Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  Chapter 9

  December 2nd, 1:42 AM EST; Times Square; New York City, New York.

  Under an orange night sky devoid of stars, Paul Renner walked along Times Square like a tourist. He wore a Rent hoodie and blue jeans, and took his time. He gawked at the billboards. He wasn't acting. He'd never paid much attention to the new, commercialized New York created by Mayor Giuliani. Sure, his time had passed, but the changes wrought by his predecessor had endured.

  Gone were the titty bars and porno theaters. Walt Disney had replaced Peekaboo Theater, the world's largest Toys 'R Us instead of the Bunny Hop Lounge. Even at this hour, tourists lined the streets instead of the winos and drunkards Paul was accustomed to. He was so used to the run-down Manhattan of earlier days he couldn't quite believe the pleasant environment that awaited the modern New Yorker.

  He ambled south toward downtown. He took his time and enjoyed the sights. Art galleries, upscale eateries, trendy cafés. Throw in a couple Starbucks to supply the city with five-dollar coffee and you get a New York Paul could just about live in full-time.

  He wandered through the half-empty streets, marveling at the lack of horn-honking and general litter. Bored, he wasn't sure what he was looking for, and was leery of using Internet dating sites since the near-miss with the Feds in Salt Lake. He wasn't sure how they'd found him, so he needed to be careful.

  He caught a midnight showing of some action flick, a spy thriller starring Matt Damon. It was grotesquely unbelievable but fun nonetheless. He left the theater and was buying a Pop Tart from a news stand when he noticed a man following him. He turned north, toward Central Park, and picked up his pace. It was never truly dark in New York, but the park was as close as it got.

  The guy was a good tail. He changed his appearance every few blocks with different hats and a reversible jacket. Paul kept track of him by the length of his stride and pattern of his gait. Goddamn Feds, he thought.

  Walking north past Central Park, Paul cut east. He found the perfect observation post, a below-ground entrance to an ugly cinderblock apartment building. The stairs went down a full story to a lime-green door and were shielded on both sides with short concrete walls.

  Crouched a third of the way down, he waited to see if his quarry would walk past. He made no sound that wouldn't be masked by the slight breeze through the streets and the general noise of the city. Paul wasn't used to being stalked and found the sensation uncomfortable. At least I have the courtesy of killing my prey while they're clueless, he thought. He waited five minutes, then peeked out from his hiding place.

  A blinding flash of pain screamed through his head and spun him to his knees on the stairs. Hot, wet blood streamed down his scalp in a river, the pain a burning reminder that he was both alive and lucky to be so. The concrete battered his body as he rolled to the bottom of the stairs. He accepted the bruises as payment for his continued life. He hadn't heard a gunshot. No Miranda rights. No warning shot. This asshole's trying to kill me. Survival instinct was no stranger to Paul. The righteous anger that accompanied it was.

  Paul pulled the snub-nosed .38 revolver from his ankle holster and wished he had something with more punch on hand. He wiped at the blood that flowed down his face and into his eyes. I've got to be able to see. He knew it was a losing battle; head wounds bled too much to control without a serious bandage. Without taking his eyes from the street, he backed into the door of the basement apartment and tried the doorknob.

  A slow but frantic turn to the left met resistance, and a turn to the right verified the fact. Shit. Trapped. The safety-glass window was imbedded with chicken wire.

  He ducked into the corner, his eyes closed tight to adjust them to the new level of darkness as quickly as possible. He then stood to his full height and snapped his eyes wide open. He scanned the street, just barely visible above the top of the steps, and looked for any sign of movement. He grunted at a sudden impact to his right shoulder. The revolver fell from his hand, clattering to the pavement at his feet. The wound didn't hurt, per se. Not yet. He knew it would later, though, when the adrenaline wore off. If there was a later.

  The little .38 was no good outside of ten feet. Paul fell on the pistol and played dead to bait the man closer. A red blackness threatened to consume his vision, and he fought against the shock that pulled him down into a sleep from which he would never wake. He gripped the gun left-handed, willed himself to alert stillness and waited for his killer to approach. Hopefully, I can kill this bastard before I pass out.

