The Killing Kind (17 page)

“Where were these pictures taken?”

“Saint Louis International. He landed an hour ago.”

“Any idea who the target is?”

“Nothing yet. I figure he’s got a job lined up in town. I’ve got Atwood and Prescott looking into it.”

Thompson shook her head. “The hit won’t be in St. Louis. Leonwood’s a pro—he’d never fly into the city the job’s in. My guess is, the hit’s someplace close, but not too close. Have Atwood and Prescott comb through the chatter out of Kansas City, Louisville, Nashville, Memphis, Chicago—anywhere we’ve got ears out within a day’s drive. And have our agents on the ground circulate these pics at every rental car company in town, with special attention to the ones near—but not
in
—the airport. He’ll be looking to break up his trail, and my bet is, he won’t want to run the risk of a cabbie remembering him, which means he’ll leave the airport on foot. Get them a complete list of Leonwood’s aliases, too—he’s gonna switch up now that he’s on the ground.”

“Anything else,
boss?
” Garfield asked, both annoyed by his partner’s marching orders and embarrassed he hadn’t gotten there on his own.

Thompson thought a moment, her gaze passing over the stacks of unread files and unfinished reports on her desk—all awaiting her attention, and a good three-quarters of them unworthy of it. “Yeah,” she said, finally. “Two things, actually. Thing one: book us on the next flight to St. Louis. You and me are gonna track Leonwood from the ground.”

“Okay—what’s thing two?”

“Thing two, Henry
,
is if you call me anything other than Charlie, Charlotte, or Special Agent Thompson again, me and my trusty sidearm are gonna make sure the only thing the boys around here ever call you is One Ball, com
prende?”

Garfield gulped. “You got it, b— Special Agent Thompson.”

“Good,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Now get moving. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”

18

Eric Purkhiser’s stomach churned as he frantically stuffed clothes into a duffel bag. He was dizzy and light-headed. Acid scratched at the back of his throat.

He should have known the whiskey was a bad idea.

He’d taken a swig straight from the bottle as soon as he got home from Westlake Plaza. He thought that it would calm his nerves. Instead, it came back up immediately, along with what was left of his lunch.

He tried to tell himself the dude who braced him at the mall this afternoon was running some kind of con—that he was a petty lowlife who’d stumbled across the story on Purkhiser’s big win and figured he could shake him down for some quick cash. But he didn’t really believe that. The guy’d been too skilled, too steady—too clearly practiced in this sort of meeting for it to’ve been a one-off. Planting his wallet in Purkhiser’s pocket without him noticing?

Knocking out the security feeds? Talking his way out of an armed standoff with mall security? That shit screamed pro. And the fact that the dude didn’t bite when Purkhiser offered to pay his fee out of the casino winnings further suggested this was no shakedown.

Which meant the dude was telling the truth.

Which meant the Atlanta Outfit had found him.

Problem was, Purkhiser was skint. Strapped. Flat-ass broke, to own the truth. There was no way he was gonna come up with a quarter mil in just three days. He was no holdup artist; he was a computer geek. It took him the better part of a year to plan and run his little casino scam—and anyway, it was that selfsame scam that put him on the Outfit’s radar in the first place.

That left running.

Clueless. Blind.

He knew he didn’t stand a chance. Didn’t have the skill set to make himself disappear at the drop of a hat. Given time—time and money—he could set something up, finesse a new ID out of the ether, and set up a series of blind trusts on which to live; that was his plan once he got his six-mil payout, after all. But when it came to running balls-out, to Bourne-style evasion and ass-kickery, he was as ill-prepared as any career cubicle-dweller in America. Which is, of course, essentially what he had been before he turned stoolie and his whole life went to shit.

Purkhiser ducked under the bed, reaching for the shoe box full of cash he’d stashed there in case of emergencies. Well, more like a quarter full. He’d blown most of his emergency stash on Papa John’s, Xbox games, and handles of Jim Beam. Fat lot of good those did him now.

“Mr. Purkhiser,” came a voice, lightly accented, from behind him. Purkhiser started when he heard it and slammed the back of his head against his bed’s wooden support slat. His vision dimmed momentarily, but he remained conscious. Given that he assumed whoever that voice belonged to was here to kill him, he wasn’t convinced that was a good thing.

That son of a bitch, he thought. He said I had three days.

Purkhiser withdrew his head from under the bed— moving carefully, this time—and rolled over to face the man who stood just feet away inside his bedroom. The man wore a pair of khaki trousers over burnished leather oxfords the color of cognac, and a starched blue button-down with a white collar and French cuffs. His sandy blond hair framed an aristocratic face, and he wore kid gloves on his hands despite the fact that the day’s warmth had yet to bleed off into the night sky.

In one hand was a silenced gun.

When Purkhiser saw the gun, he quailed and covered his face, waiting for the shot to come.

“My apologies,” said the man, who made no move to raise the gun from where it hung at his side. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Purkhiser peeked at him from between parted fingers. When nothing happened for a couple beats, he said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

The man smiled. “Not so long as you do as I request. I’ve no interest in your petty squabbles with whosoever wants you dead.”

Purkhiser smiled—an unhinged expression that wouldn’t have appeared out of place in a psych ward lockdown. “Anything! Just name it, and it’s yours!”

