Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  “I feel like shit.”

  Parkerson nodded. “You had a lot to drink last night,” he said. “You got crazy. You won’t be drinking like that again.”

  The kid leaned his head back against the concrete wall. “No, I won’t.”

  “No, you won’t.” Parkerson pushed the plate forward. “Now, eat up.”

  Gray looked at the food and grimaced. Looked at Parkerson. Parkerson held his gaze. The kid closed his eyes. Then he reached for the plate.

  He ate, slowly at first. Then he found his appetite. He cleared the plate. Wiped it clean with his last piece of toast. Then he sat back and grinned weakly at Parkerson. “That was good shit, man.”

  Parkerson matched his smile. “I’m here for you,” he told him. “Here to help. Whatever you need. You’re safe now.”

  The kid frowned. “You got a pisser?”

  Parkerson stood and picked up the kid’s empty plate. Motioned to a bucket that sat in a corner of the room. “Right there,” he said. “Use it.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.” Parkerson walked to the door. Turned back and tossed him a rag. “And clean up that puke while you’re at it.”

  The kid started to complain. Parkerson ignored him. Walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Locked the padlock. After ten minutes, he unlocked it again.

  The bucket was beside the bed. The kid had used it. He hadn’t cleaned up his puke. Parkerson sighed. “I said clean up that puke, soldier.”

  The kid rubbed his eyes. “I want to go home.”

  “Clean up the puke and we’ll talk about it.” Parkerson closed the door and locked it again. Waited another ten minutes. When he opened the door, the rag was filthy and the puke was gone.

  “Good work,” Parkerson told him. “I’m pleased with you.”

  “Can I go home?”

  “You are home,” Parkerson told him. He closed the door again. Locked it again. Walked back to the recliner and turned on the DVD player. Then he took the kid’s empty plate and walked back upstairs. It was morning now; the sun shone through the trees. Parkerson rinsed the plate and left it out to dry. He locked up the cabin and walked out to the Cadillac. Stood beside the car for a moment, savoring the stillness of the grove. Then he slid behind the wheel and drove back to the city. It was nearly six-thirty. Time to go to work.

  76

  Comm didn’t make it easy on himself.

  The captain of the Island Joy swore innocence. The crew, Bahamian mostly, shrugged and held up their hands and said nothing. Windermere swore at them. Threatened, cajoled. Finally, she shook her head and turned to Stevens. “Let’s tear this boat apart.”

  First they searched the house, the thirty-foot-tall superstructure that contained the bridge, the accommodations, the galley. They left a couple Coast Guard men to watch over the crew, and took the rest with them to scour the ship. The house yielded nothing. Comm wasn’t there.

  The ship was an old tramp steamer, the wheelhouse situated midway between bow and stern. Windermere and Stevens left the assault team to tear through the engine room. They walked up the deck together toward the bow, guns drawn.

  “So where is he?” said Windermere. “Is this bastard on board or what?”

  Stevens looked down the length of the ship. The house loomed white in the night sky. “He’s here,” he told Windermere. “He’s here somewhere.”

  They reached the bow of the ship. A stairway led up to the mast and the anchor winches. Beneath it was an iron door to the ship’s forecastle. Windermere walked to it. “What’s in here?”

  She turned the heavy wheel and it groaned in her hands. Stevens watched her, tensed. She turned the wheel hard over. Then the door was flung open. It swung inward, too fast. Windermere stumbled back. “Shit.”

  “You goddamn bastards.” A desperate voice from inside the forecastle, action-movie heroic. “You want me, you’re coming with me.” Then gunshots, three of them, like a snare drum. Windermere dived for cover. Stevens ducked behind a bulkhead, his head down. Another three shots. Then Phillip Comm stepped out on deck, screaming, incoherent, waving a pistol in the air.

  Shouts from the house. The assault team ran forward, machine guns at the ready. “Don’t shoot him,” Stevens called back. “Take him alive, but be careful.”

  “You fuckers,” Comm screamed. “You’ll never take me.”

