Kill Fee (40 page)

D
rop the gun, soldier.”

Parkerson tried to keep his voice steady as he stared at Wendell Gray’s gun. The asset’s whole body was shaking, his face a dark mess. He looked about a half second away from murder, and Parkerson didn’t want to be standing in front of the kid’s gun when he finally set off. “Let’s just calm down a minute,” he said. “Let’s think this thing through.”

Wendell Gray’s eyes went darker. He was injured, Parkerson saw. There was a big gash in his shoulder, all dried black and bloody. “I’m not your soldier,” Gray said. “Don’t you call me your soldier. My name is . . . my name is . . .” He brought the gun to his face. Scratched his cheek with the back of his hand. “My name—”

“Your name is David Gilmour,” Parkerson told him. “You’re a friend of mine. You’re my friend.”

“David Gilmour.” Wendell Gray relaxed a moment. Then he frowned.
“No.”

“David. It’s true.”

“No.” Gray scratched his forehead with the barrel of the gun. He was still shaking. He was sweating. “You’re lying to me. You showed me the visions, and you made me kill for you.”

“I was trying to help you, David. I—”

“Drop the knife.”

Parkerson glanced at the big knife in his hand. Then at Wendell Gray again, at the gun Gray had aimed square at his forehead. It kept bouncing around. One slip on the trigger and that would be the end. “David—”

“Drop.
The. Knife.”

Parkerson let the knife slip from his hand. Gray relaxed a little. He stared at Parkerson over the gun. “You did this,” he said. “Now I’m going to do it to you.” He motioned toward the open cell door. “Get in there.”

Parkerson frowned. “David, please—”

“My name is not David.”
Gray’s voice tore.
“Quit calling me David and get in the room.”

Parkerson stared at the kid. At the gun. Then he turned and let the kid push him into the cell. The room stunk of shit and sweat and urine and puke. It was tiny. “What’s your name, then?” Parkerson said, turning back to the asset. “What’s your name, David?”

Gray stared at him. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and he wiped it away with the pistol. “Shut up,” he whispered.

“What’s your name, smart guy? Just tell me your name.”

Gray screwed his eyes closed. “Shut up,” he said.
“Shut up shut up shut up.”

Parkerson saw his chance. He leapt at the kid, knocked his gun arm away. Drove him into the cell door. Gray wasn’t ready. He staggered, off-balance, as Parkerson clawed at the gun.

Gray held his grip tight. He regained his balance quickly. He was younger than Parkerson, and much stronger. He shoved Parkerson away, easy, and came after him. Smashed Parkerson’s nose with the butt of the gun. The force was like an explosion. Parkerson hit the concrete, hard. Stared at Wendell Gray’s shoes for a moment. Then he lay back and passed out.

R
achel Parkerson leaned forward between the two seats and pointed through the windshield. “There,” she said. “There’s the lake.”

Stevens followed her gaze past the T-intersection and into the gloom. The sun had set fully on the ride out to the lake, and he could see nothing but blackness beyond a few modest cabins down a slight slope a hundred feet distant. “Guess I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

“It’s there,” she said. “Lake Norman—or part of it, anyway. This is where Michael took us, right here.” She pointed through the windshield again. “Guess his daddy owned that plot of land there.”

“So his lake house should be somewhere around here.”

Rachel shrugged. “If you say so.”

Stevens glanced at Windermere in the driver’s seat. Then he ducked low and looked in his side mirror. Behind the rental Camry, a convoy of law enforcement sat waiting in their cruisers and SUVs and unmarked
sedans, ready to hunt down Michael Parkerson, wherever he was. Stevens studied the long row of headlights for a moment. Then he straightened. Surveyed the intersection, the cabins and trees beyond. “Okay,” he said, “let’s start looking.”

M
usic. Screaming. Chaos. Parkerson opened his eyes and quickly closed them again. Screwed them tight against the violent crazy assault from the projector on the wall. He was lying on the concrete floor of the cell. His head throbbed. The door was closed and the asset was gone.

Rather, Wendell Gray was gone. He wasn’t much of an asset anymore.

The screaming continued. The music. The room flashed and shattered like the strobe in a nightclub. The walls were projector screens. Murder. Death. Torture. Misery in all forms. The screaming continued. Parkerson could feel his brain swelling against the side of his skull.

He sat up slowly. Covered his ears and tried to push the sounds from his mind. Tried to ignore the projections. Tried to think. He crawled to the heavy door and wrenched at it. The door didn’t move. It was locked tight, secure. Wendell Gray had locked him inside.