“I came here looking for a man. A man who I assume, given your sudden urge to take a holiday, has recently visited you. A man whose services I suspect you’ve recently turned down. Do you know the man of whom I speak?”

Purkhiser nodded with crazed enthusiasm.

“And am I correct in my assumption that you elected not to employ him?”

Again, Purkhiser nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I see. Now—and understand, this next question’s an important one, with nothing short of your continued existence riding upon your response—did he give you any method by which to contact him?”

“Yes!” Purkhiser exclaimed. “He gave me his phone number! He said if I changed my mind, I should give him a call.”

“Excellent. That’s precisely the answer I was looking for. I’m going to need that number, of course—and one other thing, as well.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to need you to call him and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

“B-b-but I can’t afford to pay him!”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said the man. “You’ve proven quite resourceful in the past. And it goes without saying that I’ll be watching your every move, so I assure you, fleeing is not a viable option.”

“You trying to trap this guy or something?”

The man smiled. “Yes, or something.”

“If I hire him, you’ll let me live?”

“You have my word I will not harm you.”

“No—I mean,
thanks,
but...what I meant was, will you let him do his job before you whack him? Take out the guy who’s coming to kill me, I mean.”

The man appeared to think about that for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “Oh, why not? It seems you’ve caught me in a charitable mood.”

“Okay then,” said Purkhiser, “you’ve got a deal.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad we could reach an accord. It bears mentioning that if you breathe a word of our agreement to our mutual friend—or anyone else, for that matter—said agreement is null and void, and so are you. Once I tire of watching you writhe in agony, that is—and believe me when I tell you, I do not tire easily.”

At that last, Purkhiser imagined himself an insect pinned to a collector’s board, limbs flapping.

“Oh, and one last thing,” said the man. “I don’t suppose he was so kind as to give you his name, was he?”

Purkhiser shook his head, and the man’s face fell—theatrically, as if for Purkhiser’s benefit. “Ah, well. One can’t have everything, now, can one?”

Purkhiser looked at the bag on the bed, half-full of clothes and wasted hope. All he’d wanted was his dough back—a second chance at the good life he thought a man of his ingenuity deserved, but of which the Feds had seen fit to strip him.

Instead, what he’d gotten for his trouble was a heaping ton of shit—one he might not be able to claw out of alive. Which left him pining for the depressing, quotidian life he’d so callously tossed aside.

So can one, in fact, have everything?

No,
he thought. One very fucking
can’t
.

Meeting adjourned, Alexander Engelmann returned to his temporary accommodations—a foreclosed split-level ranch across the street and three doors down from Purkhiser’s, painted a horrid combination of white and salmon pink but nonetheless affording from its master bedroom a smashing view of Purkhiser’s mirror image of a home. Engelmann had employed countersurveillance tactics on his brief trip back here, walking a good ten blocks with many an abrupt reversal of direction to travel three, but—his own satisfaction at a job well done aside—he knew it was for naught. Partly because he was an astute enough student of human nature to see Purkhiser was too frightened to dare follow him, and partly because he could hear Purkhiser pacing his living room via the sound-activated bugs Engelmann had planted throughout the man’s home.

The bugs transmitted to a receiver in the living room of Engelmann’s squat. When he returned from Purkhiser’s, he cranked the volume on the unit until Purkhiser’s every footstep—his every breath—echoed through the empty house. As Engelmann listened, he wandered the house, his eyes half closed—to the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the master bath. His movements mirrored Purkhiser’s, their footsteps ringing out in time. For a moment, as their breathing synched, he felt that he and Purkhiser were one—and in that moment, he was sure his plan would work.

Though Engelmann would scarcely admit it to himself, he was relieved his intuition regarding his quarry’s use of the Council’s book code had finally borne fruit. Since his discovery of Cruz’s cipher, it had yielded nothing. After Chicago, he was mildly concerned. But when Long Beach failed to pay off, too, he began to doubt the veracity of his lead. He’d been forced to consider the notion that his quarry identified his clients by means other than the Council book code.

Then again, he realized, perhaps there was another conclusion to be made by the fact that he’d elected not to help either Franklin or D’Abruzzo: it was possible he considered protecting violent criminals beneath him.

Could it be his quarry fancied himself a moral man?

When Engelmann revisited his quarry’s file, that question in his mind, a pattern emerged. His clients were all relative innocents. Like Morales. Like Purkhiser.

It appeared Engelmann had arrived in Springfield just too late to lay eyes on his quarry. He’d driven directly from the airport to Purkhiser’s home, hoping that by staking it out, he might witness his target’s approach, and then follow him until a time to strike presented itself. Instead, what he found was a panicked Purkhiser preparing to flee, and so he made do as best he could.

Engelmann refused to grant the possibility that Purkhiser would fail as a lure. He was now certain his quarry believed himself a good person and was therefore predisposed toward helping this pathetic wretch.

Such burdensome things, consciences. Engelmann was relieved not to be afflicted with one.

Of course, there was another reason Engelmann refused to entertain the possibility that Purkhiser would fail in his task. The week Engelmann’s contact had promised him was almost up, which meant the Council would soon halt all communications via their old book code, their old race sites. The Purkhiser job would likely be the last one posted—which made it Engelmann’s last chance to bag his man.