  Comm advanced from the doorway, staggering now, unsteady. His eyes were wide and wild, his pupils huge. He waved the gun at the advancing assault team, fired again. If they kill this guy, Stevens thought, we lose Killswitch. He watched Comm behind the bulkhead and searched for Windermere in the shadows, hoping she had the same notion.

  As Comm advanced, Windermere crept around behind him, keeping low and to the shadows. Comm kept screaming at the assault team. Kept waving that gun.

  He’s hysterical. High on something. Or terrified. Or both.

  Comm steadied his pistol again. Aimed across the deck and squeezed off another three shots.

  Windermere tackled him. Leapt out from behind and took him down to the deck. Comm dropped the pistol. The assault team swarmed. Stevens picked himself up from the bulkhead and hurried over to where Windermere had Comm pinned. Comm struggled against her. She held him. He looked around at the assault team, at Windermere and Stevens, and seemed to deflate. “Who are you?” he said, wheezing for breath. “You’re not him.”

  “FBI,” said Windermere. “Coast Guard. Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

  “You were expecting someone else?” said Stevens.

  Comm nodded, still gasping.

  Windermere elbowed him. “Who?”

  Comm didn’t answer for a moment. Then he laid his head back on the deck and stared skyward. “Killswitch,” he said.

  77

  It was the strangest interrogation Stevens had ever conducted.

  They brought Comm back to the Vigilant on the Zodiac, after they’d finished searching his little hideaway in the Island Joy’s forecastle. It was a hell of a cubbyhole: between the crates of bread, onions, and dehydrated milk that took up most of the room, Comm had built himself an ugly little nest for the voyage to Port-au-Prince.

  “Gross,” said Windermere, kicking a sodden sleeping bag aside. “He really moved in.”

  Stevens nodded. “Quite the little bachelor pad, huh?”

  Apart from necessities such as the sleeping bag, pillow, and case of bottled water, Comm had packed with him the week’s Time magazine, the month’s Penthouse, another pistol and ammunition, and enough cocaine to kill a horse. Stevens figured he’d been nose-deep in the stuff when Windermere barged in on him.

  The Coast Guard left a few men aboard the Island Joy to turn the ship around and supervise its return to the Port of Miami. Meanwhile, Stevens and Windermere rode with Comm to the cutter, where Petty Officer Briggs found them a spare room in which to hold their prisoner.

  Now Comm sipped coffee and stared down at his mug. Avoided Windermere’s eyes, and Stevens’s. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear I didn’t know you were cops.”

  “Just figured you’d come out shooting, huh?” said Windermere. “Better safe than sorry?”

  “I thought you were Killswitch,” said Comm. “I thought I was next.”

  Stevens cut in. “Before we go any further,” he said, “you have the right to an attorney, Mr. Comm. You don’t have to talk to us. You’re well within your rights to say nothing at all until we hit Miami and you have a lawyer present.”

  Comm waved him away. “I don’t care about that.”

  “You know anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

  “I know,” he said. “I watch TV. Look, I don’t care. Book me for whatever you want. Just fucking find Killswitch before he comes after me.”

  Stevens glanced at Windermere. Windermer
e grinned. “Be right back.”

  She was gone fifteen minutes. When she returned, she was holding a flimsy sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. She slid the paper at Comm. “Sign here,” she said. “This indicates that we’ve informed you of your rights and you’ve waived the right to an attorney.”

  Stevens frowned at Windermere as Comm signed and dated the form. “Where the hell’d you get that?”

  She grinned at him. “Ojeda faxed it in.”

  “It’s two in the morning.”

  “He loves me,” she said, shrugging. “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”

  Comm tapped the pen on the tabletop. Looked from Stevens to Windermere and back again. Stevens cleared his throat. “So you thought we were Killswitch,” he said. “Why would Killswitch come for you? You paid him, didn’t you?”

  Comm sipped his coffee. Didn’t look up. He nodded.

  “So?”

