The Perfect Assassin (40 page)

The man was clearly feeling it. She helped him take off the old greatcoat and threw it over a chair as he flopped onto the bed face first. “Now you just lie there a minute or so, luv, whilst I freshen.”

Beatrice made her way to the bathroom. There, she took her time, primping her bleached hair and rubbing over a few smudges in the spackle. After ten minutes, Beatrice opened the door a crack and peeked out. Happily, she saw the bloke right where she’d left him, on his belly, with one leg hanging off the bed. And snoring mightily. She tiptoed over to make sure. His face was scrunched sideways on the mattress and a string of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Beatrice smiled, pleased that he’d gone down over easy. She reached smoothly into his rear pocket and slid out the wallet, the same one he’d been drawing twenties out of all night at the Burr and Thistle. She counted two hundred and ten quid.

“Let’s see,” she thought out loud, “that was going to be fifty. Or did I say seventy?” She gave herself the benefit of the doubt, and then some. In the end, she left forty-five quid, and resisted a temptation to snag the credit card. If she took everything, he might get mad and come looking for her. This way he’d just kick himself for spending what was probably a week’s wages, and that would be that.

Before she left, Beatrice couldn’t resist a look through the small tote bag he’d been lugging around. She opened it and found some duct tape, a magazine, a pair of eyeglasses, shaving gear, and a jumble of toiletries. Nothing of any interest. She took a last look at the poor sod passed out on the bed. He was rather dirty and had a rough beard. Still, from what she could see of his features, he probably wouldn’t have cleaned up half bad.

She bent down close enough to smell his whiskey breath and whispered, “Next time, eh luv?” Beatrice left, closing the door with a deft, practiced softness.

Slaton didn’t move for a full five minutes. He heard her footsteps descend the creaky stairs, and soon after, the sound of a door closing and her high heels clacking on the sidewalk outside. Then there was nothing, save for the usual sounds of late night — the occasional passing car, a dog barking in the distance.

When he got up he did so quickly, which was a mistake. Slaton wasn’t used to the liquor. He had staggered into the bar sober, and discreetly spilled most of the first drink on his clothes, rubbing it over his chin and face to create the right air about himself. Once Beatrice had latched onto him, however, there was no choice but to take a few the proper way. Now he would have to fight the haze, at least for a short time. Only when the room was safe could he allow a much earned rest.

He latched the deadbolt on the door, realizing the old rotted frame probably wouldn’t hold against a stout kick. His wallet was on a table next to the bed and he noted what she’d done. Beatrice was no beginner. Walking down the street earlier, he’d felt her patting down the pockets of his coat as she coaxed him along in a straight line. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist a check of the duffel as well, so while Beatrice had been engaged with the proprietor in the lobby, he’d removed a few things from the duffel — the handgun he’d stolen from the Royal Engineers (a Heckler & Koch 9mm), a bottle of hair dye purchased earlier at a pharmacy, and most of his remaining cash. These he had stuffed into a hip pocket of his overcoat. He kept her on the opposite side as they ascended the stairs, and after taking off the coat in the room, she’d made no effort to go through it again. He was glad, because otherwise he would have been forced to make use of the duct tape. And he’d have lost a lot of valuable time.

Slaton took the money and hair dye from his overcoat, and put them back in the duffel. He then removed his shoes, shirt, and pants. The clothes he laid neatly across the back of the chair by the bed, trousers on top. The duffel went to the seat of the chair. He took the shoes to the bathroom and washed off the remnants of mud from yesterday’s excursion, then set them on the floor to dry next to his shirt and pants. Next, he pulled a small night table toward the bed, positioning it to a point midway along the rail. The H&K went on the table to be precisely at arms length, barrel left and away, safety off. He put his hands on his hips and did a quick inventory. If he had to go, he could be dressed with the money in one hand and the weapon in the other in no more than twenty seconds.

