Authors: Kevin Wignall
People Die (11 page)
Around lunchtime though he gave up, the frustration already beginning to wear on him, the fact that nothing was happening when it was meant to be. He walked down to the Village, more like a small town as it turned out, well manicured, plenty of clapboard and picket fences and white-painted porches. It looked disturbingly familiar, a twilight zone quality dispelled only by a handful of awestruck tourists wandering around, some of them clutching jars of preserves or other wrapped gifts.
There were a few homely looking shops, a couple of restaurants, something calling itself the Old Maple Tavern which also proved to be a restaurant. Steve and his wife emerged satisfied as JJ neared it.
“Our secret’s out,” he shouted at JJ as he saw him.
“Good meal?”
“Red meat, guilty as charged.”
His wife shrugged and said, “I’m telling you, the day he dies cows everywhere will celebrate.”
“Yeah, yeah. JJ, what are your plans for tonight? I mean, if you’re eating at the inn, well so are we. Karen and me, we’d be very happy if you joined us. If you want to, I mean, if you have no other plans?”
“That’s very kind, thanks.”
The lawyer and his wife both grinned, as though the two of them had discussed the idea over lunch, and the three of them spoke on for a little while, tourist talk, their temporary location the only thing that linked them.
JJ left them and went into the tavern, ordering a chicken salad, what looked like the lightest meal on the menu. Other diners glanced over half sympathetically as he ate alone, the young waitress paying him more attention too, checking that everything was okay, asking where he was staying.
Far from being lonely though, the small talk with Steve and Karen and the dinner invitation had persuaded him to go down to Yale the next morning. For whatever reason Holden wasn’t at the Copley, that seemed obvious now, and JJ didn’t think he could stand the tourist camaraderie for more than a day, getting sucked gradually into being part of someone else’s holiday. It wasn’t something he was used to.
Susan Bostridge was more interesting, but that morning had been a one-time thing, he was certain of it, a welcoming gesture to someone who was on his own. And even then, most of what interested him about her was the link with her husband, a subject that was off the table, a subject it probably wasn’t healthy for him to be curious about either, not when he was there.
It wasn’t about fitting in or feeling comfortable anyway; he’d come there to get out from under a contract, to get Berg as Holden had implicitly promised. It didn’t seem as urgent now that he was tucked away in Vermont, no longer a matter of pure survival like finding people in his apartment, but sooner or later it would catch up with him and become that urgent again. So whether he felt comfortable there or not he had to do something, either find Holden or rule him out and consider his moves.
The afternoon was pressing on by the time he got back to the inn. He could hear her voice as he walked into the lobby and went through to the dining room, where the large table was broken up into smaller units now. Susan was sitting on the edge of one of them talking to a stocky kid in his early teens, a bag slung over his shoulder.
They both looked in his direction as he stood there, the kid fair and good-looking but with a facial resemblance to his father that was unnerving, like a flashback.
“Sorry,” said JJ quickly, “I’ll catch you later.”
“Not at all, JJ. I’d like you to meet my son.”
He halted his bid for the door and walked over to them. “I just thought you might be busy.”
“No,” she said casually, “just chewing the fat after a day at school. This is Jackson.”
“Jack,” the kid cut in, good-humored but raising his eyes skyward.
“Hello, Jack. I’m JJ.” He shook hands; Jack’s grip was soft like it was a form of greeting he wasn’t used to, though he probably got introduced to guests all the time judging by the breakfast-table conversation that morning. JJ turned to Susan then and said, “I just wanted to let you know, I’m going to New Haven tomorrow so I’ll be leaving before breakfast, probably late back.”
“New Haven? Yale?”
“Yeah.” He left a slight breathing space, again giving her the chance to mention Holden, then added, “The daughter of a family friend’s down there. I just found out she’s going away the day after tomorrow so ...” She nodded, almost as if she’d been expecting him to mention Holden too.
“We can arrange an early breakfast if you’d like.”
“No, really Thanks all the same.” He smiled again, said, “See you around,” to her son, and left, Susan asking Jack something else about school as they tailed out of JJ’s earshot.
