People Die (12 page)
Authors: Kevin Wignall
When he left, he took the passports and phone number with him, and at the first pay phone he pulled over and called, getting through to an inn, asking where it was located. If he made good time he could maybe kill the other one before going back to the Copley, certain he’d rest easier knowing that the calm would be preserved, that no one would bring that violence back into the Bostridges’ lives. It was the least he could do, to fend off for a while the thing he’d once delivered to them himself.
11
The Fallen Pine Inn was actually a roadside motel, low-rise, sprawling, like it wanted to be something else, a holiday village or something like that. As an opening gambit he called from the pay phone out front and was surprised when they happily answered his request for the Russian gentleman’s room number, describing even where it was in the motel.
He went back and sat in the car for a while, with dusk beginning to dull the edges on everything, and he thought through the possible ways of dealing with the Russian. He had to kill him, that was certain, it was just a question of how and where.
The motel room itself was the easiest but didn’t seem like a good idea. A Russian murdered in some city was one thing but JJ was in no doubt it would make big local news in Vermont, cause a lot of speculation. And though it was probably overcautious he couldn’t help but think that kind of speculation would gravitate toward him, not least in the mind of Susan Bostridge.
So he’d get the Russian out of there, play on what he knew already to get the guy somewhere out of sight. He spent another ten minutes working it through in his mind, checking his map, then loosened the buckle on his small rucksack and strolled over to the far wing of the building, counting along the doors till he got to the right one.
He knocked and as he waited he savored the smell of the woods that surrounded the motel and the faint encroaching sounds as day shifted toward night. It was beautiful, even there. Then he heard the door opening, the security chain bracing itself across the narrow gap. The Russian’s face was peering through; he had cropped fair hair, a military look like his partner.
JJ didn’t smile but said matter-of-factly, “I’m Hooper. Berg sent me.” The guy looked at him suspiciously, not like he didn’t understand but like it still didn’t explain JJ’s presence. “We know where Holden is.”
“Why are you here?” he asked, softly spoken, one of those Russian accents that was pitched halfway between mournful and musical.
“To show you where Holden is, and to help. He has two bodyguards.” The guy still looked unconvinced but then JJ added like he was breaking bad news, “The CIA killed Korzhakov.”
“When?” The Russian’s eyes began to dance around a little.
“I don’t know. Sometime today.”
“I make a phone call,” he said and JJ responded, blasé, “Okay, I’ll wait.” The guy left the chain on but didn’t close the door, so JJ could see him as he walked across the room and was ready to make a move if he had to.
But the Russian checked his watch and didn’t bother with the phone, obviously realizing that any place he wanted to phone was already in the middle of the night. Instead he put on a shoulder holster, put the gun he was carrying in it, disappeared from view, and appeared again at the door a minute later, wearing a suit jacket now and carrying a briefcase.
“Your car.”
“Of course,” JJ replied, making it clear that he understood the Russian’s caution. He led him to the car, opening the passenger side first, throwing his own rucksack on the backseat to keep the guy relaxed.
Once they were driving he said to JJ, “You speak Russian?”
JJ glanced away from the road enough to shake his head. He’d already gotten the impression the guy’s English was limited, so by pretending not to speak any Russian he could keep the conversation to a minimum.
Sure enough the Russian didn’t speak again for a while. JJ drove a few miles more before turning onto a smaller road and turning again farther on, this time onto a single-lane track with passing points, the woods pressing up against each side, already darkening though the sky above was still blue.
After turning onto the track JJ said, “Holden’s in a cabin, you know, for hunting?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“He has two guards. CIA.” He could see the other guy nod from the corner of his eye but could sense his caution stepping up a gear too, his eyes constantly scanning the road ahead of them.
At least until then it would have been a hard one for the Russian to call. He’d been sitting it out in the middle of nowhere, not knowing where Holden was, waiting for information to come through, and then JJ had shown up pressing all the right buttons, giving no reason to suggest he wasn’t on the level.
