The Killing Kind

by Chris Holm

  But Vian knew he would not be passing anybody on the street a month from now. Vian knew his life would end tonight.

  “You are here to kill me,” Vian replied.

  The stranger laughed. “Well, yes, but do you know why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to the man who hired me, which means it does to me. You see, I’ve been asked to send a message. Your death is merely to be the punctuation mark at the end of said message.”

  “All right then, what’s the message?”

  “I’ve been instructed to tell you your work in the Sudan was unacceptable. I’m told that will mean something to you. It does, does it not?”

  It did. Vian’s employer was, on paper, a security contractor, one with fingers in a great many pies at France’s Ministry of Defense, including the manufacture and distribution of weapons and ordnance, the contracting of private military personnel, and consulting for strategic planning. Off book, his firm was responsible for three quarters of all weapons sales on the continent of Africa, including those to all sides of the Darfur conflict. Vian, for a time, was in charge of such sales, but he found that even his own prized moral flexibility had its limits. He’d begun funneling communiqués to the UN in secret—communiqués which implicated his employer in breaking the UN African Union arms embargo. Though nothing was made of these revelations publicly—due to his firm’s ties to not only French defense but to many other NATO nations as well—his actions led to his company losing seven billion dollars’ worth of contracts.

  He’d thought he covered his tracks such that his involvement would never be discovered.

  Vian could only nod, certain it was far too late for him to deny it. At least, he thought, I will not die denying the only decent thing I’ve ever done.

  “Good. I’ve been further instructed to glean from you, if possible, whatever I can about who else may have been involved in your unacceptable performance.”

  “Why on earth should I cooperate with you?” Vian spat. “You’ve already told me you plan to kill me, and my wife is too public a figure for you to harm, which means you’ve no longer any leverage.”

  “That’s not entirely accurate,” the stranger said, and then he shot Vian in the knee.

  Vian shrieked. Every muscle in his body tensed at once. He jerked out of his chair, spilling onto the floor. The pain in his knee was white-hot, exquisite. It spread up through his groin and settled like lead in his stomach. Waves of dizziness and nausea shook his body, and unconsciousness encroached, spotty black at the edges of his vision. And all the while, beyond the soundproofed walls of his office, the party continued unabated—his guests oblivious to his suffering.

  Somewhere, a thousand miles away it seemed, a mobile phone chirped. The stranger looked startled for a moment, and then reached into his suit coat, removing from his inside pocket a cheap, pre-paid burner phone.

  “Yes?” the stranger snapped, impatience hiding puzzlement.

  “This Engelmann?” The voice was coarse, uneducated— American, to his ear.

  “Where did you get this number?”

  “My organization has worked with you before,” he said.

  “You’re with the Council?” Engelmann asked. They were the only Americans for whom he’d ever worked. The Council was a group of representatives from each of the major crime families operating in the United States—Italian, Russian, Cuban, Salvadoran, Ukrainian, you name it. Though their organizations were often rivals, Council members convened on occasion to handle issues on which their respective organizations’ interests aligned. American organized crime was often too parochial to tap someone such as Engelmann; each family had their own little fiefdom, their own way of doing things—their own hitmen should any hitting be required. Only rarely when they came together did they deign to hire outside themselves—and even then, Engelmann suspected, it was simply so they needn’t decide which family got the job, the risk, the blame should the hit fail, or the glory should it succeed.

  But on the rare occasion they did hire out, they paid very, very well.

  “That’s right,” said the American. “We’ve got a job for you.” He paused a moment then, noting for the first time Vian’s anguished wailing in the background. “I, uh, catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” said Engelmann. “In fact, you’ve just rescued me from the most dreadful party.” Then he held the phone to his chest, covering the mouthpiece, and said to Vian, “I’m sorry—I have to take this.”

