Lowland Rider

by Chet Williamson

  Or would he?

  Then the plan all fell into place for Bob Montcalm, full-blown and beautiful. He would not have to kill Gordon after all.

  Duke Sinclair would do it for him.

  ~*~

  "The sweetest part is that this guy is wanted for questioning in a murder—killed a kid or something —so whoever nails him might just nail a citation as well."

  Montcalm grinned over his beer, but Duke Sinclair didn't grin back. "But I gotta kill him," Sinclair said softly.

  "Only way," Montcalm answered. "You do him, right away put the stuff in his locker into the one next to it, lock it up, and then go get assistance. For all anybody knows, you surprised this guy, he thought you recognized him, pulled out a piece, and you had no choice, you hadda shoot him."

  Sinclair took a sip of beer and a drag on his cigarette before he spoke again.

  "The money be worth it?"

  ”It should be. Three, four thousand apiece."

  "That ain't much." Sinclair's mouth twisted. "Not for a hit."

  "This isn't any goddam hit."

  "Hell it ain't. What is this shit, Bob? We into killing people now? It come to that? I've never killed anybody for you, man."

  Montcalm's smile was long gone. His mouth was nothing but a thin, straight line that opened only a fraction of an inch when he spoke. "It has to be a stakeout, Duke. The guy would recognize me if he saw me. He won't recognize you. It has to be done. You can do it, I can't."

  "This guy knows you? What the fuck is this, some personal stuff you got going?"

  "Look, the guy has no connections, none at all. In fact, Rodriguez would be very happy to see him disappear, and I think he'd be deeply grateful, if you get my meaning."

  "This guy's not working for anybody else?" Sinclair said, terrified of killing someone he shouldn't, terrified of killing someone, period.

  "He's a maverick, a nut case. He's a fucking skell, Duke, who put his nose where it shouldn't be, and that's all he is. I don't know why the hell you're so dainty about this. Odds are you can just do the thing, take the money, and walk away. If a cop's around, you got the perfect excuse for killing the guy. He'll have a gun in his hand, for crissake."

  "And you got a clean gun."

  "That's right. I do."

  Sinclair shook his head. "I don't like this."

  "Duke, I don't give a fat fuck whether you like this or not!" Montcalm spoke softly, but so forcefully that his spittle cast droplets onto Sinclair's beer glass. Sinclair was afraid to make a move to wipe it off. "Now you listen to me. You've been on the tit for a helluva long time with me, doing little crappy things that have made you a helluva lot of money. Now, when I ask you to do one goddam job that's a little more complicated than rousting winos on trains, all of a sudden you're Mister Clean, you're a fucking prom queen, and that doesn't sit too well with me, pal. Three thousand dollars you get, and—"

  "Three? I thought you said four."

  "Three, asshole. You just pussied yourself out of an extra grand."

  Sinclair swallowed hard. "Yeah? Well, maybe I'll pussy myself out of this whole damn deal."

  Montcalm looked at him so hard that Sinclair thought he was going to come across the table at him right there, in front of the whole damn cocktail lounge. "Yeah, well, you might just pussy yourself into the cemetery, and I'll tell you one thing that's for damn sure—you don't do this for me, at the least, at the very, luckiest least, you're off the tit. No more good times, Duke. You pull your weight or you don't play, that simple."

  "But you're asking me to kill a guy."

  "That's right. And it's just like anything else. Just easy money and no risk."

  "No risk?"

  "All right, a little risk, there's a little fucking risk in anything." Montcalm sighed, sat back, and looked at the two empty glasses, the dried, white foam webs inside. "You want another beer?"

  Sinclair shook his head. "I don't like being threatened, Bob. I really don't like that."

  "Okay. Okay." Montcalm suddenly seemed very tired, as if all the anger had gone out of him. "Sure, hell, nobody likes that. Fuck. Fuck it. If you're scared, you're scared, I can't blame you . . ."

  "I didn't say I was scared, I just don't like it, that's all."

  "Look, don't tell me you're not scared."

  "I'm not scared."

