Seventh Enemy (22 page)

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty. I’m late.”

“It’s Saturday,” I said.

“I work on Saturdays. You want some coffee?”

“I don’t work on Saturdays,” I said. “I sleep on Saturdays. No coffee.”

“Call me?” she said.

“I will.”

I heard the door click shut behind her. I lay there with my eyes closed, feeling vaguely edgy and depressed. Then, with a jolt, I remembered the phone call. Somewhere out there a man had threatened my life. I thought about it. He had bushwhacked Wally in the woods in the early morning and Senator Swift in the woods at night. Perhaps he’d wait to nail me in the woods, too. If I stayed in the city I’d be all right.

At least I hoped so. The thought consoled me enough to allow me to drift back to sleep.

I woke up around nine. Ah, Saturday, I love Saturdays. I pulled on a pair of jeans, wandered into the kitchen, poured a mugful of coffee, and took it out onto the balcony. I sat there sipping and smoking and tilting my face up to the sun. I thought about a faceless man who thought I was his enemy and I decided not to let him ruin my day. So I turned my thoughts to all of the good things I could do with a beautiful Saturday in May. Most of those things involved rivers and trout.

Then I remembered that I had agreed to meet Diana in Cambridge for dinner, and that spoiled my trout-fishing reverie. Fishing for me is, among other important things, an escape from time. Having to leave a river because my watch tells me to takes a lot of the fun out of it.

Anyhow, I decided it might not be such a good idea to go fishing on this day. An out-of-the-way trout river would make an excellent location for an assassination. I wasn’t going to cower behind my apartment door for the rest of my life. But there was no sense in doing something foolhardy.

I retrieved the
Globe
from outside my door, refilled my mug, and went back out onto the balcony. I read the lead paragraphs of each of the front-page stories, folded the paper back to the Friday-night box scores, found the chess problem and solved it, then paged through the whole paper, back to front.

Alex’s piece was buried in the middle of the Metro section. I noticed it because it was accompanied by a stock photo of Gene McNiff.
GUARDIAN OF THE SECOND AMENDMENT
was the headline. I read it through and smiled. I figured her editor, alerted by the “ironically” that Alex had slipped into her previous piece, had wielded his blue pencil with a vengeance this time.

It was a puff piece. The Second Amendment For Ever organization had earned the grudging respect of political insiders by their success in stonewalling antigun legislation. They had some sound constitutional and sociological arguments to support their position, which Alex summarized nonjudgmentally. SAFE also supported get-tough anticrime legislation, ran hunter-safety programs, conducted self-defense seminars. Gene McNiff was a real estate attorney who received a tiny stipend from SAFE for his service as the group’s executive director.

Alex had made McNiff sound thoughtful, dedicated, sincere, tolerant, sane.

Her article did not mention Walt Kinnick.

I wondered what her first draft had looked like before her editor took his swipe at it.

Lots of lawyers work on weekends. Big high-powered firms expect it, especially from the young associates. Partners feel obliged to work weekends, too, in order to set an example for the associates.

But not me. One of the main advantages of working in a one-man law office is not having to impress anyone or set an example for anybody. I only have to impress myself, and I’m easily impressed.

I know I don’t set a very good example.

I respect the law. I give my clients their money’s worth. But the law is not my life. I rank family and friends and fishing and the Red Sox above my law practice.

Julie, even after all the years we’ve been together, doesn’t respect my personal hierarchy of values. She keeps telling me that my business should come first—or maybe second, after family—which, of course, is one of her functions. I need her to question my priorities, because if she didn’t. it wouldn’t get done.

Julie’s my conscience, and as I loafed around my apartment her voice kept nagging at me from inside my head. “Get to work,” it said. “Catch up.”

In the end I did what I do about three Saturdays a year. I went to the office.

It felt good to stroll leisurely across the Common and up Boylston Street to Copley Square in jeans and sneakers and a polo shirt, and although I failed to spot him, I suspected that Agent Malloy or one of his counterparts was somewhere behind me, and that felt good, too. I liked unlocking the office at noontime and making a vat of coffee and leaving the answering machine on. A few uninterrupted hours and I could get a lot done. That would shut up Julie’s voice in my head.

