He made his way behind a garden shed twenty feet from the side of the house. Sliding open a window, he crept through, noticing the equipment stored within. He had always prided himself on being able to make do with anything he could lay his hands on. So many tools could be found around the average house—tools of death, destruction, torture.
After digging through a toolbox, Allander held up a lengthy awl, studying it in the light that filtered through the dust and cobwebs.
The doorbell rang.
“Who the hell? At this hour?” A shrill voice issued forth from beneath a white beauty mask and a set of rollers. Henry was startled until he remembered his wife’s new habit of rising early to apply beauty products. “Go get the door, Henry,” she urged.
Henry grunted and shifted heavily in the bed. “It’s probably just the paper boy.”
“Get the door, Henry.”
Henry sighed and stumbled out of bed as his wife rolled back over on her side, her arms crossed on top of her red nightgown. It had been one pain-in-the-ass thing after another since they’d let the maid go last week for stealing a bracelet from his wife’s bureau. Just can’t trust people anymore, Henry thought groggily as he padded across the tiled floor of the foyer.
“Who is it?” he called, and then mumbled in the same singsong voice, “You annoying asshole.”
He looked through the peephole and saw nothing, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Nothing. A bird called out twice from its perch in a tree and Henry relaxed and inhaled deeply, stretching his arms. He bent over and picked up the newspaper.
As he walked back down the hallway to the bedroom, the doorbell rang again.
“I thought I told you to get the door,” his wife screeched from the bedroom. Henry winced at the sound of her voice, raising his shoulders above his neck as if to block out the noise.
“I got it. Just go back to sleep.” He walked back to the door muttering to himself. He leaned forward to check the peephole again; there was a tinkling sound as the glass from the peephole broke. Henry convulsed and slumped forward. His body seemed to hang on the door from his head.
Allander pulled the awl back out through the peephole. Poised in his other hand was the hammer he had used to force the awl through the small hole and into Henry’s eye. The door shuddered softly as Henry collapsed to the floor. His body showed no visible sign of violence except for the small puncture in the iris, through which the awl had entered his brain.
Allander pushed the door open, shoving against the weight of Henry’s body.
Vanity breeds contempt, Allander thought. If you hadn’t wanted the white castle on top of the hill, you’d still be dreaming of breakfast.
He crept softly toward the master bedroom, holding the hammer tight in his fist.
A familiar sensation invaded him, filling him slowly, leaving him with a tingling in his stomach—the ecstasy of the kill. Somehow, he knew that it was what he was made to do. And he didn’t feel angry. In fact, it was the only time he didn’t feel angry.
The woman’s form under the blankets was barely visible from the doorway, yet Allander could sense the inconsistency of her femininity. It scared him, the inconsistency. It always had.
He approached her slowly, his knees trembling. His left foot came down on a lipstick cylinder and it cracked like a walnut.
The woman rolled over in bed and saw Allander’s sickly, pale skin covered with sand trails and dried seaweed. The white mask over her face opened to emit an enormous scream. Allander backed up, momentarily fearful, bumping against the cabinet.
Throwing the covers aside, the woman grabbed the phone from the nightstand and hurled it at Allander’s head. She screamed her husband’s name over and over: “HENRY! HENRY! GET THE CHILDREN! HENRY!”
The phone hit Allander in the face and split open his upper lip, spilling blood over his mouth. He cowered until he tasted its richness, then he felt himself energized.
The white mask was out of bed and running for the door. As she passed him, Allander stepped forward and swung the hammer’s pointed end at the back of the woman’s head. It struck her in the soft nape of her neck and stuck. He jerked it back and swung again, lodging it firmly in the wound.
The woman fell as if in slow motion, jolting momentarily on her knees before pitching face first to the carpet.
Her final scream reverberated within the room, then there was quiet. The silence was broken by the distant crying of children.
