Viking Bay

by M. A. Lawson

  So Kay now had two identical small red remotes that would disrupt power to the floodlight-camera mounted near Mercer’s front door and one large black remote for opening Mercer’s garage door. As Geoffrey handed her the garage door remote, he said, “Like Bob’s your uncle”—a British expression that made no sense to Kay.

  “I want to do one other thing,” Kay said. “I’m going to go into her office and I want you to shut the door leading from the garage into the house, and when I yell, I want you to open the garage door all the way up. I want to see if I can hear it opening when I’m in her office.”

  “Okey-dokey,” Geoffrey said. Kay couldn’t believe how relaxed the damn guy was. She was expecting at any moment to hear a voice on a bullhorn saying: You inside the house. Come out with your hands up.

  Kay walked into Mercer’s office and called out to Geoffrey. She couldn’t hear the garage door opening. It probably helped that Mercer’s office was at the far end of the house, a long way from the garage.

  Before she and Geoffrey left, she took a moment to look again at Mercer’s magnificent living room. She could imagine the hours Mercer must have spent picking out each piece of furniture. She could imagine the pleasure Mercer must take each time she sat in the room.

  She could also imagine the pain it would cause Mercer when she took it all away from her.

  Geoffrey rearmed the security system and he and Kay left the house—taking the same path they took before, along the front of the house and under the eaves—and five minutes later were driving away.

  “What say we go for a pint,” Geoffrey said. “Ethel’s not expecting me home until half past five.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Kay said. After the nerve-rattling experience of breaking into Mercer’s place, she could definitely use a drink.

  —

  KAY WOKE AT SEVEN the following morning with a slight hangover from drinking with Geoffrey. The Guinness she’d swilled had looked—and tasted, initially—like something drained from an engine crankcase, but after a couple of pints she’d gotten used to it. She bought a cup of coffee from the hotel restaurant and proceeded to the business center, where she typed out every action that Jack and Jackie would take that night. She printed out three copies, and at nine a.m. she went to the lobby where the couple was waiting. They looked bright eyed and cheerful—like they had just enjoyed delightful wake-up sex—and they were dressed almost identically in blue jeans, white T-shirts, and black leather jackets. She found it bizarre that they would dress the same way—but then, they were bizarre.

  They had breakfast together in the hotel restaurant, and while they were waiting for their food to arrive, Kay gave them a copy of the plan. Jack looked at it and said, “Ah, the script.”

  Fortunately, they were quite bright; they didn’t have any trouble understanding what they were supposed to do and they asked good questions. The only problem was that when they spoke in their god- awful Irish accents, Kay had to continually ask them to slow down and repeat what they’d just said. She wished it were like TV, with little white captions running along the bottom of the screen.

  After breakfast, they drove to Mercer’s house and Kay pointed out a few salient features, then they drove to the spot where the CCTV camera was located and Kay walked them through the plan again.

  “So. Are you guys okay with this?” she asked.

  She thought Jack said It’ll be a walk in the park, but she wasn’t sure.

  46 | Kay parked on the street in front of Anna Mercer’s house at eight-thirty p.m. She used one of the small red remotes provided by Geoffrey to disrupt power to the floodlight-camera system so she wouldn’t be captured on film, then walked up to Mercer’s front door and rang the doorbell.

  The porch light next to Mercer’s front door came on and the peephole door opened, and Kay watched as Anna Mercer’s eyes widened in shock when she saw it was Kay standing on her front porch.

  Mercer recovered quickly, however. “Who are you and what do you want at this time of night?” She said this in a passable British accent.

  Kay shook her head. “It’s over, Anna. Let me in.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and my name isn’t Anna. Now, leave immediately or I’ll call the police.”

  “Anna, it’s over. We found you. The other day when you went to that restaurant in Margate, we took a wineglass you used and matched your fingerprints. Now, let me in so we can talk. If Callahan wanted you dead, we could have killed you any time after you got back from Majorca.”