Parkerson crawled to the bed and pulled himself onto the flimsy mattress. Held his head in his hands and tried to concentrate. Gray was misguided. The projections would never torture Parkerson the way they’d tortured the assets. The assets were damaged. Mentally weak. He, Parkerson, was strong.

Still, he could see how a few hours in this place would start to wear on
a guy. Parkerson stood, unsteady. Brought his hand to his face and touched his nose, felt a sudden sharp pain. His hand came back bloody. The bastard had broken it.

Parkerson wrenched the bed from the wall. Dragged it into the middle of the room and stood atop the flimsy mattress. He could reach the ceiling easily. There was a panel, amid the soundproofing. Parkerson lifted it out. Above the panel was a hatch. A combination lock.

He’d designed the room this way. He hadn’t been shortsighted enough to believe he’d never wind up in this room. The assets were too unpredictable. They were violent. In his work at Magnusson, he’d seen time and again the need for fail-safes. For escape clauses. For another way out.

Parkerson turned the combination lock. The lock clicked, and the hatch opened. He stood on the bed and looked up into darkness, grinning to himself despite the throbbing in his head.
Out we go,
he thought, hoisting himself up.
You just can’t keep a good man down.

I
t was dark outside, too dark to see much. The road dipped and curved beneath the big muscle car. Lind drove as fast as he dared, relying on instinct. Relying on the vision that kept slipping away.

He drove west, through China Grove toward Mooresville. Carried on north, circling the town and meeting up with the interstate on the other side. Nothing looked familiar, not in this darkness. Nothing made sense at all, but Lind had long ago shut down his mind. He’d stopped thinking. Let his hands on the wheel and his feet on the pedals make the decisions. He followed and tried to keep his mind empty. Tried not to think about what he’d have to do when he found the man.

He drove over the interstate and past a couple gas stations, a fast-food joint, and a big-box store. Then he saw a sign. Lake Norman, it read, with an arrow. Lind slowed the car.

Lake Norman. Lind searched his memories, chasing the vision through his subconscious. Then he remembered. The man had stopped the Cadillac at the McDonald’s across the street. “Better get us some victuals,” he’d said, grinning. “Wait here.”

Lind had sat in the Cadillac and watched the man inside the restaurant. The man had looked out at Lind every couple of minutes, kept glancing back, like he was afraid Lind would run. Lind sat and watched the man until he came back with a paper sack and a couple of Cokes. “Dig in,” the man said, handing the sack to Lind. “You must be starving.”

Lind hesitated. Then he opened the bag. He unwrapped a chicken sandwich as the man piloted the Cadillac out of the parking lot. He was chewing the sandwich as the man pulled back out onto the road. As he passed the road sign and turned to follow the arrow.

Lake Norman, the sign said. Lind remembered. He drove the Mustang to the intersection and followed the sign.

W
indermere picked up the radio. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “We’re thinking Parkerson’s in one of the houses along the shore. Look for a blue Ford Explorer SUV, but be careful. No light shows. We don’t want to spook him.”

The radio crackled. Six voices radioed back the affirmative, one by one. Windermere put down the handset and looked over at Stevens. “You feel lucky?”

Stevens stared out into the gloom. “He’s out there.”

“Good. So which way am I turning?”

“You’re asking me?” Stevens paused. “Let’s go left.”

Windermere hit her blinker. “Left it is.” Then she picked up the radio. “We’re going left,” she said. “I want a couple of cars with me. The rest of you guys head right.”

She crept the Camry around the corner and idled slow down the empty road. To the left, a farmer’s field climbed a slight slope. To the right, trees and cabins and the black water beyond. Most of the cabins were empty, no lights on inside and no cars in the yards. “Hope you’re right, Stevens,” she said. “We put enough damn time into this case. I want to close it ourselves.”

Stevens stared out at the night. “Closed is closed.”

“Not for me. Not after that needle-in-the-haystack bullshit.”

“There’s still Lind.”

“Small fry,” she said. “I want the big fish.”

They passed more empty houses, bigger ones now. Still no sign of the Explorer. No signs of life anywhere. “He could have hid the truck,” Stevens said. “Kept the lights off. We probably have to go house to house.”

“Maybe he’s not here at all.” Windermere glanced at Rachel Parkerson in the backseat. “Maybe the lake house is on a whole other lake. Maybe we’re in the wrong locale altogether.”

“This is his lake,” said Rachel. “If he has a lake house, this is where he’ll be.”

“So you say.”