Then I might enjoy a truly carefree Sunday.

Except I kept thinking about being number seven on the SAFE list, and how, after Senator Swift, the only enemies above me were out of the state. And I remembered that calm, cultured voice on my answering machine telling me that I deserved a just and ironic death. It’s hard to be carefree when you figure you’re the next target of an assassin.

I still managed to plow through a large stack of papers.

I
LOCKED UP AROUND
five, went home, showered and changed, and took the T to Harvard Square. I was at the bar inside Giannino’s at ten of seven, sipping a glass of Samuel Adams, Boston’s own beer. I had seen nobody who looked like a Secret Service agent all day.

I told the hostess that I was expecting somebody, and when she arrived we’d like a table out on the patio.

Diana got there fifteen minutes later. She climbed aboard the barstool next to mine and kissed my cheek. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I just came from the hospital. Sorry if I’m late.”

“You’re not. I was early. How’s Wally?”

“All grabby and talking dirty. I’d say he’s on the mend.”

The bartender came over and Diana ordered a glass of white wine. I asked for another Sam.

“And how are you?” I said.

She smiled and shrugged. “I guess I’m all right. I mean, sometimes when I don’t expect it I suddenly remember hearing those shots, running out and seeing him lying there. He’s safe now, don’t you think?”

“As safe as anybody ever is, I guess.”

She slapped my arm. “You are such a comfort, Brady Coyne.”

The hostess appeared. “Your table’s ready now, sir,” she said.

She escorted us outside, described the day’s specials in delicious detail, and left menus with us. We studied them, debated the offerings, and watched the mix of Cambridge folks prowl around the patio. We had placed our orders and started to talk about fishing when Diana suddenly said, “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to excuse me for a minute.”

She got up and strode across the open area to one of the outdoor bars. I saw her stop beside a man who was seated there. He was a lanky guy with thinning brown hair and pale skin. He was wearing a sports jacket, a tie pulled loose at the collar, chino pants, and a hangdog expression.

They held a brief but animated conversation. It looked pretty one-sided. Diana jabbed with her forefinger and shook her fist at him. He folded his arms and looked down at his lap. After a few minutes, Diana put her hands on her hips, and the man slowly climbed off the barstool and ambled away. Then she came back and sat across from me.

She tried to smile, shook her head, and let out a short laugh. “Sorry about that,” she said.

I shrugged and said nothing.

“That was Howard.”

I nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

“He followed me here.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I asked him.”

“And?”

“He loves me. He wants me to come home. He forgives me. He’s worried about me.”

“Worried?”

She nodded quickly. “I hang around with dangerous people.”

“Wally.”

“Yeah. And you.” She sighed heavily, “Shit, anyway.”

I touched her arm. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do? What are my choices?”

“I don’t know. The usual, I guess.”

“Restraining order, you mean.”

“That’s one.”

She shook her head. “I just can’t. It’s not as if he wants to hurt me.”

“Has this ruined our evening?” I said.

She smiled. “Hell, no.”

Our salads arrived. We ate them. Diana said, “I guess I mainly feel sorry for him.”

“Sounds to me as if that’s his objective. To make you pity him.”

“I guess it is.”

She had a spicy chicken dish. I had scallops and mushrooms in a cream sauce. We didn’t talk much.

Afterward we wandered around the Square. We browsed through bookstores. I looked for old first-edition fishing books at bargain prices. I found a few books, but there were no bargain prices on books in Harvard Square.

We watched a street performer juggle five basketballs.

A girl with bare feet and a braid down to her waist sang and played acoustic guitar in front of the Coop. She sounded exactly like Joan Baez, and I asked her if she knew “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” the Dylan song. She sang it beautifully, and I dropped a five-dollar bill into her guitar case.

Diana and I had a beer at Grendel’s. We didn’t talk about Wally’s shooting or Howard or SAFE. She told me about trips she’d taken with Wally, steelhead fishing in Oregon and British Columbia, a two-week river float in Alaska, tarpon fishing in the Keys and Belize. I countered with tales of the trout that live in the spring creeks of Montana’s Paradise Valley.

