The Breaker

by Nick Petrie

  * * *

  —

  Finally his phone pinged. Krueger, sending contact information for an unnamed third party. He knows the arrangement.

  Holloway messaged the freelancer separately. New assignment. Maria Velasquez. He sent a photo of the girl from three years ago. Location and instructions to follow.

  The reply took a few minutes. Still doing the last job. Will get back when done.

  Holloway shook his head. How hard could it be to make one girl reporter disappear?

  This is high priority, he sent. Be ready when I send instructions.

  This time the reply was immediate. Do I tell you how to run your pirate ship? Don’t tell me how to do my work.

  Holloway left it at that. He’d try again when he found young Maria Velasquez.

  No reason to make the freelancer angry.

  41

  PETER

  By the time Peter and Lewis got June some barbecue and made it back to Riverwest, it was after two in the morning. They could hear Mingus barking in the backyard when they turned onto the block.

  “That goddamn dog,” Lewis said. He pulled the Yukon into his attached garage. June got into the driver’s seat with the engine still running and the chrome .22 in her lap while Peter and Lewis slipped through the house looking for anything out of the ordinary. They were pretty sure Mr. Cheerful had no clue that one of his pursuers lived just a few houses down from June, but they were careful just the same.

  Mingus kept barking the whole time.

  After they double-checked the locks and June put on the kettle for tea, Peter asked Lewis, “You want to see about the dog, or you want me to?”

  “You’d better go,” Lewis said. “I’d probably just shoot him.”

  The big mutt was in the fenced yard with his front paws up on the gate, barking at the night, serrated teeth gleaming. The fence bowed outward under his hundred and fifty pounds, the new pickets thoroughly chewed. The fence repairs wouldn’t last long at this rate.

  “Hey, Mingus. What’s up, boy? What’s out there?”

  The dog dropped to the dirt and sprinted past Peter, bumping Peter’s hip and knocking him off balance. He ran a tight circle in the yard, then put his paws back up on the gate and started barking again.

  Mingus was one of the ugliest dogs Peter had ever seen, with the bullet-shaped head of a pit bull and the long-legged body of a timber wolf, all covered with shaggy orange fur. He was great with kids and anyone else he considered part of his pack, but he was hell on strangers in the neighborhood. Dinah had to introduce him to the mailman when they moved in. He especially didn’t like any FedEx or UPS guys coming up their walk, because they were always different. During his frequent escapes from the yard, he’d treed more than a few slow-moving delivery drivers.

  “Mingus, get off the gate.” The dog did what he was told when it suited him. He jumped down now so Peter could open the latch and let him out, then ranged out into the street, nose in the air. Peter followed, the Colt in his hand.

  The dog stopped at the oil stain where Mr. Cheerful’s van had been wrecked, sniffed at the pavement for a minute, then ran up the block as if right on the axeman’s tail. Peter shook his head, thinking Mingus would be gone for a week. Lewis was convinced the dog had a rich girlfriend somewhere on the east side, living in a big house with a heated outdoor swimming pool. Mingus always came back well fed, clean, and smelling faintly of chlorine, no matter the season. Lucky dog.

  But not today. After just a few minutes, he came back down the block, working his way in and out of backyards on the far side of the street, then finally trotted down Franny’s driveway with a large paintbrush sticking out of his mouth like a cigar. Peter rolled his eyes. The dog was a piece of work. But at least he’d stopped barking.

  But he wouldn’t come back to the house, either. Instead, he paced in the street and growled and chewed the paintbrush handle to splinters. Peter couldn’t grab the dog’s collar because he wasn’t wearing one. He’d long ago figured out how to pull it from his head with his paws.

  Peter finally texted June and asked her to come to the door and call Mingus. Along with Dinah’s boys, June was the dog’s favorite. When he heard June’s voice, he immediately ran to the house, jumped onto the couch, and rolled over to get his belly rubbed. Goddamn dog.

  Lewis had moved a wooden chair to an inside corner so he could sit with a full view of the room and the windows overlooking the yard. He still wore the shoulder holster with his big black automatic on the left and two spare magazines on the right. His 10-gauge leaned against the curved arm of the chair. Two boxes of double-ought shells stood open on the side table beside a fat chrome .357 with a six-inch barrel, in case a grizzly bear showed up.

  “I’ll take first watch,” he said. “You two go upstairs and grab some sleep. Dinah made up the guest room before she left.”

  June said, “Lewis, why don’t you go to the hotel and be with your family? We’re fine here.”

  Lewis shook his head slightly. “She texted me earlier, told me to stay away. Said the guns would scare the boys.”

  “You could leave the guns behind,” June said.

  Lewis shook his head again. His face was expressionless, but Peter could see the hot desert wind in his eyes. Peter knew Lewis didn’t mind taking a risk for himself, but this whole thing had gotten a little too close to home. Lewis didn’t want to lead Mr. Cheerful, or anyone else, to his family. He loved Dinah and those boys with the power and intensity that only a man given a second chance could have. Every day with them bought a little more redemption from those years in the wilderness.

  Peter put his hand on Lewis’s shoulder. He could feel the heat coming through his shirt. “Thank you. Wake me when you need me.”