  Twenty seconds later, the silhouette of a man appeared at the top of the stairs. The silenced pistol in his right hand was blackened to avoid any unwanted reflection from the streetlights or the moon. The man didn't waste any time trying to explain, to ask questions, or to get him to beg for mercy. He raised the pistol in one smooth motion.

  Paul gritted his teeth against the agony in his arm and squeezed the trigger.

  Two shots shattered the relative silence of the deserted street with the double-tap all too common in neighborhoods farther north. A small hole appeared in the assassin's left eye. Paul knew there wouldn't be an exit wound from the tiny, low-power round. The second shot followed right behind, blazing through the hole bored by the first bullet. The man collapsed in a heap as Paul crawled up the stairs, scanning the street for any backup as he did so.

  Aside from the wind, nothing stirred. A car passed by on the cross-street, followed by another. With a grimace of pain, Paul pulled his emergency oxycodone out of his pocket. He couldn't open the cap; his right hand wasn't responding properly.

  He used his teeth to hold the bottle and cranked off the cap with his left hand. He chewed up three of the narcotics dry. His face contorted against the harsh taste. He slapped the lid back on, then stood. He swooned but caught himself on the wall. He stumbled toward the street and dropped to his knees in front of the corpse.

  Paul winced at the pain in his shoulder. That's going to bruise. Feeling slowly returned to his right hand as the narcotics kicked in. He looked down at the small hole in his hoodie. This is why we wear our bulletproof vests, kiddies, he thought. As far as he was concerned, "unhealthy paranoia" was an oxymoron.

  Paul tore the man's shirt in half and yanked it off the body. He twisted it into a makeshift bandana and used it to bandage his torn scalp. He pulled it tight, then put up the hood to cover the bandage.

  A quick search of the body revealed a backup 9mm, which he ignored, and a complete lack of identification. Whoever he was, Paul didn't recognize him. He left the silenced pistol on the sidewalk and rose, steadying himself against the light pole.

  Paul stumbled off toward the lighted street to the east, his thoughts ablaze.

  * * *

  December 12th, 6:18 PM CST; Glenview Manor Apartments, Apartment 4A; St. Louis, Missouri.

  Larry Johnson stood in the neighbor's apartment, cutting tomatoes on the tiny kitchen counter. Every night he'd cook, Josh would clean up, and they'd commiserate about the "joys" of being confined to witness protection for over a year. At least Josh gets paid for it. He chided himself for the un-Christian thought. He didn't need the money, anyway. What he needed was for Palomini's team to do their jobs so he could go home. Smuggled, middle-of-the-night visits from his loved ones weren't enough.

  Agent Barnhoorn was coming over to check in and inform him of the lack of progress, just as he did every couple of weeks, so sausage-stuffed tomatoes were on the menu. "Hey, Josh!" he called.

  "Yeah," Josh replied from in front of the television.

  "Can you come in here and get me down the bread crumbs?"

  "No problem," Josh said. He came into the kitchen and opened the cupboard, took down the can of crumbs, and set it on the counter. Larry looked at Josh's neck. Something was wrong, something missing. Something out of place. He looked harder, searching.

  "What?" Josh asked.

  Larry thrust the seven-inch knife into the side of Josh's neck. That's better. Josh stumbled backward, his eyes open wide in shock. Larry
kept a firm grip on the knife, and it came free with a wet rip. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, splattering the kitchen in a shower of gore. Josh pressed both hands to his neck. He tried to speak, an inarticulate, wet, burbling sound. That doesn't sound good. Larry stabbed him in the chest and the sound stopped. That's better. He pulled the knife free, and Josh Santee's body dropped to the floor.

  The apartment was quiet. Something was missing. Larry stepped to the door and opened it, searching the hallway. There was nobody there. Downstairs, a TV blared. He walked down the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door to apartment 3A. There was something out of place. Why is my hand wet? He absentmindedly wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, then knocked again.

