Alpha Kill - 03 (8 page)

Venn recognized four of the men. Three were guys he hadn’t had any direct involvement with, but whose arrests by his colleagues in the Chicago PD had been big events.

The fourth was Eugene S. Drake.

His picture remained on the screen as the news anchor recited a list of his crimes. Venn stared at the bland face with its cropped fair hair, its dark eyes that held a hint of mockery even though the rest of the expression was serious.

The news broadcast moved on to something else. Venn snapped off the TV and leaned back in his chair.

Gene Drake’s out.

That was bad news for a whole lot of people.

––––––––

T
he most direct route to New York was by taking the I-80, but Drake and his people abandoned it early on.

Rosenbloom had hacked a number of truckers’ VHF radio communications from his car, and he’d learned from the disgruntled drivers that the interstate was littered with roadblocks and state police cars. It wasn’t worth the risk. So Skeet and Walusz and Rosenbloom worked out an alternative route, one which took them on and off the main roads and at times deep into rural Illinois and then Indiana and Ohio.

Drake didn’t interfere, relying on the others to plan the route for him. But he was irritated. He’d been hoping to reach New York in twelve hours, by lunchtime tomorrow. At this rate, they’d get there by late afternoon or early evening.

It didn’t really matter, he guessed. The man he was going to kill would be there. And night time was the best time to hit him, anyhow. It was just that Drake liked to have a little time beforehand, to scout out the territory, identify the dangers and pitfalls, before moving in. He was cautious, and methodical, which explained why he’d stayed out of jail as long as he had.

After they’d been driving several hours, he decided to take a nap. After Lester Fairbanks had gotten word to him about the date of the breakout, Drake had made sure he got as much sleep as possible beforehand. Again, it was his careful, planning nature at work. But even though he didn’t feel sleepy, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to stay awake all night, not if he was going to do the hit later that day.

He tilted back the passenger seat and closed his eyes.

A minute later, his cell phone rang.

Skeet had given him the phone earlier. It had in turn been supplied to Skeet by a man who, alone, knew its number.

Drake answered. “Yeah.”

A man’s voice said, without preamble: “Do you know who I am?”

Like, duh
, thought Drake. “I can guess.”

“Any complications?” said the man.

“With the breakout, you mean? No,” Drake replied. “And I got rid of Fairbanks.”

He sensed the man wincing at the other end. “Please. No names. Where are you now?”

Drake peered out the window. A sign was coming up alongside the road.

“Near Lima, Ohio.”

“When do you expect to reach New York?”

Drake glanced at Walusz, but it was no use asking him. The guy couldn’t speak.

“Maybe tomorrow afternoon.
This
afternoon, I guess it is now. Could be later. I don’t want to rush this trip. Every state between here and New York is crawling with cops. If I have to detour five hundred miles, I’ll do it.”

The man at the other end of the phone said quickly, “Yes, of course. You mustn’t get stopped. Take as long as you need.”

Drake sat up, interested. “Why does it matter? You sound like there’s some urgency about this. So what if I kill this guy tomorrow, or the next day, or in a week?”

“That isn’t your concern,” the man said, a note of testiness creeping into his voice.

“So why exactly are you calling me?” said Drake.

“To provide you with my number, mainly,” said the man. “Which you now have. In case you need to contact me while you’re in New York.”

“Why would I want to do that?” The guy’s prissy tone was starting to irritate Drake.

“In case you need my help.”

Drake laughed. “Hey, man. Trust me. Killing is kind of what I’m good at, remember? I’ve got all of the help I need, right here with me.”

Down the line, the man gave a faint sigh. “All right. There’s another reason I called you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hanging up now. In a few seconds you’ll get a text message.”

Before Drake could reply, the call was cut off.

Drake looked at the screen.

Sure enough, ten seconds later a message arrived.

It was blank, but there was an image attached.

Drake stared at it.

For the first time since his escape, for the first time since as far back as he could recall, he felt a sucker punch of fear in his gut.

Oh God...

He enlarged the image with a swipe of his finger and thumb.

