Ashes (32 page)

“I do. See over there, by the front?”

Sean looked and saw the Wickershams’ pickup truck. Saw a figure behind the wheel, in a stance he recognized.

“Eddie’s got his sights on that fat landlady of yours. Any funny business on your part and she’s history.”

Tess Perkins was sitting at her desk, unaware, eating a piece of apple pie and going over the books. “He won’t do it. Your brother’s a weak sister, Steve, even you know that.”

To his dismay, Steve didn’t show so much as a flicker of anger at that. “Oh, I know what Eddie is. But he’s also an excellent shot. And he does what I tell him to do. He always does. He’ll waste her, believe me.”

Sean looked at the pickup truck. Eddie was a silhouette, but a steady one, and Sean remembered on that January hunting trip, Eddie was the only one to bring home a deer. It had been a good clean kill, too.

He could let them do it. After all, what was Tess Perkins to him?

But he couldn’t and he knew it. He’d kept his hands free of innocent blood all his life, not an easy thing to do. He could not let a nice woman whose only crime had been to lease him an apartment be killed. Not while there was the chance of another way out.

Sean could see no way now. Just had to trust that he would.

“All right then,” he said. “What do you want?”

Steve’s grin broadened, revealing a tooth gone dead and gray. “Get in. We’re going for a ride.”

He climbed into the van. Steve sat in the passenger seat. “Where to?”

“I’ll tell you.”

He began to drive, felt something poke him in the flesh under his ribs. Looked down and saw a .22 in Steve’s hand. “No funny stuff, asshole,” Steve said. “I’ve got long rifle rounds in here, and they will fuck you up big time, you know.”

Sean knew. Long rifle rounds zipped around the inside of the body like a ping-pong ball, for lots of damage and a painful death. Lots of agents favored them for close-quarters assassination. “Funny, you don’t look like Claudine Longet,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” They were heading toward a two-lane highway that was not used much since the building of the interstate extension.

“Nothing.” He could feel the muzzle of the .22 digging into his skin. “Is this Richard’s idea?” That was all he wanted to know.

Steve snorted. “Nah. Richard’s gone soft. He likes you, fuck if I know why. You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t
think
so.”

It was lost on Steve. “I don’t like you, I never did. There’s something hinky about you. You and your smart remarks and your big ten-cent words. Always sucking up to Richard. Helping that ball-and-chain of his dry the dishes." Steve sing-songed, "'Let me hold the door for you, Anna. Let me carry those groceries for you, Anna.'" He spat contemptuously. "Make a right there.”

The road went into the woods, first paved, then dirt. Deeper and deeper into the woods. He let Steve rave on, waiting for a break in Steve’s concentration. Even a second would do it.

“Well, you’re not as smart as you thought you were. And now I’m gonna let you bleed your guts out. I just wish I could stay to watch.” Steve’s grin softened to a sweet, contemplative smile. “I’ve been waiting for this since we met. But I’ve got to get to Richard’s.”

“Guess that’s my bad luck, then.”
Come on, Steve, look away for just one second.

“Fuckin-A. Now, then ... ” Steve kept the gun on him, but turned to look for something, some turnoff or sign.

Now.

Sean stomped on the brake as hard as he could, heard the pop of the .22 and felt the passage of the bullet as it droned past his face. Steve was thrown forward and then snapped back by the seat belt. As Steve landed back against the seat, started to bring the .22 up to fire again, Sean brought his hand around in a flat, whistling arc, slammed the edge of his hand into Steve’s throat. There was the wet crunch of breaking cartilage and Steve’s eyes went huge with pain he couldn’t scream about. He dropped the .22 and his hands went instinctively to his throat, fingers groping at his crushed trachea as if he could free himself from an invisible strangler.

Sean sat watching Steve for a moment. Considered going for his gun, or for the .38 that was under his seat, but he didn’t want to risk a mess in the van. Instead, he reached down, casually plucked the .22 from the floor and shoved the muzzle into Steve’s mouth. A brittle chipping sound as one of Steve’s teeth broke. Steve’s eyes rolled, looked at him, mute terror in his stare.

“Guess what, Steve,” he said with a smile. “I never liked you either.”

