Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  211

  Lind shot the man in the face. The man died very quickly. Lind hurried back to the Mustang and slid behind the wheel.

  There was more shouting now. A man had emerged from the trees beyond the man’s body. He was shouting at Lind, waving a gun. Lind ignored him. He fired up the Mustang and gunned it in reverse. Backed to the intersection and spun the wheel over until the big car was pointed toward the highway. Then he shifted into gear and stood on the gas.

  212

  Parkerson was dead. Stevens could see that from thirty feet away. And the gunman, whoever he was, was escaping.

  The shooter was already inside his black sports car by the time Stevens reached Parkerson. Stevens chased him. Wasn’t nearly fast enough. The black car sped away in reverse down the road.

  Behind Stevens, someone leaned on a horn. Another engine growled, and a car pulled up alongside. “Get in,” Windermere shouted. Stevens wrenched open the passenger door and slid inside just as Windermere stepped on the gas.

  “Heard the shot,” she told Stevens. “Then I heard that big engine. Figured you might could use wheels.”

  “You figured right,” Stevens said. He looked at her as she drove, her brow furrowed, her mouth a tense line. Instincts, he thought. Thank God someone has them.

  The Camry sped up and over a rise toward the intersection. The black sports car was already there. The gunman had slowed. He’d spun the wheel over and pointed the car up the road. As the Camry approached, he stepped on the gas again, launching the big car forward. Windermere cursed. “This goddamn Toyota,” she said. “Next car we rent has a Hemi.”

  Behind them, the rest of the cops had cottoned on to the situation. The rearview mirror filled with flashing lights and sirens. The cruisers were still back at the lake house, though. The gunman was getting away, fast.

  Windermere spun the wheel hard, and the Camry squealed and protested as it took the corner too fast. The car wallowed midstride, and Windermere clenched her teeth. “Go, god damn it.”

  The turn happened in slow motion. Stevens gripped the armrest as, finally, the Camry righted itself. Windermere stepped on the gas. The gunman’s getaway car was disappearing ahead.

  Windermere stood on the gas pedal, urging the car forward. The Camry howled and shuddered beneath them. Windermere ignored its protests. She looked over at Stevens. “That car up ahead,” she said, “it’s a Mustang.”

  Stevens understood immediately. “Malcolm Lind.”

  “Guess he had his own beef with Parkerson,” said Windermere. “Wanted to stick it to the man, once and for all.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “Yeah. And now he’s getting away.”

  The Camry sped forward. Felt like terminal velocity, like the damn car would break up if it went any faster. It wasn’t nearly fast enough. The big Ford made more distance on the road ahead. Soon it would make the highway. Stevens picked up his radio. “Highway patrol,” he said. “Looks like this guy’s going mobile.”

  213

  Lind sped the Mustang away from the lake. Made one more sharp turn and then aimed for the highway. In the distance, up a rise beyond the last stand of trees, he could see the McDonald’s, the gas stations, the big-box store, all clustered around the interstate on-ramp. He’d almost made the highway. Almost made it.

  And then what? Where exactly are you going?

  He’d been taught to escape after he completed a mission. After he’d eliminated the target. As soon as the first objective was achieved, his new job was to get home safe.

  Extricate yourself without being detected.

  The first objective was complete. The man was dead. He’d seen to that. The second objective? An impossibility. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere safe. There was nothing left now but the visions. The missions were over and the man was dead, but the visions would stay with him. Lind knew they’d stay with him forever.

  Ahead was civilization, a few hundred yards away. Ahead was the highway. He had a gun and a fast car. He had a good shot at escape. He would never, though—never—escape the visions.

  Lind stared out the windshield at the lights up ahead. He looked at the pistol on the passenger seat. Then he closed his eyes tight and let his foot off the gas.

  214

  What the hell is he doing?” said Windermere. “His car’s slowing down.”

  Stevens stared out the windshield at the Mustang ahead. Malcolm Lind had been a few hundred yards from Mooresville’s outskirts when he’d suddenly lit up the brake lights and slowed the car down. Now he pulled over at the bottom of a low dip, still surrounded by forest and fields and the wilds.

  The Mustang rumbled to a stop. Windermere slowed the Camry behind it. Stopped well back of the big Ford and kept the engine running. For a moment, nothing happened. Malcolm Lind didn’t move from the driver’s seat. Then the Mustang’s lights died. Lind had killed the engine. Windermere looked at Stevens. “What the hell?”

  “No idea,” said Stevens, his heart pumping hard. He gripped his pistol tighter and studied the muscle car through the window. “This is a new one.”

  Behind the Camry, the cavalry was arriving. Cruisers and unmarkeds, all lit up, sirens wailing. They screeched to a halt behind the Toyota. Windermere looked at Stevens again. “What do we do?”

  Stevens studied the Mustang. Lind still hadn’t moved. “I guess we arrest him,” he said, “but carefully.”

  They climbed out of the car, slow. Left the doors open and crouched behind them. Windermere looked back at the rest of the cops. “This guy’s armed and mentally unstable,” she called back. “We’re proceeding with caution. No sudden movements, you hear?”