Yes, there was no doubt.

Drake gripped the phone in his hand so hard it creaked. He darted a sidelong look at Walusz, but the mute Pole was staring straight ahead at the road.

With a thumb that trembled, Drake punched the keys to return the call. It was answered halfway through the first ring.

Drake waited. At the other end, the man said, “You got it?”

“You son of a bitch,” said Drake, very quietly, enunciating each word precisely.

“Insurance,” the man said matter-of-factly. “That’s all it is. You’re a pragmatist. You must understand where I’m coming from.”

“So help me, if you –”

The guy cut in: “If you fail to carry out the hit, you know what’s going to happen. If you succeed, but get caught afterward, and decide to try and plea-bargain your way out of it by mentioning my name... you know what’s going to happen. Do we understand one another?”

Drake said nothing. Choking waves of fury seized his throat, caused his vision to swim.

The man went on, “In return, I promise you this. If you succeed in your job, and either get away, or else get yourself arrested but keep your mouth shut -
forever
- then no further action will be taken. And before you ask me what guarantees I can give you... well, all you have is my word. Which you’ll have to trust.”

Drake found his voice. He said, “After this is over -”

“You’re going to find me and kill me. Yes, I know. Yada yada yada.” Again, there was a small sigh. “Look. I realize I’ve complicated matters, because now you loathe me more than anybody else in the world. I’m at risk of supplanting
him
in your hate list. But think about it this way. If
he
hadn’t put you away, you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’s still to blame.
He’s
the one you need to destroy, above all else. Focus on that. Compartmentalize.”

Funny
, Drake thought distantly.
Compartmentalization
was the only concept he’d ever found useful in any of the bullshit the shrinks had shoveled at him through the years. You could survive anything, deal with anything life threw your way, if you learned to box up experiences and ideas and feelings and set them to one side, out of the way, while you got on with the business at hand. You could always open those boxes later, at your leisure, and take a look inside, if you wanted. Or you could just ignore them, piling them up in the vast warehouse of your psyche, never to be considered again.

But this -
this
, the bombshell that had just been detonated in Drake’s face - couldn’t be tidied away so easily. It was going to squat on the periphery of Drake’s vision, until he dealt with it.

Which he would do. Sooner or later.

On the phone, the man said: “Remember. If you need anything, call me.”

The line went dead.

––––––––

W
hen the door buzzer sounded, Beth jumped so hard the water in the glass she was holding spilled on the kitchen counter.

She leaned against the counter for a few seconds, her heart hammering. She realized, when her vision began to swim, that she’d forgotten to breath, and sucked great lungfuls of air in.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut.

You’ve got to get a grip.

She mopped up the spilled water quickly with a dishcloth and, before the buzzer could sound again, hurried over to the intercom beside the door.

“Hello? Who is it?”

The voice sounded amused and concerned at the same time. “It’s me. Who were you expecting?”

Again Beth closed her eyes.

Paul.

“Come on up.” She pressed the entry button.

In the thirty seconds or so before the knock came on the door, Beth checked herself in the hallways mirror. She looked frazzled. Exhausted, even. It was too late to do anything about her hair.

She’d known Paul was coming, but she’d completely forgotten about him.

And then he was there, in the crack of the door, his wry grin in place, his mild brown eyes friendly but puzzled.

“Hey.”

Beth stepped aside to let him in, allowing a smile to force itself across her face. She closed the door behind him and his arms came around her. Their mouths met, briefly.

He stepped back to hold her at arm’s length, gazing at her. “Tough day?”

“You wouldn’t believe.” Beth ran a hand through her hair, thankful that she could be honest.

Paul held up a paper sack in one hand, from which a bottle neck protruded. “Pinot Noir help?”

“Yes.” Beth sagged against him gratefully. “That would be great.”

They stood like that for a few moments, Beth with her face pressed against his neck, breathing in his clean, warm smell, Paul with his free arms clasped round her waist. For a brief time, she was able to empty her thoughts, just bask in the simple intimacy of physical closeness with another human being.

