by David Wood
Porter’s office was typical for a rich guy: oversized and ostentatious. Through one of the half-dozen windows, he saw the attorney, a bear of a man with glassed and thinning hair, seated behind a mahogany desk, facing Stone, who sat ramrod-straight in a leather chair. Cautiously, Stumpy pressed the cup to the window pane, turned it until it stuck, and drew away from the window. Through the earpiece, he could hear the men’s conversation, the sound tinny and hollow, but the words clear as a nice glass of gin.
“If you don’t mind my saying, you’re a difficult man to reach, Mister Stone.”
“I’ve been traveling out of the country for some time. I only returned a few days ago and received your letters.”
“I understand. I fear I have bad news. Your grandfather passed away three weeks ago.”
So this was about an estate, but not that of Stone’s parents. Stumpy listened with keen interest.
“How did it happen?” Stone’s voice betrayed no emotion, but when Stumpy stole a glance through the window, sadness painted the young man’s strong face and flooded his downcast brown eyes.
“I only know it was sudden. The doctors do not believe he suffered.” A brief pause, the whisper of shuffling papers, and Porter went on. My instructions are to give these to you. It is your inheritance, though I’m given to understand there’s very little money in the estate.”
“Money I have. My parents left me everything.”
“You’ve had more than one loss in the past few years.”
“More than you know.” The sound of tearing paper, and Stone uttered a confused grunt. “He’s left me his mansion on the Potomac and a copy of The Lost World.”
“That’s a fine bequest,” Porter said. “I’ve been to the mansion. It’s but a stone’s throw from Mount Vernon and offers a beautiful view of the river.”
“It’s a dust and cobweb-filled rat trap,” Stone said. “My grandfather seldom ventured above the first floor. More than once, I asked him why he held on to the place, but he would just laugh and say he needed a house large enough to hold all his secrets.”
“I assume the book holds some significance?”
“It was my favorite book as a child. I lost count of how many times I made him read it to me.” Stone cleared his throat. “Mister Porter, I neither want, nor need the mansion. Can you see to its disposal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sell it, give it away, burn it to the ground for all I care. My parents’ house in Alexandria is more than enough for me.”
“I think that would be mistake.” Porter spoke slowly. “Your grandfather made a point to impress upon me the importance of you assuming ownership of the mansion. I’ve never seen him so insistent.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said I should insist that you sit in the window seat and read the book one last time, whatever that means.”
“I know what he means, but I’ll be hanged if I understand his reasons. I suppose I should get this over with. Thank you for your time, Mister Porter. I’ll be in touch.”
Stumpy switched the recorder to the off position, removed the earpiece, and set it on the fire escape. He would learn no more from this meeting. Drawing his Colt, he moved back to the window. It was time to close the deal.
Alive From New York
by Edward G. Talbot
Chapter One
It is a good day for killing.
Evans lies on the packed snow, his chin resting below the scope of his rifle. He spots movement out of the right corner of his eye and eases the gun a fraction in that direction. Nothing but a thicket of short pine trees.
He lifts his head, careful not to let the steam from his breath fog the scope. With temperatures below zero, even a small amount of moisture can require several minutes of diligence to undo. Such movement might alert his target.
Aside from its impact on the equipment, Evans revels in this weather. Nothing on earth feels as clean as the Adirondack air just after dawn on a late December day. He remembers a time on the big lake as a child, just he and his father fishing through three feet of ice. Late in the day he'd seen the old man feeling the cold, shivering and rubbing his hands together. Evans hadn't even noticed the cold. For the first time in his life, Evans had realized he was different.
He knows this has impacted most of the important decisions in his life. He didn't join the Army, because any idiot could see that the next major conflict would occur in the hot sands of Arabia. He couldn't handle that. Instead he joined the FBI, figuring he'd have his pick of frigid locales to choose from. Until the recent transfer to the Tampa office, he hasn't regretted the decision. Of course he carries quite a few extra pounds after two decades in, pounds he feels certain the Army would have kept at bay; but he's here in New York in December and that's all that matters.
Today Evans is a man on vacation, or at least mostly on vacation. As if to remind him of that fact, a deer wanders through the trees two dozen feet in front of him. Not much of a rack, but Evans doesn't care. He hunts for one reason and one reason only.
He likes to kill.
Oh, he'll eat the venison, but nothing beats the rush of squeezing the trigger. The flat-out power of a bullet snuffing out a life in less than an instant. He's tried bow hunting and even ripped apart a doe with a KA-BAR knife, but those experiences didn't carry the same moment. With a gun, even this easy shot is enough to satisfy him.
He moves his eye back to the scope and fixes on the target. He doesn't dislike the deer; in fact he likes animals. He hasn't developed a compulsion to kill more and more. He just wants to feel that exquisite release two or three times a year. The fact that hunting season ended two weeks ago makes little difference to a man with his job description.
He's waited in this spot for two hours, since the shadows of the deepest night still held sway over the encroaching sunlight. A switch goes on in his brain and he knows it's time. He takes in a deep breath through his nose.
And lets it out, long and slow. A second breath goes in and out and at the culmination of the exhale, he waits for the vibration of a heartbeat. A split second later, the bullet lodges itself in the deer's brain.
Evans finishes securing the carcass in the bed of his truck and ties down a canvas covering. A load of sufficient size to penetrate a deer skull causes quite a mess, but for Evans a head shot is the only kind worth taking. He hums a Sheryl Crow song as he drives off, something about oil.
