prodded at the coals. His call an hour ago had come unexpectedly. There was no telling when they came, but ordinarily they were preceded by some sort of third-hand rumor, a hint of something worth investigating.
“I heard of your untimely friend’s death,” Usher said. “Quite regrettable.”
Carl held himself with an air of stoicism. It had been a week since Fred’s death. He had been in a state of grief for a few days, and then all that sadness has turned to quiet determination. Having narrowly escaped death at the hands of the ISA, he vowed never to give them the chance again.
Usher went over to his large octagonal table and picked up a newspaper by the edge. He took the front page and handed it to Carl. It was the Fremont paper.
The top headline: ISA TO WITHDRAW FROM SEATTLE.
Carl read more. The story wasn’t long. It was also short on details. The gist was clear, though. Officially, they were citing a reallocation of resources and budgetary problems as the cause, and like most lies there was probably an element of truth to it that would satisfy the news sites, but it didn’t change the reality of the situation.
They had been beaten at their own game. OPERATION EMERALD had failed.
“You don’t sound optimistic,” Carl said to Usher as he put the paper down.
“If I thought this was the end of it, I would be.”
“Point taken.”
“Operati
ons come and go,” he said. He gestured lightly toward the fire. “But the drones are going to stay. Did you notice that?”
“Yes. They’re cheap and easy to keep here running on an automated program.”
Usher sat in his hefty sofa chair and crossed his legs, clearly uncomfortable. “Kenning’s been canned.”
His tone didn’t suggest it had anything to do with his newspaper connections. For some reason, Carl felt relieved. He had never liked Kennings, but the man had been reliable enough.
“What was the reason?” Carl asked.
“They suspected he was working with us, but they couldn’t prove it. They got rid of him the less messy, expensive way by offering him his full pension benefits early.”
The news infuriated Carl. He wasn’t angry at Kenning. He couldn’t blame for what he had done. Who wouldn’t have taken the deal?
He hated that the government had enough money to kill, bribe, or pay off anyone they wanted. But they didn’t have to pay a dime for it. Someone else was picking up the tab, whether they liked it or not.
“I’ll have to find somebody new and vet him before arranging a meeting with you,” Usher said,
“You could have just called and told me about this.”
“Yes, but it didn’t have you come here to tell you just that.”
“What, then?”
Crossing his legs again, Usher held his folded hands close to his face, then looked at Carl.
“Kenning’s gone, but I still have many friends in many places,” he said. “And I’m hearing things. About you.”
“Like what?”
“After that scrap with the ISA, you’ve become better known. This town isn’t divided between the haves and have nots. It’s divided by the somebodies and the nobodies. It pays to be the latter.”
Carl held his tongue. Within days, word has spread about how he had survived an ISA ambush and single-handedly held them off long enough to be rescued. Some bystanders had witnessed the final skirmish and taken the tale to the local watering hole for the whole neighborhood to hear.
Usher stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece. “Reputation and fame are sought here just as much as other things. When you become famous for killing people, others can become famous by killing you.”
“Anybody in particular thinking of that?”
“I hear rumors.”
Carl raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“You don’t want to know how long the list is. I’d watch your back from now on. That means not taking risks. Should anything happen to you, should you be shot in the street or have your car blown up at a random hour of the night, someone will have a finger pointed at them. I can’t afford to have it pointed at me, or even have the possibility raised. I make a living based on people’s capacity to trust me and my services. As much as I dislike admitting it, you’ve become a bit of a showcase of my abilities, of what can be done when I arrange things. But no one will speak to me again if they think I sold you out.”
True altruism, Seattle-style; looking out for others to look out for yourself.
Carl smiled. “I’ll be sure not to die, for your sake.”
“It is appreciated.”
“By the way; you could have still called me at the paper and told me this.”
Usher’s face was rigid. “If I hadn’t heard rumors I’ve heard, I would have.”
It took a while for Carl to get his point. A sinking feeling entered his gut, but then he dismissed it entirely.
No one in the newspaper would betray him.
Carl went to leave, and Usher joined him in the foyer. They looked out the bay window to their left. Another episode of heavy rainfall had started, the potholes filled up like dozens of tiny lakes.
“They’ll always come,” Usher said.
Carl didn’t quite know what he meant. “I’m not dying anytime soon. I got something to live for now.”
He ran to his new car. With his old Ford destroyed, he had opted for a sedan. His hat kept out most of the rain when he got to it, but as he went for his keys he paused and glanced down the tires. Usher’s warning had left in him a terrible premonition of danger he couldn’t shake off. His confidence in his safety was gone.
He opened the driver’s door, popped the hood open, and inspected the engine closely. Nothing was out of place. In the car, he checked the steering column, the ignition switch. Everything was fine.
He turned the key, sighing when the engine revved like a creature roused from sleep.
