Furious Jones and the Assassin’s Secret (13 page)

He turned on a lamp. The place was a dump. There were food wrappers and empty beer bottles everywhere. Kidd searched the entire apartment, but found nothing. No clues as to who the Sicilian was or who he would kill next. And no indication that anyone else was living here. Kidd knew that Anton had been sent into Galena with his daughter and would most likely be staying in nicer conditions. Douglas often liked to have his agents travel with their families. He felt reality was the best cover. Who would suspect a parent traveling with kids would ever be a CIA assassin?

Other than a couple of shirts in the dresser, a toothbrush in the bathroom, and trash on the floor—there was no real sign that anyone lived here. There wasn't anything in the refrigerator. There weren't any papers, books, money, glasses, or weapons—nothing.

Kidd shoved the butter knife into his pocket and turned off the light. He moved a vacuum, bent down, and peered out the window into the alley. He stared out the window for several minutes, watching for movement. Nothing. No one was out there. He stood up to leave and glanced back down at the vacuum. Then Kidd flipped the light back on. The vacuum bag appeared full. Kidd looked around the room. The floor was covered with trash. How could the vacuum be full? Clearly the Sicilian hadn't vacu­umed. Clearly he didn't care about cleanliness. He hadn't even attempted to throw anything away. Kidd bent down and unzipped the vacuum bag, and a photo album fell out of the bag onto the floor. Kidd thumbed through the photo album. Page after page was the same thing. Every page had a photo on the left and then either an obituary or some newspaper clipping detailing some horrible death on the right. Kidd immediately knew what this was. Although not as crude, Kidd had created similar books for the
CIA. Professional killers called them proof books. They were photo albums identifying targets. The targets were to be killed, and it was the assassin's job to provide proof of the kill. Proof could be a picture of the murder scene, a copy of the police report, an obituary . . . anything that established the target was dead.

Kidd was sickened as he flipped through the photo album. Normally, a hit would consist of one or two people. Maybe a family, if the circumstances absolutely called for it. But this book was huge, and the Sicilian had already killed over a dozen people. In fact, Kidd was only able to find two photos that did not yet have a proof of death. One was of a woman who looked to be in her forties and, on the last page of the book, he found the photo of a young girl. She was maybe sixteen years old and had long dark hair and green eyes. She was beautiful, but she looked tough. Like maybe she had seen things a young girl shouldn't see. But she was alive. Or at least there was no obituary next to her photo—yet. As Kidd shoved her photo in his pocket, he made a promise to himself that it would stay that way.

• • •

Kidd decided to go for a run the next morning before heading over to talk to the local sheriff. He
wasn't sure how the sheriff would react to Kidd killing someone in the sheriff's town. Even if that someone was a killer for hire. And Kidd wanted to run because he wasn't sure when he would be able to stretch his legs again.

And what a run it was! The sheriff and residents of Galena had obviously taken great care to create the perfect example of small-town middle America. Most of the houses lining Grant Park had a porch and an American flag out front. Like it was mandatory. Main Street itself was so clean you could practically eat off of it. And Kidd wasn't surprised to see the flower boxes below the barred windows on the Main Street jailhouse. Nor was he surprised, during his postrun visit to the sheriff's, to find out that the man was less than excited to hear about any problems arriving in his perfect little town.

“Whoa, boy. Let's start again,” Sheriff Daniels said.

“You're going to get a report of a stolen canoe,” Kidd said.

“Yeah?”

“I stole the canoe,” Kidd said. “Well, really I borrowed it.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff's head was now slightly cocked to the side.

“You'll find the canoe about five hundred yards downriver from town.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sheriff Daniels asked.

“ 'Cause you're going to find the body of James Dutton under the canoe.”

“And how do you know this?” the sheriff asked.

“I put him there. I killed him.”

The sheriff stood up now. “You don't say.”

“But his name isn't James Dutton.”

“It isn't?” Sheriff Daniels questioned. “Then what is his name?”

