by Jason Dean
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ she said. They stopped at lights on the Marathon Parkway intersection. ‘We’re almost there.’
Bishop scanned the buildings on the right, past the intersection. There was a large, nineteenth-century-style timber frame building on the corner. Squatting next to it was a small, anonymous-looking, single-storey white building that Bishop guessed would be the post office. Federal funding didn’t run to inventive architecture.
The lights turned green and Bishop said, ‘Park up in the first available space.’
She did, and after turning off the engine reached back into the shoulder bag again and pulled out a cell phone.
‘Forgot to give you this.’ She handed it to him along with two spare SIM cards. ‘Twenty bucks from a 7-Eleven, but it’s not too bad. It’s charged and comes with an hour’s worth of calls and a few other things, like voice record and camera. I know you probably won’t want to use it much, but I programmed my number into it if you need to contact me for any reason.’ She shrugged. ‘You never know, right?’
‘Thanks,’ Bishop said and gave it a brief once-over before putting it in Owen’s jacket pocket along with the SIM cards.
He pulled out his sunglasses, put them on and reached for the door handle.
‘Sure you don’t want me to wait? What if he doesn’t show up today? You can’t just wander around.’
‘I’ll think of something. This is a situation where I’m better off on my own.’
Finally, she nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Be careful.’
‘Sure,’ he said, and got out. He watched as she pulled into the traffic and drove away. Then he crossed the street to look for a store that sold outdoor gear.
THIRTY-NINE
At 11.27 on Tuesday morning, the man who used to be Adam Cortiss stood in front of the stamp-vending machine next to the wall of mailboxes, opened the envelope he’d just taken from Box 46533 and realized immediately he should have sold that house years ago.
Sold it to someone other than himself, that is.
He just couldn’t do it, though, could he? Tenants came and went, but his old man’s place in Nassau never stayed vacant for more than a couple of weeks. And to be honest, he’d gotten used to that nice little windfall every month. Even after Stillson and the letting agency took their cuts, he still had more than enough to see him through those tight periods that cropped up every now and then. Like now, for instance. Always by cashier’s cheque too, as per his original instructions to Stillson. And always a different time each month, since he’d learned from an early age that a set routine could get you killed quicker than a bullet.
And as the house was the only connection left to his previous identity, somebody from his former life had now tracked him through it. No other way it could have happened.
Cortiss gave a deep sigh and lines appeared on his forehead. His face had filled out since Bishop’s file photo had been taken, and the wavy brown hair had turned salt and pepper and was cropped close to his skull, receding at the temples and thinning at the back. But the body underneath was still as taut as a man’s half his age.
At his right were five cashiers’ windows, but only one was currently active. The same two people in the line as when he’d come in less than a minute ago. The patient woman behind the glass window of number two was still serving the stooped old crock dressed in his best suit, and the forty-something mom waiting behind him was attempting to ignore the hyperactive brat at her side. Just two customers and him. So whoever was waiting for him would be outside. And the blank sheets in the envelope meant they didn’t care that he knew. As it was, he could name at least three people from his past who’d like nothing more than to see him dead, and any one of them could be out there. He knew the rear exit only led round to the front again, via a side alley, so it was through the front or nothing. Besides, the Lexus he’d parked outside was practically new. Damned if he was going to abandon it without a fight.
Cortiss locked his mailbox and then bent down as if to tie his shoelaces. He pulled up his black jeans a couple of inches and removed his trusty Colt Mustang .380 automatic from the ankle holster before standing up again. Flicking the safety off, he held it in the pocket of his sports jacket and walked towards the front of the post office.
Through the glass double doors he could see a steady stream of traffic flowing past the parked vehicles lining the kerb on this side. His tan Lexus was a few cars down on the right. He scanned the vehicles in front and behind for occupants, but saw nobody.
He pulled one of the doors open and stepped outside, turning his head in each direction. To his left several pedestrians were walking away from him, towards the lights. On the right there was even less foot traffic. Just a guy in a dark suit about a hundred and fifty yards away, moving this way.
With his right hand still gripping the Colt in his pocket, Cortiss made for his vehicle, not taking his eyes off the approaching man. The guy was about six foot, mid-thirties, with glasses and short dark hair. He seemed to look in every direction except Cortiss’s and moved at a steady pace like someone with a purpose. Both his hands were in his pockets.
Everything felt wrong and Cortiss’s throat felt dry. He increased his pace. Within seconds he’d reached the car and unlocked the driver’s door. Then he turned so he was leaning against it at a slight angle to the guy. Twenty yards away, the man casually brought his right hand out and let it swing at his side as he walked. The other hand stayed in his pocket. Cortiss figured he could take this guy out and be on his way before anybody noticed. The Colt was loud, but so was the sound of a car backfiring.
Ten yards away now and Cortiss had the barrel pointed at the man’s midsection. He was ready. The guy still looked straight ahead and didn’t slow his pace. Cortiss kept watching his left side, waiting for the merest twitch that would serve as his cue to fire.
