Hard Freeze jk-2

by Dan Simmons

  Later, Hansen walked across the street to the courthouse for a private lunch with the Mayor and the Chief. The topic was the bad press the city and Department were getting because of the increased drug trade flowing through Buffalo to and from Canada and the resulting increase in murders, especially in the African-American community. The Mayor also had concerns about Buffalo being the first stop for Islamic terrorists carrying explosives in from Canada, although one glance exchanged between the Chief and Hansen communicated their skepticism about someone wanting to bomb Buffalo.

  All during these activities, Hansen was considering the complicated mess that had blotched out like an ink stain on felt over the past few days. If possible, he would like to continue in his Captain Millworth persona for another year or so, although the events of the past twenty-four hours made that very problematic. A lot of people would have to be buried, and soon, in order for him to maintain this identity.

  Well, thought Hansen, I've already buried a lot of people. A few more won't matter.

  Hansen had always been excellent at multitasking, so he easily made comments and handled the occasional question from the Chief or Mayor while pondering strategies for the resolution of this Kurtz-Frears problem. It bothered him that he still could not get in touch with Dr. Howard Conway in Cleveland. Perhaps the old fairy had taken his muscled pretty-boy and gone on vacation.

  When Hansen's cell phone first rang, he ignored it. But it rang again. And then again.

  "Excuse me, Chief, Mr. Mayor," he said, "I have to take this." He stepped into the small sitting room next to the courthouse dining room and answered the phone.

  "Honey, Robert, you've got to come home. Someone's broken in and—"

  "Whoa, whoa, slow down, sugar. Where are you?" Donna should have been at the library until three.

  "They closed the library because of the storm, Robert. The schools are shutting down early as well. I picked Jason up during his usual lunch hour and we came home and… someone's broken in, Robert! Shall I call the police? I mean, I did, you are, but you know what I mean—"

  "Calm down," said Millworth. "What did they steal?"

  "Nothing, I think. I mean, Jason and I can't find anything missing from the house. But they left the door to your basement office open, Robert. I peeked in… I'm sorry, but I thought they might still be in there… but the door was open and the door to a big safe is open in there, Robert. I didn't go in, but they obviously did, the thieves, I mean. I didn't know you had a safe down there, Robert. Robert? Robert?"

  Hansen had gone cold all over. Spots danced in front of his eyes for a minute. He sat down on the small couch in the sitting room. "Donna? Don't call the police. I'm coming home. Stay upstairs. Don't go in the office. You and Jason stay where you are."

  "Robert, why do you think—"

  Hansen broke the connection and went in to tell the Chief and the Mayor that something important had come up.

  Marco showed them the marina pay phone where Little Skag would be calling for his weekly information update. Marco said that Leo usually did the talking. Kurtz, Angelina, and the bodyguard had left the apartment tower by its south door, out of sight of Brubaker and Myers, parked on the street to the north. Angelina told Marco to return to the penthouse, and Kurtz rigged the small cassette recorder and microphone wire the don's daughter had supplied.

  The call came precisely at noon. Angelina answered it. With the additional earphone, Kurtz could eavesdrop on the conversation.

  "Angie… what the fuck are you doing there?"

  Angelina winced. She had always hated the nickname.

  "Stevie, I wanted to talk to you… privately."

  "Where the fuck are Leo and Marco?"

  "Busy."

  "Miserable incompetent motherfuckers. I'm going to fire their asses."

  "Stevie, we need to talk about something."

  "What?" To Kurtz's ear, his former fellow convict sounded not only irritated but alarmed.

  "You've been hiring cops to whack people. Detective Brubaker, for instance. I know you've put him on the payroll that used to go to Hathaway."

  Silence. Little Skag obviously didn't know what his sister was up to, but he wasn't about to encourage his own entrapment. Finally, "What the fuck are you talking about, Angie?"

  "I don't care about Brubaker," said Angelina, her breath fogging in the cold air, "but I've gone over the family notes and I see that Gonzaga's got a captain of detectives on the arm. A guy named Millworth."

  Silence.

  "Millworth's not really Millworth," said Angelina. "He's a serial killer named James B. Hansen… and a bunch of other aliases. He's a child-killer, Stevie. A rapist and a killer."

