Deadly Pursuit

by Ann Christopher

  Clink.

  Shit.

  Nerve endings crawled to life up and down the back of his neck and he felt the sudden and still-familiar clammy wetness in his armpits even though he hadn’t experienced it—not while awake, anyway—since he left the mosquito-infested humid heart of hell that was Vietnam.

  It was coming from his office. Where a lamp that he’d left off was now on. He could see the narrow line of yellow light seeping under the door, which was ajar. He’d left it shut and locked because the cash box was in there.

  Double shit.

  Kids. Why didn’t they learn? Sort of a thug’s rite of passage, was robbing the Twelfth Street Diner.

  J-Mart had caught the last two hoods six months ago, and he’d catch this one.

  Adrenaline pumping, he hugged the wall and edged toward the office door. At the broom closet he paused to reach inside for his Louisville Slugger, which he kept propped in the corner for just such an occasion.

  Holding it cocked and ready over his shoulder—he didn’t want to hurt the kids, just surprise them enough to wet their pants and scare them straight—he poked his head inside the office door and assessed the scene.

  The corner lamp was on.

  The cash box was sitting, untouched, atop the pile of crap on his desk.

  A slight figure stood in front of the tall file cabinet at the far end of the room, the one where J-Mart kept his employee records, trying to jimmy the lock with controlled, efficient movements.

  Sweatshirt. Jeans. Knit cap pulled low so no hair was visible.

  Purple rubber gloves—the kind the technician wore whenever he had blood drawn—covering small but steady hands.

  Those gloves puzzled him. Worried him.

  That wasn’t a neighborhood kid.

  The burglar made an indistinct noise of unmistakable triumph, slid the top drawer open and, after pocketing the metal tool, began to rifle through J-Mart’s files.

  In his surprise—what kind of dumb fuck of a burglar ignored the cash box so he could rummage through employment and insurance records?—J-Mart forgot himself and spoke.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The burglar wheeled around.

  J-Mart tightened his grip on the comforting weight of his Slugger, but then their gazes connected and his jaw dropped.

  It was Baby Blue, the cute little cherry pie eater with the GIVE PEACE A CHANCE sweatshirt and world-class tits. Only her cuteness had been swallowed up by a cold intensity that had him wondering, with increasing dread, if maybe he should’ve called the police.

  “You shouldn’t have come back, old man,” she said, and there was something in her icy eyes that made his bowels loosen.

  “What do you want?” If he’d been in his right mind, he’d’ve been embarrassed by his croaky voice, but he had more important things to worry about because he had the strong feeling he was about to die.

  “Where’s Jackson Parker?” asked Baby Blue.

  Who the hell was Jackson Parker?

  For one uncomprehending moment J-Mart stared at her, but then he understood with a sudden violent clarity. There was no Jackson Patterson. It was Parker. And here was Jack’s past, caught up with him at last.

  She’d broken into the file cabinet to find Jack’s address.

  Only—funny thing. Jack’s real address wasn’t in there; the one he’d listed on his employment application belonged to a pizzeria two blocks from here. Jack had told him he’d had some problems in his past and J-Mart didn’t give a damn about his fake address because he was a fine cook who showed up for work when scheduled.

  Maybe he should have asked another question or two about Jack’s troubles, but it was way past too late now, wasn’t it? Now the only thing that mattered was protecting Jack. As long as he didn’t crack, Jack would remain safe from this little demon. And J-Mart had promised he’d help.

  The prayer came back to him though he hadn’t stepped foot in church in a thousand years. Whaddaya know. The nuns had drilled a little religion into him after all.

  Hail Mary, full of grace…

  “I’ve never heard of Jackson Parker.”

  This was technically true, not that he expected it—or anything he said or did—to save his life now that he’d seen this woman’s face.

  That expression didn’t change. Those wide blue eyes didn’t blink. That small body didn’t have one ounce of mercy in it, but then assassins weren’t known for their tender hearts.

