Going Grey (69 page)
"Rob, I need a diversion. Whatever you've got, buddy.
Now.
"
Mike
aimed the AR-10 and found himself thinking dumb thoughts about the line between self-defence and assault. But he knew he'd pull the trigger the moment he saw a weapon, before his conscious mind even finished processing the image. He wanted this to be clean and unambiguous,
his
version of clean. This wasn't Iraq or Nazani or anywhere he could walk away from and forget. This was his home. It would be tainted forever anyway, but there were degrees of contamination.
He
adjusted his aim. His earpiece popped. "In position," Rob said. "Five, four, three, two –
go
."
The lights flared and the garage doors made a faint whirring sound, then the Jag rumbled into life. The guy jerked his head around to look. Mike saw him stand from a squat and bring up a rifle to aim at the garage in one movement.
Endex, you bastard.
Mike fired
, hitting him from the side. The guy spun but didn't fall. Adrenaline kept him going long enough to turn and aim at Mike before two more shots put him down. He dropped to one side and stopped moving. It was over that fast. It didn't take long to change the course of two lives.
Mike paused to check for movement before closing in with his AR-10 trained on the body, looking for the rifle or another weapon.
"Rob, I'm okay. Checking."
He had to sound as if he'd fired in a state of fear, just a homeowner afraid for his family and property. The radio's only security was its short range.
His story still had to be watertight.
One down
or
clear
would have sounded a little too much like a planned execution if anyone else out there could hear him.
"Roger that," Rob said. "On my way."
"Do
not
move. Wait, out."
Mike
flicked on his tactical light. The man's left arm was flung out to his side and his right was folded back towards his head. The rifle lay a yard away. Mike could see two dark patches of blood, one spreading just below the guy's collarbone and another at the side of his chest below his arm. There was a head wound as well, but it looked like a graze. He squatted to check for a pistol. There was bound to be another one somewhere.
Shit
. The bastard was still breathing. His eyes opened.
Fine;
Mike had an excuse now for touching the body, and the police wouldn't wonder why he pushed the rifle well out of reach, opened the man's jacket, or patted him down. They'd think he'd tried to give first aid.
Pistol? Check. Plates? Yes. But they don't quite cover every angle, do they, buddy? Phone? Nothing.
Where's your damn phone?
Mike stood outside himself for a split second and hated the completely detached, rational, calculating Michael Brayne who crouched over a man who lay dying while he thought through every move and precaution. The guy was struggling for breath, still conscious.
"Who sent you?" Mike wanted to hear the name
Weaver
. He took out his burner and pressed the recording icon. He couldn't hand any admission to the police, but he
had
to hear it and know he hadn't imagined it. "Who's paying you?"
"Bastard," the guy choked. "Saw it."
"Who, me? Weaver?"
"You. Fucking Guard?"
It was an odd answer. The guy was going down fast. Mike had seen it once too often. "Just tell me who sent you."
"Weaver. Asshole. Liar."
"Thank you."
And here I am, thanking the guy. You're right, Rob. I'm weird. I should call the police now. I should be shaking. I shouldn't be focused on getting information I can't use.
But what now? He was bloodied, clutching a phone, and a man was dying in front of him. The guy had seen what Ian was. He'd talk, if not to Weaver then to someone else. Mike had passed the point of doing deals. He should have put a round through the guy's head to save him from gurgling out his last moments like this, but he couldn't pull the trigger. He hoped it was because he couldn't bring himself to do it. But the thought uppermost in his mind was that he had to call the police, and that meant he had to let the injuries take their course.
Look at me. Look at the cold, ruthless, has-to-be-done Mike I've got lurking inside.
So much for doing good deeds.
Dying seemed to take forever. Mike stepped back a few paces to wait, appalled at himself but in no doubt what he had to do. Eventually the ragged breathing became a regular, rapid stoking noise, and then it stopped. Mike squatted again to check for a pulse.
It was over at last. "Rob? Rob, I've shot someone."
Mike waited and switched off the radio. Rob came crashing through the undergrowth, a flashlight beam stabbing ahead of him. He looked down at the body, then angled the light at Mike.
"Is he browners, then?"
"Yes. No pulse."
"Well, forget the shovel and the bag of lime. Before we call the rozzers, let's check. Bruises? Ian punched the shit out of him, remember."