  Stevens circled around to Windermere’s side and hunched down beside her. Lind still hadn’t moved. “It’s like he’s waiting for something,” said Stevens.

  Windermere looked at him. “Okay. But what?”

  Stevens was silent a moment. “He’s a soldier,” he said finally. “He’s been taking orders almost his whole adult life. Now what? His commanding officer’s gone. His mission’s over. He’s got nothing left.”

  Windermere looked at him. Then back at the Mustang. “Okay,” she said slowly. She craned her neck above the door. “Lind,” she called out. “Malcolm. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Come out of the car.”

  There was no response from the Mustang. Windermere glanced at Stevens. Stevens shrugged. “Out of the car, soldier,” Windermere shouted. “We don’t have all night.”

  There was a pause. Then the driver’s-side door swung open. Slowly, Malcolm Lind stepped out of the car.

  He was a little guy, and young, barely more than a teenager. He looked anguished, his face torn up and confused, close to tears. He hugged his arms around his frail body and stared back at Stevens and Windermere and the police cars.

  At the top of the rise, more police cars appeared. An ambulance. They crested the hill and sped toward the Mustang. Lind flinched and spun around. Took his pistol with him.

  “Hold it.” Windermere stood and stepped out from the Camry. Waved her arms, frantic, at the oncoming police cruisers. “Hold it, god damn it. Stop your cars.”

  The cruisers sped toward Lind and his Mustang. Lind watched them, hugging himself tighter, shifting his weight, almost hopping. Stevens crouched behind the Camry’s door and watched the kid’s pistol dance, his own gun at the ready and a million worst-case scenarios running through his mind.

  At the last second, the cruisers pulled over. Squealed to a stop just yards from where Lind stood at the base of the hill. Doors opened and slammed shut. Voices shouted, loud, insistent. A full company of police officers knelt beside their cruisers, sidearms and shotguns aimed at the Mustang.

  Lind stood in the headlights, wavering, slowly circling, the gun shucking and jiving at his hip. Stevens stared out from the Camry and felt a sudden chill. We’re going to spook this kid
, he thought. We’re going to spook him, and then bad things will happen.

  215

  Lind stood in the glare of the police lights, shivering, wondering what it would feel like to die.

  This was the end of the game, right here. The police had him surrounded. They’d sped down from the top of the rise and slid their cars sideways, blocking the road. Now they crouched down and aimed their guns at him and screamed a thousand instructions, all of it blending together into one urgent, incomprehensible mess.

  This was the end. Sooner or later someone would get antsy and shoot him, and he would die here in the middle of this lonely road.

  And why shouldn’t he die? He’d killed people, lots of people, without discrimination. Without knowing why. He’d killed because somebody had told him to do it. Why should he get to live?

  Lind stood in the middle of the road, turning in a slow circle, seeing it all. Police on both sides. Guns drawn everywhere. This was game over. The end of the line. This was where Malcolm Lind died. And good riddance.

  Slowly, he brought the pistol up from his hip. The voices were urgent now, screaming at him. Lind ignored them. He brought the gun up. Paused for a second. Closed his eyes. Then, before he could stop himself, he shoved the barrel into his mouth and searched out the trigger.

  216

  Stop.”

  A woman’s voice behind Lind, clearer and louder than any other. Lind opened his eyes. “Don’t do it,” the woman said. “Don’t you dare.”

  Lind turned around slowly, the gun still in his mouth. Found the woman staring back at him, the same beautiful black woman who’d chased him through the streets of Saint Paul weeks before, edging toward him from the first line of cars. “Don’t you dare pull that trigger, Malcolm.”

  She approached him slowly, like he was a mean dog and she didn’t want to get bitten. She bent down, halfway to him, and set her gun on the pavement. Straightened again, her hands raised, and kept coming.

  Lind kept his finger on the trigger. Kept his teeth clamped down hard on the barrel. The woman came closer. She spoke softly. “Malcolm, honey,” she said, “put down that gun.”

  217

  Stevens had tried to stop Windermere when she stepped away from the Camry and started toward Lind. She was too fast. Now she stood in the middle of the road, unarmed, facing down a violent killer with a pistol and a clear mental instability. “Malcolm, honey,” she said, “put down that gun.”

  Lind was breathing hard, his nostrils flaring. His eyes were wide and jumpy, unfocused, as he watched Windermere approach.

  This is it, Stevens thought. This is where I watch Carla die. He inched away from the Camry, slow, so as not to alarm the kid. Circled around until he had a clear shot at the gunman. Anything crazy and you’re lit up, kid. Nothing personal.

  Windermere still had her hands up. She was five feet from Lind. She spoke to him softer than Stevens had ever heard her before, and for one stupid moment he caught himself wondering if she’d talked to Mathers that way. Then he shook his head.

  Get her out of this, God, he thought, and I swear I won’t begrudge her for dating Nancy herself. Just get her out of this mess safely, please.

  “You don’t have to do this, Malcolm,” Windermere was saying. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  Lind studied her a moment. Then he moved the gun slightly. Stevens twitched on the trigger, caught himself just in time. Jesus Christ. Lind backed the barrel out of his mouth. Kept the pistol trained on himself. “Let me do this,” Lind said. “I need it.”

