The Silver Bear (18 page)

A pharmacy sits on top of a hill on the opposite side of town. Without Pooley, without a middleman, I have no way to see a doctor or procure a prescription. As it is, I have to heal myself with over-the-counter medication, but I have done this long enough to know what to look for, how to up the dosages, how to dress my wound to stave off infection. I fill a basket with tubes of camphophenique, rolls of gauze, bottles of extra-strength Tylenol gel-caps, boxes of Q-tips and spools of medical tape. I am fighting a fever now, and if the clerk looks at me strangely, I don’t take notice. I pay in cash and leave quickly.

A tiny church shares the parking lot with the pharmacy. I didn’t notice it on the way in, but as I toss the bags into the car, light reflects off the stained glass and catches my eye. My mind seizes on that look on Cortino’s face as he came out of the church built into the hill in Positano. The look of peace he had somehow found inside that building and carried out with him. Improbably, I find my feet moving toward the church door.

The sanctuary is empty. No more than twenty pews divide into two columns and point toward a small riser holding a pulpit. A simple mahogany cross decorates the back wall. The afternoon light filters through the stained glass outside and bathes the room in soft ethereal light. I think about Pooley and suddenly my legs feel tired. I sit down and steady my breathing until a feeling of nausea passes. How long I rest, I can’t be sure.

“Afternoon.”

A young man stands in the aisle, awash in the light from the windows. He is dressed conservatively, with a blue shirt tucked into gray slacks.

“Afternoon,” I manage.

“Are you okay?”

“Just resting.”

“You came to the right place.”

I am hoping if I stay very still he will go away. Instead, he sits in the pew in front of me and swivels his head to face my direction.

“Are you new to the church?”

“Just passing through.”

“A traveler?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to slip in here . . .”

He waves his hand. “A church with locked doors is like screen doors on a submarine. Purposeless. My name is Dr. Garrett.” He extends his hand and I shake it. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I haven’t headed for daylight. Fuck, am I tired.

“You look young for a preacher.”

“That’s kind of you to say. But I’ve been doing this for a long time. Twenty-somethin’ years now.”

I smile weakly.

“Tell you what. I’ll let you speak to the Lord all you want. If you need me, my office is just on the other side of that door.”

He stands up, and I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I hear myself say, “Preacher?”

“Yes?”

He pauses standing over me.

“Aren’t you worried about danger coming through the door?” I hear myself saying. But the voice isn’t mine, not exactly. At least it doesn’t sound like me.

The preacher looks at me thoughtfully. “No. This place is about comfort, about sanctuary . . .”

But he stops suddenly as I stand up and grab him by the throat. His eyes change quickly, from confidence to surprise to terror. Well, that’s not right. It’s not I watching those eyes, not I pulling the pistol out of the small of my back, not I whose right hand explodes in a blur and smashes the pistol into the side of his face, smashes him again, pistol-whipping him furiously, bam, bam, bam, over and over and over . . .

“Why?” the preacher manages as he goes down between the pews.

And I don’t know how to answer the question, I don’t know why, I don’t know who this person is beating a defenseless face on a defenseless preacher in a defenseless sanctuary until that face is a mask of blood and gore.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the person who is not I mutters, and then spits on the moaning lump on the floor.

In five minutes, I am on the road again, heading west through the desert, the infinite white line of the highway sliding underneath my tires. It is not I who holds the wheel steadily, the pain in my side forgotten. It is not I with a grin on my face.

 

 

CLOUDS
hang like a ceiling over downtown Seattle, low and gray and threatening. To the south, Mt. Rainier fills the horizon like a wart on the landscape. Something about it seems foreign here, wrong, like it broke away from a mountain chain and moved off to sulk on its own. This morning it is blindfolded, its peak lost above the clouds.

