Seattle Noir (11 page)

Chalmers fished out a letter-sized manila envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it over to Matt. Matt opened it, failing to hide his trembling hands. The Taskmasters glanced at each other, exchanging naughty schoolboy smiles. Matt scanned the details on the plain typed sheet and the handful of photographs.

“That’s Terrance Robinson,” Chalmers said, confirming the details Matt held in his hands. “He’s a hit-and-run driver. Killed a little girl six months ago.”

Matt examined a surveillance picture of Robinson crossing 1st with Pike Place Market behind him. He was twenty or thirty pounds overweight. According to the CliffsNotes, he was the same age as Matt, but his extra bulk aged him a good ten years.

“Why haven’t the police arrested him?” He hated how his fear brought the formal out in him.

Stein snorted. “A friend is giving him a bogus alibi.”

“So what do you want me to do? Get him to confess?”

Harry laughed at Matt’s suggestion. “We don’t give anyone a shot at redemption.”

“We don’t solve problems,” Chalmers said. “We eradicate them.”

“You’re going to kill this guy,” Tripplehorn explained.

It wasn’t a shock. When this went south, he knew it was going all the way to China, but it still left him cold. He was glad the poor lighting hid his expression.

“Don’t worry about the cops. We’ve got them covered,” Harry said.

Stein handed Matt a small semiautomatic. “It’s untraceable. Just use it and lose it.”

Harry went into fine detail about how Matt should stalk and kill his prey. Matt nodded, taking in the words, but he was too numb to comprehend the ABCs of killing a complete stranger. When Harry finished his speech, the Taskmasters drank and joked amongst themselves for a while. Matt drank but didn’t join in the hilarity. He waited for them to have their fun and take him home.

They dropped Matt off first. Harry followed him to his apartment block’s entrance, under the watchful gaze of the other Taskmasters. He stuck out a hand for Matt to shake.

“Now, you’re cool with this, right?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You went a little quiet on us.”

“Well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “It’s a big step up from bar brawls every other night, but this will be good for you. This will put some meaning in your life. Look, don’t worry, son. It’ll go great. You’ll see.”

Matt attempted a confirming laugh. “Yeah.”

“Remember, this guy isn’t innocent. He’s guilty as hell. You’re just doing what the law can’t. You just have to keep telling yourself that.”

“That helps. Thanks.”

“So the Taskmasters can trust you? There’s no going back after tonight.”

“You can trust me.”

“Good man.”

Matt sat at his kitchen table with a mug of coffee in his hands, watching the dawn creep up on the city. Daylight spilled over the skyline, casting fingers of light between the gaps between the buildings. Sleep hadn’t come easy, not while a loaded gun and a picture of the person he was meant to kill sat out on the kitchen table. This was way beyond bar brawls. He had to kill a man. If he failed to follow through, his imagination didn’t have to wander too far to know what the Taskmasters would do to him.

He’d made such a hash of his life. The really embarrassing thing about it was he didn’t know how he’d achieved the feat. There were no excuses for his predicament. He wasn’t a total idiot. He was reasonably smart. His parents had been good people who’d only wanted the best for him. So how come he couldn’t hold down a job or go for a drink without bruising his knuckles on someone’s face?
Questions without answers
, he thought—or not ones he could answer, at least. He picked up the gun and examined it.

Time to answer some of those questions.

Terrance Robinson left his bank job twenty minutes after 5, having had a pretty easy day of trying to arrange loans at a branch of Bank of America. Matt knew this because he’d spent the day in Westlake Plaza watching Robinson through the glass-fronted building. He’d even gone into the bank to ask about opening an account, just so that he could get a close-up look at the man he was supposed to kill. Matt didn’t get the impression that Robinson’s child-killing escapade weighed heavily upon him. He was easygoing around his colleagues and the people at the sandwich place where he went for lunch, and he negotiated rush hour traffic with infinite patience.

Robinson pulled up in front of his home on Queen Anne Hill, a respectable slice of suburbia where nasty crimes could be hidden from the world. He parked on the street to let his two sons, around seven and nine, continue playing a little one-on-one in the driveway. Pulling his tie off, he jumped into the fray, snatching the ball away to attempt over-ambitious layups, which his offspring managed with equal accomplishment.

