Keeper of the
King Keeper of the
King
Richard Dun idly rubbed the white scar that ran all the way around the base of his left ring finger and looked over the RCMP driver sent to pick him up. God, but they were getting them young, though he’d seen still younger ones in his time.
Apparently no one had briefed the driver on what to expect; he openly goggled at the luxurious accouterments of Richard’s combination office and home. It had every modern electronic convenience, and a few unexpected old-fashioned touches, like the Botticelli on the wall next to Richard’s desk. It was something of a risk having it here, but he liked to look at it and he could well afford the insurance and alarm systems.
While getting ready to leave, Richard Dun caught a quick glimpse of puzzlement on the young man’s face before it dampened to poker-playing mode. Richard thought of giving out his usual innocuous reason for pulling on a trenchcoat, wide-brimmed hat, and gloves on a warm May morning, but decided not to bother. Let the fellow show a little initiative and find out for himself the reason behind the eccentricity if it held any interest for him.
The driver proceeded him out the front entry to wait at the foot of the steps, standing at much too obvious attention while Richard set the systems and locked the door. At least the man wasn’t in his red uniform. As they went down the walk to the street Richard pulled up his coat collar to cover the back of his neck and put on some very dark wrap- around sunglasses. The man’s face twitched.
Probably thinks I look like a leftover from a 1960s spy film, Richard thought as he hurried to the unmarked car.
“That’s parked illegally,” he commented in a mild tone, noting the thing’s placement by the painted curb.
“I’ve got the flag up,” said the driver, pointing to a placard on the dashboard that declared this vehicle was on official government business. He opened the rear passenger door and held it for Richard.
“Indeed, and in a place where everyone can see it. I thought this was to be low profile.”
Another twitch. Annoyance this time. And embarrassment, to judge by the sudden pink tint of his ears.
“No need to use the siren, I hope?” he added and watched the man’s ears deepen to a nice ripe red. So he had wanted to use it. Such a pity to spoil his fun. Richard got into the car, won a minor struggle with the inconveniently placed safety belt, and settled himself, prepared to spend the rest of the trip saying nothing at all to the back of the man’s head. He had plenty of questions, but they could wait until he met someone with rank enough to answer them.
Wonder what the flap’s on about this time?
Philip Bourland, a friend and one of his chief contacts in the vast government bureaucracy, had made the call early that morning to Richard’s unlisted home number.
“Can’t be specific over the lines,” he’d drawled. “But it’s important.”
“There are degrees of importance,” Richard countered, and waited for a reply.
Bourland answered with silence.
“So . . . it’s that important. Very well, set a space aside for my car.”
“We’ll send a driver to your office. Lower profile, y’know.” He rang off before Richard could fish for more information.
Now and then Richard would get a job from the Canadian government; the pay wasn’t huge, but he did it not for his bank account, but for the contacts it brought him, like Bourland. They’d never before been in such a stir as to send a special driver to fetch him, though. Something interesting was up; perhaps it had to do with the impending trade conference. Lots of VIPs would be there, lots of room for trouble to happen. If they were in a sweat about security, they should have made an appointment two months ago, not at virtually the last minute. As it stood they’d quite thoroughly interrupted Richard’s morning, causing him to reschedule three potentially lucrative consultations, and unless the meeting he was about to attend moved faster than the traffic his afternoon would be equally lost.
Ah, well, if it’s in service to the Monarch, one must abide by their whim and thus the whims of their other servants.
The driver negotiated the crowded streets efficiently enough, going north from Richard’s East York home to Danforth Avenue, then west until it mysteriously turned into Bloor Street. Then the driver went south again to Queen’s Park. On their right were the extensive grounds and myriad structures of the University of Toronto, on the left, the restful green expanse of Queen’s Park itself. Too bad they had to spoil it by placing the Ontario Parliament Buildings smack in the middle of things.
Instead of hunting for a parking space, the driver took them around to a side entry, paused the car, then got out to hold the door. At attention again. Why didn’t he just launch a few fireworks with a bagpipe parade and have done with it? Richard considered miming a limp on the way inside as justification for this extra attention and decided it wasn’t worth the bother. At least he was close in and spared a potentially painful hike in the sun.
“I’ll find my own way, thank you,” he told the man, praying he wouldn’t get a salute in return. He got a sensible nod instead, then levered out of the car, walking briskly to the shelter of the building. Once within its shade he could comfortably pocket his sunglasses and gloves, and politely remove his hat. A young woman standing in the wide hall, apparently waiting for someone, approached him. Though he’d never seen her before, a look of recognition registered on her face.
“Mr. Dun?” She spoke only just above a murmur. No one around them appeared to have heard her.
He nodded. “I’m here to see -- ”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you right in.” She gestured and walked just half a step ahead of him. No nervous turning around to see if he followed and no other names mentioned; things were looking up. Bourland must have briefed her himself on the basics of discretion.
Instead of a quick lift trip up to Bourland’s office, she led Richard to a service stair going down. The drab halls here were more utilitarian than historical, but he didn’t mind. Work was work no matter how humble the setting; besides, it was most definitely out of the sun.
She knocked twice by way of announcement then opened one of the many identical doors in this part of the rat’s maze. It bore no descriptive legend; for all he knew she could be ushering him into a broom closet.
“Sir, Mr. Dun has arrived.” She stood back so Richard could pass through. Smooth- mannered and attractive enough to gain his attention, he briefly gave in to temptation and locked his gaze on her, smiling. Her eyes went big for an instant, then she flashed him a dazzling smile in return, strictly nonprofessional. Artificially induced, yes, but still so good for the ego. He really must try to quit doing that sometime. He’d cut back quite a bit in the last few decades, but still, if the woman looked interesting . . .
