by Scott Blade
Peter said, “I remember.”
“How long has that been now?”
“Coming up on ten years, boss.”
The Broadcaster said, “Ten years. That makes you the longest running caretaker I’ve had for Bill.”
Peter said nothing.
The Broadcaster said, “You know, I can’t remember the name of the last caretaker. Or the one before that. Or the first one before that. You know why I can’t remember their names?”
Peter said nothing.
The Broadcaster said, “Peter? Are you there? I’m asking you a question.”
Peter swallowed and said, “I’m here.”
“I can’t remember their names because they were all replaceable. Is that you, Peter? Are you replaceable too?”
“No, boss. I’m good.”
The Broadcaster said, “In the last two weeks, you’ve allowed one private investigator to get close to us and now a stranger.”
Peter said nothing.
The Broadcaster said, “And you allowed Bill to escape you again. I need someone I can trust. Someone who isn’t replaceable. I need someone who can take care of Bill. Keep him out of trouble. You’ve done good for the last ten years. But you know what?”
“What, boss?”
“That’s in the past. I don’t care about the past. I care about the present and the future. Can you handle the future?”
Peter said, “Yes, boss. I won’t let you down again.”
“Good. If you do, you will be replaced. Find out who this guy is. If he’s nobody, get rid of him.”
“Get rid of him how?”
“If he’s just a stranger, then send him on his way. If not, take care of it. Keep it clean,” the Broadcaster said and clicked off the phone.
Peter was left listening to nothing but the rain and the shuffle of feet on wet concrete from the remaining stragglers trying to find shelter. The rain picked up, and the sky was so gray there was no telling where the sun was.
9
Widow and Liddy talked through the afternoon. They were strangers, but they got along like two neighboring passengers stuck on a long flight. They were strangers passing the time. No sense in not being friendly.
Widow slowed down on the coffee at a certain point. His body was in sync with his caffeine needs and told him it was time to slow. There was one point where Liddy had left him alone at the bar for twenty-plus minutes while he went off to take a phone call. Widow stayed behind and turned in his seat and saw an empty bar table. He took his remaining coffee and moved over to it, left the two empty seats at the bar for others to use. Within a moment, both seats were filled by new patrons.
Widow took his paperback copy of Into the Wild out and picked up where he left off.
He sat facing the front door, leaving the bar at his back, which wasn’t in his normal SOP, but he wasn’t worried about the patrons at the bar or anyone else for that matter. He stared out a window at the front for a while. He watched the rain and lightning. He saw the tops of boat masts in the window. He saw treetops across the shore and the roofs of buildings and the dark-gray sky. There was nothing else to see. He could tell it wasn’t dark yet because he could still see, even if it was barely anything at all.
The last two weeks out there in the Kodiak wilderness, Widow was familiar with Alaskan nights. They were cold. They were unrelenting. And they were dark. The darkness hadn't set in yet.
Widow turned his attention to the lobby and the lounge. He scanned the faces, the clothing, the gear some were wearing. Everyone appeared to be there for fishing, hunting, or just camping. They were all outdoorsy tourists. He noticed another thing about them. They all seemed wealthy. It was the way most of them carried themselves—the looks on their faces, the straight postures, and the demeanors.
He noticed another thing. They weren’t all American. In fact, more than half of them seemed foreign. There was an obvious group of Russian businessmen that sat in a corner over by a massive stone fireplace. They smoked cigars, sipped on cognac from snifters, and spoke in Russian. They were laughing and having a nice time. Widow saw a group of Asian men who looked similar, only they didn’t sip on cognac. They had sake cups with sake in them. And there was a group of Middle Easterners that looked like they could’ve been Saudi royal family.
Widow couldn’t understand much of what anyone was saying. He picked up some Russian words and phrases here and there, but it was all elementary.
Liddy was doing well for himself to have patronage with such diversity and—what Widow assumed—money. But why come to Alaska to sportfish?
Widow thought about it for a moment, and it seemed plausible that Russians and Asians might come. Asia was right there. Technically, Russia was less than seven hundred and fifty miles away from Widow at that moment. Still, it was an impressive client list for a nobody businessman from Alaska.
Widow checked over his shoulder and looked back at the bar. He saw a clock on the wall behind the bar. It was ten past four in the afternoon. The sun would be going down soon. Not that anyone could tell because of how gray it was outside. He turned his attention back to the lounge and saw a woman walk in out of the rain. Her clothes were wet. Her hair was wet. She looked like a local. It was something about the way she came in. She dashed her shoes across the doormat and turned to the fireplace. She walked over to it and stood there warming herself.
She was attractive but young—too young for Widow. She might’ve been old enough to drink, but that didn’t make her old enough for his age range.
There was a tattoo across her hand. It snaked up the sleeve of her coat. She had two facial piercings. Nothing obscene or excessive. Widow had seen more piercings on former sailors.
