by Chris Mooney
Fletcher staggered backwards from the sudden impact. He spun awkwardly, tumbling back against the wrought-iron railing. The woman fired again. The round hit him in the abdomen, and he slipped on the snowcovered landing and tumbled down the short set of brick steps.
Fletcher landed face first against the walkway. He immediately rolled on to his side, hissing back the pain, snow stinging his face.
The woman fired again. The shot kicked up a clump of dirt and dead grass dangerously close to his head. Fletcher moved to his back and brought up his weapon, about to fire when the shooter threw the front door shut.
Theresa Herrera’s limp arm hung over the threshold. The door hit it and bounced back. Fletcher caught a flash of the dark fur coat retreating down the foyer.
Fletcher staggered to his feet. The lightweight ceramic armour plating woven inside the bulletproof vest had prevented the two rounds from piercing his body, but the impact had cracked at least one rib, sending his muscles into spasms.
The bullet had removed most of Theresa Herrera’s head, killing her instantly.
A spent shell caught his attention. Well studied in ballistics, he immediately registered what it was.
A door slammed open from the back of the house. Struggling to breathe, the cold air sharp with the odour of cordite, he stumbled across the front lawn towards the left side of the house — a task made more difficult in his shoes, as they offered no traction in the snow.
One shot. All he needed was one clear shot to take the woman down.
Fletcher stuck close to the side of the house. When it ended, he turned the corner, bringing up his SIG.
The garden, wide and long, was partially lit by the light shining through the back windows. A back door hung open; it led to a deck of pressure-treated wood. Through the falling snow he saw a clear set of footprints near the deck’s bottom step. He followed them across the garden until they vanished inside a black forest of tall pines. In the far distance and glowing like eyes in the night were the windows of a half-dozen homes.
He saw no sign of the woman. Had no idea if she was running or hiding somewhere, waiting for him.
Fletcher might have given pursuit if she didn’t already have a good lead on him. In his current physical condition, there was no way he could bridge the gap.
A more practical and urgent consideration, however, made him immediately turn and move back to the front: the police. One or more nearby neighbours had no doubt heard the multiple
gunshots and called 911.
The front door hung wide open. Fletcher clutched the railing as he moved up the front steps. Snow blew inside the house, coating the foyer and Theresa Herrera’s small, still body in a fine layer of white. She lay face down in a twisted heap on the brown tile. Blood had pooled around her and dripped over the threshold, staining the snow a bright red.
Fletcher dropped to his knees, his ribs screaming in protest, and looked at the entry wound. It was tattooed with black powder. The size of the wound and amount of gunpowder confirmed the gun had been fired from a close distance — a few feet away from the door, to his right. The shooter had stood there, but she couldn’t have seen him — couldn’t have seen him drawing his weapon. There were no windows installed around the door, no nearby windows that looked on to the front landing. So why had she suddenly panicked and shot Theresa?
Wary of destroying potential latent fingerprints, he used a pen to pick up the casing from the floor. Fletcher dropped it inside one of the small evidence bags he kept tucked inside his back pocket, sealing it shut on his way back to the car.
9
Fletcher backed up and drove away, the car tyres slipping and skidding on the snow until they found purchase. Everywhere he looked he saw home windows bright with light. He caught more than one face pressed against the glass, examining the street for the source of the gunshots. They couldn’t see him; he was hidden behind the Audi’s tinted windows.
But they could see his car.
During his early years as a fugitive, Fletcher had invested his considerable savings in the stock market. Through careful management, he had amassed a small fortune, which had allowed him to purchase a number of safe houses under the names of various well-crafted identities and corporations. The closest home was in Sturgis, South Dakota — a small ranch house with a private garage holding a Honda Accord.
The townhouse in Chicago, however, had a custom-made Jaguar stored in the small garage. Armoured and bulletproof, the car contained other useful features that would be beneficial during the course of his investigation.
Fletcher cracked open the windows and listened to the cold night.
Two minutes passed with no sirens.
Ten minutes passed and he saw no police cruisers.
The city snowploughs, however, were out in full force, busy clearing the roads. Their numbers suggested a major snowstorm was about to descend upon central Colorado.
It was only when he reached the highway that he allowed himself to turn his attention inward to examine what had happened at the Herrera home.
Fletcher started at the beginning, seeing each frame with remarkable clarity, as though it had been filmed. He ran the movie forward and backward, sometimes pausing to study a particular frame.
He kept wondering if his actions — or lack thereof — had contributed to Theresa Herrera’s death.
It was clear the moment the petite woman cracked opened the door that something was wrong. The fringe of her short blonde hair was matted across her damp forehead. Her face was pale, her bloodshot eyes wide with terror. She had dark rings of sweat underneath the arms and collar of her long-sleeved grey T-shirt. I’ve got that rotten stomach flu that’s going around, she’d told him.
A logical explanation, and one he might have believed if she hadn’t told him the reason why she and her husband had decided to forgo Ali Karim’s investigative services at the last minute: Finances. We simply couldn’t afford Mr Karim’s fee.
Karim, Fletcher knew, hadn’t charged the Herrera family for his services. He didn’t charge anyone.
