Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “Change it,” Hawk said softly and the driver squirmed around and got to his knees and started on the tire. Curley was on his face with his hands pressed over his ears as if he had a headache that any sound would pierce. He rocked slightly as he lay there.

  No one spoke while the driver changed the tire. I could feel Russell’s breathing, steady as we pressed together. And the pulse in his neck was fast against my forearm.

  The driver finished.

  I said to Hawk, “Check the lugs.”

  Holding the lug wrench in one hand, and keeping the gun leveled with the other, Hawk squatted on his haunches and tested each of the lugs.

  “They tight,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said to Russell, “down, hands behind the head. Like the guards.”

  “No,” he said. “I won’t lie down for you.”

  He was wearing a gun tucked back of his right hipbone. I could feel it as I pressed against him. I moved my left arm from under his chin and reached around and unsnapped the holster and took the gun. It was a .32 Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special. With my gun still screwed in his ear, I pitched the .32 backhand into the darkness behind me.

  “Susan, get in the van.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Suze,” I said.

  She went to the van. And got in.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to drive, and Hawk’s going to lean out the side door and stare at you with one of the Uzis and if you move while we’re in sight he’ll kill you.”

  I stepped away from Russell. And got into the driver’s seat of the van. Russell stared at me and I looked back and our eyes locked. And held. It was a look of hatred and knowledge and it held unwavering while Hawk got in the backseat and picked up an Uzi. He held it level out the door while I put the van in drive by feel, still with my eyes locked on Russell, and took the emergency brake off and the van began to roll. And then I tromped on the accelerator and the van surged back up onto the pavement and we were gone.

  The silence as we drove east on Route 44 was as strange as I can remember. Hawk and Susan were in back and I drove. Hawk seemed to be resting, his head back, his eyes closed, his arms folded over his chest. Susan sat erect, her hands in her lap, looking straight ahead.

  At Avon I turned north on Route 202 toward Springfield and at the intersection of Route 309 in a town called Simsbury I pulled over to the side. It was three fifteen in the morning. Routes 202 and 309 are the kind that are marked with very thin lines on the road map. Simsbury was rural Connecticut, close enough to Hartford for commuters, but far enough out for horses if you wished.

  I glanced back at Susan. She was leaning forward with her face in her hands. She rocked very slightly. I looked back at the road and then adjusted the rearview mirror so I could see her. In the mirror I saw Hawk lean forward and put his hands on each of Susan’s shoulders and pull her up and over toward him.

  “You all right,” he said. “You be all right in a while.”

  She put her face, still pressed into her hands, against Hawk’s chest and didn’t move. Hawk put his left arm around her and patted her shoulder with his left hand.

  “Be all right,” he said. “Be all right.”

  My hands on the wheel were wet with sweat.

  CHAPTER 38

  For someone who hadn’t slept all night, Susan looked good. Her hair was tangled and she had no makeup on. But her eyes were clear and her skin looked smooth and healthy. She broke the end off her croissant and ate it.

  “Whole wheat,” I said. “You can get them at the Bread and Circus in Cambridge.”

  “I’ll bet you fit right in, shopping there.”

  “Like a moose at a butterfly convention,” I said. “But the Shamrock Tavern in Southie doesn’t carry them.”

  Susan nodded and broke off another small piece.

  “Not many people your size in Bread and Circus, I suppose.”

  “Only one,” I said, “and she’s nowhere near as cute.”

  I poured more coffee from the percolator into my cup and a little more into Susan’s. It was early and the light coming in the window was still tinged with the color of sunrise. Hawk was asleep. Susan and I sat at the table in the safe house in Charlestown feeling the strangeness and the uncertainty, wary of pain, slowly circling the conversation.

  “You got my letter,” Susan said. She was holding the coffee cup with both hands and looking over the rim of it at me.

  “About Hawk? Yes.”

  “And you got him out of jail.”

  “Un huh.”

  “And you both came looking for me.”

  “Un huh.”

  “I knew that security intensified. Russ always traveled with bodyguards, but a little while after I wrote you, everything got much more serious.”

  “Where were you when it got serious,” I said.

  “At a lodge Russ has in Washington State.”

  “Had,” I said.

  “Had?”

  “We burned it down.”

  “My God,” Susan said. “We were there to fish for trout, but one day Russ said we had to go to Connecticut. He said we could fish the Farmington River instead.”

  “They were setting an ambush for us.”

  “Which didn’t work.”

  “No.”

  Susan drank her coffee, and kept looking at me over the rim.

  “Start from the beginning,” she said. “And tell me everything that happened up to last night.”