“Richard.” Bourland’s voice brought him back to business. His fascinated escort, too. Continuing to smile, but with the voltage dimmed somewhat, she softly shut the door on them. Bourland, a fit six-footer with an amiable face and deceptively lazy blue eyes, stood up from what appeared to be a makeshift desk and crossed the bare floor to shake hands with him. “Really, now, what is it that you do to them?”
“Just my native charm,” was his innocent reply.
“So long as you don’t run into any harassment suits.”
“Philip, you know I’m a gentleman through and through.”
Bourland let one corner of his mouth twist. “You’re one of the very few people I know who can make that statement and be believed. Come have a seat, but don’t bother to get comfortable; we’re going to a meeting in a minute.” He glanced at a wall clock. It read almost a quarter past the hour. “Coffee? I have a thermos of decaf here.”
“Thanks, but I prefer my vices as they were meant to be, uncorrupted by any hint of virtue.” Richard shrugged free of the coat, dropping it on a spare chair and put his hat on a clear space at the edge of the desk. The papers there had the look of police reports. Some large color photos were in the scatter; the central subject of one on top indicated they were from a crime scene. A messy one.
“Allergy still a problem?” Bourland inquired, indicating the trenchcoat.
“Under control, especially when I’m not being yanked out of my office on a minute’s notice. Now what’s all this about? And what’s this place? You’ve not been demoted, have you?” Richard waved one hand at the dingy room and its continuation of the hallway’s utilitarian theme.
“No, but my head’s close to the block for mentioning your name to the PM.”
“I thought he liked me.”
“He does, it’s the other people on this that resent his calling in a security consultant from the outside. You’ll be meeting them shortly.”
“That old story. Nothing to worry about.”
“Just thought I’d prepare you.”
“For what?”
Someone knocked at the door, then opened it. The woman again. “Sir? Ms. Selby’s arrived and is waiting.”
“Damn. All right, we’re coming. Sorry, Richard, no time to go into things, but you know the drills. Just try not to let Demarest annoy you. A personal favor.”
“Of course.” No need to ask why, Richard knew Bourland would have a good reason. Who the hell was Demarest, anyway?
“Leave your gear here, it’ll be fine.”
Richard followed Bourland to another, larger room furnished with a long, unadorned meeting table lined with mismatched chairs. The dozen people occupying the chairs were of a type similar to Bourland, middle-aged, long of face, well fed, and garbed in the standard dark suit and tie uniform of the species bureaucratus conservatius so popular in this century. They looked far too important for their plain surroundings.
Oh, yes, something’s definitely up to drag this lot into the cellar.
He was introduced to them all, including a Chief Inspector Etienne Demarest of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and a Ms. Dayna Selby, special assistant to the Prime Minister. Selby, a formidable looking woman of perhaps forty years, wore the feminine version of the uniform, brightened only by a gold pin of abstract design on one lapel. Everyone was civil in their greetings, guardedly curious, and unmistakably ill at ease.
Dear me, and I’ve only just arrived.
Selby began things as soon as Richard and Bourland were seated. “I want to remind all of you that what is said in this room is to stay here. No confidences to your spouses, best friends, lovers, or even your dog. The reason for this is that one of our people working undercover has died already, and we want no more casualties. If any one of you breathes a word, I will personally see to it your lungs are surgically removed with a dull knife.”
Her gaze traveled over each of them in turn, causing them to shift a little. No one cracked a smile. Apparently Ms. Selby was known as a woman of her word. She sat and nodded once to Bourland, who launched into things with no preamble.
“The operative who was killed had infiltrated an IRA cell here in the city. He was not highly placed, but was occasionally able to pass along useful information to us. His last report had to do with a plan to assassinate the Prime Minister.”
“Hardly news to anyone, Philip,” said one of them. “They’ve been known to try that sort of thing all the time.”
“Agreed, but the agent’s death, along with a few other details, have led our analysts to conclude that this report should be taken rather more seriously than usual. We think the group he infiltrated has a good chance of succeeding.”
“Then we round up the leaders and -- ”
“Not this time. Indications are that this sterling idea is from a splinter cell operating separately from the ones known to us. We don’t have a lot in the files about them except they are willing to take more chances than their fellows, and they’ve found money enough to hire an outsider to do the job.”
“That’s ridiculous. Whyever should they do that?”
“Because without the support of the main group they need someone with the skills and reputation to deliver the goods.”
“But an outsider? I’ve never heard of them taking such a risk.”
“Which is why we’re taking this threat very seriously. The man we believe them to have contacted for the job is known in the trade by the name of Charon, after the Styx ferryman.” Bourland glanced at Richard, who raised one eyebrow. “He is distinguished from his fellows by his reputation of never once failing to take down a target. Mr. Dun is a security specialist here at the PM’s request because he knows more about Charon than anyone else, how he works, even how he thinks. Mr. Dun has also been known not to fail.”
“There’s a first for everything,” said Chief Inspector Demarest. He was lean and dark, with a narrow hard-set jaw and an ingrained expression of annoyance. He fixed a glare on Richard that was obviously meant to reduce newcomers to jelly. Richard smiled back with just enough sunny sincerity to irritate, but not provoke a direct response. It worked. Demarest pointedly turned back to Selby. “My department is perfectly capable of protecting the PM, especially since we have a forewarning of an assassination attempt.”
