Dying Memories (26 page)

Chapter 81

Bill sat in the shadows for an hour observing the safehouse, wanting to convince himself it was empty before he went back in there. Not that he exactly thought
G
was setting him up, but he had a funny feeling inside; a gut intuition that one way or another, things were coming to a head.

Before driving back to the safehouse he made a detour so he could hide his papers in a place where he knew they’d be safe. If Dobson was leveling with him, then somewhere in those Forster hedge fund office papers would be evidence of twenty million dollars being diverted to Howard Beasman’s presidential campaign, and Bill would be able to use that as leverage once he found it. If Dobson was lying, there would still be some other connection in there between ViGen and Beasman’s presidential race. There’d have to be with Kloot’s involvement with the campaign. He was going to have to give those papers a more careful study. Not tonight, though, and besides, he didn’t want those papers near the safehouse in case
G
and his men were waiting for him there. Maybe
G
was playing ball with him, maybe not, but he wasn’t going to let those papers get taken from him, not without getting value back in return, and that value would have to be photos and surveillance tapes and whatever else
G
could give him to clear him from the crimes he was being framed for.

Bill took out his cell phone to check the time. Twenty past nine. He had plans for later that night, or more precisely early that morning. He would be waiting until Peter Kloot, and whatever family Kloot had, was asleep, and then he’d be breaking into his home. Still, though, Bill found himself anxious to get inside the safehouse. He wanted to get onto
G’
s web-site; more so he could offer a trade for the ViGen-Beasman connection than caring about any message that might be waiting for him.

He decided he’d spent enough time outside. There was little activity on the street, and it was cold, even in his new pilfered leather jacket. He crossed the street, and moved fast to the front door, picking the lock as quickly as the first time he was there. He opened the door little more than a crack and the matchstick he had earlier jammed into the frame tumbled down. Nobody had opened the door since he’d been there. Bill went inside and closed the door behind him.

He kept the lights off, and stood listening for several minutes for any outside noise. There was nothing, but he couldn’t shake his uneasiness, as if all of this was speeding towards some sort of head-on collision. He found himself mesmerized for a long moment as he stared fixated at the desktop computer that
G
had installed in the room, but he broke the spell by stepping into the kitchen to make himself a pot of coffee. For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, he felt too anxious to deal with
G
’s website right then. At some level he was dreading what message and subsequent task
G
might have waiting for him. There was more to his dread than that, but that was a good part of it; he only had it in him to do one more break-in, and that had to be Peter Kloot’s home, not who
G
would be pushing on him.

He started a pot of coffee brewing, and as he waited for it he found himself waiting for something else also, just not quite sure what that something else was. When the coffee was done, he sat for the next half hour as he emptied the pot cup by cup, barely tasting what he drank. Then he moved over to the computer.

This time he was able to access
G
’s web-site. What came up was a photo of
G
with his eyes closed and his head tilted back and leaning slightly to one side. His skin color was that of a corpse, and his head was positioned in a way to show that his throat had been gashed open. Under the photo was the short message:
you have no friends left
.

Bill sat dazed, his brain not quite comprehending what he was looking at. Then he realized what it was in his subconscious that he’d been waiting for. He dropped to the floor pulling his gun out from his jacket pocket. It happened fast after that—only seconds later the door was kicked open and the large clean-shaven thug, Shackleford, came charging in aiming an assault rifle. He looked puffed up in his suit, and wore heavy gloves and what looked like a hockey helmet complete with visor. Someone behind him held up a high powered light illuminating the interior of the safehouse. Bill got off two rounds hitting Shackleford squarely in the chest, but all it did was slow him down. Body armor under his suit. It had to be that. Shackleford’s eyes lowered to the source of the gunshots, and a harsh smile twisted his lips as he saw Bill lying prone on the floor. He aimed his rifle downwards and Bill squeezed off two more rounds, this time shooting at the small gap between the right shoe and where the body armor ended at his leg. One of the shots hit bone and Shackleford toppled to the floor. As he fell he fired off a shot from his assault rifle and the floor exploded by Bill. Something sharp bit into his side, and he hoped it was only a shard blown off from the wooden floor.

