by Tim Baker
‘There’s an adoption agency, in Vancouver. I know the woman who runs it. We went to school together.’
‘Vassar or Mount Holyoke?’
‘Very funny. Barnard as a matter of fact. Now look, Mr Alston, can’t you put those guns down? We’re civilized people, aren’t we?’
That’s a loaded question when you’re holding a loaded gun. I spin the chamber of the Chief’s Special and toss it back to Hastings, filling my pocket with the slugs. ‘I swear to God, if you try anything . . . ’
He stares at me for a long, hard moment. It makes me want to look away, but I know if I do I might not be seeing anything else for a very long time. ‘Relax . . . ’ There is the silver shimmer of a blade being folded away. Jesus Christ. Two things. He had the knife out, and I never saw it. He had the knife out, and he didn’t use it.
‘I should take the kid . . . ’
‘Why would we allow you to do that, Mr. Alston?’
‘Because you’ve got to run and you won’t get far with the kid at your side.’ I take her shoulders in my hands, staring into her green eyes. From the room next door comes the sound of the child stirring. She glances at the room then turns back to me. ‘We play this right, Mrs. Bannister, and the impossible happens. Everyone gets out alive.’
CHAPTER 48
Dallas 1963
Hastings watched from behind the dogwoods as LBJ climbed into the back of the limo with his mistress, the car’s headlights long and lonely as they tugged the couple off into the murderous night.
Nixon waved good-bye to the couple, the smile on his face vanishing as he turned back to the ranch house. Hastings watched through the great windows as the oilmen, dons and bankers left for their respective rooms. Old Man Bannister and Howard Hughes exchanged words, both nodding as they left via different doors, the Old Man turning in his chair, berating Morris as he was wheeled out of sight.
Hastings waited in the silence as the rising crescent moon began to scythe a path through a thin bank of clouds shrouding the eastern horizon. The night sky was his watch; its moments of motion counting down not to an act of justice but revenge. It was on another night with a low crescent moon over three years ago that he had decided to tell Betty Bannister about Greta’s plan. She had looked up, watching him through the windshield as he approached her car, the radio still on. They listened to Lament together in silence, the engine block ticking in the cool air after the song was over. And then he had told her, watching her face in the faint moonlight; enduring her sobs.
It had been the right thing to do, and neither of them owed anything to Greta, especially after what she had done to Elaine, but still it hurt the way betrayals always do. The life of an infant was at stake and Hastings thought that if he could save this child, it would make up for the baby that had been inside Susan when he had lost her.
He had thought wrong.
Inside, the house simmered with the stillness of sleep, the collective breathing agitating the floorboards; furniture contracting under the suppressed tension. From the stables he heard the loud whinny of a horse, prescient with the knowledge of bloodshed. The bone-handle doorknob cracked open, and Hastings entered the bedroom, the scent of medication sluicing through him. He took a small blue bottle of chloroform out of his coat pocket, wet his handkerchief and placed it beside the Old Man’s face. He waited through the nervous chiming of a grandfather clock in the hallway, then saturated the handkerchief and pressed it against the Old Man’s mouth and nose. His eyes opened in surprise, and Hastings leant over, whispering into his ear just two words: ‘It’s over.’
The Old Man tried to sit up, his grip fierce and surprisingly strong around Hastings’s wrists as he struggled to push the assault away, but then he lilted backwards into unconsciousness.
Hastings removed the handkerchief, revealing the burns around the Old Man’s mouth. Even his own hands were stinging from the solvent. He went into the adjoining bathroom and washed his hands and rinsed out the handkerchief, pulling away from the departing fumes. He unwrapped a clean white napkin that held the stainless steel skewer and ran the hot water as he passed the skewer through the flame of his cigarette lighter. It sang when he put it under the water, a brief hiss of pain. He placed it carefully back on the napkin, unfolded his navaja sevillana, sterilized it in the same way, then took both weapons back into the Old Man’s bedroom.
It was time for the surgery.
