by Tinnean
“Sounds like a Clint Eastwood western,” the youngest of Uncle Steve’s sons chimed in. “Like you’re the hired gun who rides into town to clean up the bad guys.”
“Only you don’t shoot them, of course,” Lilly murmured.
I parted my lips in a non-smile. “Of course.”
Fortunately, the appetizers were brought out just then, because conversation went downhill from there. “We were able to get Stevie enrolled in preschool….”
“Amanda finally went through the night dry….”
“Jeffy, don’t put that fry up your nose….”
XVII
WHEN we returned to the funeral home, the director was setting up an open heart standing spray of flowers.
“Delphiniums, mums, and heather,” he announced. “A truly elegant arrangement.”
At the word “elegant,” I got a funny feeling in my… no, of course not my heart. It was just those damned cheesy fries giving me acid reflux.
He hurried out, and I walked over to retrieve the card that was tucked into the greenery. With deepest sympathy was all it read.
I flipped it over and saw that it was from Mr. Wallace. I wasn’t surprised. I had seen what he had done for that little shit Shaw at his funeral.
I wouldn’t let myself be disappointed that it wasn’t from Quinn. After all, how would he know where I’d gone, and what purpose I had gone there for? As good as Quinton Mann might be, the CIA was nowhere near the caliber of the WBIS.
I tucked the card back into the spray—I’d make sure I took it in the morning—and was about to sit down when the director came back in, this time with a basket filled with spring flowers. He put it at the other end of the coffin. “It looks like we’re going to have a very nice display,” he bubbled.
“Uh….”
That card said We’re so sorry for your loss, and it was signed by my secretary, the secretarial pool, the janitorial staff, and Ned, the night security man.
I swallowed and was about to put the card back in the flowers when Steve took it from me.
“Who are these people, Mark?”
“I work with them.”
More flowers came in, a vase of lilies from Romero and his wife and kid, more vases filled to overflowing with roses from the rent boys of DC. How the fuck had they—oh, yeah, Matheson must have told Sweetcheeks, and he’d told everyone on God’s green earth.
Another standing spray was brought in, a fan of gladioli in a rainbow of colors. This was from Pretty Boy, Spike, Sweetcheeks, and… Matheson?
I shook my head.
The cards read With sympathy, With regret, With condolences.
I was floored. I hadn’t expected that.
Steve’s family went to examine the flowers, looking from the cards to me. It was obvious they hadn’t expected that either.
It looked like the flood of flowers had finally trickled to a halt. I followed the director out into the lobby.
“I want you to send the bill for this funeral to this address.” I took out one of my Huntingdon business cards. Mark Vincent, Senior Security Specialist, Huntingdon Corporation, Boston, MA.
“Oh, it’s already been taken care of!”
“I’m paying for this. Refund what you took.”
He looked uncertain. “Mr. Vincent wanted to—”
“It’s not his responsibility. The old—she was my mother.”
He stood there dithering. Couldn’t say I’d ever seen anyone “dither” before, but maybe I’d just led a sheltered life.
“All right.” I pulled out a credit card in my own name. Yeah, I had one of those. It matched the business cards. “Put it on this card.” It was a platinum Visa card, and my limit on it was twenty-five thousand dollars. “And give my uncle the slip with the refund.”
“Yes, sir! Let me give you the general price list.” While he was handling the refund, I looked it over.
“What’s this? Medium index fluid?”
He looked flustered. “I assure you, it’s quite sufficient for a single day’s viewing!”
“Yeah, but what is it?”
“Oh. It’s the embalming fluid.”
“Okay. And custodial?”
“That’s removal from place of death—in this case it was Falmouth Hospital. And then of course preparing your mother and putting her out for viewing.”
“Fair enough. Now, the price of the coffin—”
“Pardon me, sir, but it’s referred to as a casket.”
“Fine. About the price?”
“Well… well… Mr. Vincent was reluctant to go with our more expensive line….”