She disengaged, took him by the hand, and drew him into the living room. “Sorry. How was your flight? I’m a million miles away.”

Paul stood the sack with the wine on top of a sideboard and slipped out of his jacket. “Pretty good, as a matter of fact. Apart from the usual holdups at security.” He kicked off his loafers. “Do these really look to you like they might contain explosive material?”

Beth smiled. “No. But you tick all of the demographic boxes. You’re a suspicious-looking character.”

Paul was forty years old, white, and five feet ten. He dressed in tweed jackets and linen shirts and plain Brooks Brothers trousers. In the dictionary next to WASP, you’d see a picture of him.

While he busied himself with a corkscrew, Beth selected a Pink Martini CD for the stereo. She was determined to make this a normal evening. Which was going to be difficult, considering the highly abnormal day she’d had.

He handed her a glass, sat down beside her on the sofa. They clinked. “Cheers,” he said.

The warmth of the wine spread down into Beth’s belly and along her limbs, soothing her.

Dr Paul Brogan was an attending psychiatrist at the same hospital as Beth. They’d known one another casually for the better part of two years, from back when she was a resident. After the events of last July, after the separation from Venn, it was Paul who noticed things weren’t going so great with her at work. Paul who’d listened to her pour out the craziness in her head, something she was embarrassed to do with any of her other co-workers. Paul who’d recommended – urged – that she consult his colleague, Dr Abrams.

Paul, whom she’d kissed one evening, quite without warning and surprising herself more than him, when they were having coffee.

They’d been seeing one another now for a little over five weeks. Two months ago, if anybody had told her she’d throw herself into an affair with another man so soon after separating from Venn, she’d have been appalled. But the progression in her and Paul’s relationship – from friends, to confidantes, to lovers – had been so subtle, so natural, that it didn’t feel at all strange to her. She sensed that she should feel guilty about it, but she didn’t, and this lack of guilt unsettled her.

In any case, she hadn’t thrown herself into the relationship at all. Paul seemed to understand her need to go slowly, and he didn’t push her in the least. They still kept separate apartments, Beth’s here on the Upper East Side, Paul’s in Tribeca. They didn’t see one another every night, but more like one night in every three. They hadn’t been away together anywhere for the weekend.

Beth didn’t think about a future with Paul, nor did she rule one out. She was content simply to enjoy the company of this gentle, funny, thoughtful man with his easy charm and unflappable demeanor. They’d talked about Venn, of course, and Beth had been honest with Paul – he was a psychiatrist, after all – and admitted she still had strong feelings for the detective.

“And how could you not?” Paul said.

It wasn’t as if Paul represented the antithesis of Venn, and therefore somebody in whom she was seeking convenient refuge. True, Paul was laid back, naturally calm, whereas Venn gave the constant impression of being tightly coiled even when he was at rest. (“Like a car with an accelerator that’s pressed down, and that’s only stationary because you’ve got your other foot down hard on the brake pedal,” suggested Paul. And he was right. That encapsulated Venn precisely.) But Paul was far from boring. He was highly opinionated, sometimes maddeningly so. His passion for movies and books and music was infectious. Nor was he a geek, playing as he did a mean and surprisingly aggressive game of tennis.

She put down her wineglass on the coffee table and snuggled against him, speaking in a languid murmur about the cases she’d seen that day, and that week. Paul had been in Milwaukee since last Tuesday for an American Psychiatric Association congress, and while they’d spoken briefly on the phone in the meantime, they hadn’t had a proper chance to catch up.

All the while, Beth wondered whether she should tell Paul about the other stuff. About Olivia Collins, and her abnormal stats. She wondered, too, why she had such a resistance to telling him.

Was it because she’d then have to tell him she’d approached Venn for help? But that wasn’t quite it. Even before she’d decided to involve Venn, she’d felt reluctant to share her concerns with Paul. And it didn’t make sense to her. He was the most approachable, most non-judgmental listener she’d ever met. Even if he thought she was nuts, that her less-than-rock-steady mental state was causing her to overinterpret things, he’d find a way of conveying his opinion diplomatically.