Kneeling over the Old Man’s body, he edged the tip of his blade between the upper right eyelid and the eyeball, then slotted the skewer through the space in the orbit. He was surprised how easily the skewer slipped down through the socket until he struck bone. Carefully extracting the knife, he looked around for something to use as a hammer, sliding open the top drawer of the bedside table.
He took the heavy hardcover book out of the drawer and, holding the skewer as though it were a nail, rapped the top with the book.
Nothing.
He did it again, harder this time. Still nothing. The Old Man sighed, like someone who had just remembered he’d forgotten his wallet and had to turn around and go home.
Hastings changed hands, holding the skewer with his left, this time angling it up more towards the top of the head. Holding the book in his fist, he raised it high, then slammed it down with all his force, driving his shoulder into the blow, the skewer disappearing. Hastings worked quickly, arcing it in a semicircular sweep backwards and forwards one way, then changing to the opposite direction, performing the same sheathing movement, so that the two arches would intersect in the centre, forming an elongated oval.
He yanked the skewer out too quickly, the eyeball half-popping as it crested over the rim of the orbit. Hastings stopped, easing the eyeball back into its socket before carefully extracting the skewer with a gentle twist, its steel misted by membrane and blood.
Hastings washed and dried both his navaja sevillana and the skewer, wiped down the taps and basin, then went back to the bedroom and did the same to the bedside table and the bedhead. He cleaned the book of prints, placing it back in the drawer with his handkerchief, noticing its title embossed in gold for the first time.
He listened at the door, then slowly opened it. No sounds outside. And inside just the laboured breathing of a man transformed; a single bloody tear pearling his right eye. Not enough to mourn all those he had harmed in his long and greedy life. But a start nonetheless.
CHAPTER 49
Los Angeles 1960
Cate looks out the window, to where Betty Bannister’s Cadillac convertible is parked, eating up our shitty little street with its glossy pink expanse. She turns back to me. ‘Big Bear Lake . . . ?’
‘A ski lodge, you know the type—a real log cabin. In the woods. No one will ever find you.’
‘I don’t know, Nicky, it just doesn’t seem . . . ’ Her voice trails away. Too many adjectives to slip into that one small space: right; safe; sane. ‘Why can’t you come with us?’
‘I’ve got to stay behind and fix a few things first; make it safe for us . . . ’ To run, and maybe not get caught.
She glances towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t even know them.’
‘It’s a big ask, I know, but it’ll only be for a few days, I swear . . . ’ She goes over to the closet, hesitates for a long moment, then takes out a suitcase.
The two locks snap like handcuffs as she opens it. ‘How about the police?’
‘I’m taking care of everything, baby. Look . . . ’ I pull out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. ‘They gave it to me.’ I take her in my arms. The last thing I want is to leave Cate like this. But there’s no other way. ‘You can trust them. They’ll do everything they can to help us.’
I break away from her but she pulls me back, staring into my face. ‘Why, Nick? Why are they helping us?’
Because they’re two people torn apart by the accumulated history of all their suffering and violence and sin. Just
like me. ‘Because they’re good people,’ I lie. ‘And because they want the same things we do.’ Reprieve. Forgiveness. Escape. Above all that most elusive of dreams: the unheard-of Second Chance.
I take Cate in my arms, her lips generous, her tongue seeking, both of us falling into the kiss the way we used to. When we still believed in a future together.
‘Mr. Alston?’
I ease out of the embrace, turn to Mrs. Bannister. ‘Don’t bother to knock.’
‘I’m sorry, but we really should get going if we’re to reach the lodge by dawn.’
I turn back to Cate. There are tears in her eyes. ‘You know this is what we want.’
‘But like this, Nick?’
‘Sometimes when you have no choices, you have to accept the ones that are made for you . . . ’ I look at my new watch. Carnivore time. ‘Mrs. Bannister’s right, you’ve got to go.’
Cate’s about to say something when the telephone rings, making all three of us jump. I snatch it from the cradle.
‘Alston? Where the fuck are you?’
