Victor Edward Rostand had come home late this afternoon after a ten-day business trip. That’s what he told his neighbors, Jim and Billie Rutherford, when they saw him changing a dead light bulb outside his three-car garage and walked over to say hello. Vic explained that he was only stopping in for a few hours to pay some bills and check on things. He had to leave again later that night.
Vic had moved into the brick-faced Colonial on Connor’s Point a couple of years earlier. His marketing consulting took him out of town a lot. Business must have been good, Jim and Billie figured, because the man sure liked his toys. He kept three vehicles in the garage: a blue Honda CR-V, a black Ford E-Series SUV van, and his latest: a sweet new Honda motorcycle. He had a boat tied up in his slip at the end of the street—a nice 28-foot Bayliner 285 Cruiser. There was a rumor that he also kept a small plane over at the Kent Island airport, too, but Vic laughed it off when they asked him about it.
If Vic had money, he certainly didn’t put on airs about it. He dressed casually, shaved sporadically, bought Girl Scout cookies outside the local supermarkets, ate at unpretentious neighborhood restaurants, and put in brief appearances at cookouts on the Point during the summer, where he cooked up some mean chili. Most of the time, he even cut his own grass with an old-fashioned push-type lawn mower. About the only quirky thing about him was that he wore tinted glasses day and night, because he said his eyes—which Billie guessed might be “a rich, coffee brown”—were overly sensitive to light.
Just a regular nice guy.
Like a few of the other neighbors, Jim and Billie had tried to socialize with him a bit more. He accepted a dinner invitation once, and they had a nice time. Vic brought a couple of bottles, a Syrah and a Chenin Blanc, and mentioned some of his foreign travels to places they’d never been, like Dubai and Cairo. Jim asked him about marketing, and Vic talked a bit about “positioning” and “branding,” but stopped after a short time because, he said, he didn’t want to bore them. Billie asked if he managed to do any dating. Vic smiled and replied that he was in a long-distance relationship with a business woman in Chicago, but their schedules weren’t very compatible, so he doubted it would last much longer. He complained that his work schedule just didn’t allow much time for relationships, either social or romantic.
At nine-thirty this evening, Billie sent Jim out to the Safeway to pick up some eggs and half-and-half for breakfast. Backing out of the driveway, he saw that Vic’s garage lights were on and he was putting some boxes in the open back doors of his Ford van. Jim shook his head. He’d never seen a guy stay so busy. He tapped his horn as he drove off.
*
He set the box down in the bed of the van, then heard a horn beep. He looked back to see Jim Rutherford’s car pulling away. He waved casually at the departing vehicle, closed the rear doors of the Ford, then went to the wall switch and lowered the garage door. For the next few minutes, he would need privacy.
He left the garage by its back door. He paused a moment in the darkness to savor the moonlight shimmering on the water of Connor’s Creek behind the house. A few Canada geese were honking out there in the marsh somewhere. Or was it the trumpeter swans? He wasn’t sure; he just didn’t spend enough time out here, much as he loved the place.
He moved behind a large pine near the house and over to the wooden shed. He opened the padlock and entered, closing the door behind him. By feel, he found and pulled a drawstring; a bare bulb lit the interior. He slid the door bolt, locking it from the inside.
The shed contained nothing but heaps of crumbling storage boxes. They were crammed with old file folders containing billing statements to a variety of companies. None of the paperwork meant anything; he’d retrieved it all from a Dumpster two years ago. He moved aside a stack of the boxes, one by one, clearing a space on the floor. You had to look very closely to see the thin slit across the dusty floorboards. He stuck a screwdriver into the crack, levered it up, grabbed the edge of the hinged trap door, and hoisted it the rest of the way open.
He made his way carefully down a crude set of wooden stairs into a small underground room with concrete walls and floors. He pulled another drawstring down there, and a second, brighter bulb illuminated his armory.
He drew two sheathed combat knives, one large, one small, from a leather-lined wooden case and placed them on a wide bench. He opened a cabinet and selected several makes of handguns and corresponding suppressors and ammo. He assembled an array of electronic equipment, burglary tools, and other useful items. These items he wrapped carefully in lint-free cloths and placed in a couple of olive-green duffle bags. Shouldering them, he turned out the light, climbed from the room, and replaced the trap door and the boxes over it. He left the shed as he had come and re-entered the garage.
He glanced at his watch. The timetable still allowed him plenty of time to get to D.C. and make the weapons transfer to the operations vehicle, so that the rest of the plan could proceed on schedule.
Ten minutes later, he backed the black Ford van out of the garage.
*
Safeway didn’t have the small size of half-and-half, so Jim had to go another mile to the Acme. By the time he returned home, he noticed that all the lights were off at Vic’s place.
That guy. Never gives it a rest. Always up to something.
NINE
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Saturday, September 6, 11:27 p.m.
The bearded man parked his nondescript old Chevy Metro hatchback on a side street just a couple of blocks from the Braddock Road Metro Station. Then he settled in for what would likely be several hours of surveillance outside the target’s place.
