Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel (5 page)

The connection went dead.

Not a problem. I could always fly into LaGuardia tomorrow and sweet talk my way into a dinner date with her. Since I had my phone out anyway, I decided to dial my mystery caller, the persistent person who shouldn’t have had my number.

I punched up the number and watched it connect on the screen with no premonition of the e
ff
ect this simple act was about to have on my life.

CHAPTER 3

“Mister … Creed … thank … you for … re … turning … my … call.”

At first I thought it was a joke. The voice on the other end of the line was metallic, choppy, like a guy on a respirator or maybe a tracheotomy patient who had to force air through a speaking valve in his throat.

“How did you get my number?” I asked.

“Sal … va … tore … Bon … a … dello,” he said.

“How much did he charge you for it?”

“Fif … ty … thou … sand … dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money for a phone number.”

“Sal says … you’re … the … best.”

The tinny, metallic voice revealed no hint of emotion. Each word bite was cloyingly monotonous and annoyed the shit out of me. I found myself wanting to imitate it, but resisted the urge. “What do you want?” I said.

“I want … to em … ploy you … part … time … the way … Sal … does.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” I said.

“You can … torture … me … first … if you … want.”

He o
ff
ered to write down a name and give it to me and I could torture him until I was satisfied he’d never reveal it. This was supposed to prove he wouldn’t sell me out later if something went wrong in our business arrangement. The man was obviously insane, which meant he was pretty much like everyone else with whom I associated.

“Before we go any further,” I said, “what shall I call you?”

“Vic … tor.”

“There’s a fl aw in your plan,” I said. “Torture is only one way to make you talk. What if someone kidnaps your wife or kids or your girlfriend? What if they threaten to blow up the day care center where your sister works? Trust me, Victor. It’s hard to let your loved ones die a horrific death when you could save them by simply revealing a name.”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “I’m … wheelchair … bound. There … is no … one … in … my life. When … you … meet me … you will … under … stand.”

I thought about that for a moment and decided I already understood. “I’d rather limit our relationship to the telephone for now,” I said. “I actually do believe you wouldn’t talk. Something tells me you’d welcome torture and maybe even death.”

“You are … very … percep … tive … Mr. … Creed. So … when … can you … start?”

I wasn’t worried about speaking freely on my cell phone. The few people in the world capable of breaching my cell security already knew what I did for a living. “I have three clients,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll be fourth in line. Each contract is fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses, wired in advance.”

“Can … I … de … cide how … the hits … go … down?”

“Within reason,” I said.

Victor gave me the details for the first target. Then he hit me with a stipulation I’d never encountered: he wanted to speak to the victim minutes before the execution. I told him that would require kidnapping, which would place a major burden on me. It meant a second person, more time, and more exposure. I refused all the way up to the point where Victor o
ff
ered to double my fee.

Victor proceeded to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do, and why. And as he spoke in that creepy, metallic voice, I realized that even though I thought I’d stared in the face of the deepest, darkest evil the world could possibly produce, I had never encountered anyone as vile. I came away thinking I’d have to scrape the bowels of hell with a fine-tooth comb to uncover a plan as morbidly evil as his.

I told him I’d do it.

CHAPTER 4

“
B
efore you meet them, you need to see them,” Kathleen Gray said as she signed me in. “They do this for the children, so they won’t see you cry or recoil in horror,” she added.

The William and Randolph Hearst Burn Center at New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell is the largest and busiest burn center in the country, entrusted with treating more than a thousand children each year. I got that and a bunch of other information from a brochure in the lobby while waiting for Ken Chapman’s ex to show up. I had called her at work and explained I needed to meet her in person before I could consider approving her house loan.

“Bullshit!” she had said. “You’re the guy from Homeland Security who called me yesterday. Don’t bother denying it; I recognize your voice.”

Nevertheless, Kathleen agreed to meet me after work at the burn center, where she volunteered two hours of her time every Tuesday. She escorted me through the lobby door and down a long hallway.

“What made you decide to work with burn victims?” I said.

“After my divorce, all I wanted was to get out of Charleston and make new friends, so I moved here and got a job. But I didn’t know anyone. Then one day my company o
ff
ered tickets for a charity event, and I took one just to have someplace to go, thinking maybe I’d meet someone.”

“And?”

“And here you are!” She burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a liar, of course, but at least you’re good-looking. And everything about you screams ‘single guy!’”