“Thank you for that reassurance,” said Selby. “Since the safety of the PM is rightfully uppermost in your mind, then I’m sure you will extend every courtesy to Mr. Dun to see that his part of this investigation runs smoothly.”
Demarest blinked once, his lips thin with distaste. Not a bad recovery for a man who’s just been chopped off at the knees, Richard thought. He was vaguely reminded of Mordred at the old council meetings, that way he had of holding in all the destructive resentment -- only Mordred had been able to hide it better. Demarest didn’t look quite as smart. His next words confirmed it.
“Of course, Ms. Selby, but the calling in of an outside consultant is extremely irregular and certainly unwise. For security reasons.”
Selby fastened a sub-zero, no-further-arguments gaze on him. “You will find that Mr. Dun has been granted a blanket clearance in regard to this situation by direct order of the PM himself. That should fully cover his free access to all the reports in the files, and he is to have people to help him if he needs them.” Her gaze now traveled to the others, who were all department heads of one type or another, to let them know they were also included.
Richard was pleased. He’d made more contacts here in the last few minutes than in the last five years. Some of them might prove to be useful, but only some of them. Demarest, for instance, had gone quite red about the collar, directing another piercing glare at Richard.
Yes, my son, this means you have to share your toys. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up before she hauls out that dull knife for some carving practice.
Thankfully, Demarest subsided. For the moment. Richard knew it would last only as long as the meeting. Bourland answered a few more questions on the assassination topic, but broke things up when it started to turn into a discussion group. He reminded them all one more time on the need for secrecy, then Ms. Selby excused herself, saying she had appointments elsewhere to keep before taking a return flight to Ottawa. Her next meeting turned out to be in the room where Richard left his coat. She was waiting there when he and Bourland returned.
“Philip,” she said, not rising from her chair by the paper strewn table. She was studying the top photograph. “Mr. Dun.”
“Yes, Ms. Selby?”
She looked him over, taking in the expensive suit, designer tie, handmade shoes, and finally the face that went with them. Her expression was polite, but on the cool side. “I have been instructed by the PM to give you every cooperation. That does not mean I welcome your presence any more than Chief Inspector Demarest.”
Richard made no reply, as one did not seem to be required.
“If you decide against taking part in this investigation, you will still be paid for your time this morning.”
“At this moment, my time is still my own, but it is at the disposal of Her Majesty’s representatives.”
One of her eyebrows went up. “Does this mean you’ll do this job for nothing?”
“No, but if you’re planning to give me a dressing-down vote of no confidence, I can still answer you back without worrying about getting sacked.”
The right corner of her mouth twitched and her eyes sparked.
Great, she likes me. “As things stand no one has even asked, officially or otherwise, if I do wish to participate.” He directed this at Bourland.
Bourland examined his nails. “Sorry, must have been an oversight on my part.”
“Right.”
“Very well. I say, Richard, how would you like to go on a little assassin hunt for fame and fortune? Or at least fame?”
“I’ll have to look everything over first. I might not be able to help, and if not, then there’s no point in my saying yes and wasting your time and mine.”
“The preliminaries are all right there.” Bourland indicated the table.
“And one other thing -- ” Richard turned to Selby. “Why the farce in there about security? You know that sooner or later someone’s going to talk.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We know all about the ‘two can keep a secret if one of them is dead’ thing. That was all very much on purpose.”
“You think there’s a leak?”
“We’re always wary of that possibility. This seemed as good a time as any to test them.”
“Consequently putting my life on the line if one of them fails on purpose or by sheer stupidity.”
“Possibly. But Philip has assured me that you are indestructible.”
More than you think, good lady. “Do please write that sentiment on my gravestone should this have a disappointing outcome.”
“As you wish.”
She took her leave, and Bourland went with her. “When you decide yea or nay, ring me up. You know the extension,” he said in parting.
The bloody hypocrite knows I’ll say yes. But Richard held his peace until they were gone, then sat at the table to sort through things. Despite the appalling pile of paper there was little enough real information. McQuin, the dead operative, had been found only yesterday, and the post mortem was yet to come, though the preliminary report spoke guardedly about excessive violent trauma to his whole body. Probably beaten and stabbed to death, poor lad. The photos showed a gory mess indeed. They’d fairly gutted him. Richard hadn’t seen death like that since the last lot of Germans bombed London.
The data they had on Charon was most discouraging for its limits. McQuin’s final report stated that he’d heard the rumor that “the ferryman” was coming to take the PM across, but there was no hint of a time or place. One of the many annotations to the report raised the possibility that “ferryman” referred to Charon. This was followed by two more annotations attached to the first, one discrediting, the other supporting it. Both signed by the same person. Someone was being very careful on this.
How did this IRA cell get in contact with someone like Charon? How did they even know of him at all? He was known as a very high-priced specialist and didn’t exactly advertise his services in The Times. Even in the intelligence community he was more often than not considered to be only a story, mostly because anyone making a project out of him wound up dead. Richard knew of three investigators killed for certain and two other possibles. Was he to be number six by picking up where they had left off? If so, then Charon was in for one hell of a shock.
Richard patiently read through all the reports, idly rubbing his white scar.
² ² ²
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Bourland when he answered Richard’s call. “I’ll get the paperwork started so we can put you on the clock.”
“Wrong, you give me my standard deposit fee, then I’ll send you a bill afterwards. Do the paperwork for that instead.”
“Whatever you want. Oh, there’s one thing, Richard, has to do with the chain of command. You’re to make your reports to Demarest. His card is in the file you have, along with your special ID and authorization papers. Sign all four copies and -- ”
“Why not to you?”