Widow looked away and took a pull from his coffee. After a few seconds, he glanced back and watched the girl casually. She looked around the room and saw the Russians and walked over to them. She stopped near them and looked them over. Her eyes scanned the faces like she was looking for one in particular. The Russians paid her no attention. She sauntered over to the fireplace and stuck her hands out. She warmed herself and turned and smiled at them. She interrupted them and started talking with them in English. None of them paid her any mind at first. Two of them looked up at her with a quick once-over, like lazy security guards. There was also a hint of something else in their look. Widow saw judgment, like they knew her and didn’t think very highly of her.
She turned away and took off her coat and hung it on a coatrack. Without the coat, she looked like a different woman entirely. She wore a halter top that left little to the imagination. It was black, her pants were also black, but they were shiny like leather, but fake leather. The tip of the tattoo that Widow had seen on her hand snaked up her whole left arm and vanished into her top. It was colorful but faded like an original, centuries-old painting. She was pale white, had blond hair, and was tall. She was slender in the way that young people often were—revved up metabolisms will do that. But Widow couldn’t rule out drug use as being a contributing factor. Not that she looked like a street junkie or anything. She was a very attractive woman, just out of place.
She started talking with one of the Russians. Widow guessed he was the head of their outfit, whatever it was. The main Russian was the youngest in the group but was the best dressed. His hair was slick backed; he was clean-shaven. He looked like the son of someone important, but he also looked like he took a page out of every Russian gangster movie he’d ever seen. Like the others, his coat hung on the rack, and underneath, he wore black turtleneck sweater, black chinos, and polished boots. He sported a gold chain, visible because of the loose top buttons on his dress shirt. He wore gold rings and a watch that looked like it cost more than all four of Liddy’s four-wheelers. The other Russians were his entourage and were probably bodyguards too. He looked like the kind of guy who gets messed with a lot—the kind that runs their mouth off so much he needs bodyguards.
One of the potential bodyguards, took note that Widow was watching. He craned his nec
k and the two made eye contact. Widow glanced away for a spell, like he was just casually watching the room. Then he came back to the girl and the Russians. The bodyguard had looked back to his associates.
They were out of earshot, but Widow caught the gist of it. She was flirting with them. A minute later, she was invited to join them. She sat between two of them. They laughed and talked. It wasn’t long before she was sitting on one of their laps.
Between the drinks and laughter, the Russian and the girl seemed to be having a good time.
Widow went back to his coffee.
10
The rain settled five minutes to eight o’clock in the evening. But it made no sense to return to Kodiak now, not by plane or any other method of travel. It was dark and cold and wet. Besides, the rain and the thunder could start back up at any point. Better not to risk it.
Widow was already comfortable in a bungalow.
A few hours earlier, Liddy returned to the lounge and told Widow they were throwing a party there later. Liddy had to get showered and attend the party himself. There was no way around it. It was expected of him, like it was some sort of corporate function, like a convention. New clients come to town, and the big boss has to be there to mingle, rub elbows, shake hands. It was that sort of thing.
He invited Widow to attend. Widow thanked him but declined the invitation. He still wasn’t ready to mingle with people just yet. Liddy told him Peter couldn’t fly him tonight. It would have to wait until morning because of the weather. Plus, Liddy had no idea where Peter was. Technically, he was off work and could be anywhere. Liddy said Peter was the only licensed pilot on the premises at that moment. It didn’t matter. Widow was in no hurry to get going. Why would he be? He had nowhere to go to and all the time in the world to get there.
Liddy instructed a front desk attendant to set Widow up with a room. The desk attendant gave him a key to one of their bungalows, which was out of the main lodge and down the sidewalk, which turned to a footpath. The desk worker gave Widow instructions on how to get there. Widow thanked him and took his rucksack. He headed out the door and followed the path. It straddled parallel with the shoreline and led Widow past a sequence of buildings, some on stilts, some not, until finally it veered to the left and went into a wooded area behind the main path. He followed it. The only thing lighting the path were tiki torch–style lanterns here and there. He walked until he found the bungalow, which was nothing more than a one-story, two-room hut. He unlocked it with the key and entered.
The inside was pretty nice. There was expensive furniture and a woodburning stove, a heater, modern amenities, and a huge bed. The hut reminded him more of a suite you might get on one of those island resorts in the Maldives or Aruba. The bed was made and covered with a bearskin comforter. He knew it was fake, but it felt real.
The floors were wood, and the walls were brick tile. There was a small kitchen area in one corner and a large bathroom. The bathroom was the second room. It was massive. There was some nice stonework inside the bathroom. There was a standup shower and a jet tub next to it.
Widow smiled at the tub. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a bath with jets. Luckily, Liddy’s Lodge provided toiletries already. Stacked on a counter next to the sink was a tray with little bottles of soap, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, an unopened stack of two toilet paper rolls, and towels. There was even a little plastic toothbrush. It was small—palm-sized.
Widow entered the bungalow, shut and locked the door behind him. He placed his rucksack on a chair and went over to the heater. He clicked it on. Within fifteen minutes, the bungalow was pretty warm.