  Kay kept saying “we,” as she wanted Mercer to picture a squad of heavily armed men standing by, waiting for Kay to give the command to attack.

  Mercer’s eyes closed—a gesture of either surrender or resignation—and she said, “Just a minute.” She dropped the Limey accent when she said this. She closed the peephole door and, about thirty seconds later, she opened the front door, and when she did, she was holding a pistol in her hand. It was pointed at Kay’s chest.

  Kay ignored the gun and stepped past Mercer and into the house, and with her back to Mercer, she pretended to take in the decor. “Wow,” she said. “This place is fabulous, Anna.” Turning to face Mercer, she said, “And you’re fabulous, too. You’ll have to give me the name of the surgeon you used.” Then, being just a bit catty, she added, “When I get to be your age, I might make an appointment with him.”

  “What do you want?” Mercer said. The despair in her voice was evident; it looked as if she was struggling not to cry.

  “Let’s sit down,” Kay said. “And put the gun down. It’s really not in your best interest to shoot me.”

  Kay could imagine Mercer killing her, then killing herself. That wouldn’t be good.

  They took seats in Mercer’s living room, Kay on a love seat, pretending to be completely relaxed, Mercer facing her, sitting in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace, ready to spring up at any moment. She was still holding the pistol, but now it was lying in her lap and not pointed at Kay.

  “You know Nathan Sterling’s dead, don’t you?” Kay said.

  “I read on the Internet that he’d disappeared,” Mercer said.

  “He’s dead. I killed him. And thanks for leaving that cell phone lying under your bed back in Arlington. It was all the proof Callahan needed to convince himself Sterling had worked with you.”

  Mercer didn’t care about Nathan Sterling. “How did you find me?”

  “God! I can’t believe how good you look,” Kay said. “You don’t have a single wrinkle on your face. It’s amazing.”

  “Damn it! Tell me how you found me!”

  “Your blood,” Kay said, and explained how they searched for single women her age with polycythemia vera buying expensive homes. “When you gave blood in London a couple weeks ago, we thought it might be you and then confirmed it through fingerprints.”

  “But how did you even know I had the disease? I never told Callahan. I never told anyone. And I figured with a new face and the ID I was using, I’d still be safe, even if Callahan discovered it.”

  Kay didn’t bother to say that she was the one who figured out Mercer’s medical secret, not Callahan.

  “I tried to take my own blood when I first got here,” Mercer said, “but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t jam that big needle into a vein.”

  Kay didn’t know what that meant: Was Mercer saying she was too squeamish to push a needle into her arm—she certainly didn’t have a problem pushing a needle into Scarlett—or did she have the kind of veins that were hard to put a needle into? She didn’t care.

  “I even contacted a private nursing outfit to have them come here and take my blood, but they wouldn’t do it because they said they weren’t equipped to dispose of the blood, like it was toxic or something.”

  “Anna,” Kay finally said, interrupting her monologue, “I really don’t give a shit.”

  “S
o why haven’t you killed me?” Mercer asked.

  “Because Callahan won’t let me. In spite of what you did to Ara Khan, he’s decided to let you live. I don’t know why. I guess he must still feel something for you. All I know is, he’s giving you a break.” She paused before she said, “But he wants the money back. All of it.”

  Mercer didn’t say anything, but Kay could imagine what was going through her head: relief that Callahan was allowing her to live, but, at the same time, wondering how she would live if she was broke.

  “I don’t have all of it,” she said.

  “I know that,” Kay said. “Sterling got five, and I don’t know what you paid Finley or the two guys that helped Sterling, but my guess is that you have close to forty million left after you bought this house. Callahan wants it, and he wants it tonight.

  “We know you have the money in some bank where you can transfer it quickly to another bank if you have to run, and you’re going to transfer it to one of Callahan’s accounts. If you don’t, then the people waiting outside will kill you. And don’t even think about running again. Now that we know where you are and what you look like, we won’t lose you a second time.”

