Faces in the Fire (25 page)

He glanced at the clock on the wall, one of those old analog jobs you don't see around much these days: bright white face, black hash mark for each minute, wedgelike ebony hands pounding out each and every second, 24/7. Part of why he liked this diner.

The guy was fifteen minutes late. He'd have to make a note of it afterward, let people know. Maybe get the guy's knuckles cracked, a small victory for him. After all, these Handlers (and that's what the Organization called them—Handlers, as if he were some kind of celebrity being escorted on a press junket) were paid to keep him on a leash. A tight leash. Noting their missteps was one of the few small ways he could show a little control over his situation. Keeping with the leash analogy, it was the only way he could snap his jaws, bite the hands of the guys taking him out for a walk.

He smiled.
Analogy
. Mrs. Brown back at P.S. 238 would have loved to hear him use the word. Every once in a while he found himself thinking about her, thinking about the guys like Kurt Marlowe and Neil Kramden, even thinking about Mr. Sherman himself, who had changed his life forever in what he'd come to think of as the Great Sherman Tank—so named because his life had tanked hard after that incident.

Man, had it tanked.

He blew on the coffee, sipped it again. It was lukewarm at best, but he could no more stop himself from the habit than he could stop himself from breathing. It was part of who he was.

A sizzle escaped from the back at the grill, followed soon by the scent of onions frying. Probably an order of steak and onions, maybe a Philly sammy. It was still pretty early for lunch, midmorning, but that's another reason why he liked the Blue Bell Café. You want lunch at 10:00 a.m., no one bats an eye; they just throw your order on the grill. You come in with a broken arm or a face that looks like hamburger, no problem; they just throw your order on the grill. You wander through the front door with your clothes caked in blood, no questions asked; they just throw your order on the grill.

Not that he'd ever come into the grill with blood on his clothes, of course. But he
could
, and that's what counted. Blood wasn't really his style, which was what made him so valuable to the Organization.

He lived everywhere and nowhere, on the road every month of the year. But because the Organization had put down its roots in the DC area, this was as close to home as he got. Three, four times a year he did jobs here, giving him some degree of familiarity. All of the other job sites he usually visited only once.

The door hinge squeaked open, and he knew without looking that it was his guy, his Handler, finally showing up. Close to twenty minutes late. Oh yes, he'd note that for later.

He closed his eyes, cradling his chipped porcelain mug of coffee in both gloved hands, inhaling the earthy scent of the dark liquid inside. A few moments later, he sensed the man standing next to him.

“Mr. Bleach?”

A thin, reedy voice. It shocked him a bit, not the voice he'd expected, not the kind of voice he always heard from these guys, but he showed no reaction. Keeping his eyes closed, he smiled. “Not Mr. Bleach. Just Bleach.”

“Just Bleach?”

He opened his eyes, seeing for the first time the kid who matched the voice. Young, maybe twenty, tall and thin, big patch of red hair up top, couldn't even grow a full mustache yet. Not that it had stopped him from trying; the kid had one of those peach-fuzz excuses on his top lip, which probably included the first hairs that had sprouted on his face a few short years ago. In a hurry to grow up. Too much of a hurry.

Still, he felt sorry for the kid. Maybe because of the voice. He nodded at the empty seat across the booth. “Yeah,” he said, “just Bleach.”

Of course, his real name wasn't Bleach; nobody had a last name like Bleach. Inside, he was still Stan Hawkins. Still thought of himself that way. To everyone else, he was Bleach.

But he would always, to himself, be Stan.

The kid sat down quickly, all elbows and awkward sharp angles. “I'm sorry I'm late Mr.—ah, I'm sorry I'm late, Bleach. I just—this is—”

“Your first time,” he finished for the kid. He blew at his coffee, took another sip. It was starting to go cold now, but the waitress would be back to warm it up any minute.

The
kid nodded his head, overeager. “Yeah, yeah. I just— man, you wanna do good your first time out, and you go and do something like this, end up being late, you know?”