Like most cops, Schiller’s not one to lose sleep over asking an obvious question. ‘I’m standing at the end of the number you just dialled . . . Where are you?’
His voice drops to a low burr, almost a pharyngeal impossibility for a man like Schiller. ‘With the Old Man . . . We’re heading out. To La Jolla.’
La Jolla? ‘What’s there?’
‘The Hotel del Charro . . . ’
‘There’s also a racetrack and a goddamn barber’s. I mean why are you going there?’
The voice drops even lower. It must actually hurt Schiller to force himself to speak so softly. ‘For a meet at the hotel with J. Edgar. He wants you along.’
‘Fuck Hoover, he’s not my boss.’
‘But the Old Man still is.’ I can hear the relief in the way he roars it through the phone.
‘Tell the Old Man I’m following up a lead from Linda Vista. I’ll call him in the morning.’
‘Jesus, Alston,’ he lowers his voice again, to the barely audible register of muttered prayers. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘It’s Hoover. He says they’ve found the kid.’
CHAPTER 50
Dallas 1963
Ambulances congregated outside the ranch house like a pack of feasting hyenas, their engines all running, surprising the morning air with the grime of exhaust. Doctors, lawyers and accountants milled with CIA, FBI and Secret Service: a convention of grey flannel suits talking in the covert shorthand of hurried whispers and meaningful nods, self-important with their proximity to History. Momentous decisions were being negotiated inside the ranch house. Power was being divided. Resources allocated. Nations reassigned. The Old Man’s empire was being dismantled, one golden brick at a time.
Hemming was the one who blabbed the news at the breakfast table out back: Old Man Bannister had suffered a massive stroke—a nine on the Richter scale. Looked like he was out for the count. Hemming figured the Old Man must have blown a gasket with some broad. ‘Maybe that cute little cook in the kitchen? Hell, she’d just about do it to me.’
Hastings let him have it, Hemming dropping his plate of waffles, the horses cracking their hooves against the stable’s walls in appreciation of the sight of the young hotshot slowly getting to his feet, still clutching his stomach, the knees of his Dallas police officer’s uniform coloured yellow with Texas dust.
Roselli grabbed Hastings. ‘What are you, nuts?’ Then in a whisper, ‘We need that juvenile delinquent, at least for today.’
Hastings threw Roselli’s hand off his arm. Message received. Hemming was disposable too. They all were. Who could argue with the logic? Why waste time washing all the dishes when you can just toss everything into the trash? Welcome to the Age of Plastic. Hastings caught Sturgis staring at him through a window and pointed thumb and forefinger at him—you’re next.
Luchino watched him with concern as they crunched their way down the gravel driveway to the cars. ‘Just something I had to get off my chest,’ Hastings said, climbing into the Citroën.
Luchino put a tan leather overnight bag in the trunk, then lit one of his yellow cigarettes, scenting the air with a strong alkaline haze. ‘This old man, was he not the one with the kidnapped son?’
‘Ronnie Bannister.’
‘Précisément . . . ’ He turned the key in the ignition, as though he were snapping a small animal’s neck, then turned to Hastings, the car worrying the birds with its throaty growl. ‘Be careful, my friend. The people we work for do not believe in coincidence.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Très bien . . . ’ Luchino drove fast out of the ranch, chickens feather-dancing out of the way. They flew past the checkpoint, Stetsons turning in surprise, Luchino accelerating dangerously onto the highway, tires screeching warning as he glided with confident indifference through the early-morning traffic: milk trucks, oil tankers; pickups stacked with hay bales honeying the air with golden chaff. They sped past a roadhouse, two men in suits and hats standing outside, watching the traffic, one with a walkie-talkie in his hand, the other with a camera. Luchino gave them a bras d’honneur, clenching his cigarette in his teeth as he laughed, the car swerving for an instant, Hastings steadying the wheel.
Dallas began to appear, mirage-mirrored on the bitumen’s heat haze. It was unseasonably hot for November, as though the whole city were gripped in a fever dream. Hastings could feel the sweat slowly inching down his sides like a trail of scouting insects waiting for the swarm to follow. Heat. Nerves. The old war itch. There was a buzzing inside his head, an internal coring. Not going in, not going out. Just being there.