It was a good thing he hadn’t. I’d have kicked his ass otherwise. He would have paid fifty-five hundred dollars to bury a woman who—
“All done. If you’ll just sign here?” He handed me the slip.
Once we’d gotten that taken care of, we went back into the little room. Kids were crawling around on the floor. One was on her back with her legs in the air, and her father picked her up, gave her butt a gentle swat, and hung her over his shoulder, where she giggled madly.
The director went to Steve, and he looked up. “What is it?”
“Your refund, sir.”
“This is on me, Steve. It’s not your responsibility,” I told him.
“Mark, that’s a good deal of money!”
“I can afford it.”
“But….”
“Trying to salve your conscience?”
His mouth tightened and he let it go.
I moved one of the Queen Anne chairs so I would have an unobstructed view of the room and sat down. There was no reason why I shouldn’t be comfortable while I kept an eye on things.
No one came near me, other than the kid who’d developed a fondness for my trouser leg. I glowered down at him, but the look that would have grown men pissing their pants merely sent him into a fit of the giggles.
“Wanna play horsie.”
I ignored him.
“Wanna play horsie!”
His mother grabbed his arm. “Be a good boy and leave your cousin alone.”
“Why?”
“That’s his mommy in there.” She pointed to the coffin—casket.
The kid’s lower lip began to tremble. “I sowwy.”
“It’s fine.” Why didn’t she take him the fuck away?
“Are you gonna cwy?”
“Oh, Jesus.”
She glared at me. “He was just trying to comfort you.”
“Do I look like I’m in need of comfort?”
Her lips thinned. “Come on, Jeffy.”
I could hear the murmur of their voices as they ebbed and flowed, and I caught snippets of various conversations.
“… the Vincent ears…”
“… cold-hearted son of a bitch…”
“… think he’d have accepted it graciously…”
“… I don’t blame Dad for not trying to…”
“… but he’s got such nice eyes…”
My head jerked up at that, and I looked into the eyes of Steve’s youngest son. He turned bright red when he realized I’d heard him.
“Uh… we’re going for a walk, okay, Dad?” He didn’t wait for permission, just grabbed his girlfriend’s hand, said, “C’mon, Annie!” and dragged her out of there.
Steve frowned after him. Shit. I’d better leave him one of my cards.
No, I wasn’t getting involved.
Time slowed to an excruciating crawl. My toe was tapping impatiently on the floor; for the tenth time in as many minutes I was tempted to pull back the cuff of my sleeve to check the hour. I didn’t want to think how different my life would have been if Uncle Steve had stepped in and taken me away from the bitch in the casket. I didn’t want to think about having to get between father and son if his youngest was gay and Steve wouldn’t accept him.
The only thing left to occupy my mind was thoughts of the man I’d left in DC. What was he doing? Had he gotten something for dinner? Did he miss me being there?
/> I stood abruptly, but before I could announce that this was bullshit, that the woman in the casket hadn’t loved me, I hadn’t loved her, and there was no need for any of us to remain any longer, the oldest of Uncle Steve’s sons approached him.
“Dad.” He was holding the little exhibitionist, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. “We’re going to get going. It’s getting late, and it’s a school night. Our babysitter has to get home. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He kissed his mother’s cheek, touched his father’s shoulder. “My condolences, Mark. It was… um… nice meeting you.”
Yeah.
As if that was a signal, everyone rose and started making noises about leaving. One by one the cousins said good night to their parents. And then it was just my uncle and his wife.
Steve came over to me.
“I know viewing hours aren’t over yet, but I can see you’re ready to leave too, Mark. Do you have a place to stay?” I met his gaze, and he worried his lower lip. “We, Lilly and I, would like you to stay with us.”
There was a motel on Airport Road in Fall River. “My secretary made reservations for me,” I lied blandly.
“You should be with family,” Uncle Steve insisted stubbornly. He saw from my expression that I wasn’t buying it. “You are family, Mark.”
