The Company of the Dead (40 page)

It wasn’t the Waldorf, but it was the best Lightholler had seen in days.

He ran the water cold. Clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut, keeping his face under the icy blast. It was almost a form of chastisement.

Finally, he relinquished. He turned on the heat and sank to the stained tiled floor, letting the water pour over him. His nails were chipped and dirty. Examining them, he recalled the metal floor of the Cadillac and shuddered. His face stung where he’d shaved too close and it felt good. So did the thrum of water on his bare scalp.

“Keep the beard,” Kennedy had suggested, emerging from the bathroom with the start of a newly fashioned goatee, dyed black to match his hair. Sunburn lent a swarthiness to his appearance so that he might even pass for a Mexican. Anything but a stately Southern politician.

“Can’t do it,” Lightholler had replied. “I’ll settle for a haircut.” He’d taken an electric razor into the bathroom and given himself a crew cut.

Scrubbing at the caked layers of dirt now, he felt he was being shriven. Pared down to an essence that he barely recognised; washing away Lightholler and Astor to leave some new form that could deal with the days ahead.

He left the shower wearing a robe the hotel provided. Coarse, but the abrasion was merely another mode of purification. Only four days had passed but he felt leaner, lighter. Honed.

“You look like a boxer,” Kennedy said from his perch by a small window that opened onto the street. He was wearing clothing that Watanabe had provided. Pale olive trousers and a navy blue jacket over a white shirt. A similar uniform was spread out for Lightholler on one of the beds. There was no sign of their old clothes.

“I used to fight,” Lightholler replied. “Back in the academy.” He lined his fists in front of his face, fixing his glance just above the knuckles. Took a few swings, then let his arms fall.

His eyes wandered the room, taking inventory. There were two single beds, a small table between them with a desk light. The table held a single drawer; there’d be a Bible tucked somewhere within. A dressing table against the opposite wall had a vanity mirror fixed above it that failed to give the room any illusion of extra space. A door in the wall led to Watanabe’s room.

“You might have thought he’d spring for a third room,” Lightholler said. “Or are you still worried about letting me out of your sight?”

“Should I be?”

Lightholler gave the room a swift reappraisal. “Where are my things?”

“In the drawer.”

“Hope you found what you were looking for.” Lightholler made himself grin.

“No recording or transmitting devices.” Kennedy wasn’t smiling. “No wires.”

“After all the shit you’ve put me through, you better be kidding me.”

“I’m not.” Kennedy’s reply was the scrape of a whisper.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Webster seems to know more than he should. Much more. Unless the leak is in my organisation, then everything points to you.”

Lightholler measured the distance to the door, considering his options. He said, “You’ve got no right to level accusations. You got me into this.”

“A necessary trait for any decent intelligence agent is a special open-mindedness. Perhaps you know that. Nothing is impossible just because it seems improbable. The carapace taught me that, once and for all. I had to convince myself of your innocence.”

Lightholler sighed. He almost pitied the man. “Are you satisfied?”

“I won’t be satisfied till we’ve reached Red Rock.” Kennedy smiled a bitter smile. “I’ve decided to go on faith.”

He rose from the window ledge slowly with an audible sigh. “I’ll be next door. There are things I need to organise. Watanabe’s trying to charter a flight to Little Rock from Memphis, which means we’ll probably leave here tonight.”

“Wasn’t that always the plan?”

“It all depends on what Watanabe can arrange. If there aren’t any flights, we might be safer here for the moment.”

“He’s your guy,” Lightholler said, probing carefully. Circumstance had prevented any enquiry about the nature of the two men’s relationship. Everything he’d seen suggested a connection that extended beyond simple finances. A string of shady deals and honoured debts, the backdrop of their warped brand of mutual respect.

“Memphis is half a day’s drive from here, and each step south takes him further away from his circle of influence,” Kennedy explained. “I think something happened with his driver. I think he’s having a harder time moving us than he expected.”

“Like I said, he’s your guy.” Lightholler’s gaze dropped to the satchel that sat by Kennedy’s feet. It had gathered quite a few more scrapes and creases since he’d first seen it. “You mind if I read some more of that while we wait?”