We turned left and headed down another hallway. Several corridors ran o
ff
that one, and I tried to keep up with the route we’d taken in case I had to navigate back on my own. Doctors and nurses came and went, walking with purpose. A short, pudgy nurse in a light blue lab coat winked at Kathleen and made kissing sounds as she passed. We walked a few steps, and I cocked my head and said, “I bet there’s a story there!”

“Oh, hush, you!” she said.

I raised my eyebrows, and she started giggling.

“Don’t even,” she said.

I didn’t. “What makes you think I’m single?” I asked.

She laughed. “Oh, please!”

We passed a window. The sky was darkening outside, and the gusting wind made a light buzzing sound as it attacked the weaker portions of the window frame. Kathleen had entered the hospital wearing a heavy cloth overcoat that she now removed and hung on a wooden peg by the outer ward doors. She pushed a silver circle on the wall and the doors flew open.

“I didn’t meet anyone special at the fundraiser,” she said, “but I was touched by the video presentation. That night, I read the brochure from cover to cover and got hooked.”

“So you just showed up and they put you to work?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Until that point, my life had been in a downward spiral. I’d felt sorry for myself, victimized, after the whole Ken thing. Then I met the burn kids and I was humbled by their optimism and their passion to survive.”

“Sounds like you found a home.”

She smiled. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I made an instant decision that changed my life.”

“And now you come here every Tuesday?”

“Yup. Every Tuesday after work for two hours.”

Kathleen picked up a clipboard. While she studied it, I took the opportunity to study her face and figure. I had come here expecting to fi nd a timid, broken woman, but Kathleen’s divorce obviously agreed with her. She was attractive, with large eyes and honeycolored hair that stopped an inch above her shoulders. I took her for a natural blond because she wore her hair parted in the middle and I couldn’t detect any dark roots. High on her forehead, just beneath her hairline, I could make out a light dusting of freckles. She had a few more freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose as well. Her body was gym tight, and she had a friendly, easygoing manner that revealed nothing of the di
ffi
cult past I had witnessed in the police photos. Her voice was unique. You could get caught up in it, especially when she spoke about her volunteer work. We were about to enter the burn center treatment area, and despite my concerns about what might lie beyond the next set of doors, I found myself hanging on her every word.

“The pain these children live with daily is something you and I will never encounter or comprehend,” she said. “And the toddlers, oh my God, you can’t help but burst into tears the first time you see them. It’s best to see them through a one-way mirror before you meet them because the worst thing you can do is let them see your pity. It erodes their self-confidence and reinforces the fear that they’re monsters, unfit for society.”

I admired her character, but the last thing I felt like doing was looking at severely burned children. Kathleen sensed it and said, “If you want to talk to me about Ken, you’ll have to participate.”

“Why is it so important to you that I do this?” I said.

“Because even though you look like a thug, who’s to say you won’t turn out to be the person who winds up making a di
ff
erence?”

“Let’s assume I’m not that person. Then what?”

“If you really are with Homeland Security, I’m guessing you spend most of your time distrusting people. I can think of worse things than exposing you to some wonderful children who deserve compassion, friendship, and encouragement.”

“Friendship?” I said.

Kathleen smiled. “Could happen,” she said. “And if it does, it will change two lives: theirs and yours.”

“But …”

Just keep an open mind,” she said.

Kathleen escorted me through the double doors and into a viewing room that put me in mind of the ones in police stations—only instead of overlooking an interrogation room, the burn center viewing room overlooked a play area. She asked if I was ready. I took a deep breath and nodded, and she pulled the curtain open.

There were a half-dozen kids in the play area. We watched them interact with toys and each other for several minutes, and at some point, I turned and caught her staring at me. I don’t know what Kathleen Gray saw in my face that evening, but whatever it was, it seemed to delight her.

“Why, Donovan,” she said. “You’re a natural!”

I assumed she was referring to my casual reaction to the kids’ severe disfigurement. Of course, Kathleen had no way of knowing that my profession had a lot to do with it, not to mention my close friendship with Augustus Quinn, a man whose face was singularly horrific and far more frightening than anything going on in the playroom.

Kathleen took me by the wrist and said, “All righty then. Let’s meet them.”

I have a soft spot for children and rarely find it necessary to kill them. That being said, in general I’m uncomfortable around kids and expect I come across rather sti
ff
and imposing.

These kids were di
ff
erent. They were happy to see me. Or maybe they were just happy to see anyone new. They giggled more than I would have expected, and they seemed fascinated by my face, especially the angry scar that runs from the side of my cheek to the middle of my neck. All six of them traced it with their fingers. They were truly amazing, all of them.