Hybrid (28 page)

* * * *

Rolling Hills Cemetery, Hopedale

The honor guard of seven officers fired three volleys into the air, while the priest recited scripture from his Bible.

Mrs. Stephen Forrest wept uncontrollably, while next to her, her two young children looked up at the casket that contained what was left of their father. The fifty uniformed officers, many from several nearby towns, lined up in a procession to offer their final condolences to the grieving widow and her extended family. As the precession continued, the skies that had been threatening rain all morning unleashed a downpour. People began to scurry toward their awaiting cars to avoid the downpour, while others opened umbrellas while escorting the widow and her children back to the long black limousine.

A lone figure stood upon the hillside, watching the ceremony from a respectful distance. Rain now rolled off the long black leather jacket that he pulled tighter around his upper torso to ward off the sudden chill. A gust of wind flared and caught the insides of the garment, causing it to billow like the cape of some dark specter.

He watched quietly as the last of them departed. Once he was sure he would be alone, he slowly walked down the hillside toward the covered casket, ignoring the increasing torrents of rain, which was now accompanied by violent thunder and lightening. The man stopped by the casket, and produced a single flower from inside the jacket and laid it gently on top of the casket along with the other flowers already there.

“I'm sorry, Steve,” he spoke aloud. “I'll never be able to truly forgive myself for not being along for the ride. I'm sorry for all that you're going to miss: your children growing up, being a grandfather, the spring bass fishing, fall deer hunting, the taste of your wife's kiss, the warmth of her touch, the laughter from your kids.” He paused as he placed his hand on the metalwork of the casket, the rain pelting his back and exposed head. “Forgive me, Steve, I wish I could have prevented this. Everyone keeps telling me that if I were there, I'd be in one of these boxes too, that I should be thankful that I'm alive, and count my blessings. The truth is, old friend, I feel like a big part of me died that day, too. It's funny, everyone I care about seems to die: my parents, my military buddies, and now my friend on the force.”

Erik continued to stare at the coffin in silence. His face became suddenly contorted, the grief he'd been carrying bubbling up to the surface.

“Damn you!” he swore. “Why did you have to go? Why did he have to die?” He looked up to the heavens. “Why?” he whispered.

Then his teardrops fell, plentiful as the rain, for almost ten minutes. Erik stood by his friend, weeping at his passing, ignoring the violence of the storm that seemed to be a refraction of his own grief and sorrow. He placed his hand gently on the casket one last time.

“Goodbye, may this last journey be pleasant and bring you to a better place.” He quickly spun around. The bottom of his jacket whirled, spraying rivulets of water in a circle. Erik headed back to his tiny apartment in the back of a small diner, to the place that he called home.

Erik walked into his small office and tossed his waterlogged jacket on the coat rack in the corner of his office. He sat down at his desk thumbing through a stack of mail with his feet resting upon the desktop. Erik realized that, for the first time in over a week, there was nothing for him to do. He had no desire for company, friend or female. And no real particular urge to do anything except cope with the loss and take the rest of the week to pick himself back up. His mind, however, would not let him rest. His thoughts kept wandering back to Lisa Reynolds. She was still out there, somewhere. More than likely, the girl had expired.

Erik felt that the inability to locate the child was a personal failure on his part. He knew that there was no possible way that she could be alive at this point. Undoubtedly, her corpse would turn up somewhere once a way was found to contain the creatures. Erik was certain there would be a massive assault on the mountain. The Army wouldn't take to the loss of three of its soldiers without knowing what had happened and then dealing with the threat. It was obvious to Erik that this problem could no longer be kept at a local level. He expected State and Federal officials to become embroiled with the problems occurring in Hopedale, and the inevitable media circus was sure to follow. A light tapping on his door pulled Erik from his thoughts.

“Yes,” he responded.

“Erik, Mr. Nelson is here to see you,” Alissa replied through the closed door.

“Please, send him in. The door is unlocked.”

Scant moments later, the Halls detective was escorted into Erik's office and seated himself on one of the couches

“Belechek and I are on our way back to corporate,” he announced.