It is time to focus. I have yet to set up even the basics for my kill and subsequent escape. Since Positano, since I managed to crawl to the road with two bullets in me, since I somehow stole a Vespa and somehow fought off losing consciousness and somehow negotiated sixty miles to Naples in the dead of night without being stopped by the police and somehow holed up until Pooley could get to me, get a doctor to me, since that evening when I walked into a room to make a kill but instead walked into a trap where I was going to be the fall guy, since then I have put much greater thought into my assassinations. Vespucci placed importance on the psychology of the killing business, but in retrospect he paid short shrift to executing the executions. His job was to pull together a wealth of information, giving his assassins the best avenues to kill a target. But he left the actual task to his hired killers, left the method and the deed and the strategy to his men.

I had planned to get to Abe Mann at a speech he was to give in Los Angeles the day before the convention started. The only rule I had was that the kill had to be the week of the convention, but the exact time and place were left to my discretion. I knew he had plans to speak using a hundred local firefighters behind him, and I was angling Pooley to get the contact information about who arranged the “staging” of these events. Once the information was obtained, I would manipulate either the person or the list or one of the firefighters so I would be included in the event, so there would be a spot for me on the dais behind him. I knew ten different fire stations would have to send men to fill those spots and there would be little overlap in the ranks. An unfamiliar face wouldn’t be noticed, especially if I had set the table, so to speak, had the proper credentials and ID and documentation to pass myself off. I would use a Secret Serviceman’s gun.

But that plan shattered like a broken mirror when Hap killed Pooley in Santa Fe.

Hap. Of course. Hap brought himself into the equation and Hap became the solution. By taking away my options, Hap
became
the option. I would find Hap Blowenfeld, I would locate him and instead of killing him, I would piggyback on his plan to kill the congressman. If I got lucky, I would leave him for dead, framed in the process, like the woman in Positano tried to do to me.

I
am fortunate the bullet passed through my side without shattering a rib or puncturing an organ. I’m fortunate it is a clean wound and the bandages and medication have stanched the bleeding and diminished the pain. I feel better. Not whole, not one hundred percent, but better.

Now to find Hap. The supplier route to Hap failed spectacularly; that door was obviously shut, and I would have to open a new door. This time I didn’t want to kill him, just find him and follow him.

I get up, shower, redress my bandages, dress casually—black jeans and black T-shirt—and take Interstate 5 into downtown. I exit at Madison and head to the waterfront. I want to see the Pacific, to stare out at the horizon where the dark water meets the light sky. I find a metered parking space and make my way across a small patch of grass where businessmen and women lie in the sun, content to feel intermittent sunlight, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

I stand at the water’s edge for an hour. Dark water meeting light sky. It is time to finish this. To forget connecting with Abe Mann. I realize I no longer need to connect with him, we were connected long before I saw his name at the top of the page. I only need to sever the connection, once and for all.

It hits me there, watching the light and the darkness disappear into each other. The connection I need to sever isn’t the one between Mann and me. The connection I need to sever is the one holding me back.

I find a pay phone and dial a number from memory. After a brief exchange with Max, he puts me through to Mr. Ryan in Las Vegas.

“I agree to your offer.”

“You will let me represent you? Exclusively?”

“You have your Silver Bear.”

I hear an exhale through the line, like he is allowing himself a moment for this to sink in. It is a rare moment of emotion for a stoical man, and it pleases me.

“I am very happy. You will not regret this.”

“I’m sure I won’t and I am happy as well, Mr. Ryan.”

“Call me William. We are partners.”

“William.”

“You are finishing a job now?”

“Yes. It will be finished by the end of the week.”

“And after, how soon would you like to work again?”

“Give me two months.”

“Where would you like to work?”

“The Northeast, preferably.”

“Is that your home?”

“Yes, Boston.”

“Ahhh. There is a lot of work in New York right now.”

“That would be fine.”

“I’ll have a file for you in two months.”

“Great.”

He waits, knowing I have more to tell him.

“There is one other thing, William. One thing I need immediately on my current job. I don’t have Pooley any more, and I will give you his commission for this assignment.”