The Chevy was cramped and uncomfortable, even with the seat pushed back. But so was the motel room he’d stayed in down on Route 1 the night before. The stained, peeling wallpaper, once beige, looked as if it had acquired a case of jaundice over the decades. The cheap nightstands and bathroom sink were criss-crossed with brown scars from unattended cigarettes, and he had to work under the light of the room’s single functional lamp. One glance in the bathroom convinced him to pass on taking a shower, just as a look at the carpet convinced him to keep his sneakers on.
He’d had no choice, really. He needed a base nearby to run this op, but it had to be the sort of place where he could pay cash and not have to show a credit card or his New York driver’s license. It was out of the question to let the clerk see the name Shane Michael Stone—however unlikely it was that anyone would track him to a place like that. So he peeled off fifty-five bucks for two nights and signed in, using an alias that appealed to his sense of irony.
It had been very late when he arrived at the motel. But rather than get some sleep, he spent the remaining hours before dawn conducting a recon of this neighborhood. When he returned to his room, he covered the stained bed cover with newspapers before lying down fully dressed. He woke in the late afternoon, grabbed a bite at a Wendy’s up the highway, then returned to the motel to check his gear and mentally walk through the plan, which included contingency options at every stage.
After that, he dressed for the job with clothes from one of the two duffle bags delivered by the van from Maryland. Then he looked himself over in the cracked, full-length mirror barely attached to the bathroom door.
Scruffy-looking guy. Ragged red hair and beard, oversized blue pullover sweater, baggy jeans, Orioles baseball cap. Where he was headed, he’d fit right in.
As always, he was ultra-careful about leaving any prints behind. Before he left the room for the last time, he wiped down the place. Which was more than he could say for the cleaning staff, such as it was. He also carefully folded the newspapers covering the bed and took them with him…
He’d picked this place to park because it faced the street spur that extended straight back into the courtyard of the project, where it dead-ended a short distance away at a parking lot. That was the only route in, and from here he had a clear view of everyone who entered or left. It was a pretty safe spot, too. Though the cops
patrolled regularly, his car was off the main street they mainly used, and it was shadowed from the nearest street light by a tree. In addition, the one upgrade he’d given the Chevy was extra-dark tinted windows. Even the cops were unlikely to spot him sitting inside.
Last night, the target had returned home to the projects with another guy about three a.m. They’d entered the courtyard in a battered silver Honda Civic, pulled into the lot and parked. He watched them through the latest thing in monocular night-vision scopes: the Xenonics SuperVision Digital Viewing System. When the pair emerged from the car about fifty yards away and stood chatting, he was able to zoom in and identify his target in a black-and-white, high-definition image. After a few minutes, they did a fist-bumping thing and parted company. He watched the guy unlock and enter a door in a brick row house on the right, not far from the street entrance to the complex.
Tonight, a bit earlier, he’d walked past the complex entrance and didn’t see the target’s car parked in the lot. This being a Saturday night, he figured he was in for another long wait. But now, just before midnight, he watched the Civic turn into the cul-de-sac and head back into an empty parking space. He picked up the SuperVision scope from his passenger seat and confirmed that the driver was his man. This time the target was alone; he crossed in the direction of the door to his apartment unit and disappeared inside.
He checked his watch. Decided to give it two hours.
Settled back in his seat and waited.
*
At two a.m. he reached into a blue gym bag on the passenger side floor. Pulled out a black Sig Sauer P229 with a threaded barrel. From a side pocket of the bag he drew an Impuls IIA sound suppressor. Screwed it onto the end of the barrel.
He checked the magazine once again. It held thirteen 147-grain Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints—a subsonic round that would further reduce the noise of a gunshot. Then he replaced the gun in the gym bag. He put on his baseball cap. Tugged the brim down over his eyes. Pulled on a pair of black latex gloves.
He exited the car, carrying the gym bag and leaving the driver’s side door unlocked. He crossed the deserted main street in front of him, making sure no cop cars were in sight. He knew from his previous recon there were no security cameras to worry about, but he kept his head down to shade his face from the street lights.
He looked around the courtyard as he stepped quietly into the silent cul-de-sac. The shabby buildings were featureless three-story brick. Only a couple of lighted windows gave evidence that anyone lived here.
The buildings on his left were divided into tiny yards by three-foot metal fences—public housing’s illusion of private property. A maze of clotheslines strung across these barren plots, competing for space with plastic chairs, plastic toys, and plastic 55-gallon garbage cans, which stood at parade rest along the curb.
The buildings on his right were different. They were very narrow brick row houses. Their small front yards were set off from the street by a brick wall. It was four feet high, with narrow openings for sidewalks that led back to each building entrance. He scanned the walls of the buildings; no windows were lit.
When he reached the third opening in the wall, he entered the yard and walked without hesitation to the door. He reached into the gym bag and withdrew what looked like a hand-held electric drill. Illuminated from behind by a street light, he perused the locks. One was on the doorknob; the other, in the door itself, would be a dead bolt. Standard stuff, no big deal. He selected one of the metal picks he’d taped to the top of the device and pushed it into the barrel. Then he inserted the pick into the doorknob lock and pulled the trigger, keeping his other hand wrapped around the knob to minimize rattling. There was a low whirring noise as the electronic pick vibrated at high speed, moving the tumblers in the lock. In a few seconds, the knob turned freely in his hand.