“I figured as much,” Erik answered. “There doesn't seem anything else that we can do here.”

“No, there isn't.” Nelson nodded his head in agreement. The older man seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “Look, Erik, I know Forrest's funeral was today and, judging by the pool of water under your jacket hanging in the corner, I can only assume that you were there—”

“He was my friend,” Erik interrupted. “I had to say goodbye.”

“That's commendable, but stop blaming yourself for what happened up there. You're wearing your guilt on your sleeve, young man. There's no need to seek penance or absolution. You are in no way responsible; death is also a part of the job we do as Investigators. Mourn his loss, keep him alive in your memories, but move on. Don't allow yourself to be hamstrung by this,” Nelson warned Erik. “I've seen this kind of guilt tear people apart.”

“You don't feel somewhat responsible for Henderson, and what happened to him?” Erik countered.

“Different circumstances, but yes, I do feel, in a way, responsible.” Nelson replied. “Henderson was on my team and he died on my watch. I feel terrible about that, but I won't let it eat me alive. He was a good man, but he's gone. There was nothing I could have done to prevent what happened to him. We've both lost people this past week, son; it's a part of what we do. We may not face it as often as cops, but it is fairly commonplace in our particular line of work. We grieve, then we move on. It may sound cold and callous, but if we tore our hearts out every time an associate met an untimely end, we'd spend all of our time mourning and none of our time living. If you want to remember your friend and honor his memory, be there for his wife and kids. They're feeling the hurt a hell of a lot more than you or I ever will, and they're the ones who need the sympathy, not us.” Nelson stood up and extended his hand toward Erik. “It's been a pleasure working with you, Erik. I sincerely hope we can meet again under better circumstances.”

Erik clasped Nelson's hand. “Thanks, Nelson, have a safe trip home. I'll keep you in the loop as to how this thing finally plays out.”

“Do that,” Nelson answered as he turned and headed into the hallway.

Erik watched Nelson as he walked out into the parking lot and stepped into a large Sedan. He watched the car leave the parking lot and speed away up the quiet road.

Erik walked over to his computer and did a quick check on the database searches he had run earlier. As he had expected, every source of data that he tapped came up with nothing. He walked back over to his window and looked out at Hopedale Mountain that loomed like a lone sentinel against the gray, stormy skies

“You've got a secret,” he whispered, “and two unwelcome guests.”

He turned away from the window and sat down on his long couch. He suddenly realized that he was exhausted. He lay down, intending to only rest his eyes momentarily, but quickly fell into a deep sleep.

* * * *

Bill Wentworth, known to his customers only as Mr. Smith, swore as the night rain continued to fall on him as he perched on the rooftop of the Worcester office building. Breaking into the building had been relatively easy. The hardest part of the job he was doing now: the seemingly endless waiting game.

He had tailed his targets from the moment they left the Pendelton hangar late in the afternoon up to now. There was no feasible perch near the expensive restaurant where they dined, nor could he eliminate them while they were in their car. Bombs were too messy, and the mark of an amateur, he thought. Killing, to him, was an art form. There was a right way and a wrong way to proceed about the business of ending a life. Ideally, he preferred the knife; it was an intimate weapon that brought him into direct contact with his victim. It was a rush seeing the look of fear, shock, and panic as they felt the icy cold touch of steel against their heart. He relished the last look on his victim's face—their last breath, last words gurgled as their lungs filled with blood. The knife allowed him all these wonderful moments.

But tonight, it had to be quick and lethal before his marks could say something potentially wrong to a potentially wrong person. Tonight belonged to the rifle, the high, out of the way spot, the kill from a distance—death by airmail.

Wentworth didn't consider himself an evil man, just a businessman like any other except he dealt in death the way others dealt with stocks, bonds, goods or services. He figured the government had spent millions on training him and using his talents during the Cold War, and it would be a shame to let these expensive skills go to waste since he was no longer in the employment of the Federal Government. It was far more lucrative to set up his own business and provide a service to a public willing to use him.

