Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  Kingston swallows and shakes his head. His eyes show fear.

  ‘One. Who pulled the trigger?’

  ‘It wasn’t one of my men. They’re okay with a pistol, but I needed someone who could shoot a rifle.’

  I move the blowtorch until its flame is two inches above his shattered leg. ‘Zero.’

  I pull back the leg of his trousers.

  ‘Wait. It was a guy I hired from a business associate.’

  ‘Names.’

  ‘The shooter is known only as The Mortician.’

  ‘And the man who gave you his number?’

  The name he gives sends my blood cold. It’s not only that the guy is connected, it’s also the people who are connected to him. Of all the gangland figures in New York that Alfonse had named for me, Genaro Chellini’s name topped every list – whether you looked at wealth, influence, reputation or reach.

  He is not the type of man who’d hire an amateur. Therefore, The Mortician will be a deadly foe.

  I hold the blowtorch near enough to Kingston’s ankle for him to feel its heat without being burned.

  ‘Who was the trigger man and how did you find him?’

  He repeats the names, and the fear in his eyes indicates that he’s telling me the truth.

  ‘How can I find this Mortician?’

  He tells me the name he’s stored The Mortician’s number under in his cell, and pulls an iPhone from his pocket.

  ‘Thank you.’ I put down the blowtorch and look him in the eye. ‘You set The Mortician after my father and got my girlfriend killed. That’s not something I can forgive.’

  I plunge one of my knives into his heart and watch the light fade from his eyes.

  It doesn’t feel good, but it does feel like justice has been served.

  70

  I grab a set of car keys from a bowl at the front door and make my way out of Kingston’s house.

  I press a button on the key fob and the indicators flash on a Bentley. I climb in, fasten my seatbelt, and listen to the engine burble as I let it crawl its way to the gates.

  The guy in the gatehouse doesn’t look up as I pass through.

  I drive without aim, until I see a sign for a subway station.

  I stop by the sidewalk, spend a few minutes checking Kingston’s cell, and put my plan into action. A search for “me” in the contacts gets me Kingston’s number. I test it with my cell and his phone rings.

  His call history doesn’t show any contact with The Mortician, but I didn’t expect it to. Text messages also come up blank.

  Next I check his apps and see he has Snapchat. The criminal’s favourite app: once a message has been viewed, it disappears.

  Or at least that’s the theory.

  The reality is quite different. Someone with Alfonse’s skills can access a person’s Snapchat history and see every message. All he needs is a phone number.

  I use my burner cell to call him. He answers on the fourth ring and is groggy with sleep. He sounds pleased to hear I’m alive, but I still detect a large amount of worry in his voice.

  I spend five minutes giving Alfonse a combination of requests and instructions. He promises to have answers by 9 a.m.

  I look at my watch and see I have five hours to kill. Some rest, a new pair of denims, and a few proper dressings for my wound are the order of my day.

  It’s time for me to move on. The longer I stay in one place, with Kingston’s phone and his Bentley, the greater the odds are of any pursuers being able to find me.

  A couple of young dudes are lurching their way towards the subway, but I don’t think they’re worthy candidates. Instead of bequeathing the car to someone, and possibly having Kingston’s goons hunt them down, I leave the key in the ignition and his cell on the passenger seat.

  I dismantle my burner as much as I can. Each piece will find its way into a different garbage bin in the subway.

  I’m only halfway through the subway’s entrance when I hear the roar of a large engine. Someone has already claimed the Bentley. Perhaps Lady Luck will allow them to keep it.

  I plan my route back to Brooklyn and think about what I’ve learned. It would have been far better if the trigger man had been one of Kingston’s own men.

  Now The Mortician has become involved, things have ratcheted up another level.

  He is a professional killer; I’m a doorman.

  He will be calculating; I’m following a loose plan and improvising as I go along.

  He will have a cool head; I am filled with a burning rage.

  He will probably have had some military training; I was taught to fight in a garden by my grandfather.

  He will have access to a personal armoury; I have three knives, one blowtorch, one gun with six bullets and a second gun with none. I don’t even know what ammunition it takes so I can’t buy any more; I’ll get rid of it in the first drain I pass in a secluded area.

  None of The Mortician’s advantages are enough to make me think about giving up. Not one of them compels me to return to Casperton rather than risk my life.

  The Mortician killed Taylor. I can’t rest until I’ve killed him.

  71

  The guy behind the counter at the all night convenience store looks more tired than I do. There are bags under his eyes big enough to be slung between two trees and used as hammocks, and the pallor of his skin doesn’t suggest good health.

  Those are his issues though.

  I pay for the antiseptic cream, bandages, a new pair of denims and a packet of power bars, and limp out of the store.

  My leg has been a constant source of agony since the adrenaline rush I experienced at Kingston’s house dissipated. I could have added strong painkillers to my shopping list but I don’t want anything to dull my wits.

  The only hope I have of beating The Mortician is to outsmart him, and to do that I need to be sharp.