“I don't know,” Kidd said. “I'm with the CIA, and we've been trying to get this guy for years. We just called him the Sicilian.”

“The Sicilian?”

“Yup,” Kidd replied flatly.

“And what did you say your name was?” the sheriff asked.

“It's Kidd. Carson Kidd. Look, I know you'll need time on this. And I know you'll need to check me out, but I've got a question first.” Kidd paused as he pulled the photo of the girl out of his pocket.

“You've got a question?” the sheriff said in a mocking voice.

“Do you recognize this girl?”

But the sheriff didn't need to answer. Kidd could tell by his reaction that he knew her.

“What can you tell me about her?” Kidd asked.

“Tell you? Tell you?” The sheriff chuckled, but Kidd could sense his unease. “I can tell you nothing. Now, let's start this thing again. Do you have some sort of ID?”

• • •

Kidd had seen the inside of many jail cells, but he was positive that Galena's was far and away the nicest. He spent six hours in the cell while Sheriff Daniels checked out his story. Even the cell bunk beds were comfortable.

It was dinnertime before the sheriff came to let him out.

“Look, I'm not happy about this,” Sheriff Daniels said. “I'm letting you go for now, but you're done with your CIA stuff in my town, got it?”

“Who's the girl?” Kidd asked, ignoring the sheriff's demands.

“Didn't you hear me? You've got no jurisdiction here. You're out of the game. Your boss, Douglas, wants you back at Langley. And I want you out of Galena.”

“The girl's in real danger,” Kidd said.

“I don't see how. We fished the Italian Dutton
guy out of the woods. Thanks to your handiwork, he ain't gonna be hurting anyone.”

“Trust me. She's in trouble.”

“Trust you? That's a laugh. You won't even tell me what you're investigating in my own town.”

“I told you, I'm on vacation.”

“Vacation? Right.” The sheriff chuckled again.

“I know how it looks, but it's true,” Kidd lied.

“Well, since you're into telling the truth, why don't you tell me what kind of danger the girl is in?”

“Serious danger,” Kidd answered.

“Uh-huh. That's what I thought. It's all one direction with you CIA guys. You want me to tell you everything, while you tell me nothing.” The sheriff started walking away.

“There's another guy. There is a dangerous guy in town named Anton and, sooner or later, he's going to kill that girl,” Kidd said.

“And I don't suppose you can tell me how you know that?” the sheriff asked.

“No.”

“That's what I figured,” the sheriff sighed. “Do you have a photo of this Anton?”

“Trust me, there are no photos of Anton. And he will not be using his real name.”

“So, let's say for a minute that you're right,” the sheriff said.

“I am right,” Kidd replied.

“Well, let's say you are. How do I help this girl?” the sheriff asked.

“Let me help you,” Kidd said. “Who is she?”

“I can't tell you,” the sheriff said.

“Then I can't help you.”

“I'd be breaking a dozen different laws if I told you,” the sheriff answered.

“Because she's in the witness protection program? Trust me, that's not a secret,” Kidd said. “To anyone.”

Kidd pulled a picture of the woman from his pocket. “I'm guessing she's in it too.”

“How did you know?”

“You have to take me to them,” Kidd said. “We have to move them now.”

I
stared up at the
ceiling. I thought about my mom. How accurately had my dad documented my mom's experience in Galena? Was it 100 percent factual? If the story was an exact account of what had happened, then the Sicilian, or James Dutton, would have to have lived in apartment 22B above Dirty Gert's. Before my mom killed him, that is. I knew Dirty Gert's was real enough because I saw it on Main Street. I decided to walk over to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up dinner, and then maybe I'd go knock on the door of 22B and see if a guy named James used to live there. It seemed like as good a plan as any.

I'd just reached the highway when my phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Furious, it's Emma.”

“My favorite reporter,” I said. “Did you have any luck?”

“Sort of.” Emma's voice sounded shaky. “I'm more convinced than ever that you need to go to the police and ask for help. The guy who killed your dad was a really bad dude, Furious.”

