by Dan Simmons
After midnight—it was almost 2:00 a.m. — the powerful searchlights were turned off and both the American and Canadian Falls seemed to roar louder in the darkness. Mist from various cascades drifted across the American-side parks, garnered as ice on the waterfall side of the trees, and occasionally snapped off branches.
Goat Island divided the American Falls from the Canadian, and someone had long since run bridges out to this island and the smaller islands on the Niagara River. The tourist bridges were closed to traffic this night, but Kurtz knew his way through the trees to the bridge and walked out along it, staying near the concrete rail so that his footsteps in the snow would be less visible. At least the heavier snow now would hide his footprints in a few minutes.
Kurtz paused to rest several times. Malcolm was a big man, and nothing is as cumbersome as dead weight. The night was dark, except for reflected light from the low clouds, but the white ripples on the rapids and the blue-white glow at the edge of the American Falls just a hundred yards downstream were quite visible. Malcolm began to stir and moan, but the roar of water masked any noise. Kurtz slogged on, adjusting Malcolm on his shoulder as he got onto the icy walkways of Goat Island and turned toward the observation point near the brink of the smaller Luna Island. The small bridge here rose just a few feet above the raging waters, and Kurtz had to watch his step on the ice. Wooden barriers were set out to keep people away from this point in winter, but Kurtz went around these barriers, coming out from the trees onto the small, icy promontory that separated the broad sweep of the American Falls from the even wider curve of the Horseshoe or Canadian Falls.
Malcolm stirred as Kurtz dumped him at the end of the promontory—less than fifteen feet from the precipice of the Falls on both sides. Kurtz removed Malcolm's billfold. About $6,000 in cash. Kurtz took the money and tossed the wallet in the river. Kurtz was no thief, but he also had no doubt that Malcolm had been paid more than this up front to kill him, so he had little compunction about keeping the money. He tied the end of the clothesline around Malcolm's torso just under the big man's arms and made sure that the knots were firm, even if the rope was cheap. He ran a loop of rope around the icy railing to help act as a brake.
Malcolm began to struggle just as Kurtz manhandled him over the icy railing and dumped him into the Niagara River.
The water revived him and Malcolm began screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs. Kurtz let that go on for a short while—the roar of the Falls drowned out the screams—but, not wanting the man to freeze to death or go over the Falls before they talked, he finally said, "Shut up, Kibunte."
"Kurtz, fuckyouasshole, fuckyouKurtzyouhonky-mother-fuckergoddamn—HEY!!!"
Kurtz had released the rope for an instant, allowing ten more feet to play out, clothesline humming around the railing, stopping it only when Malcolm's feet were five feet from the roaring white foam at the edge of the Falls.
"You going to shut up except when I say talk?" shouted Kurtz.
Malcolm was looking over his shoulder at his legs being tossed out of the water by the violence of the Falls. He nodded wildly. Kurtz hauled him ten feet closer. The two men were only about eight feet apart now—Malcolm's long fingers clawed and grabbed at the icy shore, but slid back into the raging water each time—and they had to shout over the waterfall noise.
"Sorry, they only had cheap clothesline at the Texaco mini-mart," called Kurtz. "Don't know how long it will last. We'd better talk fast."
"Kurtz, goddamn, man. I'll pay money. I've got a couple of million. Money, Kurtz!"
Kurtz shook his head. "Don't need that right now, Kibunte. I'm just curious about who hired you."
"The fucking faggot lawyer. Miles! Miles hired me!"
Kurtz nodded. "But who was behind Miles? Who authorized it?"
Malcolm began shaking his head wildly again. "I don't know, Kurtz. I swear to Christ I don't know. Jesus, it's cold. Pull me in! Money! Cash. I'll take you to it, Kurtz!"
"How much did they pay you for taking me out?"
"Forty K!" screamed Malcolm. "Goddamn, it's cold. Pull me in, Kurtz. Swear to Christ… money's yours. All of it."
Kurtz leaned back, holding the terrible weight of the man and the rushing water. The clothesline creaked and stretched. Malcolm shot glances over his shoulder at the blue-white precipice at his heels. Downriver, impossibly far away, car headlights glowed on the arch of the Rainbow Bridge.