* * *

E
ddie Wickersham waited until the van pulled out of the parking lot. He knew he should follow right away, but he had to put the gun down and rest for just a moment. How he’d let Steve talk him into this he’d never know. Well, nothing to worry about. Sam had gone quietly and now he just had to meet Steve at the old cabin out off Deerpath Road. “Just get him into the car with me,” Steve said. “I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

“Ah, Steve, I don’t know if I can...”

“Look, I’ll take care of it, OK? Help me bury him out at the cabin, that’s all I’m asking.”

“But what if he doesn’t go along? I don’t want to shoot his landlady.”

“He will. He’s not like you and me. We know what needs to be done and we do it.” He put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “I’m counting on you, little brother.”

He’d agreed. But as he sat here, letting himself calm down, he felt a different kind of disquiet. He’d asked Steve if he thought he could handle it, and even now he could hear Steve’s snort of contempt. “Are you kidding? Of course I can.”

“I don’t know, there’s something...”

“There’s nothing he can dish out that I can’t handle. I mean, look at him. He looks like a God damn insurance salesman. He’s shorter than me. And he’s old. Over fifty, I’ll bet. You think I can’t handle some guy who’s old enough to be my father?”

“Well, no, but...”

“Then it’s settled.”

Maybe for Steve it was settled, but Eddie wouldn’t be able to stop worrying until this whole mess was over with. It was at times like these he wished he’d never gotten involved in Richard’s group, wished he was heading out to the woods for game or fish instead of burying a man who he had nothing against. Sam had never been anything but polite to him. Steve thought Sam had something to do with Doug MacReady being so late, but Eddie knew that couldn't possibly be true. Yes, he would agree that there was something different about Sam, he’d seen it in Sam’s eyes when he gave Steve that look. But other than that...

Eddie snapped out of his reverie. He needed to catch up with them. Hopefully by the time he got there it would all be over. He began to drive, worrying the whole time about getting caught, about what they would say to Richard, if this would bugger up the plans for the next bombing, all sorts of things.

The van was there when he pulled up. He saw no one in the driver’s or passenger’s seats. Eddie hopped out of his truck, peered around cautiously. In the dirt by the passenger’s side he saw footprints, and the twin trails of something — a man’s heels, most likely — being dragged to the back of the cabin.

It was done, then. Eddie sighed, felt some of the worry ease. He headed for the back of the cabin, heard the rapid approach of footsteps coming toward him. “Steve,” he called out. “Steve, did you — oh shit!”

Eddie turned to run, remembering too late that he’d left his gun in the truck. Two pistol shots broke the quiet of the woods, and Eddie didn’t have to worry about anything, ever again.

* * *

S
ean held his breath as he rounded the turn to Richard’s house. For all he knew the entire group could be here, waiting for him. But the only vehicle was Richard’s truck. Even Anna’s station wagon was gone.

His relief quickly faded, though. Perhaps Richard wanted it that way. Perhaps he was the only one Richard had called, so Richard could personally mete out justice for MacReady. That didn’t feel right to him — Richard wasn’t one to do the dirty work himself — but then, who was left to do the dirty work?

Sean stepped out of his van, to all appearances looking like a man here to meet with a friend. No sign of what had happened in the last hour, no indication that he had nearly been gut-shot or that two bodies were dumped in the cabin out on Deerpath Road. He stood on the doormat for what he knew to be the last time ever. Ready as he would ever be. Rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” came Richard’s voice over the intercom.

“Sam.” The name felt strange in his mouth.

“Door’s open, come in.”

Richard sat at the coffee table, writing something down. He glanced over his shoulder, gave a quick smile. “Just let me get this. Make yourself at home, Sam,” Richard said as he turned back to what he was writing. “Everybody’s running late today.”

Best news I’ve had all day.
“Anna around?”

“You just missed her. Went to the grocery store.”

“I see.”
Even better news.
Richard bent over what he was writing, and Sean walked toward Richard. Not even a whisper of sound as he walked, nor as he took his gun from its holster. He placed the muzzle against Richard’s head. “You’re coming with me.”

He’d always found it interesting to see how people reacted when confronted by the gun. In the movies, people were full of witty remarks and cool bravado. It was enough to make you forget what a gun could do, that one simple movement and your brains would be turned to pulp, your life snuffed out before you knew what had happened.

Richard knew. He froze, went pale beneath his tan. Richard took in a breath, said in a slightly unsteady voice, “Joke’s over, Sam.”

