Maid of the Mist (16 page)

Madeline started to laugh. 'You've got to be joking.'

'It's a thought,' said Stirling.

'It's a stupid thought,' said Madeline.

'Please yourself,' said Stirling. 'I won't tell you who I picked out for you.'

'Please,' said Corrigan, 'could youse just pay a little attention? Jesus! My wife has died! And you're talking about fucking film stars! Now come on!'

'OK,' Stirling said. 'Sorry.'

'Sorry,' said Madeline. 'Sorry.'

'OK,' said Corrigan. 'Now, the first thing we need to . . .'

'Kathy Bates,' said Stirling.

Stirling was just coming up from the cells when he saw Gretchin Solyakhov leaving the station, her dark hair tied back, her short black leather boots clicking on the tiled floor. He hurried across to the reception desk, all the time looking at her through the glass as she hurried down the steps.

The cop behind nodded and said: 'Yeah, I know.'

'What was she . . . ?'

'Notifying us of her change of address. Condition of her bail. Beats me how a broad as good-looking as that could get tied up in all that shit.'

Stirling took a look at the address and followed her out of the door. She had climbed into a battered Oldsmobile. As she drove off Stirling lifted his mobile and called Corrigan at his apartment. His former apartment. Mrs Capalski had called by. She hadn't mellowed any. Now he was packing his bags, with Madeline's reluctant assistance.

'How's it going?' Stirling asked.

Corrigan glanced at Madeline, standing with CDs in her hand, and shook his head. 'We're arguing over what I should keep and what I should throw out. And I don't know her from Adam.'

'I told you she was trouble. And speaking of trouble, Gretchin Solyakhov just walked past me.'

'Lelewala?'

'No,
Gretchin Solyakhov. I have her new address if you want it.'

Corrigan clicked his fingers at Madeline for a pen. She looked daggers at him, then lifted her handbag off the floor and produced one. 'Thanks,' Corrigan said, then 'Shoot,' into the receiver.

'I wish you wouldn't say that,' Stirling said. 'Rainbow Motor Lodge, apartment sixteen. Do you want me to take a run out there . . .'

'No. I need somewhere to kip anyway. I may as well take a look out there.'

'Uhuh,' said Stirling.

'Uhuh yourself. How's the recruitment going?'

'Slowly. The
Come and Hear the Pregnant Wife Killer Justify Himself
spiel isn't exactly going down a treat.' Stirling thought about what he'd said for a moment. Then gulped. 'Sorry. But we'll get there, don't worry.'

Corrigan drove. Madeline sat on the passenger seat, weighed down with plastic bags. The back seat and the boot were filled with plastic bags as well.

'You've never heard of suitcases,' she was saying.

'My wife got custody,' Corrigan replied.

'And
the child?'

'And the child.'

'You didn't fight her for it?'

'It?'

'Her. Aimie.'

'You obviously don't have children. Or if you do you hate them.'

'No. I don't have children.'

'You should. Aimie's the best thing ever happened to me.'

'So you must have been pretty angry when you lost her.'

'Angry enough to kill my wife.
Sure.'
Corrigan shrugged. 'Nicola was just better equipped to look after Aimie than me.'

'Equipped? We're not talking stereotypes here?'

He started to deny it, then stopped and smiled. 'OK. We
are
talking stereotypes. But then stereotypes aren't stereotypes for no reason.'

Madeline tutted. 'No, cliches aren't cliches for no reason. Stereotypes are just stereotypes. And wrong.'

Corrigan glanced at her. 'How
did
you get that love bite? You obviously don't have a boyfriend.'

They sat in the car park for a little while, watching apartment sixteen, but there was nothing to indicate anyone was at home. Then they walked into reception and asked for apartment fifteen. The manager, an elderly woman with pink hair, smiled at them and said: 'Happy memories for you?'

'No,' Corrigan started, 'I just liked the look . . .'

Madeline cut in, smiling warmly. 'The best. We came here a few years ago. Didn't go out for four days. Didn't even see the Falls.'

'Aw,' said the manager, 'that's sweet. I presume your wife didn't know, Inspector?'

'I . . .'

'Terrible business, terrible business that. You don't remember me, Inspector, do you?'

'I . . .'

