Four Days of Fall

by Beck Jones

  You too, he thought automatically, and the knot cinched in his gut again.

  “No,” he said neutrally. He didn’t want to sound defensive. “You’re not going to get complaints about me.”

  “Well, you may want to be careful about who you crawl into bed with,” Hal said, rising from his chair to stare down at Russell. “Something that looks like a hot offer now can come back to bite your ass.”

  So much for preemption.

  THE PRO

  I could kill for a cigarette, the woman had said. His first woman. Older than she pretended to be. Lipstick too bright. Eye makeup shoveled on. Back fat lumped around her bra underneath a too-tight sweater. He happened to know she had once been a teacher. Definitely a few years past her sell-by date, and now she was inconvenient to someone with the cash to make her stop being inconvenient. He had nodded toward the back door of the club, and she had followed him through the crowd out to the alley. She was chatty, pleased that a younger guy was giving her the time of day. You know, Indian shamans were the first Americans to smoke tobacco, she had said, as he racked the pack so she could pluck out a cigarette. Shamans, huh, he had said and lit the cigarette for her. Aren’t you going to have one? she had asked. He had nodded, reached into his jacket and pulled out the Ruger and put two in her forehead. As she crumpled, the cigarette tumbled onto her chest. He picked it up and put it in his mouth; he didn’t want it to set the sweater on fire.

  Back then he was still green, and showy.

  He was also still two packs a day.

  Damn, he missed smoking. Missed feeling the cigarette lounging between his fingers, the tang of smoke coiling down his throat into his lungs, flooding his bloodstream, soothing and cooling his brain.

  But there were too many reasons to not smoke on the job and certainly not here in this rental car. Besides the fact that smoking could produce highly traceable evidence, people smelled smokers; they remembered smokers. Even the act itself made a person suspect—especially, god help you, if you broke the rules smoking. The asshat behind the car rental counter in Raleigh had tried his damnedest to chat up Scarlett Sharpe, so it was a good bet she was still occupying most of the real estate in that pea brain of his when the next few customers stepped up to the counter—including the average height male wearing ball cap and dark-rimmed glasses. No need to draw attention by committing the crime of smoking.

  But dammit, he could sure use some shaman wisdom right about now. He eased down in the seat and pulled the brim of the ball cap a little lower. The fake eyeglasses were getting on his nerves. But with the crappy gray sky overhead sunglasses would only make him look suspicious. His nose itched. He tried not to think about the carryon bag in the back seat and what was in it. He didn’t bring much. For emergencies only.

  But wasn’t this an emergency? He had fucked up the job royally. Now he was on Selena’s shit list, and no one wanted to be on any shit list belonging to Selena Peterson, known otherwise to friends and not-friends as Svetlana Petrov.

  I give you time, place. One little push. What do you need? Engraved invitation? Tupoy!

  He had tried to blame the traffic, which was fucking lame. And not true. But it would be worse to tell Selena that he actually got to the rooftop in time this morning. Yes, he was winded because he was late and he had to rush, and he never liked to rush. But he was there, looking at Scarlett Sharpe through the slit in the doorway.

  And then. Then what? He still didn’t understand it. He froze like fucking amateur. And he suddenly thought I am not a killer.

  Which was so completely ridiculous he couldn’t have explained that to Selena if he had wanted to. He wished he could explain it to himself.

  Sure, he had always said he was an instrument of the universe, nothing more, nothing less. He had read once on the internet, long before his first hit, that the universe is an endless flow of energy. And in this line of work it didn’t take him long to realize that most contracts came down to a matter of convenience, or actually inconvenience. Witness needed to die before testifying. Husband needed to die so wife could inherit. Deadbeat had to die so potential deadbeats wouldn’t get any ideas. And he could see that inconveniences were nothing more than blockages of energy. He was simply the instrument that unblocked the energy.

  Yes, he was an instrument of the universe.

