[Jack Harvey Novels 02] Bleeding Hearts

by Ian Rankin

  Spike’s living room was no advert for the bachelor life. There were photos and magazine cuttings covering most of the walls, and you couldn’t see the carpet for old engine parts, sports tro-phies, discarded clothes, and memorabilia. Spike collected service-station signs, especially ones made of metal. He also seemed to be going in for full-size cardboard replicas of his sporting heroes. There was a black basketball player I’d never heard of leaning against one wall, and a baseball pitcher behind the sofa.

  “When he’s watching a game,” Jazz confided, “he actually talks to it like it was the real person.” Then she shook her head and went back to her room.

  Muffled in black cotton cloth on the sofa were several items for me to look at. Spike, his lips coated orange with sauce, came back in and waved his spoon. “Gimme a minute and I’ll be with you. Bel’s gone upstairs with Jazz.”

  When he left, I unwrapped the first gun. It was the sniper rifle, a Remington 700 Varmint. It wasn’t the military version which Max had offered me, but the commercial version, which meant it was beautifully polished and didn’t have a pre-fitted telescopic sight. I’d used one before, last time I’d been in Lubbock.

  Maybe it was the same gun. It was manufactured in Ilion, New York, and I knew it was an accurate weapon. It wasn’t the greatest sniper gun around, but it would do. The sight was a Redfield.

  I checked that it was compatible with the mounting plate. Then I opened the second package.

  These were the handguns, one pistol and one revolver. The revolver was a Smith & Wesson 547, with the four-inch rather than three-inch barrel. I’d never had much time for revolvers, though I knew Americans loved them, more for what they represented perhaps—the past—than for their modern-day ability.

  The pistol felt better. It was another Smith & Wesson, a semiautomatic, steel-framed and heavier than the revolver. It took fourteen rounds of parabellum ammo, but wouldn’t accept a silencer. Not that I thought I’d need a silencer, though the option would have been welcome.

  I was opening the third package when Spike came in.

  “Wait till you see,” he said.

  I’d been expecting an M16, but this was a lot shorter, almost a foot shorter, in fact. It didn’t weigh much more than double the pistol, and I picked it up one-handed.

  “It’s a Colt Commando,” Spike said. “It’s close to the M16, but the barrel’s half the length. The stock’s adjustable, see, and there’s a flash hider if you want it. It’ll take anything from a twenty- to a thirty-round mag. Elite forces use them, man, so you know you’re talking quality.”

  “Spare me the sales pitch, Spike. It won’t take sights.”

  He grinned. “That don’t matter, see.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re shit long-range. They don’t have the muzzle velocity of an M16. You need the muzzle flash, too, because this thing makes a noise like a Gatling gun. But for close-up action, you can’t beat it. Tuck it into your shoulder with the stock retracted and you can fire one-handed, just like Big Arnie!”

  “I like that it’s compact.”

  “Man, you can put it in an overnight bag, nobody’s going to know. Shit, the steaks!”

  He ran out of the room. I tucked the guns away again and checked what ammo he was giving me. I knew I was going to take everything except the revolver. Bel had shown some interest in being armed, but I wasn’t about to encourage her. Whatever the NRA says, if you’ve got a gun, you’re more likely to get shot than if you haven’t.

  I went upstairs and found Bel and Jazz busy on the computer.

  “Go away!” Jazz screamed. So I went away.

  Downstairs in the garden I opened another can of Old Milwaukee. “So how much?” I said. Spike turned another steak and basted it.

  “Oh, well now, let me see . . .”

  Which meant he already knew the exact figure he was going to ask. He started pretending to add up numbers. Then he went into the kitchen and brought out a tub of potato salad Jazz had made earlier.

  “She’s a sweet little thing really,” Spike said. “I know you didn’t hit it off with her yesterday, she told me last night. She always sits and talks with me at night. Of course, then she hits me for a twenty and takes off till dawn.” He laughed. “Only kidding.

  She’s usually back home by two.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  “Bel seems nice.”