He went to his room then and studied the map, looking at the route down to New Haven. Holden almost certainly wasn’t there either, not alive, but at least he’d be doing something, trying in some way to recapture the sense of momentum he’d had, the force that had carried him through Geneva and London, taking the bullet to them, letting Berg know that he was coming for them.
Of course, when it had come to the body count in London he hadn’t achieved anything with that momentum, only a recognition of how little he could do on his own. Maybe he’d spooked them too, but that was only worthwhile if he could keep getting closer to them, and at the moment he couldn’t even get to Holden.
But he had to do something, anything to move things on, realizing somewhere in that day’s fabric that he had the wrong constitution for disappearing. Because that was what disappearing would mean, the life of a permanent tourist, soulless, drowning in small talk.
He couldn’t die by degrees in a life like that, didn’t think he could do it even for a few days, a revulsion that probably sprang from the same part of his character as the violence he’d come to live by. And maybe it wasn’t much of a life but at least it was lived with eyes open, fixed on the common destination they all shared no matter what they did.
10
He spent a while walking around the university, relaxing after the long drive, soaking up the campus atmosphere. It was already hotter than the previous day and here and there people were sitting around on the grass, as many visitors as students by the look of it, the term probably not yet started.
He could understand why people like Holden were attracted to it, the academic life, another enclosed world, one step removed from reality and not quite as lethal either. Clearly though Holden hadn’t been able to leave his old life behind completely; like Tom had said, he’d remained active, not finding enough to distract him in the stillness of art history.
When JJ saw a girl carrying a portfolio case he stopped her and asked directions to Holden’s department, then made his way over there. His office was locked so JJ backtracked and found a secretary, asking her where he might find Holden.
“He’s not in at all this week,” she said, offering, “you could try his house.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Do you have his address?”
“Well, yes, I do,” she replied, suddenly cautious. “Could I ask why you want him?”
“Of course, though I don’t need to see him for anything particular. He and my uncle are friends. My uncle said I should call in if I was down this way, which clearly I am, but I lost the piece of paper with the address and the only thing I could remember was that he taught history of art. Hopeless, I know.”
“I see.” She was already weakening, won over by his attempt at the affably inarticulate Englishman.
“But you’re right you shouldn’t give it. I shouldn’t have asked in fact. Sorry. I’ll check in the phone book.”
“Oh you won’t find it in there.” She was smiling, writing down the address. She gave him the piece of paper then and said, “Now tell me where you’re parked and I’ll point you in the right direction.”
The house was in an affluent suburb, leafy, wide open lawns. JJ pulled up outside the neighbor’s house, went up, and rang the bell. After a couple of minutes a woman came to the door, probably only his own age but looking older, beginning to run to fat a little, her hair and clothes and whole demeanor lost in a comfortably premature middle age.
“Hello, is this Professor Holden’s house?” She smiled like it was a mistake she was familiar with and pointed to the right. “Oh, I am sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, adding then, “But Ed isn’t there at the moment.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head with an expression of deep thought before she said, “But he must be away for some time because he has a house sitter.”
“Oh,” he said again, curious this time.
“European we think, but he doesn’t speak much.” Suddenly she glanced over his shoulder and said. “There he is now. ” JJ turned and saw a swarthy guy with cropped hair, in running shorts and a T-shirt, already breaking into a run as he reached the road. “It’s the only time we see him. He runs every day, sometimes twice.” JJ was still looking at him, lean but heavily built, not the kind of runner who’d be out pounding the road for hours.
“Well maybe I’ll leave a note, or wait till he gets back. Thanks very much for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said and disappeared back into the house. He got the feeling she’d be watching him from the window, nothing better to do with the long hours of the day, so he drove off up the street before parking again and walking back to Holden’s house.
The runner was probably a Russian if they thought he was European, tying in with what Pearson had told him about Berg’s connections. Only a Russian would be audacious enough, too, to move into Holden’s house and carry on with his daily routine, not even hiding himself away. So he was almost certainly Russian, and if he was, that would be JJ’s best lead so far as to what Berg was doing and where he was making alliances.