  Comm was silent some more. The cutter rocked in the swell. Its big diesel engines throbbed somewhere far below. Windermere sat across from him. Ducked down until she could see his eyes. “What’s the deal, Comm?” she said. “What are you afraid of?”

  Comm looked at her. Whether from fear or from shock, he’d seemed to calm. Now he stared into Windermere’s eyes with a chilling intensity. “I went down to watch,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself. Don’t know why. I guess I just wanted to make sure I got my money’s worth.”

  “You mean you watched Killswitch shoot Ansbacher.”

  Comm nodded. “I drove to Terminal Island. Parked across from the marina. I had a pair of binoculars, and I watched Peralta’s yacht. I saw Peralta come aboard. Then I saw Ansbacher.” He shook his head. “I guess I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

  “You bought and paid for a murder,” said Windermere. “Two hundred grand. You thought there was a chance it was bogus?”

  “I was angry,” he said. “I was desperate. I wasn’t myself. I didn’t think that anyone . . .” He looked at Windermere again. “I didn’t think anyone could be so cold.”

  “The shooter was on Terminal Island,” said Stevens. “Did you see him?”

  Comm laughed. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I saw him.”

  “And?”

  “And he was a fucking weirdo, man. He was parked a couple stalls over. I didn’t notice him until right before it happened. There was this truck parked between us. It moved just as Ansbacher came down the ramp. I glanced over and saw the guy’s rifle. That’s when I knew it was real.”

  “But you didn’t stop him.”

  “I was scared shitless. The fucking guy had a rifle.” Comm looked down again. “And I guess a part of me really did want Ansbacher dead.”

  “So you watched Killswitch shoot him.”

  Comm nodded. “Shot him twice. First time in the chest. Second time in the head. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to puke.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I looked at the kid. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. I knew he’d kill me if he knew I’d seen him, but I couldn’t look away. He was just a fucking young kid, man, in his twenties, but his eyes . . .” Comm shivered.

  “We know,” said Windermere. “We’ve seen him.”

  “Christ, I wanted to shit myself. He put away his rifle and climbed across to the driver’s seat and took off. I followed—” Comm rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t think he’d seen me, but then, just as I pulled onto the ramp up to the causeway, he’d stopped the car. Blocked the whole lane. I swear he stared straight at me in the rearview. I thought, This is it, I’m going down. This kid’s going to kill me.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t,” said Comm. “He just drove off.”

  “So why’d you think he would come back for you?”

  Comm shivered again. “I just knew, man. Once he figured out who I was, I was gonzo.”

  Comm put his head down. Closed his eyes. “Shit,” he mumbled into his arms. “What the fuck am I doing?”

  Windermere studied him a moment. Then she stood up from the table. Looked at Stevens. “Got three or four hours until we’re back in Miami,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get some rest.”

  78

  Parkerson showered at home, changed clothes, and drove to his office. Waved his security badge at the guard at the gate and parked the Cadillac in the lot beyond. Turned off the ignition and sat in the car and felt himself drifting away.

  He was tired, Christ. He’d slept maybe seven hours since Friday. He wanted to crawl into the Caddy’s capacious backseat and just close his eyes for a while, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had real work to do.

  He forced himself out of the car, across the parking lot, and into the low building. He made himself the biggest cup of coffee he could manage, and dragged ass into his office. Jamie was already at her desk. “Morning, Mr. Parkerson,” she said. “How was your weekend?”

  “Good,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Busy.”

  She cocked her head. “Looks like it.”

  “Yeah. Really busy.” He forced another grin at her as he entered his office. “Married life.”

  Parkerson collapsed into his leather executive chair and stared at his blank computer screen and let his head swim. The coffee wasn’t helping. Maybe he needed drugs. There was so much to do.

  There was work, first of all. As in high-paying, taxable, government-sanctioned work. He’d meant to take the files home that weekend, work on them in front of the television. He hadn’t intended to drive down to Miami to witness a murder. To rescue the asset. To kidnap an army veteran from Atlanta, Georgia. He’d put in a long weekend, and he’d fallen behind. He would have to bust ass to catch up.