So many lives were at stake. Starting with the president’s. Ending with those of the two killers inside the speeding car. To get it right would be almost impossible. But they had to try.
‘I’ll take the first shot,’ Luchino said. ‘Fire right after me.’
That sounded fine to Hastings. ‘Just make sure you miss.’
‘It will be difficult but . . . ’ Luchino gave a sorrowful shrug. Professional pride. Hastings felt it too. Not in the work itself, but in their innate and unique ability. Once a marksman, always a marksman. It was like carrying a tune or riding a horse. Some skills never leave you. Until the vocal cords are severed with a blade, or the horse run down by a truck.
It was nearly half-past nine by the time they reached Dealey Plaza, Luchino parking up beside the railway yards in front of the overpass. The ground was still moist from dawn dew drying slowly in the shadows. Hastings would normally have worried about footprints but the parking was already filling up for the motorcade. That morning’s evidence would soon go the way of the traditional Comanche hunting grounds of Texas: overrun and obliterated. Luchino ground out his cigarette against a car tire, then pocketed the butt. Instinctive; intelligent. A Chesterfield or a Camel would be invisible. But with one of Luchino’s Gitanes Maïs, he might as well leave his birth certificate.
The pair grabbed coffee in a diner off Elm. ‘There are some things you never forget: the first time you made love, the first cigarette you ever smoked, and the first coffee you couldn’t drink . . . ’ Luchino pushed his cup away. ‘New York, September 8th, 1954. My first day in your country. I used to wonder why I was always tired when I came to America. And then one morning at breakfast, I realized: it was because I was deprived of caffeine. Even in prison in France, the coffee is better.’
Hastings filled up his own cup. ‘Here’s hoping I never get the chance to compare.’
Luchino laughed. ‘Ah yes, the devil you know. But you might think about going to Europe. There’s plenty of work in Marseille and Palermo for a man with your talents . . . ’
Talents. Kill and not be killed. Hastings lit a cigarette, looked at the Corsican. Luchino was already thinking about the pleasures of going back h
ome. But Hastings had no home; not after what he’d done in Adelsberg.
‘Ça alors . . . !’
Hastings turned fast, staring through the windows after the man that Luchino had just seen. ‘You know him?’
‘Pietro Cesari, I swear it was him!’
The man with the crew cut turned the corner, disappearing from sight. If he thought he had been recognized, he didn’t show it. ‘Who is he?’
‘An interrogator. The best . . . He started on the Nazis for the OSS. Then on the Collaborators for the Unione Corse. And when they saw how good he was, the SDECE sent him to Indochine. He’s still based in Saigon, but now he works for CIA.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ Luchino nodded sadly, like a veterinarian confirming there was no alternative to putting the dog down. ‘Did he see you?’
Luchino stubbed out his cigarette, tossed coins onto the table. ‘There is nothing he doesn’t see.’
Hastings stared at the Corsican. There was something about him that he didn’t recognize. Something he had never seen before. And when Hastings realised what it was, the hairs on the back of his neck rose in alarm.
Luchino was afraid.
‘Let’s go,’ Hastings said.
Outside, the streets were animated with bunting and flags, cops and sheriffs lounging against squad cars or motorcycles, smoking and squinting into the morning sun. It felt familiar enough to offer cover for the fear they knew was there. For the death that was lurking everywhere. For the secret knowledge that was inside them. There was no sign of Cesari. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means, my friend, that if he is targeting your president, there is nothing we can do.’
‘If?’
He stared at Hastings, his ancient eyes blinking in the sunlight; guarding their shadows. ‘He could be targeting us.’
A tall, military-looking man in a dark suit and a short-brimmed cowboy hat slipped Hastings a hand bill as they passed him. Hastings glanced at both sides of the bill to make sure there was no secret message written on it, then showed it to Luchino. Above the title Wanted for Treason were photos of Kennedy mocked up as police mug shots.