  Kurtz heard Little Skag let out a breath. If this dealt with Gonzaga, it was not his sister trying to entrap him. "So?" said Little Skag.

  "So do you really want me doing this deal with Emilio when he has a child-killer on his payroll?"

  Little Skag laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh and every time Kurtz had heard it in Attica, it had been at someone else's expense.

  "Do I give a flying fuck who Emilio hires?" said Little Skag. "If this cop is a killer like you say, it just means that the Gonzagas own him. They got him by the balls. Now put Leo on."

  "I wouldn't expect you to do anything about someone who rapes kids," said Angelina.

  "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

  "You know what it means, Stevie. You and that high-school Connors girl who disappeared twelve years ago. Emilio kidnapped her, but you were in on it—you raped her, didn't you?"

  "What the fuck are you talking about? Have you gone out of your mind? Who gives a shit about something that happened twelve years ago?"

  "I do, Stevie. I don't want to do business with a man who pays a serial child-killer."

  "Fuck what you want!" screamed Little Skag. "Who the fuck asked you what you want, you stupid cunt? Your job is to finish these dealings with Gonzaga so his people can get me the fuck out of here. Do you understand? If I want to fuck kindergarten kids up the ass, you're going to shut the fuck up about it. You're my sister, Angie, but that won't stop me from—"

  The line hissed and crackled.

  "Stop you from what, Stevie?" Angelina said after a minute. "From having me whacked the way you did Maria?"

  The cold wind blew in off the lake during the next silence. Then Little Skag said, "You're my sister, Angelina, but you're a stupid bitch. You meddle in my business again… in Family business… and I'll do worse than have you whacked. Understand me? I'm gonna get my lawyer to set up another call at noon tomorrow and you'd goddamn better have Leo and Marco there."

  The line went dead.

  Kurtz disconnected the small microphone, rewound, and hit «Play» on the micro-cassette recorder long enough to hear the voices loud and clear. He clicked off the machine.

  "How the hell is that going to help with anything?" said Angelina.

  "We'll see."

  "Are you going to tell me your plan about how to get to Gonzaga now, Kurtz? It's time, unless you want me to toss you and your friends out in the snow."

  "All right," said Kurtz. He told her the plan as they walked back to Marina Towers.

  "Jesus fuck," whispered Angelina when he was finished. They were silent riding up in the elevator.

  Arlene was standing in the foyer. "Gail just called me," she said to Kurtz. "They're going to discharge Donald Rafferty from the hospital in about thirty minutes."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Donna and Jason were waiting when James B. Hansen arrived home. He calmed them, spoke soothingly, told them to put the dog outside and that nothing important could have been stolen from his basement gun room, inspected the point of breaking and entering, and went downstairs to look in his room.

  They had stolen everything important. Hansen saw black dots dancing in his vision and had to sit down at his desk or faint. His photographs. The $200,000 in cash. They had even stolen his C-4 explosive. Why would thieves take that?


  He had more money hidden away, of course—$150,000 tucked away with the cadavers in the rental freezer unit. Another $300,000 in various banks under different names in various cities. But this was not a small setback. Hansen would love to believe that this robbery was just a coincidence, but there was no chance of that. He would have to find out if Joe Kurtz was a skilled thief—whoever had bypassed those two expensive alarm systems and blown the safe knew his business—but it had to be someone working for or with John Wellington Frears. All of the recent events suggested a conspiracy afoot to destroy James B. Hansen. The theft of the souvenir photos left Hansen no choice as to his next actions. And Hansen despised being left without choices.

  He looked up to find Donna and Jason peering into his basement sanctum sanctorum.

  "Wow, I didn't know you had so many guns," said Jason, staring at the display case. "Why didn't they steal your guns?"

  "Let's go upstairs," said Hansen.

  He led them up to the second floor.

  "Nothing was stolen or disturbed very much up here as far as I can tell," said Donna. "I'm glad Dickson was at the vet's…"

  Hansen nodded and led them into the guest bedroom with its two twin beds. He gestured for his wife and stepson to sit on one of the beds. Hansen was still wearing his topcoat and now he reached into the pocket. "I'm sorry this happened," he said, his voice smooth, reassuring, controlled. "But it's nothing to be alarmed about. I know who did it."