Five yards and still no movement from the man’s left hand. Cortiss kept his eyes on him and then frowned when the man passed by. And continued walking away from him. What the hell? Cortiss watched him climb the single step to the post office double doors, push one open and step inside.
The door closed and Cortiss breathed out again.
Okay. So he was mistaken. But whoever wanted him was still around and he was right out in the open. Cortiss reached behind, opened the driver’s door and quickly slid in. As he inserted the key in the ignition he thought about what he would do if the positions were reversed. Not enough time to attach a nasty surprise to the starter motor. Best bet would be to place a tracking device under the vehicle and then follow him home and take it from there. Except he wouldn’t go home just yet. He knew of an industrial park just two miles from here that would serve him better. He’d drive on over there, see what kind of company he’d attracted and deal with it.
As he started the engine he felt the familiar touch of cold steel against his neck and the man in the back said, ‘Good idea, Cortiss. Let’s go for a drive.’
FORTY
Jenna sat down on the nearest stool and tossed her keys onto the dining room table, wondering what it was with men and their damn egos. Why couldn’t they just leave their pride at the door and accept help when it was offered? How hard could it be? But no, Bishop could never do anything that obvious. It didn’t fit in with the tight-lipped loner thing he had going on.
‘Infuriating man,’ she said to the four walls.
Still, she’d proved a point by finding Cortiss’s mailing address for him. Even Bishop couldn’t argue with a result like that. She just hoped Cortiss was the impatient type who did subscribe to a notification system, otherwise Bishop was in for a long wait.
Jenna brushed a hand through her hair and got off the stool. She walked into the living room and saw Bishop’s clothes on one of the chairs. They were folded and stacked neatly. At least he wasn’t a slob. Then she smiled, picked up the sweatshirt and went through the front pockets. So she was the curious type. He’d just have to live with it. It wasn’t like he was paying her a
ny rent.
But there was nothing in them. Same with the black pair of chinos. Although she wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find. Folding and placing them back on the chair, she came round the coffee table and parked herself on the sofa. And frowned at what sounded like the crinkling of paper. She pulled up the cushion and found some torn, ragged pieces of paper lying there. Well, now, she thought. What are these?
She looked them over and realized the six pieces made up three complete pages. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, laid them out on the coffee table in proper order and read through each sheet slowly.
The first two pages formed a long-winded letter from an Anthony Cartwright of Wald College in Tribeca, saying how great it was that Randall Brennan had chosen their institution for his son Philip’s further education. And how, since the college was always looking for philanthropic supporters who believed in laying the foundations for future scholarship, Brennan Senior might also be interested to learn of the new library wing currently under construction.
Jenna shook her head at the presumptuous tone of the letter. It can’t have impressed Brennan much. Especially the part that mentioned how the more generous sponsors often achieved immortality by having whole wings named after them.
The third sheet was a little more intriguing. It was dated March 19, 1989 and came from a Thomas B. Wheatley, director of the Willow Reeves Rest Home in San Francisco. The letter referred to an enquiry Brennan had made about a man called Timothy R. Ebert, whom he believed to be a resident at Willow Reeves between 1968 and 1969. Wheatley regretted that he was unable to divulge any information concerning past clients, not even to confirm whether the person in question ever resided there at all. At the bottom, a line of almost illegible text read. The Willow Reeves Rest Home is a non-profit organization operating under the aegis of the Kebnekaise Corporation.
Noticing some bleed-through, Jenna turned both pieces over. On the reverse was a series of letters. Nine consonants and nine vowels, some repeated more than once. They had been jotted down haphazardly in pen as though in preparation for an anagram puzzle. She turned the pieces back again and leaned against the couch. As she tapped the coffee table surface with her fingernails she wondered where Bishop could have picked the papers up, and why he’d hidden them under her sofa cushion.
All she knew was that he’d neglected to take them with him. In which case, she thought, there was no actual harm in checking them out herself, was there?
FORTY-ONE
From the back seat, Bishop studied the back of Cortiss’s head as he drove. His right hand was gripping the Beretta while Cortiss’s Colt sat in his pocket. They were heading west on the LIE, on their way to Cortiss’s apartment in the Woodside district of Queens. Assuming the address on his driver’s licence wasn’t as phoney as the name.
After a short search, Bishop had found a camping store and become the owner of a Brunton pocket scope. He’d then entered the modern-looking public library building on the corner of Northern Boulevard and Marathon Parkway, directly opposite the post office, pulled a book at random from the shelves and taken a seat at one of the windows. Every time a man approached the post office across the street, he used the small scope to zoom in on his face.
At 11.25 he’d been wondering how long he could keep watch when the Lexus with the tinted windows pulled up. The face of the driver had aged and the hair was different, but even from a distance Bishop could see it was the same man as the one in the photo. And the jawline hadn’t changed since he last saw it three years ago.
Once Cortiss was inside, Bishop left the library, crossed the street and checked under the Lexus’s bumpers. A small, magnetized box was hidden at the rear. Bishop smiled to himself. Even professionals were wary of losing their keys.