Karim, a former CIA operative, had left the Agency at a relatively young age. Instead of entering the lucrative private sector, he established his own security company in Midtown Manhattan. Having recently divorced, and with his ex-wife taking their only child, their son, Jason, back to live in her family home in London, Karim put his time and energy into his business.
In less than a decade, he had opened additional offices in several major US cities. Then, with the explosive growth of the Internet during the nineties, Karim’s careful and well-timed investments had allowed him to expand his business and purchase several private forensic companies in the United States and abroad. By the dawn of the twenty-first century, Ali Karim was the owner of a global security empire — and one of the nation’s richest men. Karim devoted his considerable wealth, talents and resources to providing pro bono investigative services for the victims of crime.
When Theresa Herrera said she couldn’t afford Karim’s fee, Fletcher thought the woman was trying to warn him — about what, he had no idea. He had drawn his weapon, wanting to be prepared, and he saw her relief before she looked sideways and held her gaze where the shooter was hiding, watching and listening. He was about to grab Theresa Herrera and take her to the safety of his car when the woman in the fur coat fired.
Still, he wondered if there was something he could have done to change the outcome. If he had acted immediately, instead of using the time to remove his sidearm, it was possible that… Useless, childish thinking. Theresa Herrera was dead.
Fletcher unbuttoned his shirt. The adrenalin had abated, leaving in its wake a growing pain in his chest and abdomen. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and undid the vest’s straps to relieve the pressure.
He gently pressed on his breastbone. Daggers of pain erupted from the left side of his chest; he had cracked at least two ribs.
While breathing was painful, he didn’t feel short of breath, dizzy, lethargic — all prom
ising signs that he hadn’t suffered a flail chest, a life-threatening medical condition that occurred when part of the rib cage detached from the chest wall.
The next part would be difficult, but he had to do it.
Fletcher took in a slow, deep breath. Sparks of pain exploded through his brain and burned a bright white across his vision, but he fought his way through it. Having suffered such injuries in the past, he knew the importance of taking in the deepest breath possible in order to prevent pneumonia or a partial collapse of lung tissue known as atelectasis.
He took another deep breath and then repeated it again. Again. When he finished, he was flushed, drenched in sweat.
Fletcher took out his smartphone and dialled Karim’s private number. A small pause followed as the encryption software scrambled the call, and then Karim’s deep and smoky voice erupted on the other end of the line.
‘Well, that was bloody quick. I take it you found something good.’
Fletcher managed to speak clearly over the pain. ‘Theresa Herrera’s dead,’ he said, and walked Karim step by step through everything that had happened.
A long silence followed. In his mind’s eye Fletcher pictured Karim, a short, round man of Pakistani descent, seated behind the immense glass desk in his private office, leaning back in his chair and smoking one of his foul Italian cigarettes.
‘Do you need a doctor?’ Karim asked. ‘I can get you one, someone discreet.’
‘No. I know how to treat this.’
‘Do you always wear a bulletproof vest when visiting the home of a grieving family?’
‘My lifestyle demands that I live in a constant state of paranoia, Ali. I have to be prepared for any eventuality.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘I saw no signs of him, but I found two cars in the garage.’
‘And the woman who shot you?’
‘Just a glimpse,’ Fletcher said. ‘She’s Caucasian, late fifties to early sixties. Black hair pulled back across the scalp. I suspect she’s had a facelift.’
‘Would you recognize her if you saw her again?’
Fletcher, recalling the woman’s distinctive-looking smile, said, ‘Absolutely.’
On the other end of the line Fletcher heard the flick of a lighter. A pause as Karim drew on the cigarette, and then he said, ‘The police will go through Theresa Herrera’s phone records and see my number. Forgive me for asking this, but did you leave behind any evidence?’
‘No. I wore gloves the entire time.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Still, you need to do something about your car. Someone might have seen it.’
‘I plan on switching it when I reach Chicago.’
‘I hope you’re not planning on driving there right now. I was watching the Weather Channel in preparation for tomorrow morning’s flight. The storm has changed; Colorado is about to get slammed with at least two feet. Best to play it safe and wait it out. You can’t afford to get stuck, or in an accident.’
Karim was right. Visibility was poor; Fletcher could barely see the highway.
‘It goes without saying that I’d like your assistance on this, Malcolm. That being said, I’ve put you in an odd and uncomfortable situation. If you need to disappear, I understand.’
Fletcher thought about the shell casing in the evidence bag and said, ‘I need a portable mass spectrometer — a new model, and preferably one manufactured in the UK.’ British companies were always on the cutting edge of forensics.
‘I’ll get you one,’ Karim said. ‘When will you be arriving in Chicago?’
‘Let’s meet Monday morning, at six.’
‘Six it is. Give me the address.’
Fletcher gave it to him.
‘If you’re going to be late, please call me,’ Karim said. ‘A dark-skinned man like myself loitering on the streets and holding a big, bulky suitcase — well, we don’t need anyone conducting racial-profiling and summoning the police about a possible terror threat, now do we?’