Finally, Slaton laid down, which seemed like an effort in itself. His body still, he felt fatigue fall over him like a heavy blanket. He had done well. In the forty-eight hours since leaving London he’d gotten safe, and, along the way, acquired tools that would be vital to his plan. The rifles were still safely locked in the trunk of the Porsche. He’d collect them tomorrow. The only glitch in the last two days had been the little girl, Jane, who had seen him get out of Smitherton’s truck. She had forced him to move faster than he would have otherwise.

Presently, the only person who could place him in this room was Beatrice, and Slaton doubted she was having any second thoughts about the poor drunk she’d just rolled for a hundred and sixty-five quid. He had to assume that a photo would soon be released, or was perhaps already circulating. If Beatrice should see it, there was a chance she’d recognize him. But the police wouldn’t be focusing on neighborhoods like this, and Slaton doubted Beatrice read many newspapers. Right now she was probably headed home herself. Professionals of all sorts needed sleep to function.

As Slaton lay still, the soreness in his muscles became more pronounced, his body’s protest to last night’s pounding run. It would improve with rest. The last time he’d gotten any true sleep was on the beach. It seemed so long ago. An image of Christine came to mind, the two of them back on the beach, talking about something unimportant. She was laughing, a deep, easy laugh, from the soul of a contented person. He hoped he’d done nothing to change that.

Slaton pushed the thoughts away. Now was the time for sleep. There would be few opportunities in the days ahead. He tried to mentally go over the next day’s timetable, but the schedule began to blur. Slaton finally succumbed and drifted off, his right hand inches from the H & K.

Chapter Twenty

He’d taken the first available flight. Then the first cab. The taxi now stood still, anchored in traffic two miles from the hospital. So close, but he might as well have been where he started, halfway around the world. He pounded his fist on the door in frustration. Cars and trucks everywhere, a mass of mechanization choking on its own fumes, and brake lights as far as the eye could see.

He dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money and threw it into the front seat. The door of the rickety old cab was jammed shut and it took a solid kick to swing it open. It never entered his mind to set a pace. He just ran. Sprinting along the sidewalk, in and out between idling cars and buses. People stared at him. Hadn’t they ever seen a man running for his life before? The first half mile was easy, then his body began to protest. His breaths came with every stride, legs pounding ahead, churning across the concrete and asphalt.
Faster. Faster.
Halfway there, his body told him to slow. Lungs aching, he could feel the sweat beading on his face. None of it mattered. There was only one thing.
Faster!
Then he saw it in the distance and seeing it gave a rush of adrenaline. For the last hundred yards his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. He burst through the building’s entrance and slid to a stop on the slick floor, gasping for every breath. People in white stood staring at him.

He shouted with all the air he could expel, “Where? Where is she?”

“On the top floor,” one of them replied, a finger extended upwards.

He ran to the elevator and slammed the call button. When it didn’t open immediately, he looked for the stairway. It had to be quicker. He would make it quicker. He took the stairs three at a time, and big numbers on the doors at each floor kept track of his progress.
Three … four … five.
His lungs heaved inward, swallowing every wisp of air. Progress was slower now, wobbly as his body demanded he break the pace. He ignored it. So close.
Eight.
The muscles in his legs quivered spasmodically, not wanting to take him any higher.
Nine.
How many more could there be? His head and heart were pounding, harder with each step.
Ten … eleven. Faster!
And then the stairs ended at a final door. He burst through and fell sprawling to the hard floor. The room seemed incredibly bright and he squinted, trying desperately to see down the long corridor ahead. He leaned against a wall and managed to claw his way upright. Just a few more steps.

More people in white. They looked at him knowingly and pointed to the end of a brilliant tunnel ahead. He got up a head of steam and stumbled forward with all that was left in him. At the end of the corridor was a single doorway. It was open, and a diminutive old woman stood at the threshold. She faced him, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Let me by! I have to see her!”

She shook her head and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice practiced in soothing, in caring. “You’re too late. It happened only moments ago.”