"They won't look fresh," Mike said. "Thirty-six hours. Besides, we don't have marks on our hands, do we?"
"Other suspicious shit?" Rob checked him over with the flashlight. "Okay, let's have your plates and vest and anything that looks more than a basic self-defence set-up. Goggles are normal for Yanks, yeah?"
"
Yeah. Good call." Mike fumbled with his jacket.
Would I have thought of all that?
"Thanks."
"That's it. You can call nine-one-one now. Then call your dad.
Carefully
. Like it was public. And let him do the lawyering up."
Mike handed Rob his burner. "Put this in my safe." He took out his registered cell, the one that would now be linked to the 911 call forever. "I'm sorry, buddy."
"No problem, mate. Whatever you do, I've got your back. Just give me my script."
"Tell Livvie I'm okay, will you?"
"Will do."
Mike could now see himself as two personas on a parallel path, the everyday Mike who was disturbed by all this and the fact that Rob was so calm about it, and the necessary Mike who still had things to do to shut this down for good. He wanted Nice Mike to come back, but not just yet. Cold Mike still had work to do. Nice Mike could return when he told Rob the full details, because he was damned sure he'd need to when it all sank in.
"Hello?" Mike took a breath when the dispatcher answered and recited the litany he'd learned as a child, filling in the gaps that had once been about traffic accidents and medical emergencies. "I need police and EMS. I've shot an armed man on my property. My name's Michael Brayne and the location is twenty-seven-sixty-three Forest Road, Westerham Falls. I think the man's dead."
M
inutes into the aftermath, Mike was already calculating the lies and omissions he'd need to build and maintain to keep Ian out of this. And he still didn't know who else was out there, waiting.
Ian was right. One way or another, it would never be completely over.
I need to see you, Shaun. I plan to be at your offices in Lansing on Tuesday afternoon. Make yourself available. It won't be a long meeting, but I insist we have it.
Leo Brayne, in a message to Shaun Weaver, KW-Halbauer.
MAINE STATE POLICE BARRACKS, PORTON
SUNDAY, 1430 HOURS.
TV shows always made it look like armed misunderstandings were bagged, tagged, and filed away in an hour, but like everything else on screen, it was a bloody lie.
Rob was still in a quiet office at the cop shop, explaining what he'd seen. Mike was somewhere else with the lawyer summoned by Leo. The Braynes could conjure up a high-powered brief on a Sunday morning, possibly their most impressive superpower.
It was almost like old times, though. Rob was practiced in answering questions in the right way and giving a dispassionate account of a hard contact, service style; some iffy-looking vehicles in the days leading up to the incident, alarms tripped, attempts to investigate, firearms brandished, shots fired, and that was how it went down, honest, officer.
Actually, it was. It was all a matter of where you put the emphasis.
"You sure you don't want your lawyer, sir?" the trooper asked. "You don't even have to be here, but if he's around, he's welcome to sit in."
"No need," Rob said. "We just want to get this sorted. It's pretty traumatic for our families. Anyway, Mike's dad called him."
"And you're certain you don't know the man?"
Rob was never sure how good he was at lying these days. There were lies people knew you were telling and that you were expected to tell, like saying you hadn't been deployed somewhere when everyone had seen it on the news. Then the spectrum passed through the borderline lies to full-on grade-A porkies. Cops, like sergeants, always thought they could spot a liar, but tests proved they were no better at it than anyone else. It was just thinking that they might be that made guilty bastards confess.
"Never saw him before today," Rob said.
The trooper kept looking at Rob's hands. "No altercations with anyone in the days before, sir?"
"None." It had to be about the bruises on Biker Boy.
Rob's hands were unmarked . "Not even cutting someone up in traffic."
"Just covering all the angles. The deceased was carrying tools that support your fear that he was going to cut the power, so with all the firearms and plastic cuffs it probably was an attempted home invasion. But it's worth ruling out people with grudges. Including business grudges, in your line of work."
"Look, the man's bound to have a phone," Rob said, doing a little fishing. "Can't you check that?"
"We're checking everything, including firearms licenses and fingerprints."
Rob couldn't tell if that was an answer or not. "The only blokes we've offended enough to pay us a personal visit have names like Hussein."
"Well, in the meantime, it's probably wise to maintain your security.