And if JJ had been there to hit him he’d have done it at the motel, not taken him to the woods to do it. JJ wasn’t doing it for normal reasons though, and now it seemed that possibility was becoming real to the Russian. He kept his calm but said, “I think this partnership is good. You know Berg is very powerful man.”
“More powerful now,” said JJ.
“More powerful, yes. Together is much stronger.” He paused for a second before adding, “You know Mikhail Sergeyevich?”
JJ shook his head and said, “I’ve heard a lot about him,” kicking himself mentally as he said it, realizing how obvious it was for the Russian to throw up a false name.
He responded with silence, a couple of seconds only, but JJ could almost feel the Russian psyching himself up for the right moment. He’d blown it, was angry with himself, but when the Russian moved it was the wrong move, a twitch of the hand before going for his gun; a body blow first would have been smarter.
As he saw the movement JJ released the guy’s seat belt and hit the brakes hard; old tricks always worked best. They weren’t going fast, but the Russian slammed forward, his head hitting the dash, JJ feeling his own belt crunching against his chest. He released himself, giving the guy a hard drum-shuddering smack to the ear, pushing his hand under his body then and pulling the gun he’d been trying to reach for himself.
It took a couple of seconds, the guy not even finding time for an instinctive physical retaliation before realizing his own gun was pressing under the side of his jaw.
JJ was still catching his own breath but wasting no time he shouted, “Open the door!” He repeated it, pushing the gun hard into the guy until he did it, then shouted again, “Out, out,” coaxing him with the barrel like before.
By the time JJ got out of the car the Russian was already running into the woods but he was disoriented and clumsy from the couple of blows he’d taken. JJ jogged after him through the bracken, almost catching him before the guy stumbled anyway, crashing down among the foliage, lost for a second in the gloom. Not realizing JJ was above him, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, JJ waiting till he was halfway up before shoving him back onto his knees and pushing the gun into his face.
The guy was delirious, putting up no resistance now as JJ grabbed his face and forced the barrel into his mouth, the metal scraping and clattering against his teeth. JJ used the gun to lever his head back then, the guy squealing with realization in the moment before JJ pulled the trigger, the bullet kicking him away to the ground, the crack of the gunshot tearing a hole through the forest calm.
It took a few seconds for the sound to die away, the forest flooding back over it then and, a few moments later, the call of a bird in the distance, the sound harsh, menacing. Around him though there was an intense peacefulness, JJ not wanting to move for a while, wanting to remain there in the blanketing twilight, a druglike stupor in the smell and feel of the air, the violence of the last moments already lost.
Slowly coming back to himself, he wiped the gun, put it in the guy’s hand, took a passport and wallet from his jacket pocket, and walked back to the car, cleaning himself up as best he could when he got there. Chances were no one would find the body for months, and even if it was days there’d be enough question marks to let it go as a probable suicide, a minor news story at most, easily ignored, no one at the inn ever guessing it might in some way have been connected with them.
Still conscious of how he’d look when he arrived back at the Copley, JJ stopped at a roadside diner, washed his hands and face in the rest room, drank an iced fruit tea. When he went back out to the car he picked up the briefcase, which he’d forgotten until then, lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He opened it, looked at the components snugly packed there, and smiled, strangely sentimental about the last time he’d used a rifle.
The remainder of the drive took no time at all, JJ getting back to the inn before nine. He stood for a minute when he got out of the car, a fresh-smelling stillness in the cool air, the porch and other lights behind him, a couple of smaller lights blinking in and out of visibility in the village, the top of the church steeple ghostly visible too against the dark blue sky.
JJ was lost again for a second, the whole world beautiful that night. He let it wash over him, snapping out of it only as a car turned up the drive toward the inn. He walked toward the porch but the driver of the car jumped out like he was in a hurry and reached the door at the same time.