Once inside the house JJ moved around carefully, making no contact, doing enough only to check the rooms. There was a lot of ethnic decoration, African masks and figures, Asian prints. There was little to suggest anyone was living there, Holden probably absent for days, the Russian having left no readily visible trace, no sign even in the kitchen that anything had been eaten there.
He went upstairs, noting that the Russian was staying in what appeared to be a guest room. There was a duffle bag in the closet, most of his clothes still folded neatly inside it, a couple of shirts hanging up, a suit. A smaller bag in the same style was tucked under the bed, but JJ decided to check it after he’d dealt with the guy, not wanting to move anything the Russian would recognize as having been moved.
He’d kill him first, then look in the bag. There wouldn’t be much point in interrogating him, not because he wouldn’t speak but because he wouldn’t have much worth telling, other than that he was there to kill Holden. And besides, restraining someone was always messier and harder than killing him. He’d kill him, sticking to what he knew best, removing one more of the opposition, spooking them just a little more for what it was worth.
There were two bathrooms. Again, in one there was a small shaving bag with his various toiletries still piled up inside it, a towel folded neatly over the one that was already on the rail. It all gave the impression of someone with a military background, overly methodical, no instinct, the kind of guy who wouldn’t sense the way most people could that there was someone else in the house.
JJ checked the other upstairs rooms, settling finally in the largest bedroom, the one he imagined to be Holden’s, facing the street, a large double bed, the same mix of ethnic carvings and prints as elsewhere. Keeping away from the window in case the returning runner saw him there, he did a quick sweep of the room, finding nothing interesting, only a walk-in closet that looked bare enough in places to suggest he’d taken a lot of clothes with him.
Then JJ lifted the bedspread, checking if there was enough space under the bed for him to lie beneath it. At first it looked like there was nothing under there, but then his eye was caught by something, a flat package only just visible beneath it, something wrapped in cloth, perhaps nine inches by six.
His heart picked up a beat at the sight of it, a surge of memory, a jolt of anticipation as he pulled it out into the open, almost as if it were the same package. This was smaller than the one the girl had taken though, and solid, he realized as he unfolded the cloth that was wound a couple of times around it.
It was an icon, some saint or other in the Russian style, bathed in gold. As far as he knew they weren’t particularly valuable but it was still a big market, and that probably answered the question of what Bostridge had been doing in Moscow, buying up stolen icons, a business Holden still appeared to be involved in.
That made the hit even more confusing though, the fact that JJ had been sent in by London to take out some black market art buyer. As he’d thought once before, Bostridge had to have had more business in Moscow than buying icons, because the Mafia might have killed someone who was only there on business but no one else would have done.
He folded the piece back into its cloth wrapping, thinking of the girl again as he did it. How transfixed he’d been by her that night and yet chances were she was already crumbling away from the beauty she’d had then, or dead, her capital used up, lives running faster out there than most places.
He’d thought of her often in the time since, her face popping up like a screen saver whenever his mind was idle enough. That night it had seemed like she’d had some wisdom to impart to him, her gaze containing truths about who he was, who they both were, but each subsequent time he’d thought of her she’d seemed more distant, less significant.
Now though it was like that night was fresh again, the sight and smell and feel of the package in front of him bringing back her scent, the way she’d looked, beautiful and naked, discreetly driven, and those eyes, an expression so intent it had turned him inside out. He remembered it all now, savoring the memory, the feel of it, an evocative triggering of the senses.
And then suddenly it was wiped out as he heard the front door open. He slid the package back under the bed, rolling under with it, pulling the gun from his bag, lying there in the dark with the smell of dust, the gun resting on the floor but pointing in the direction of the bedroom door. With his head low JJ would just be able to see his feet if he came into the room, and that would be enough.
The Russian stayed downstairs for a minute; there was the sound of water running in the kitchen, silence, the guy climbing the stairs, and silence again. He’d gone to his bedroom, but for a while there was nothing audible and it stayed like that until he went into the bathroom.