  J-Mart thought of Jenny. He thought of children she might one day have that he would never see. He hoped his son-in-law would take care of them.

  And he prayed.

  The Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women…

  Reaching behind her back, Baby Blue produced a weapon and, without hesitation, aimed it at his leg and fired.

  Pain exploded through his knee, shooting out the top of his head and through the soles of his feet to the floor. He dropped like a concrete slab, yelling with agony and pissing himself, curling into the fetal position before he’d even finished falling.

  His vision dimmed, went dark, and came back again. Now she was standing over him, looking down with what might have been regret, but you had to have a soul to feel sorry about anything.

  Anger slowly penetrated his consciousness. Through the groaning and the slobbering and the agony, one persistent thought gave him strength: he would not go out like this. He was a retired sergeant with the United States Army who’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam and he would not fucking go out like this.

  So he unclenched his hands from the bloody and ruined remnants of his knee, uncurled his body, and glared up at his killer. Shaking convulsively, he unclenched his jaw and willed his voice to be clear and strong.

  Hail Mary … Hail Mary … Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death … Hail Mary … Mary …

  “Fuck. You.”

  Annoyed, Payton Jones stared down at the old man. Not because she cared if the crazy fuck bit it on the office floor now rather than in a hospital with prostate cancer or some such shit a few years from now, when his time came naturally. She didn’t.

  The problem was: this job was beginning to require a lot of legwork and a fair amount of collateral damage. Collateral damage meant more risk to her. Under normal circumstances she’d lie in wait until she had a clear shot at the target and would never show her face to anyone. This whole break-into-the-file-cabinet-to-find-Parker’s-address-so-she-could-kill-him-tonight operation was riskier than she’d been told.

  More risk meant she was entitled to more money.

  More than the bonus she’d been promised a little while ago if she took care of this Jackson Parker character ASAP.

  She’d find Parker. If the old man didn’t tell her before she clipped him—and it was beginning to look like he wouldn’t—then she would surely find him in the file cabinet over there as she’d originally planned, or maybe in the old man’s phone and cell phone records of recent calls.

  If those turned up nothing, then she had Plan C, pretty little Amara Clarke, to follow up with, and she knew how to find Amara Clarke. But no matter how things unfolded, this job was a lot more work than she’d expected, and the pay needed to reflect it.

  Impatient now, she raised her weapon and stared down the length of her arm to the old man, who was now babbling and crying, his face a disgusting mess of snot and tears.

  “Hail Mary, Hail Mary, please—”

  “Let’s talk about Jackson Parker,” she told him.

  Chapter 5

  Luck was with Jack. There was an empty parking space on the street in front of his five-story brick apartment building, and he slipped his battered red Jeep into it. The usual suspects were loitering on the sidewalk despite the late hour: prostitutes who knew better than to approach him over there, drug dealers and their apprentices over there.

  They all watched with interest as he unloaded his mountain bike, the only quality thing he owned, from the rack, hefted it over his shoulde
r and climbed the steps. He could almost see the cha-ching of easy money in their greedy eyes as they stared at the bike, which was exactly why he kept it safely inside his apartment.

  He’d stayed out longer than he’d planned, but the weather was good and the trails were clear if a little muddy after yesterday’s sleet, and he hadn’t had a day off in three weeks. So, after a sleepless night filled with images of Amara, the images all the more graphic because now he knew the silky-smooth texture of her fragrant hair and the scent of berries and flowers on her skin, he’d gotten up at the crack o’ dawn, thrown some protein bars, trail mix and water bottles into his backpack and driven for hours up into the mountains.

  Now it was after eleven and he was back, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready for a second restless night with a hard-on the size of Plymouth Rock in his pants.

  Flipping on the cheap overhead fixture to illuminate the four-walled shit box that was home sweet home, he leaned his bike against the table and tried to be grateful he had a spot to lay his head.