  “I know you didn’t hit it off with her yesterday.”

  “Touché, brother. You know me, I’m called Spike ’cause I’m spiky. You say the two of you aren’t doing the devil’s business?”

  “I don’t recall saying that.”

  Spike smiled, then worked on the steaks again. “I get the feeling . . . Man, I’m sorry, you know me, I don’t pry or anything.

  But I get the feeling you’re in deep shit.”

  “I am.”

  He nodded to himself. “And are you going to get out of it all right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Wild West, you shouldn’t be taking a civilian along.”

  “Bel’s not a civilian, Spike. Her father was a casualty.”

  “I guess that makes it her war too,” he admitted. “Only, she don’t look the type. But then, neither do you.”

  “I’ve become the type.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, partner, but I see something else too. I see you’re tired of it. That’s dangerous.”

  “After this trip, I’m thinking of packing it in.”

  “That may not be soon enough, Wild West.”

  “Just tell me how much I owe for the guns.”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “Everything except the revolver.”

  He basted the steaks afresh. “Need any help?”

  I knew what he was offering; he was offering himself. He didn’t look at me.

  “I appreciate it, Spike, but I don’t think so. Now, how much do I owe you?”

  “Tell you what, come back and see me when it’s over. I’ll take the guns off you if you’ve still got them, and I’ll relieve you of that car of yours.”

  “The Trans Am?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “What if I don’t come back?”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me, man.” He stuck his free hand out, and I shook it. “Only, I don’t want no fresh dents in it, okay?”

  “Immaculate,” I said. Then: “Do you know anyone who fixes air-conditioning?”

  Spike called a friend who could look at the Trans Am that same day. The guy turned up with a friend, and they took the car with them. Spike had already called upstairs three times that the food was ready. It was more than ready by the time Jazz and Bel came downstairs. They looked shiny-faced and excited about something. Bel had her hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz was looking younger and prettier than yesterday. Bel had certainly done something to her.

  Spike and I were halfway through our steaks.

  “Outstanding potato salad,” he told his niece.

  “Thanks, Unc.”

  Jazz opened beers for Bel and her. They toasted one another.

  “Okay, give,” said Spike.

  “Wait and see,” said Bel. “The printer could be busy for some time.”

  After which all they wanted to talk about was the food, the car, and the drive which lay ahead. I tried giving Bel my long hard stare, but it didn’t so much as nick her. We feasted on meat and beer, and then Jazz announced that there was something she wanted to show me. Bel came too, Spike staying behind to scrape the plates into Wilma’s pen.

  Upstairs in Jazz’s room, paper had spewed from her printer.

  She started gathering it up, while Bel explained.

  “This machine’s fantastic, Michael. We got into an information network and asked for stuff about the Disciples. Where was it we went, Jazz?”

  “Library of Congress to start with.”

  “Yes, the Library of Congress. Then we went to Seattle.

  What was the name of t
hat place?”

  “The U-Dub,” said Jazz.

  “Short for the University of Washington. We used their information system, and one at a newspaper, and lots of other places. It only took minutes . . . and see what we got.”

  Jazz proudly handed me the pile of printed sheets. There were newspaper reports about the Disciples of Love, a whole bib-liography of source material. I should have looked more impressed, but I knew none of this could tell me anything fresh.

  “This is the guy,” Jazz said, tapping one sheet. It was a piece by a reporter called Sam T. Clancy.

  “He’s been looking into the Disciples,” Bel explained. “And now he’s disappeared.”

  “Gone into hiding,” Jazz corrected. There was a story about this too. After a near-miss hit-and-run followed by a near-fatal malfunc-tion of his car’s braking system, Sam T. Clancy had gone underground. His newspaper, the Post-Intelligencer, had made it front-page news. Being a newspaper, they’d also printed a photo of the journalist. I couldn’t see that exactly helping him go underground.

  “I don’t see where this gets us,” I said.

  “Come on,” said Bel. “Someone sets you up, someone gets rid of a reporter in England, now they try to bump off a reporter in Seattle. We need to find this Clancy and talk to him, see what he knows.”