  Lewis nodded and turned out the light.

  42

  Upstairs in the little guest room, June stood and stared out the window at the dark. Peter sat on the bed fully dressed, including his boots and the Colt in its holster. He’d sleep that way, on top of the blanket, if he actually managed to sleep.

  Somehow, the static didn’t seem to mind the small space. Maybe it was having June there with him. Maybe it was knowing Lewis was downstairs, standing watch. Maybe it was the 12-gauge Mossberg he’d laid on the floor. Regardless, it was progress.

  He looked at June. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “I’m exhausted,” she said. “But every time I even think about closing my eyes, I see that asshole with his goddamn axe.”

  Edgar had come at her three times in less than twelve hours. Her brain was in overdrive, trying to process it. She was tough as nails, but that only got you so far. Some things were just plain hard.

  Peter kept his voice quiet. “You want to tell me about it?” He’d been going to veterans’ groups for years, talking about his war and listening to other vets talk about theirs. Telling your story seemed like such a simple thing, but it was powerful.

  “I shot the fucker,” she said. “I shot him twice.”

  Peter nodded. “You did what you had to do.”

  “I almost didn’t do anything,” she said. “He looked at me like a snake hypnotizing a mouse, you know?” She shook her head. “He told me if I let him kill me, he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

  The wind had picked up. They could hear it in the trees, even with the windows closed.

  “And he did this weird twisty thing with his body,” she said. “Like he was made out of rubber. Like he knew I was going to pull the trigger, and he knew where the bullet would go, and he somehow got out of the way.”

  “You hit him, June. Twice.”

  “I was aiming for center mass,” she said. “Just like you taught me. He wasn’t fifteen feet away. And I only managed to nick his ear and, what, bounce a bullet off his ribs?”

  “Shooting targets is different from shooting a real person who’s trying to kill yo
u.”

  She gave him a look. “I was scared, but my mind was clear,” she said. “I was steady. Feet planted, two-handed grip. I fucking aimed right at him. But I barely touched him. He just laughed. What kind of freak does that, does any of that stuff?”

  She was breathing hard. The day had finally caught up to her.

  Peter knew she was cool under pressure. He’d seen her do incredible things. And she’d become a very good shot. But Mr. Cheerful had really messed with her head.

  “You hurt him,” Peter said. “And he backed off, right? He didn’t hurt you or anyone else. That’s a win. He’s probably bleeding to death right now, if he’s not dead already. Either way, he won’t bother us again.”

  “You don’t believe that,” she said. “Lewis is downstairs with an arsenal. You put a shotgun under the bed.”

  “We’re just being careful.” Peter patted the blanket. “Come to bed. Sleep helps, I promise.”

  June had wrapped him in her arms on so many nights when the dreams came for him, when his spring was wound tight and his mind wouldn’t stop. Sometimes the simple warmth of her beside him felt like the only thing tethering him to the earth. He would be happy to give her that now, if he could.

  She walked over and sat beside him. He put his arm around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  Then her phone, charging on the dresser, chimed with a text.

  She jumped up, unplugged the phone, and showed Peter the screen.

  This is Holly Gibson. I’ve been happily married for almost seven years. I don’t know anything about Vincent anymore.

  “It’s Holloway’s ex-girlfriend,” June said. “I reached out to his former business partners yesterday and her name came up.”

  “Why is she texting now? It’s two a.m.”

  “Holly and her husband run a restaurant in England. They’re six hours ahead, so it’s eight in the morning there.”

  So much for getting June to relax a little.

  She texted back. I just have a few questions. Can we talk now? Without waiting for an answer, she hit the call button, then put the phone on speaker so Peter could hear.

  “Porthminster Fish House.” Behind her, the sound of clattering pans and music, the kitchen gearing up for the day.

  “Hi, is this Holly? I just texted you, it’s June Cassidy calling from America. Is this an okay time?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” A door opened and closed, and the background noise quieted. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m looking for your old friend Vincent Holloway. By any chance are you still in touch with him?” June’s voice was friendly and cheerful, just us girls. No killers on the loose here.

  “In touch?” Holly’s voice was subdued. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “Well. Every few months, Vincent calls the restaurant for a chat.”

  June looked at Peter. “What do you chat about?”

  “Mostly about Vincent. He’d never say it, but I can tell he’s lonely. Why else would he still call me, after all these years? He never was very good with people. Not like my James. I try to get off the phone as quickly as possible.” Holly was from California, but her years in the UK had put a British flavor in her voice.

  “You were the one who ended it?”

  “Yes. I told Vincent I’d met someone else and he became quite angry. He actually had a heart attack a few weeks later. To be honest, at the time I wondered if it was my fault. Then when I sent out wedding invitations, Vincent somehow heard about it and flew over here and tried to talk me into marrying him instead.”

  “Wow. How did that make you feel?” June’s voice was intimate and supremely interested, even as she scribbled notes on her pad. Peter thought again how good she was at her job.

  “Well, I stopped feeling badly about how I ended things, that’s for sure.” She gave a soft laugh. “Vincent always was a supremely arrogant wanker, you know? With some odd ideas about things, too. But in the time since I’d seen him last, he’d really become quite strange.”