  Mercer started to cry, big tears streaming down her marvelous, unlined face. “The reason I did it . . .”

  She stopped, not knowing what to say next, or maybe she was wondering how honest she should be. She started over: “I spent all those years working for Callahan and . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Kay said. “You killed a young woman who could have made a real difference in this world, and there’s nothing you can say to rationalize what you did. Now, let’s go transfer the money. I’m assuming we can do that from your laptop. And this time, the money will go where it’s supposed to since Finley’s no longer alive to make it disappear.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me after I transfer the money?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m not armed and you have a gun. But I can assure you, somebody will kill you if you don’t transfer the money.”

  Kay stood up and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

  As Kay was following Mercer back to her home office, she speed-dialed a number on her phone.

  —

  JACKIE FELT HER PHONE vibrate twice, then stop.

  Jackie had driven with Kay in Kay’s rental car. She left the car and walked directly down Mercer’s driveway. She wasn’t concerned about being captured on video by the floodlight-camera, as Kay had disrupted power to the camera before she entered Mercer’s home.

  Jackie used the garage door remote that Geoffrey had programmed to open Mercer’s garage door. Kay had told her that if Mercer was in her office, Mercer wouldn’t hear the door opening. Jackie climbed into Mercer’s Mercedes and, using the ignition key that Geoffrey had made for Kay, she started the car. She then pressed the button on the second red remote Geoffrey had provided and restored power to the floodlight-camera.

  The floodlight-camera videoed the Mercedes backing out of Mercer’s garage and recorded the time.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jackie entered a romantically lighted—meaning dimly lighted—bar in Margate and ordered the first of what would be several martinis. Jackie was wearing a blond wig that matched Mercer’s hairstyle and a shade of lipstick Mercer favored. And although Jackie was about the same height and weight as Mercer, she didn’t look like Mercer—no one would have a problem telling them apart if they were standing side by side in a lineup—but Jackie had no remarkable facial features, such as an overlong nose or rabbity teeth, and in the poorly lighted bar it was hard to see her face clearly.

  Jackie was also wearing a leather trench coat identical to the one Kay had seen Mercer wearing the day they took Mercer’s fingerprints; the damn coat had cost the Callahan Group fifteen hundred dollars.

  —

  IT TOOK AN HOUR to transfer the money. The bulk of it was in a Luxembourg account, and when the transfer was complete, Kay called Callahan to verify the money was in the Callahan Group’s account. “Are we done now?” Mercer said after Kay spoke to Callahan.

  “No,” Kay said. “You have over a million in a Barclays money market fund and thirty-eight thousand in your checking account. We want it all.”

  “What am I supposed to live on?” Mercer said.

  “Not my problem,” Kay said, “but I suppose you’ll have to sell this place. Do they have yard sales in England? We were thinking about making you transfer the title on the house to us, but figured that would be just too much of a hassle.”

  Kay knew what Mercer was now thinking: Since she had no pension, Mercer was going to have to live the rest of her life on the proceeds from selling her house and furniture, and might end up with about two million bucks to live on for the rest of her life. She was going to have a hard time finding anything but low-paying jobs; she certainly wasn’t going to be able to put down on a résumé what she’d done for Uncle Sam. And two million isn’t really all that much money when you’re only forty-five years old and might live another forty years.

  But Kay didn’t intend to leave Mercer anywhere near two million. She wasn’t going to tell her that, however. She wanted to leave her with just a glimmer of hope regarding her future so Kay’s revenge would be even more terrible. As she’d told Callahan, she wanted Mercer to suffer.

  Mercer finished transferring the money she had in British banks, then just sat there in front of her gorgeous Parnian desk with her eyes closed and her head bent as if she were about to be beheaded. Kay was still standing behind her. She’d been standing behind her the whole time she was making the money transfers so she could see what Mercer was doing on the laptop.