  My eyes felt scratchy and I was jittery with coffee and raw from sleeplessness. I finished my croissant and got up and put another one in the oven to warm. I took an orange from the bowl on the counter and began to peel it.

  “I had a leg cast made with a gun in the foot. Then I got myself arrested in Mill River and when they put me in jail I produced the gun and Hawk and I left.”

  The smell of the orange peel brightened the room. It was a domestic smell, a smell of Sunday morning mingling with the smell of coffee and warming bread.

  “ ‘Death is the mother of Beauty,’ ” I said.

  Susan raised her eyebrows, like she did when something puzzled her.

  “Poem by Wallace Stevens,” I said. “The possibility of loss is what makes things valuable.”

  Susan smiled. “Tell me what happened,” she said over the rim of the cup.

  I did, chronologically. I paused occasionally to eat a segment of orange and then, when it was heated, to eat a second croissant. Susan poured more coffee for me when the cup was empty.

  “And here we are,” I said when I finished.

  “What did you think of Dr. Hilliard,” Susan said.

  “I didn’t spend enough time with her to think much,” I said. “She’s smart. She can decide things and act on what she’s decided. She seems to care about you.”

  Susan nodded.

  “Now you have me and you haven’t done anything about Jerry,” she said. “What about that.”

  “We’ll still have to do something about Jerry,” I said. “We have a lot of things we can be arrested for and unless we get the feds to bury them, we’ll have to be on the dodge for the rest of our lives.”

  “And you couldn’t be acquitted if you gave yourselves up and went to court?”

  “Susan, we did the things we’re accused of. We’re guilty. Hawk did kill a guy. I did bust him out of jail. And all the rest.”

  Susan had put her cup down. Most of the coffee was still in it. It had the little iridescent swirls on the surface that cold coffee gets.

  “You have to kill Jerry Costigan or go to jail.”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of a government is that? To give you that kind of choice?”

  “The usual kind,” I said.

  “They’ve required you to be simply a paid assassin.”

  “They helped me find you,” I said.

  She nodded. There was a small rounded end of croissant on her plate. She rolled it between her fingers, looking at it and not seeing it.

  �
��And,” I said, “we have annoyed the daylights out of Jerry Costigan. We have burned down his lodge, trashed his factory, invaded his home, taken his son’s girl friend, killed some of his people.”

  “Yes,” Susan said.

  “You think he’ll shrug and put another record on the Gramophone?”

  “No,” she said. “He’ll hunt you down and have you killed.” Her voice was quiet and clear, but flat, the way it had been in the car last night.

  “Or vice versa,” I said.

  Susan stood and began to clear the table of the cups and plates. She rinsed them under the running water and put them on the drainboard. Without turning from the sink she said, “What about Russ?”

  “My question exactly,” I said.

  She rinsed the second cup and put it on the drainboard and shut off the faucet and turned toward me. She leaned her hips against the sink. She shook her head. “I don’t know how …” she said.

  I waited.

  She took a deep breath. She picked up a pink sponge from the sink and wet it and wrung it out and wiped off the table and put the sponge back. She walked into the living room and looked out the window. Then she walked over to the couch and sat on it and put her feet on the coffee table. I turned in my chair at the table and looked at her.

  “First, you understand. I love you,” she said.

  I nodded. She took her feet off the coffee table and stood and walked to the window again. There was a pencil on the window ledge. She picked it up and carried it back to the sofa and sat again and put her feet back on the coffee table. She turned the pencil between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

  “My relationship with Russ is a real relationship,” she said.

  She turned the pencil between her hands.

  “It didn’t start out that way. It started to be a gesture of freedom and maturity.”

  She paused and looked at the pencil in her hands and tapped her left thumb with the pencil and sucked on her lower lip. I was quiet.

  Susan nodded. “It’s hard,” she said. “The work with Dr. Hilliard.”

  “I imagine,” I said. “I imagine it takes will and courage and intelligence.”

  Susan nodded again. The pencil turned slowly in her hands.

  “You have those things in great number,” I said.

  Susan stood again and walked to the window.

  “Growing up …” She was looking out the window again as she spoke. “You don’t have any siblings, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I was the youngest,” she said. She walked from the window to the kitchen and picked up the bowl of oranges and brought them into the living room and put them on the table. Then she sat on the sofa again. “When you came back from California and asked more from me, needed me to help you recover from failure, needed the support of a whole person, there wasn’t enough of me for the job.”

  I sat without moving in the imitation leather armchair across from her.

  She stood again and went to the kitchen and got a glass of water and drank a third of it and put the partly full glass on the counter. She came to the entry between the kitchen and the living room and leaned against the entry wall and folded her arms.