“I kind of figured that part out myself,” I said. “Shooting my dad was my big clue.”

“Ha-ha. His name was Anthony Gruber. He's been in and out of trouble most of his life. Aggravated assaults. Grand larceny. Racketeering. That kind of stuff.”

“Sounds like mob stuff,” I said.

“It is.”

“What are larceny and racketeering, anyway?” I asked.

“Theft, gambling, that kind of stuff. Gruber definitely had ties to the mob. And most of the stories said he was associated with the Salvatore crime syndicate.”

Emma paused and I said nothing.

“Why would the mob want to kill your dad, Furious?” Emma asked.

“I think it has something to do with Galena and my mom's death. Did you get a chance to look into the guy who was killed in Galena? Possibly a Sicilian or Italian guy?”

“No, not yet. I've got to run to this group dinner, and then I'll look into after.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “I'm running to dinner too. Give me a call later.”

“Oh, where are you going to dinner?” Emma asked. “Because there is an awesome little Italian place called Cannova's on Main Street.”

“So I hear,” I said. “No, I think the Piggly Wiggly is more in my budget.”

We said good-bye, and I ran the rest of the way to the Pig.

I threw two Cokes and a box of Famous Amos cookies on the conveyor belt and waited more than ten minutes for the woman in front of me to finish checking out. She was talking to the checkout girl about something that seemed to make them both quite upset. I figured it was about the Freiburgers and the hay baler accident, but who knew in this town. It could have been any number of bizarre deaths. Hot water heaters. Leeches. And whatever else Anton could cook up.

I looked over the products for sale next to the register. Small towns sure were different. Back east, you would normally find gum, candy bars, and batteries at checkouts. But the Pig was selling hunting knives, horse accessories, and sheep shears.

The girl behind the counter wore a red shirt with a name tag that said
HI MY NAME IS TRISH
. And she wore a long black tie dotted with a cartoon pig. The pig looked like a rip-off of Porky Pig.

“I hope that's not dinner,” the girl said, pointing to the cookies.

“It is,” I said. “But I'll have you know that Amos was
famous because he lived to be one hundred and five—eating mostly these cookies.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” I lied. I had no idea if there was even an Amos. But Trish had a great smile.

“Were you friends with the Freiburgers?” I asked.

“The whats?”

“The Freiburgers. The couple in the accident. I thought I overheard you talking about the baling accident.”

“Oh god,” Trish covered her mouth. “I didn't know it was
two
people that went through the baler! God, that must have been a mess.”

“It was,” I said.

“No, Mrs. Lucas and I were talking about Mr. Schneider. He's the—” She paused. “He
was
the gym teacher at school. They found him dead in the gym.” Trish lowered her voice. “He was hanging from that damn rope he made us climb. A group of cheerleaders found him. I guess it was some sort of freak accident.”

“Oh. Wow.” I had no idea how to respond to that. Did these people really think one town could see this many freak accidents?

“I'm glad,” Trish said. “Not that Mr. Schneider is dead. But I'm glad that those witches had to find him like that.” Trish paused and looked at me. “Oh crap, I've never seen you before—you're not Schneider's nephew or something?”

“Aahhhh,” I said, speechless. What do you say to a girl who's glad the cheerleaders found a dead guy?

“You're not from around here, are you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I'm not.”

“Oh, god. Now I sound awful. You have to know those girls to understand the depth of my justifiable hatred.”

“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”

I
t took me twenty minutes
to walk back to Main Street. I sat down on a bench and ate my dinner. I was just about to eat the last cookie when my phone rang. It was Emma.

“Hey, that was pretty quick,” I said.

“Yeah, dinner was kind of boring, so I bailed.”

The image of Lily Freiburger's eye staring at me from the hay bale popped into my mind as Emma said “bailed.” I hated the way my mind worked. I put the last cookie back in the box.

“It didn't take me long to verify that there was an Italian national who died a couple of months ago in Galena.”