  A woman's voice responded. He didn't understand what she said. The door opened a crack, revealing a wide-eyed woman in jeans and a tank top. She looked familiar. She babbled something. There was something wrong with her. He thrust through the crack in the door, burying the knife in her abdomen. That's better.

  He threw his weight against the door, shredding the security-chain housing and forcing his way into the apartment. A fat man sat on the couch, holding a beer, his eyes wide with shock. There was something wrong with him.

  Robbie pulled into the parking lot, grabbed the Italian rolls off the front seat, and headed for the back door. A woman shrieked. He took the stairs two at a time, his service revolver drawn. The screaming stopped as he reached the third-floor landing.

  He listened at the fire door. Behind it, he heard panting. He grabbed the handle with his left hand and pulled. He rolled his body around the door, weapon-hand leading. At the end of the hall, Larry Johnson sat on the floor with a young woman. She lay on her stomach, but her head rested face-up in his lap, her eyes wide open. They were both covered in blood, as were the walls and floor. Naked feet stuck out from the doorway to 3B. A pool of blood spread into the hall.

  "Jesus Christ, Larry," Robbie said. "What happened?"

  Larry looked up at the sound of his voice, a puzzled look on his face. He staggered to his feet, dropping the woman to the floor, then bent over and picked up a kitchen knife.

  "Larry?"

  No response.

  Larry walked toward him, holding the knife with white knuckles.

  "Larry?" Robbie choked up the revolver. Larry took another step. "Put the knife down, Larry." He took another step. He was ten feet away.

  Robbie aimed the revolver at Larry's right thigh. "One more step and I'll have to shoot you, Larry." Larry took another step. Robbie pulled the trigger. The bullet entered and exited the leg in the blink of an eye, a clean shot straight through the muscle. Without reaction, Larry Johnson took another step. Oh, shit, Robbie thought.

  Robbie shot him in the other leg. Larry fell to the ground without so much as a whimper. He stabbed the knife into the floor and used it to pull himself forward an arm's length, dragging his face across the floor without bothering to lift his head. He did it again. Robbie got out his handcuffs and stepped on Larry's wrist to pin the knife in place.

  Larry grabbed Robbie's ankle with his other hand and yanked him off his feet. Robbie hit the ground hard; the handcuffs clattered across the floor, but he managed to keep hold of the gun. Kicking frantically, he tried to dislodge Larry's hand. Larry didn't react, as if he didn't even feel it. His scratched face still looked befuddled as he yanked the knife from the floor and looked from Robbie's face to the ankle he still held.

  "Don't," Robbie said. He aimed the pistol down the length of his body, right at the top of Larry's head. "Please." Larry raised the knife. Robbie shot him through the cranium at point-blank range. Larry's head dropped to the ground, and his body relaxed. The knife clattered to the floor. Blood gushed from the wound, thick and red.

  Robbie scrambled to his feet and took out his phone. He stared at the body as he auto-dialed his office. A pleasant male voice answered the phone, "FBI St. Louis, Agent Barnhoorn's office."

  "Chet, we have multiple civilians and maybe some officers down. I need an ambulance, police, and forensics at the Glenview safe house. Send a team, maybe two. I'm not sure this is over." The calm of his own voice surprised him. He couldn't stop shaking.

  "Got it, Robert," Chet replied.

  "And Chet? Contact Gene Palomini and Doug Goldman."

  * * *

  December 24th, 6:28pm CST; Home of Agent Robert Barnhoorn; St. Louis, Missouri.

  Doug wiped up the juices from the Christmas ham with a piece of bread and shoved it whole into his mouth. He dumped his plate in the sink and returned to the living room.

  Robbie's house was an explosion of holiday cheer. Wreaths hung from every wall, electric candles sparkled in every window, and the Christmas tree dominated the living room. A mound of presents spilled out from beneath it in perfectly orchestrated chaos. Seven-year-old Evan Barnhoorn lurked nearby, never too far from the tree.

  Maureen sat with Marcy, nursing little Christine while Grace squirmed in her bassinette. Doug scooped her up one-handed and tickled her belly. She giggled.

  He sat on the couch and grinned at Robbie. "I can't believe it's their first Christmas already."

