Blood Hunt (31 page)

He stayed close to the wall, feeling it at his back, and moved towards the gazebo. The guard was sitting facing the water, his back to Reeve. Reeve moved quickly and quietly across the muffling lawn. He held the dagger by its scabbard, the handle showing, and swung it, clubbing the guard across the side of his head. The man was dazed, but not quite out. He was half-turning, opening his mouth, when Reeve’s fist caught him full in the face. The second blow knocked him cold. Reeve got out tape and did the man’s ankles, wrists, and mouth, making sure the nose wasn’t broken or blocked, making sure the guard wouldn’t suffocate. He felt in the pockets for a gun, but there wasn’t one, just loose change and cigarettes. He didn’t recognize the face; it figured—there had to be two shifts, maybe three.

He looked around. There were French windows to the back of the house. He wondered if they were locked. He also wondered where the second guard was. Indoors? He ran in a crouch towards the French windows. Lights shone inside. He was looking through the glass when he heard a growl behind him. One of the dogs. It looked very alert. Too alert. So only one of them had found the meat. The dog galloped towards him, and he pointed an arm at it.

“Be still!”

The dog stopped short, a little confused. It recognized the words but not the person uttering them, but then it was used to obeying more than one master… Reeve plunged the dagger two-handed into the top of its head, just behind the skull. The dog’s legs buckled and it went down, Reeve maintaining the pressure. He glanced through the window to see if anyone had been roused. All he saw was the reflection of a man blackened up so that the brightest things about him were the whites of his eyes, his gritted teeth, and the blade in his hands.

He pulled the knife out and wiped it on the dog’s coat. The French windows were unlocked. He took off his boots, left them hidden below the level of the porch, and let himself into the house.

His socks left no marks on the carpet, and the floor was solid, so his weight did not cause it to creak. The room was a dining room. He noticed that the small table had only one place setting, and there was only one chair. He was surer than ever that this was the right house.

He opened the door to a large octagonal hall with several doors off of it. A staircase led up to a landing, similarly octagonal, with more doors. Music was playing somewhere, behind one of the doors on the ground floor. Reeve walked over to the door, all too aware that if anyone stepped out of a room upstairs they would see him immediately. He had to be quick. He peered through the keyhole and saw a man sitting on a sofa, reading a magazine and nodding to the music. It was on a personal stereo, and must have been turned up all the way; even from here Reeve could recognize it: “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” The man was short and wiry: he didn’t look like prime bodyguard material.

Reeve knew his best bet was to rush him. His hand tightened on the door handle. A clock in the room started to chime. Reeve burst in.

In a mirror above the fireplace, Reeve saw what the man could see: a massive snarling intruder with a bloodied knife so big you could quarter a buffalo with it. The man stood up, mouth gaping, the stereo dropping to the floor, the headphones falling from his ears.

“No noise,” Reeve said quietly over the chimes. “Just lie down on the floor with your hands—”

Half a second before the man sprang into action, Reeve saw the change in his face—saw that the surprise had worn off already and he wasn’t ready just to lie down. The man’s body twisted, sending a powerful leg towards Reeve’s groin. Reeve twisted too, the blow landing on his thigh, almost dead-legging him.

Small: yes; wiry: yes—but this guy had some martial arts training. The second blow, a fist this time, was already coming, aiming to disable the dagger. Blue Öyster Cult was still erupting from the headphones. All that was left of the chimes was an echo. Reeve dodged the fist and lashed out a roundhouse of his own. He wished he’d kept his shoes on. The blow glanced off the man’s chest. The heel of a shoe slammed down onto Reeve’s un-protected foot. His opponent was fast and smart. Reeve dum-mied with the dagger and swung his free hand into the man’s throat. That felt better. The man’s face and neck reddened as the oxygen tried to get through. Reeve followed up with a kick to the right knee and was readying to use an elbow, but the man hurled himself over the sofa and got to his feet again quickly. They hadn’t made much noise yet; you didn’t when you were concentrating. You hadn’t time to think about screaming. Reeve hoped Allerdyce wasn’t pushing some panic button somewhere. He had to make this quick.