  Windermere shook her head. “Can’t do it, Malcolm.”

  “I killed so many people,” Lind said. “Why should I live?”

  “You think blowing your head off’s going to get those people back?”

  Lind looked at her. Didn’t respond.

  Windermere shook her head. “One more body, so what? One more bullet wasted. Doesn’t mean a damn thing to the people you killed.”

  “I’m ruined,” he said. “I’m no good.”

  “You’re sick. You’re not ruined.” Windermere looked at him. “You want to end your life, fine, but don’t do it because you think you owe the world something.”

  Lind looked down at the ground. “What do you care, anyway?”

  “What do I care?” Windermere laughed. “Kid, I’ve seen enough dying for a while. I’m sick of it. You think it’s some dramatic finish, it’s not. It’s just death.”

  Lind didn’t say anything. He looked at her.

  “I want a happy ending for once, Malcolm. I want to bring you home, and then I want to go home myself and put my feet up and drink a beer. I don’t want to deal with more death. Not today.”

  “I don’t have a home.” Lind slumped, his eyes wet. “I don’t have a family. I have nowhere to go. I have nothing.”

  “You do so have a home,” said Windermere. “You have a mother in Elizabeth City. A stepdad. They’re still looking for you. They didn’t forget.”

  Lind exhaled, ragged.

  “You have that girl of yours, Caitlin—”

  “Caity,” he said.

  “Caity, right.” Windermere looked at him. “You have all kinds of family, Malcolm. Got more family than me. Put the gun down so we can go back and see them.”

  Lind didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes tight. Kept the barrel at his lips. This is it, Stevens thought. Make or break.

  Lind didn’t move. Windermere didn’t move. The whole damn circus seemed to hold its breath. Finally, Lind exhaled. Opened his eyes. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

  Nothing happened for a moment. Then Windermere was on the kid. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tight, pinning his arms to his side and talking in his ear until, finally, his whole body seemed to deflate.

  Stevens watched the kid drop his gun. Watched him surrender. Then, only then, did he let himself breathe.

  218

  Two weeks after he’d killed Michael Parkerson, Malcolm Lind received a visitor to his treatment room in the psychiatric department of the U.S. Naval Consolidated Brig in Charleston, South Carolina.

  Visitors had not been infrequent in the weeks since the Killswitch case had broken. The FBI agent, Carla Windermere, had stopped in a couple of times. She’d brought her partner with her, a quiet and unassuming Minnesota state policeman who Windermere claimed had tracked Parkerson like a bloodhound. They’d made conversation, studiously nonchalant, and then sat in silence for a while, and as they were leaving, Windermere had looked him in his eyes and squeezed his hand, tight. “I’m glad you’re still here,” she said.

  Lind had thanked her, squeezed her hand back, but sometimes he wasn’t sure he felt the same. The aftermath hadn’t been easy. The military, horrified by Lind’s story, had assigned their best doctors to his case, and from the way they looked at him and whispered among themselves, Lind could tell it was going to take more than a few months of rehab to fix what was wrong with him. Assuming, of course, he was fixable.

  And after he was fixed? Lind didn’t know. He was still a murderer. He would always have blood on his hands. Maybe, years down the road, the military would declare him fit to stand trial. Maybe they’d throw him in with the rest of the criminals and he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars. Lind didn’t know, and, so far, nobody would tell him.

  Still, there were good days. A few days after his internment, his mother and stepfather arrived. He’d recognized them instantly; they were older than he remembered, grayer and gaunt, but seeing them brought memories flooding back. They’d approached him shyly, hesitant. He was a murderer, after all.

  They worked through it, slowly. His parents moved to an extended-stay motel a half mile from the base. They came every day, stayed as long as they could, and talked about the world news and sports and the weather. For a few hours, at least, Lind could pretend he was normal.

  After tw
o weeks in the brig, Lind received a new visitor. He followed the guard to the meeting room, expecting to see his mother again, his stepdad with the newspaper. Instead, he saw Caity Sherman.

  She looked even smaller than he remembered, but just as pretty. She stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting, looking around, shifting her weight. She saw him and stopped moving. Studied his face. Didn’t say anything.

  “It’s okay,” he tried to tell her. Then he stopped. It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He was a killer, and she barely knew him, and nothing in the world was okay.

  They sat at an empty table and looked at each other some more. Finally, she cracked that mischievous smile. “How’s the food in this joint, anyway?”

  Lind laughed a little, despite himself. “It’s not bad.”

  “Better than my spaghetti?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You don’t have to put up with me to get it, though.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “Thank God.”

  She laughed. “There he is.” Then she searched his face again. “Wouldn’t have made you for a Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm Lind,” he said. “I guess that’s me.”

  “It’s a nice name. Gentle.”

  “Gentle,” he said. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “How is . . . everything? How are the visions?”

  He looked away. “They’re giving me drugs. And treatment. They swear they’ll go away over time.”

  “You getting any sleep?”

  “Some.” He looked at her. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  “I wanted to come,” she said.

  “Wanted to. What the hell for?”

  “I thought you might need a friend,” she said. “I wanted you to know that you have one.”