Game of Death (33 page)

Her door is closed and I have to inch it open. ‘Ma?’ I say softly. She doesn’t answer. ‘Ma?’ I say a little louder. The door is open wide enough for me to see in
now, and she’s lying on her back in her bed, propped up on the pillows, the oxygen tube running to her nose. Her eyes are closed, and it doesn’t look like she’s breathing.
‘Ma!’ I say in a loud voice. She twitches and her eyes slap open.

‘Jesus, Mother and Mary,’ she says. The effort to talk brings a coughing fit that lasts for thirty seconds. ‘Are you trying to kill me, boy?’ she demands quietly.
‘It won’t take much.’ She looks at me without turning her head. The years that seemed to have melted off her in recent days have returned and brought friends. She looks ancient
and frail. I smile at her. ‘Don’t smile at me,’ she orders. ‘For Christ’s sake, you’ll make me think I’m dead already.’

‘I heard it was a rough night,’ I say, entering the room and taking the seat near her bed so that she can see me.

She looks at the bruises on my face and frowns. ‘Not nearly as bad as yours, from the look of you.’

‘My night was fine,’ I say. ‘It was the morning that sucked.’

She laughs. ‘Me too. I don’t even remember the night; as far as I knew, I was asleep. That wasn’t bad – waking up was a bitch.’

‘How’re you doing, Ma?’ I ask, striking a more serious tone.

‘I’ve seen better days,’ she says, matching my sobriety. ‘But then, I’ve seen worse days, too.’ She raises her hand, and I take it. I wonder when I last held
my mother’s hand. It’s been at least a decade and a half, by my memory. It feels oddly intimate. ‘I remember when your father passed. The boys came up here from the shore to tell
me. They told me how good a leader he’d been. They told me there would be revenge.’

‘Against the ladder?’

She gives me a confused look.

‘It was an accident, right?’

It takes her a moment to get the joke. ‘You knew.’

‘I suspected.’

‘Since when?’

‘Fourth grade, I think.’

‘You always were the smart one. Your father, he had street smarts. That’s important, particularly in these streets. You’ve got those smarts, too, but you’ve got so much
more. More than your father or I ever knew what to do with. Where you got your brains from, I’ll never know, but it wasn’t from either of us.’

‘You’re plenty smart,’ I tell her.

‘Don’t lie to a dying woman.’ She looks at me. ‘You did right getting out of here. It would have been a waste. You’re destined for something better.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘My job . . . ’ I can’t bring myself to tell her everything. There’s too much, and I wouldn’t know where
to start. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want her to know the ugly truth of wading hip-deep through the swamps of the fantasies of the lonely. I wouldn’t want her to know how tawdry it all
seems now.

‘Good God, not the job you have now, boy,’ she says. ‘They’re a bunch of charlatans. Anyone can see that. This isn’t where your greatness lies. You’ll be
great in spite of what you’re doing now, not because of it.’

I’m not sure what to say. ‘How did you know?’

‘Street smarts,’ she says. ‘I’ve got them in spades.’

‘Yeah, Ma. You do.’ She gives me a tired smile, and it feels like a gift. ‘Close your eyes and get some sleep, okay?’

‘I will,’ she says. Her voice is breathy. ‘And I’ll be downstairs for a drink with you before you know it.’

I rest her hand on her chest as I get up from the chair. I suspect she and I have shared our last drink, and the thought leaves me so lonely I can’t put it into words.

I’m back downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, an untouched glass of whiskey in front of me. I don’t know for how long I’ve been sitting here. Maybe
twenty minutes, maybe an hour. The afternoon sun is still bright outside, and the heat is stifling in the little house. Last summer Ma finally broke down and let me put air-conditioning units in
the bedrooms, which is a blessing, but the rest of the house feels like a sauna.

I take my phone out of my pocket and dial Killkenny’s number. He picks up on the second ring. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘It’s Nick. I’m just checking in to see if anything’s happened.’

‘Nothing good,’ he says. ‘They found the Mercedes abandoned in the alphabet section of Hull. No sign of our boy.’

‘Any cars reported stolen in the area that he might be using now?’

‘It’s Hull. Cars are stolen all the time.’

‘Okay, I get it. Anything else?’