"Yaba," Kurtz shouted. "Why yaba?"
"Triad sends it," Malcolm screamed. "Sell on the side. I get ten percent. JesusChristAlmightyKurtz!"
"Ninety percent to the Farinos through the lawyer?" Kurtz shouted over the roar of water.
"Yeah. Please, my man. Jesus Christ! Please. I can't feel my legs. So fucking cold, man. I'll give you all the money…"
"And you give the Triad guns from the arsenal raid?" Kurtz called.
"What? Huh? Please, man…"
"The guns," Kurtz shouted again. "Triad sends you yaba. You send guns back to Vancouver?"
"Yeah, yeah… Jesusfuck!" Malcolm clawed at ice. The current flipped him over and drove him underwater. Kurtz pulled hard and Malcolm's bald head broke through the water again. His collar and chin were crusted with ice.
"How did you kill the accountant?" Kurtz yelled. "Buell Richardson?"
"Who?" Malcolm was screaming now, teeth chattering.
Kurtz let the rope slip three feet. Malcolm clawed at the steep icy shore. His face went under again, and he came up spluttering.
"Cutter! Slit his throat."
"Why?"
"Miles said do it."
"Why?"
"Richardson found the Farino money Miles was laundering—ohSHIIIT!" The current had tugged him another three feet toward the edge.
"Richardson wanted a cut?" Kurtz shouted.
Malcolm was too busy looking at the roaring edge of nothing behind him to answer. The big man's teeth were chattering wildly. He looked back at Kurtz. "Fuck it! You going to let me die anyway," he shouted.
Kurtz shrugged. The rope was cutting into his hands and wrist. "There's always the long shot I'll let you live. Tell me what you know about—"
Suddenly there was a short switchblade in Malcolm's hands. He began cutting through the rope.
"No!" Kurtz shouted. He began pulling.
Malcolm cut the rope, dropped the blade, and began swimming hard. He was a strong, powerful man filled with adrenaline, and for ten seconds or so, it seemed that he was making headway against the wild current—aiming for a point fifteen or twenty feet upriver from Kurtz where he might make a grab for the icy railing.
Then the river reasserted itself, and Malcolm was swept backward as if slapped by the invisible hand of God. He reached the blue-white rim and was swept back and over in an instant—shark-attack fast. It was as if the Falls had swallowed him. The last image Kurtz had of Malcolm was of the man trying to swim into the air, grinning insanely, the diamond stud in his front tooth gleaming in the blue-white glow.
And then there was no one there.
Kurtz pulled the loop of rope free from his bloodless hand and wrist and tossed the remaining length of clothesline into the river. He stood there for only a second longer, listening to the roar of water in the night.
"Should have gone with the long shot," he said softly and turned to leave.
CHAPTER 35
Arlene woke at her usual time—shortly before the gray Buffalo night brightened into gray Buffalo dawn—and was halfway through her morning paper and cup of coffee before she looked out her kitchen window and noticed that her Buick was in the driveway.
She went outside in her bathrobe. The car was locked and the keys were in the mailbox. There was no sign of Joe.
Later, after parking her car and going in through the alley entrance to their basement office, she noticed the white envelope on her tidy desk. Three thousand dollars in cash. November's pay.
Joe came in the back door around noon. His hair had been stylishly razor-cut. He had shaved closely and
smelled slightly of an outdoorsy cologne. He was wearing a gray Perry Ellis suit—double-breasted—a white shirt, a conservative green-and-gold patterned tie, and soft, highly polished new brown dress shoes. Joe had always liked the Prince of Wales combination of gray suit and brown shoes, Arlene knew.
"Someone die and leave you money?" she said.
Kurtz smiled. "You might say that."
"How did you get into town from my place this morning?"
"They have these things called taxicabs," said Kurtz.
"You don't see them much in Cheektowaga," said Arlene. "It's more a bus kind of town."
"There are a lot of things one doesn't see much of in Cheektowaga, but I drove to the office just now."
Arlene raised one penciled eyebrow. "Drove? You're driving your own vehicle now?"
"It's a beater," said Kurtz. "An 88 Volvo sedan from Cheaper Charlie's out in Amherst. But it runs."