After letting himself in with the spare and relocking the doors, it had simply been a case of hiding in the back and waiting. He had no idea who the guy in the suit had been, but he was grateful for the temporary confusion he had caused in his target.
Cortiss said, ‘And I always thought lawyers were good at keeping secrets. I’m gonna have to have a private word with that Stillson asshole when I get a chance.’
‘You only got yourself to blame,’ Bishop said. ‘Here’s a tip: next time you want to disappear, either make a clean break or don’t bother.’
‘Am I hearing right?’ Cortiss said with a snort. ‘You’re giving me advice? Let me write that down.’ Then he went quiet again. Just driving. Exit 20 passed them by. Bishop knew the next exit would take them onto Queens Boulevard towards 57th Street and Cortiss’s apartment. He thought for a moment, then pulled the cell Jenna had given him from his pocket. He scrolled through until he found the application he wanted and activated it.
‘You got any idea how famous you are, brother?’ Cortiss asked. He was watching his passenger in the rear-view. ‘I swear they got your face plastered all over every channel except QVC, and it’ll only be a matter of time before they stick your face on a watch so they can get in on the act. Yes sir, looks like I got me a real life celebrity in my back seat.’
‘And you knew me way back when I was still a nobody. You still got that scar I gave you or has it healed over now?’
Cortiss glanced down at his right forearm and said, ‘Screw you, Bishop.’ Then he lapsed back into silence. As they passed under the sign for exit 19, he looked in his side mirror and began crossing over into the right-hand lane ahead of the turnoff.
‘You know, I read your file.’ Bishop looked out at the traffic ahead of them. ‘Very impressive. The operations you’ve been a part of. The exotic locales. Above all, the dead bodies. You could write a book.’
Cortiss joined the traffic on the turnoff and said nothing.
Bishop watched Cortiss’s eyes in the rear-view. ‘Long story short. Three years ago, four heavily armed men storm a protected house. Only one makes it out again, but not before torturing and killing a young girl and her father. Then he disappears, leaving one of the protectors to pay the bills. You’re gonna tell me why.’
‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Nothing’s for sure in this life. You want to put me straight?’
‘What for? You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.’
‘Try me.’
Cortiss’s eyes met Bishop’s in the mirror. ‘When we get off this I might just ram the next oncoming vehicle. Or take us up to ninety. See what happens.’
‘In this traffic? Go ahead. I’m always open to new experiences and it’d tell me more than you’ve told me so far.’
Cortiss steered them onto Queens Boulevard. ‘Try this on, Bishop,’ he said as they came to another stop. ‘Could be everything you think about me is true. Except for one small point.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Wanna know what I saw when I made it to that top floor office?’
Bishop just looked at him.
‘Three dead people,’ Cortiss said. ‘Same as you.’
FORTY-TWO
Jenna sat at the dining room table and took a few sips of her Coke as she took in the Willow Reeves Rest Home website. It was very well done. Lots of happy residents smiling at their uniformed keepers on the steps of tastefully designed adobe buildings. And although there weren’t any willow trees, there were lots of photos of serene grounds with plenty of green.
Under About Us, there was a large amount of text that said little but emphasized their reputation for discretion and quality care for those who needed aid, with lots of testimonials from satisfied family members. The tagline at the bottom read, Caring for the elderly for over 38 years. Jenna frowned. That would mean it got its start-up in the early seventies, yet Brennan seemed sure the place had been going for some time before that. In his letter, Wheatley hadn’t corrected him on the point, either, which made the tagline even more puzzling. After all, most businesses would have happily traced their origins back to civil war times if they could get away with it. Customers trusted a company with history, so for an establishment to play the
irs down was unusual.
Unless their past was something they wanted to keep quiet about.
Curious, Jenna pressed the Contact link and was presented with an address in the marina district of the city and three telephone numbers. Further down was a brief list of management personnel, followed by a much longer one of medical consultants connected with the home. Each had a long series of letters after his or her name. She guessed Wheatley must have either retired or died in the last few years as the managing director was now a woman, Irene Ravenscourt. The name alone put Jenna off and she continued down the list for someone who sounded more pliable. Jeffrey Golden, Records Officer, she thought. You’ll do.
She looked at the kitchen clock and saw it was 12.15 p.m., which meant it would be 9.15 a.m. on the west coast. She picked up her cordless, pressed 67 to block the caller ID, then keyed in the first number and got a busy signal. She tried the second, and after two rings a young-sounding female voice said, ‘Good morning. Willow Reeves. May I help you?’
‘My name is Margaret Huntley,’ Jenna said. ‘Could I speak with Jeffrey Golden, please?’
‘Surely,’ the voice said. ‘Please hold.’
After a short wait, a slightly reedy male voice came on the line. ‘Ms Huntley. This is Jeffrey Golden. What can I do for you?’
‘Hello, Mr Golden. I work out of the Illinois office of the IRS and my supervisor gave me your name as a contact for my current case file. I was hoping you could help with—’
‘I sent in my return months ago, you know, Ms Huntley. I have video evidence and signed transcripts from witnesses who were there at the time of mailing. Ha ha.’