If he had accomplices, they might be dumb enough to come back another time." The trooper was a nice enough bloke. If he was baffled by Mike's lifestyle, then he wasn't showing it. "So if you get more problems, call
us
, please. I understand that highly trained guys like yourselves deal with situations automatically, but that's what we're here for."
"Thanks, officer," Rob said.
Should I call him trooper?
"Honestly, Mike's not a Masshole or whatever you Mainers call rich buggers. He just stays off everyone's radar and tries to be ordinary."
Rob could have sworn the trooper was trying not to smile. "I never use the term myself, Mr Rennie," he said. "But I understand your point."
While Rob waited for Mike, he occupied himself working through the timetable. The crime scene people would be off-site by the evening, and the post mortem would be done tomorrow, but the follow-up would probably drag on for a bloody long time. That was going to take its toll on everyone
It didn't alter the result, though. Some bastard took his chances against Mike and lost.
Rob looked up as Scott, Mike, and another trooper came down the passage, talking quietly. Mike could usually slap on a collar and tie and look stylish even with two days' stubble and a hangover, but today he just seemed crushed, as if his supply of idealistic Boy Scout optimism had finally run out. Scott the legal polecat fussed around him. He didn't look happy either. Rob's spine stiffened.
"Anytime, officer," Mike was saying. "Just let me know if there's anything else you need."
Scott whisked them out to his car and Mike settled down in the back as if he was planning to doze off. Rob kept an eye on him in the rear-view mirror.
"Any further questions go through
me
, Mike," Scott said, following the signs to Westerham. "Don't agree to an interview without me. Not even a phone call."
"Okay, Scott. I get it."
"You didn't need to volunteer to come down here. And you didn't have to offer them your clothing for forensics."
"They're welcome to look at whatever they want. I just want to get this over with." Mike closed his eyes. "They're not even planning to charge me. Deadly force in self defence. You were there. You heard it all."
"Fine, but when they ID the body, there might be more questions."
"Then I'll answer them."
"Have they found the vehicles?" Rob intervened to draw fire. He couldn't tell if Mike didn't like Scott, his advice, or lawyers generally. Perhaps it felt too much like being told off by his lawyer sister. "He must have driven or ridden something."
"Still looking," Scott said.
The conversation died. Mike was silent all the way home, either staring out the window or eyes shut as if he was asleep. The biker bloke was dead and Dru was stitched up tighter than a kipper's arse, but this definitely didn't feel over. Maybe it never would. Mike should have made Ian change his surname on his official documents right from the start. Clinging to your identity was all very well until it hung you.
When Scott dropped them off at the house, the crime scene people were working in the grounds and a police car was still parked at the end of the drive. Livvie loomed on the doorstep and beckoned Mike with her forefinger.
"
You,
" she said, ushering him upstairs like an angry warrant officer. "Hot bath, Scotch, and then get some sleep."
"And ring your dad," Rob called after them. "No rush."
Now he had the chance to get away for a few hours without feeling he'd abandoned Mike. He'd drop in to talk to Mr Andrews later. The poor old sod must have thought the Martians had landed. Tom was out on the lawn, throwing sticks for Oatie, who really didn't seem to be into retrieving.
"Where's Ian?" Rob asked.
"With Dru. In the conservatory. Is he safe with her?"
"Yeah. She's okay. Livvie's ready to gut her if she steps out of line. Come on, kiddo, let's take the Jag out."
"You sure that's appropriate right now?"
"What, lack of respect for the dead?" Maybe Tom was a bit more shaken than Rob had thought. "I need a change of scenery for a few hours. So do you. Let's go to Westerham. You can drive back."
Rob parked in the square and showed Tom the posh supermarket and bookshop. They ended up having cakes in the French patisserie that Ian was partial to. Rob pointed out the girl behind the counter as Ian's unrequited passion.
"She looks friendly," Tom said.
"Is that a polite word for
old slapper
?"
"No, she just looks approachable. Is Ian too shy to pounce?"
"Something like that." It seemed like a natural time to be nosey. "You never told me if you had a girlfriend. I keep hinting."
"You never told me if
you
did, either."
"Plums, kiddo. Zero. I couldn't get a woman now if I dipped myself in chocolate. It must be the smell of desperation about me."
"Okay. I'm test-driving a few candidates."
Rob was relieved. All was well in the world. "That's more like it."
