A Killer in the Wind

by Andrew Klavan

  “What do you expect me to do, Stark?” I said.

  Stark leaned forward. His skull face filled the screen, grinning out at me. “You’re going to hand your gun over to dear Aunt Jane. You’re going to give her the gun and she’s going to hold you there until I arrive.”

  “Right,” I said. “And if I don’t?”

  “I’m going to spend the brief little rest of this car journey butchering your woman in amusing but not entirely fatal ways.”

  A long, shuddering breath came out of me. I’d been holding on to it without realizing it. If I didn’t do what Stark said, he would torture Samantha. If I did, he would bring her here, and then torture her, forcing me to watch. He needed me to watch . . .

  “Give her the gun,” Stark said. “Do it now, Champion, or I’ll get started.”

  I licked my dry lips. I did not know if I could do what I needed to do. I did not know if I was cold enough.

  I shook my head. “You’re right about one thing,” I said.

  “Give her the gun, Champion. Now,” Stark said.

  “We’ve all got a weakness. No one’s exempt.”

  “Do it.”

  “You know what your weakness is, Stark?”

  “Hand over your gun.”

  “Your weakness is that you need me to suffer.”

  “You’ll suffer, Champion.”

  “You promised your brother. You can’t just torture Samantha. You want me to watch. You need me to watch.”

  “You’ll watch,” said Stark, grinning. “You won’t be able to stop watching.”

  I grinned back at him, feeling like Death myself. I lifted my Glock.

  For once, I saw the skull’s smile falter. I saw uncertainty in Stark’s glowing eyes.

  I pulled the trigger. In that small room, the explosion was so loud it sent a stabbing ache through my ears. It drowned out the Fat Woman’s startled scream—but I saw her scream, saw her scarred mouth opening in a black O.

  The computer tablet flipped out of her hand, shattering in mid- air before dropping with a crash to the floor.

  I turned to the Fat Woman. Her mouth was still wide open. She was staring at me in shocked surprise.

  “What . . . ? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said. They were the first words she’d spoken since I’d walked into the room. They came out in a deep, dull croak, but I could hear the tone of outrage in them. Outrage.

  “Did you think I’d bargain with him?” I asked her. “Did you think I’d plead for mercy like the children do? You taught me better than that.”

  I stepped toward her. She recoiled in her chair. “You stay away from me!”

  I came stalking around the desk. She panicked, went for the drawer. Scrabbled the drawer open with her fat hand and reached inside.

  I used the butt of the Glock to hammer the drawer shut on her fingers. She bellowed like a cow at a slaughterhouse.

  “Ow! Stop it! What’s wrong with you?” she said. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I’m the little boy who got away.”

  I knocked her chair back so that her hand pulled the drawer open. I found the Colt .32 in there, a delicate lady’s handgun. How would she even have gotten her fat fingers through the trigger guard? I pulled the gun out. Tossed it aside. It fell behind one of the stacks of ledgers in the far corner.

  Then I yanked the power cord out of her laptop, pulled the long, narrow extension cord out of the wall. I grabbed her by the wrist, twisted her arm around.

  “Let go of me!” she shouted.

  “I’d like to kill you. I ought to kill you. But I’m not what you are. I’m still not what you are.”

  I wound the extension cord around the thick flesh of her wrist.

  “Ow!” she shouted. “You’re hurting me. Are you insane?”

  She tried to punch me in the head with her free hand. I caught the blow on my raised arm. Wrenched her other hand back and tied that too.

  “I’ll think of you when you’re on death row, though,” I told her. “A decade of waiting, and then the needle. I’ll think of you every day.”

  I started to tie the cord to the chair.

  “Ow!” she snarled. “I mean it. You’re hurting me, you asshole!”

  I tied her to the chair, her arms behind her.

  “You gorilla! You piece of shit!” she shouted, bouncing her fat ass up and down as she struggled. “You have no right!”

  That did it. The fury exploded through the center of me. With a growl, I jammed my Glock into her eye, hard. She gasped and gagged on her own fear and shut up. I felt my finger tighten on the trigger. I wanted to put a bullet in her so badly it felt like a kind of lust.