'Had a burglar, couple of years back. You were very helpful. Caught the son of a bitch too. Yes, very helpful. If it's any consolation, I don't think you killed her.'

'Well, thank you, ma'am.'

She handed him the key.

They moved his stuff into the apartment, all the time keeping an eye on next door. On the third run, Madeline struggling under a bag of his CDs, the door opened and Lelewala looked out, her eyes flitting off Madeline to scan the car park. Madeline gave her half a smile and continued on through to where Corrigan was putting crumpled t-shirts into a drawer. Lelewala had been well shielded by the Barracuda on her departure from the police station and walked with her head down; plainly she had no recollection of being confronted by Madeline.

'It's her,' Madeline whispered and thumbed behind her.

Corrigan, seeing nothing out of the open door, whispered: 'Did you. . .'

Madeline shook her head. 'She looks like she's waiting for someone.'

Corrigan crossed the room, peered out, then quietly closed the door.

In one of the plastic bags she found another bottle of vodka. She showed it to him. 'Do you drink a lot?' she asked.

'No.'

'You seem fond of vodka.'

'The bottle is full and the seal is intact.'

She broke the seal. She took a mouthful. 'I was never one for stakeouts, if that's what this is.'

'You get used to them. Although I don't normally bring my worldly possessions with me.'

She went into the bathroom and got two glasses. She poured two drinks and gave him one. They sipped. 'Straight vodka,' she said over the rim of the glass, 'with a murder suspect in a cheap motel. Mother would turn in her grave.'

'Cheering drinks as we set out to save the world from a sinister criminal conspiracy. Your mother would make me wee buns.'

They turned at the sound of a car door closing. They hurried to the window. The blinds were two-thirds closed, just enough for them to watch without being seen, and to see without being completely sure what they were seeing. It was a trade-off, but in the end it didn't matter, because there was no doubt about whom they were seeing.

Madeline, with Corrigan pressed up behind her, let out a low whistle.

'The jigsaw thickens,' Corrigan said.

The Artist Formerly Known as Pongo was climbing out of a battered-looking jeep. He wore a plain black tracksuit and wrap-around shades. He hurried across the gravelled car park, shoulders bunched up, head down, hands thrust into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He knocked on the door next to theirs. It opened, and they heard an excited little squeal.

Corrigan raised his eyebrows. 'Somebody loves him.'

About five minutes later the sounds of sex began to filter through the wall.

Madeline sat awkwardly on the bed. Corrigan remained by the window. The love making grew louder.

'Disappointed?' Madeline asked.

'About what?'

'About Pongo making love to your girl.'

'She's not my girl. And I'm not disappointed. Although the thought of anyone wanting to make love to that coke-warped pixie does make my stomach turn.'

'So what do we do now?' Madeline asked.

'Listen,' Corrigan suggested. 'See if we pick up any important information.'

'It doesn't seem right.'

But they'd no choice but to listen. It was that loud. And growing in intensity. After several further minutes of it, Madeline said: 'Should it last that long?'

'Done properly.' Corrigan smiled. He turned back to the window. Another car had just pulled in, crackling across the gravel. It stopped parallel to Pongo's.

'Fuck,' said Corrigan, 'it's getting like fucking Piccadilly Circus round here.'

Madeline hurried across. She peered across at the new car. Its boot was open. Four heavily-built men in long coats were gathered about it. When they turned and began to walk towards Pongo's apartment she saw that each of them was carrying a gun.

Corrigan's throat was suddenly sand-dry. From the next room came the sounds of urgent fucking . . . they were yelling at each other, thinking they were whispering sweet nothings but actually shouting frenzied fuck words, lost in it . . . the way he had never been able to let himself go . . . he had made love quietly, like a student in a library, not scared of talking, but overawed by the . . .
what the fuck am I doing. . .
the gunmen were splashing through the neon reflection of the motel sign towards Lelewala's room.

'Oh Jesus,' Madeline said, her voice low, scared, 'do you think they're. . .'

Corrigan dashed across the room to his underwear drawer. He pulled it open, slipped his hand in and withdrew his .38. He had somehow neglected to trade it in when the new Glocks arrived. He raced back to the window. For a moment he thought he was too late, that they were already past, but then he heard the careless thump of their shoes on the wooden walkway outside and their dark forms began to cross the rain-streaked glass. They were not delivering pizza.