  But why did the universe send its instrument home last night to find Amy stinking like another man? Oh, not just another man, oh, hell, no, she was so fucking quick to point out. Someone in her yoga class. Jesus. He has a Ph.D. and he’s so smart. He teaches literature at the community college in Brooklyn.

  So what could he have said to Selena? That he fucked up because he was both exhausted and hyped up over a domestic crisis? Selena knew from domestic crises. Her husband had beat the shit out of her seven days a week and twice on Sunday until she convinced a boyfriend to punch the husband’s ticket. As an assassin the boyfriend was half-assed, leaving a trail of evidence, but he died at Rikers, conveniently, before he could implicate Selena. It was during this time she realized the potential market demand for quick efficient solutions to inconveniences.

  Why is why he had to take care of Scarlett Sharpe tonight, no excuses. When Selena gave him the address, he had wanted to tell her that maybe this was for the best, that two good looking young white chicks cashing in their Laboutins within a few days and a few miles of each other might have drawn a tiny bit of suspicion. But he figured it was best to bullshit. Just get it done.

  But crap, talk about drawing suspicion. Here in Podunkville, North Carolina, he might as well have tacked a neon sign to the side of the fucking rental car, the only car parked on the street, a cutesy residential street chockablock with bright white and candy colored siding, architectural curlicues and big-assed front porches. This was the tidy “historic” part of Podunkville, not the touristy “historic” part, which was draped in striped awnings and phony Olde Towne paraphernalia, where at least parking on the street wouldn’t be as noticeable, even in the off-season. And this was way off, for sure. Overcast, clammy, just cold enough to be uncomfortable. There was a river around here and a state park, supposedly part of this place’s “scenic charm.” Might be a good place to leave the body, depending. He needed to scout it out.

  But from where he was parked, he couldn’t even see the Pepto pink Victorian house, just the edge of the front lawn and the very top of the driveway, a black wedge of asphalt leading to the detached garage where Scarlett Sharpe had tucked away her rental car. He needed to have a better view, but getting any closer would be stupid.

  He turned his head, surveying the street up and down. Dead.

  As dead as this whole off-season Hicksville.

  As dead as Scarlett Sharpe should have been already.

  Fuck Amy.

  Fuck Mr. Ph.D.

  The bag seemed to sail over the seat on its own steam. He sunk sideways, retrieved the gear, rolled the bill. The line disappeared. Less of a crime, really, than smoking. Something he could have told the ex-teacher: ninety percent of American currency carried a cocaine residue. He read that on the internet. Teachers weren’t the only ones who could read. You could practically get a Ph.D. from the internet.

  He turned on some music, kicked up the volume. Why not? The street was empty, and he was sealed inside this smoke-free rental.

  I’m a man come round

  No-no nothing can break, nothing can break me down.

  I’m a man come round

  No-no nothing can break, nothing can break me down.

  He saw her from the corner of his eye first, coming from the driveway. On foot. Making damn good headway even with a hip-swinging stride that he would have watched for fun another time.

  Fuck is this?

  Too late to peel out. He slumped sideways again, pushed the bag to the floor, and pretended to fiddle with the glove box. When she knocked on the window, he made a kind of deliberate wobble that said surprised but not too surprised. Nothing to see here.

  He
cut the music, and the car was suddenly quiet, so that when he touched the window button, there was only the whir of the lowering window that unveiled her. Thick dark hair shiny as a model’s in a shampoo commercial. Pale skin that somehow looked just right with that dark hair. And those eyes. He’d never gotten an actual up-close look at her eyes. Deep blue and hard as crystals. Almost scary. Everything about her should have been a turnoff—Amy was a dark-eyed blonde with a year-round tan. But damn Scarlett Sharpe was a ten plus.

  But then maybe all the perfectness of her face had more to do with his own face being nicely numbed by the coke. Before he could stop himself, he brushed his fingertips beneath his nose. He had this under control. At least he would have this under control in a minute.