Arlene had to smile. "I'll never understand your affection for Volvos."
"They're safe," said Kurtz.
"Unlike everything else in your life."
He made a face. "They're boring. And ubiquitous. No one ever paid attention to a Volvo that was following them. They're like Chinamen; they all look alike."
Arlene could not argue with that. She stayed silent while Kurtz carefully removed his jacket and trousers, hung them on hangers on the wall rack, loosened his tie, and lay down on the sprung sofa against the wall. "Wake me about three, would you?" he said. "I've got an important business meeting at four." Kurtz folded his hands on his chest and was snoring softly within a minute.
Arlene tapped the keys and opened file drawers softly, careful not to wake Joe, but he slept on. She knew that he would not need the wake-up call—he always awakened exactly when he wanted to—and, sure enough, a few minutes before 3:00, his eyes snapped open and he looked around with that instant comprehension upon awakening, which had always amazed and mystified Arlene.
He dressed quickly, adjusting the suit jacket just so, buttoning his collar button, and making sure that his tie was knotted perfectly and that his cuffs shot properly.
"You need a snap-brim fedora," said Arlene as Joe headed for the back door, his car keys in his hand. She did not ask him about the meeting, and he did not offer any information before he left. Arlene knew from experience that it might be something as mundane as a request for a bank loan or something else altogether—something that Joe might not return from. She never asked. He almost never told.
Arlene finished a few e-mails to clients and wondered if she should tell Joe that their sweetheart-search business looked as if it was going to show a profit of eight or ten thousand dollars by the end of the first month. She decided to wait.
It was almost 5:00, she was finished with the day's Web searches and notices, and she was about ready to call it a day when unusual movement on the small security monitor caught her eye.
A monster had come in the front door of the porn store. The man's face was half burned away, one eye was swollen shut under inflamed tissue, and only a few white clumps of hair remained on a skull that had been cracked and cooked. The man wore a raincoat open and even through the black-and-white monitor, Arlene could see that his chest was covered with makeshift bandages and raw burns.
The clerk, Tommy, went for the shotgun he kept on the lowest shelf behind the counter.
The monster grabbed Tommy by his ponytail, pulled his head back, and cut his throat from ear to ear with one vicious sweep of his arm.
There were only two customers in the store. One ran for the front door, trying to squeeze past the monster, but the burned man spun quickly and ripped the man from his pubic bone to his throat. The man went down in the entrance and collapsed against the glass counter.
The other customer clutched his dirty magazines to his chest and ran between shelves to hide. The monster followed in three huge steps. The camera showed the mirror in the corner reflecting the monster stabbing downward—three, four, five times.
Arlene's breath had frozen in her chest. Now she lifted the telephone and dialed 911. A voice answered, but Arlene could not speak. She could not tear her eyes from the security-camera monitor.
The monster, raincoat open and bandages flying like a mummy's wrappings, burned face distorted into a snarl, was rushing down the short corridor toward the door to the basement… toward her.
CHAPTER 36
Don Farino assembled everyone in the mansion's drawing room. Kurtz had never been in a drawing room—he'd always been amused when he encountered the phrase in books—and was curious about exactly what a drawing room was. After being seated in it, he still didn't know. The room was huge and dark, heavy drapes drawn over deep-set bay windows so that it could have been night for all one could tell from inside, and there were some bookshelves, two large fireplaces—no fires burning—and multiple seating areas scattered around like those in an old hotel lobby. There were six of them in the room, counting the two bodyguards in blazers: Don Farino in his wheelchair next to the black-shaded lamp, Sophia sitting in a plush chair to the don's right, Kurtz on a deep-tufted but uncomfortable leather sofa, and the lawyer, Leonard Miles, sitting opposite everyone in a straight-backed chair. The two bodyguards stood with their meaty hands clasped over their crotches immediately behind Miles.
Kurtz had been met at the gate and ordered to leave his Volvo parked outside the compound. He wondered if they were afraid of car bombs. The two security goons frisked him very carefully—he'd left the polymer H&K pistol under the front seat—and then drove him up to the big house in a golf cart. The day was cold and gray, and it was getting dark by 4:00 p.m.