His client had given him the go ahead to carry out the contract and that was all the motivation required for him to terminate the marks. The pair he was hunting had wound up at a rundown bar just outside of North Avenue, not the most affluent part of the city, he absently noted.

Wentworth had spotted several men that he knew were part of several narcotics organizations, a few police narks, and several other shady-looking men of questionable character. He glanced down at his Rolex briefly; it was almost 11:00 p.m. They had been in there for nearly three hours now, probably celebrating the completion of their work.

Wentworth had a curvy blonde waiting back at his apartment for him, which was his form of celebration after each job. He wanted to close this deal as soon as possible before she got tired of waiting. He adjusted the position of his Kimber .243, and ran another quick check on the Night Sight scope. He peered through the scope's amber lens and refocused its reticle on the tavern door.

“Just step outside, boys, that's all I ask.”

Almost as if responding to his request, his two targets stumbled out of the bar. He could tell that they were completely intoxicated. Wentworth placed the reticle on the man with the funny hat, took a shallow breath, exhaled partially and then slowly, in a fluid motion, he caressed the trigger. A muffled pop sounded as the Marenko Silencer dampened the concussion. He didn't wait to see the target fall. He smoothly worked the rifle's bolt action and chambered another round.

The other mark had turned, facing away from him and completely oblivious to his companion's fate. Wentworth locked on to the specific area of the man's back where he knew an impact would shatter the spine and rupture the heart. He tapped the trigger again, this time watching the second man stumble forward as the jacketed hollow point impacted with his body. He looked through the scope quickly; the first target's head was shattered, hemorrhaging blood and brain matter on the dirty sidewalk. Wentworth picked up the spent brass, broke down his weapon, and disappeared within two minutes of the completion of his work.

He drove by the bar to admire his work. A crowd was already gathering around the bodies. He congratulated himself: two clean kills. He also smiled as the rain continued to pour down, washing away any residual gunpowder and ballistic residue from his perch. He didn't worry about the police running any ballistics on the bullets they would extract from the corpses. The rifle barrel was double grooved, one of his own inventions. Ballistics specialists would never be able to trace the noncommercial rifling on the rifle slugs back to any source.

* * * *

It was nearly three in the morning when Wentworth finished his own private celebration for a job well done. The blonde he had appropriated for the evening dressed herself and prepared to depart. He watched her carefully as she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and makeup. He wondered why the woman was wasting her time with all the cosmetics; it was still pouring outside and the rain would only make her painstaking efforts futile.

When she had finished, she looked over towards his direction. He gestured toward a small nightstand where he had placed four fresh, crisp one hundred dollar bills. She walked over, scooped up the money, and tucked the cash inside her shirt.

“Will you be calling again soon, Mr. Smith?” she asked.

“That depends, my dear. Not that I don't enjoy your company, because I do greatly, but it all depends on business.” He paused. “I'm sure you understand.”

The young woman nodded. “I think I do.”

Wentworth walked over to her and pressed his lips against her forehead, allowing himself one last inhalation of her expensive perfume. “I'm glad.” He pulled another hundred from his wallet. “This is strictly for you, not to be shared with the house; buy yourself something special.” He tucked the bill inside her shirt.

She smiled up at him, grabbed her coat, and left quickly. Wentworth watched her from his window as she disappeared around the corner and into the darkness of the early morning. He stared for several extra minutes into the darkness, watching the rain spill from a noisy gutter across the street.

Wentworth quickly snapped back to attention. He looked over the contract for the two marks and entered their termination in his database, and smiled to himself. The payment for these two would allow him to retire early, much earlier than he had planned. Once he had informed his client of the completion of his work, the remaining balance of the half million dollars would be deposited in his Fiji account, and he would be off to the Caribbean forever.

* * * *

The young blonde walked two more blocks, the pelting rain had ruined her hair and makeup. She spotted the large black limousine and approached the car. The rear door was opened for her, and she quickly entered the vehicle. The man inside gave her a rich, warm towel to dry herself and poured her a warm cup of delicious-smelling hot coffee.