He's looking forward to getting back to his cabin. Carving up the meat will take him a number of hours, a ritual at once tiring and satisfying. This kill moved him more than most and he's pretty sure he knows why. Six months stationed at the Tampa field office has left him drained, as if the humidity has eaten away at his soul.
He shouldn't have accepted the transfer, but he had little choice if he wanted to stay on an upward career path. In hindsight he knows he should have said screw the career. Less than twenty-four hours in New York and he feels a decade younger.
The truck pulls into the driveway and he stands on the brakes. Something's not right. His cabin door had snow on the ledge above it and now the snow is gone. With no wind to speak of, that can't have happened naturally. He sees steam on the inside of the windows. Someone has been inside the cabin.
Maybe someone still is.
He steps onto the porch and through the door, his Glock in his left hand. He surveys the wreckage. Furniture, clothes and even the carpet are shredded and scattered throughout the main living space. The Glock leads the way as he checks the bathroom and the bedroom for the intruder, and he can feel his heart resonating in his skull. He sees no one and he lowers the gun.
Already he's thinking over his most recent cases. This is no random break-in. He remembers what the kill had almost put out of his mind: he's here for more than just a vacation.
It started with a forgery of a wire transfer. A good enough job that Evans might not have known it was fake except for the way he received it. It just appeared on his desk in the middle of the ne
xt stack of Jamie Marks' financial records he needed to go through. Whoever put it there didn't know that Evans had organized the stack by document type an hour earlier, and this one didn't belong.
In short order Evans had realized two things. First, someone wanted him to look into a connection between Jamie Marks and the originating bank, in northern New York. Second, only someone with access to his office at the Tampa FBI building could have planted it. So he couldn't trust anyone at the office.
He had called Jamie Marks, figuring since he was investigating her the call wouldn't raise any red flags when the guys on the wiretap heard it. He'd needed to arrange a meeting and figure out how to talk to her with no one else eavesdropping. When she'd called him back the next day and explained how she'd tricked the electronic ears, he had laughed. She had refused to meet, but she told him over the phone about a CIA agent who had contacted her and given her some strange news. Her words had given Evans the impression she wanted him to confirm or deny it.
"So you tell me Mr. Evans, was it him or not?"
This memory has taken only two seconds to flicker through his brain, but Evans snaps himself out of it. He senses danger, something like the exhilarating moment before a good trip goes bad.
He moves towards the northeast corner of the room, looking out the back window. He sees a snowmobile parked at the back of his yard, near the edge of an opening in the woods that leads to a popular local sledding trail. His eyes move to the right, but he can't tell if anyone has discovered his secret. He put it out there to keep it safe.
The shattering of the window a moment later tells him that even if his secret is safe, nothing else is.
The sniper fires the second shot before he hears the glass breaking. With the infrared goggles, the target's body heat shines like a blood-red sun, and even from fifty yards the man with the rifle can't miss. Evans is down for sure, but that won't mean the end of this mission.
He climbs out of the tree and already his partner has reached the porch. They wear white parkas, ski pants, masks, and gloves as protection against both the cold and leaving unintended forensic evidence. The sniper's smooth stride eats up the distance and he joins his partner inside the cabin.
He isn't surprised to note the bullet hole between the eyes of the FBI man. He has dedicated his life to the cause, even to the point of alienating his own family. He didn't make those sacrifices just to miss a critical shot.
The shooter removes a folded body bag from his pack, while his partner begins to clean up the blood. They don't care about making it perfect, they just want to slow things down enough that the actual crime scene takes longer to establish with certainty. His shoulders strain to move the body into a position where he can close the zipper and he crouches deeper to increase his leverage. Soon enough he has accomplished the task.
His partner grabs one end of the bag and he grabs the other, heaving it off the cold wooden floor. They head for the tiny back door, knowing that the greatest risk of exposure is coming up. The good news is that the cabin backs right up to the trail where their snowmobile waits, and not many sledders are out in the middle of a weekday. They will have to shoot anyone they encounter during the two mile journey to their destination. The sled is a Skidoo Safari, a tight squeeze for two large men, but common enough that it won't attract any attention.
The gunman can feel the perspiration inside his mask as they lay the body across the sled. He never would have imagined working up a sweat in this weather, but moving over two-hundred pounds of dead weight takes a lot of effort. He leans against the snowmobile while his partner goes in for a final touch up of the floor.
Six minutes later, the engine roars to life and they set off down the trail. With a hard-packed surface under the skis, they make good time and they don't see anyone else along the way. Soon, they arrive at the clearing where they will stage the scene.
Getting the body out of the bag is a lot easier than putting it in was. They lean it over a wide pine stump, face down. Now comes the bad part, the part the shooter wishes he didn't have to do. It goes against everything he fights for, but his orders are clear and he has never considered disobeying. This mission needs the critical deception he is about to provide.
He returns to the sled to get the broomstick. One end comes to a fine point, sharpened by the combination of a knife and sandpaper. He exchanges glances with his partner, hoping he'll see some agreement about the heinous nature of their task. He sees only resolution and he forces aside the shame at his own weakness. Time to get the job done. He stands behind Evans and takes in a deep breath of frigid air.
In a minor concession to his conscience, the gunman closes his eyes as he thrusts the sharpened stick into the dead flesh of his most recent victim.