The old don greeted Kurtz with a curt nod and waved him to his place on the sofa. Sophia was lovely, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that was almost—not quite—a smirk. The lawyer Miles seemed nervous.
The four sat in silence for what seemed like a long moment. Kurtz brushed a speck of lint from the crease in his gray trousers. No one offered drinks.
"Have you seen or heard the news today, Mr. Kurtz?" the old man said at last.
Kurtz shook his head.
"It seems that the city's black street gangs and some religious white-supremacist group are at war," Don Farino continued.
Kurtz waited.
"Some anonymous caller informed the white supremacists that four of their members had been killed by some Bloods," continued the old man, his voice sounding raspy but amused. "Someone—perhaps the same caller—informed the Bloods that a rival street gang had started a fire at one of their gathering places. Also this morning, it seems that the police received an anonymous call connecting the death of one of their homicide detectives with the same group of Bloods. So, as the day ends, we have blacks shooting blacks, cops rousting gangbangers, and idiot white supremacists fighting everyone."
After a spell of silence, Kurtz said, "It sounds as if Anonymous has been busy."
"Indeed," said Don Farino.
"Do you give a rat's ass about blacks killing blacks, or the Aryan Nation Types live or die?" asked Kurtz.
"No," said Don Farino.
Kurtz nodded and waited.
The Mafia patriarch reached down beside his wheelchair and lifted a small leather valise. When he opened it, Kurtz could see stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
"Fifty thousand dollars," said Don Farino. "As we agreed."
"Plus expenses," said Kurtz.
"Expenses as well." The don closed the bag and set it down. "If you have brought us any useful information."
Kurtz gestured with his hand. "What would you like to know?"
The old man's rheumy gray eyes seemed very cold as he squinted at Kurtz. "Who killed our accountant, Buell Richardson, Mr. Kurtz?"
Kurtz smiled and pointed one finger at Leonard Miles. "He did. The lawyer did it."
Miles shot to his feet. "That's a goddamned lie. I've never killed anyone. Why are we listening to this crap when—"
"Sit down, Leonard," Don Farino said in flat tones.
The two goons in blazers stepped forward and laid heavy hands on Leonard Miles's shoulders.
The lawyer sat down.
"What evidence do you have, Mr. Kurtz?" asked Don Farino.
Kurtz shrugged. "Malcolm Kibunte, the drug dealer who was hired to kill Richardson, said that Miles had hired him."
Miles was on his feet again. "I've never seen Malcolm Kibunte out of a courtroom where I was defending him. I resent this absurd—"
Farino nodded and the goons stepped forward again. Miles sat down.
"Why would Leonard do this?" Sophia asked in her soft purr.
Kurtz shifted his gaze to her. "Maybe you know."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she said.
"It means that Malcolm and his pal Cutter were the hit men and Miles here was the go-between, but maybe someone else in the family gave Miles the orders."
Sophia smiled pleasantly and shifted so that she was looking at her father. "Mr. Kurtz is crazy, Papa."
Farino said nothing. The old man was rubbing his jaw with one mottled hand. "Why did Miles have Buell Richardson killed, Mr. Kurtz?"
"Your accountant stumbled across quite a few million dollars being laundered through family sources," said Kurtz. "He knew it wasn't from the usual family revenue. He wanted some of it."
Don Farino leaned forward in his chair. "How many million dollars?"
Sophia was still smiling. "Yes, Joe, how many million dollars?" At the use of Kurtz's first name, Don Farino shot a glance at his daughter, but then turned his gaze back in Kurtz's direction.
Kurtz shrugged. "How the hell should I know? Little Skag knew that something weird was going on. That's why he suggested I get in touch with you, Don Farino. He doesn't give a shit about a missing accountant."
Farino blinked. "What are you saying? Why is Stephen interested?"
Kurtz sighed. He wished he was carrying a weapon, but it was too late for that. "Skag started screwing around in the drug business, started sampling his product, and was sent to jail. You and the other families let that happen."
Farino glared. "Mr. Kurtz, it took almost twenty years for the New York State families to come to some accommodation with the Colombians, the Mexicans, the Vietnamese, and all of the other—"
