Chapter 9
Sacrifice
Shaw waited outside the house, reconsidering his plan of attack. It was mid-morning on a Saturday. He was surprised the woman’s vehicle wasn’t there, but glad the hit would be less complicated. The problem was, he wasn’t sure where the pooka was. He sat in his Yukon trying to find it. The fairy detection goggles had caught a glimpse of it in a second-floor window he thought looked out of Charn’s office, but only for a moment.
Charn, according to an interview Shaw had read, worked in his office most days from 9:00 to noon, had lunch, and then resumed work for another two hours before stopping for the day. He was likely there, but what if he’d had something else to do? What if, as he’d stated in the interview, he was stuck and got up to do chores? It didn’t really matter, but the pooka was such an unknown quantity, he wanted to be sure. If Charn showed himself in the window, it would be done, but he hadn’t. What if the strange creature wanted revenge? No, it was best to take them both out. He waited.
In the house, Roger was doing dishes in the kitchen and looking out the window at the birds on his feeder. A little red thing, not a cardinal but something else, was going after the seed in a suet cake. He watched, fascinated, nothing else on his mind, his hands in the dishwater, holding a sponge in one, and a skillet with stubborn grime on it in the other. Kilkenny was looking out a living room window at a car on the other side of the street that had been parked there all morning, thinking there might be someone inside it, and he’d go play a prank on them.
“Is it a wren, maybe?” Roger asked.
Kilkenny moved away from the window and went into the kitchen, leaning his horse head over Roger’s shoulder and the sink to look out the kitchen window onto the back patio.
“It’s a bird,” he said firmly, his voice whispering like wind in the heather.
“Yes, but what kind?”
“Didn’t you have an app for this sort of thing, from that ornithology society or something?”
“Yes, but my phone is upstairs in the office.”
“Shouldn’t you be up there writing, anyway?”
Roger nudged the horse’s head away with his own. “I’m thinking, and I think best with my hands busy, as you know.”
“But your hands aren’t busy.”
“They would be if you weren’t crowding me.”
Kilkenny whinnied and sauntered away, hooves clicking and clopping on the tile. The pointed reminder in his ears, Roger got back to work, scrubbing the skillet until it was clean enough. He did a few more pots and pans and then headed upstairs to his desk, switching on the light as he entered the room. He sat in his chair and looked at his computer screen. The room still felt dim. He glanced at the window and saw that the blinds were open, but down. He rolled the chair over and raised them, too. That was better. He rolled back to his desk and got to typing.
Outside, in the Yukon, Shaw caught sight of the blinds being raised and nodded. That was good, then. Moments later, he saw the large shape of the horse pass by the window. It was time. His pistols were in place. Goggles in a pocket, he exited the vehicle, shut the door, and walked across the street.
Kilkenny had seated himself on the desk in the shape of a dog. He sat up and said to Roger, “There’s someone coming to the door. I’ll go check it.”
Roger nodded, already deep in the zone. Kilkenny trotted down the hall and down the stairs. Curiously, he approached the door in the shape of a man with horns. There’d been neither knock nor ring since the stranger had approached the house. He started to peek out through the peephole as the door began to open. Surprised, he backed up, habitually invisible to all but Roger, anyway. The stranger stepped in, looked directly at him, and raised the pistol in his hand. It happened fast, but Kilkenny dodged aside before the pistol was all the way up, changed shape into a dog mid dodge, and ran back up the stairs. The crack of the firearm sounded twice, loud even with the suppressor, and he felt a blow to his flank. He heard the pursuing footsteps, walking, not running, but he was fast as a dog, dashing down the hall. He changed into his humanoid shape as he arrived at the door and yanked it open. He was limping as he entered the room, though he felt no pain, as yet.
Roger looked up in surprise. “What?” he asked.
“Shush. Under the desk,” Kilkenny ordered.
“No, I’m not getting under the desk. What’s going on? Was that a gun?”
“There’s no time,” the pooka said, reaching for him, “and he can see me for what I am, see right through illusions.”
“Kilkenny!” Roger protested.
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall.
Shaw approached the door, gun at the ready, unsure of what to expect. He was following a trail of blood, several spots spread out along the hall, and two just outside the door. The door was an interior one, hollow core, that opened into the room beyond. He took two quick steps and kicked it open at doorknob level, his Sig extended before him to fire. There was a great black dog lunging at him over a blood-spotted Persian rug, snarling, gaping mouth full of sharp teeth. He stepped aside, firing several shots. It fell to the floor with a thud and rolled over. So much for the pooka. He pulled the goggles off and looked in the room again. Charn was there. Shaw covered him with his pistol but didn’t fire yet. The man was unarmed.
“Mr. Charn, I’m here on a commission to end your life. It’s nothing personal. I’m sorry your pet here had to go, too, but I really didn’t see any other way.”
Charn stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“From what I’ve read,” Shaw said, “you’re a stand-up guy. Like I said, this isn’t personal. If you want to take a moment to say goodbye, it’s fine with me, though you’ll be joining it shortly.”