His opponent had other plans. He tipped the sofa over so that Reeve had to dodge it: he was hemming Reeve in, making it awkward for him to move. Reeve launched himself over the sofa and hit the man full in the stomach, knocking him backwards onto the carpet. Reeve stuck the tip of the dagger to the man’s stomach, just below the rib cage.

“I’ll gut you like a fish,” he snarled. He was kneeling on the man’s legs. “Ask yourself, is he paying you enough?”

The small man considered this. He shook his head.

“Lie on your front,” Reeve ordered. “I’m only going to tie you up.”

The man obeyed, and Reeve got out the tape. He was breathing hard, his hands shaking slightly. And he had eyes only for the man on the floor; he didn’t want the bastard trying anything else. After he’d taped wrists, ankles, and mouth—using double runs on the wrists and feet—he pulled the sofa upright and lifted the man’s stereo by its headphones, bringing it over and clamping the ‘phones to the man’s head. He checked the pockets again. No gun.

But the man standing in the doorway had a gun.

“Who are you?” the man said. He was wearing a paisley dressing gown with frilled tassels hanging from the cord, pale pink pajamas, and burgundy slippers. He fitted the description Duhart had given.

“Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, like they were meeting over canapés.

“Yes.” It was a small-caliber revolver, the kind molls kept in purses in the books Duhart read. But Allerdyce was holding it steadily enough.

“My name’s—”

“Let’s get rid of the dagger first.”

Reeve threw the dagger onto the sofa. He didn’t have his hands up yet, but Allerdyce gestured with the gun, so he raised them.

“My name’s Reeve, Gordon Reeve. I wanted a word with you.”

“You could have come to my office, Mr. Reeve.”

“Maybe. But this was personal, not business.”

“Personal? I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. Men hired by your organization have been following me.” Reeve paused. “Are you sure you want to talk about this in front of witnesses?”

Allerdyce seemed to see the guard for the first time. The music was still blaring, but there was no telling what else he could hear.

“I should telephone for the police.”

“Yes, sir, you should,” Reeve agreed.

Allerdyce thought about this. Reeve stared at him levelly throughout.

“Upstairs,” Allerdyce said at last.

Reeve preceded him up the staircase.

They went to a small sitting room. Allerdyce motioned for Reeve to sit down.

“Is it okay if I take my sock off?”

“What?”

“The guy downstairs stomped me pretty hard; I want to check the damage.” Allerdyce nodded, keeping his distance. Reeve rolled down the sock. The foot wasn’t that bad, some swelling, and there’d be a good bruise, but nothing was damaged. He made it look worse than it was, easing the sock off with infinite slowness, grimacing as he manipulated his toes.

“Looks sore,” Allerdyce agreed.

“That bastard knew his stuff.” Reeve put the sock back on. He saw bottles and glasses on top of a walnut-veneered cabinet. “Can I have a drink?”

Allerdyce considered this, too. Then nodded.

Reeve hobbled over to the cabinet, whistling as he examined the bottles. “Royal Lochnager—you have good taste.”

“You’re Scottish, Mr. Reeve?”

“You know damned well I am. You’ve probably got a big fat file on me. I’d like to know why.”

“I assure you I don’t know the first thing about you.”

Reeve turned his head and smiled. “Do you want one?”

“Why not?”

Reeve fixed both drinks and turned toward Allerdyce.

“Leave mine on the cabinet,” Allerdyce said. He waited until Reeve had hobbled back to the sofa, then backed his way to the cabinet, keeping the revolver on Reeve. Maybe the thing wasn’t even loaded, but Reeve didn’t want to take that risk, not yet. Allerdyce picked up the glass and came back around to face Reeve.

“Slainte,” Reeve said, drinking deep.

“Slainte,” Allerdyce echoed, like he’d used the toast before.

“You going to call the police?” Reeve asked.

“I think I’d better, don’t you? A man has broken into my house, overpowered my dogs and my guards; that sounds like a man the police should know about.”

“Will they allow me one phone call?”

“What?”

“In Britain, we get one phone call.”

“You’ll get a phone call.”

“Good, I wonder which paper I’ll call.”

Allerdyce seemed amused.

“See,” Reeve went on, “those two deadbeats you had following me in Scotland, they didn’t just tell me they were working for you, they told a whole pub. Witnesses, Mr. Allerdyce. A precious commodity.” He worked his injured foot again.