“Because he’s in charge of the case.”
Damn, but it was only to be expected. “Why is that?”
“Because, as the Yanks say, he has his head up a lot of asses, including mine.”
“How did you let that happen?”
“It’s a long story, no need to burden you with it.”
He’d get it out of Bourland later. “I’d rather report to you. You know he’s going to be trouble. I’m familiar with the type, he’ll make himself annoying.”
“I know, but it can’t be helped. Just close your eyes and think of Canada.”
“Do you still want to know what’s going on?”
“Of course, but only in an unofficial way. Protocol requires that I be more or less out of the loop . . . but if you should happen to run into me now and then, or accidently dial my number, I’m more than willing to lend an interested ear. I’d appreciate it, Richard.”
“So long as it doesn’t place your head up my ass.”
“Perish the thought.”
Richard rang off and started pulling the papers and photos together into neat piles and found folders for them in a drawer. Just as he finished the job a double knock sounded at the door. Bourland’s pretty assistant came in.
“Your drive back is waiting, sir.”
“Thank you.”
At least she didn’t puzzle about the business with the coat as he put it on. Perhaps Bourland had briefed her on it as well.
Richard pressed his gaze on her again, to be rewarded by another encouraging smile that turned rather blank the longer she held it. He stood close before her, taking in her scent, listening to her heart. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. So many, many years and he’d never, never yet tired of the sound.
She was tempting . . . and he was hungry.
He took one of her hands and lifted it to his lips. Very soft. Trace of cologne on the pulse point. He opened his mouth to kiss her there, tasting, savoring. He felt his corner teeth emerging in response, enjoyed the familiar sweep of fire and ice rushing through him -- something else he never tired of, even after all this time. Indeed, over the years it had gotten more intense, more delightful.
He ran his tongue over her skin, heard her sharp sigh in return. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, breath shallow. God, but life could be good.
On the other hand, he had to be careful. The door was not the kind one could lock from the inside without a key. Bad luck for him if somebody walked in on them while he was . . . and then there was Bourland’s joke about harassment suits . . . no, thank you.
With a great deal of difficulty, Richard pushed away from this particular temptation, putting his back to her. His own breathing was rather too ragged for comfort. Once the gate was open, the hungry beast within was always prepared to run free until he fed it. He managed to beat it back into its cage for the time being. It’s too risky now, but I’ll tend to you soon. I promise. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but he’d never once had cause to regret such a policy in his long past.
When he turned around his teeth and eyes were quite normal again, and she appeared to have recovered from his control as well. The effect of it was such that she’d have no memory of the last few minutes, for which he was thankful. He didn’t want to trust himself into imposing additional hypnosis on her, for then might he break down and indulge his appetite regardless of the risk.
No, better to wait until nightfall and go to one of his usual haunts.
There was no problem taking the files out of the building, and the young RCMP driver delivered him safely home. Richard fled inside, for it was bright noon, and despite his coverings his skin began to itch in reaction to too much exposure. Why couldn’t Bourland have called for him on a nice rainy day?
Once in the house he removed his protections. The special room-darkening steel window blinds he’d had custom made for the place were never opened except on very dull days or during the dark of winter. As this not one of those times he turned on the lights. He could have done just as well without, enough sun came through the cracks to serve his sensitive eyes, but it always put the customers off.
Customers. Damn. He checked his appointments. Just one in the later afternoon. He had lots of time to play, then. Suiting action to thought, he parked before one of his computers and cruised through a dozen files before locating the one he’d built up on Charon. The trouble with abbreviated titles and passwords was that he sometimes forgot them. It took a few tries before he could open it.
The data there was remarkably slim, all of it gleaned from reports of people in the business who had tried to investigate Charon in the past. The first man had died six years earlier in an auto wreck, another was an apparent suicide off a tall building, but the remaining three had been taken out from a distance by a long gun. Head shots except for the last, who’d gotten it in the neck. The bullet must have dropped slightly as it traveled.
According to them, Charon’s talents were apparently not in the service of any one political group. Speculation linked him with several kills that served opposing ideologies and even rival organizations. Nothing personal, just business. Of those assassinations in the last two decades that were positively linked to Charon, a dozen were also with long guns. Snipers needed regular practice to keep their eye. He could put someone to looking into local shooting ranges, though he didn’t expect anything from that; it was Richard’s cast iron habit of covering every detail. He made a note and scrolled on until a name came up that caught his eye.
Arlie Webb. Well, well. The last investigator had noticed that Webb had been in the area just prior to three of the assassinations. Webb’s name was also on the list of people McQuin had had contact with before his final report. Where was it? He dug through the paper file and compared it to the one on his screen. No photo for either, but the descriptions matched. A former Le Mans driver and part-time alcoholic striving for full- time status, Webb had no visible means of support, yet did a lot of traveling. Speculation ran that he was a smuggler and a good one. His last known location was some motel on the Canadian side of Niagara. Fortunate, that. Richard doubted his carte blanche from the Prime Minister extended over the border into the States.
A few phone calls to get the local RCMP to confirm things for him ascertained that Webb was still checked into the place. Almost as soon as he rang off Demarest called him.
“What’s this business in Niagara?” he demanded without giving greeting.
“Chief Inspector Demarest? How good to hear from you.” Richard winced; he sounded far too sincere to be believed.
“Niagara, Mr. Dun. Why did you have my people calling there?”
“Just a minor lead I wanted run down. Nothing to it.”
“You do understand that you are to report to me.”