  "Then do it. No reason not to do it, good reasons to do it. I meant what I said about being off the tit, Duke. I did mean that. And I need this done now. Right away. Otherwise I might lose this guy forever. Now. Can I count on you?"

  "Why do we gotta hit him at this locker? I mean, why not wait till he comes back to it, then follow him, hit him somewhere safer, and take the key?"

  "There isn't anywhere safer. He's a skell, Duke. He's on trains, in stations, hell, there's always the chance of people around. But this place with the lockers has got a long hall running off in both directions, you can hear anyone coming, and you can leave either way. It's not perfect, but you're not gonna find a better place. Besides, even if the fucking mayor walks in on you, you got your story all set up."

  Sinclair pondered. There was no reason for Montcalm to be setting him up in something that wasn't safe. If he got caught doing something shitful, then Montcalm got caught too. And if this thing came through all right, he was a couple grand richer and further in with Rodriguez. Besides, he'd heard rumors of a white dude who'd been messing up deals with both Rodriguez's people and with the people he had, unknown to Montcalm, been watching out for. Maybe, if this was the same guy, he could ingratiate himself with two factions by killing this one bird. And if the guy was wanted for murder…

  "All right," Sinclair said. "I'll do it. Tell me where."

  CHAPTER 24

  She could not return to him empty-handed. But she had to return. Enoch had worked on Gladys H. Mitchell like alcohol had worked on her years before. He was in her blood, was her blood, that part of her without which life was colorless, devoid of feeling, warmth, sensation itself. She remembered the first line of an old hymn that she had sung with her mother when she was a little girl—Jesus is all the world to me—only it wasn't Jesus anymore, was it? It was Enoch now, not that coward Jesus.

  What had Jesus ever done for her in all the years she had prayed to him, prayed even while the strangers were lying between her legs, filling her up with their seed, trying to make a breeder out of her? Where was Jesus those times she was ripped open, when she called out his name, called for him to come and help her? She never even saw his face. He never even tried to come and help her, to pull those bastards off, nail them to some wooden crosses for a change, drive those big spikes up their ass, make them feel what they did to her. God of justice? Jesus fair? Bullshit.

  But Enoch would have done that. He would have spiked them out, hung them up by their balls the way they did that young boy, that damned little dago breeder who was stupid enough to try and lie to Him. Imagine lying to Enoch! Imagine trying to get away with that with a man who looks into your head and heart as easily as reading a station sign.

  Baggie sat on her bench and chuckled at the foolishness of it, then sighed deeply and wiped a ball of mucus from her upper lip. If she could have gotten to that dago boy quickly enough, before he was dead, she might have taken something from him, a sacrifice to give to Enoch. But the others who had worshipped before were too fast for her. They knew what was happening, she did not, and she could only stand there stunned into immobility by the glorious power of her savior, those eyes that blazed at that stupid liar.

  Oh, she would have loved to have gotten one of that liar's eyes, those bright and shining and still living eyes that the faster ones had plucked from the sockets and held out to Enoch. The way He had smiled at them! The way He had laughed when they tore that fool apart, her own rollicking God, His hands crossed upon his chest once again, oh God, how she loved Him, how she wanted to bring Him something, not just an eye or a tongue or an ear or a hand, but a whole body, a full carcass to show that she would slay for Him
willingly and lovingly…

  But the time was never right. No matter how she hunted and waited and stalked, the time had never been right, and she felt like those in the purgatory in which she no longer believed, in torment from no induced pain, but at their absence from their God. She felt as though she could stand it no longer, felt like rushing into a crowd, slashing as she went, killing for Enoch, and at last, when they were about to take her, turning the knife on herself, making herself the last sacrifice to her white and red Lord, giving all for Him.

  But she could not. She was still afraid to die.

  She would go above then. She would go above and look for a victim, and kill it, and bring it back down to Enoch. This time she would not fail Him.

