Hard Return

by J. Carson Black

  It would all fall into place now. He sat down on the chair across from them. They sat on the couch. Cindi had her arm around Kristal’s shoulders—protective.

  He said, “I couldn’t let you know I was alive. It was for you, because I had to keep you safe. There were people after me, and I had to protect you. You have to understand that.” He went on from there. Warmed to it. How he’d missed them, how he’d always thought about them, first thing, every day. He could hear himself saying the words, and they were true, but they sounded laughable, an “It’s for your own good” kind of speech. He had to protect them, and the only way he could do that was keep up the pretense he was dead. It was what he believed in his soul, but as it rolled out of his mouth it came out canned. It sounded like dishonesty. He realized that and trailed off.

  He took a breath, looked around the cottage—Todd’s cottage. Cozy. The honey-colored pine paneling was rich and warm. Dust motes floated through the sunshine coming in through the windows. His gaze snagged a framed forest picture with a wooden frame—a photograph. There were several photographs on the wall, all with the same kind of wooden frame, all the same size. Some were of Big Bear Lake, and some were black-and-white photos of stars of old TV shows from the fifties and sixties. Mr. Ed, Leave It to Beaver, Lucy.

  He looked at the kitchen. It was cute, but not to Cindi’s taste. The oval braided rug on the floor wasn’t to her taste either.

  Maybe because it was Todd’s cabin.

  All the while he was looking around he kept talking. His lips moving, although he was so numb it was hard to know what he was saying. The usual, he thought—how he’d missed them. How he never planned for that to happen, but there was no choice. How he could understand why she would want to end their marriage, but he loved them and wanted to be part of his daughter’s life.

  Because, he realized, that was the truth. They had moved on, but he had moved on, too.

  One moment, he desperately wanted them to be a family again. The next, he knew it would never work. Gary was right.

  “I just want closure,” he heard himself say.

  Cindi snorted. “Closure? Jesus!” And looked away. She was the farthest away from him as she’d ever been, dwindling into a mirage before his eyes. But then he looked at Kristal.

  Cindi’s arm was around her. Kristal in her shorts and a top that left little to the imagination, a big girl now. A girl who made out with her boyfriend in the parking lot, who probably had birth-control pills in her dresser drawer.

  He hoped she’d had birth-control pills in her dresser drawer.

  There was more than one kind of protection. “You two have your guns?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Kristal said.

  His wife glared at him, but nodded.

  “Good.”

  Cindi looked away.

  He had to say it. “I’m sorry about Luke, sweet pea.”

  Kristal stared at the floor. Mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “Was it because of you, Daddy?”

  “Me?”

  Cindi said, “She wants to know if the man who shot up the school was there because of you. You know, what you in the trade call ‘trying to draw you out.’”

  The sarcasm in her voice.

  He stared at them, his wife and daughter. The two of them perched on the couch, staring back at him, as if from a great distance. He said, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? What kind of answer is that? Was that man—what do they call it in the trade—that operator—was that man trying to draw you out?”

  “It’s been three years, Cin. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Why else would someone shoot up the school?” She glared at him. “Someone out there must have thought you were alive and—” She stopped, seemed to gather herself. “If you’re the cause of this, if you’re the cause of Luke’s death . . .”

  “He wouldn’t!” Kristal said. “He wouldn’t let that happen!” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”

  He tried to make his face open, caring, but it felt like a stiff rubber mask.

  “Daddy?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t. What could he say? That he was a couple of seconds too late?

  “Daddy?”

  Finally, he found his inner liar. “No, sweet pea. It had nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh, yeah. It was just a big coincidence!” Cindi stood. “I want you out of here. You owe us at least that much. Let us get on with our lives, okay? Just leave us alone!”

  Again, he opened his mouth to argue. But no words came. He was the smoothest liar in the world, but this time he was tongue-tied.

  Kristal stared at him. Her mouth opened like a fish seeking air. Finally her vocal cords gained purchase and she said, “Was it because of you? Daddy?”

  Her voice was pleading; her eyes were pleading. She had always adored him, had always been Daddy’s girl.

  He heard a buzzing, saw that it was another bee, this time inside, crawling up the window screen. He touched his cheek. Could feel the venom there, twitching inside.

  The room darkened as a cloud covered the sun. What could he tell her? Could he tell her the truth? He knew now that they would never be together as a family again. He knew that was impossible. Kristal had a new family now—her mother and Todd.

  He felt his face stiffen. He might not be part of the family anymore, but he couldn’t tell his daughter the truth. It would only hurt her. She still loved him, and he couldn’t give up that love. It was the only thing he had left. “No, honey,” he said. “The guy was there for another reason.

  “He wasn’t there for me.”

  As he climbed into his van, he saw that he’d left the flowers, candy, and card on the passenger seat. He took them out and set them on the little bench in front of the window.

  The curtain twitched, then went still.

  He’d given her one parting gift. A phone with his number programmed into it—if she ever needed him. She’d accepted it—like someone reluctantly handling a snake—but she had accepted it.