A young boy’s voice sounded from around the corner, “Mommy? Are you all right? Daddy?” It was a beautifully pitched voice, a soprano full of prepubescent innocence. It trembled delicately, like a feather approaching the blades of a fan.
Allander was the man of the house now. He had established that.
He wiped the blood from his lips and headed for the door.
TWO
THE TRACKER
12
“STAY BACK, YOU FUCK! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT,” Jade Marlow yelled above the scream of bullets that ricocheted off the pavement and the open car door that shielded him.
“But I think I got it! I think I got an angle to the door,” Dave Patrick said excitedly, his eyes fixed on the second-floor window of the Lilliputian Day Care building, behind which a team of gunmen held three children hostage.
Jade peered cautiously around the car door. The late-morning heat made the yellow window frame waver and distort, its peeling paint seeming to vibrate in the heavy air. A wooden sign was staked in the middle of the browning lawn. “For Growing Sirs and Madams,” it announced in impressive lettering.
“You don’t! You don’t have it, and you’re my cover. Don’t fuck me on this! I’m the lead here, so stay put.”
Dave glanced at Jade nervously, his blue eyes filled with more bravado than intelligence. “I got it. I got it, Jade!” With that he leaped to his feet and ran out from behind the car, sprinting for the building.
“No, you stupid fuck!” Jade hit the door angrily with his elbow, then quickly turned and fired several shots at the second-story window. The gunman upstairs stayed put.
As Dave neared the door, it swung open and he found himself facing a fat man with a goatee, a shotgun braced beneath his jiggling chins. Panic crossed Dave’s face. He tried desperately to skid to a halt while raising his gun, instead losing his footing and landing on his ass. Before he could blink, Goatee had unloaded two quick shots into his chest, splattering his policeman-blue shirt with blood.
Jade pivoted around the car door and put one bullet neatly through Goatee’s neck, dropping him before he could retreat. As he toppled over backward, another man scurried around the body and slammed the door shut again.
Rising slightly from his crouch, Jade peered at Dave’s body. His longish blond hair, brushed by the wind, was the only thing that moved. Poor dumb guy, Jade thought, an ex-high school running back who’d never learned to separate the playing field from the world that fenced it in. He was definitely dead. At least you got us one kidnapper, he thought.
The door opened slightly and the downstairs gunman showered bullets all over the front of the car door. Jade flattened himself against the ground; as he got ready to return fire, the door slammed shut again.
Peering through the shattered remains of his driver’s-side window, Jade noticed a mail slot toward the bottom of the thick oak door. He raised his gun, holding it firmly while he aimed. He fired once. The mail slot pinged open and shut like a throwing game at an amusement park.
Hearing a scream, he rolled from the safety of his car and sprang to his feet. He ran toward the door, firing over his head to keep the gunman upstairs at bay.
As Jade got to the base of the steps leading to the door, he planted his foot on Dave’s chest and leaped over the four steps in a single motion.
The gunman lay across Goatee’s body, his shoulders propped up by the wall. He was crying silently and holding his knee, his gun on the floor a few feet from him. Dark streams of blood spurted from between his fing
ers. When Jade kicked open the door, the man scrambled for his gun, but Jade stepped on his hand and fired once into the top of his head. The bullet blew out part of his jaw as it exited.
The foyer was a large room with smooth beige carpeting. A curved staircase swept up to the second floor, which was set off by wood railings. An elaborate chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. Elegant, though slightly rundown, the Lilliputian Day Care building was a converted mansion. It provided day care for the more affluent families in Pacific Heights.
Jade assessed his position: lower location, limited sight—extremely vulnerable. Either turn back or bulldoze ahead. He stepped over the bodies and headed for the staircase.
He made his way up the stairs, holding his gun next to his cheek. His muscles were tensed beneath his clothes. “Shut up, you little shit,” he heard as he reached the top step. A child whimpered softly. The noise came from the first room off the wide hallway.