  An all-night diner provides fuel for my body, and their coffee is stewed enough to resemble treacle. In my weakened state it’s just what I need.

  I have an hour to wait until it’s time to call Alfonse. I’ve worked out what my plan should be and what I need Alfonse to do to make it happen.

  My plan isn’t foolproof, of that I’m sure, but it will be good enough to give me a chance to kill The Mortician. That’s all I ask.

  Also on my shopping list is a replacement burner.

  There is the possibility that The Mortician will not fall for my ruse. Should that happen, I will have to hunt him in a different way.

  The base of another plan forms in my head, but it’s riskier than the first one, and may well require me to recruit some assistance.

  I return my thoughts to plan A, and cross-examine it for flaws. There are far more than I am comfortable with, but I have time to smooth out some of the wrinkles. Should other failings arise, I will have to improvise as best I can.

  Despite all the coffee I’ve had, tiredness is threatening to overtake me. As soon as I’ve called Alfonse, I will find myself a bed and get some rest.

  72

  Cameron rubs at his eyes and lifts his head from the pillow. His watch shows he’s slept for a solid eight hours. In years past he’d always needed a minimum of seven hours sleep before he could function at a reasonable level. Now he is getting older, five hours tends to be as many as he can get.

  He glances around the room and sees nothing has changed since he closed his eyes. A plate appears through the gap under the door. It has two slices of buttered toast, with a blob of what he presumes is jam on it.

  He lifts the toast and sniffs it. There’s no hint of spice or pepper, so he takes a tentative bite. His mouth isn’t set on fire, so he chomps the rest without fear.

  ‘Good morning, Cameron. I’d ask if you’ve slept well, but if I’m honest, I’d prefer it if you’d tossed and turned all night, wracked with guilt.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Ivy, but I slept like the proverbial baby.’

  As soon as he’d said it, Cameron knew he’d made a mistak
e. Goading Ivy is not a good idea; giving her ammunition is a terrible one.

  ‘So, you slept like a baby, huh?’ Even through the door Ivy’s tone is cold enough to deliver frostbite to uncovered flesh. ‘Your firstborn child is out there trying to avenge a girlfriend who was killed due to your cowardice, and while he’s risking his life at every turn, you get a solid night’s sleep. Tell me, Cameron, when you look in the mirror do you see a man, or a selfish bawbag who’d be doing the world a favour if he took his own life?’

  ‘Jake is a big boy. He makes his own decisions, same as you and me. Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him, but let’s be honest here, I haven’t been part of his life for thirty years, and he hasn’t been part of mine.’

  ‘He’s my son. He’s your son, you pig. For all we know he could be dead or dying right now, and you’re bragging about having slept all night. If not for his sake, or your own, consider me. I’m the wife you abandoned, the woman who brought your kids up alone. My boy is out there doing God knows what, and I can’t help him. Every second I don’t hear from him sees me imagining his death. You might not care about him, but right now, at this specific moment in time, he’s the only thing I care about.’

  ‘So, you haven’t heard from him. That’s a shame.’

  Ivy is silent for a minute, then she speaks. ‘Why do you care if we’ve heard from him?’

  As tempting as it is to give a trite answer, Cameron picks his words with care. ‘Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him. Plus, the sooner he returns, the sooner I can help John and be on my way. Let’s face it, Ivy, none of you want me to stick around, and I don’t have a reason to stay where I’m not wanted.’

  ‘He’s been in touch with Alfonse a couple of times during the night. The last time was at four a.m.; that’s five hours of worry for me. Five hours of sleep for you. Jake has now got the name of the man who pulled the trigger and he’s going after him. My boy is going after a killer, and it’s all because of what you’ve done. If he survives this he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in jail, and it will all be your fault.’

  Cameron listens to the rustle of clothing and pictures Ivy slumping to the floor, aghast with worry. While she had only made him happy for a brief period, he’d never grown to hate her. She was, and still is, a good woman with a kind heart and generous nature.

  Ivy may have a strong sense of narcissism, but she would have been a good mother, and he is sure that her morals will have been passed on to her children. He knows he should think of them as his children as well, but after so many years of separation he feels detached and remote. Yes, they are his children, but he’s never had a connection with them, and as the years had passed, the less thought he had given them.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Ivy. The people Jake is going up against are dangerous. But, see when he was with me, before and after the girl was killed, he was something else. He took on three guys and won. He made the right decisions and kept us both alive when it seemed we were sure to be killed. I can’t claim to know him, but I’ve spent a lot of my life around dangerous people, and Jake is right up there. He’s smart, resourceful, brave, and when necessary he’s more than capable of winning a fight.’

  ‘Is that supposed to comfort me? Are you saying my boy is good enough to survive this stupid revenge mission he’s on?’

  Cameron licks his lips and decides to tell his ex-wife the truth.

  ‘I’m saying he has a chance, that’s all. Perhaps not fifty-fifty, but still a chance. I don’t know anyone else I’d be able to say would have better odds.’

