The Killing Kind (30 page)

“Hello, Special Agent Garfield,” the man said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

35

Headlights drifted toward the shoulder in the darkness. The car’s front-left tire hit the rumble strip, and Hendricks jerked awake—fishtailing as he swerved back into his lane. Once he got the car back on the road, he rolled the window down, hoping the air would keep him alert.

He’d tossed and turned all night in the musty boat cabin. His injuries had nagged at him. The cuts on his hand and neck itched maddeningly. His bruises were hot and tender to the touch. His shoulder clicked when he moved it wrong, and felt like it was full of rusty nails. At dawn, Hendricks found the boat’s first aid kit and chewed four aspirin as he cleaned his wounds.

Hendricks had waited until he heard both cars in the driveway leave before he climbed out of his hiding place and retrieved his phone. Then he walked barefoot toward Peoria proper, his too-small stolen loafers in one hand.

In a Goodwill parking lot, Hendricks had jimmied open a donation box and started dumping bags at random. After a little digging, he’d grabbed a plain black T-shirt, a pair of Levi’s, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of paint-spattered black Chuck Taylors. He felt a little guilty stealing from a charity, but as bedraggled as he looked, walking into a store would’ve drawn too much unwanted attention—and anyway, he was a little short on cash. The way Hendricks saw it, a fugitive from justice twelve hundred miles from home with less than seven hundred dollars to his name was entitled to a little charity.

He’d cleaned up in a nearby Hardee’s restroom and put on his new clothes, burying his old ones beneath a layer of paper towels in the trash bin.

Not far from the Hardee’s was a Best Western. Hendricks strode into the lobby like he belonged there. The bored young woman playing a game on her cell phone behind the front desk didn’t even look his way. He helped himself to their continental breakfast, and then he pulled up Craigslist on the computer in their business center.

Three hours and a bunch of phone calls later, he was the proud owner of a ’93 Civic. The tires were bald, the backseat was all chewed up, and the cabin smelled like dog, but at three hundred bucks, the price was right— and deals for two other cars had fallen through already, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Hendricks offered the owner another hundred to bring the car to his hotel. Once he dropped the guy back at his house, Hendricks was on his way.

Stolen wheels are fine for short-term transportation, but when you’ve got twenty hours of driving ahead of you, it’s nice to know the cops aren’t looking for your ride.

Now, the lights of Cleveland beckoned to him in the distance. Hendricks figured he could find some food there, some Advil, and maybe even a shower and a proper bed— provided he could find a motel shady enough to accept cash no-questions-asked. He knew Cleveland well enough to assume that wouldn’t be a problem.

Hendricks turned on the radio, scanned the dial until he found a classic rock station playing the Stones. Cranked the volume and drummed along on the steering wheel.

For the first time since Purkhiser double-crossed him, things were looking up.

When Thompson’s phone played Garfield’s ringtone, she nearly jumped out of her chair trying to answer it. “Garfield, where the hell have you been? Are you okay?”

Thompson heard shuffling on his end of the line. She wondered for a moment if he’d dropped the phone. “Huh?” he said. “I mean, uh, yeah...I’m fine.”

“You sure?” she asked. “You sound distracted.”

Garfield barked with laughter. It sounded more desperate than amused. “Distracted? Nah. Rough night, is all.”

“Listen, your lead panned out—we got a hit on those prints. Some badass Special Forces type by the name of Michael Hendricks. And get this: he’s been presumed dead for years. We’re tracking down a known associate of his now—a soldier from his old unit.”

“That’s great,” Garfield replied flatly. “E-mail me the file, and I’ll take a look at it on the way in.”

“Sure,” she said. “It’s on its way. You picked a hell of a time to disappear, you know. The director is furious. I tried to cover for you—I told him you were sick—but he’s not an idiot. He knows damn well I was lying.”

“Thanks, Charlie. You didn’t have to do that. Not after...the way I’ve been to you.”

Thompson was taken aback. “Hey,” she said, “what are partners for?”

“Still,” Garfield said, his voice tinged with regret, “for what it’s worth, Charlie, I’m sorry.”

36

The bell above the Bait Shop’s door jingled as the sandy-haired man let himself inside, sunlight streaming in around him on all sides. It was a little after four p.m. on Saturday. The bar had been open for all of five minutes, and save for Lester, it was unoccupied.

When Lester heard the bell, he peeked over the bar toward the door. He could just make out his would-be patron’s head and shoulders from where his wheelchair sat. Black sport coat. Black turtleneck. Black kid gloves, evidenced when he raised a hand in hello. And the palest of blue eyes. The man limped slightly, and his face was bruised, but his expression conveyed no discomfort—the slightest of smiles graced his lips, as if he’d just remembered the punch line of a joke long since forgotten.

“Afternoon,” Lester called to him. “Kitchen’s closed, so if you’re hungry, keep walking—but if a drink is what you’re after, I’m happy to oblige. What’s your poison?”

“What, indeed?” asked the man—his smile coming out in full now. His English was flawless, but its edges were sharpened by an accent that clearly marked him foreign. Austrian, Lester thought, or maybe Swiss.

The man looked around the bar’s small dining room. Empty booths, empty barstools, empty chairs. There was something sinister about him, Lester realized. Something predatory. Fear uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, he said, “Yeah, it’s been a little quiet around these parts today. But no worries: this place’ll be hopping in no time.” He hoped it sounded less a bluff to this man than it did to his own ears.

“Yes, Lester,” said the man, sliding the bolt on the door behind him and flipping the sign on its inset pane to Closed. “I suspect it will be.”