Allerdyce took another sip of whiskey. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Are you quite sure? I mean, if you’re sure then I owe you an apology. But you’ll have to tell me about CWC first.”

“Excuse me?”

“Co-World Chemicals. They murdered my brother. Or maybe they hired your people to kill him.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“Or maybe all you did was compile a dossier on him. I believe that’s your specialty. And then you handed it over and washed your hands. Don’t you think you should have gone to the police? I mean, when my brother was found dead. Oh, no, you couldn’t have done that, could you? The police might have had you for conspiracy, or aiding and abetting. Not a very good advertisement for Alliance Investigative.” Reeve finished the whiskey.

“Your brother…” Allerdyce choked off the sentence.

“What?” Reeve raised his eyebrows. “You did know about him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I…” Allerdyce was perspiring. “No, I’ve never heard of… your brother.” His face had lost its color, and he was having trouble focusing. “I think I’m…”

Reeve stood up and went to fix another drink. Allerdyce didn’t try to stop him. The gun was hanging by his side, the empty glass held loosely in his other hand.

“Hope I didn’t give you too much,” Reeve said from the drinks cabinet.

“Too… much… what?”

Reeve turned towards him, smiling again. “Too much birdy,” he said. “I had a little packet of it in my sock.”

“Birdy?”

“Know what? Maybe you should know all about birdy. It could revolutionize your business.” Reeve raised his replenished glass. “Slainte.”

This time the toast was not returned.

The thing about burundanga is, it is not just a truth drug. It makes the victim completely compliant. Completely suggestible. The victim becomes a sleepwalker. Men and women have been gang-raped after being tricked into taking it. They return to their senses forty-eight hours later and have no recollection. Amnesia. They could have been holding up banks, or emptying their own accounts, or playing in porno movies, or carrying drugs across borders. They’ll do what they’re told, no qualms, and will wake up with little more than a bad feeling, a feeling like their mind’s not their own. That was why you had to judge the doses just right, so as not to do too much damage to the victim’s mind.

It wasn’t simply a truth drug the way sodium pentothal was—it was so much better than that.

“Sit down,” Reeve told Allerdyce. “Take the weight off. I’m just going to look around. Anywhere special I should be looking?”

“What?”

“Do you keep any files here? Anything about me or my brother?”

“All my files are here.” Allerdyce still looked confused. He was frowning like someone on a geriatric ward faced with their children, not recognizing them.

“Can you show me where?” Reeve said.

“Surely.” Allerdyce got up again. He wasn’t overly steady on his pins. Reeve hoped he hadn’t given him too much. He hoped he hadn’t just given this old man a massive dose of scopolamine.

They walked out of the room and took a left. Allerdyce slipped a hand into the pocket of his dressing gown.

“What have you got there, Mr. Allerdyce?”

“A key.” Allerdyce blinked his moist yellow eyes. “I keep this room locked.”

“Okay, unlock the door.” Reeve took a look over the rail. The hall below was empty and quiet. Mr. Blue Öyster Cult probably wasn’t worrying about anything. He’d seen his employer train a gun on the intruder. He’d be waiting either for a shot or for the police to arrive.

Allerdyce pushed open the door. The room was part library, part office. There was a lot of shiny new plastic around—fax, photocopier, shredder—but also a lot of antique wood and leather. The chair behind the desk was immense, more throne than chair, and covered in buttoned red leather. There was a matching sofa. The walls were book-lined, floor to ceiling. Some of the shelves were behind glass, and these housed the most precious-looking volumes. There were no filing cabinets, but there were files.

A lot of files.

They stood in towers which threatened to topple at any moment, slueing paper everywhere. Some of the towers were six feet high, resting in the corners of the room, giving it a musty, unventilated smell. There were more files on the sofa, and on the floor in front of it, and others beside the desk. Older files had been tidied away into big cardboard boxes—ordinary grocery boxes like you picked up in supermarkets, advertising chili beans and dishwasher powder and Planters peanuts.

“Have you never heard of computers, Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, looking around him.

“I don’t trust computers. With the right equipment, you can tap into a computer from a distance. To get this lot, someone would have to get very close indeed.”

“Well, you’ve got a point. Where are the relevant files?”