“And you realized that when?” I made an impatient sound. “Look, the past can’t be undone. I imagine you want to get out of here as much as I do. I’ll be back tomorrow in time for the closing of the casket.”
“What about after the burial service?”
“What about it?”
“Jesus, you’re not making this easy for me, Mark.”
I got up in his face. His eyes widened, and he backed hastily away from me. “Listen to me, Steve. One of her boyfriends kept her from beating me so badly I’d have been crippled for life. One of her boyfriends saw that I was sent away to school and got a decent education. If they want, I’ll call them family. But as far as I’m concerned all we… you and I,” I said, mocking his earlier choice of wording, “share is a last name, a pair of ears, and the same color eyes.”
He turned on his heel and walked out, his stride reminiscent of a man with a broom stick up his ass. But his wife remained there, scowling at me. “Was that necessary? Your uncle is a good man.”
“Is he? I wouldn’t know that, would I? He’s known where I’ve been for the last thirteen goddamn years, and he never even sent a fucking Christmas card!” I was furious, in her face too, now, but she was made of sterner stuff than her husband and stood toe to toe with me.
“And neither did you!” she snarled. “We’ve lived in the same neighborhood, in the same house since we were married! Why didn’t you get in touch with him?”
I hadn’t been in touch for the same reason I’d gotten in touch with none of my old lady’s men who’d done me a kindness: because if anyone had found out what they, what Steve meant to me, my uncle’s life wouldn’t have been worth a handful of shit. I reined in my emotions, lassoed them, hog-tied them, and bound them in chains.
“I guess I am just a cold-hearted son of a bitch.” I grinned at her, and she flinched. “Good night, Lilly.”
She stalked out. I was about to follow her into the hallway when my cell phone started to ring. Not even bothering to check the readout, I flipped it open. “Vincent.”
“Where the fuck are you?”
Quinn? I was so surprised to hear his voice that I answered him honestly. “Fall River. I left a note—”
“Oh, yes. That. What the fuck was that note supposed to represent? Sorry about dinner. I’ll be in touch.”
“I had to—”
“And why did you leave the key?”
“C’mon, Quinn. You didn’t expect it to last forever.” Did he? “I mean, c’mon, you’re CIA; I’m WBIS—”
“Mark, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” He must have been calling from a landline, because he slammed the receiver down so hard I thought my eardrum would pop.
Oh fuck. How could a day that started so well end on such a goddamned, fucking sour note?
It was Monday. That had to be the reason. Everyone knew that if things were inclined to go south, they’d go more south on a Monday.
I walked back to the casket and stared down broodingly at the woman who lay in it. “You know something, old woman? I think we both would have been better off if you’d had an abortion.”
XVIII
BY THE time I found the motel and checked in, it was almost ten that night. The motel was a rectangular-shaped, four-story building; I was able to get a room on the first floor. Because it was the beginning of the week, and not quite the season, I had no trouble finding a parking spot. I parked the rental car about halfway to my room, removed my duffel from the trunk, and walked to the door. The key card was in my left hand, keeping my right free to reach for my gun if it became necessary.
I let myself into the room. Once I was sure there were no unwelcome surprises waiting for me, I locked the door, threw the deadbolt, and jammed a chair under the doorknob. Only then did I examine my surroundings.
It was a smallish room, most of the space taken up by the king-size bed. The bathroom had a shower stall instead of a tub, and on the vanity was a coffeemaker. There was a television sitting on a small chest of drawers, but no mini fridge, not that it mattered; I was only going to be there overnight.
I turned down the bed, put my gun on the nightstand where it would be close at hand, and removed my shoes and socks, clenching my toes in the rug, trying to work out as much tension as I could. I laid out the clothes I would need for the morning then took off my suit.
I went into the bathroom and hung my suit up. I intended to have a shower as hot as I could stand it, and the steam would remove any wrinkles the suit had acquired during the day. I stripped off my shorts and undershirt and stepped into the shower, letting the water beat down on me. In spite of myself, the memory of the last shower I had taken with Quinn filled my mind. My cock swelled and hardened and filled my soapy hand. I stroked it the way I liked it, hard and fast, then slow and teasing, rubbing a fingertip over the sensitive area behind my balls.