The shower started to flow. Then JJ heard him use the toilet and rested easier, a clear indication the guy still thought he was alone in the house. A moment later JJ heard him step into the shower, close the glass door behind him, the flow of water broken as it fell over his body.
JJ rolled back from under the bed and stood up, allowing himself a smile, thinking of showers, toilets, bedrooms—toilets probably the easiest, urinals in particular. Anything like that was a blessing, knowing that the victim was off guard, exposed.
The bathroom door was open and he could see straight away that the guy was just standing there in the shower with his back to him, not moving or soaping himself, just letting the water flow. It was a moment he could appreciate, the simple massaging pleasure of hot water after a run.
Confident that the guy was switched off JJ eased the glass door of the shower and stepped back again, letting it slowly swing open. It took a few seconds for the Russian to realize it had opened, and when he turned he still looked surprised to see someone there, like he’d been relaxed enough to believe that the door had opened on its own.
JJ put a bullet into his chest before he’d had a chance to register. He fell back heavily against the wall, sliding down it with a thumping splash, his legs flailing out of the shower’s confines. He made no other sound, no moan or cry, no words, remaining mute against the gentle background sound of the shower.
He sat there rag doll style like he was drunk. He wasn’t dead, and apart from the neat hole in his chest and the blood washing away with the falling water he still looked dangerous, muscular and taut, primed. His head was bowed though, a confused expression on his face, trying to comprehend what was happening.
Then, as if it had sunk in, he slowly looked up, produced a slight, disbelieving smile, and shook his head, acknowledging his own slip. Almost whispering he said in Russian, “Who are you?”
“No one,” answered JJ. “Who do you work for?”
The Russian smiled again in response, the back of his head resting against the tiled wall now, the water falling down onto his upturned face. For a while he looked hypnotized by it.
JJ pushed his sleeve up and reached into the shower to turn it off. He went back into the other room then and emptied the small bag onto the bed alongside the Russian’s discarded running clothes, the smell of sweat already turning stale.
The bag contained a couple of guns, ammunition, a mobile phone, two passports, one Russian and one Israeli, a wallet. The phone yielded nothing. He picked up the wallet and looked through it: a picture of a plain girl, another of the Russian with a mongrel dog, a small piece of paper with a phone number written on it.
At first the number looked familiar, and then he realized it was the first three digits, 802, the area code for Vermont. It meant the guy had a partner and the partner was somewhere in Vermont, which meant Holden was probably there after all, if not at the Copley then somewhere else.
The thought occurred to him then that the Russian had been Holden’s man and that the contact number was for Holden himself. JJ dismissed it immediately though, certain that if Holden had run for cover he wouldn’t have left someone at home with his forwarding address. He wouldn’t have used a Russian either, not at a time like this.
But they were onto him; in one way or another Holden wasn’t as safe as he’d hoped. Maybe he knew it too, maybe that was the reason he wasn’t still with the Bostridges, whether for their sake or his own. And depending on the information the Russians had, the Copley Inn could be just as dangerous a place for JJ to be.
Even worse, as hard as it was to imagine, the entire comfortably domestic atmosphere of the place itself was in as much danger of being fractured by these people, and that of the family with it. That was Holden’s problem, not his, but after just a day there JJ felt like he had a responsibility to eliminate that risk, at least for the time being, whether it served his own ends or not. And until he found Holden, it was best to assume their ends were the same anyway.
Either way, he had to go back up there, take the other Russian, try to flush out Holden in the respite. For the moment it felt like he was losing sight of the whole game, of who his real enemies were and how close he was. It seemed if he could only find Holden the pieces would begin to fall together again. He was aware more than ever that he was nothing without information, and that his information sources were dead or dried up.
JJ went down to the garage, checked out the freezer, then went back up to the bathroom. The Russian’s eyes were still looking up at water that was no longer falling; he had the appearance now of someone who’d just crashed out of a race. JJ wrapped the larger towel around him, dragged him downstairs, and put him in the freezer.
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