  The only answer he gets is a sob.

  73

  I find a payphone and call Alfonse. He punctuates our conversation with huge yawns but, as always, he’s come through for me.

  He gives me the information I’ve asked for and I give him an outline of plans A and B. He likes A better than B and I agree with his assessment.

  When I ask him if something else is possible, he falls silent. I wait him out, aware he’s thinking through my request and the best way to do it.

  He says it’s possible but it’ll take a few hours.

  I tell him I’ll do things at my end and will be in touch.

  The hard part of our conversation centres around Mother, and her insistence that he passes on her instructions to give up my foolish mission and return home.

  When we say goodbye, he doesn’t waste his breath telling me to take care of myself. He knows I’ll do what I need to do.

  As sensible as it would be to return to Casperton and resume my normal life, there’s no way I can do that until The Mortician has paid, with his blood, for taking Taylor’s life.

  Anyone who is a hitman for criminal gangs deserves to die. His moniker of choice tells me everything I need to know about him. That he’s chosen such a macabre name will be, I’m sure, standard in his profession. Whether he is a mortician, or just likes the nickname, is neither here nor there.

  The mental image I have of him is a tall, thin man, dressed like a 1920s undertaker, with a long, cadaverous face. I know I shouldn’t assign a look to him, as I may fail to recognise him when the time comes, but I can’t help myself.

  I find a store where I can buy a new cell without a contract, and five minutes later I’ve let Alfonse know its number from a payphone. I may be paranoid, keeping this level of separation, but if last night’s events have taught me anything, it’s that things can turn bad in the time it takes to say my name.

  Walking around isn’t helping my leg so I find a hotel. The room is a little spartan, but that’s not important; it’s clean and that’s all I care about.

  I strip off and take a shower, making sure the wound on my leg is as clean as I can get it. Once I have smeared it with antiseptic cream and bandaged it up, I lie on the bed and close my eyes. As much as I’d like to picture Taylor as I fall asleep, I can’t rest for too long. Instead of her, I create a clock in my mind’s eye and position the hands to indicate one o’clock. Three hours of sleep isn’t a lot but it’ll do for now.

  I’ve used this method of sleep management before and have learned to trust my body’s internal clock. Quite how it works is beyond me, I just know that it works.

  74

  I wake and scowl at the world. My leg has stiffened, and even doing something simple, like swinging my feet to the floor and standing up, sends waves of pain shooting from my toes to my hip.

  My teeth are clamped firmly together and by the time I’ve pulled on my new denims, and tied the laces on my boots, there is a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and limp out of the hotel. There’s a diner across the street and I head towards it.

  With a cup of coffee in front of me, and a burger with fries ordered, I look at what I can prepare before speaking to Alfonse.

  First, I download the Snapchat app to my new phone, then I use the diner’s payphone to call Alfonse.

  A minute later I’m sitting down and composing a Snapchat message.

  At my request, Alfonse has done some of his digital wizardry. This new, disposable cell, has been cloned to be Olly Kingston’s. It contains all his contacts, therefore I’m able to request the services of The Mortician under his guise.

  As Kingston, I’ve requested a hit on the man who stormed my house.

  The criminal underworld is a small environment, and all the major players will know each other. That means only one thing: word about my visit last night will have travelled.

  I get a reply at the same time my burger appears.

  The two things are quite contradictory: a staple part of the American diet and a message from an assassin. Strangely, I’m more excited about the message than the food.

  * * *

  I heard you were dead.

  * * *

  This is where I have to box clever. Kingston may have been a gang boss, but he was erudite and well mannered; cultured even.

  * * *

  Rumours of my demise have been
greatly exaggerated.

  Sometimes you have to be deceitful in public.

  * * *

  Perhaps the Mark Twain quote is a step too far, but to my mind it’s the kind of thing Kingston would have said.

  * * *

  Pleased to hear it. Who was it?

  * * *

  My reply is sent without a moment’s hesitation. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  * * *

  A guy calling himself Brian Johnson. Said he was looking for a job, then went all Rambo. I lost four men. I want them avenged.

  * * *

  It will happen. The usual fee and the usual terms of payment.

  * * *

  My curse draws attention to me and heads turn around the room. I give an apologetic grimace and turn back to the cell phone.

  Not only do I not know his payment terms, I don’t for one minute think Alfonse and I will be able to scare up the amount needed to pay him.

  I have a thought and head to the payphone with a handful of fries stuffed in my mouth.

  Alfonse picks up on the third ring and he struggles to understand me as I speak through the fries.

  ‘I said, can you find out Kingston’s banking details?’

  ‘What do you need them for?’

  ‘So we can use his banking app to trace the last payment to The Mortician, and pay him this time using Kingston’s money.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, but it won’t work.’

  ‘How?’

  Alfonse is familiar with the Scottish use of the word “how” to mean “why?”

  ‘Because you can’t use a banking app without a password. That’s why. I daresay I could crack that password, but it will take many hours. days even.’