  “No right,” I heard myself whisper. Pressing the gun into her eye, I leaned down to put my lips against what was left of her ear. “You think I have no right?”

  “Don’t . . .” she said. She was panting with fear—fear of the gun. “You can’t. It’s stupid. It’s crazy. You kill me like this—in cold blood? You’ll go to prison.”

  “Will I? Maybe. Maybe I don’t care.”

  “For Christ’s sake . . .”

  “Maybe it would be worth it.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she croaked.

  “Why don’t you bargain with me?” I said. “Why don’t you plead for mercy like the children do?”

  “This is crazy! It’s crazy! What’re you so all-fired angry about?”

  I laughed wildly, still pushing the gun into her. I did sound crazy. But it was such a nutty thing for her to ask, I thought she must be babbling in terror. But no, she meant it. She didn’t understand.

  “You and that girl,” she went on, in her deep, dead voice. “Hounding me like this. Tormenting me. Why? What for? You’re both all right, aren’t you? You got away. Didn’t you? Obviously. You’re fine. So what’re you complaining about? I’m the one who should be doing all the screaming and yelling here. Look at me. Look what you did to me. You set fire to me. Look at my face! I almost died. Now you come into my house like the hound of hell or something. Shooting and threatening people . . . Why? You’re fine. You’re fine.”

  I stared at her. I drew the gun away from her a little but kept it trained on her face. “It’s a limited view of human life,” I said hoarsely.

  She stared at me. “You’re a madman, if you ask me,” she said. “I had to hire a very expensive security agency just to keep myself safe from you. And you come in here, shooting and threatening like I don’t even know what.”

  I could only go on staring, shaking my head.

  “And all the while, you’re fine,” she blithered on. “I’m the one who got burned. Look at me. You’re just fine and you nearly killed me.”

  “What about Alexander?” I don’t know why I said it. What was the point? But the words just came out of me.

  “Who?”

  At once, the rage exploded in me again. “Alexander!” I shouted. And before I could stop myself, I drew my free hand back and slapped her. The blow cracked against her cheek, knocking her head to the side. A line of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth and trailed down the side of her chin.

  She gaped at me, licking at the blood. “You’re insane,” she said. “Alexander? I don’t even know who that is?”

  “What about all the others?” I growled at her, my voice scraping in my throat, my gun hand trembling. “The ones you sold to Emory. All the others all these years.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Shaking my head. “Good God.”

  “What others? What do you mean?” she said. “Oh, wait. You mean the other kids? Jesus. What business is that of yours?” She stared back at me, uncomprehending. “I mean, what the hell do you expect? This is what I do, for Christ’s sake. People want what I sell. They have their rights, don’t they? What are you, the judge over them suddenly? You’re the judge over me suddenly? Jesus! Is that what you’re here about? The other ones? You come in here, shooting guns, hitting a woman
. . . a disabled woman . . . after you’re the one who burned me . . . and it’s all about that? The other ones? What do they even have to do with you? You got away. You’re all right. You’re fine. I’m the one who got burned in the whole business. God! You are a seriously disturbed person!”

  I laughed again—or made a sound like laughter—backing away from her, shaking my head. I had no answer. What answer was there? It was as if we were speaking two different languages.

  “Well, go ahead,” she said then, turning to look at me. She was frowning with her mouth open and I could see her teeth were stained with blood. “Go ahead and shoot me if that’s what you want. Go to prison. Die in prison for all I care. Your big revenge. For what? You can’t bring any of those children back. No one can. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it?”

  I still had the gun on her. It was aimed at her heart. I still had my finger on the trigger. I still yearned to send her to hell. Maybe I would have.

  But just then, the glow of headlights passed across the dark window behind her and I knew that Stark had arrived.

  Still, I stood there another moment. I could hear the tires of Stark’s car outside on the dirt road coming out of the forest. I knew I had to go, had to move fast. But still . . . I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. All these years, I kept thinking. All these years . . .