“Most clearly, Chief Inspector, and I will be happy do so the instant I have anything to report. I’ve only just started, so give me a little time. Have a nice day.” He dropped the phone in its cradle and turned off the ringer. Ten seconds later his answering machine went to work, Demarest again, according to the caller identification device. He didn’t bother to leave a message. Richard hated when people did that.
The afternoon appointment netted him a very nice consulting fee and another satisfied customer to add to the roster. By sunset he’d gotten his preparations all sorted and was driving toward the lake and the rental boat waiting for him. Faced with fighting the evening traffic going around Lake Ontario or taking a boat trip across, he opted for the water journey, however hazardous. He detested water, at least when it came to huge free- flowing quantities of the stuff, but in this instance it was a calm night, and he had a nice, sturdy fiberglass shell between himself and disaster. Of course, he could have simply chartered a plane, but he detested flying even more.
One boat trip and taxi ride later Richard stood in the parking lot of a place calling itself Moonlight Court, an ambitious name if ever he heard one. It was a motel of the older type with individual bungalows intended as an attempt to give honeymooning couples a bit of privacy. He estimated that its heyday had been in the thirties when such rustic delights had proved a novelty to a less sophisticated society. Now its once cozy rooms would raise only a sneer from a generation used to the sprawling comfort of luxury hotels with their spas and king-sized beds. Whatever quaint charm Moonlight Court once possessed was now thoroughly debauched by age and the decidedly downwardly mobile neighborhood surrounding it. Why didn’t the owner just post hourly rates and have done with it?
Tempus fugit, he thought with an inner sigh as he strode up to the office. He’d instinctively dressed below par for the occasion with faded jeans, a less than new shirt, an old leather jacket, and a comfortable pair of highly scuffed western boots on the verge of retirement. The ensemble suited the local scenery; the bored man behind the counter glanced up once to see that the new customer wasn’t intent on armed robbery then went back to the cop show rerun blaring at rock concert level on his TV.
“I’m here to see Arlie Webb,” Richard shouted. “Which one is he in?”
The man shook his head, not bothering to adjust the sound. “If he was expecting you then he’d have told you which one. What is it? A drug bust? Waste of time, he only does booze. What the hell, try cabin twelve at the far end.”
“Thanks. Who’s winning?” He nodded at the TV, where the blue-clad cop hero crouched behind some shiny new trash cans that were miraculously deflecting Uzi bullets.
“Captain Kirk, of course.”
“Good for him.” Richard started out, but the man called him back.
“Webb might be busy,” he added.
“How so busy?”
“Has a girl in there. Nice redhead, legs up to here. Too pricey for me, or I’d flag her myself when she comes out.”
“Redhead? She look Irish?” Perhaps she was an IRA contact.
“She looked female and plenty of it.”
“Well, maybe Arlie will share.” He winked once and went out to pay off the taxi.
“Sure you wanna do this?” asked the driver. “Not much chance of getting a ride back from here.”
“You’re willing to wait?”
“I got fares waiting, sorry.” He did a fast U-turn and was gone, not so fast as to miss his tip, but gone all the same.
Richard walked slowly over broken, pitted concrete, the TV noise gradually fading behind him. He listened to the faint traffic sounds beyond the dark court. Busy night out there, lots of ladies doing business. When he finished with Webb, he’d take a walk in their direction and hire one to feed from. The girl would be ahead a hundred dollars, have a pleasurable, if rather vague dream, and Richard’s hungry beast could retire comfortably to its cage for a few more evenings until the next time.
Richard paused before the twelfth bungalow on the row. Lights showed behind its red curtains.
He scanned the rest of the shadowed lot. The cars looked on a level with the run-down area: an aging Pinto, oversized gas guzzlers that had seen better days, and a new Sentra with a rental sticker. He noted its plate numbers, in case it belonged to Webb, before going up to the door.
He listened before knocking, not that he had any compunctions against breaking in on a couple en flagrante -- sometimes such occasions could be quite amusing. No action tonight, though, they were talking.
“Five grand,” said the woman in a firm tone.
Good God, what on earth did she do that was worth that much?
“Get out,” said the man, presumably Webb.
“All right, six.”
“No.”
So, she was buying not selling. As it was not likely Webb himself was worth that much then she was after something else.
“Ten, and that’s final. It’s more than you’d be getting from anyone else.” She had a decided Irish accent. Well, well.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but you do. I’ll not be goin’ to the police on this one, an’ that’s a promise. I just want the item back and in good condition.”
“Lady, you’re crazy, you got the wrong man, and now you’re gonna leave. Don’t come back.”
Richard quick-stepped away from the door and nipped around the corner of the building. Peering past it with one eye he saw a leggy redhead indeed, being pushed out by a much larger man. She wasn’t dressed like the other self-employed women of this neighborhood; that, and the fragment of what he’d heard gave him to wonder just what her business was that she could be willing to drop ten thousand dollars on someone like Webb.
She whirled around, and Richard ducked so she wouldn’t spot him.
“You’ll never get the full worth of it from anyone, that’s a given, so why not deal with me?”
“Because I’ve got nothing for you.”
“What, you’ve passed it on already? Who has it? I’ll pay you -- ”
“Go fuck yourself!” Webb slammed the door in her face.
“You first, you’ve had more practice!” she bellowed in return.
When no reply came back, Richard heard her footsteps stalking over the pavement, followed by the opening and shutting of a car door. The Nissan rental belonged to her. She gunned it to life, then roared out of the lot.