  The silenced firearm jumped three times in Engelmann’s hand—each report no more than the popping of a champagne cork—and Vian’s cries ceased. Such a waste, thought Engelmann; given time, Vian would have told him anything he asked. But in reality, the loss was minor—Vian was hardly the worthiest of subjects for Engelmann’s more esoteric ministrations, and the bonus he’d been promised for any information obtained would doubtless pale before the sum the Council would likely offer.

  “Now,” Engelmann said into the phone, “where were we?”

  3

  A single drop of rain smacked against the windshield of Evelyn Walker’s Jetta as she turned off the narrow country road and onto her rutted dirt drive. Seconds later, the sky opened, unleashing sheets of heavy rain. Evie sighed and turned her wipers on as fast as they would go, but still her visibility was reduced to nothing. She slowed to a crawl and felt her tires sinking in, the ruts they traveled now twin rivers of churning, muddy water. Rain pounded on the car’s roof as loud as hail.

  It was sunny when I left Warrenton, she thought with a sigh. Still, she shouldn’t have been surprised. During summer in Virginia, the weather had a habit of turning on a dime.

  The Jetta fishtailed as Evie rounded the bend that brought her rambling, buttercream farmhouse into view, her groceries jostling in the backseat. The trees that crowded the length of the driveway gave way to rolling lawn. Evie pulled in next to Stuart’s pickup and waited a moment, car idling, for the rain to abate before deciding it wasn’t likely to slow anytime soon. So she thumbed the ignition and the car shuddered off, heat and humidity encroaching immediately once the air conditioner stopped.

  Getting out of the car was harder than it had been a few months ago, before she’d started to show. Took three tries and one decidedly un-ladylike groan. As soon as she stepped out, one wedge-heeled sandal sank into a mud puddle. Muck, cool and slimy between her toes, yanked the sandal from her foot as she took a step toward higher ground.

  By the time she got the rear door open, her shirt clung heavily to her swollen belly, and her hair was plastered to her face. She hauled the groceries out of the backseat— standing cockeyed with one sandal on and one bare foot— and glanced toward the deck, where the French doors stood open. There was still no sign of Stuart. Strange. Ever since he’d seen that blue plus sign four months ago, Evie hadn’t so much as opened a pickle jar or carried a load of laundry— at least, when Stu was home to stop her. To be honest, his constant hovering drove her nuts, even though she knew that it was well intentioned. She was surprised he hadn’t rushed out to lend a hand the second she’d pulled in. She thought the sight of her carrying two overflowing bags of groceries would be enough to bring him running, hollering at her to put them down.

  Figures, she thought. The one time I actually need some help.

  “Honey?” she shouted toward the open doors, the light on within.

  Stuart didn’t answer.

  “Hon?” she called again, hobbling up the stairs to the deck—the bags sodden in her arms, her gait loping and awkward now that her left leg was down a couple inches from her right. She reached the open doors and peered inside through the screen. The house was ablaze with light— just like Stuart, she thought; you’d swear he thinks those switches only work in one direction—but Stuart was nowhere to be seen.

  Evie eyed the screen-door latch and heaved a sigh of consternation. Then she contorted herself into an awkward crouch-turn—an upside-down comma—so that if she squeezed the bag with he
r forearm and twisted her wrist just so, she could maybe kinda sorta get a grip on it and... crap. The bag in her left hand tore, spilling groceries everywhere. A tomato rolled across the deck. Egg white oozed from the upturned egg carton.

  Where the hell was Stuart, anyway?

  Evie stuffed the groceries back into the torn bag and yanked open the screen door. She put the bags down atop the kitchen island and turned to close the door behind her—trailing muddy footprints across the tiles—only then realizing she could have simply set the bags down on the patio table and then opened the door with ease.

  Damn pregnancy brain.

  A click of nails on hardwood, and Abigail trotted into the kitchen with as much brio as a six-year-old bulldog can muster.

  “Abby, where’s Stu?” Evie asked. Abigail glanced back the way she came for just a moment before stretching upward into Evie’s head-scratch, her stubby tail wagging with glee. Then she shuffled off toward her empty food bowl, giving Evie sad eyes the whole way.