Charn nodded, fell to his knees by the dead pooka, and stroked its bloody fur.
“I never did this when he was alive. I never asked. I just assumed it would offend his dignity. He isn’t really a dog, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
Charn stroked its head slowly. “We were in Ireland, in Kilkenny,” he said, looking up at Shaw. There were tears in his eyes, and his voice was a little rough, but he did all right. Shaw admired that and paused, waiting. He checked his watch. He could give the target 15 minutes if he needed it.
Charn went on, “I was five. Mom and dad were there on a vacation/business trip. He was at the hotel restaurant bar with an old, old man. They looked up when we walked in. I saw them and stopped because there was a horse at the bar. I told my parents, who said, ‘That’s nice, dear.’ No one but me and the old man saw him. They came over and sat at a table near ours. The old man chatted with mom and dad, finding out where we came from, how old I was, and so on. The horse chatted with me, and my parents found it amusing that I was pretending so convincingly.
“Later, when the old man was dead, the horse came here and found me. He’s been here ever since. I called him Kilkenny because that was where I first saw him, and he never gave me his name. He was my muse and my collaborator.”
Shaw waited patiently. He’d never seen a reason not to give a target a few last words, but he couldn’t let Methodius go on forever. The matinee performance of the opera started in a couple of hours, and he needed to get ready.
“Listen, Mr. Charn, if you want to say anything else, I don’t mind, if you don’t take too long. If you want me to deliver a message for you, or if you want to write anything down, go ahead.”
“Who paid to have me killed?”
Shaw considered that for a moment. There was nothing dislikable about the man, and he decided to tell him the truth. “A rival author.”
Charn gave a soft little laugh. Shaw thought it was mocking, but let it pass. He’d be putting a bullet in the man’s brain soon. “How much is this rival writer paying to have me killed?”
“I supposed they considered your market share or some such thing when setting the price down at the office. You’re not a difficult kill, except the research I had to do on your pooka, and then acqu
iring the equipment was fairly expensive. All told, with the expense account, a little over a million.”
“For me? Don’t the bastards know that people who read my books will read others, too? It’s not a competition. People read more than one author without issues.”
Shaw shrugged. “Maybe it’s personal. Maybe it’s jealousy.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I have a few minutes.”
“Do you mind giving me more details? I hate to die not knowing. It’s killing me.”
“That won’t be an issue shortly, Mr. Charn.”
“Please.”
“Well, Mr. Charn, the client is Deadrick Granger, the author of—”
“I know him,” Charn said, looking up, astonished. “I’ve never done him any wrong.”
“Apparently, as your books did better and better, his were considered passé. His audience lost interest.”
“That’s not my fault. I never intended that. I actually recommended his books to people. I read them when I was young. Deadrick paid to have me killed?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me?”
“That would be unprofessional, Mr. Charn, and believe me, I never heard of either of you before a few days ago.”
“We sat on a panel at a con together just last year. I told everyone how much I liked his books growing up and recommended them. It doesn’t make sense. He’s helping with the movie script for Spring Legs.”
“Who can fathom the depths of the human heart, eh? Are you ready?”
“Let me write a note before I go?”
“As you wish, but make it fast. I have opera tickets.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making my murderer late to the opera.”
“I’ve never been. A friend gave me tickets. I have a lovely call girl meeting me.”
Charn sat at his desk and wrote out a quick note. Shaw politely didn’t read over his shoulder. Out of habit, he stayed more than arm’s length away. Faster than he could believe the mild man could move, Charn turned and stabbed him with a long, ornate letter opener. It flashed, and Shaw sidestepped with a fraction of an inch to spare. He fired at close range, blasting a hole in Charn’s chest. The writer fell back across the body of his muse, gasping and bleeding.
“Had to try,” he said. “That hurts. It really hurts.”
Shaw put a finger through the hole in his shirt. “You did fine. Nearly got me. Tore my shirt. I’m impressed. You’d have skewered most anyone else.”
“Wish I had.” Blood came to his lips.
“No doubt. May I have that?” He pointed at the letter opener.
Startled, Charn turned an agonized gaze on the improvised weapon in his hand and dropped it.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Shaw said. He bent down and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.
Charn tried to say something else, but he was drowning in his own blood.
“Your lungs are filling up, Mr. Charn. I’ll shoot you in the head and make it a little quicker and less painful if you like.”
Stubbornly, Charn shook his head, coughing blood, letting out a groan. Tears streamed from his eyes, but he kept them defiantly on Shaw.
“Suit yourself,” Shaw said respectfully.
It took him several minutes to die. Shaw waited to be sure, took several photos, and then left.
Charn’s corpse lay across the corpse of the black dog, the blood spot on the rug slowly growing beneath them both.
He called in to report success to Brenda on the way home.
“Yes?” she answered curtly.
“Job’s done. I’ll return the gear on the way back if you like.”
“No. I’ll collect it later.” Her voice dropped low, and she hissed in his ear, “For God’s sake, you aren’t really supposed to have it. You want to get me in trouble?”