  “Do you know the northwest, Bel? The coastline, the islands, the wilderness, the mountains? What do we do, climb to the top of Mount Rainier and yell for him to come see us?”

  “Jesus,” said Jazz, “talk about no spine.”

  “Look, I appreciate—”

  “No forward planning,” Jazz went on. “Think artillery’s the answer to everything.”

  Bel just stood there, lips slightly parted like a ventriloquist’s.

  “Big macho guy, kick down a few doors, fire a few rounds, and suddenly everything becomes clear. Wrong! ”

  “Look, Jazz . . .” But she pushed past me out of the room and took the stairs three at a time. Bel was pouting now, her arms folded.

  “She worked hard to get that information. She worked fast and well.”

  “I know, Bel.”

  “And how hard can it really be to find this reporter? Think about it, Michael. He’s a reporter. If we turn ourselves into a story, he’ll come to us. ”

  I had to admit, she had a point.

  We got the car back in A1 shape. The air-conditioning worked.

  It had been a minor repair, no more. The mechanic had also retuned the car. It purred when I turned the ignition. And all for a hundred dollars cash. We celebrated with a trip to the Ranching Heritage Center. Bel thought the whole thing was a bore, a dis-traction: the reconstructed plantation houses and windmills, the steam locomotive, the indoor exhibits.

  Me, I went and paid my respects to the Winchesters.

  We took Spike and Jazz out for a meal that night, but I didn’t drink. There’d be a hard day’s drive tomorrow, which was no place for a hangover. But I did have a shot of Jack Daniel’s to finish the meal, just to placate Spike. After all, I had several thousand dollars’ worth of guns in the trunk of the Trans Am, and he hadn’t even asked for a down payment.

  I didn’t ask him again about the chance that I wouldn’t make it back. I didn’t want to think about it.

  Back at the hotel, Bel flaked out on the bed. I went for a walk, and ended up at the Buddy Holly statue. He held his guitar the way a marching man would hold his rifle. Well, almost. I’d settled up for our room, explaining that we’d be leaving at dawn and wouldn’t require breakfast. I was glad now we’d booked into somewhere comfortable and clean, if utterly soulless. I didn’t know how things would go from here on in.

  I went to bed at 11:30, but didn’t sleep. I lay there for an hour, ticking off the minutes and assuring myself that Bel was fast asleep. Then I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where I’d left my clothes. We’d packed before dinner, and I picked my bags up on the way out of the room. I’d thought of leaving a note, but couldn’t find the right words. Bel would know what was happening. She’d go to Spike’s place. I’d phone her there in the evening.

  Out in the parking lot, the streets were silent. I laid my bags on the ground and searched my pockets for the keys to the Trans Am. I’d left them back in the room. I said a silent curse and hauled my bags back upstairs. We had a room key each, and I’d left mine at reception. Now I had to pick it up again and take the elevator to the third floor.

  I left my bags in the corridor and let myself in. The keys had to be lying on the table next to the television, but I couldn’t see them or feel them. Bel’s breathing was still deep and regular.

  “Looking for these?” a voice said.

  I turned around. She was still lying with her head beneath the cover, but one arm was raised and she was waving the keys at me.

  “I was just putting some stuff in the car,” I said.

  “It can wait.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Liar. You were creeping off without me.” She pushed the keys back under her pillow. “I’d’ve hated you forever if you’d done it. That’s why I couldn’t let you do it.”

  “You’d be a lot safer here.”

  “So would you.”

  “Bel, it’s not . . .”

  “I know what it is, Michael.” She sat up in bed, drawing her knees up in front of her. “And it’s okay, I accept it. But I need to see those bastards blasted off the planet. I need to be there.”

  I stood for a moment in the dark, trying to understand. Then I brought my bags back in from the corridor and got undressed again.

  I woke again at five. Bel woke up too. She didn’t complain or say anything more about last night. She just got up and showered, then got dressed.

  Before she dressed, she gave me a hug, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  We stayed that way for a long time.