Whoever was holding the light had tossed it once the shooting began. The room fell mostly into darkness, only a faint glow coming from the flickering image on the computer screen of
G
’s corpse. Shackleford was pushing himself up to his knees, his rifle still gripped in his hand. Bill got to his feet and ran forward to kick the rifle away. Showing surprising reflexes for a man his size, Shackleford dropped the rifle and caught Bill’s foot in his near baseball-mitt sized hand. Bill tried to pull his foot back but couldn’t. It was like he was being held by stone. Shackleford grunted from deep inside his gut as he reached up with his other hand and grabbed Bill around the lower leg, his grip near crushing him.

“You’re not going anywhere, asshole,” he forced out through a pained grimace. As he lurched forward, Bill lost his balance and fell on top of him, landing so he could just about shove the muzzle of his 9mm into the gaping bullet wound showing on Shackleford’s ankle. Bill fired two more rounds into the exposed wound, a sickening thud sounding with each shot as more bone was hit. Shackleford let go of him and howled in agony.

Scrambling to his feet, Bill looked around. The front door was open but Simon or whoever had been holding up the light earlier wasn’t in sight. Picking up the assault rifle from the floor, Bill used a two-handed swing to strike Shackleford in the back of the head. Helmet or no helmet, the large thug stopped his howling and collapsed motionless onto the floor.

Bill reversed his hold on the rifle and stood pointing it towards the doorway while listening for any approaching footsteps. He had to get out of there, if for no other reason than neighbors had probably called the police. Making his way to the kitchen, he grabbed a jar of tomato sauce from a cabinet, then keeping low, crept to the bathroom. From there, he rolled the jar towards the front door, hoping the noise would draw out the other man. Then he was moving fast, sliding the bathroom window open and crawling through it. He was halfway out when something came at him. He threw out his hand to intercept whatever it was, dropping his gun in the process.

It turned out to be Simon and his hypodermic needle. Bill caught hold of the man’s wrist. Off balance, he fell from the window sill to the ground below bringing Simon with him.

“Your fireworks were so unnecessary,” Simon admonished Bill, his tone soft and almost melodic as he fought to push his hypodermic needle towards Bill’s face. “We were just going for some shock and awe. My associate would never have fired at you if you hadn’t shot him first.”

“I didn’t just shoot him once. I shot him three times in the ankle, you fucking freak,” Bill said as he struggled to keep the needle away. “Probably not much bone left. Besides, your friend missed, so no harm done.”

“I don’t think so. You’re bleeding. Not that it will matter much soon.”

“Only a splinter from the floor,” Bill said, his voice growing strained from his effort to fight off this other man.

Simon simply smiled at that. His face edged closer to Bill’s, the needle only inches from Bill’s neck. Bill was amazed at how strong this man was, especially given how thin he was. Christ, the guy was at best half the size of his thug companion, and Bill himself had to have at least forty pounds on him, but he seemed to have steel tendons for arms and was winning the fight, his needle inching ever closer. Of course the man was using two hands against Bill’s one. Bill’s other hand was fumbling inside his jacket pocket. As the needle was nearly touching his jugular, Bill had his hand on what he was after, and then he was spraying mace into Simon’s eyes.

At first the mace didn’t seem to have any effect on Simon other than putting the struggle at a standstill. But after another shot of mace was sprayed, Simon screamed and gave up the battle to rub at his eyes with his palms, the needle falling harmlessly to the ground. Bill knocked Simon off of him, and then as the man lay on the ground desperately rubbing at his now red dot-sized eyes, Bill crawled on top of him. Bringing his arm back, Bill punched the man as hard as he could in the middle of the face. He could feel cartilage and bone giving way on impact. The blow probably knocked Simon out, but Bill brought his fist back and punched him a half dozen more times, breaking more bones in the man’s face and leaving it a pulpy mess.