‘Preliminaries came back on the Westerbrooke girl. Doc puts time of death at around ten. Looks like she was partying for at least five hours before that.’

‘How can they tell?’

‘Bar food in her stomach, partially digested. Also scored a point-two-three on the blood alcohol scale – nearly three times what would get her a DUI. Full toxicology will take
another week, but Doc suspects from the other evidence that we’ll find an ample amount of coke in her system. Last time anyone saw François was at the NextLife lab when we busted
Gunta. Apparently he never even went back inside, so he had plenty of time to get things ready, meet the girl, ply her with drugs and booze and strap her in for her final ride.’

The callous reference to the murder victim offends me, but I suppose if you spend your entire life dealing with the sorts of things he deals with, you probably get pretty hardened to it all.

‘What now?’ I ask.

‘We’ve got his description and headshots out on the street and up in the post offices.’

‘Good, so if anyone went to the post office anymore, we’d have a shot at catching him?’

‘Best we can do. We’re also talking to people at NextLife to see whether anyone knows where François might hang out. He rented the dump where he did the Westerbrooke girl
under a false name, so we’re running that through the system, too, but the reality is that he could have another five apartments like that rented already.’

‘Great. You’re really cheering me up.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him. It may take another body or two, but he’ll fuck up.’

‘Spreading more joy.’

‘I’ll let you know if we get a line on any other information.’

‘Okay.’ I hang up and put the phone back in my pocket. The whiskey in front of me looks appealing, but I wonder whether it will actually make me feel better. I think probably
not.

I get up and walk into the small living room. It’s the place where I spent my boyhood, sitting on the floor playing with games while I listened to the adults talk about adult things. When
I got older, I used to think about those times and marvel at the corruption of it all – the blasé manner in which my father and his friends used to talk about breaking the law. Now it
occurs to me that the rest of the world has gone the same way, they just use prettier words.

Looking out the window, I can see a herd of kids playing in the vacant lot across the street, marauding in some game that seems like a cross between baseball and rugby, where it’s clearly
legal to tackle the runner. That’s what people learn early, I suppose – it’s more fun to make up the rules as you go along than to follow those that someone else has set down for
you.

I hear the door open and close. ‘Cormack?’ I’m still standing there, looking out the window, when I feel the shadow of a figure cross the living-room doorway. I turn, expecting
to see Cormack there, but he’s not. Instead the entire doorway is blocked by NetMaster.

‘You don’t listen, Nick,’ he says. His accent sounds as menacing as ever. ‘I thought I was clear, but perhaps not.’ I notice for the first time that he is holding a
knife. I’m thinking quickly, trying to figure out whether there is a way past him. The door he’s blocking is the only way out of the room. There are two windows, both half open to catch
any breeze that might cool the house, but neither opening is wide enough for me to get through.

‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about,’ I say.

‘I think you are.’ He takes a step into the room, toward me. It’s a small enough room, and he’s a large enough man that there is little space separating us now. Yvette
mentioned that Cormack was coming back shortly. I need to buy time, I realize.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I enquire, stalling.

He steps to the windows and closes them. I assume it’s to keep any shouting from reaching the streets. I could tell him it doesn’t matter much; neighbors are slow to respond to
commotion around here.

‘The name – NetMaster – what’s that all about? Are you auditioning for the role of a comic book villain?’

He smiles and I see those tiny, sharp rodent teeth again. ‘Ah,’ he says, nodding his head. ‘You are a funny person. I like humor.’ He’s moving toward me again.

‘Seriously, though,’ I continue, backing up to the wall. ‘Why?’

‘My real name,’ he says, ‘I could not use anymore. It was too well known among the authorities at Interpol. That is why I came to this country. In this country people can start
over – they can choose who they would like to be.’

‘And you wanted to be a psychopath?’

He smiles again, and I remind myself not to make him do that anymore. ‘Josh Pinkerton suggested that when he agreed to hire me. He sought me out, and he thought it would be . . . what is
the word . . . intimidating.’

‘And you believed him?’

He looks at me, frowning.

‘He was fucking with you. You don’t see that?’

He shakes his head, but I can see the hint of a doubt in his eyes. ‘You are wrong.’