  TWENTY

  Robert Walkins had a house overlooking Chesapeake Bay, between Washington, D.C., and Baltimore and not too far from Annapolis. It was finished in clapboard which had been given a recent coat of brilliant white paint. The picket fence around the house was white too. You couldn’t see much of the place from the road. You had to get out of the car and walk around to what should be the back of the house. In fact, the back of the house was what looked onto the road. The front of the house, naturally enough, looked onto the bay. The downstairs seemed to be mostly workshop, garage, play room. A flight of stairs led up to a columned balcony, and that’s where the front door was. The Stars and Stripes was fluttering from one of the columns. Hoffer blew his nose again before knocking on the door.

  While he waited, he turned and looked out across the long narrow lawn which was broken only by a few mature trees as it swept down to the edge of the bay. He knew erosion was a problem for a lot of these waterfront homes. Each year the bay crept a little closer to your door. There was some wood lying around, either driftwood or part of some scheme to ward off nature’s en-croachment. And past it, stretching out onto the bay, was a plain wooden deck. The day was fine and Hoffer had to squint against the water’s reflections as he peered toward the deck.

  There was someone there, sitting on a chair with their feet up on a circular wooden table. They lifted a glass to their lips, then placed the glass down on a smaller table next to the chair.

  From this distance, Hoffer couldn’t be sure, but he reckoned it had to be Walkins.

  As he walked back down the stairs, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. He didn’t like sitting in Walkins’s house.

  The place gave him the creeps, what with there being no photos of the daughter anywhere, and all those photos and paintings of the wife. So he should feel better, more comfortable, talking to Walkins in the fresh air. Only he wasn’t the outdoors type. He’d sat on Walkins’s deck for a few hours one time, the salt wind whipping across him, and afterward his skin had stung for days and his lungs had tried rejecting the smoke he sucked into them.

  He crossed the lawn, sl
ipping his jacket off and slinging it across one shoulder. He was nervous too. Well, meeting your sugar daddy face to face. It was bound to make you nervous.

  “Sit down,” Walkins said, eschewing greetings. “Drink?”

  There was a bottle of J&B on the table, along with a bucket of ice and a spare glass. But Hoffer shook his head. He gave a half-yawn. trying to unblock his ears. The flight had done him in again. Goddamned flying.

  “How was England?” Walkins asked.

  “Like it had just lost the war.”

  “We took vacations there occasionally. I liked the people.”

  There wasn’t much to say to this, so Hoffer stayed quiet. He noticed that Walkins was looking old these days. Maybe it was just that he looked bored: bored of doing nothing all day but waiting for Leo Hoffer to call with news.

  “Is he here?” Walkins asked.

  “Yeah, he’s here.” Hoffer was lighting a cigarette. Walkins didn’t mind him smoking out here, so long as he took the stubs home with him. Hoffer never did figure it; the whole of Chesapeake Bay for an ashtray, and he had to take his goddamned stubs home with him.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m paid to know, sir.” Hoffer tried to get comfortable on the chair. The thick wooden slats didn’t make things easy. “I’ve got contacts: airlines, travel companies, the airports . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “They flew into Boston. That part was easy. The woman was traveling under her real name, Belinda Harrison. There probably wasn’t time or opportunity enough for them to arrange a fake passport for her.”

  “And him?” Walkins was nothing if not single-minded.

  “Her traveling companion was called Michael Weston.

  That’s the third name he’s used so far this time. I’ve got a contact in the FBI, I’ve got him keeping eyes and ears open. If they get into trouble, we’ll hear about it.”

  “Good.”

  “Meantime, I’ve sent one of my team up to Boston to check hotels, car rental, that sort of thing.”

  Hoffer was on autopilot. It gave him a chance to check out Walkins while he filled him in. Walkins had steel-gray hair and deep grooved lines in his face. He was a handsome man, aging well despite his tragedies. But his eyes were filled to the brim with liquid, the pupils not quite fixed on the world outside. He took another drink of scotch, but really the whiskey was drinking him.