A Killer in the Wind (17 page)

“Come on, kids,” she said then.

Monahan shook them off him and said, “Outta my sight, you criminals. I’ll be in in a little while.”

Cheryl herded them away—all except the oldest boy, who hid behind a chair and aimed his finger at me like a gun, making shooting noises.

“I potted this one, like, ten times already,” I complained to Monahan. “He won’t stay dead.”

“Yeah, they’re like zombies, you gotta go for the head shot.” Monahan pressed a finger to the kid’s temple and said, “
Blam
. Now get outta here.”

That did the trick. We were finally alone.

Monahan sat on the edge of one of the embroidered armchairs, his elbows on his knees, his beer bottle hanging out from beneath one huge paw. The chair was a big one, but it looked like doll house furniture under him. I sat on the edge of the sofa and we bent our heads together until they were almost touching. Monahan kept his voice low so his family wouldn’t hear him.

“Their names are Roy and Robert Stark,” he murmured. “They’re professionals, like you said. Top of the line. Twins, like you said too. There’s not much background on them. Some rumors they worked security for the Arab slavers in North Africa.”

“Nice.”

“Then out of nowhere, maybe five years back, they blew into town, cut the throats of a couple of freelancers, and consolidated the business.”

“What business?”

“Murder for hire, security, debt collection—a sort of temp agency, I guess you could say: one-stop shopping for all your enforcement needs.”

“Damn. This was five years ago? I never even heard of them.”

“They probably didn’t advertise in the
NYPD Shield
.”

“That must be it.”

“The thing is though—according to what I hear—the Stark twins themselves have mostly graduated from the bloody stuff. They bring in people to do the wet work for them.”

“Not this time. Not with me.”

“Well, right. So if they came after you themselves, maybe you stepped on their territory somehow. Have there been any big busts up in Nowhereland lately that might’ve gotten Roy and Rob ticked off?”

I shook my head. “A fugitive killer out of Tennessee. It was just a domestic rap, though. Killed his girlfriend. Could’ve been a pal of theirs, I guess.”

“The other possibility, I’m thinking, is that you somehow made yourself an enemy powerful enough—rich enough—to hire these guys to do you with their own skeleton-white hands.”

When he said that, I thought of the Fat Woman. Or, that is, I tried not to think of her, as I had tried not to think of her every day for the last three years.

“What?” said Monahan. He was watching me carefully. He must’ve seen the idea go through my mind.

I shrugged. No point telling him. Why would the Fat Woman come after me? Why now? It was just my old obsession acting up. “What else you got?” I asked him.

He leaned even closer to me, spoke even lower. “The burner. The number you gave me.”

“Right, right.”

“There were only three calls on it, all of them three days ago, all of them to one other burner.”

“So twin-to-twin probably.”

“Probably. The calls came out of a town called Greensward, Pennsylvania. From a coffee shop there—The Grind, it’s called—on State Street. The caller was in the vicinity at least ninety minutes, roughly seven-thirty to nine
A.M
.”

“Good, that’s good,” I said, feeling a touch of excitement. It was a place to start, anyway. Greensward, Pennsylvania. “What else?”

He shifted uncomfortably, averting his eyes. “Some of this stuff I heard . . . You know how it is with guys like this. When they first hit town, they took out some top-level talent. A lot of bloody, dramatic stuff, laying claim to the territory, inspiring fear. They went after one guy’s face with a power sander . . .”

“Yeah? So?”

“So, I’m just saying, it’s like . . . they’re urban legends now. Everyone you talk to has a story about them.”

“Spit it out, Monahan. What’re you trying to tell me?”

“Well . . . remember what you told me? How Stark was gonna make you beg for death and all?”

“Yeah?”

“And I said he wouldn’t expose himself by coming after a cop.”

I nodded.

Monahan took a swig of beer before continuing, a swig of courage. “I don’t know which one of them you killed. I don’t think it matters very much. These guys . . . apparently they were . . .” He held up two fingers close together. “Heart to heart. You know? Like they were still in Mommy’s tummy. They thought the same thoughts. Even went at girls together, one on one end, one on the other. So the point is, when you killed one of them? It’s like you ripped a single guy in half.”

“So you’re telling me he was serious about coming after me.”

“The word is he’s brought in his top talent to help look for you—that’s two, three, maybe four expert killers on your trail, not counting Stark himself. And their orders are to take you alive . . .”

“Right, right, right. So Stark can really go to work on me, make me beg for death.”

Monahan blew out a worried breath, ran his sausage-sized fingers up through his bristly red hair. “Look, I know the sort of stuff you did in the ’Stan. I know you can mix it up with anyone. But in this case . . . maybe I should arrange to get you some police protection, maybe even witness protection . . .”

I didn’t answer. I just smiled at him. We both knew the police couldn’t protect me from this. No one could.

“’Cause the thing is,” he said, “they’re good at this stuff, Champ. The Stark boys, I mean—that was their rep. They were always good at the torture stuff. They learned the techniques in Africa. Those Arab slavers, man. Not nice people.”

“Well . . . maybe you’ve just been hanging around the wrong Arab slavers.” I gave a pale laugh as I said it, but when our eyes met, the big cop’s schoolboy face was so full of concern for me it was kind of touching.

“All right, boys,” said Cheryl. She had come into the room’s archway to fetch us. She stood framed there, children clinging to her legs. “Lasagna’s ready.”

Monahan and I traded gazes another moment. “Screw it,” he finally said. “Dinner’ll probably kill you anyway.”

I spent the night in a hotel near the airport. I skimmed over the surface of sleep. Every few minutes, my eyes opened, checked the door. I kept my gun on the bedside table.