That was interesting, but he’d check on her later. Now it was his turn with Mr. Charming. Richard stepped up and forcefully knocked. Webb yanked open the door.
“Goddammit, bitch, I told you -- ” The shock of seeing Richard there instead of the woman added to the bleary surprise in Webb’s bloodshot eyes. His mouth hung open, an unfortunate effect, especially coupled with the booze on his breath.
“Was that my little sister you were just molesting?” Richard inquired in his best Irish accent.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Someone a damned sight more careful than you are to be sure.” Richard pushed past him. “What d’ye want to go puttin’ on a show like that for? Y’know how important this job is.”
“Job? What do you mean? My part in it’s over.”
“Ah, but the boss wasn’t happy with your part of it.” Richard kicked the door shut.
“I delivered on time and didn’t get caught, what more does he want?”
“Your balls in a box unless you say where you put it.”
“Right where it’s supposed to be -- wait, who are you? What the -- ”
But by then Richard had grabbed Webb’s arm, twisted him around, and shoved him hard over the back of an armchair. It was surprising this place even had an armchair. The rest of the room consisted of a sagging bed, night stand, phone, liquor bottles full and empty, a twenty-year-old TV sitting on an even older bureau, and a faint sewage smell. Webb, poor fellow, suited the surroundings perfectly, being unshaven and shirtless in filthy jeans. His last bath was no more than a fond memory.
Richard bent low and whispered reasonably in his ear. “The fact is I need information from you or you could end up like young McQuin did, with his guts spread out all over creation.”
Webb stopped struggling. “How you know about that? You’re a fucking cop!”
“Oh, I’m much worse than that, my lad. Cops have rules and regs, but I don’t bother with the silly things, so don’t you forget it for one minute, I never do.” He pulled Webb’s wrist up high, making the man gasp. “Now why don’t you tell me the story of your life? Skip over the dull bits, just give me the last week or so.”
“You can’t treat me like this, I’m an American!”
“They have my full sympathy. Come on.”
Webb told him, in remarkably coarse language, to go someplace and do something rather painful to himself once he arrived, compelling Richard to push the chair forward until Webb crashed headfirst to the floor. He gasped and groaned until Richard hauled him up for a short lug over to the unmade bed, where he threw him onto it with spring-cracking force. Webb bounced once, then slithered to the floor again, legs everywhere, his back against the mattress edge.
“Can’t keep your feet? You should get off this stuff.” Richard plucked an empty bottle of vodka from the night stand. Grasping its base, he smashed it against the stand. What remained was a truly terrifying weapon, especially up close. He seized Webb’s throat with one hand and brought the broken bottle between them at eye level.
“You’ve got two chances to tell me what you know, Arlie. Your left eye and your right.”
“Wh-whatever you say.” Webb raised his hands high, palms out, making nervous, placatory motions.
“Good lad. Now what did you smuggle?”
“Just some booze, that’s all.”
“Wrong answer.” Richard nicked Webb’s cheek with the bottle. “Oops! Oh, what a shame, my hand slipped! It could slip again if -- ”
“Awright, it was a gun!”
“What kind of gun?”
“Dunno, it was in a case, a big one, hell of a job getting it over here.”
“And where did you take it?”
“A drop point. My car, their car. We pass each other. I hand it through the window and drive away.”
“And they didn’t pay you?”
“I get paid by -- ” Webb blanched and swallowed. “Someone will bring the money later.”
“You’re so trusting. You really think that will happen?”
“Always has, he -- ” He cut off again.
“Who are you expecting? Who’s paying you? Charon?”
“Who?” But the whites flashed all around his pupils at the mention of the name.
“You heard me. Such a lousy pit for you to wait in -- what’s the matter, doesn’t Charon pay you enough for a nicer place? Or maybe you drink it away, is that it?”
Webb shut up again. He was slick with sweat and trembling. Richard locked his gaze on him, concentrating.
“You’re to tell me everything, in detail. Tell me about Charon.”
“Charon?” Webb’s voice thickened, but his resistance was better than most. The drink in his blood would make things more difficult, but Richard could be patient.
“When is the hit on the Prime Minister scheduled? Where is Charon?”
Webb blinked, his head dropped. “No . . . can’t . . .”
Richard shook him. “Look at me! You can. You want to tell me everything!”
“Fuck you,” rasped Webb, bringing his right hand around. Richard caught the movement with the corner of his eye and started to react. Too late. The revolver now in Webb’s fist roared and flashed. Once, twice . . . Richard dropped heavily on his side with a grunt of pain. Another shot. His body spasmed. He felt hot blood spill over his hands as he clutched at the wounds in his chest and belly.
“Fuck you,” Webb said again in a much fainter voice, like an echo. Still on the floor, he backed away, staring at Richard the whole time.
Richard groaned, paralyzed by the agony from the three distinct fires that blazed deep in his flesh. He dared not move, not until the worst shock of it had passed and the healing began. Betrayed again by his damned overconfidence. He should have looked for a gun; he knew better. Of course a man like Webb would always have one ready at hand. Where was the bastard? There, across the room now, slowly finding his feet.
Oh, God, don’t let him shoot me again.
Webb brought the gun up. Fired.
The bullet hammered Richard square in the chest. He flopped on his back, his skull knocking hard against the bare floor, leaving him dizzy and too breathless to scream. Shattered breastbone, shattered heart. He could feel its frantic flutter as it continued to pump on despite the damage. Any other man would be dead by now. All Richard could do was wait it through until it knitted up again.
And endure the pain. Bad now, but it would gradually fade.