  When Baggie pushed herself to her feet, her muscles felt unaccustomedly strong and vital, and it occurred to her that perhaps this sense of refreshment was a sign, an indication that today—this night—she would find her prey, reap her harvest. She walked up the stairs of the 86th Street station, and found herself on Central Park West. Across the street, one of the streetlights was out, another sign, and she chose that spot to sit and wait. It didn't take long for the cattle to begin to pass by. It was early in the morning, Baggie thought perhaps three o'clock, but people still walked the street, breeders, all of them, on their way to fuck and breed and spread their seed and make more of themselves, over and over and forever. Most, at this hour, walked together, as if they knew what they were and were afraid to be alone, afraid of Enoch's justice. And there were men together with their arms around each other, or their hands on each other's asses, and that was bad too, but at least they didn't breed, at least there was that comfort, and Baggie watched them approach, and glance at her, and chuckle, and move away again.

  Two boys in leather jackets came near to her bench and one said, "Hey, grammaw, what you got in your pockets?"

  She reached in and took out the knife, its blade open and long and gleaming, and held it up so they could see it. "Go away," she told them. "You little fuckers."

  The boy who had spoken laughed. "Right on, grammaw. You're not worth the hassle." As the two walked away, she heard the other one say, "Old ladies with blades, shit, what's this town coming to?"

  Coming to Enoch, you little fucker, that's what it's coming to. It's all coming to Enoch.

  The man came walking alone down the street, a half hour before dawn. He was short and seemed frail, and carried a bundle in his right arm. He never looked up, never saw her as he got closer, never even raised his head as she stepped behind him and drove the knife into his back. He made a gargling cry and fell to his knees, still clinging to his bundle. She wrenched out the knife, feeling the tick tick as it ratcheted along the man's ribs like a stick on a picket fence, and drove it in again, this time into the flesh at the back of his neck. Another gargle of blood and spit escaped him, yet he remained on his knees, continued to clutch his parcel. She yanked the knife sideways, ripping through the muscles of the neck, then came back again into the side of his body beneath his right arm. The blow drove him over onto his left side, and what he was holding at last left his arms, flopping onto the pavement with a soft crack and a muffled cry that lasted only a moment.

  Baggie was aware of the peculiar sound the package had made, but she could not investigate it immediately. She was solely possessed by the violence of her attack, by the fact that yes, she was doing this now, that she was no longer afraid, and the swing of her arm up and down and in and out were like great gestures of praise to Enoch, the blood spraying up and over her head like palm branches, and blessed is she who killeth in the name of the Lord . . .

  And she laughed and swung the knife until what she sank it into felt like a sack of pus, with no resistance except when the blade slipped on bone and felt like fingernails on an old chalkboard. Only at the end, only when she was totally exhausted, did she remember the parcel and the quick whimper that had come from it.

  Glancing up and down the street, she roughly pushed aside the wrappings and saw a baby, its eyes closed, a bruise discoloring its forehead, but breathing, still breathing. Her breath caught, and she pushed the wrappings back further, exposing a paper diaper, which she frenziedly tore apart.

  A boy. It was a breeder.

  One of those goddamed, fucking breeders.

  And this would be her sacrifice. The whole carcass, as she had wished for, dreamed of. Her gift to Enoch. She needed no eye now, no balls, no cock from the man who had died so easily for Enoch's glory. She had all those and more.

  Now, if she could only find a bag . . .

  CHAPTER 25

  While Gladys H. Mitchell, carrying her sacrifice, was looking for a shopping bag, Duke Sinclair was standing in the hall outside the alcove that housed locker number 4602. Tucked behind his back was his .38 police special, and in the pocket of his lightweight jacket was a .32 caliber Saturday night special Montcalm had given him to put in the dead man's hand. His orders were simple: When a tall man about thirty-five years old went into the alcove, Sinclair was supposed to follow. If the man opened locker number 4602, Sinclair was supposed to say something to him and, when the man turned around, shoot him, then put the .32 in his hand and move the money from locker 4602 to locker 4614 next to it, and lock it. If anyone came in after the shooting, Sinclair was to declare himself a police officer and go for assistance. Otherwise, he could simply walk away. Montcalm could come back later to get the money.

