Simple Simon (18 page)

Breem looked instantly to Kasvakis. “Get there. Fast.”

“We’re an hour away.”

“Get someone there! NOW!”

With an apologetic glance at Lomax, Kasvakis left through the front door.

“Bob?” Anne said, her eyes pleading, for an answer, for a solution, for anything that would end this.

“Anne—”

But Breem cut him off, saying to the Deputy Marshal guarding her, “Get her out of here.”

The man helped Anne to her feet, carefully, gently, lest the FBI agent with the scar lay one on him like he looked he wished he could do. Anne’s eyes trailed back toward Lomax as she was led out of her house.

“So help me, Breem, if anything happens to her…”

The threat from the Chicago SAC amused Breem. “You’re in no position to make threats.”

Lomax took two steps forward, making Breem back up one until his back was against the wall under the stairs. “I’m not the one you’ll have to worry about.”

Breem felt Lomax’s hot breath on his face, then the bigger man turned for the door. “He’s finished, Lomax!”

With a slight, confident shake of his head, Lomax said, mostly to himself as he trotted down the steps from the porch, “Not by a long shot.”

*  *  *

The sheer curtains that hung in the front windows of the Lynch household glowed in the bath of pale lunar light. At one window that looked out onto the porch, the curtain moved aside.

Art stared out into the street, at the Volvo parked at the curb. He wasn’t a praying man, but his eyes angled up as he asked, “God, what am I going to do.”

From behind, Simon said, “God is up, up, up!”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

But they were there, feet on the ground, and in the worst spot Art figured he’d ever been in. Others had been tight, but he’d always been a good guy in those.

You are still a good guy.

The one line pep talk, true as it might be, brought little comfort. Someone had painted him a bad guy, and he had to make that right, and he had to see that whoever was doing this didn’t succeed. Didn’t get what they wanted. Didn’t get Simon.

And then there was Anne, the mere thought of her in handcuffs twisting a knot in his gut.

Not now. Focus. She’s strong. She’ll understand.
He looked to Simon, who was sitting in a big chair next to the window, his face sideways against the headrest.
Anne would do the same thing.

Art put his hand out to Simon, and a second later the little hand was in it.

The knot in his stomach disappeared. There would be time for anger. Plenty of time, he assured himself, and for sure there would be targets for it.

But later. For now, he had to think. Like the professional he was. And like others he had come to know.

*  *  *

The Chicago Police Department cruiser closest to 2564 Vincent approached the house with its lights blacked out just minutes after their dispatch center put out the call. The passenger officer had his gun out before his partner stopped two houses away. They both saw the silver Volvo parked in front.

The driver, after opening his door and taking cover in its V, lifted his radio from its place on his belt. “The car’s here. Where’s our backup?”

A minute later the first backup arrived from the opposite direction, then three more cars within five minutes. In ten minutes there were thirty officers on the scene and they had a perimeter set up around the house.

After trying to make phone contact for twenty minutes, the senior officer on the scene ordered his men to approach the house. Receiving no resistance, they entered through an open back door and checked the house from top to bottom. It was empty.

So was, they discovered, the garage.

*  *  *

He hadn’t hot-wired a car in fifteen years, but considering Martin Lynch’s Ford pickup was about that old, Art was able to get it to turn over with only a few shocks to his fingertips.

With the tank halfway between E and F, he drove slowly away from the area, knowing he would have to find someplace for them to stay for the night. Knowing that he could not use his credit cards, or his ATM card, or go to a friend, or, he was beginning to believe, lift a phone from its cradle. Maybe he was being paranoid, but someone with power had decided that his life was expendable. All because of the kid sitting close to him on the truck’s bench seat.

Simon laid his head on Art’s shoulder, twisting his nose toward the seatback. He sniffed. “Daddy,” he said.

Art patted Simon’s leg and noticed that Martin Lynch had done one thing to bring his aged vehicle into the future. A radio poked from the center of the dash. In it, a tape player. Art took the cassette from his pocket and slid it in. It began to play.