  Then there was the program itself. Wendell Gray would need training, and Lind needed a new identity. Parkerson sat back in his chair and sighed. Wondered if he could afford to take a vacation somewhere when the new asset was ready. A beach, maybe. A resort, somewhere out of the country, but clean. Somewhere he could sleep, and not worry for a change.

  Parkerson leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Closed his eyes and pictured a king-size bed and room service. The sound of the ocean. Felt himself drifting away. Then Jamie rapped on the door. “You have that nine-thirty,” she said. “With the board. You okay?”

  Parkerson sat up. “Just reviewing my notes.”

  “Oka-ay.” Jamie stared in at him. “You really did have a weekend, huh?”

  “Burst a pipe in my basement. Really screwed up my Sunday.”

  Jamie clucked. “Ouch. Anyway, the board’s ready when you are.”

  Parkerson took a long drink of coffee. Turned on his computer and waited for it to load. Felt the buzzing in his head ramp up a notch, and wondered how he was going to make it through the week.

  Then he thought of Wendell Gray in the lake house. Imagined the money his new asset would bring in someday soon, when the training regimen was complete. Enough money for a big yacht like the Kyla Dawn, maybe, or, better yet, his own private lake. An island in the middle, cool and calm. No traffic jams. No Jet Skis. No teeming masses to spoil his mood. The thought energized him, and he stood, grinning at the image, and strode from the room to meet the board.

  79

  Stevens grabbed a few hours’ sleep in his suite at the Golden Glades. Then he woke up and called Nancy. “Hey,” he said, “you have time to chat?”

  His wife sighed. “I’m headed into the office, Kirk. It’s a hell of a week.” She paused. “I guess I have a couple minutes.”

  “How’s your weekend?” said Stevens. “How are the kids?”

  “Kids are good. Sounds like they miss you. Andrea’s been all over me to tell her what you’re up to.”

  Stevens frowned. Since she’d met Carla Windermere in the middle of the Carter Tomlin case, his daughter had become an FBI junkie. Stevens had to admit
it pleased him, just a little, that she’d taken such an interest in the family business, but both he and Nancy still harbored concerns that their daughter’s ordeal with Tomlin had left her with some yet-undiscovered psychological trauma.

  “I told her I didn’t know,” Nancy said. “Just that it had to do with Spenser Pyatt. Why that means you’re in Miami, I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  “It’s a contract killer,” Stevens told her. “The same guy who killed Pyatt killed another man here. Both hits bought and paid for. We ran down another client last night.”

  “A contract killer. Well, I can’t very well tell Andrea that, can I? After the whole thing with Carter Tomlin, I’m amazed the poor girl can still sleep at night.”

  “She’s tough, Nance,” Stevens said.

  “Yeah, Kirk, I know she’s tough. An experience like that, though. And her dad running around like Sylvester Stallone . . .” She was silent a moment. “Look, just be careful, all right?”

  “Always, Nancy.”

  “Seriously. Don’t get yourself killed.” She sighed. “I’m going to tell the kids you’re on vacation or something. Deep-sea fishing. Partying with supermodels. Whatever won’t give them nightmares.”

  “Supermodels give me nightmares,” Stevens said. “I’ll come home as soon as I can.” He told her good-bye, and that he missed her, and then he hung up the phone and leaned against the headboard and pictured Nancy at home and wondered why he’d even come to Miami.

  But he knew why. He thought about chasing Comm on the Island Joy. The shoot-out. The interrogation. Comm was waiting now in the FBI’s Miami office. He would doubtless have more to tell them.

  Stevens thought about Killswitch. About the zombie shooter and the anonymous accomplice in the gray Cadillac. All of it a mystery, but Comm would have information. Sooner or later, the truth would be revealed.

  The thought propelled Stevens out of bed. He showered quickly and went down to the hotel lobby, where he ate a fast breakfast and waited for Windermere.