The threat was hard to miss. Lester didn’t hesitate. He tripped the panic button hidden beneath the lip of the bar—signaling Hendricks—and went for the Beretta M9 Velcroed to the underside of his chair. Maybe if he’d gone for the gun straightaway, he might have had a fighting chance. The man, mongoose-quick, grabbed a wooden chair from the nearest table and hurled it at him. Gun hand and chair legs connected. Lester’s Beretta slipped from his grasp and shattered the mirror behind the bar. In seconds, the man was on him—vaulting over the bar, his knee connecting hard with Lester’s groin. The pain was excruciating. Lester’s world went a little wobbly around the edges.

“That was hardly the most hospitable of welcomes, Mr. Meyers,” the sandy-haired man hissed as he backhanded Lester across the face. Lester’s head rocked sideways at the force of the blow.

Black-gloved hands zip-tied Lester’s arms to his wheelchair’s armrests with practiced grace. A whole lemon from the garnish station was stuffed as far as it would go into his mouth. Juice bled from it where Lester’s teeth pierced its skin, invading the cuts those same teeth had left in his own lips—twin bee-stings, top and bottom.

As quickly as the man was on him, he was gone. A terrifying, animal grace. He strode calmly but with purpose around the perimeter of the bar—closing blinds, checking the restroom for occupants. Briefly, he disappeared into the kitchen—checking the storeroom and service entrance, Lester supposed.

Whatever’s about to happen, Lester thought, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Once Special Agent Garfield had supplied Engelmann with Hendricks’s file, finding Meyers was a simple matter of placing a phone call. His Council contact let it ring so long, though, it was clear that he—and by extension, his organization—wished to register his displeasure at Engelmann’s lack of progress.

“What?” his contact answered, eight rings in.

“I need a favor.”

“So far, you’ve needed plenty of favors, and we haven’t seen much in return. What makes you think you deserve another?”

“I’m close,” said Engelmann. “Closer than anybody else has come.”

“You’d best be. What, exactly, do you need?”

“I assume you have sources within the military, yes?”

His contact hesitated. “Maybe.”

“I need to find a certain Lester Meyers. All I know for sure is that he’s a military veteran. Late twenties, I’m guessing—maybe early thirties.”

A long, calculating pause. “He our guy?”

“No,” said Engelmann, “he’s not. But I believe him to have information I require.”

“This Meyers...is he underground?”

“I have no reason to assume so, but his military record is under lock and key.”

“Seems to me the bucks we’re paying you, you oughta be able to do your own goddamn legwork.”

“I understand—but time is of the essence,” said Engelmann.

“Law’s onto this guy, too?”

“Yes. And if they locate him before I do...”

“I get the picture,” his contact said. “Gimme five minutes to do my thing, then call me back. And Alexander?” He said Engelmann’s first name with exaggerated care, as if mocking his hired killer’s mannered grace.

“Yes?”

“That call better be the last I get from you until your target’s dead.”

The sandy-haired man returned from the bar’s back room and fetched from his inside coat pocket a black leather kit the approximate size and shape of a woman’s clutch, zippered on three sides. It looked to Lester like a particularly extensive lock-pick kit.

And after a fashion, it was.

The man unzipped the kit and set it on the bar. He made a show of unfolding it—three panels, all told. Its contents, held in place by a series of leather loops, snapped at one end, were the stuff of nightmares.

A set of scalpels. Awls and chisels in assorted shapes and sizes. Something that looked like a cross between a ball-peen hammer and a hatchet. A small bow saw. A hand drill with an assortment of bits. And sundry forceps, clamps, and scissors.

They were old, no doubt—antiques, perhaps, dull-looking and rust-flecked—but there was no mistaking their purpose. They were surgical instruments. But in this man’s hands, they were meant to undo rather than repair.

Lester’s chair rocked from side to side as he struggled against his restraints. The sandy-haired man cooed over him as though he were a crying child, but made no move to stop him. Lester struggled until his limbs and chest burned from exertion, and sweat plastered his hair and clothes to his body. The zip ties dug into his flesh, drawing blood. It dripped onto the hardwood in quiet, rhythmic taps. Eventually, Lester’s struggles ceased, and he eyed the man before him in unadulterated fear.

“Are you quite finished?” asked the man. Lester was silent. “Good. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alexander Engelmann. Now,” he said, one hand hovering over the open surgical kit a moment before selecting from it a small, wooden-handled awl, “you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about one Michael Evan Hendricks.”

37

Saturday afternoon, and the New York Thruway was slow going. It seemed to Hendricks as though the entire stretch from Syracuse to Albany was being paved. The roadway was reduced to one grooved lane for miles on end. Hendricks rolled along at twenty miles an hour, cursing the traffic. At this rate, it would be midnight before he got home.

He planned to spend the night at his cabin and head to Portland in the morning. He figured hunting this guy could wait a day, at least—and the way his last forty-eight hours had gone, Hendricks thought he’d earned a little peace and quiet.

Traffic moved at a crawl. Hendricks played chicken with the Civic’s gas gauge, watching the needle tip toward E and hoping he’d make it to a gas station. The thruway was bumper-to-bumper as far as he could see in both directions.

He coasted into the Guilderland Plaza five minutes after the indicator light came on. The electronic road sign in the median told him he had five more miles of construction to look forward to.

Hendricks was gassing up the Civic when his burner phone vibrated in his pocket—one short burst, signaling a text. He fished it out of his pocket with his free hand.