“Yes, that will be fine. What can I get you?”

“I need you to arrange a meeting.”

“Yes?”

“There is an East Coast fence named Vespucci. I worked for him originally. He brought me in. We had a bit of bad blood when we went our separate ways.”

“Yes?”

“I need a meeting . . .”

“Okay . . .”

“In Seattle.”

“I believe this will be difficult.”

“That’s why I’m joining you. Exclusively. Because your reputation is you handle difficulty very well.”

“Yes, I see. When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Yes. How may I reach you?”

“I’ll call you in twelve hours.”

“Yes. It will be done.”

 

 

I
walk to the Pike Place Market, a short quarter-mile from the sea. As far as tourist traps go, this isn’t a bad one, and I find it sparsely crowded at this time of day in the middle of the week. I buy a newspaper and eat some grilled salmon and stare at nothing and think of nothing. The fish tastes bland. Outside, it starts to rain.

 

 

THE
meeting is set for a bar at the Sea-Tac airport. This is a smart choice by Vespucci for obvious reasons. Shooters like to meet in airport terminals; security being what it is, it is damn near impossible to sneak in a weapon. I have yet to hear of a man killed in an airport bar; the locale is a safe haven for dangerous men to meet and exchange pleasantries. And information.

I purchase a ticket to Toronto I don’t intend to use and arrive an hour early to get my bearings. The bar is named C.J. Borg’s, a small place with a single entrance and exit, dimly lit and half full, just off the Alaskan Airways terminal. I pick a booth in the back where I can watch the entrance. Even in a high security zone, I don’t want to take any chances.

Vespucci is unmistakable as he waddles into the bar, squints as his eyes adjust to the absence of light, and then finds me in the corner. He hasn’t changed, his hair is still dark, and his weight looks the same. The only difference is his eyes; there is a weariness there I didn’t notice before, like whatever pleasure he once got out of life has long since evaporated.

“Hello, Columbus.”

“Hello.”

He keeps his expression, and his voice, even.

“You have been well?”

“No. Not very well, Mr. Vespucci.”

“Yes. I know as much. I am sorry about your fence.”

“Sorry doesn’t quite cover it.”

“No. I understand.”

“Here’s what I want. I want you to serve up Hap Blowenfeld or whatever his real name is. I know we got tripled up on this job and I know no one asked for it and I know we’re spending more time trying to kill each other than trying to eliminate the target. I’ve already disposed of Miguel Cortega. I will do the same to Hap.”

“Why should I . . . how is it you say . . . serve up my own man?”

“Because I’m going to get to him one way or another. And I’m going to finish this job.” I level my eyes at him. “And if you don’t help me, I’m going to finish you.”

He starts to say something but I interrupt . . .

“Jurgenson in Amsterdam. Sharpe in D.C. Korrigan in Montreal. Reeves in Chicago. Cole in Atlanta. You know of these?”

He nods his head.

“I put them all down. They were supposed to be impossible and I got to them all. I’ve never targeted anyone off-job, but if you don’t help me, you will be my first.”

He leans back, contemplating.

“You’ve changed,” he says at last.

“You changed me.”

His whole body sags a little in the chair, like I made the weight on top of his shoulders heavier. He leans forward, then pauses, like he wants to pick his words carefully.

“I know where she lives.”

For a moment, I say nothing. There is no need for him to explain whom
she
refers to; I know who she is without giving the name. It is a calculated move on his part, and if he is expecting me to blink, he played the wrong cards.

“I don’t care.”

“Ahhh . . . I think you do care, Columbus. I think you would very much like to know what I know.”

“You don’t think I could’ve gotten to her a thousand ways since that job eight years ago? I’m the one who sent her packing. Don’t forget that.”

“You sent her packing because you care for her. You kicked her in the stomach because you care for her. You haven’t tracked her down because you care for her. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as I thought.”