  Then, with a breath, I came to myself. I turned my back on her. Walked to the door.

  “Hey! You can’t just leave me here like this!” the Fat Woman shouted angrily behind me. “Take this goddamned cord off me, you maniac! Let me go!”

  I pulled the door open. I saw the hallway ahead of me, lit by the light from the room, receding into shadow, then into darkness.

  “Don’t you dare!” the Fat Woman shouted. “Don’t you dare just leave me here, you bastard! How could you?”

  I stepped out and pulled the door shut behind me.

  I walked down the corridor, gun in hand. The Fat Woman was still ranting behind me. I could hear her voice, her curses coming through the door. I didn’t pause. I just went on down the hall. I didn’t worry about the open rooms now, the dark rooms. I wasn’t afraid some gunman was waiting for me. The place was empty, I could feel it. The Fat Woman had no one left now. Only Stark and whoever was with him in his car.

  I reached the stairs. I started down. The room below came into view. I saw the headlights of Stark’s car glaring on one of the ground-floor windowpanes. I heard the car pulling to a stop, the tires crunching on the drive. The headlights went out.

  I stepped off the last stair into the living room. There wasn’t much light here, just the moon glow coming through the windows. I could make out the shapes of furniture. A sofa right in front of me, chairs here and there, a low table, and so on. I maneuvered through the gaps, crossing the room.

  I reached the window where I’d seen the headlights. I pressed close to the wall, curled my head around the frame, and looked out.

  Stark’s car, a long, broad black machine, had stopped at the base of the lawn. It stood there another second, motionless beneath the moon. Out of range. No shot from where I was.

  The doors came open. The front door opened first and a rifleman got out, a man in an overcoat. The other thug from the cabin probably. He lifted his weapon and propped it on his hip.

  The back door opened. Stark got out. He was dressed in black. It made his white skull face look even whiter, especially with the moon shining on it. The moon made his eyes glint as he surveyed the house and the grounds. I saw him stop as he spotted the dead watchman by the sedan in the carport. When he turned back to face me, he was grinning as if the sight of the dead man amused him. His teeth shone in the moonlight too.

  He bent down and reached into the car and dragged out Samantha.

  With her hands bound behind her, she stumbled as she came to her feet. Stark jerked her arm roughly to hold her upright. I could see him speaking to her but I couldn’t hear his voice.

  He yanked her body close to his. He wrapped his arm around her throat. He lifted a pistol and pressed it against the side of her head.

  He spoke again and the rifleman started walking over the grass toward the house, toward me. Holding Samantha around the throat, holding her in front of him all the while, Stark followed after.

  I moved, shifting from one window to another so I could watch them cross the lawn to the front door. I thought if they got close enough, I might get a shot at the rifleman before they came into the house. But as I was considering it, I saw Stark speak again—I heard the rasp of his voice this time, though I couldn’t make out the words

  Then, he lifted his head, and he shouted in his hoarse rasp—one word: “Champion!”

  At first I didn’t understand—but now the rifleman lowered his weapon from his hip and I realized: The shout had been a warning.

  I started running. My eyes had adjusted to the dark enough for me to see my way. I reached the sofa at the base of the stairs and hurled myself down behind it, even as the rifleman opened fire.

  The gun had the steady chiggering roar of a jackhammer. There wasn’t a break in the noise. The windows shattered and the walls splintered as the bullets came through. The whole house felt like it was trembling, like it was about to shiver to pieces and collapse.

  I lay on the floor behind the sofa. There was nowhere to go. The barrage felt like it went on for hours, but it must have been less than half a minute. Then a pause—the rifle was empty. I heard the rifleman pop the magazine. I knew it would take him only a second to reload.

  I’d been waiting for that second. I sprang off the floor and leapt to the stairway.

  I’d just barely started up when the blasting began again. Then the door came crashing open.

  I ran for the top of the stairs. I heard the metallic clunk beneath me that could only mean one thing: a grenade. Probably an M84, a flash-bang. Because Stark didn’t want to kill me. That’s why he had shouted a warning. He just wanted to pin me down so I couldn’t lie in ambush for him.