‘Paulson won’t be driving you?’ Boyd Paulson was Karim’s personal bodyguard. Born in Dublin, raised in London, the pugnacious former boxer had been attached to Karim since the beginning of time — and rarely let Karim out of his sight, as Karim had been the target of many death threats over the years.
‘Boyd is on holiday,’ Karim said. ‘If you need anything else — anything at all — call me.’
‘I will.’
‘Malcolm… There’s nothing you could have done to save her.’
‘I’ll see you Monday,’ Fletcher said, and hung up.
10
When Lisa Alcione turned nineteen, she ran off to Los Angeles with the man she’d later marry, swearing to her parents she’d never return to Morrison, Colorado. She was forced to return once, to attend her mother’s funeral. Her husband, Tony, had not joined her. Business obligations.
He’s up to no good, her father had told her. A pig dressed up in a suit is still a pig, Lisa.
And now here she was, thirty-five and newly divorced, back in Morrison, back to working the front counter of her father’s ‘family-friendly’ motel, with its quick and easy access to the ski slopes. Maybe the family-friendly thing was true thirty years ago, but now the place catered to budget travellers and cost-conscious adulterers from Denver who paid for rooms in cash and registered under false names.
Standing behind the front counter, she watched her father clearing away the snow in his rickety Ford pickup. She’d been here only two months, and there didn’t seem to be a moment when dear old dad wasn’t reminding her how she had royally screwed up her life. I told you that good-for-nuthin’ had a wandering eye. Guys like Tony, with their Hollywood looks and money, they’re always gonna be lookin’ to upgrade to a younger, fresher model. Men got options, Lisa. Women don’t. Sure, the bright ones do, but God didn’t bless you with either brains or particularly good looks. You need to get your head out of the clouds and stop dreamin’ about some goddamn Prince Charming and settle for someone on your own level.
She’d told her father that Tony had simply wanted out — seven-year itch and all that bullshit. The truth was Tony had dumped her for a younger model, a neighbour’s 22-year-old Swedish au pair who, incidentally, was three months pregnant with Tony’s baby. Dale Alcione would have had a field day with that little nugget of info.
A black car pulled into the lot — an Audi. It drove into the space next to the front office.
Probably another bunch of rich teenagers on their way back from the slopes, looking to spend their Friday night getting wasted or high, she thought. That or some older guy with a young chippie looking to pork their way through the storm. The excitement never ended around here.
The car door opened. Not a teenager or some fat old bald guy but a very tall and very big man dressed in a sharp overcoat. He was alone. When the car door had opened, the interior light clicked on; she saw no one else inside.
The man smiled as he approached the front counter. He had nice teeth and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He had beautiful blue eyes, intense and intelligent. Straightening, she pulled on the edges of her angora crewneck sweater, wanting to show off her figure.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you might have a room available.’
Definitely from somewhere overseas, she thought. ‘I’m sure I can accommodate you.’
‘Thank you so much.’
She told him the rate.
The man took a wad of cash from his pocket.
‘I need a licence and a credit card,’ she said. ‘Security deposits and all of that fun stuff.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve lost my licence.’ The man handed her a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Will this be enough to cover a security deposit?’
‘That’ll do it. Just give me a name and address.’
‘Ted Parker.’
‘Your accent,’ she said, typing in his information. ‘What is it, British or Australian?’
‘Au
stralian, mostly, although I did spend a good number of my formative years in London.’
Something about the man triggered a comparison with one of her favorite actors, Russell Crowe. Maybe it was simply the Australian connection, because this guy certainly didn’t talk like Crowe did in his movies, and there was absolutely no physical resemblance. That wasn’t a bad thing. Ted Parker was certainly doing just fine in both the looks and the body departments, and he had that same animal magnetism Crowe gave off in his movies, that rugged sense of… well, manliness. The kind of testosterone-fuelled alpha male who always won in a bar fight and had his pick of women. A man, she suspected, who knew how to treat a woman right.
‘I’m pretty sure the bars and restaurants in the area are closing down for the night on account of the storm,’ she said. ‘If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich. Dale — that’s my father, he owns the place — he has some beers in the fridge. Bud cans, nothing fancy. I can bring some on by if you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’ve already eaten this evening.’
Lisa gave him her best smile as she placed the key on the counter.
He paid in cash, thanked her again and left. Lisa watched him all the way to the car, wanting to know more about the mysterious and charismatic Ted Parker, why he made her feel safe.
Fletcher parked around the side of the dingy motel, where his car couldn’t be seen from the highway. In a few minutes’ time, it would be covered with snow, and no one would recognize it.
He popped the trunk, selected the rucksack and carried it with him to his room. The stale air smelled of bleach and industrial cleaners. He drew the curtains and turned on one of the bedside lamps. Dust swarmed in the cone of light. He suspected the room hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.
Not wanting to leave fingerprints, he switched his leather gloves for a pair of latex. He slid the desk chair across the room and wedged it underneath the doorknob to prevent intrusion. He doubted anyone would come inside, but he had to be careful. He hung up his coat and carried the rucksack to a bathroom decorated with salmon-coloured tiles.
