The Intruders (47 page)

Authors: Michael Marshall

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General

BOOK: The Intruders

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The picture had been taken indoors, with flash, and was very sharp. I magnified it and scrolled to the area at the side of Bethany’s right eye, then sat there looking at it for a long time.

She did have a scar there. Small, crescent-shaped.

When I closed my eyes, I knew, as Gary had, where I’d seen that scar before.

I walked into town. It took a long time. Pushing through six inches of snow caused a sharp pull in my shoulder and neck with every step. By then I had accepted the pain. There was no escape from it.

Birch Crossing was almost empty of cars, but Sam’s Market was open. I walked alone along the aisles, staring without comprehension at all the things you could buy. My hand hovered over a can of sauerkraut for some time, but then I realized I didn’t know why I liked it and left it where it was.

When I got to the checkout, Sam himself was standing there. He bagged my few purchases without saying a word, but as I shuffled toward the exit, he spoke.

“Could get the boy to bring things up to you at the house,” he said. “If you wanted.”

I stopped, turned. I remembered the last time I’d seen him, at the gathering at Bobbi Zimmerman’s house. I thought it was unlikely I would be buying anything in Birch Crossing again, but I nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Need to look after that shoulder,” he said.

I hadn’t managed to make much sense of this by the time I struggled back to the road that led to the house. And by then I’d noticed that the gate had been pushed wide open and there were tire tracks leading up our drive.

A car I’d never seen before was sitting next to the SUV. I let myself into the house and went to the top of the stairs to look down.

A man was sitting on my sofa.

I went back to the kitchen. Poured a cup of coffee from the pot. I had gotten badly chilled on the walk back. I took the coffee down the stairs and sat in the chair opposite the sofa. The man had a cup on the table in front of him.

“Make yourself at home,” I said.

“The keys,” Shepherd said, nodding toward the table. “Rose doesn’t need them anymore.”

“Why are you here?”

He reached into his coat, pulled out my gun and my cell phone. Put these on the coffee table, too. Then finally the clip from the gun. “How’s the shoulder?”

“How do you think?”

“It was nothing personal. You just looked like the kind of man who would get in the way.”

“You killed a friend of mine.”

“Like I said. Nothing personal.”

“You’re the second person who’s shown concern for my shoulder this afternoon.”

“I assume you’ve figured out that this town is one of their places? A headquarters?”

“I was getting there. I chanced upon a pre-meeting celebration, I think, at my neighbors’. Are there a lot of towns like this?”

“Only two in this country. There aren’t many of these people, all told.”

“And who are they, exactly?”

“I assume Rose gave you the wacky version. She likes to kid around sometimes. They’re just a club, Mr. Whalen. Like the Masons. The Rotarians. The Bohemian Grove. Successful people who scratch one anothers’ backs. Some of them have this mythology thing going. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s like having Santa Claus as an excuse to give presents at Christmas. Nothing more.”

I looked at the stuff on the table. “How come I’m getting these back?”

“They’re yours, and the big meeting is over. Evidently you were discussed.”

He reached into his coat once more, brought out a small box, which he put on the table next to the other objects. “If you decide to accept, walk up the hill and talk to Mr. Zimmerman. He’ll explain the deal.”

“Whatever it is, I’m not doing it.”

He rose. “That’s up to you.”

I watched as he ascended the stairs. At the front door, he stopped, turned.

“Let me just make one thing clear,” he said. “These people only take yes-or-no answers. If it’s no, someone will come to call on you. That won’t be personal either.”

He left.

I picked up the cell phone first. Amy’s number had been removed, along with Rose’s, and the call log had been erased. I could look up Amy’s number easily, of course, but I knew that there would be no point. If I hoped ever to see her again, it would not come about through a phone call. At the moment I had no idea what an alternative course of action might be.

I put the phone back and moved the small box toward me. Inside were business cards, printed on pure white stock. There was nothing on them but a name, or perhaps it was a job title.

Jack Shepherd

I left the cards on the table and went outside to the deck, closing the sliding door behind me. The world sounded dead and flat.

And very quiet.

I walked to the end of the deck and down the stairs. Instead of heading onto our land, I turned and went around the side of the house, up the slope, pushing the snow-covered bushes aside. When I neared the front, I got in close to the wall and moved my head out carefully.

The car was still parked in our drive.

I pushed the clip into my gun and flicked off the safety. Kept low as I moved across to the back of the car. Straightened quickly as I slipped out around the driver’s side. There was no one in the car. Just a black suitcase on the backseat.

I walked over to the door to the house. Stood to the side and pushed it. It opened slowly. I swung out, gun in front. My shoulder didn’t hurt anymore. I nudged the door with my foot and stepped inside.

The house was still and silent. I took four steps, five, until I was within six feet of the top of the stairs. I waited there.

Moments later Shepherd came out of Amy’s study and into the center of the living room, moving quietly, swiftly, at ease in someone else’s place. There was a gun in his hand.

I fired three times.

When I got down to the living room, he was still alive, lying twisted on his back. He seemed to be gazing at something behind me, something or someone, staring past me like a man facing down a crowd. He was trying to raise his gun. I didn’t think he was going to make it, but you want to be sure.

I shot him again, and it was done.

I stood over him for five minutes, perhaps ten, as his blood pooled out over the wooden floor. It was spattered over the coffee table, too, and across the sofa where I’d last seen Amy when she was in this place, sitting working, as she so often had. I remembered the way she would look up at me and smile when I came down the stairs, making me feel I was home. I remembered also something that she/Rose had said:

There’s some concern over how Marcus got through in the first place. One of our helpers may have been involved.

It occurred to me to wonder whether Rose had sent Shepherd here to tie me up as a loose end or if the hope had been for it to pan out the other way around. If I had already started working for them.

“You killed a friend of mine,” I said again, to the man at my feet. But I knew in my heart that was not why I had done what I’d done.

He’d come to murder me. I had no choice.

I am not a killer. Not Jack Whalen. Not my father’s son. But something inside me is, and with every year that passes, I feel it struggling harder to get out.

I am on the road now. I am in Shepherd’s car. I brought nothing from the house except a photograph of myself with a woman I once loved and may once more, if I ever see her again. I have looked in the suitcase that lies on the backseat. There is a change of clothes that will probably fit me, and a large sum of money. Both the case and its contents belong to me now, I guess.

It is growing dark, and the sky is leaden. It will snow again later. I will watch it alone. By then I hope to be far from here. I don’t know where I’m going.

I never have.

Acknowledgments

A huge thank-you to my editors, Jane Johnson and Carolyn Marino, for their help in making this book a book; also to Sarah Hodgson, Lisa Gallagher, Lynn Grady, and Amanda Ridout; to Jonny Geller and Ralph Vicinanza for advocacy and advice; to Sara Broecker and Jon Digby for research; to Ariel for the web; to Stephen Jones, Adam Simon, David Smith (and The Junction) for support—and to Andreia “Peppa” Passos for so much else. Mad props as always to my ho, Paula, and to the shortie, N8. Y’all be clutch.

About the Author

Philip K. Dick award winner MICHAEL MARSHALL is a screenwriter and the author of the trilogy The Straw Men, The Upright Man, and Blood of Angels. He lives in London.

www.michaelmarshallsmith.com

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Credits

Jacket design by T.H. Nicholas

Jacket photograph © by Michael Manzanero/Arcangel Images

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE INTRUDERS. Copyright © 2007 by Michael Marshall Smith. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Microsoft Reader June 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-147922-9

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