  The place had all the comforts: Formica kitchen with harvest gold icebox circa 1962; folding card table with matching chair; one knife, one fork, one spoon and a big stack of white paper plates; a king-sized bed on the other side of the room, close enough that he never had to worry about tiring himself out during any middle-of-the-night hunts for a snack, but also close enough that he could never cook bacon unless he wanted his sheets to smell like pork for the rest of the week.

  In pride of place on the wall opposite his one window: a forty-two-inch LCD HDTV with a picture sharp enough to cut diamonds.

  He clicked it on to the local news, crossed to the bathroom to start the water running in the shower in the hopes that it would be hot by this time tomorrow, and backtracked to the fridge for a Gatorade.

  He’d just bent to reach for the Styrofoam clamshell filled with out-of-date lasagna from the diner—he’d brought it home last week, but it probably had another forty-eight hours or so before the bacteria really took hold—when he thought he heard something that made his heart stop and his blood run icy.

  Had someone said Amara’s name?

  Straightening, he let the refrigerator door slam shut and turned to watch the big-haired and shellacked anchor continue with her story. “Prominent local defense attorney Amara Clarke had a busy day yesterday,” she began, but that was all Jack heard because his carefully constructed world was dropping out from under his feet.

  There, in the window over the anchor’s shoulder, was a grainy-ass black-and-white surveillance video that showed, among other things, the kind of close-up of Jack’s face that Kareem Gregory could have only dreamed of.

  Stupefied, Jack watched until it went to commercial.

  Then he picked up the remote, punched Rewind and watched it again.

  Then he blinked, shook his head and tried to think.

  Fuck.

  He stood there for one more bewildered second before his training kicked in, and then he sprang to life because he knew this drill. He’d done it once before, in New Orleans, and he could do it again.

  Ten minutes. He had ten minutes.

  Dropping to his knees, he belly-crawled halfway under the bed and emerged with his huge black duffel, which was already filled with most of the things he would need: a prepaid cell phone, his backup weapon, the keys to his storage unit and extra car, which was housed in said storage unit, clothes, shoes, books.

  Yeah, his life was a train wreck, but it’d have to get a damn sight worse before he’d leave The Autobiography of Malcolm X and To Kill a Mockingbird behind.

  His hunting knife and sheath, which he’d strap to his ankle. A wallet filled with cash and a selection of fake but convincing driver’s licenses in a variety of identities. Maps.

  Straightening, he looked around at the rest of his pitiful belongings.

  The bike was toast. Nothing he could do about that. Same with the TV.

  Okay. What else?

  The picture of Mama over on the nightstand. Snatching it up, he wrapped it in his underwear and found a secure place for it inside the duffel.

  That was it.

  Sad commentary on his life that it only took him thirty seconds to pack it all in a bag.

  Of course this meant he’d never see Amara again.

  Better for her, woe-is-me for him.

  And J-Mart. He’d never see him again either. But he owed the old man a good-bye. It was the least he could do after all J-Mart had done for him: giving him a job, not asking any questions, offering a shoulder to lean on.

  So he’d sneak into the diner—J-Mart was there right now, he knew, chopping romaine for salads and baking muffins for breakfast—and then he’d take off for parts unknown.

  Again.

  Once he got where he was going, he’d call the people he needed to call.

  As he headed into the bathroom, he ignored the sickening ache of loss in the darkest pit of his belly. Loss? Get real. Amara had never been his, never would be his, and his disappearance from her life was the best thing that could ever happen to her—even though it felt like a crushing blow to him.

  Jack’s simmering dread intensified as he crept through the alley to the diner’s back door and discovered it unlocked and ajar. J-Mart never kept the heavy metal fire door unlocked. And he was here somewhere because his gleaming black pickup was still parked by the Dumpster, the Ronald Reagan bobble head doll looking oddly forlorn in the rear window.

  Something told Jack not to go inside. Pocketing the extra set of keys J-Mart had given him when he began working at the diner, Jack eyed the ancient Honda Accord that he’d retrieved from his storage locker and parked behind J-Mart’s truck. He should leave and call J-Mart from a phone booth in a day or two. That made the most sense and was the safest option.