  He looked up at the pine. The raven was gone. He looked down at the porch floorboards. The bee was gone, too.

  Gone, like his wife and his daughter.

  He drove down the short dirt drive to Mill Creek Road.

  A car went by on the road. It had to slow for the curve in the road before picking up speed and disappearing beyond the pines. The engine was loud, rumbling and sweet—

  A new black Camaro.

  Landry turned left instead of right. He followed the road but never caught up to the Camaro. The car was nowhere in sight.

  He drove back the way he’d come, looking at the cabins on either side of the road. No black Camaro anywhere. He spent an hour and a half following every road and looking at every house, every parking lot, every business.

  Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  Too bad he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  CHAPTER 33

  Landry sat in yet another hotel room, coming to grips with two facts. One: his marriage was over. And two: someone out there had ordered the hit—and they were still out there. The first situation, he could do nothing about. Cindi had fallen in love with another man, and as distasteful as it was, he couldn’t change it.

  Still, he would not stop seeing his daughter.

  He needed to figure out a game plan. For all accounts and purposes, he was dead and he wanted to keep it that way. But he knew Cindi. She’d want a real marriage to Todd. She’d want a divorce, because in her mind it could never be a real marriage otherwise. Cindi was a stickler for things like that.

  And Landry planned to see his daughter on a regular basis—try and stop him. He and Cindi would have to work it out—somehow.

  But righ
t now, there were more pressing issues.

  On the good-news front, there had been no mention of a man named Cyril Landry on the news channels, on the Internet, or in the newspapers. The photo they’d flashed on television was long gone—just another grain of sand in the ever-moving flurry of television news.

  Whoever had hired the hit on him thought he was dead. That was good. But he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t find out the truth. He had no idea who had set the trap at Gordon C. Tuttle High School, but whoever it was hadn’t cared if Kristal died. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to shoot at her. If Landry hadn’t been there, Kristal would be dead. He couldn’t take it for granted that the person who put the paper out on him would be satisfied with his death alone.

  He might be out for revenge.

  And if Landry could find his wife and daughter, other people could as well.

  He doubted Todd would be much use in a firefight. Fortunately for his girls, they were well acquainted with weapons of all sorts, and both of them qualified as markswomen. If anyone was coming after them, he had no doubt that they would protect Todd.

  But he needed to be there. He’d brought them into this, and it was his job to protect them now.

  So the question was: Who put the paper out on him?

  Landry knew it would be hard, if not impossible, to find out. The Toolshed didn’t give up its secrets.

  Landry went over in his mind what had happened so far. He had put himself out there in Austria. He had used good credentials—excellent credentials—for his alias, Jeffery Peterman.

  Eric the Red, though, had no trouble recognizing him, so he could assume other operatives would be just as good on that score. Maybe that was the problem. Eric knew who Landry was just from what had been put up about him on the virtual bulletin board. Eric had seen right through Landry’s deception.

  Maybe someone else saw through it as well.

  He glanced at the TV: some politician from Arizona talking about national security. Landry recognized him from his time in Iraq: the man in Kuwait City who had been in the process of loading a handcart full of money. This in itself wasn’t all that unusual in Kuwait City. Landry had shuttled money into his own accounts that way.

  The man hadn’t been a senator back then, but he was a politician. He had been looking for a bodyguard.

  There had been something iffy about him—not quite right. Landry tried to put his finger on it. The guy had seemed jumpy. Jumpy? No, more than that: cowed. Almost as if he was afraid of him. Landry knew he affected some people that way—something about his demeanor. His height, yes, but something else. People could tell he was former military—might as well carry a sign.

  He switched off the TV, and tried to think: Could Eric be the man sent to kill him?

  Of course Eric had had several chances to kill Landry. At the Gasthof. Meeting him twice in LA. Anytime in Austria. Eric had been the one to tell him about the hit. Eric had helped him set it up, and it had gone off without a hitch. There was a dead kid—a killer—stashed in the canyon, hopefully never to be seen again.

  All thanks to Eric.

  But Landry also knew that what Eric had really done was gain Landry’s trust. Eric knew that Landry would be careful, knew he would watch his back. Knew he would be constantly on the move, distrustful of pretty much any situation. Landry was good. Eric knew he was good because Eric, himself, was good.

  Eric had proved himself trustworthy over and over. They had fought together side by side, and Landry always felt that they were the best of friends. He prided himself on knowing whom he could trust, and he could swear that he’d trust Eric with his life. Had trusted him up until now. But they were in the same game, and there was a lot of money to be made in assassination.

  Landry had avoided that trap, so far. After Florida, he’d decided there would be no more killing for hire. He had standards. And not only that—he was no spring chicken. At forty-eight, he should be retired, sitting on some beach somewhere with an umbrella drink, enjoying the water with his wife and daughter.

  But Eric was seven to nine years younger. And to look at him, Landry knew that Eric was hungry. Eric still had things to do.

  Someone wanted him dead. For all intents and purposes they had their wish. He was dead. But if it was Eric . . .