Just wait it out. Won’t be long.
But the pain was not going away. It just kept on and on. Abruptly, a wave of sickness such as he’d never felt before washed over him like ice water, left him shivering. After a moment, it got worse, not better. He’d been shot before, knew what to expect, but it wasn’t happening. Something was wrong.
“Jeez,” came Webb’s voice. There was relief mixed with disgust in his tone. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do?” He loomed into view, looking down at Richard, then moved unsteadily past him to get to the night stand. Webb fumbled for one of the vodka bottles there and got it open. Two good jolts later and he was dialing the phone.
Richard’s shivering increased. Cold. Colder than anything he’d ever known before, right down to the soul. What was wrong? He should have been recovering by now.
Webb, receiver to his ear, stared at him. “Jeez, you take a lot of dying, don’t you?” He aimed the gun at Richard’s face, sighting down the barrel. “Pow,” he whispered, then grinned. “Take your time, you son of a bitch. All the friggin’ time you need.”
What was wrong with him? Cramp. A bad one. With a strangled cry, Richard twisted on his side, doubling up like a fetus as a vise clamped down tight around his gut as though to squeeze him in two. God, what was wrong?
Webb got an answer to his call. “Sean? It’s me . . . yeah, I know I’m not supposed to, but I’ve got a situation here, I need some help.”
Sweat soaked Richard like a bath, and his breath came in little sobs like a panting animal. His corner teeth were out. All that lost blood. It would need replacing. Soon.
Now, whispered a familiar growling voice within.
“I can’t talk over the phone about it, you have to come here.”
His hunger . . . like that of the newly born. Excruciating. The beast was emerging, clawing free of its cave. He tried to push it back. Another cramp took him. His cry of pain was deeper, rougher than the last.
“No I can’t, you have to come to me, this is where the situation is, goddammit!”
Clawing . . .
“You just come and bring a couple of your boys.”
. . . free!
“I’ll be right here at -- oh, Christ!”
Webb’s last coherent cry was for his long abandoned savior. His next was an appalling shriek because Richard was up and on him like a wolf, teeth bared, eyes blazing. Richard lifted him bodily, slamming him against the wall hard enough to shake the whole cabin. Webb feebly tried to bring his gun up, but Richard swatted at the weapon, knocking it across the room. Webb tried his fists next, to no effect; Richard was past noticing. He pushed Webb’s head away to one side and, biting hard and deep, tore into his throat.
A gagging scream. A twitching, struggling body. Richard ignored both as the first rush of blood filled his mouth. Not enough. Not nearly enough. He worried at the tough flesh. The beast wanted not just the surface vein, but the big artery, the real treasure hidden beneath the skin and muscle.
He clamped his jaws together and pulled, ripping away half of Webb’s throat. The body shuddered, its bare heels cracking against the wall. The screaming abruptly stopped. A hot red fountain of glorious life jetted over Richard, blinding him. Too quick to swallow, then too slow. He couldn’t feed fast enough to keep up with the hunger, with the sheer desperate fury engulfing him.
Mindless, he slashed and rent, drinking, greedily drinking all he could of the red nectar, all, until there was nothing left but the drained and mangled remnants of the pitiful shell that once held it.
The bathtub was only half full of cold water. It would have to do.
Richard plunged his head and hands into it. Scrubbing.
When he came up for air the water was dark with blood. Dark. He yanked the plug and watched it drain out. As the last of it swirled away he thought of the old Hitchcock film and had to fight an hysterical giggle trying to escape.
Not now. Later. Panic later.
He ran more water, got the shower working at full force, and stepped into it fully clothed. The shock from the cold went all the way down his spine as the stuff soaked through to his skin. He endured it. Had to.
He rinsed his face, his hands, turned and turned again in the freezing spray, rubbing at his clothes, washing away more and still more blood. There seemed an unending supply of it; just when he thought he was clean another fold of cloth would yield another stain, and he had to begin all over again. He shrugged off the leather jacket, hanging the sodden thing over the shower rod. Threads of red-tinged water streamed from it, half into the tub and half to the floor. He peeled off his shirt, wringing it, washing, then wringing, and put it next to the jacket, then did the same with his jeans. He threw his socks and boots in the sink.
Then he scrubbed himself down all over again.
His raw skin pinched from the gooseflesh when he stepped dripping from the tub; the nearly healed bullet wounds tingling right to the edge of fresh pain. He found a towel, used it, staring all the while at the slaughterhouse beyond the bathroom door. The heartsinking fear he’d been holding at bay threatened to paralyze him. He didn’t want to go out there.
But I have to.
He took a breath. It didn’t help. The place reeked of blood. Every corner, every wall. Filling his lungs, nearly choking him with its thick smell.
He edged into the room, but there was no way he could avoid contact. Parts of the floor were merely dotted by the spray, but others were slick with it.
What had he touched here?
Outside doorknob? He couldn’t remember for sure.
He stepped carefully around the ghastly thing on the floor. He listened, hearing nothing before gently opening the door. He swabbed the knob down with the wet towel, shut himself in again, and wiped the inside knob.
The vodka bottle. Yes, for certain. He found it in the wreckage and polished it.
What else?
Webb. They could lift prints from bodies now. Hell, he had to think about DNA tests and God knows what else. Something like this would have a major forensics team poring over every inch of the room with their damned microscopes. There’d be his hair, skin, clothing fibers, even his own blood.
And Demarest would remember the calls his people had made to Niagara on Richard’s behalf. He wouldn’t let that go. He’d talk to the boat rental place, to the taxi driver, to the man in the office. Possibly Richard could get to them all first, persuade them to think they’d never seen him before and . . .