“Hey,” he said to JJ. It was a kid with a mess of black hair, quality slacker’s clothes, a look that reminded JJ a little of Dylan McGill, a fresher, cleaner-cut version, or maybe just younger. JJ gave him a hello in response, and the kid stood back to let him walk through the door first.
Inside, a member of staff came into the lobby, a woman he didn’t recognize but who still said, “Good evening, Mr. Hoffman. Did you have a pleasant trip?” He responded as quickly as he could and started up the stairs. She moved on to the kid then. “Hi, Freddie. I’ll call Jem for you.”
“No, I’ll ... .” the kid started hesitantly, his tone polite.
“Oh, here she is now.” A girl appeared in jeans and a sweater, socks but no shoes, immediately, effortlessly attractive. She smiled at the woman who disappeared back toward the dining room.
She was so clearly Susan Bostridge’s daughter, beautiful like her but with long mousy hair, as much like her mother as the son was like his father. There seemed something else though, maybe just because she was young, fifteen, sixteen perhaps, an extra quality that made it difficult for him to take his eyes off her as he climbed the stairs. He almost wanted to stop, to go back and introduce himself, to find out exactly who she was, what she was like.
As if aware of his gaze she suddenly looked up and for a moment met it with her own eyes, a brief, puzzled, searching look, a piercing intensity, almost as if she knew him from somewhere, recognized him, her pretty face lost in looking at him. He smiled, a meaningless friendly smile, and turned away, conscious suddenly of where he’d come from, feeling bloodied as if the signs of that last killing were all over him. He continued the rest of the flight without looking back, though he wanted to, and still with a hypersensitive awareness of her presence.
“Hey,” he heard her say, and the kid responded with the same before her soft voice was there again, barely breaking cover. “So, you wanna come in?”
When JJ got to his room he put the briefcase and his own rucksack in the bottom of the closet, took his boots off, and fell onto the bed, lying there looking up at the ceiling, his chest still tight and sore from the impact of the seat belt when he’d braked. As on the first night it felt and sounded like there was no one else in the building.
There were other people though, the girl and her boyfriend among them. He couldn’t help but think of her, Jem, a girl who had to be about the same age as the one Bostridge had been with. That thought distracted him temporarily, how sick it made Bostridge, but he almost understood him too.
He felt snagged by the girl he’d just seen, a girl who was too young for him to be interested in, but snagged all the same, an immediate subliminal attraction like static in the blood, more than just the pull of youth and fresh beauty. Maybe she’d sensed it too in that moment she’d looked at him, knowing that she belonged with her boyfriend but sensing it all the same, two of those paths that should have crossed in a different time and place.
But then perhaps he was fooling himself, a beautiful teenage girl probably seeing him as just another guest at the inn. And it struck him that perhaps the way he felt now was the way it had been for Bostridge two years before, drawn despite himself, the Russian girl probably not even needing to approach him, just sitting in the bar nearby until Bostridge had lost himself in the possibilities and persuaded himself to talk to her.
He must have found it hard to believe his luck that night, that this descended angel had been willing to indulge him, his advances gradually stepping up and always accepted, too far in by the time she’d mentioned money. He’d never have realized that he’d been the one being seduced, and never realized either that the end had never been in doubt.
At least this was different in that respect, because JJ wouldn’t be tempted, and because Jem Bostridge had no idea who he was, no reason to encourage him, even to speak to him. He was still drawn to her though, drawn in a way he couldn’t explain.
He got up and looked in the mirror, checking again that there were no telltale signs he’d missed, and then there was a knock on the door. Still edgy after his day, he took his gun and held it out of sight as he opened the door.
A man was standing there, short gray hair, probably in his fifties but with signs of a physique, dressed like he’d spent the day hiking. At first glance JJ assumed for some reason that he was the Scottish guest he hadn’t met yet, McCowan, but when the guy spoke it was an American accent, the voice instantly familiar.
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