  Except that he couldn’t do it.

  Pausing only to pull the forty-caliber Glock semi out of the waistband behind his back, Jack eased the door open a crack, slid inside and made it two steps before the smells slapped him in the face, nearly knocking him on his butt. Not the familiar savory scent of beef stew, the cinnamon-y fragrance of hot apple pie, or even the scorch of the microwave popcorn that J-Mart liked so well and occasionally burned.

  No.

  The coppery tang of blood leached into his nostrils and settled, heavy and unwelcome, on the back of his tongue. Above that was the unmistakable stench of shit. Above that was a sinus-clearing layer of ammonia. No, not ammonia. Piss.

  Jack gagged, knowing what he was about to find.

  He crept down the hallway on silent feet even though he didn’t need to bother because the place was empty. His senses would have been screaming at him if anyone was around, but the hair on his arms lay flat, telling him there were no intruders.

  Not now, anyway.

  The light was on in J-Mart’s office but Jack’s feet refused to go in there. Swiping at his eyes—shit, God, SHIT—he took a deep breath, flipped off the pistol’s safety, kicked the door all the way open, and scanned the room from the threshold.

  J-Mart was lying face-up on the floor. What was left of him.

  It wasn’t pretty. His glazed eyes were open with a tiny bloody hole between. His legs—both of them—were a mangled mess of tissue, cartilage and jagged bone below the knee. His mouth gaped and his tongue lolled.

  Dead. No. Not just dead. Dead could mean died peacefully of heart failure in bed.

  J-Mart had been tortured and slaughtered because of Jack.

  With a wounded-animal roar, Jack let the pain come and helped it along by pounding his forehead against the wall hard enough to split the skin.

  Jesus. Hadn’t he sworn there’d be no more collateral damage on account of him?

  Another head pound. And another. Only when he felt the warm trickle of his own blood and the corresponding relief did he pull himself together and stop the pity party by sheer force of will.

  Swiping his eyes again, he took a quick look around to see what else this scene could tell him. There
was nothing other than what he already knew—this wasn’t a robbery gone bad. J-Mart’s watch was still on his arm, the cash box still on his desk. Nothing whatsoever was out of place.

  No—wait.

  The file cabinet was open. J-Mart kept it locked. Jack’s employment records were in there, but big freaking deal. Jack had never put his real address on the paperwork and, even if he had, he’d just left his apartment, never to return.

  Once he got back in that Accord, drove off and disappeared into the night, there was no way he could be traced, nothing to tie him to Mount Adams or anywhere. J-Mart was dead, but Jack was safe—for now, at least—and there was nothing and no one anyone could use to get to him.

  Relieved and ashamed of himself for it, he turned to go.

  Then he thought of Amara and the way he’d held her on camera, as though they were lovers and she meant the world to him, and the breath choked off in his lungs.

  People did this for fun? And relaxation?

  That was getting harder to believe by the second.

  Amara eyed her stupid little knitting project with increasing irritation. On one end was an enormous ball of fuzzy-soft purple yarn, every inch of which she had personally and painstakingly unraveled from the skein. Why this was necessary, she had no idea. But the instructions said do it, so she’d done it. Then she’d “cast” one end of the yarn onto one of a pair of enormous wooden knitting needles that looked more like drumsticks than craft implements.

  Now she was supposed to begin knitting the actual scarf, which the lying bastards at the yarn manufacturer had claimed, on the back of the yarn wrapper, was a basic project. Basic. Yeah, sure. Basic for anyone with thirty years’ previous knitting experience.

  Lowering the needles, she looked around her house and wondered how she’d survive for the full three weeks of her mandatory and unwelcome time off.

  The blue and yellow pillows on the off-white Pottery Barn sofas and miscellaneous rattan chairs were fluffed and arranged because she was compulsively neat and used a cleaning service on a regular basis. The hardwood floors and rugs were immaculate, and so were the kitchen and the closets.