Corrigan glanced at Madeline, raised his gun to the window.

'I hope you're going to ask them to put their hands up.'

'That's what a cop would do,' Corrigan said. 'I'd take cover if I were you.'

Then he crashed his gun through the glass and pulled the trigger in one fluid movement. He wasn't trying to hit them, just to scare them off. The crack of a bullet and . . .

'Oh God! Gretchin! Go! Go! Go!'

. . . footsteps clattering on wood, the splashy thud of heavy hitters hitting saturated gravel, and from next door, ignorantly lost in lust. . .

'I can't! I can't! I can't!'

'You must! You must! Gretchin! Please!'

And then Corrigan dived for cover, taking Madeline with him, as the rest of their window came crashing in around them. There had been no gunshots.
Silencers.
Corrigan jumped back up and fired twice into the darkness and then ducked again as a high- pitcher zinged past his ear and embedded itself in the wall behind him.

'No more!' from lust central.

'More!'

'Please!'

'Oh!'

'Oh!'

'Oh!'

'Oh!'

'Oh!'

'Pongo!'

'Don't call me . . . oh!'

Corrigan peered over the windowsill. They were running back across the gravel to their car, which was already reversing towards them. Corrigan fired twice more. Then he pulled open the door, and fired again. He pulled the trigger again, but the six-clip was done and the other was back in his underwear drawer.

Then suddenly he was spun round, shot.

He stumbled out of the doorway, across the wooden walkway, and sprawled drunkenly on to the soaked gravel.

The frantic escape was suddenly cancelled. The reversing vehicle screeched to a halt. Corrigan heard muffled curses as the car doors opened. He tried to raise himself, but a bolt of pain shot down his arm. His gun lay just a few feet away, but the pain . . . if he could just get it, aim, maybe they would . . .

His good arm was kicked from under him. His face hit the dirt. There came a low laugh and a distant . . .

'Finish him.'

He looked up at them, but couldn't see the faces of his killers. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something nice to die with, but nothing would come apart from the rain and pain and the gravel.

There was a click and he said goodbye . . . then a crunching sound and the beginnings of a yell and something hot sprayed against his face.

There was no pain, no pain at. . .

He opened his eyes as the scalped head of his executioner toppled towards him. He rolled to one side and the corpse crashed to the ground where he had lain. Hands gripped him and he winced as they hauled him to his feet.

Indians.
Native Americans.
Twenty or thirty of them. Out of nowhere. In costume. With bows and arrows and spears and tomahawks and painted masks hiding their faces . . .

They were holding two very scared-looking men in big suits.

One of the Indians looked him up and down. He was the only one not wearing a mask, and his face was scarier than all of the others combined. Tarriha.

One of the other Indians called across, 'Hey, what'll we do with . . .'

The old Indian looked at the hoods, then pulled his hand across his throat.

The Indians pulled knives across the hoods' throats. They went down without a word, and their blood began to bubble in the puddles.

Corrigan, dizzy, felt himself falling. But they held on to him. The old Indian turned back to him. 'Don't worry,' he said, 'you done good, mister. You come with us now. It is time to talk to Lelewala.'

They pushed the Artist Formerly Known as Pongo, the Georgian Formerly Known as Lelewala and the Irishman Formerly Known as Inspector down on to the floor of the first mini-van as it approached the Rainbow Bridge. On the other side was the United States and its own tattier, less commercial version of the town of Niagara Falls. Corrigan groaned as he hit the floor. One of the Indians shushed him. The pain in his arm was getting unbearable. Everything looked and sounded fuzzy. Lelewala shivered against him. Pongo was tutting. Over and over and over again. Corrigan could only hope that Madeline had escaped. Hidden under a bed or in the shower. That or she was lying on the floor of the apartment with her throat cut.

The van slowed and a window was wound down. Corrigan heard the roar of the Falls. A border guard peered in, surprised to see the Indians returning so soon, and still wearing their masks, all save for the little old driver.

'What's up, pops?' the guard asked.

'Powwow double-booked,' Tarriha said. 'Agent gonna get fired.' The guard smiled and waved them on. The second and third vans too.