No. That was useless. He needed a better cover-up, something plausible to fit the situation.
Another look at the room and he had to forcibly quell the giggling again. Then the sob of fear that followed. He didn’t have time for it. Maybe someone in this hellhole of a neighborhood had heard the shots and screams and called the police. Not likely, or they most certainly would have been here by now, but he couldn’t take the risk. At least the office man had apparently missed everything, thanks to his TV addiction.
Richard went back to the bath, washed his feet clean, then put on all of his cold, wet clothes. Nasty. But necessary.
He wiped down everything in the room, the taps, the shower walls, edge of the tub, and checked the dimensions of the window. Small, but not too small. He rinsed the towel clean then dropped it in the tub.
In the outer room he went to Webb’s cache of booze. Two full bottles of vodka, another of Scotch half gone. It would have to do. He opened the lot and poured the contents all around the room, particularly the body, bed clothes, and curtains. With his pocket knife he cut open the thinly padded arm chair. As he’d hoped, the padding was some kind of cheap foam stuffing. Almost as good as petrol. He spread it around where it would do the most good. He slashed at the mattress, making a thorough job of it. Accellerant and fuel. Only one more thing to complete the circle . . .
Matches. There, on the bureau. Obviously not a nonsmoking suite.
He smothered the giggle.
Blood on the matchbook. Sticky against his fingers. Had it soaked through? The heavy paper cover was soft. The matches inside were, too. He struck one. Nothing.
No, this wasn’t the time to get the shakes.
Struck a second and a third. The fourth caught, then went out.
Calm. Deep breath. Bringing with it the smell of blood and the stink of booze.
And death. Don’t forget death. It’s hovering just over there waiting to see if I botch things.
Calm.
The next match stayed alight just long enough for him to drop it onto a patch of bedspread soaked with vodka. Hot blue flames leaped up, grew steady, grew fast, ran over the floor, up the walls, hopped impossibly from one side of the room to the other. He fell back from the sudden heat, the swelling sound.
The damned thing’s alive.
He retreated to the bath just in time, the fire licking at him, wanting a taste.
He turned on the cold water for the shower again, then picked up the heavy ceramic lid from the toilet’s tank and began smashing it against the wire-reinforced window over the tub. A few shards of glass flew. The aluminum frame bent outward. He felt fresh night air streaming in; behind him the fire roared to greater life.
Sweating now. He could tell even through the wet clothes and the running shower. His movements became mechanical as he beat at the window. Soon the glass was nearly gone, just the twisted bar across the middle remained, and one more hit would -- there. Broken. He shoved it outward to clear the opening, dropped the tank lid, and pushed himself through the window. Tight squeeze. He was a big man even for this time.
The leather jacket spared him from the worst cuts, but not the jolt when he tumbled out to the pavement six feet below. He lay still a moment and took stock: scraped hands and a few bruises -- nothing he couldn’t live with.
This time the sobbing laughter wouldn’t stop.
The rest of the night went as he’d hoped. Someone finally noticed the fire and called it in. The other bungalows were spared, but number twelve was thoroughly gutted, a total shambles by the time the firefighters had finished with it.
Richard allowed himself to be discovered, apparently groggy from a hit on the head, in the alley behind the place. He let the paramedics look him over and faked waking up fully when they gave him some oxygen. He produced his ID, mentioned Demarest’s name, and let the bureaucracy trundle forward to work in his favor.
He reported everything that happened, veering from the truth only when he got to the part when Webb shot him. Instead, Richard stated that he must have been hit from behind by a third party already in the room when he’d entered. When he woke up Webb was dead and the place on fire.
Richard told his spellbound audience he couldn’t get to the front door or larger window, but did just manage to break out through the bath. He was told in return that he was a lucky bastard, that his guardian angel had been doing some overtime, that they were glad he made it free. Draped in a blanket stamped with the logo “Property of Niagara County,” he let himself be congratulated for his narrow escape while pretending to sip their vile coffee. He did not have to pretend to be shaken to the core by what had happened.
Loss of control. Complete and total. Such as he’d never had before.
That was what had happened.
The beast, as he’d come to affectionately call it over the years, the beast, responsible for so much pleasure in his long life, responsible for allowing him that long life to begin with, had slipped its tether and not come back. Not until it had fully indulged its vicious appetite.
He’d had no power over it, had just been along for the ride. While this rabid thing had torn a man to shreds and fed on the blood, the part of his mind that still knew itself to be Richard had simply watched. Done nothing.
But that son of a bitch Webb had shot him, he could tell himself in his own defense. Certainly he could be expected to have a reaction, a bad one. But Richard had been shot in the past, many times, and he’d never reacted this way before, not with such mindless rage.
Loss of control. Anyone’s nightmare. But for him, for someone like him, it was worse than any sleeping terror.
“You see it?” One of the paramedics asked her partner. She must have thought they were out of range of Richard’s hearing.
“The body? No way, I smelled it cooking, that was enough for me. How bad?”
“Bad. It’s so messed up only the bones let you know it was human. I don’t envy the med examiners on this one -- not that I ever do,” she added.
“Try not to think about it.”
“Yeah, tell me another one. You know what it’s like.”
Richard’s heart juttered once, then beat faster as the memory of what he’d done to Webb surged over him. His hands trembled so that he had to put the coffee cup down.
His mouth twitched. Not from fear or disgust now, but from remembered excitement.
Because . . . because . . . God help him, he’d enjoyed it.