“There’s some wild stuff in there. Dark,” Kennedy replied levelly. “Let me know what you make of it.”

Kennedy let himself into the adjoining room. Looking back he said, “Give me a yell if you need anything.” He closed the door behind him.

Lightholler stared, waiting for it to re-open. He edged towards it and heard the sounds of Kennedy moving around. He walked to the main door of their room and tried the handle. It swung easily and he almost slammed the door closing it. A broad smile began to form on his face.

Alone.

And
with the journal.

He dropped onto one of the beds, arms outstretched. The ceiling was painted off-white. A cheap chandelier dangled, refracting the afternoon light in dirty rainbow hues. A radio was playing somewhere. He heard snatches of a saxophone; alternating piano trills.

He was tired beyond reason but he wanted to get up, explore these streets, follow the music to where it might lead. He wanted a woman beneath him, or his fists in someone’s face, knuckles peeling like paint and blood on his hands. He wanted to race through the streets till the air tore ragged in his lungs, the hot pavement scalded his feet.

He had a fleeting image of that girl from the diner as she sashayed towards him. Breasts impossibly firm and hips that flowed from waist to thigh with the promise of desire’s satisfaction. A composite of girls from the street, the ship, the parties, all blending into one perfect creature.

He lit a cigarette. He’d taken to Texas Teas, having smoked enough of Hardas’s, and Silk Cut was nowhere to be found. No ashtray, so he walked around the room smoking and knocking ashes into his palm; walked to the window and shook his hand out over the street, then wiped it against the sill.

Explore these streets? He felt the contradiction between anonymity and the sensation that every eye was upon him. No, there was nowhere for him to go except west—to Nevada.

Still ... a woman beneath him.

He let his thoughts roam where he couldn’t. Perhaps Watanabe could organise something. Perhaps a girl could be brought up to the room. The crumple of bed sheets, the cash on the table, the shower and a cigarette. The caustic reappraisal over a glass of whatever was handy.

The satchel lay near the window, where Kennedy had left it. He opened it and found the journal bundled within the folds of a flag. He removed the flag gently and the journal slipped onto the floor. So did Kennedy’s gun.

He had a vivid flash of the Midtown Tunnel. The sentry’s pistol firing into the agent’s head, and then swinging past him to fire again. He picked up the gun gingerly.
Does everyone in New York City carry a Mauser?
He wrapped it in the flag and replaced them both. There was a drawstring pouch at the bottom of the satchel but he didn’t touch it. He closed the window and shut the blinds.

He brought the journal to his bed, lay down and leaned on an elbow and read into the late afternoon.

Wild stuff. Lucid accounts fused with paranoid delusions.

He rested his head on folded arms, thinking he might doze for a while. Thinking about what Kennedy had told him earlier, at the truck stop.

When sleep came, he dreamed he was still listening to an exposition that soared and carried him to unmeasured heights, gaining a clarity he would never recollect in waking hours. The quilted landscape of the past, present and future mapped clearly before his sleeping eyes.

Agent Reid was waiting for her on the tarmac. His suit was rumpled and the thick curls of his fringe lay plastered to his forehead. His face, haggard, with grey pouches beneath bloodshot eyes, held the remains of a frown.

“Welcome to the frontier, Agent Malcolm.”

She made no protest as he took her bag and led her to the waiting Hotspur. As they walked, he glanced back at the sleek form of the black Raptor, now taxiing towards the runway.

“Didn’t know they took such good care of OPR.”

Malcolm smiled a weary smile. “You’re not under inspection. I’m working Avalon now.”

Reid stopped in his tracks. “There is no Avalon.”

“Would you like my watchword?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyeing her thoughtfully. He said, “An operation goes shadow and suddenly everyone’s working it.” A strange smile crossed his face. “First OPR, now this. The director’s sure got you jumping through hoops.”

“Why don’t you just say what you mean?”

“Goes against all my training, Agent.” His face remained deadpan.

Unsure how to respond, Malcolm said, “Well, just don’t think too loudly. I’ve had a long flight.”

Reid’s look suggested some disappointment. He was nodding slightly, as if in answer to some question posed within. He said, “You really think you’re up to this?”