“Wander boy, wander far…”

Simon snuggled closer to Art.

“Wander to the farthest star…”

Art drove on, the song playing, tearing holes in his heart, but putting Simon fast asleep in nothing flat.

Offers, Favors, and Worries

Precisely at ten in the morning, G. Nicholas Kudrow crossed the Beach Drive bridge over Rock Creek on foot and turned left toward Miller Cabin and a gathering of benches nearby. The sun was out and stealing the bite from the morning chill, and as he strolled he could see that a woman seated on one bench was staring at the rising ball of yellow, sunglasses black against her brown face.

When he was close enough he saw that her nails were painted blue.

Keiko Kimura looked briefly at the stranger as he took a seat on the bench adjacent to hers, the sculpted metal armrests of each separating them. An older man, she saw, at least older than she, with features so plain that they could become agonizingly boring in short order. And the eyes. She didn’t care for the eyes at all. Even through the tint of his glasses she could see that they were little more than immature olives lost among folds of pale skin.

He was not the man she was waiting for, thankfully, but he smiled at her. A prelude, she just knew, to some banal comment offered as a friendly greeting, leading to a one-sided conversation she would escape from only when her American contact arrived.

Her young American contact, long hair, economical frame, and all accessories included. And off-limits.

But she could fantasize. That, no silly alliance of convenience could deny her.

“A beautiful morning,” Kudrow said, eyes admiring the mare of a Park Police officer slow trotting aside the horse trail.

Keiko angled her face away from the man, hoping he would get the hint. That want died as he stood from his bench and moved himself to hers.

“He’s not coming, I have to tell you,” Kudrow said, smiling as the eyes behind the glasses twitched his way.

“You have me mixed up with someone,” Keiko said, the hand that had been under her purse sliding covertly in to grasp the straight razor.

Kudrow watched the horse and rider speed to a slow gallop and disappear through the trees. “No, Miss Kimura, I have exactly the person I want.”

The razor unfolded into blade and handle as Keiko now looked directly at the man. She would bring it backhanded across his throat, cutting the windpipe and preventing any scream. It would be messy, and a certain attention grabber, but it would give her time to run.

The movement within the brown leather bag was subtle, but not subtle enough that Kudrow would miss it. “If you have a weapon, I would urge you not to use it. I am not a policeman.”

Lines appeared on Keiko’s brow.

“I’m not here to arrest you, or even to stop you,” Kudrow explained cordially. “Just to inform you of a change.”

Holding the black bone handle firmly, Keiko played dumb. “Change?”

“In your employment.”

The lines became wrinkles, and the wrinkles deep furrows that arched downward toward the bridge of Keiko’s nose, creating a demonish mask in concert with the black shades over her eyes.

“I understand that you must be quite surprised by this, and you must have many questions, so let me put the situation to you as simply as I can. You no longer work for Mr. Atsako, or for whoever he works for…most likely Kimodo, if my information is correct. They are part of your past. Now, Miss Kimura, you work for me.”

After a slash across the throat, Keiko decided that a few strokes to lay vertical scars on the man’s face would be appropriate, right below the eyes and stretching down to the jawline, creating permanent clown tears for this overconfident pig. No one…
no one
…told her who she worked for.

“You got some crazy ideas,” Keiko observed. Joggers and walkers were passing in steady streams, leaving little opportunity for a clean break once the shiny blade was out. She would bide her time, keep him talking until an opening appeared.

“No, not at all,” Kudrow countered. “You see, I need the same job done that I know you were sent here to do. The difference is, your previous employer was, unless I am mistaken, going to compensate you in purely monetary means. I, Miss Kimura, can give you that, and something no one else in the world can give you. I, Miss Kimura, can give you your dreams.”

My dreams?
Unless he was some sort of god with an endless supply of pretties to offer, she thought not. But as his head dipped knowingly, and she saw over the gray lenses to the small eyes, she sensed in his gaze that he at least understood her dreams.
But how could…

“America, Miss Kimura,” Kudrow said, gesturing with his head to a teenage boy gliding past on skates. “Your favorite flavor, if what I’ve read in the past twenty-four hours is to be believed.”

