Middlemen, page 17
“Arnie said —” Her eyes flooded with tears, and she tightened her jaw before continuing. “He said he was sorry . . .” She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.
Aziz reached over to the credenza for a box of tissues. Moments later, Elaine took out several tissues, wiped her face, and blew her nose. Straightening up in the chair, she continued. “I was just heading home from the clinic when he called . . .”
[42]
Clarence was in his car, behind the Lincoln; One was just pulling away when the alert’s sustained blaring began. Instinctively One hit the brakes and the Lincoln lurched to an ungainly stop. In his car, an already rattled Clarence dropped his keys underfoot. On the sidewalks about him, pedestrians had stopped in their tracks to stare at their cellphones.
Clarence saw the Lincoln shift into Park and assumed that One was about to deliver his next lesson, but the door didn’t open. Instead, seconds later, the Lincoln pulled away. With a racing heart, Clarence picked up his keys, put his own car in Drive, and moved into traffic, trying his best to be invisible.
He should have expected it, but he was still startled when his phone rang. “Clarence, we need to talk. When can you be here?”
Obviously the client had heard the alert. Clarence did his best to sound confident, “Best guess, thirty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen minutes.” The call disconnected.
Clarence didn’t like being summoned. It was something his father had always done, and Clarence had always resisted. He would either pick up a book or move in slow motion. Pulling over again, he shifted into Park, opened the windows, and turned off the ignition. Adding to his defiance now was his conviction that however botched the abduction was, the responsibility belonged with the one who’d detailed how it should be done: namely, the client.
Looking out at the street, it occurred to Clarence that many of the shops or banks would have cctv cameras that might have recorded him leaving the car on his way to pick up the Lincoln. Or they might have recorded him following Garrick’s Volvo — none of which would have happened if they’d stuck to their normal delivery system.
He realized he needed to build a defence. Breaking from the norm had caused chaos. A daylight kidnapping was not the quiet transfer of a subject for disposal. Why had it been so time-sensitive? Sending a subject racing through the city, and with the ability to make calls along the way, was amateurish.
Clarence would say that the call he’d made — as instructed — had been so effective that the professor was too petrified to call the cops, for fear his wife would be killed. Had Garrick called them, the whole operation would have ended on Undermount.
The snatch had been impeccable and discreet. Not even Garrick’s wife would suspect anything . . . that is, until she got upstairs. And no one calls Missing Persons when someone’s been out of touch for just a few hours — which meant Garrick had spoken to her. An imperfect plan had been executed to perfection; the text from his client with the additional instructions was the original sin.
Then there was the matter of the additional cost for the operation. A twenty-five percent surcharge sounded reasonable — or it might be too much. Clarence dropped it to twenty. That made him angry at himself, so he moved it back up, to thirty percent. Thirty left negotiating room . . .
His phone rang; it was a 905 area code. “Hello . . .”
“Clarence, it’s Tom. Was that what I think it was?”
He considered lying and saying it wasn’t their disposal, but decided to tell the truth. “Yes.”
“Are we cool?”
“All the way.” Trying to sound as confident as possible, Clarence added, “Has there been any change at your end? I mean, regarding our delivery timing?”
“We’re still on the original schedule.”
“Fine. Thanks for calling. Sorry, I’m just going into a meeting.” He waited for Tom to hang up before starting the engine.
The meeting was over in less than five minutes. As he was leaving, Clarence Blow stood tall and walked with confidence to his car.
Clarence had begun his offensive before he reached the client’s desk; so as not to offend, he maintained a humble air of certainty — that there couldn’t be any more mistakes going forward. He smiled an authentic smile, but in truth, his certainty had wavered.
“It’s a compelling argument . . . You have my word this won’t happen again.”
Clarence thanked the client and moved on to discussing compensation. Before he could make his case for the additional percentage, his client raised a hand. Clarence pursed his lips mid-sentence and tried to relax.
“I’ve already set aside a twenty-five percent increase for you and your colleagues; it will be paid when the disposal is confirmed.” He waved nonchalantly in the direction of the door.
Clarence thanked him again and asked if he had any questions. The client said, “That alert was, well, shocking.” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as if a better word was hanging like a bat, before addressing Clarence again. “We — and I’m certain that includes you and your colleagues — would prefer there be no public profile . . . and while this does nothing to expose our partnership, it is nonetheless disconcerting, and I’ve been left to downplay its importance to my client. Do you get my meaning?”
“I get it, yes.” Clarence could see that his clipped answer made the client uneasy, but it was the truth — or the best truth he could come up with in the moment.
“And we’re certain the disposal will go smoothly?”
“Absolutely.” Clarence nodded; this time, he was definitive.
“Well then, very good. I don’t mind saying that I was alarmed by that alert . . . very alarmed.”
Clarence smiled but said nothing. It wouldn’t help his case to admit that the alert had also scared him. Putting on his best professional face, he asked, “And when is our next disposal?”
“I’ll let you know . . . but soon.” The client picked up a file folder. “I’m sure you have more important things to do. Goodbye, Clarence.”