  Sinclair waited, one hand in his pocket clutching the key to locker number 4614 so tightly it hurt. His bowels were full, and he wished he could go to the lavatory, but he was afraid that he would miss the man he was looking for. He had never killed anyone in the line of duty, though he had killed, he supposed, in Vietnam, even if he had never seen what the shells from his mortars actually did to those human targets. Still, that was different, that was war. This was shooting a guy face-to-face, a guy who would probably be unarmed, who Duke Sinclair didn't even know and didn't give a shit about, and goddam, he wondered, why the hell am I even doing this?

  Because of Montcalm, he decided quickly. To show Montcalm he wasn't afraid, to stay on Montcalm's tit, to maybe make an impression on Rodriguez and the others. Hell, if they knew he could pull off something like this, maybe they'd be willing to expand his opportunities. There was little enough on the transit police, that was for damn sure. Thankless fucking job. He didn't understand how ninety-nine-plus percent of his colleagues went from day-to-day without messing in the kind of stuff he was messing with. Jesus, they even had families to support, and Sinclair couldn't figure out how they did it. No, he sure as shit wasn't going to be a transit cop all his life. Get into the drug business, that was the ticket. Buy in bulk, sell to the dealers, that was where the money was. Middleman. Never touch another gun, never hustle butt down in a tunnel again.

  Montcalm would never be able to do that. Montcalm was nothing but a fucking toady. And although Sinclair was Montcalm's toady, Sinclair knew he had something Montcalm didn't—he had ambition. No, Montcalm was too old for that. He'd die in the tunnels if he didn't get his ass caught first and go to prison. Sinclair smiled in spite of the pressure in his gut. Montcalm wouldn't last two days in jail. There were too many people he'd sent there. No, Montcalm would probably take the crooked cop's hara-kiri if things came to that. A bullet in the head. Sayonara.

  Sinclair tensed as he heard footsteps coming down the hall, but it was only a businessman in his fifties who poked his head in the alcove, then asked Sinclair if he knew where the rest rooms were. Sinclair told him, wished he could go there, and allowed himself to relax a bit as the man walked away. Christ, he couldn't let himself get this tense. If the guy did come down the hall and saw Sinclair poised there like a coiled spring, he'd know right off something was fishy. Relax, that was the key. Look like some dude waiting for a deal or something. Look cool but not threatening. Just look cool.

  Duke Sinclair waited for another five hours before he decided that he either had to go to the lavatory or do it in
his pants. He chose the former, and scurried down the early morning halls into the men's room and the nearest booth, unbuckling his belt as he went, so as to waste no time. If the sonovabitch came and went while he was taking a crap, he'd never even know it. Shit, he might have to hang around for days before he got another crack at the guy.

  He defecated as quickly and forcefully as possible, cleaned himself up, and started out, but paused when he realized he hadn't washed his hands. Wash my fucking hands, he thought with wry humor. Mama, I learned my lessons well. He chuckled and went back out into the hall.

  A few feet from the alcove, he heard the rattle of keys and froze. A quick glance up and down the hall told him there was no one else around, and he moved quietly to the door of the alcove. He looked around the corner and saw a man standing at the row of lockers, fitting a key into number 4602.

  Jesus, he thought, taking out his pistol. This is it, so damn fast. Shoot him in the head, shoot him in the goddam head. Kill him quick so he'll never talk.

  The key turned, the locker opened. Inside he saw a leather bag, which the man grasped and started to remove. It was halfway out when Sinclair said, "Hey," softly but sharply.

  The man turned, and there was fear in his face. Sinclair shot him, the explosion surprisingly loud. They were so close that he saw the bullet go in, right above the man's left eye. The head snapped back, and the man collapsed, Sinclair thought, just like a gray, burst balloon. It was almost funny, the way all the air went out of him at once. Whoosh—and gone.

  Sinclair stood for a second, looking at what he'd done. He had no doubt that the man was dead. A foot was twitching, but nothing else moved, and blood trickled freely from the hole in the forehead. The eyes were wide open.