The adrenaline now was pounding in him, leaving Bill almost dizzy. He found the gun he had dropped, also the hypodermic needle that had fallen to the ground. The leather case Simon had been carrying was nearby, and Bill placed the needle inside of it and took the case with him. Still no police, at least no sirens. Maybe it had been arranged ahead of time for the police not to come if calls came in. As Bill headed towards the front of the house, he was slowed by a tearing in his side. His fingers traced a groove that had been torn from the leather jacket, and when he brought his hand back up his fingers dripped red. Simon was right. He had been shot, but the bullet only grazed him. The adrenaline rush that had been surging in him had mostly masked the pain, but now with it fading, the wound hurt like hell. For a moment he felt lightheaded, but it passed, and steeling himself, he moved on, making sure to keep in the shadows of the house.

Out front out front was a familiar-looking black Mercedes sedan. A grim smile froze on Bill’s face. He went back into the safehouse and searched through the pockets of the thug he had knocked out. With car keys in hand, Bill hobbled back out to the Mercedes.

Chapter 82

It was midnight when the lights went out downstairs. A light was still visible from the third floor, but Bill had waited outside Peter Kloot’s Brookline address long enough. He left his hiding place and started towards the house. After leaving
G’
s safehouse in Chelsea, he had stopped at a twenty-four hour convenience store where he picked up a bottle of Advil, a gallon jug of water, some junk food, cotton, antiseptic ointment and bandages. Bill showed the stuff to the clerk, and dropped fifty bucks on the counter without bothering to wait for the clerk to ring it up. If the clerk recognized him he didn’t say anything, nor did he complain about not being able to ring up Bill’s purchases. If he called the police later, Bill had no idea. His guess, though, was the guy was happy just pocketing the fifty dollars.

Bill was suspecting his wound was more than a grazing. He had tried irrigating it with the water, then applying antiseptic ointment around the area and wrapping bandages around a thick wad of cotton. It hurt like hell and it was still bleeding enough to soak through his bandages.

The pain slowed him as he made his way to the back of Kloot’s Victorian mansion. A back door led him into a laundry room. From there he started searching rooms. There were a lot of them on the first floor; kitchen, dining room, living room, piano room, library, a small home theatre, den, but finally he found what looked like an office.

Bill turned on a lamp, putting it on a low setting. He was searching through a file cabinet when he heard a creaking outside the room, then the door opening. He flattened himself against the wall and had his 9mm out, and watched as
G
walked into the room carrying a small revolver.
G
stopped a few feet from him to scan the room, his gun hand at his side. He still hadn’t seen Bill.

“I thought you were dead,” Bill said.

G
jumped at the sound of Bill’s voice. As he turned he first spotted the 9mm being pointed at him, then Bill’s face. He put a finger to his lips hushing Bill, then stood for a moment with a hand to his chest trying to catch his breath. In a soft whisper, he said, “You scared the bejeezus out of me. What made you think I was dead?”

“There was a photo of you on the web-site with your throat slashed.”

G
’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at that. “The bastards must’ve hacked the website and Photoshopped that picture of me. Christ. So what are you doing here?” His eyes lowered quickly to note the red stain spreading along Bill’s side. “And why are you bleeding?”

“Eh, a flesh wound,” Bill said, waving off his injury. “I’m here because Peter Kloot seems to be the key to what’s going on.”

“Same with me,”
G
acknowledged. “I finally received permission from my bosses to raise the level of this investigation. Why don’t the two of us see what Kloot’s got in these file cabinets. And you can lower your gun now.”

Bill nodded, but he kept the gun trained on
G
’s chest. “Why don’t you look through them?” Bill offered. “I’m feeling a little woozy, probably from my flesh wound.”

He took several steps back to let
G
take his place. Something just wasn’t right with this picture. He could understand how jittery G acted as he bent over the file cabinet. Hell, the guy had a 9mm trained on him, anyone would be nervous. But the way
G
was dressed seemed off. Slacks, a polo shirt, loafers, no socks. Kind of casual. Where was his jacket? And why no gloves?

Bill took several more steps backwards. When he saw the framed family photograph on Kloot’s desk he understood.