‘You don’t think he’s laughing at you behind your back? Please . . . he’s totally screwing with you. And now he has you coming out here to do what? Try to intimidate me
again? That didn’t work the first time, remember?’

‘Who said I am here to intimidate you?’ he asks. ‘This neighborhood is not so safe, I think. Someone could break in to steal what you have.’ He holds up the knife.
‘They could kill you in the process. Then kill your mother.’

The mention of my mother sends me over the edge. I lower my head and run at him, taking him by surprise, driving into his stomach to knock the wind from him as I grab for the knife. He stumbles
back, off balance, and for just a moment I think I have the advantage. He hits the wall next to the door, and I make a break for the kitchen, but he grabs me by the arm and it’s like being
caught in a bear trap. I try to pull free, but he gives a hard tug and I hit the floor.

I hear a noise from upstairs, and I wonder whether Ma has given up the ghost. A part of me hopes so; the chances that I’m getting away from NetMaster are slim, and I’d rather not
have his the last face she sees as he makes good on his threat to kill her.

He’s on me instantly, and I marvel at his quickness. He has me by the throat and he’s holding the knife in front of my face. I wonder whether he’ll actually go through with it,
or whether this is intended to drive home the intimidation factor. If it’s just to intimidate me, it’s starting to work.

He brings the point of the knife close to my right eye, and it looks as though he’s made a decision. Just then, though, I hear the sound of a revolver being cocked. I can’t see past
the giant man hovering over me, but I can see the barrel of the gun pressed against his ear. At first I’m assuming that Cormack has returned, but then I hear my mother’s rasp.

‘Drop your knife and get off my son,’ she hisses. She’s winded and doubled over, but the words are clear.

NetMaster’s eyes have gone wide, and he pulls the knife back from my face.

‘Drop it. It would be a real pain in the ass to clean your brains off my nice floor, but I’ll do it if I have to.’

NetMaster drops the knife and rocks back so that he’s resting on his knees. My mother coughs, her arm twitching as her body convulses, but she never takes her eyes off NetMaster, her gun
still wedged into his earhole. I can tell he’s concerned that the spasm will cause her to pull the trigger, and I don’t blame him.

The fit passes and she says, ‘Nick, you okay?’

‘Yeah, Ma. Thanks.’ I stand up.

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s the head of security at NextLife.’

‘Yeah?’ She leans in close to his face. ‘I’m head of security at the Caldwell house, so I guess we got something in common. Why’s he here?’

‘I’m looking into some things that don’t reflect well on the company. I think he’s here to scare me away from that. Either that or he really was here to kill
me.’

She glares at NetMaster as she steps back, repositioning the barrel of the gun from his ear to the center of his forehead. ‘Well?’ she asks. ‘Which is it?’

He looks at her, genuine fear in his eyes. ‘I was sent to scare him. That is all.’

‘You believe him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Should I shoot him?’

I don’t answer right away, and I can see the fear grow in NetMaster’s expression. ‘Nah,’ I say at last. ‘He’s not worth the hassle.’

‘Police, then?’

‘I’m working with Paul Killkenny. I’ll tell him about this, make a statement he can keep so that if anything else happens, they’ll know to go after him. I don’t
want to involve others right now; the company has enough troubles.’ I look at NetMaster. ‘Tell Josh I’m seeing this investigation through, you understand? And if I see you again,
Ma will hunt you down and kill you. Won’t you, Ma?’

‘You bet your fuckin’ ass.’

‘Yes, I will tell him,’ NetMaster says desperately. ‘I will.’

‘Good.’

‘Stand up,’ Ma says. NetMaster obeys. He’s more than a foot taller than she is, but she still has the gun pointed at him. She reaches up and presses it hard into the soft folds
under his jaw. ‘Nick’s not joking. If I see you again, I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off. You got that?’

He nods.

‘Get the fuck out of here.’

She pulls the gun off and NetMaster backs away, toward the door to the kitchen. Once he gets a little separation, he turns and hurries out of the house. Ma and I are left standing there in the
hallway outside the living room. I’m still breathing hard, and we look at each other.

‘You’re feeling better,’ I comment.

‘I am, a little,’ she says. She looks at the gun in her hand. ‘I could use a drink, though.’