The kid should be aggravating him, probably would be under normal circumstances. Another smile creased his face.
Normal circumstances
. As if he'd ever been in any such thing.

Okay, he had to admit it. He found himself liking the kid, in spite of it all. He decided he wouldn't say anything about being late.

It was the kid's voice that did it.

When the kid spoke, his voice cracked like brittle sugar candy. Just as his own had done, once upon a time.

Stan put down the cup of coffee. “What should I call you, kid?” he said, looking over at the counter and nodding to the waitress.

“Well, my name's Brian,” he said, a bit uncomfortably.

The waitress was coming over with a fresh pot now, so he turned his attention back to the kid. “They didn't give you a name yet?” he asked.

“Well, yeah.” The kid waited while the waitress poured more of the coffee in Stan's cup, shook his head when she asked if he wanted anything.

After she left, Stan spoke again. “But you don't like your name,” he said.

“It's . . . Carrot.”

Stan smiled, blew on his fresh cup. Much hotter now, much better. “Yeah, well, kid, that's the whole idea of the name: you're not supposed to like it.” He paused a minute while the kid stared at the table. “Let 'em see that the nickname bothers you, it'll only be worse.”

The kid smiled and looked at him, getting a bit more comfortable now. “Sticks and stones, all that jazz?”

Stan returned the smile, knowing it came off more ominous than genuine—especially if the kid knew anything about him—but unable to help himself. “In the Organization, it ain't sticks and stones that will break your bones.”

The kid's smile faded. Carrot. A little obvious, maybe, but the Organization always knew your weak points. Each and every one.

“What about your, um, name?” the kid asked.

“I told you: just Bleach.”

“I know. I mean, how'd you get it? I guess I maybe expected you to be an albino or something.”

Stan huffed a bit. More like a leper than an albino. “Ever use bleach, Brian?” he asked.

The kid shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Get stains out of clothes, that kind of thing.”

Stan blew on the coffee again, sipped. “That's what I do. I clean up stains.” He paused. “That kind of thing.”

The kid swallowed hard. So the Organization
had
given him a bit of background on the man they called Bleach. Just as well, really. The kid's fear should keep him out of the way.

“So where to, Brian?” he asked as they left the diner and walked to the car. He already knew where they were going, of course, but he wanted to help the kid relax, get his feet under him a bit.

“Apartment down in Anacostia.”

“Okay.”

“Bad news. Don't really want to wander over there unless you have to.”

“Really.”

“First time in DC?”

He smiled. Where'd they get this kid? “Yeah,” he said. “First time.”

The kid, amazingly enough, was pretty quiet during the first part of the ride. Stan had been sure he would be one of those jittery kinds, twitchy and itchy, constantly talking to keep the nerves in his stomach calm. Even so, he knew a few questions would have to come. They always did.

As the kid wheeled the car off the Beltway and into the concrete jungle, he spoke. “What'd she do?”

Stan smiled, looking out the window at some rusting hulks in the old navy shipyard. He thought it might be what concentration camps looked like. “Don't know, kid.”

“You don't know? You're here to . . . do this, and you don't know what she did?”

“I never know. Makes it easier. Sometimes.”

“But not all the time?”

“Not all the time.”

The kid waited in silence for a few more seconds. “And it doesn't bother you? Not knowing, I mean?”

Stan looked at the kid, who kept glancing back and forth between him and the potholed street ahead. “'Course it bothers me. Nothing about this doesn't. But no one ever asks. 'Cept kids like you.”

The kid sniffed. “I'm not a kid.”

Stan smiled, turned to look out the window again.

The kid's voice came again. Softer. Quieter. “Can I watch?”

Stan pulled in a deep sigh. Everybody wanted to see someone else die. Until they did. Then they never wanted to see it again. Having seen it a few dozen times now, Stan certainly wished he never had. But that ship had sailed a long time ago.

“You don't really want to watch,” he answered.

“Yes, I do.”

“You just drive. That's why you're here. Meet me, pick me up, drop me off so I can catch my flight.”