I didn’t tell her about the phone message I’d received the previous evening or the fear that gnawed on the margins of my consciousness. Being with her comforted me. Our assassin only went after his enemies when they were alone in the woods.

Diana’s condo was on one of the little side streets that connect Broadway with Cambridge Street, a fifteen-minute walk from the square. We cut through the Harvard Yard. It was deserted, which I found strange for a Saturday night until I remembered that nowadays the ever-shrinking college academic year ends sometime around the first week of May.

Her tree-lined street was quiet. Old houses stood shoulder to shoulder, separated from each other only by the width of a driveway. Cars were parked solid on both sides.

We stood on the porch. Diana fumbled in her purse for her keys, found them, and unlocked the door. “I’ll put on some coffee,” she said.

“Thanks, no,” I said.

She turned to me and put her hand on my arm. “Hey,” she said softly.

“It’s okay” I said. “No misunderstanding. It was a nice evening.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. “Thanks anyway.”

She tiptoed up and kissed my check. “Well, thanks. It was fun. I’m glad to have you as a friend.”

“Me, too,” I said.

She opened the door and went inside. She turned and smiled. “Good night, Brady,” she said.

“Night, Diana.”

The door closed. I heard three locks engage. I went down the steps to the sidewalk. I touched my cheek where Diana had kissed it. I decided when I got back to the square I’d call Alex from a pay phone. I could take the subway to her place on Marlborough Street, or she could meet me at my place. Either way—

No sound registered. If there was the click of a safety being released, or a shoe scuffling on concrete, or a harsh breath being exhaled, I don’t remember hearing it. But something made me flinch an instant before the shot cracked from across the street at the same instant that glass exploded beside me, and I lurched sideways and stumbled onto the pavement and pressed myself flat between two parked ears. Several shots boomed in the night air, one after the other, so close together they sounded like a single extended explosion, and I huddled there, wedged under the front bumper of a ear with my arms around my head.

It was over as abruptly as it started, and the street was quiet. I lay there, reluctant to move. I listened, but heard nothing. No clatter of running feet, no squeal of tires. Just the hum of the evening and the whisper of the spring breeze in the trees.

I crawled out and knelt behind the ear that had probably saved my life. Cautiously I peered over the hood. I saw nothing.

“Brady?” Diana was standing on the porch. “Brady!” she yelled.

“I’m okay.” I stood up.

“What—?”

“He missed.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

She came down the steps to me. I put my arms around her. She was trembling, and I fell myself beginning to shake, too. She hugged me hard, and I held on to her. After a minute we went to the steps and sat down. I fumbled out a cigarette and got it lit.

“Diana,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry. He could’ve…”

“He wasn’t after me,” she said. “If he was, he wouldn’t’ve waited till I went inside. He was after you. He must’ve followed us.”

“Unless he knew where you lived.”

“But if he was after you…

“You’re right,” I said. “He must have followed us.”

“What do we do?”

“We don’t sit out here,” I said. “We go inside. You make some coffee. I call the police.”

By the time I got the 911 operator I heard sirens in the distance. When I told her that there had been gunshots, she said they’d already had two calls on it and a cruiser was on its way. I gave her Diana’s address. She said she’d radio it to the cruiser.

A few minutes later there came a knock at the door. Diana answered it and led two uniformed Cambridge police officers into the kitchen. One looked like a high school freshman and the other was about my age. The older one took out a pen, flipped open a notebook, and asked what happened. I told him. He took a lot of notes.

Was I sure it was gunshots I’d heard, not fireworks or a car backfiring?

I was sure. One of them had broken a car window, if he’d care to check outside.

And did I think the shots were aimed specifically at me?

I believed they were.

Why?

I told him about the SAFE enemies’ list, and Wally, and the identical phone calls we’d both received. I did not mention Senator Marlon Swift, or the fact that I’d been under Secret Service surveillance, or that I had apparently been abandoned by Agent Malloy.