  Kay reached into the right-hand pocket of her bomber jacket and took out a small ampule. She slipped the plastic sheath off the needle attached to the ampule.

  “I have to know something, Anna. Why did you kill Scarlett?”

  “I just . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of her in one of those disgusting animal shelters, surrounded by homeless cats. I thought she’d be better off dead than to be put in a place that was no better than a prison.”

  “Well,” Kay said, “I guess you’re going to find out if being dead is better than prison,” and she slammed the needle into Mercer’s arm.

  Mercer’s eyes popped open; she looked terrified. She was probably thinking that Kay had poisoned her the way she’d poisoned poor Scarlett. “What did you do?” she said.

  Five seconds later, Mercer’s head fell onto the desk and Kay pulled her out of the chair and laid her on the floor. The drug Kay had just administered would keep Mercer unconscious for about two hours.

  —

  KAY WALKED to the front door of Mercer’s house and, using one of the small red remotes, disrupted power again to the floodlight-camera. She walked up the road in front of Mercer’s house—out of range of the camera—and punched the button on the remote a second time, restoring power to the camera.

  Kay got into her rental car, checked the time, then called Jackie. “Have one more martini, then meet me in front of the bar.”

  —

  JACKIE, as Kay instructed, ordered another martini—her third—and slowly poured the alcohol onto the rug under her table as she had done with the other two drinks she’d ordered. She then paid the bill with a Visa card that had the same numbers as Abigail Merchant’s Visa card, and walked outside the bar to find Kay waiting for her.

  “Where’s the Mercedes?” Kay asked.

  Jackie pointed; it was right across the street.

  Jackie and Kay walked over to the Mercedes. Jackie got behind the wheel and Kay into the passenger seat. Jackie was wearing thin black leather driving gloves.

  Kay called Jack. “We’re on our way,” she said.

  Jackie drove for approximately ten minutes and stopped. Kay called Jack again. “Call me when it’s clear.”

  “It�
��s clear now,” Jack said. “There’s not a fookin’ soul around.” At least, that’s what Kay thought he said.

  To Jackie, Kay said, “Don’t blow this. We’ve only got one shot.”

  Jackie didn’t respond—her lips just twitched in a brief smile—but Kay could see that she was excited.

  Kay stepped out of the car; Jack was waiting a block away. He was wearing a long-billed, much-abused baseball cap that partly obscured his unshaven face, a filthy ski jacket that had once been white, and dirty beige-colored khakis. He looked like he might be homeless. Kay wished she could get closer to where Jack was standing so she’d be able to see better, but couldn’t because she didn’t want to be captured by the CCTV camera at the intersection. She rapped twice on the roof of the Mercedes with her palm, and Jackie revved the engine like Danica Patrick on the starting line at the Daytona 500.

  —

  JACKIE STOMPED ON the gas pedal and then—traveling at approximately forty miles an hour—hit Jack crossing the intersection monitored by the CCTV camera. Jack was flung high into the air and landed in the gutter like a broken doll. Jackie hit the brakes after the collision, got out of her car, and, walking a bit unsteadily, went over to Jack. She had her hands over her mouth—like a woman who couldn’t believe what she’d just done—and the gesture helped obscure her face. Her hairstyle was completely visible, as was the trench coat she was wearing.

  Keeping her head down, Jackie touched Jack’s throat, looking for a pulse, then stood up, her back to the camera. She then appeared to look up and down the street, as if to see if anyone was nearby watching her. When she did this, she allowed the camera only the barest glimpse of her profile from the rear.

  Jackie dragged Jack over to the rear of the Mercedes, popped the trunk, lifted him into the trunk with some effort, and drove away.

  —

  JACKIE CIRCLED THE BLOCK and drove back to where Kay was waiting. She popped the trunk again, and Jack hopped out and flashed a grin at Kay.

  “You okay?” Kay asked Jack.