[43]
“I heard you shook the bushes.” DS John Swetsky’s voice, anchored somewhere below his spleen, was gruff but upbeat.
“Ah, the alert . . .” MacNeice could hear an orchestra of accordions in the background of the call. He was on his way home, having left a lengthy briefing with Wallace and his public relations assistant. They’d spend the rest of the evening distilling what he’d given them into a concise media briefing. “Somewhat, yes. I’m told you and Montile are joining us tomorrow.”
“Yep . . . So tell me, you took a shot to the jaw from Wallace or from the province?”
“Wallace may have taken a shot, but he never passed it on to me.”
“Did the alert have the desired effect?”
“I’m certain it had an impact. The people we’re dealing with have enjoyed the shade too long. And since there’s no escaping those alerts, whoever hired them heard it too. I’m assuming it’s the same team, or a mutation of it, as the one from the forest and orchard killings — though this iteration is wildly off-script.”
“A whole lot of assuming, Mac . . .”
“Garrick was likely taken from his home on Undermount. He made it there from his Brant U office in a red Volvo. I want to know which route he took.”
“To see if he was picked up on security cameras . . .”
“That, yes. But since his car was found burnt out back on the Mountain, whoever took it there had another vehicle to drive away. If we chart the shortest distance between the house and the ditched Volvo, we might get lucky and spot that second vehicle.”
“A good hunch. A big job.”
“Here’s another — Aziz has put together a list of farm and industrial incinerators and crematoriums.”
“With no budget for site visits?”
“Correct.”
“I’ll call Division Two. DS McMillan owes us, Mac. Trust me, I won’t be subtle.”
“I’m sure you won’t.” Unsubtle was a Swetsky specialty. “Before I let you go — what are you watching?”
“International polka competition finals, from Warsaw. Wife loves it; therefore, so do I.”
Driving up the mountain lane, MacNeice noticed yellow-green lights blinking sporadically throughout the woods. Once inside his cottage, he dropped his keys on the hall table, slipped off his shoes, and went to the living room to look out at the forest.
The night was young but alight with fireflies, more than he’d ever seen. And though he’d intended to heat something up for dinner right away, he instead poured a glass of Sassicaia grappa and sat by the window.
A few minutes later, he reached for his binoculars to search for anything that might also be watching the fireflies. He imagined that a coyote would have the right disposition; after all, they had no natural predators and no problem finding meals of voles, moles, rabbits, or rats. It was reasonable, as sentient creatures, that they might pause for a moment of joy, of observation — how could they not?
Jack had taught him that much in such a short time; that dog had studied life. He was curious about everything, using his nose as a guide, signalling his interest with twitchy nostrils. If Jack were beside him now, MacNeice was certain they’d both be tilting their heads back and forth, enjoying the wonder together.
Adjusting the weathered field glasses he’d inherited from Kate’s father, MacNeice slowed his breathing and peered down the colonnade of trees to the jagged last storeys of the ancient wall — above which there was only sky. Within minutes, hidden in shadow, a pair of yellow eyes appeared. Holding his breath, he adjusted the focus. Coyote. Moments after the image sharpened, the eyes turned away and the shadow moved. MacNeice tracked it for another ten feet as it loped along the dark rampart.
But in that moment when the animal’s eyes were mingling with the yellow-green fireflies, it seemed to MacNeice that nothing — not even Paris — could be more beautiful or romantic, even if no one was there to share it with him.
It had been different in Paris. There he was alone among millions of people and, barring a long-legged shadow with dancing hair, or a violin concerto that might suddenly, like a full moon clearing a cloud bank, throw his thoughts back to Kate — barring all that, he felt free of the burden of memory and had moved through the city as invisible as a spy.
Here at the window, he was gripped by the absence of human touch. Emptying the glass, he closed his eyes to the forest and went off to bed.
The next morning, he made a double espresso and stood before the same window. The fireflies were long gone to bed, but several chickadees were hopping from the branches to the patio table and down to the ground. Venganza’s comment came back to him; he held his mug as still as he could and looked down to see if there were tremors. There they were, like ripples from fallen tears — as if they’d carry on forever. MacNeice tried to put the shaking down to fatigue, but he finally accepted Vennie’s point.
He called Dr. Sumner and left a message asking for an appointment. At the end of his message, he added, “Doctor . . . I dodged your question last session. I know you wrote down somnum exterreri. You were right . . . it was a nightmare.” He glanced over at the kitchen clock — 5:12 a.m.
[44]
When morning came for Clarence, it arrived with the easy rise and fall of his breathing. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d had such a deep sleep, and he was in no hurry to open his eyes to a new day. Not that he was dreading it — which was odd, because he had many reasons to feel dread. He was instead overwhelmed by a sense of well-being, happy to let his eyes open when they wanted to — and when they did, he was gazing at a ceiling streaked by sunshine.
“Time to wake up, Mr. Blow.”