Rachel frowned. “What does that mean?”

“You’re his wife,” said Windermere. “No offense, but if it were my husband, I might be tempted to send the cops on a goose chase. Give him enough time to bolt.”

Rachel Parkerson’s eyes flashed. Then she sunk back into her seat. “I’m not smart enough for that,” she said, staring out the window. “Maybe if I’d thought of it first.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. Stevens wasn’t paying attention. He was staring out into the trees, stiff as a hound on a scent. “There’s a light on out there,” he said. “In the trees.”

Windermere slowed the car. Followed his look. Sure enough, a dim light past the end of the road. A grove of trees. A dirt path. Windermere picked up the radio. “Got a light over here,” she said. “Someone babysit wifey while we check it out.”

She parked the Camry and turned off the ignition. Behind them, a Cornelius PD cruiser pulled in and stopped. A uniform stepped out and met them by the back of the Toyota. Windermere gestured in at Rachel Parkerson. “This is our man’s wife,” she said. “She’s liable to get squirrelly. Lock her up in your squad car until we figure this out.”

The uniform opened the rear door and helped Rachel Parkerson out of the backseat. She looked at Windermere and Stevens through hollow eyes and allowed herself to be led to the patrol car. Windermere waited until the woman was secured. Then she turned back to Stevens. “Got your gun, partner?”

Stevens nodded. “Girl’s best friend.”

“Good,” she said. “Let’s check this place out.”

P
arkerson pulled himself out of the cell and closed the hatch behind him. Straightened and looked around the gloom. He was standing in a tiny closet, he knew, in one of the cabin’s small bedrooms. Except for the muffled noise from the projections, the whole house was still.

Parkerson waited in the darkness. If the asset was around, he would
have heard the hatch open. He would have come into the bedroom to investigate. Did that mean he’d gone?

Nothing seemed to move. Nothing made any noise. Parkerson crept out of the closet and into the bedroom. Bumped into the bed and followed it to the doorway. The door was closed tight. There was light behind it.

Parkerson pulled the door open gingerly, slow as he could. Peered out into the living room. Saw nobody from his angle, and pushed the door wider. Then he ducked back quickly. Wendell Gray was still out there.

The kid was sitting in the living room, his back to the bedroom door. He’d set the pistol down beside him, and he wasn’t moving. He was just sitting there, staring at something in his hands: a picture. He stared at it and didn’t move.

Slowly, carefully, Parkerson pushed the bedroom door open. Prayed Gray wouldn’t see his reflection in the dark windows. He crept into the living room and toward the asset and the gun. Then he stopped.

The big hunting knife sat on the kitchen table, discarded. Gray would have carried it upstairs after he’d locked Parkerson away. Parkerson looked at the kid and the gun sitting beside him. Felt the throbbing in his nose, imagined the FBI agents at his door. Gray had fucked up. Lind had fucked up. They’d cost him Killswitch and they deserved to die.

Gray still hadn’t moved. He was staring at that picture. It was a woman, Parkerson saw, an older woman in a floral-print dress. Parkerson hesitated, relishing the moment, the anger coursing through him alongside something darker, something scarier.

Twenty years building missiles and bombs,
he thought.
Five years running Killswitch. Hundreds of bodies with my fingerprints on them, and I’ve never wanted to kill anyone so bad as I do right now.

Parkerson glanced at the gun again. Shook his head. Too clean. He crept to the kitchen table and picked up the knife.

S
tevens and Windermere crept through the trees, their guns drawn. The night was quiet around them, and very still. Save the dim light ahead, the grove was pitch-dark.

Except there was a noise, too, Stevens realized, a muffled, erratic throb. It wasn’t music—there was no discernible rhythm—but it wasn’t natural, either. Stevens gripped his pistol tighter and kept moving.

As they approached the light, Stevens could see it was coming from inside a small cabin, saggy and mossy and old. The windows were streaky and grime-stained, the light hardly much better. Stevens crouched beside Windermere and studied the place. “You see anybody?” Windermere whispered.

Stevens shook his head. Then he looked again. “Wait.” A shadow moved on the wall, through one of the windows. After a moment, a man appeared, his back to the window. Stevens motioned toward him. “There.”

“Parkerson?” said Windermere.

Stevens squinted. “Can’t tell.”

Windermere looked around the grove of trees. There were two trucks parked alongside the house, an old Chevy pickup and—she stiffened. “That’s a Ford Explorer, Stevens.”

Stevens pointed at the window. “Yeah,” he said. “And that guy has a knife.”