"But there's one I really like, and I can't tell her where I was this summer. And there's one I met at you-know-where, and I sort of like her too, but not as much. On the other hand, I don't have to lie to her. And that's suddenly become a big deal."
Tell me about it.
Rob tried to remember a time when everyone he knew could tell each other anything and not worry. He wanted to tell Tom that he knew better than he could possibly imagine how that felt.
"If you meet the right girl, you'll be able to tell her eventually," Rob said. "Anyway, she'll guess when you buy a house near you-know-where."
"Mike told me that Livvie went ballistic when she finally found out he was seriously minted."
"Well, 'Hi, I'm a billionaire, fancy a shag?' isn't the most auspicious start to a romance, is it?"
Tom extracted a piece of kiwi from his fruit tart and laid it on the side of the plate. "What do
you
tell women?"
"I struggle, kiddo. I say security and they think mall guard. I say contractor, and they think I'm a Bob the Builder. I miss being able to just say
Marine
."
"You blokes should reclaim the M word among yourselves. Mercenary. Stuff the legal definition. Make it cool again. Like the N word. Or Q word."
"Ah, it all helps people to ignore the body bags, doesn't it?" Rob looked up as Ian's pash came over to clear the cups from their table. She gave Tom a long look.
My boy. He's perfect. You noticed. And you were all over Ian the other week.
He handed Tom the key card. "You want to drive?"
"Ooh. Please."
"Lush, innit?"
"
Nice
motor."
"You could have one. Remember Mike and Livvie want to get you something."
"Yeah, and remember I'd have to park it in Newcastle." Tom looked extra-serious for a moment. "It's a shame Mike's having all this hassle. He's such a nice guy. Am I reading the runes right? Is Ian a permanent fixture now?"
"Pretty well."
"I'm glad. They certainly behave like a family. If it wasn't for the colouring, I'd think he was their biological son." Tom couldn't have known that Ian could match any colour swatch he fancied. "I don't ask questions, but from what Ian hints at, he's had the luckiest dog rescue in history. From whatever freaked him out so much to Mr and Mrs Perfect-Goldenballs."
"There's got to be one happy-ish ending in the world," Rob said. "Let's go, kiddo."
Rob picked up a couple of boxes of pastries to take home and basked in the warmth of Tom's delight at driving the Jag. This was when the trappings of money really mattered. Tom was never going to end up in a poxy bedsit or doing ten-hour shifts in a supermarket. This was what
everything
had been for.
The police car was still parked up when Tom approached the entrance to the drive. "Pull over, kiddo," Rob said. "Hearts and minds time." He jumped out and handed a box of pastries to the trooper sitting behind the wheel. "There you go, mate. I'll bring down some coffee later. You must be freezing."
He got back in, satisfied that he'd played it right. Tom carried on up the drive.
"You're still a class act, Dad."
"It doesn't do any harm to be affable. And you have to feel sorry for the poor sods on the front line."
"This is the life, though. Preferably minus the homicide team."
"Look, why don't we get hideously drunk tomorrow after Mrs Gobshite's gone home?"
"Dru? Aww. I quite like her. She read psychology. Interesting woman."
I'll bet.
"She's had a profitable weekend."
"She's very wary of you."
"I'm losing my touch, then. I hoped she'd be fucking terrified."
They laughed it off and Rob let the subject drop. He felt sorry for Dru, and he had to admire her guts. In different circumstances he might even have sidled up to her in a bar and tried his luck, but he wasn't going to turn his back on her in a hurry now. For the foreseeable future, she was a threat that had to be monitored.
He found Mike looking a lot better than he had earlier. That might have been because he was asleep. He was stretched out on the sofa in the living room with his tie askew, both hands locked around a cut glass tumbler of Scotch balanced on his chest. It looked to be mostly melted ice. Livvie peeled his fingers off the glass and extracted it with slow care. He didn't stir.
"Where's Dru, Mrs Mike?" Rob whispered.
"She's in the den with Ian. He's showing her his gran's letter."
"Oh, Christ. Bad idea."
"No, reinforcement. She's very aware of what he's been through now. Shame can be as powerful as cash."
"But not as powerful as a smack in the mouth."
"True. But now she can't claim ignorance as a defence, either."
"Okay. I'll keep my nose out of it."
"Don't worry, he hasn't told her everything. He's not that naive."