Jade moved slowly toward the room, stepping quietly on the plush Chinese patterned rug. He paused beside the door frame and listened, carefully controlling the sound of his breathing.
“I know you’re out there, asshole. Come in,” he heard.
Jade dropped to his stomach and peered around the bottom of the door frame. He could see Michael Trapp. He was backed into a corner, one arm locked around a six-year-old girl’s neck in a half nelson, a gun pressed to her temple. She dangled in his arms like a rag doll, her button eyes wide with fear. To Trapp’s right, two boys knelt side by side, facing the wall.
Jade had studied Trapp’s profile inside and out. He was a ransomer who’d never been in a face-off, although he’d killed kids before. Now his partners were dead and he was scared shitless. But Jade knew he wouldn’t fire right off the bat. He’d want to negotiate. That’s what ransomers did.
Jade stood up and whirled around the corner, his gun pointed. The girl screamed and struggled in Trapp’s grip.
“Drop the gun or so help me God I’ll—”
Jade fired once and put a bullet right through his mouth. Blood splattered the white wall and the floral painting behind him. Trapp’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, the girl still clutched in his arm. She flailed to get out from under him, screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally gaining her feet, she ran to Jade, embracing him around his waist.
He placed his hands awkwardly on her shoulders, pushing her away. He walked over to the body to make sure it was dead, laying two fingers on the neck to check for a pulse. There was none. “The real cops’ll be here soon to take care of you,” he said over his shoulder. He glanced at the two boys. They were shaking badly, still facing the wall. “You can get up now. He’s dead.”
They didn’t move.
Jade released the cartridge so it tapped his palm, then clicked it back into place. He’d collect a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for four days of tracking. Not bad for an FBI dropout. He smiled and ran his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. To his right, the boys continued to quiver. Behind him, the little girl sobbed loudly.
Jade pulled Trapp’s wallet out of his pocket and double-checked the driver’s license, a formality since he was already positive on the ID. Several hundred-dollar bills stuck out, and Jade pushed them all the way into the billfold and stuck the wallet back in Trapp’s pocket. He rose and walked downstairs as he heard the black-and-whites racing up the street, their sirens screaming.
He stepped over the two bodies downstairs, giving Goatee a kick that knocked his head against the wall. Putting his gun in the back of his jeans, Jade stepped through the doorway into daylight. Recognizing him, the cops sighed in relief and lowered their guns.
“One of these days, I’m gonna beat you to it,” Lieutenant Hawkins said, fumbling over his beer belly to find his holster. Hawkins’s eyes were as deeply brown as Jade’s were green. He had a thick black mustache. They always have a mustache, Jade thought.
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Trapp dead?”
“Yeah. And the kid.” Jade pointed with his gun at Dave’s body, still sprawled out, reaching for the door. “The commissioner gave me him to work with. Almost got me killed.”
“He break cover?”
“Yeah.” Jade shook his head. “They never listen.”
Hawkins sighed, running a hand over the top of his head. “Poor kid was just a rent-a-cop. Worked security at night to support his family.”
Jade’s mouth tightened. “You guys took long enough to get here. What, was there a cat stuck in a tree somewhere?”
“We didn’t get the call till you’d already cornered them, then we came as fast as we could. You should’ve waited for us to back you.”
“I didn’t have the luxury.”
Hawkins grimaced and glanced back at the house. Goatee’s arm was visible in the doorway, lying in a pool of blood. Cops stepped over the bodies and headed inside to examine the scene. The sound of the boys weeping upstairs became softly audible.
“Jesus Christ, Marlow, you left the kids in there?” Hawkins asked in disbelief.
“Oh yeah, shit, that’s right.”
“‘Oh yeah’? You leave three kids alone in a room with a corpse and that’s the best you can do? ‘Oh yeah’?” Hawkins scratched himself angrily.
“Look, Hawkins, I don’t see baby-sitter anywhere in my job title.”