But goddamn it, no matter what I did, I couldn’t come until I finally ran that fingertip back and forth over my hole and drove it in knuckle deep.
XIX
I CLIMBED naked into bed and finally fell asleep.
I stood before the casket, staring down at the remains of my mother. “Well, old woman. You’re finally out of my life!”
Her eyes flew open, and I jumped back. Like an automaton, she sat up and turned toward me. “Am I, you miserable excuse for a man? Did you really think I would give you the satisfaction of dying? You’ll never be free of me!”
“Want to bet?” I snarled. I pulled the Glock from under my arm and began to fire at her. Bullets tore off huge chunks of flesh, and blood splattered over the raised casket lid, over the white flowers at the foot of the bronze box, but the bitch wouldn’t die.
Her features seemed to melt and morph, and I was shooting Quinton Mann. His hazel eyes were filled with reproach, and a thin trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth to drip onto his tie. I opened my hand, and the gun dropped to the floor.
“No! Oh God, no!” What had I done?
I backed away, suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible pain, and when I looked down, I saw a great, gaping hole in my chest.
Flub dub. I glanced further down. Flub dub. On the floor, beside my shoe, my heart beat erratically. I gasped for breath and started to crumple, but before I hit the ground…
… I woke up and realized it was just a bad fucking dream. It took a couple of minutes, but my breathing finally came back under control. I rolled onto my belly with a growl and pulled the covers up around my shoulders.
I found myself driving down a road somewhere that I should have recognized because I had done a job there before, but I kept drawing a blank. The service road ran through a sparsely populated area, then branched off to mea
nder past fallow land, finally narrowing to a one-lane road that traversed an area bordered by a marsh. Cattails grew along the edge of the bog, dying from the heat of late summer. The threat of a storm hung heavy in the air. I knew I had to get where I was going soon—lives depended on me being there.
I’d seen The Boss’s face when one of his agents had fucked up, and I didn’t want that expression turned on me. I tramped down on the gas pedal.
The tires whined on the gravel, spinning faster and faster, and abruptly the powerful vehicle veered off the road, heading toward the swamp. No matter how desperately I spun the steering wheel, trying to alter my course, the car continued hurtling forward; the action was useless. If I didn’t get out of that car, right now, when it hit the water I’d be going down with it.
I scrabbled for the door handle, but there was none there. The car hit a tussock and became airborne. It sailed out into the center of the marsh and landed with a violent splash, rocked a couple of times, and then began to settle in the murky water. I banged wildly at the power switch for the windows, but the system was short-circuited by the water that poured under the hood. There was no crank for the window, and I was trapped in there.
Water was entering the car now, and as it rose, I was just able to make out the figure on the bank. Quinn stood there, that lock of hair falling into his eyes, watching as I struggled to breathe. A sneer that I had never seen on his face before curled his lips. I tried to pry the window open, tearing fingernails in the process. The car sank deeper, the water rose higher, and my oxygen was running out.
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me…
… Awake, sitting up in bed. I ran my fingers through sweat-soaked hair, swore viciously, and beat the pillow. After tossing and turning for almost an hour, finally resorting to meditation—hey, whatever the fuck worked—I fell back to sleep once more.
I’d fucked up, and they—nameless and faceless—got me. Quinn stood there laughing while they bound my hands. They hit me a couple of times, not much compared to what my old lady used to do to me, but enough to split my lip and bloody my nose; the blood ran down the back of my throat, and I started to choke on it. They shoved me onto a raised flat surface, a bunk of some kind that started to descend, shaking and groaning. I stared up in shock as they turned and walked away, leaving only Quinn there. He leaned forward, watching, his face above me becoming more and more vague, a pale circle with empty holes where eyes should have been.