Keiko’s fingers caressed the bone handle, eyes following the passing boy, then coming back to Kudrow. “What have you read?”

“Oh, psychological profiles, from CIA retained psychologists mostly. Reports of your activities, your background.”

Who was this man? Keiko wondered. To ask would be to care, and she did not care who he was. She was, however, intrigued by what he seemed to be saying.

“So many like that boy, Miss Kimura,” Kudrow observed with a wistful sigh. “Imagine being able to satisfy your most urgent desire whenever you choose…within limits, of course. Say, twice a month. No worry, no risk. Simply have your fun and disappear, then emerge later in a different place with a different name, and no record following you. No fingerprints. No police.”

Was he offering…
“How can such a thing be done?”

“Ah, I have your interest, I see.” Kudrow nodded, pleased. “Such a thing can be done. I have ordered it done before. The world is a vast net of wires, Miss Kimura, and they all lead to one place.”

Now she had to ask. Now she cared. “Who are you?”

“Do you know how simple it would have been to have you arrested?” Kudrow inquired of her, for the purpose of suggestion only. “Instead I offer you what you crave. And all you need to do is what you were going to do in any case.”

“The young American?”

Kudrow nodded. “With one addition. He now has a protector who must be removed in order to get to him.”

Removed? Just killed?
Where was the fun in that?

“Then…” Kudrow pulled an envelope from his pocket and emptied the several sheets of folded paper inside onto Keiko’s lap. His fingerprints were not on those, just on the envelope, which he promptly tucked away. “…you get what I need from Simon.”

“Simon?” Keiko flattened the paper and scanned the first page.

“Simon Lynch,” Kudrow said.

Sixteen, five-seven, one hundred and thirty pounds, blonde…
blonde
…hair, green eyes, and… “Autistic?”

“A challenge, Miss Kimura. No?”

A challenge? Who the fuck cared about a challenge? Keiko knew what autistic meant. It didn’t necessarily mean stupid. But it did suggest one thing to her that made an already attractive young man simply irresistible. He was likely a virgin.

A virgin…
Keiko fought a tremor that wanted to ripple through her hands.
A virgin…
Could it be much better than that? Could it?

Thinking on that she looked up from the paper as another perky teen boy jogged by, running shorts bobbing with the motion of his stride, rising and falling where his thighs became…

Oh, this place…

“A fine life, Miss Kimura. That is what I am offering. Money. Freedom.” Kudrow paused, searching for the right word. “Pets.”

Keiko folded the papers, focusing on the inconsequential task, controlling her breathing, telling herself that, no, this was not a dream, that she was in America, and someone had just offered to make her dreams come true. Someone who knew what her dreams were. Someone who understood.

“The decision is made, Miss Kimura,” Kudrow said with a friendly firmness. “You can accept it, or you can kill me with the straight razor in your purse.” The black sunglasses angled his way, bug eyes considering a prey that surprised a would-be predator as a male mantis might if he pulled a gun on his mate after copulation and changed the dynamic of the relationship. “Our sources are quite thorough.”

Keiko reached into her purse, felt the cold handle carved from some unfortunate animal’s leg bone, snapped the razor shut, and placed her hand, empty, on her lap with the other. “I guess I accept.”

“Good.” Kudrow might have offered his hand, but this was an agreement that needed no handshake, and he honestly had no desire to touch the woman. “Now, some details we need to discuss.”

*  *  *

Nelson Van Horn heard the beep of the keypad outside the Com room’s door and looked up to see Denise Green enter. She leaned back against the door as it closed, head shaking.

“Can you believe it?”

“No,” Van Horn said. “I can’t.”

“Jefferson?” Green asked the air. “I don’t know…”

“Why are you here?” Van Horn asked. “Aren’t you off Saturdays this month?”

Green nodded. “There’s a lot of Saturdays here today. I think people just wanted to be here, to be around each other.”

Van Horn nodded. He understood perfectly.

“I was just working something for him,” Green said.