  She wore jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and when she rested her palms on her thighs, the t-shirt was thin enough he could see the outlines of her nipples hovering just below the open window.

  He almost smiled. But then she said, “So who hired you to hunt me down?” And the air went so still he could practically feel the oxygen molecules pressing against his skin.

  He made himself speak, as if he were hard of hearing. “I’m sorry. What?”

  He decided to add a helpless headshake, and that put him on a roll. After all, he was Colin Showalter and he was here in town to look for investment property on Honeysuckle Avenue but his GPS got screwed up and he had stopped here to check his texts just to be safe because he had promised his girlfriend Tanya that he wouldn’t text anymore while he was driving.

  He opened his mouth to let it all spill out, but Scarlett Sharpe pushed her face closer, right to the divide of the window.

  “And how the hell did you track me here? Who told you I was here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just here—”

  “Don’t bother with a cover story.” She yanked her head back and slapped the side of the car. The sudden slap made him flinch, which pissed him off. He wondered if his face might be flushed right now and he just couldn’t feel it because of the coke. The coke wasn’t exactly doing a lot of good for his pulse rate, either.

  Almost as quickly, she leaned forward again and rested her fingers against the open window. “You better start telling the truth, or I’m going to start screaming right now. And I can scream really loud.”

  Automatically he calculated the distance to the Glock in the bag. Stupid. Showy. Also, too far. Plenty of time for her to spot the piece and take off running, screaming.

  Of course, he could get off two shots to the back of her head without getting out of the car. Probably. Maybe. Drive like hell out of this fucking town. Worse than showy, but still he felt all his energy collect in his right hand, poised at the edge of the seat.

  Then she said, “The Times? Washington Post? Or is it another network looking to torpedo Russell Stockton with the inside story of his sexual harassment of young interns? Tell me right now. Or are you just freelancing, figuring to get a buyer once it’s done? You’re a fool to chase me down here. Surely if you’ve gone to this much trouble, you know I’m fresh out of everything except ‘no comment.’ I’ve given out plenty of those, but I’ve got plenty more where they came from.”

  His pulse ticked down. Why had he been so panicked? How often had he watched the target actually pitch in to help? I could kill for a cigarette. It only confirmed for him what he knew: that he was an instrument of fate, nothing more, nothing less. He shrugged and held up his palms. “I give up, Sheriff. You’ve got the drop on me.”

  “So. Give.”

  “I’m just freelancing. Don’t know the end game yet.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m just here to talk.” Shit. He hated rushing and he hated last-minute changes more. Still, it didn’t matter. He needed to relax. You are an instrument of fate.

  And then she said, “You were on the roof, weren’t you? You heard me talk to Eleanor. But even if you knew I was talking to Eleanor, how did you find this house? She surely wouldn’t have told you. I know damn well she wants me as far away from the press as possible. That’s why she offered me the house in the first place. She wanted me out of earshot of any reporters. She would protect Russell Stockton to her dying breath. They don’t call her Russell’s Terrier for nothing.”

  He made his voice gentle but matter of fact. “I don’t know about all that. But I’m the terrier here, or at least a pretty good tracker. Can we just say it’s a trade secret and call it even? After all, you busted me.”

  “Okay, so here you go: No comment. Now go away and leave me alone.”

  He pushed his cap up his forehead and smiled. He had a nice smile. A killer smile, in fact, a tool of the trade as important as any other in his kit. “You know I can’t give up just like that.” He added, his own little joke, “I’m not looking for any headlines from you. Just a little background.”

  He turned up the wattage of his smile.

  She folded her arms against those cushiony breasts of hers. “No,” she said with a sigh, “and I suppose my screaming won’t scare you away, either.”

  “Well, I’d hate to see you get so upset.”

  The breeze kicked up a little and blew her hair across her face. She looked like something out of a magazine or a movie. She tightened her arms, sizing him up, and he tried to keep his face arranged into something she would buy.