  “Why didn’t Daddy feed you?” Evie asked, her delicate features set in a frown. But if Abby knew, she wasn’t spilling. Evie fetched Abby’s kibble from under the sink and shook some into the bowl. Abby crunched away with abandon.

  “Stu?” Evie called. A clap of thunder shook the house, and the lights flickered all around her. She headed for the living room—the room from which Abigail had emerged.

  As she neared the doorway, she spotted something that set her mind reeling.

  Stuart’s feet, unmoving—clad in plain white gym socks, the red stripe at the toe of each pointed ceilingward.

  Evie’s mouth went dry, and her heart leapt.

  “Stuart?” she shrieked, her shrill tone piercing the silence of the farmhouse and echoing back at her like a mockingbird’s reply. She hit the doorway at a sprint, and then stopped short.

  Stuart was lying on his back amid a sea of dowel rods and hardware beneath a half-assembled crib. When he heard her call, he jerked upright into a seated position—his forehead smacking against the wooden frame and causing the rickety structure to collapse atop him.

  “Son of a—” he cried, and then caught himself. He’d been doing that a lot lately—as if the overgrown bean sprout in Evie’s uterus were absorbing every swear word within earshot, and would emerge five months from now cursing a blue streak.

  “You asshole,” she said, ignoring his reproachful look. “You scared the shit out of me! Not answering when I called, leaving Abby unfed, and then...”

  Stuart yanked the iPod earbuds from his ears and climbed stiffly to his feet. “Evie, I’m sorry—I didn’t hear you come in! I was trying to surprise you by getting the crib together before—” and here he noticed the rain through the French doors. He knitted his brow. “Before you got home. But these directions are ridiculous, and I guess I just lost track of time. I swear, I didn’t mean to scare you—do you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Evie replied. She was now crying and found it hard to catch her breath. She had no idea why.

  “Hey,” Stu said, taking her in his arms. He knew her well enough to know she’d blame this on her mood swings. And he knew her well enough to know that wasn’t true. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  Stuart held her close and waited for her panic to abate. Then he kissed away her tears and led her to the bedroom— both of them trying hard not to think about the fiancé she’d lost years back to a roadside bomb somewhere north of Kandahar.

  The farmhouse burned bright against the dimming sky as day evened into night. Eventually, Stu and Evie came back downstairs and cooked dinner—both tired, both happy, both content. They sat awhile and watched TV with Abigail at their feet until their eyelids grew heavy. Then Evie shuffled off to bed. Stuart and Abigail followed shortly after, only delaying long enough to wander the house’s perimeter—Stuart shutting windows and checking locks.

  And from the darkness of the forest, Hendricks watched unnoticed—as he’d been doing for hours, and as he’d done so many nights before. He watched until the only light that showed in any of the windows was the flicker of the TV in the master suite. He watched until even that went dark. He watched until the sky began to lighten to the east. Then he hiked back to his rental car and headed north, toward home.

  4

  Union Station in Utica, New York, is a structure oddly out of time and place. The city itself is a decaying industrial town nestled in the Mohawk River Valley, five hours and a world away from the bustle of Manhattan. Its streets are run-down and ill-traveled, and many of its storefronts sit empty. The factories that once provided jobs for its residents are now boarded or bricked up; the few windows left exposed are gapped by decades’ worth of vandals’ stones.

  Yet Utica’s train station—which, these days, services more buses than trains—is an imposing marvel of Italianate architecture a full city block in size, with a vaulted ceiling, elaborate cornices, and an interior rife with gleaming marble. Massive columns jut upward toward skylights through which the gray light of the perpetually overcast Upstate New York sky streams through. Long, low wooden benches shiny from lacquer look out of scale for so large a space and lend the interior an oddly ecclesiastical air. In addition to a proper shoe-shine stand, the building also boasts a barbershop and restaurant, the latter an authentic lunch counter of the type that once appeared on street corners in every town in America.