“No joke,” he replied.

“Steve and Eddie will be here soon.”

“No they won’t.”

Richard swallowed. “Look, I—”

“Put your hands on top of your head. Slowly. Then stand up. Let's get this over with before Anna comes home.”

Richard’s eyes closed. “She’s nothing to do with this, don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t make me.” His voice icy. Sean had no intention of killing Richard unless it was to save his own skin, and would not hurt Anna for the world. But Richard didn’t need to know this. “Go on, get up.”

Richard sighed, slowly got to his feet, his hands on top of his head. A shiver ran through him, for a moment he was unsteady on his feet. Then he straightened his spine, stood tall and unwavering. Ready for martyrdom.

Once again Sean felt that unwilling admiration. “Nice and steady, Blaine.” He kept the gun against Richard’s head with his right hand, with his left reached into his pocket for a set of handcuffs, their chain shortened so a limber man could not slip his feet through his arms, bring his hands to the front.

They were focused on each other, on the gun. He was opening the cuffs, ready to snap them around Richard’s wrists when the door opened. Sean dropped the cuffs, locked his left arm around Richard’s throat, and stood, the gun to Richard’s head.

Anna stepped inside. “Would you believe I forgot my—” She stopped, stared at them with eyes wide, like a startled kitten’s. “What’s going on?”

“E
verything OK, Jen? You look a bit down,” said Mr. Bradbury.

Jennifer shook her head. “It’s nothing. Too chilly to skate in today and that just made me realize that I’ve gone the whole summer without wearing my bikini once.”

“I take it you’ve found that Vancouver isn’t the place for working on one’s tan. Which reminds me, you’re coming up on a year here in Haven Cove, aren’t you?”

She nodded. It was actually a year and a week ago that she’d picked up the key from Katie Granville and begun unpacking. So long ago that seemed. When she thought about last year, there were some blank spots. It wasn’t the bombing she had trouble remembering. It was the time afterward, that fog she’d stumbled through, like the dust cloud of the building’s collapse, wandering and unable to find her way. Even after she moved up here, those blank and directionless few months of working at Alex Salto’s. Hard to believe that she’d done that, hidden behind her locked bathroom door drinking too much wine, sat bored at her receptionist’s desk filing papers and ignoring Alex’s suggestions they go out some time. Well, it was a while ago now, and time healed all wounds. And wounded all heels, if you were lucky.

“Something funny?” asked Mr. Bradbury, with that mock-stern expression that fooled no one over the age of five.

“Nothing funny.” Her curiosity finally got the better of her. “How long have you been here?”

“Fifteen years now. Moved out from Ontario after I left the priesthood.” He settled back in his chair, took a sip of tea. “That’s the way a lot of people end up in British Columbia, you know. Leave somewhere else, head west until they run out of land.”

“Kind of like Los Angeles,” Jennifer said. Heading for orange groves and Disneyland, a chance at getting into Hollywood.

He nodded. “Why do we never go east, I wonder? Something to think about.” He sat, silent, his gnomish face calm and his gaze turned inward, contemplating something. The past, the future? Something as mundane as the cup of tea in his hand, perhaps.

She began sorting books onto a cart. She would not ask, though she had wanted to know for months. If he wanted to, he would tell her.

“It’s strange. I have a brother and a sister, and all three of us knew when we were young what we wanted to be when we grew up. My sister wanted to be an archeologist. Spent her childhood digging holes in our backyard, hoping for dinosaur bones. Never found anything but scrap metal and some petrified cow patties, but was happy enough with those. She’s in Montana on a dig right now, will probably be dusting off
T. rex
teeth when she breathes her last, and will die happier than most people. My brother, God rest him, wanted to be a painter. He was, though never a very good one. Married a lovely woman who left him alone on Sunday afternoons to paint. Didn’t matter that his paintings came out looking like Jackson Pollock crossed with Thomas Kinkade, as long as he had that on weekends, he was happy.

“I suppose you’ve guessed what I wanted to be. It’s one of those things that are so hard to explain, feeling the call. Though I suppose many people feel something like it when they meet the person who is their true love, or find the thing in life that is what they were meant to do. If you’ve felt any of those things, you know how it is.” He turned, rummaged in his CDs and brought out one, loaded it into the player. After a moment the music poured out, sweet and yet melancholy, slow.