  Finally, she said, “There’s a little place on Main Street. The Raven. Meet me there, say six. No, make it six-thirty.” She turned abruptly, and he watched her until she crossed the street and disappeared down the dark asphalt. It was only when she was gone he realized something was tapping his thigh, and even then he had to look down to see it was his own fingers drumming against a leg that was twitching like a drunk with DTs. You are an instrument of the universe, he told the herky-jerky leg and fingers, but they ignored him.

  He didn’t have to meet her. He could just wait until dark as planned.

  Except he wanted to see those eyes up close again. Dammit. He would go the Raven, at least.

  God, I’d kill for a nap, he thought, and almost smiled. He’d spent all of last night distributing Amy’s body parts to various boroughs. A panicked, helter-skelter operation that left his brain in a whir. That’s why he froze on the rooftop, but he sure as hell couldn’t tell that to Selena.

  And he sure as hell would never do something that stupid again. Forget the nap. He had plenty of work to do before the meeting at the Raven, including scouting out the final resting place for Scarlett Sharpe’s body.

  RUSS

  After the meeting with the suits, he could have stopped in his office, but he felt himself propelled out of the building onto the street, where the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Yet the more he walked, the better it felt. He called Vincent Sabine’s office, told them not to bother with sending a car. It was good to wander around like this, good to clear his head, think about things.

  Screw Hal. Screw the network. Sabine’s offer was in fact going to be a hot offer, and he was going to take it. He’d had his time at the network, and it was a good time, but that was the past. Paul was the past. Time to make a clean break and a new start.

  He caught a flash of copper golden hair ahead of him, but he saw immediately it wasn’t Larson. It had never been Larson. She was safely tucked away in North Carolina, still working at the crappy little crab joint on the river.

  Ironic that it would be with a manager of a place called Jolene’s Crab Shack that he would share the most intense passion he’d ever had before then or after. Two volcanic days. Who would figure it? Of course, anyone would figure it who had seen her. A Botticelli in tight jeans. That’s what he had called her. That she was his Venus risen from the sea. And she had deadpanned that it was not the sea, just a crummy river.

  Ironic, too, that he had Paul to thank for it. He was the one she’d thrown out of the crab shack for groping a waitress. Well, she’d thrown out all of them. Paul, Russ, Liz and Anna Beth. It was an epically lousy id
ea in the first place. Liz and Anna Beth turned up their noses at the thought of a long weekend in North Carolina at the house Eleanor had just inherited. Let’s see, Anna Beth had said. There’s the Hamptons. The Vineyard. Or this. But Paul had been weirdly insistent, and it wasn’t until much later that Russ realized the whole point of the excursion with the wives was to allow him to nose around Argofel with some camouflage.

  They were all four blind drunk that night. Resentments bubbling up. The wives barely tolerated each other under the best of circumstances; Paul had absented himself for the whole day for reasons that none of them knew right then.

  Truth is, it was actually an attractive little town. And Russ had just gotten the Peabody. And signed a fat new contract. And life was pretty damn good, if he was honest.

  He hadn’t seen Paul grab the young server’s ass. He had no idea why the vision of loveliness was moving toward their table; he didn’t notice how serious she looked, only her remarkable beauty. The way her bright mane of hair coiled around her shoulders, and the way her breasts swelled beneath the fabric of her shirt.

  Yes, he was blind drunk and struck blind by her beauty, so that he had trouble comprehending what she was saying at first. That they had to leave, that she didn’t tolerate that sort of behavior toward her staff. That there was nothing more contemptible than celebrities who thought the world owed them something. Celebrities? She meant him, he realized, which meant she recognized him, which, drunk as he was, only pleased him.

  Then the wives were harrumphing toward the door, Paul stumbling after them.

  I’m sorry, Russ had said softly to Larson. He left a huge tip before he followed the others out the door.