  Robbie grinned back. "I can't believe it's Evan's seventh. They get so big so fast." Marcy beamed at him from across the room. He leaned in and frowned. "Marcy wants to try for more."

  Doug avoided looking at Maureen. "Mo's exhausted all the time. I don't know how she does it, between the kids and her clients. But she's already said she wants more. We'll have to see."

  The phone rang. Robbie hopped up and grabbed the phone from the cradle. He looked at the caller ID, frowned, and walked out of the room. Marcy looked at Doug. He shrugged, then rubbed noses with his daughter, cooing.

  Robbie walked back into the room and put the phone back on the charger. "Work," he said. "Nothing that can't wait." He nudged Doug with his foot. "Help me with these dishes, will you?"

  Subtle, Doug thought. He stood and followed Robbie into the kitchen. "What's up?"

  "Larry's toxicology came back negative."

  Doug frowned. "That's impossible."

  Robbie grabbed a sponge and turned on the sink. "Maybe, but it's true. Clean as clean. He had some needle scars, but they were old. Very old." He washed a plate and handed it to Doug, who grabbed the dish towel off the stove handle and dried it. He put it in the drainer.

  "No brain tumor, no chemical imbalance, no drugs. How the hell did Renner do it?"

  "I don't know," Robbie said. "I don't know."

  Marcy let Evan open one present, an Optimus Prime action figure the size of Doug's arm, then put him to bed. Marcy and Maureen headed upstairs to tuck in the girls while Doug and Robbie stuffed stockings. The house smelled of cinnamon.

  Robbie looked pointedly toward the stairs. "Does she know?"

  Doug shoved a handful of Tootsie Rolls into a red-and-green sock. "No, not yet."

  Robbie sucked air through his teeth. "What are you going to tell her?"

  "I don't know. The truth. We have to catch this bastard. We have to."

  "Right. But she already knows that. What about after?"

  Doug leaned his head against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. "After that, there are ten thousand more just like him." He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "The world is full of monsters, and if men like us don't catch them, what happens to our children?"

  "Men like you," Robbie said.

  "What?"

  "Men like you catch monsters. I push pencils. I'd never fired my weapon, never even drawn it, on duty. It's…." He looked at Doug, stricken.

  "It's not what you think," Doug finished for him.

  Robbie shook his head. "It's the most terrible thing I've ever done. And God help me for saying it, that's why we need men like you. To do what the rest of us can't."

  Doug said nothing. He picked up another handful of candy and shoved it into a stocking.

  "Hey, Doug?" Robbie asked.

  "Yeah?"

  "You need to tell her s
oon."

  "I know," Doug said. "I'll get to it. Just as soon as I know what I'm going to do."

  On the staircase, Maureen listened silently and wept.

  * * *

  January 1st, 7:02 AM EST; Gene Palomini's Apartment; Washington, D.C.

  The ring of Gene's cell phone shattered through the bars of Auld Lang Syne that ran through his dream. He sat up with a start, spilling leftover popcorn all over the floor. He lay on the couch in his boxer shorts, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and an enormous pile of beer bottles. He'd shut the TV off six hours earlier, ten minutes after the last guest had left. The phone rang again. He knocked over several empties and fumbled for the phone he knew was somewhere on the coffee table.

  What kind of monster calls at 7 AM on New Year's Day? He found the phone and managed to pick it up. He stared at the tiny screen with sleep-bleary eyes and tried to read the caller ID. It snapped into focus, and he smiled. Finally! It had been almost two months since they'd sent the fake job to Paul Renner.

  The entire team feared for Burton's life. Paul might not alert them to every job that he did, and Gene feared he would try to kill the man without ever calling. That thought had occurred to Mark Burton, but he'd signed up anyway. Gene worried that six undercover bodyguards might not be enough.

  Gene had no idea where he'd put his micro-bead. He cleared his throat and hit "send."

  "Hello?"

  The voice wasn't even disguised. "Hello, Special Agent Palomini. How's Carl's arm?"

  "Go screw yourself," Gene replied.

  "California," was all he said. And then the line went dead.