Widow hadn’t showered in weeks. He had been washing himself at rivers and streams across the Kodiak wilderness, which was always cold. He wanted a warm shower more than anything. He walked into the bathroom and reached into the shower stall and turned the water to hot. He ran his fingers under the spray. He waited and felt it go from cold to warm to warmer. He backed out and took his clothes off. He hung his coat on the back of the same chair with his rucksack even though there was a closet with hangers. He kicked off his hiking shoes and left them near the door. His socks, jeans, flannel, undershirt, and underwear all came off next. In his rucksack, he had two changes of underwear and two changes of socks. Two nights back, he washed the underwear and socks in the river and set them out to dry near a campfire. They were clean. The jeans and the undershirt and the flannel were more than two days dirty. With the hot water from the bathroom sink, he filled the sink, set the stopper to keep the water from draining. He dumped some soap out into the water and scrubbed his jeans over the sink until he was satisfied. Then he left the jeans in the sink to soak. He repeated the whole process with both the undershirt and the flannel.
Once he finished, he threw his worn underwear and socks in the trash in the kitchen. He returned to the bathroom. The mirror was fogged up. The water out of the shower was finally hot. He adjusted the temperature to his satisfaction and showered.
Afterward, he stepped out of the shower, toweled dry, and tucked the towel around his waist. He stepped to the sink and burnished a hand across the mirror, wiping a streak across it so he could see himself. He pressed the stopper release, and the water in the sink drained.
Widow picked up his jeans and straightened them out and draped them over the shower to dry. He did the same with his undershirt and flannel, making sure all three were laid out to dry and straight themselves out.
He went back to the mirror, rewiped a streak across it. He opened the new disposable toothbrush out of its plastic. He opened the toothpaste tube and brushed his teeth.
After, he returned to the main room and laid down on the bed over the comforter. That’s when he noticed the bungalow had no television, which he really liked. He never watched TV unless it was playing on mute above a counter at a diner.
Widow stayed in his towel over the bed covers. The only lights on in the room were from the kitchen light and the bathroom. Widow left them on and got out his paperback book and dove into it. He read it until he drifted off to sleep.
11
Widow woke up to a knock at the door. It was slight and small and meek, like the person was nervous to knock or nervous that they might disturb Widow.
Widow opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. His legs sprawled halfway out of his towel. He sat up and looked out a nearby window. The glass was spotless—clean enough to confuse and kill a bird. It faced away from the backside of the bungalow. Through it, he saw darkness and trees and nothing else. The leaves on the branches were wet. The wind blew the trees into a rhythmic sway. The branches maneuvered up and down. The leaves danced around like candles. The rain had stopped.
Widow heard the slight knock again. He rubbed his eyes and got up off the bed. The towel nearly slid all the way off him. He caught it and adjusted it. He retucked the whole thing and made sure it was secure and then headed to the door.
The person knocked on the door again. This time it was harder, louder, and more pervasive.
“I’m coming,” Widow said.
He walked past the end of the bed, the kitchen, the open bathroom door, and the chair with his rucksack and coat. He stopped in front of the door. He was going to peek through the spyhole, but there wasn’t one. There was no window next to the door either. He only had two courses of action to choose from. He could open the door or not. There was no chain on the door either—only the one dead bolt. He unlocked it and opened the door all the way.
Standing in front of the door on a bamboo welcome mat was the tattooed girl from the lounge. Her hair was damp and strung out like she had been standing out in the rain maybe thirty minutes earlier. She was in the same clothes—the same halter top under the same coat. It was opened up so that the halter top and her midriff showed either more of the same tattoo that Widow had seen earlier or a whole different one.
The girl’s eyes were glossy, and her breath smelled of alcohol.
She looked at Widow but didn’t spea
k. She stared at his torso like she had never seen a man in a towel before. That wasn’t why she stared at him. Widow’s torso wasn’t like the average man’s. He had abs as hard as lava rocks. His pectoralis major was big and solid, like a breastplate forged for medieval armor. His shoulders were cut so broad the girl figured she and one of her friends could sit up there, one on each side like a ski lift.
Her eyes traced from the bottom of Widow’s torso, up his arms, his chest, his shoulders, until finally she met his eyes.
Widow didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. He just stared down at her and said, “Are you lost?”
The tattooed girl looked at his arms, which were covered in sleeve tattoos, all meaning something to him. Some had deep meanings; others were from undercover operations. They were all reminders of his past life.
The tattooed girl reached in and gently grabbed Widow’s left arm. She ran her fingers down his sleeve tattoos. At the same time, she pushed her way past him and entered his bungalow. She walked in and looked around and spun once, slipping her coat off. She tossed it over his coat on the back of the chair.
Widow left the door open and spun around, following her with his eyes. He watched her do the whole thing.
He asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m visiting you, honey.”
Widow arched an eyebrow. This woman wasn’t drunk. She walked straight enough, but she must’ve been tipsy enough to be confused.
He said, “I don’t know you. This is my room.”
“Well, I know that, honey,” she said.
He asked, “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Widow looked back out the door to see if someone was following her or intimidating her. But there was no one there. No one lingering back on the path. He saw no one.
Widow turned back to her and repeated his question. “Are you in trouble?”