  "You do?" said Jason, who never seemed to quite trust his stepfather's pronouncements. "Who? Why?"

  "A felon named Joe Kurtz," said Hansen with a smile. "We're arresting him today. In fact, we've already found the weapon he's used in similar robberies." Hansen brought out the.38 that he had reloaded.

  "How did you get his gun?" asked Jason. The boy did not sound convinced.

  "Robert," said Donna in her bovine way, "is there anything wrong?"

  "Not a thing, dear," said Hansen and fired from the hip, hitting Donna between the eyes. She flopped backward on the bed and lay still. Hansen swiveled the muzzle toward Jason.

  The boy did not wait to be shot. He was off the bed in a single leap, reacting faster than Hansen would have ever guessed the boy could move. He hit his stepfather in a full body check—an against-the-boards hockey crash—before Hansen could aim or pull the trigger again. They both went backward off the bed, Jason struggling to get his hands on the weapon, Hansen fighting to keep it away from the tall boy. Jason's reach was actually longer than Hansen's, but he was sixty pounds lighter. Hansen used his body mass to shove the boy off him and against the dresser. Then both of them were on their feet, still struggling for the weapon, Jason sobbing and cursing at the same time, Hansen fighting hard but smiling now, smiling without knowing it, amused by this sudden and unexpected opposition. Who would have expected this surly teenage slacker to put up such a fight?

  Jason still had Hansen's right wrist in a death grip, but the boy freed his right arm, made a fist, and tried to slug his stepfather in the best Hollywood tradition. A mistake. Hansen kneed the teenager in the balls and backhanded him in the face with his left hand.

  Jason cried out and folded over but kept his grip on Hansen's wrist, trying to foil his stepfather's aim.

  Hansen kicked the boy's feet out from under him and Jason flew backward onto the empty bed, pulling Hansen with him. But Hansen was succeeding in swiveling the muzzle lower, even as Jason clung to his right arm with both hands, panting and swearing. Now the boy was sobbing entreaties. "Please, no, no. Mom, help. No, no, no. God damn you—"

  Hansen got the angle and shot the kid in the chest.

  Jason gasped, his mouth flopping open like a landed fish's, but still clung to Hansen's wrist, trying to deflect a second shot. Hansen put his knee on the boy's bloody chest, forcing the last of the air out of his lungs, and wrenched his right arm free of the boy's weakening grip.

  "Dad…" gasped the wounded teenager.

  Hansen shook his head… no… set the muzzle against the boy's forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  Gasping, out of breath and almost shaking from the exertion, Hansen went into the guest bathroom. Somehow he had avoided getting blood or brain matter on his topcoat and trousers. His black shoes were spattered, however. He used one of the pink guest towels to clean his shoes and then he splashed water on his face and hands, drying them with the other towel.

  The guest room was a mess—dresser knocked askew, mirror broken, the green coverlet on one of the beds crumpled under Jason's sprawled body. The boy's mouth was still open wide as if in a silent scream. Hansen went to the window and looked out for a minute, but he had no real concern that the neighbors had heard the shots. The houses were too far away and sealed for winter.

  The snow was falling more heavily and the sky was very dark to the west. Dickson, their Irish setter, ran back and forth in the dog run.

  Hansen felt light, his mind clear, energy flowing much as it did after a good workout at the gym. The worst had happened—someone taking his souvenir briefcase—but he still had options. James B. Hansen was too intelligent not to have backup plans beneath his backup plans. This was a setback, one of the most bizarre he'd ever encountered, but he had long anticipated someone discovering not only the falsehood of one of his identities, but the full chain of his lives and crimes. There was a plastic surgeon waiting in Toronto, a new life in Vancouver.

  But first, details. It was too bad that the thief—Kurtz or whoever it was—had taken his C-4 explosive. That would have reduced this part of the house to such shambles that it would take an explosives forensic team weeks or months to figure out what had happened here. But even a basic fire would give him time. Especially if there was the usual third body in the house.