  Sure enough, as I reached the dark landing, as I hit the floor, covering my ears with the heels of my palms, the thing went off below. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the white flash. Even with my ears covered, the explosion rocked me.

  Then the gunfire started again as the rifleman entered the house. The darkness below flickered with muzzle flame. The air trembled with thunder. Glass and wood exploded everywhere. I could hear the bullets sweeping the room.

  Another pause—the quick snapping sounds of a reload.

  Stark’s rasping whisper: “Upstairs.”

  I got to my feet and ran. I dashed through the first open door I saw, pushing it shut behind me just as the next grenade hit the landing. I was leaning against the door when the flash-bang blew. The sound and light of the explosion was muffled but the air wave jolted me through the wood. Then the shooting started again as the rifleman climbed the stairs.

  I opened the door and curled quickly out of the room, back onto the landing, back toward the stairway. The air was flickering and shuddering again as the bullets rattled into the landing wall. The muzzle of the gun came into view, and then the gunman’s head and shoulders as he climbed, firing relentlessly, sweeping the bullets back and forth.

  Then another pause. The snap of the rifleman reloading.

  I stepped to the top of the stairs and blew his head off.

  It was one shot. The top of the rifleman’s brow flew away in pieces. His head snapped back as his brains spat out behind him. Some portion of a second later, the message reached his body that there was no longer anyone home, and the meat that was left toppled backward down the stairs.

  Stark laughed. Of course he laughed. The rifleman had been a sacrifice. To get him close. And now he was close. Nothing between us but Samantha.

  The sound of his laughter—that god-awful sound; it really was awful—drifted up to me where I was standing, my Glock still pointed down the stairs into the shadows of the living room below. I saw Samantha come out of
those shadows first, her mouth taped, her eyes still dull and far away.

  Then Stark came forward behind her. His arm still wrapped around Samantha’s throat, his death’s head appeared over her shoulder, grinning up at me. In his free hand, he held a gun, trained on my heart.

  It was a good thing I had killed his brother. It was a good thing he hated me so uncontrollably. If it hadn’t been for that hatred, he would have shot me dead on the spot and Samantha right afterward. It was only his obsession with revenge, his need to cause me the greatest pain possible: That was his weakness, and it was all that was keeping both me and her alive.

  “Drop the gun, Champion,” he rasped.

  He climbed toward me, pointing his weapon at me, forcing Samantha ahead of him up the stairs. He kept his head moving, drawing it back behind her. I had no shot, no way to take him out without risking her life.

  I drew back, down the corridor, hoping for a better angle. Samantha rose into view, but now Stark had her twisted around, a shield to protect his flank from me. He shifted his grip on her and hoisted her off her feet. I could see how strong he was by the ease of the movement. He took the last few stairs more quickly, coming onto the landing, turning toward me, Samantha in front of him again, his arm around her throat again and the pistol once again leveled at my chest.

  “Drop the gun, I said.” He came down the dark hall.

  I backed away, my Glock on the two of them, but no shot, no way to take a shot.

  “Do it now, Champion, or I’ll put one in her.”

  He shifted his weapon. Took it off me. Stuck it into the side of Samantha’s head, making her flinch with pain and fear. He kept coming toward me. I kept backing away.

  “You think I won’t do it?” he said. His face appeared from behind her for a second and I saw him smile. “I’d like to keep her around, it’s true. I’d like to draw this out, you know I would. But I’ll kill her, I surely will. Drop the gun.”

  He stepped toward me. I stepped back, forcing my heart to go cold as the calculations ratcheted through my mind at high speed.

  “She’s no use to you dead,” I said. My voice still sounded alien to my own ears. “Put a bullet in her and it’s just you and me trading fire. At best, she’s a dead shield. At best, you kill me—kill me quick. That’s no good for you, is it? You made a promise to your brother’s soul, Stark. Remember? To put me through hell. You promised him you’d put me through hell for a long time . . .”