Matt slid past the Robinson home and parked a couple of blocks away. His aged Ford Escort stuck out in the neighborhood, but he wouldn’t be staying long.

He wandered back up the street for a closer look. Excited giggles and shrieks carried on the air. Robinson exhibited no signs of remorse about his deadly action and the lives he’d wrecked. A man like that deserved to die, didn’t he?

“Hate is the key,” Chalmers had said during their meeting. He tapped Robinson’s file. “To kill him you have to hate him. Read what this man has done and hate it. Stare at his picture and hate him. Do that and this will be easy.”

Matt watched the man at play with his children. Did he hate Robinson? He’d let that girl die instead of doing the right thing. He despised Robinson for that, but did he hate him in the way Chalmers and the Taskmasters wanted him to hate him?

Matt found himself staring at the kids and not their father. Killing Robinson meant destroying those boys’ lives too. Devastating another family didn’t make up for what had already happened. Matt couldn’t kill Robinson. He returned to his car and drove to the one place that would end this game.

Matt stopped his car in front of the Seattle Police Department’s West Precinct and stared at the industrial-looking building. In there was salvation. Harry told him he could make him a better man and he had. He was going to do the right thing. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was planning to spill it all—the Taskmasters, their clubhouse, the unregistered gun, Terrance Robinson, the lot. He guessed he’d be dropping himself in the crapper along with everyone else, just by association with these madmen, but he couldn’t help that. The Taskmasters had to be stopped and he had to take some responsibility for once in his life. He left the car parked on the street and went in.

The clean and modern but drab reception area was awash with people. Victims wandered around waiting to be helped, while those in custody needed a different kind of assistance. Cops floated between both sides of the law, in front of and behind the bulletproof barriers. Matt stopped a passing policewoman reading a report.

“Hi, I wonder if you could help me?” Matt said. “I need to talk to a police officer about a crime.”

“You’ll have to check in first,” she replied, and pointed at the occupied people behind bulletproof shields. The policewoman went to leave, but Matt sidestepped her to counter her escape. Her features tightened.

“I’m not here to report a stolen VCR or anything. This is important,” he said, scanning the room for eavesdroppers.

The policewoman read his face to determine whether he was genuine or a whack job. She made her decision after a long moment. “Wait here.”

She retreated into the depths of the building after punching a code into a door marked
Authorized Personnel Only.
A couple of minutes later, the policewoman opened the security door with a uniformed sergeant in tow and pointed at Matt. The sergeant approached him.

“Officer Hansen says you want to speak to someone?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

Matt still didn’t answer.

“I don’t have all day.” An edge of irritation crept into the cop’s voice.

Matt wasn’t answering because he recognized two familiar faces in the crowd—Harry and Tripplehorn—and both of them were wearing police uniforms. His urge to do the right thing for once turned to lead in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Matt said, backing away.

The sergeant placed his hands on his hips. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is this a joke?”

Seeing the Taskmasters there, it did seem like a joke—a bad one. Matt continued to back away, tuning out the angry cop. The Taskmasters, engrossed in their conversation, hadn’t spotted him and he wanted it to stay that way.

Matt’s back struck the double doors and he thrust them open and bolted. He left his car. He’d come back for it later. He didn’t want them knowing what he drove. He tore down Virginia until he hit 8th. He glanced back and saw the sergeant was surveying his escape from the doorway, but the Taskmasters were nowhere to be seen. Matt kept on running.

The apartment building manager was gone for the night. Tuesday was singles’ night at the VA social. Matt hoped the old coot got lucky tonight, and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t take long for Matt to skip out. He crammed all his belongings into an army surplus duffel and a box for an RCA TV. It was depressing to see that his worldly possessions accounted for so little, but he’d change that. The Taskmasters had given him a new perspective on life. He hooked the duffel over his neck and carried the box down to his Escort.

With no lot at the apartment building, he’d been forced to find street parking. He’d left his car four blocks from his place. He half-walked, half-jogged to his parking spot.