“As if I couldn’t have done it discretely. Let the client know the job is done, if you will. Not that it will please him, but the target died well. He tried to stab with me a letter opener and cut a hole in my shirt in the attempt.”
Her voice had resumed its normal, businesslike crispness. “I’ll pass that along. You want to change before the opera anyway. I didn’t know you liked opera.”
“A friend gave me tickets. Thought I’d try it out for the heck of it.”
“Tickets?”
“Two. Yes.”
“Making a date of it with a hooker, are you?” Her voice was acid.
“C’mon, can’t we keep this professional?”
“Oh, we absolutely can, which means you need to be less picky about clients. I’m spending too much time culling them for you, according to Witherbot.”
“Witherbot was in town?”
“She was, and I’m not to spend so much time letting you be picky from now on.”
“It takes how many minutes out of your day? Really? If you’re getting sexually frustrated, Brenda, why don’t you just get laid? There are all kinds of eligible young men down at the gym who’d be good for you.”
“Screw you, Shaw.”
“You wish.”
She terminated the call. He laughed.
So what? I’m allowed to refuse a hit. If she doesn’t throw work my way, I’ll wait on people to ask for me by referral. They’ll keep coming, anyway, but it’s not like I need the money.
Chapter 10
An Unceremonious Burial
Emma drove up to Roger’s and parked in the driveway. It was 2:15. She was early, but he hadn’t answered his phone. If he was writing, he might have turned off the ringer and forgotten to turn it on, but he also might have forgotten to get things together. They were meeting friends for a picnic at 3:00. She was early in case he needed help packing the basket.
She let herself in, not sure if the door had actually been locked. It hadn’t felt locked. “Roger!” she called out. “I’m here!”
The place smelled funny. Roger didn’t answer.
“Roger?”
That smell. It was blood, she realized. Disgust and fear struck her, one on top of the other. There were spots of it going up the stairs.
“Roger! Everything okay?” She heard his voice and followed it. The back door was open, and Roger was in the yard, patting a mound of dirt down with a shovel.
“There you are. I was worried for a moment. Did you cut yourself?”
He wasn’t looking at her, and she came up beside him and put an arm around his waist. “What’s up? Doing some landscaping?”
He put an arm around her and held her closely. It was comfortable, but weird. “Well, say hello or something.” He gave a brief squeeze. She twisted a little and pulled back so she could look up and see his face, which was serious and sad. “My love, what’s the matter?” Then she saw the hole in his shirt and the bandage under it. “What did you do to yourself? Is that why there are blood spots on the stairs?”
“I got poked, sorry. I’ll clean it all up. I’m almost done now.” His voice was so flat that she looked up from the bandage to his face and kissed him.
“It’s okay, my love. Let me help. We need to get ready to go to the picnic.”
“The picnic?”
“Yes. The picnic.”
“I’d forgotten. That’s fine.” Still his voice was flat.
“What were you doing here?” she asked, taking in the shovel and the mound of dirt, and realizing he’d buried something in the yard.
“Stray dog,” he said with a catch in his voice.
“What happened to it?”
“Hit and run.”
“That’s awful. Why can’t people stop if that happens? I just don’t understand people.”
“Me, either,” he said, rubbing his face.
“Don’t do that. You’re making it grubbier. Why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll clean up the blood spots. What did you poke yourself with?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember.” He was distraught and not the man she knew. He wasn’t the sort to get so emotional over a stray dog.
“Poor thing had no tags?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Do you want to put signs up or post on the neighborhood website so we can tell the owner what happened?”
“No owner.”
“You’re awfully upset. Did you watch the poor thing die? Did something else happen?”
“I did see it die. I’ll be okay.”
“I didn’t know you cared for dogs so much.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
She took him by the hand, led him into the house, and to the bathroom where she gently pushed him in and shut the door behind him. She called through it, “I’ll get the paper towels and spray and get that blood up. You’ll need to re-bandage that spot, I should think.”
In the bathroom, he stood numbly for a bit, then slowly stripped off his clothes and got into the shower. He turned the water on, and it ran over him, first cold, then warm, then hot.
Kilkenny.
Kilkenny was dead, and somehow Roger was not, but he’d died on the same Persian rug with his head on Kilkenny’s bloody side. And then he’d awoken under his desk, only a slight, bloody indentation on the right side of his chest, with memories both of falling asleep against his will and of being on the other side of the desk when the hitman had kicked the door in and shot his friend to death before murdering him a few minutes later. The strange conversation, the pain of the bullet piercing his ribs and lung, the slow drowning as his lungs filled with blood, had all been real.
He nearly swooned, leaning against the wall, and slipped down it until he was kneeling in the tub beneath the running shower. He didn’t know what to do. Poor Kilkenny, who’d deserved so much more, had been buried, wrapped up in the rug in the back yard with a few prayers. He deserved a monument.
And Deadrick Granger. What of him?
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?” he called out.
“What happened to the rug in the office?”
Shank Page 20