He waited. No response from inside the house. No barking dog, no creaking stairs, no lights. His previous recon gave no indication of a dog or someone living with the target, but you never know.
He selected another pick and repeated the process on the deadbolt. This time when he turned the knob and pushed, the door cracked open.
He paused to listen for another full minute. Nothing.
He returned the electronic lock pick to the bag, but when his right hand emerged this time, it held the Sig. He reached in with his left and pulled out the night-vision scope. Flipped it on.
Leaving the gym bag outside, he slowly swung open the door, applying upward pressure on the knob to minimize squeaking from the hinges.
*
He was a rock star and everyone was cheering and he screamed into the mike and leaped around the stage naked between the bass and lead guitars and the lights were flashing on his face and now he was playing the lead guitar greasy fast licks up and down the frets and everyone was chanting his name now he was the drummer and hot chicks ripping off their clothes around him and the lights flashing in his eyes the girls dancing naked in the lights and calling his name they were saying hello William grabbing his arm William hello William wake up lights flashing in his eyes William...
“Hello, William.”
Light flashing into his closed eyes. Somebody had his arm in an iron grip. Then jerked him over roughly, onto his back.
“Huh?” He blinked, dazzled by the light in his eyes.
“Back to the land of the living. At least, for about another minute.”
He felt a jolt of panic.
“Who the hell are you?” he yelled, trying to see the face behind the blinding flashlight.
Without warning, a hand shot forward, grabbed his hair and yanked hard, pulling him up to a sitting position.
His hair was released but a split second later a tremendous blow crashed across his face, snapping his head to the side. He found himself on his back again, everything spinning, his left cheek and jaw numb.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m a messenger, William,” the voice said softly. “Just a fellow here to deliver a message from some people you know.”
The blinding light moved away from his eyes, darted around the walls of the dark room. He heard movement.
“Hell you talkin’ ’bout, man?” he mumbled, fiery pain now burning his cheek and mouth.
The overhead light to his room flared to life.
He squinted. Next to the light switch at the door, a bearded guy in a baseball cap. Black gloves. Sticking a thin flashlight into his belt.
“I’m a messenger from your victims, William.”
He sat up, rubbing his jaw. “Whaddya mean? Don’t know ’bout any—”
“Susanne Copeland.” The voice was low, quiet, coldly matter-of-fact.
He felt something drop inside his stomach.
The man moved toward him. “How could you forget Susanne, William?”
He shuddered, suddenly unable to speak.
“And then there’s Arthur Copeland.” The man stopped at the foot of the bed. Looked down at him.
Something in his hand, down along his leg.
William Bracey shuddered.
“I’m also here to deliver a message from Yoshiro Takahashi. Oh, I see you remember him, too. Yet you told the court you weren’t even there. Tell me something, William: What do you suppose Mr. Takahashi was feeling when you pointed your .357 magnum at him?”
“I didn’t!”
“You’re lying, William.”
The man leaned over him and raised his hand.
A gun with a long, fat barrel.
“No! I didn’t—”
“You did.” The man glanced down. Shook his head. “And you just peed your pants, William.”
“Please!” he whispered, staring into the black hole of the sound suppressor. “Honest to God no I didn’t I didn’t—”
“And now the one-word message from your victims, William: Goodbye.”
Bright light flashed in his eyes again.
Just once.
*
He stood with the gun in his hand, barrel pointing tow
ard the floor.
Stared at the skinny young punk on the rumpled bed. A pool of crimson expanded in a circle around his shattered skull.
He watched the glassy expression fix in William Bracey’s eyes.
He felt drained. He didn’t enjoy taking a human life. Never had. Even though it was his business.
But sometimes, there is no other way.
He listened once more. Silence. Turned out the light, pulled aside the window shade, looked outside. No lights. No movement. He cleared his weapon, shoved the magazine into his back pocket. Unscrewed the suppressor, stuck it into his front pocket. Jammed the Sig into his belt behind his back. Pulled his sweater down over it.
And sometimes, a death can even do some good.
He approached the body and went through with the rest of the plan.
PART II
“He who refuses what is just, gives up everything to him who is armed.”
—Lucanus (Marcus Annaeus Lucan)
Pharsalia (I, 348)
TEN
CLAIBOURNE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
CLAIBOURNE, VIRGINIA
Monday, September 8, 9:40 a.m.
“So, tell me again why I’m doing this.”
Susie Copeland spoke so softly that it seemed she was talking to herself. Annie took her eyes off the road long enough to flash a supportive smile.
From the moment Susie had gotten into the car, Annie was concerned about how fragile she looked. She sat stiffly upright in the passenger seat, hands clutched in her lap. No makeup masked the pallor of her skin. Her wine-red hair, every strand, was pulled back and clipped tight behind her head, emphasizing the new sharpness of her cheekbones. She had chosen to wear a conservative navy pantsuit—loose now, given the weight she’d so quickly lost—and Annie also noticed that she kept its jacket buttoned closed, even in here.
HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller) Page 6