  Sighing, aggrieved that he had to spend the time, Hansen went out, locked the door behind him, and drove the big Cadillac SUV to the rental freezer. There he retrieved all of the cash from the body bags, chose Cadaver Number 4 from the shelves, tossed the frozen corpse into the back of the Escalade, and drove home, taking care not to speed in the heavy snow. He passed several snowplows working but almost no traffic. Donna must have been correct about schools closing early.

  The house was just as he'd left it Hansen put the Cadillac Escalade in the garage, brought his dog, Dickson, inside, and closed the garage door before hauling the cadaver up the stairs, removing it from its plastic wrapping and laying it on the bed next to Donna. The corpse was in street clothes from two years ago when he had killed the man, but Hansen went into his own closet and pulled out a tweed jacket he had never liked very much. The body's arms were frozen at its sides, but Hansen draped the jacket over its shoulders. He also removed his Rolex from his wrist and set it on the cadaver's wrist. Thinking he would need a watch of his own, he undid Jason's and slid it in his trouser pocket.

  He carried in the five jerricans of gasoline stored in the garage. Burn the place now and leave forever? Caution said that he should, but there were still elements left to be resolved. Hansen might need something from the house—some of the guns, perhaps—and he had no time to pack now.

  Leaving the cans of gas with Dickson in the living room. Hansen carefully locked the house, pulled the Cadillac SUV out of the garage, beeped the garage door shut, and drove back downtown to plant the.38 in Kurtz's room.

  Donald Rafferty was glad to get out of the hospital.

  He had a broken wrist, bruises on his ribs and abdomen, and bandages on his head. The mild concussion still hurt like a sonofabitch, but Rafferty knew that he'd hurt a lot worse than that if he didn't get the hell out of the hospital and the hell out of town.

  He'd been lucky with the child-abuse/molestation rap. Rafferty had indignantly denied everything to the cops when they interviewed him, pointed out that his adopted daughter Rachel was a typical teenager—hard to handle, given to lying and blaming others for her problems—and that he'd done nothing but go down to the bus station late that night to retrieve her after she'd run away. He was afraid, he told the
cops, that she was doing drugs. They'd had a fight—Rachel hated the idea of Rafferty remarrying, even though her real mother had been dead for more than twelve years—and she was still angry at him in the car when he'd hit the black ice and the car had spun off the Kensington.

  Yes, Rafferty admitted to the cops, since they had the blood-alcohol test results anyway, he'd been drinking that evening at home—hell, he was worried sick about Rachel, why wouldn't he have a few drinks at home—but what was he supposed to do when she called from the bus station at 2:30 a.m., leave her there? No, the drinking didn't cause the accident—the goddamned snowstorm and black ice had.

  Luckily, when Rachel regained consciousness in the ICU, the cops had interviewed her and she'd retracted the story about Rafferty trying to rape her. She seemed confused to the police, probably because of the anesthesia and pain from the surgery. But she'd taken back the accusations she'd made to the paramedics as the firemen were cutting her out of the wreckage of the Honda.

  Rafferty felt vindicated. Shit, he'd not come anywhere close to raping her. It was just that the girl was wearing pajamas two sizes too small when she came down to the kitchen to get some cake, Rafferty had been drinking all evening and was frustrated that DeeDee couldn't see him for the next couple of weekends, and he'd made the slight mistake of coming up behind Rachel as she stood at the counter and running his hands over her budding breasts, down her stomach and thighs.

  Waiting in the hospital lounge for his taxi to arrive, Rafferty felt himself stir at that memory, even through the pain and the painkillers. He was sorry the brat had screamed and rushed to her room, locking the door and then going out the window and down the garage trellis while he stood like a dork in the hallway, threatening to kick the door down if she didn't come to her senses. She'd taken the last bus from Lockport into the city station, but then realized she didn't have the money to get out of Buffalo. Sobbing, cold—she'd only had time to grab a sweatshirt—she'd finally called Rafferty. This also made him smile. The girl had no one else to go to, which was probably why she'd recanted on her accusations. If she was going to go home at all, she'd have to go home to Donald Rafferty.