Cheryl had offered me the sofa at the Monahan house. “What do you mean a hotel? You’re not going to a hotel. You stay with us.” Monahan stood behind her nodding his big head and saying, “Yeah, you should stay.” But he was looking at me the whole time, telling me with his eyes: He didn’t want me there. Skeleton Stark—whichever one of them was left—was coming after me. Him and his top talent. Two or three or four expert killers. Monahan wasn’t going to have me bringing death and destruction down on his wife and kids.

So I lay on the hotel bed, alone, and watched the door.

In the morning, I left New York for Pennsylvania. It was a windy spring day. The vertical stone city opened like curtains as I crossed the river into Jersey. The narrow corridors of sky grew bright and wide. Soon, green farmland stretched into blue distances. The shadows of large clouds drifted over rolling hills. Hours of highway rolled out ahead of me. I watched the traffic in the G8’s rearview. I didn’t spot a tail.

I tried to listen to the talkers on the radio, but they kept fading out as I traveled. It interrupted the train of their conversation. It was annoying. I tried to listen to music instead but it didn’t occupy my mind. That was the trouble. My mind wouldn’t leave things alone. I couldn’t figure the situation out but I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. I couldn’t stop asking myself: Who sent the Stark twins to get me and why? Where had Samantha come from? How could she even exist?

The gash in my side throbbed. So did the sore spots on my face and my body. There were still flashbacks too. The porch light coming on to reveal the skeleton face standing next to me. The knife just slipping past. The gunshots, the bullet just missing, the porch pillar splintering by my ear. The Glock jammed in my eye . . .

I couldn’t stop thinking that if one of those skeleton bastards had nailed me—the knife in the gut, the bullet in the head—I would’ve died without a clue to the reason for it. Not that it would’ve mattered much, I guess. But a fellow likes to know these things.

I forced the questions out of my mind, but they kept slipping back in, my thoughts kept returning to them.

And to the Fat Woman. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Fat Woman. The old obsession back again.

I reached the town of Greensward around 11
A.M
. It was a nice old town set in the hills above low farmland. Fine old white buildings on the outskirts and fine old brick buildings at the center. Views of the valley at the end of every avenue.

I parked the car in a public lot and toured the area on foot. The neighborhood was quaint and artsy. Brick brownstones with bay windows. Cafés with sidewalk tables. It was Saturday now and there was plenty of traffic. Plenty of pedestrians and people in the shops. Young, most of them, college age. There must’ve been a college somewhere nearby.

I found the coffee shop I wanted. The Grind. That’s where the now deceased Stark twin had used his phone. The place was busy when I got there. A gusting breeze made its green and white striped awning shudder and flap, but despite the cool weather, the tables on the sidewalk beneath the awning were filled with kids nursing their coffees and pecking their laptops. The tables were filled up inside too and there was a line at the counter, people waiting to place their orders.

I leaned over the end of the counter. Flagged a girl barista as she rushed by me carrying an empty pot. I told her I wanted to speak to the manager. She was the manager. Funny. She looked to me to be about twelve years old. Five foot nothing with her brown hair in pigtails that stuck out of the side of her head like bike handles. Only her smart, suspicious eyes looked as though they had reached majority.

“I’m looking for someone who was here three days ago.”

“Why? Why are you looking for him?” she asked.

“I’m a police detective. He’s a bad guy.”

“Oh, yeah? You have, like, a badge or something?”

I didn’t have a badge anymore, but I had my business cards with the sheriff’s star on them so I gave her one of those. I kept asking questions so she didn’t have time to think about it too much.

“Were you here three days ago? Seven-thirty to nine
A.M
. You work that shift?”

“Yeah. Three days ago? Yeah. It’s a busy time, though. It’s, like, rush hour.”

“Guy I want has a pretty distinctive look. Looks like a skeleton. Really like. White face, hollow cheeks, big—great big—spooky eyes. You might’ve noticed him.”

“No.” She handed the card back to me, shaking her head. “I don’t remember a guy like that. So many people come in here at that hour, though. When you’re working, you mostly have your head down.”

“Mind if I ask your people?”

She glanced toward the registers. “Only Jack was here. Jack,” she called to him.

The kid came over. He looked like he was twelve too. Scrawny blond guy with spotty skin. I asked him about the skeleton-man. No, he hadn’t seen him either.

“Listen . . .” the girl said. She tilted her head toward the line of waiting customers. “I gotta go.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She went through a door into the back of the place, taking her empty pot with her.

I went outside and stood on the sidewalk beside the shop’s tables. My eyes scanned the neighborhood.

The Grind was on the corner. There was a small white office building to my left. Across the street, there was a line of shops, buildings rising above each one, two or three stories of brick. I thought of Stark sitting here at the café three mornings ago. At least ninety minutes, seven-thirty to nine. Calling his twin brother three times, checking in, bringing him up to date. He must’ve been waiting for something or watching for something, I thought. Waiting for someone to come in or for someone to go by . . .

My phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket, still watching the shops, still thinking it over.

“Champion,” I said.

“Where the hell are you?” It was Grassi.

“I’m right here,” I told him.

“Here where?”

“Here. At home.”

“Yeah, well, bullshit, okay? Because I just came from your home.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s right. I went out. I forgot.”

“Did you leave the county?”

“No. No. I’m in the county.”

“So where are you?”

“In the county. Driving around. I’m driving around the county. Hey, did you get an ID on the dead skeleton yet?”

“No. And it’s none of your fucking business so shut up. You better get back here, you hear me? I’m serious. I got questions I gotta ask you.”

“Like what?” I stepped off the sidewalk. Turned my head to check the traffic in both directions. Crossed the street, my phone to my ear. “Ask me whatever you want.”