“I’d be insane to say yes.”

She held his stare till he shrugged and turned away. He started up again, briskly, for the car.

She matched his stride, saying, “I thought you were at Bravo camp.”

He kept his back to her. “I was ... till last night. The director wanted someone local up here. This is the biggest break we’ve had.”

She slid some warmth into her voice. “I never figured you for a Georgia boy.”

“Savannah born and bred.” He placed her bag on the ground and leaned against the Hotspur with his arms crossed. “Look, I’ve been down at the docks all morning. I’ve been dealing with National Security all day. Then I get a call to pick you up from the airport. I figure, being with Professional Responsibility, you’re here to keep an eye on me and spin the story we’re going to run on what happened this morning. Now you tell me you’re hunting Kennedy, that you’re working Avalon...”

She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the noon sun glare. “What
did
happen this morning?”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered her one and, when she refused, lit up. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve worked Evidence Response five years. I’m here to see what your boys come up with.”

“Ever been outside a lab?”

Malcolm frowned. “You said it yourself, Agent Reid, Director Webster’s got me jumping through hoops. But I promise you I’m not going to interfere with your investigation.”

“You’re doing that already.”

“Listen, Agent Reid, I’ve seen five cities in the last day or so, and I’ve dealt with exactly the same crap from all of you, so let me set a few things straight right now. I’ve been sent here to tag what’s been retrieved from the scene, and maybe question the survivor after you’ve had your fun. So save the tough cop routine for the prisoner.”

Reid started to laugh. “Now that’s more like it.” He paused for a moment, but held her stare. “Hell, I guess I
could
always do with another pair of hands.” He picked up her bag and dropped it in the back of the Hotspur, then went around to open the passenger door for her. “So, how does it feel being assigned to a project that doesn’t exist?”

“You tell me.”

He climbed into the driver’s seat, grumbling. “All I know is I didn’t get flown up here on no Raptor.”

* * *

Less than twenty-four hours had brought Patricia Malcolm halfway across the Confederacy, chasing a comet’s tail of faint trails and falsehood. Field offices from Florida to New Mexico had reported numerous sightings of Kennedy. Sometimes he lurked in the shadows of a pool hall and sometimes he was polishing a car fender at a gas station. One report had him at the head of a column of troops wading through a cotton field at dusk. She could picture that.

Malcolm stared out the car window, seeking something that would confirm where she was. The streets, unknown yet familiar, slipped by.
Anytown, CSA
. After a while she said, “Tell me more.”

“Huh?” Reid’s eyes were fixed on the traffic ahead.

“You said you thought I was here to help with a cover-up.”

“The coast guards who found the boat, the wreckage, they’re all being sent down to Fort Worth. Same with the naval police that brought him in.”

Malcolm had received the call from one of Webster’s minions early that morning. Someone had been fished out of the Atlantic by a coastguard vessel following a disturbance on the edge of Union territorial waters. The “disturbance” turned out to be a skirmish between two boats, one of which had been identified as a German captain’s barge. There wasn’t anything to link it to Kennedy, but it was the closest they’d come since Berlin had gone up in flames. After reading the reports, she had her theories. What she needed was confirmation.

“Any word from our opposite numbers in the Union?” she asked.

“Zip,” Reid replied. “It’s like the whole thing never happened. That’s why I thought you might be working on the story.”

Malcolm sighed. “Looks like there is no story. Like I said, I’m here to do a prelim on whatever they brought back from the scene, maybe get flown out there, maybe listen in on your interview. Then I’m back to Houston. I’m just wondering why they bothered sending me up here if they plan on shipping everything back down to Texas.”

Reid cast her a sideways glance. “No one’s said anything about moving the prisoner.”

“He’s in a bad way?”

“Word is he’s burnt up pretty bad.”

The traffic had slowed to a torpid crawl. Reid confined his frustration to a growled murmur. Malcolm unwound her window and leaned out, peering into the distance. The air was warm against her face, a billow of pungent exhaust. She felt momentarily giddy, but couldn’t make anything out past the long stretch of vehicles ahead. There was something unusual about the whole scenario, but she couldn’t place it.