***
He could sense them coming from a long way’s off.
In the underground open space at Pike Place, he was paying for a new suit. His old one had been of service, but the tears and small cuts were too much. He had a reputation to keep, never being seen in disheveled clothes. His shoes were worn as well, but a good shine and some work with a brush would bring it back to its former glory.
The vendor was giving him a hard time, trying to get extra. Carl wouldn’t have it. Behind him, he sensed someone’s approach. Too intentionally subtle.
“Take it or leave it,” he said.
“Fine.”
Carl took the suit across the booth, slipping his hand into his coat pocket where a small derringer was holstered in the coat liner. He turned, his pistol aimed straight.
“Hey!” the person cried out.
Tony Marconi stood in front of him, a wide grin on his face. He seemed genuinely happy to see Carl, but also acted like he had been looking for him.
“What do you want?” Carl asked.
The people around them looked at the pair, either turning away or moving slowly from their line of sight in anticipation of violence. Carl glared at them, then at Tony.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” he asked.
“Not at all.” He held his hands out warmly. “I’m very happy to see you alive, my friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
Tony held out his hands and smiled. “Ah, just because I don’t have that mark on my palm I cannot be your friend? Must I cut myself for you?”
“Do whatever you want.”
Tony pulled a copy of the Fremont’s latest issue from his pocket, smacking his hand against the front page. “You like my story?”
“It was alright.”
“Alright! It was fantastic! Stupendous!”
Carl shrugged. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? I’m busy.”
Tony glanced at Carl’s unseen hand in his pocket. His smile got smaller as he pulled himself back slightly.
“I’m not here for that,” he said. “I would like to talk to you.”
“Ok, what do you want to say?” Carl asked.
“Someplace else.”
“No.”
Tony came close to him, his hands held out by his sides. The humor in his tone was gone.
“I want to speak with you without others hearing us,” he said. “Come with me, please.”
He wasn’t paying too much attention to Tony. His senses heightened, he searched for telltale signs of enemies in the crowds. None could be found. Either Tony was being honest, or the ambush had been set up beautifully.
“Where do you want to go?” Carl asked.
“Just up the street. There is a library there we can go to.”
“Whatever. As long as they have a place to hang my new suit.”
Tony too him to a library called The Wayne Parlor only a few blocks away. The inside smacked of minimalism; no art on the walls, no music playing overheard to muff conversations. The place smelled of aged oak caskets and hearty ales. All the patrons were clearly Fremonties; they had no uniform, per se, but they had preference for gold or blue sports jackets. However, Tony went against that tradition with his three-piece, pinstriped.
Everyone stared as Carl entered, but Tony waved them off and led him to a booth overlooking the street. The waiter, a young boy with a high and tight haircut, had a sweet white wine ready by the time they sat down.
“Get Mr. Farrington a brandy,” To
ny said. “And make it quick.”
Carl watched amusingly as the waiter rushed to the back. “You’ve done your homework.”
“You are quite famous,” Tony said. “It doesn’t take much to find out about you.”
“And yet, there is so little you can know about a man just by his drink.”
“Au contraire, I disagree.”
“How so?”
Tony sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Norton prefers brandy, too.”
“So do a lot of people.”
As they drank, Carl surveyed the Fremonties in the booths across from them. He felt better when they glanced back at him. An assassin would pretend not to care.
Tony noticed his wariness and insisted he enjoy his brandy. “Do not insult my honor by suspecting me of malice. It would be a disgrace to kill a man in this place.”
“This town doesn’t have room for honor.”
“I believe it does.”
“Does that involve shooting out a man’s tires?”
Tony smiled, much in the way Tom might have. “I could have done worse.”
The waiter came with a brandy. Tony dismissed him after turning down orders for newspapers.
He raised a toast to Carl, turning his head to the side curiously. “What shall we drink to?”
“I don’t know. What do you people drink to usually?”
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Unable to stop from laughing, he accepted the toast. He decided it was hard not to like Tony. Maybe that was what bothered him; Tony didn’t seem to have a bad bone in his body, an ounce of ill will toward anyone. Yet, he still was a rival.
After they toasted, Carl put his elbows on the table. “What did you want to talk about? What secrets must I disclose before I can go?”
“None. I just wanted to speak to you without pretense.”
“Pretense?”
“Yes. I like you, Carl. If I had a brother, I would like to think he’d be like you.”
“That’s an odd thing to say, given the circumstances.”
“Come now,” Tony said, his voice stern. “Let’s not talk like we’re ordinary people. We are not. We are exceptional men.”
“Very humble of you.”
“I can be humble, or I can be honest. I cannot be both.”
The waiter was standing by to refill Tony’s wine as soon as the last drop was finished and left the bottle chilled in an ice basket.
The Redeemers Page 24