“I won't get in the way or anything. You won't even know I'm there.”

Stan offered a grim smile as he watched the reflected cement spin by on the inside of the windshield in front of him. “I'll know you're there, Brian. I always know.”

He thought it was a nice touch, using the kid's first name again. Just the right amount of sincerity.

The kid pulled the car to the side of a secondary street, hitting another pothole just as he put the white Chevy into Park.

Stan sat a few moments, studying the decaying building next to them. “This the place?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. She's in apartment . . . uh . . .”

“Number 955.”

“Right.”

Stan opened the car door, shut it behind him, and began walking toward the building. He didn't pause, didn't look at the kid, didn't do anything to encourage him. Still, he wasn't surprised to hear the kid's car door slam behind him as he walked away. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed toward the front door of the crumbling tenement.

No call box, but there was a hole where one used to be. A decade ago, maybe. He paused, considering, then went to the doors and tried them. They opened with barely a give. Not surprising. From the looks of it, security was the bottom of the priority list for this particular building. Right below plumbing and electrical repairs. Maybe even below razing the place and starting from scratch.

He felt the kid behind him now, coming through the door as he walked into the lobby area. He ignored him and walked past the long row of mailboxes, more than half of their tarnished brass doors broken open, abandoned long ago. Some people probably still got mail—maybe even the woman in 955—but he guessed this wasn't a plum route for mail carriers.

Stepping over some trash on the floor, he moved toward the concrete stairs, hearing a loose-limbed shuffle behind him.

The kid's voice echoed in the hollow shell of the building's core. “Don'tcha wanna take the elevator?”

Stan continued as if he hadn't heard the kid, stepping on the first stair and continuing, one foot after the other. A few moments later, halfway up the second flight,
he heard the kid's footsteps behind him again.

He scaled the stairs to the ninth floor, feeling himself breathing heavier—becoming heavier—with each step. But he didn't allow himself to stop. That was the key on these assignments; you kept putting one foot in front of the other, going until it was all done, not letting your mind get a hold of what was happening.

If you did that, you might let that unwelcome thing called a conscience trip you up. And that, in turn, might get you killed.

He was walking down the hallway now, making his way past a few open doors. The first two opened into abandoned rooms, populated only by the ghosts of their former occupants and a few leftover pieces of furniture. The third room offered the muffled sounds of a television, but no one seemed to be watching. A few closed doors after that, and then he was at 955.

The kid was about halfway down the hall behind him, and Stan heard him clear his throat.

“You gonna—” the kid started to say, but this was no time to stop and talk. No time to stop and plan. No time to stop.

He grabbed for the handle of the door, twisted, feeling the latex of his glove move against the faux-brass doorknob. It was unlocked, which initially came as a bit of a surprise to him, but then struck him as fitting. This woman—this Leslie Thomson—had to know the Reaper would someday be at her door, had to know that locking it wouldn't stop or slow anything.

Maybe, in an odd way, she even welcomed it. Often, it seemed they did.

He walked through the door, not bothering to shut it behind him, moved through the living area littered by beer cans and fast-food wrappers, past the unused kitchen with empty spaces where the oven and refrigerator used to be, and into the small hallway at the back. Three doors. One would be a bathroom; the other two, bedrooms.

He put his hand on the first doorknob and twisted, and knew he had the right room as he opened the door. It was warmer in here, moister. A bare window, painted shut from the looks of it, hung above what passed for a bed: two ratty mattresses stacked on top of each other. On the mattresses was a woman in a T-shirt, a soiled blanket around her legs and a lit cigarette clutched in her fingers as she sat propped against the wall.

She looked at him, unsurprised perhaps, but nonetheless fearful. Yeah, he decided, she was probably one of those people. One who almost looked forward to the end, an escape from the endless maze they'd built around themselves.

“You the one?” she asked as he entered the room, and that almost stopped him. No one had ever asked him anything like that. He knew what she meant, what was inside that question, but he also knew he could not, would not, stop to answer it and give her comfort. Keep moving, keep swimming forward. Like a shark.