Clarence shrieked and bolted upright so quickly that he fell out of bed, his legs caught in the duvet. In an instant, his high-pitched scream was replaced by unhinged fury. “Fuck! Fuck!” Wrestling himself free of the bedding, he stood up and straightened his pajamas. With his heart pounding, he struggled for breath. “For fuck’s sake . . . What’re you doing here . . .? How did you get in . . .? You can’t do this.”
“You done?” One sat, his body relaxed and his legs outstretched, in a chair festooned with pink roses.
Clarence wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. His fury raged. The only response he could summon was snarled through clenched teeth: “I’m done. I’m fucking done.” For further emphasis, he threw the duvet on the bed and sat on the edge to catch his breath.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Two appeared in the doorway, a glass of cranberry juice in hand. “I almost dropped the glass when you freaked out, little man. Sheesh, that was scary.”
One leaned forward. “I’ll ask again — you done?”
“Okay . . . get out of my room.” His voice was justifiably sharp. “Go on. I’ll take a shower, then we can talk.”
One tilted his head toward Two. “Smack him hard enough to wake him up. Blow’s dreaming he’s in control of the situation.”
Two set the glass of juice on the dresser and came around the bed. Before he could reach him, Clarence scrambled across to the other side; furious, he discarded caution. With his fists clenched and full of fool’s courage, he snapped, “I am not a child. I don’t need to be disciplined. Stop this right now.”
One let his head fall back against the chair and closed his eyes.
Two stomped onto the bed and lunged for Clarence, who ducked his grasp and scurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. “Stop this, One. We can talk it over — whatever it is.”
“Come out, little man,” Two said, tapping on the door with his fingernails.
“One, I’m a grown man. I have my dignity. I’ll come —”
The door flew open, caught Clarence on the forehead, and knocked him down between the sink and the toilet. Two stepped in and hoisted him to his feet. Dragging him back into the bedroom, he shoved him hard onto the bed. Keeping hold of Clarence’s nightshirt collar, he said, “Time to get spanked.”
“But I don’t —” The blow came swift across his left cheek, slamming him against the headboard. Clarence was stunned, his face burning and ear screaming. He checked for blood; he wanted to cry but didn’t dare.
Two went back to his cranberry juice as if nothing had happened; he sipped it and winked at Clarence.
“Now, Mr. Blow, on to today’s lesson. You’ll want to pay attention . . . we’re professionals; you aspire to be one. More plainly, you’re a poser who wants it to come easy. We worked hard to get where we are; you have not. We work hard to get paid, but we work our hardest to not get caught. Got it, little man?”
Clarence couldn’t bring himself to agree with such a low estimation of his ability, but he surrendered the point with a sulking nod.
“We’ve got a disposal right now breathing air and soiling himself. He’s thirsty and scared. He’s waiting for death but hoping something will happen to stave it off, that someone will appear to save him. He’s got another two days layin’ trussed up in that stable.” One nodded as if he was considering those points over again. “That’s torture, Blow. We didn’t sign on for torture.”
“I understand, but —”
“Maybe you do . . . You see, when you were tucked all comfy in your bed with that itty-bitty smile on your face, I could easily have snapped a round into your head. And other than a millisecond of searing pain, you’d be dead. That’s what we do. That’s what I mean when I say our targets never know what hits them.”
“But I spoke to the client. There’ll be no more texts, no more rushing around, and no more lack of planning. He completely agreed to that.”
“Uh-huh. Well, the moment that alert went off, you were four seconds away from being dead. Keep that in mind when you promise something won’t happen.”
Clarence shook his head; it felt like parts of it had come loose inside, and he grimaced in pain.
“We’ll come back for you after we visit the professor.”
“What? Why?”
“You’ll take us to meet your friend. Not to worry, Blow; we’re all about being thorough.”
“You don’t need to . . . he’s my cousin. You can trust him.”
“Well, well, well. In that case, we do need to meet him. I also need to know the distance between those stables and his final destination. And that’s not all . . .”
“But I can give you the distance.”
“I’m sure you can. You see, though, I work by feel. I need to feel the distance — that’s how I learn. And he may be your cousin . . . but I want to meet the man you’re trusting. I need to see how this works. For example, there’s the question of whether we dispatch the professor at the barn or somewhere else.”
“Why do you need to meet him?”
“ ’Cause maybe he won’t back out at the last minute — but then again, what if he does? If that happens, and I know how to light that oven, how to flick whatever switch needs flicking — it’s like we’re boy scouts, Clarence. We need to be prepared.”
“But that wasn’t the deal I made.” It most definitely was the deal he’d made with Tom. He was just worried that One and Two would scare him off.
“He’s family. He’ll adjust to the new deal, don’t you fret about that.”
“I’d much rather you trust me.”
One pursed his lips. “You know, when that alert came over our phones and radio, we were caught off guard. I have to admit we didn’t know about that local feature. But, in truth, you never told us about it, either.” Clarence flinched as One slapped his hands on the arms of the chair like an exclamation mark. “Now here we are, safe and sound. But don’t mistake my words, Mr. Blow; you’re beginning to look like a pistachio.”