Reaching the spot, he slowed to a crawl and cursed. Another car rested in the space that had been filled by his car only hours earlier. He could be on the wrong street, but he knew better. His car was gone. He couldn’t believe someone had stolen the heap of junk on the one night he needed it.

Well, there was no way Matt was going to report the theft, and it wasn’t going to stop him from leaving town. The loss of the car meant he would be traveling even lighter. He carried the box of possessions over to a nearby dumpster. He’d hefted it to head height when someone kidney-punched him. Matt crumpled and the box crashed down on his head.

“Leaving town, son?” Harry brushed the box aside and hoisted Matt to his feet. “I thought you had a job to do.”

Resignation washed over Matt. There was no point lying or being scared. They’d tagged him at the police department. They’d probably been watching him all day.

“Where’s my car?”

“On the way to impound. Would you believe it was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant? But I wouldn’t worry about that. You have other things to worry about.”

Harry signaled and the familiar SUV pulled a U-turn in the street and stopped in front of them. Stein was behind the wheel; Chalmers and Tripplehorn weren’t around. Harry jammed Matt into the rear of the vehicle and Stein reversed back into traffic. Stein kept to downtown, driving for a bit with no particular destination in mind.

“You betrayed us, Matt,” Harry said eventually.

Stein shook his head and said nothing.

“You wanted me to kill a man.”

“He killed a child.”

“But I can’t kill him. That would make me no different.”

Harry snorted. “If you don’t kill him, you’re no different than him. He’s a coward and so are you.”

This logic made Matt’s head swim. He wasn’t an executioner and the Taskmasters had no right thinking they could be either.

“Hang a left here,” Harry instructed.

Stein turned down an alley and stopped the SUV in front of a tow-away zone. Harry flipped Matt over and zip-tied his hands together. Both men dragged him from the vehicle and shoved him through a doorway. Matt didn’t know where he was. Panic blinded him.

The cops dragged him up flight after flight of stairs. Matt knew he should be pleading for his life, but he didn’t have the words. What argument was there worth making for saving his life?

Stein kicked open a door and the three of them ended up on a rooftop amongst vents and air-conditioning units. The sun had long escaped over the horizon. The streets below were alive with activity—everyone looking forward, but not up.

Harry shoved Matt down onto his knees and put a revolver against his forehead. Matt closed his eyes and waited for the trigger to be pulled.

“Open your eyes,” Harry growled.

Before Matt had a chance to respond, Stein kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling onto his face. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t lift himself up. Harry lifted him back to his knees, then bent forward and put his face in Matt’s.

“Play time is over, son. You’ve got to make your mind up. Are you going to kill this guy? Because if you aren’t,” Harry cocked the revolver, “you know we can’t have you knowing what you know.” Harry straightened and pointed the gun at Matt’s forehead again. “What’s it to be, son?”

Matt stared at the muzzle. Kill or be killed. What a choice. He would have liked to tell Harry to go to hell, but the man was probably right about him. He was a coward.

“I’ll kill him,” Matt said.

“Are you sure about that? I don’t want you repeating this disappearing act tomorrow night.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your head for your trophy room,” Matt snarled.

Harry smiled and lowered the gun. “Good.” He nodded to Stein, who cut Matt’s wrists free.

“I think you can find your own way back,” Stein said.

The Taskmasters headed for the stairs.

Reaching the doorway, Harry said, “And I wouldn’t think about running. Your picture is in the hand of every cop down at the bus station and train station. You could always thumb a ride or even steal one out of town, but know this: We’re watching you. You’re on a very tight leash from now on. Oh, and Matt…”

Matt looked up.

“You’ve got two nights. If Terrance Robinson isn’t wearing a toe tag by then, you will be.”

Terrance Robinson smiled and shook hands with the young couple. Their loan application must have been successful judging from their broad smiles. When the couple walked away, Robinson beckoned to Matt. Robinson walked him through the loan application procedure. He was very thorough and Matt nodded at all the right times. Robinson printed out an application, then excused himself while Matt completed the form.