  Eric would know that Landry would relax. He wouldn’t be able to help it. You couldn’t keep up the paranoia all the time. You had to live your life. And when he was relaxed enough . . .

  Landry realized he was going to have to find out. It was either that, or kill Eric.

  As a friend, Landry needed to find out if Eric was part of this.

  The hotel phone rang early the next morning—still dark. Landry glanced at the clock. Six a.m. He stared at the phone for a moment before deciding it was okay to answer. He lifted the receiver and was greeted by a loud dial tone. He replaced the handset.

  Someone playing games. He reran the events of yesterday and landed on the Camaro driving around the cemetery and later at Big Bear Lake. He could see the car in his mind’s eye, black, with a thin film of dust all over it from the dirt lane of the cemetery. Tinted windows, so Landry hadn’t been able to see inside. The engine had been loud and sweet. Nothing sweeter than the sound of one of those muscle cars, unless you counted the sound of a P-38 or a B-24 flying overhead.

  But in this case, the message was clear: the black Camaro had been following him.

  He heard a bump at the bottom of the hotel door. Someone slipped what looked like a hotel key card under the door.

  Paper thin.

  Except, it buzzed.

  Landry got up off the bed, padded over, and looked down. It was a cell phone. He picked it up off the carpet and placed it against his ear.

  “Get your butt out of bed, asshole,” Eric Blackburn said. “You think you’re gonna sleep the day away?”

  They went to another crowded restaurant. It wasn’t difficult to find one—this was Sunday morning. Everyone and his brother was out for breakfast.

  Three minutes in, Eric said above the cacophony, “You think I’m setting you up?”

  Landry said, “Setting me up?”

  Eric the Red sat back in the booth, legs sprawled. He looked like your average dad on a weekend: shorts, athletic shoes—no socks—and a horizontally striped T-shirt, XX large.

  “Yeah, setting you up. If it was me I’d be wondering about you by now.”

  “Are you?”

  Eric looked down at his big hands lying on the table. His expensive watch gleamed through the heavy dark hair on his sun-reddened arm. “If I was, bro, you’d be dead by now.”

  “You could still be planning how to do it.”

  “Why would I give you the info on the kid who was coming after you? He could’ve taken you out—no more problems.”

  “He might have taken me out, but it’s doubtful.”

  “Your problem,” Eric said, “is you play too much chess.” He leaned forward. “Most of the time—in real life—people play checkers.”

  Landry nodded. “What made you think I had a problem?”

  “Bro, we always have a problem. It’s what we do, man. The nature of the beast.”

  Landry nodded again. Eric could be shining him on. But in reality, Blackburn had had plenty of chances to take him out, and plenty of ways to do it. Ricin, for instance. They’d been across the table from each other several times since they’d met in Austria, and it would have been easy. He could have taken him out at the Gasthof, or any other time in Austria. No problem there.

  “No hard feelings, compadre,” Eric said now. “I know you gotta be careful, so I thought I’d clear the air. Who do you think hired the hit on you?”

  Landry thought about it. Maybe someone associated with Whitbread, but Whitbread had been out of business since Florida. Maybe someone from his time in Iraq. There were a lot of people he ha
d gotten crosswise with in Iraq. Like when he was guarding the shrink-wrapped money, billions and billions of dollars, sitting on pallets out in the Green Zone.

  He was working for Whitbread then. Those were the days—military and private security contractors were kings. He remembered the swagger of the time. Escorting the new viceroy and “cabinet” members and generals around in black SUVs. The guys refining their tans by the palace pool. Sex and rock ’n’ roll, the feeling that they were in a conquered country and could do anything—as long as they were in the Green Zone and not, say, trying to make it to the airport. Black tees and camo pants, kicking back, cooler than cool, seeing the world through mirrored shades. It had been like Disneyland, if Disneyland stank of death, despair, victory, sex, and the underlying hatred of the conquered for the conqueror and vice versa. And the scams. Everyone scamming them. If there was one honest Iraqi within ten blocks of the Green Zone, Landry didn’t know about him, although the majority of people in Iraq were like people anywhere—trying to survive and find some happiness in it. But in the Green Zone? They came like fleas to a corpse. He was younger then—had partaken of all the fun as well as the danger: Party Time in Baghdad.

  Someone took the $6.6 billion in shrink-wrapped money. Landry was sure it wasn’t on his watch, but he couldn’t swear for the others in his company.

  Eric leaned forward. “Anybody home?”

  Landry had always been a believer in memory. That you remembered stuff you didn’t think you took in. This memory concerned someone wanting him dead, and there were plenty of people like that. Whom you wanted to think about was someone who had a lot to lose, or a lot to win. Either someone who hated him (there were plenty of those), or someone who was afraid of him.

  Someone who saw him here, stateside. Maybe not from Iraq. From a job. He’d done so many—it could be anyone.

  Nothing recent, he thought . . .

  Except for the guy with the bundles of money in Kuwait City. Except the same guy locking eyes with him at a checkpoint.

  Except for the guy taking the walking tour of Whitbread Associates.