Hawkins gestured to a newly arrived paramedics team. “You three—upstairs. Let’s go.” He turned back to Jade, shaking his head. “You bounty hunters are sick fucks.”
The paramedics rushed out carrying the kids. The children were sobbing freely now, all three of them. Jade looked down as they passed, studying the ground. “I’m not a bounty hunter,” he said. “I’m a tracker. It’s an art.”
“A madness, Jade.” Hawkins wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A madness.”
13
“TRACKER” was the term that Jade used to describe the new profession he had carved out for himself after resigning from the FBI. When he broke his second case, the media began referring to him as a “T&Der” or “tracker and destroyer,” but the phrase was too strained for his style. His language, like his actions, was quick and efficient.
Being a tracker set Jade apart from the bumbling military Soldiers of Fortune and the trained dogs that the bail-and-loan companies sent out. He was the only one, and he worked alone.
Tracking didn’t entail following a physical trail, it involved more subtle measures. Jade had learned that there was no straight line to a criminal’s door. He began a case by going backward, studying a criminal’s history—his motivations, his weaknesses. Once he got a profile, he could close in on him with the precision and determination of a shark circling its prey.
He said that he quit the feds because he couldn’t stand the bullshit of hierarchy. But there was a truer, more difficult explanation: He didn’t get along with people. And in general, they didn’t get along with him either.
There were people in his life, of course, but they came and went as the weeks passed. He was always going somewhere else, always looking for something else. He was a hunter by trade, and hunters never stay in one place for very long.
Jade didn’t like covering the same ground twice. And he didn’t like the feeling that settled in once he stopped chasing. He pursued his prey with such fervor that it sometimes seemed he himself was fleeing from something. And it was true that he sometimes heard voices behind him, voices from his past. The singsong, manic voices of children spinning nursery rhymes in the hot summer air.
Eeni meenie minie moe, they sang, the notes of their song burning into his memory.
But eventually, after blisters, calluses form. They’re much easier to live with.
When it came to himself, Jade didn’t have time for complexity. Because he spent his days dredging society’s murky waters, he had little energy for introspection. As a result, he viewed himself as fiercely independent, not isolated, as self-reliant, not difficult. It was easier that way.
Jade
left the FBI after his rambunctious attitude landed him in trouble. He had upbraided the Head of Operations of the Hostage Negotiation Department for allowing a terrorist to escape. The incident came after the agents had been ordered to stand down because hostages were in the line of fire. So when Jade had seen his shot open up for a split second, he had forced himself to resist. The terrorist had escaped and had been taken down by another agent in Maryland the next week. There had been other casualties along the way.
“You always shoot,” Jade had yelled at the balding Head of Operations. “You shoot and ask questions later. So he takes out a hostage, big deal. If you let him escape, who knows who he’ll do next?”
The Head of Operations had replied without looking up. “You throw temper tantrums like a child,” he said calmly. “You have no grasp whatsoever of public relations. You don’t follow orders and when you do, you do so grudgingly. You were the top agent in your entire graduating class, Marlow,” he said, finally raising his eyes to meet Jade’s. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what you’re doing here.”
Jade walked that day, and burned all his suits and ties that were part of the Bureau’s uniform. He was on his own.
He was too good to be forgotten by law-enforcement officials, though, since during his five years as an agent he had had the top arrest record in the FBI. His combat skills and his abilities in criminal analysis and tracking were extremely well respected. He was best known, however, for his instinct. Jade had instinct like a tiger on the prowl; it seemed to come from the very blood running in his veins.
Local police units began hiring him to help take care of problems that eluded their own forces, everything from catching a burglar to tracking missing children. Eventually, even the FBI began to hire him for special cases, calling him in to coordinate and oversee operations. He felt a deep flush of satisfaction rise to his cheeks as he issued his conditions to them. He was the only outsider they’d ever hired for cases, and that knowledge was sweet revenge.
The Tower Page 6