  The terminal was built in a fit of optimism, when rail was king, by the same architects who’d designed Manhattan’s Grand Central—but Utica’s fortunes were even then on the wane, having peaked decades before during the heyday of the nearby Erie Canal. Now the station seemed not so much preserved as forgotten, like an apparition doomed to walk the same halls again and again.

  For the past fifty years, Utica hasn’t been known for much of anything—unless you count the violent struggle between four crime families that stretched the length of the seventies and eighties for control of the city.

  Gazing dully out the window of his chauffeured Lincoln as it conveyed him from the private airstrip to his destination, Alexander Engelmann couldn’t for the life of him guess why organizations as powerful as the Genovese and Colombo crime families, as well as Outfits out of Buffalo and Scranton, would bother spilling blood over such a place. It seemed any money this town once possessed had been wrung out long ago. But he had to admit, their train station was really something. Perhaps it was pride that motivated their bloodshed.

  Engelmann’s calfskin Ferragamos clacked against the marble floor of the terminal. Despite the summer heat, he wore a charcoal sport coat of worsted wool, a pair of pressed chinos, and a crisp white shirt, open at the throat. He carried neither bag nor weapon—his only luggage, a small carry-on, was in the Council’s hired jet, and he never traveled armed, preferring to procure any weapons in-country as needed and discard them after use. The terminal was empty but for Engelmann, two students with dreadlocks and dreadful clothes waiting for a bus, and a hulking mass of steroid-enhanced Mafia muscle shrink-wrapped into a black suit that bulged suspiciously at armpit, back, and ankle. Why this gorilla needed three firearms was beyond Engelmann, as was how anyone with that much muscle would even have the flexibility to reach an ankle holster.

  Not that his assessment mattered—it was habit, nothing more. This occasion did not call for violence. Which was a pity, really; stiff and irritable as Engelmann was from his hasty trip halfway around the world, he could have used a pick-me-up.

  As he approached the gorilla, the gorilla jerked his head to indicate the barbershop beyond. Engelmann strode past him without breaking stride, pushing through the glass doors and stepping into 1953.

  Dime-sized hexagonal tiles, once white but now the color of old teeth, covered the floor, the grout between long since gone to black. Above waist-high marble wainscoting stretched walls that aimed for sunny yellow, but missed. Rounded mirrors hung above small vanities piled high with products Engelmann would have guessed ceased production decades ago.
At each station was a pedestal sink and a barber chair of black vinyl, white trim, and ornate, tarnished bronze.

  In one chair was a man, beside whom stood an aged barber. Whether the man was tall or short, fat or slim, Engelmann couldn’t tell, because he was mostly hidden beneath a black cutting cape—and his face was wrapped in steaming white towels in preparation for a shave, so that only his nose and thick black hair showed. His head was tilted back, his nose pointing skyward. His hair was slicked down such that even at the angle of his head, gravity held no sway over it.

  At the sound of Engelmann’s footfalls, the man in the chair raised one finger—his hands until then both curled around the edges of the armrests—and the barber, a slight man with gray hair, gray eyes, and a lined, gray face, disappeared without a word.

  “I kinda figured you’d be taller,” said the man, his gruff, coarse tone confirming him as the one who’d called Engelmann two nights ago.

  The man’s statement was a joke—with a hot towel draped over his eyes, he could no more see Engelmann than could Engelmann see him. But Engelmann did not laugh.

  “Someday,” said Engelmann, “you’ll have to tell me how you obtained the number of a burner phone I’d not used until that very night.”

  “No, I don’t think I will. Sit down.”

  Engelmann did not sit down.

  The man shrugged. It was a token act of defiance, nothing more. Engelmann had come when called. He may be one of the most gifted contract killers in the world, but in this room, at this moment, Engelmann was more house cat than lion.

  “We have a job for you,” the man said from within his wet folds. “A pest in need of exterminating.”