“No!” he shouted. “No!” He moved forward and tried to squeeze by the old woman but she wouldn’t budge. He noticed for the first time that the room behind her was darker than the rest of the place. He couldn’t see anything inside. “I’ve come so far,” he pleaded. “I have to see her!” He tried to push the frail woman aside, but again she wouldn’t move. He wedged himself against her with all his strength and tried to break through her blockade, but somehow he was thrown back into the hall. The diminutive woman simply stood there, the nurse’s hat on her head cocked compassionately to one side. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

He was overcome by pain. It sliced into every fiber of his flesh, and he fell to his knees and looked skyward.

David Slaton screamed, and then woke.

He got out of bed quickly, forcing away the familiar demons. As usual, the sleep had eased his physical fatigue, but nothing more. It was noon.

Slaton went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet at the sink, and splashed cold water onto his face. He was particularly thirsty and, not seeing any drinking glasses, he twisted his head down into the basin to drink from the tap. Standing straight, he stretched, noting a few new sore spots from his trials of the last few days. He took the bandages off the wounds on his arm — one from a gunshot, one from a knife. They were still painful, but seemed to be healing. Next, Slaton turned on the shower, letting it run a full ten minutes before succumbing to the fact that there was little, if any, hot water at the Benton Hill Inn. For the second time in as many days he braced himself for a frigid immersion. The icy shards hit like a shot of electricity, and the last numb tendrils of sleep disappeared. This time having a bar of soap as an associate, he scrubbed to remove the dirt and scents that had escaped yesterday’s dip into a tributary of the Avon River. Once finished, he was at least grateful to find a clean, dry towel. It was time to get to work.

Slaton stood in front of the mirror over the washbasin, made a mental picture of what he saw, then went to his backpack and brought it to the bathroom. The first thing he tackled was the two-week-old beard, which no longer served any purpose. Chatham had seen him this way, and if the inspector circulated composites there would certainly be versions that included facial hair. He shaved it all off, leaving conservative sideburns. Next came the hair dye. It was a simple process, ending with a dark brown hue. Anything more severe might have turned an unnatural appearance, but as it was, the hair held a legitimate color, many shades removed from its beginning. He kept a portion of dye in reserve, calculating that one touch-up might eventually be required.

The color change complete, he went to work using a pair of scissors and a hand mirror, cutting away the bulk of his hair to roughly an inch in length all around. Next, he used a set of electric clippers, giving an even shorter, uniform cut. He then took a copy of
Men’s Fitness
magazine from his pack, turned to a page near the end and propped it against the wall at the back of the washbasin. He studied the picture in the advertisement carefully, wanting to match it as closely as possible. With a good quality razor he began shaving the hair just above his forehead. He worked from the center, then outward slightly and back, all the time referring to the picture. At times he had to use the hand mirror along with the wall mirror to track his progress.

The process slowed as he neared the end, but after a careful thirty minutes it was done. Slaton stepped back to get a good look, using the mirror to see different angles, and comparing the appearance to that of the man in the magazine. It was good, but there was more to be done. He’d anticipated a conspicuous difference in skin tone, the top of his head having seen less sun than the forehead. Fortunately, the exposure from his days floating in the Atlantic had caused his face to blister and peel. Now healed, this new skin was relatively light in complexion, a state not undone by the sunless British winter. With another recent purchase, a small jar of make-up, he judiciously touched up the tan lines, masking and blending until there were no remnants of the natural demarcation. Satisfied, Slaton pulled a pair of thick-framed reading glasses from his bag and applied them to his face. Finally, he compared the image in the mirror to the one he’d seen when he started.

Slaton was pleasantly surprised at the magnitude of the change. He now had a severely receding hairline and was quite bald on top. Short, dark hair on the sides further distinguished this new image, and the glasses served to interrupt his facial features. He wondered for a moment if even Christine would recognize him, but then Slaton quashed the thought. Of course she would. And it didn’t matter anyway.

His new appearance would take some upkeep. He’d have to shave the top each morning, keep the make-up properly toned, and perhaps refresh the tint once during the weekend to be on the safe side. But overall, Slaton was assured. Confident that his new image would grant the freedom he required.