  “Mm. Strange in what way, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Well, he gave me this long speech about the many ways he’d changed his life, and that he’d done it for me. He’d had some, well, some bedroom problems, probably because he’d been so overweight, and he wanted me to know he’d been getting these hormone implants to lose the weight and solve the problem. But he was more driven than ever. All that money and success, and it still wasn’t enough. Really, it was kind of sad. He kept talking about changing the world.”

  “Mm,” June said again. “How was he going to do that?”

  She sighed. “I have no idea. I was just a temp worker in his office, and now I run a restaurant.” Holly paused a moment. “I’m sorry, but why are we having this conversation? Why do you want to know about Vincent?”

  “He’s involved in something very dangerous,” June said. “And I guess you could say he’s disappeared. I’d like to help him, but first I have to find him.” Her pen tapped on her pad. “I don’t suppose you have a phone number for him, by chance?”

  “No, he always calls from a new number. Otherwise I wouldn’t answer. He still sends me flowers every month, too.”

  “That must be really awkward,” June said. “What does your husband think?”

  “Oh, nothing bothers James. Or at least he doesn’t admit it, because he wants to downplay my stalker ex-boyfriend. It’s not like we can change the restaurant’s number. So we’ve turned it into our own private joke, that I left a rich and desperate American to marry this overweight Brit and have his babies while I work in his restaurant seven days a week. I should say also, James is very practical and it’s quite a large flower arrangement, so we just toss the card in the bin and put the flowers in the restaurant. The latest came two days ago. I’m looking at them right now.”

  Peter opened his mouth, but June held up her finger. “Holly, do they always come from the same shop?”

  “Oh, yes. Gallery Flowers in St. Ives. A standing order. I used to cancel, but Vincent would just find a new florist.”

  “Gallery Flowers.” June gave Peter a toothy grin. “I don’t suppose you happen to have the number handy, do you?”

  * * *

  —

  She called the flower shop next. Her friend Holly was getting their gorgeous arrangement every month, and wanted to express her appreciation to the sender. Did the shop have any contact information?

  “That’s a bit of an odd one.” On speaker, the florist sounded like a gay Winston Churchill. “The customer orders online, but our confirmation email always bounces right back, so that’s obviously a typo or something. But his credit card goes through, so we keep sending flowers.”

  “He pays by credit card? So you must know his name, at least.”

  “Well, that’s something else odd,” the florist said. “On the card, the customer has asked us to write, Love Forever, Vincent. But the name on the credit card is Graham Brown.”

  June hung up and Peter fell asleep under the pale glow of her laptop screen, listening to the machine-gun rattle of her fingers on the keyboard.

  43

  EDGAR

  Edgar walked out of the newspaper office and left the neighborhood in his new van before the police showed up. Mike Dillman was starting to smell, but other than that, he was pretty good company. He didn’t talk back and he didn’t try to give directions, either.

  Edgar’s ear hurt where it was torn up and his side ached like he’d been beaten with a stick. He thought the second bullet had angled off one of his ribs, then slid under the muscle and skin until it could get out through his back. It felt bad, but he didn’t think it was fatal.

  He found his face in the rearview mirror and gave himself a stern look. “You need to get better at dodging bullets.” Edgar could have carried a
gun himself, which would have solved the problem, but a pistol wasn’t the same as a blade. It didn’t give him the shivery feeling. Edgar felt strongly that a person should enjoy his work.

  He parked by the freeway and crawled between the seats into the back of the van. It hurt to bend and twist, but he pretended it didn’t. He found a first aid kit hanging from a shelf, but it was small and old and it didn’t really have anything for bullet holes. He peeled off his shirt, then opened a fresh bag of painter’s rags and a can of paint thinner and cleaned his wounds. The chemicals burned like cold fire. It was like the bleach, but different. He felt purified.

  He stuck a half-dozen Band-Aids on his ear, then tore his shirt into strips and tied them around his ribs. He folded rags under the wrap to slow the bleeding, but he couldn’t do much with the hole on his back. He needed real supplies and another set of hands.

  He pulled on a stained sweatshirt that said benjamin moore and drove to a twenty-four-hour drugstore in the next county. The new van was fast and strong. He put on his cool sunglasses and went inside and filled a basket with gauze and tape and disinfectant spray and extra-strength Tylenol and a big jug of red Gatorade and anything else he could think of.

  The clerk stared at his bandaged ear but didn’t say anything except how much he owed. Edgar said Please and Thank you and tried not to look at the security cameras. All he could do was use his Sunday manners and hope the police wouldn’t come looking this far.

  He chased Tylenol with Gatorade while he drove back to Mike Dillman’s house. He parked in the driveway and put his new first aid kit and a fresh white shirt into a cloth grocery bag and went through the fence to the old lady’s yard, moving carefully with the torn muscles and skin. Across the street, the dog started barking again. Edgar didn’t like dogs.

  Her back door was locked, but the wood was old and gave way when Edgar popped it with his shoulder. He carried the axe in his hand and the knife through his belt and the grocery bag’s handle loose around his wrist.