  “You did help,” I said.

  “No. I was the thing you used to help yourself. You projected your strength and love onto me and used it to feel better. In a sense I never knew if you loved me or merely loved the projection of yourself, an idealized …” She shrugged and shook her head.

  “So you found someone who didn’t idealize you.”

  She unfolded her arms and picked up the pencil again and began to turn it. Her throat moved as she swallowed. She put her feet up on the coffee table and crossed her ankles.

  “You can’t have us both,” I said. “I’d be pleased to spend the rest of my life working on this relationship. That includes the damage your childhood did you, the damage I did you. But it doesn’t include Russell. He goes or I do.”

  “You’ll leave me?” Susan said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “If I don’t give up Russell?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You could have killed him in Connecticut.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know as much as you know, about civilization and its discontents. But I know if you are going to be whole, you’ve got to resolve this with Russell, and if he dies before you do, you’ll be robbed of that chance.”

  Susan leaned forward on the couch, her feet still on the coffee table, like someone doing a sit-up. She held the pencil still between her hands.

  “You do love me,” she said.

  “I do, I always have.”

  She leaned back on the couch. She swallowed visibly again, and began to tap her chin with the eraser end of the pencil.

  “I cannot imagine a life without you,” she said.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” I said. “If Russell’s in your life I won’t be.”

  “I know,” she said. “I can’t give him up either.”

  “I can’t force you to,” I said. “But I can force you to give me up. And I will.”

  Susan shifted on the couch.

  She said, “I’ll have to give him up.”

  “If t’were be done, t’were well it be done quickly,” I said.

  She shook her head and folded her arms and hugged herself, the pencil still in her right hand.

  “What are you waiting for,” I said.

  “The strength,” she said.

  CHAPTER 39

  “You’re making progress,” Ives said. “but don’t think because you have the maiden back that you don’t have to slay the dragon.”

  Hawk and I were walking on either side of Ives along the waterfront down Atlantic Avenue. Everywhere the mobility was upward.

  “We’ll kill Costigan,” I said.

  “You have abandoned considerable government property along the way so far,” Ives said. The trousers of his seersucker suit were cuffed at least two inches above the tops of his wing-tipped cordovans.

  “Really fuck up the GNP,” Hawk said.

  “Not the point,” Ives said. “The car, the weapons, they have to be accounted for.”

  “We could skip killing Costigan,” I said, “and concentrate on recovering the stuff we left in Pequod.”

  “Not funny, McGee,” Ives said.

  We turned into the waterfront park near the new Marriott and walked to the edge and looked at the water.

  “What is your plan,” Ives said.

  “We were thinking about stopping in here at Tia’s and having some fried squid and a couple of beers,” I said.

  Ives frowned and looked at me hard. “You work too hard at being a wise guy, Lochinvar.”

  “It’s worth the effort,” I said.

  “Man ain’t lazy,” Hawk said.

  “Listen, both of you. You think you’re a couple of hard cases. I know. I’ve seen a lot of hard cases. Well, you two hard cases have your balls in a squeeze, you understand. You are in hock to us and we’re calling in the chit. You want to learn about how hard a case someone can be you keep fucking around with us. You’ll find yourself hanging out to dry in a slow wind.”

  “Eek,” I said.

  “Keep it up,” Ives said. “You’ve got Costigan on one side, and us on the other. You don’t know what pressure is if we start squeezing.”

  “Here,” Hawk said. “Why don’t you just give this a gentle squeeze to show you’re serious.”

  Ives’s face flushed and small dimples formed near the corners of his thin mouth. He breathed in a large lungful of salt air and let it out, turning to lean on one of the capstan posts that lined the edge of the harbor.

  “You know Costigan will be after you,” Ives said in a voice tight with the obvious effort of control. “He’s got a contract out on both of you now, and he has an organization that can find you anywhere in the world.”

  “We’ll kill Costigan,” I said.

  “If you have any doubts remember that he’ll kil
l you if you don’t, and without us to back you up, you won’t.”

  “With or without,” Hawk said.

  “And what do I tell my people when they ask me your plan?”

  “Tell them you don’t know,” I said.

  “And how do I look telling them that? I’m supposed to be running you.”

  “They think so,” Hawk said, “you think so, but we don’t think so.”

  “And,” I said, “we don’t have a plan. Yet.”

  “Well, you weren’t signed aboard this cruise to sit around and soak up per diem. Every unproductive day is another expense I have to justify to the shoo flies. They want some cost efficiency here.”

  “We artists,” Hawk said. “We ain’t cost efficient.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ives said.

  “We know something,” I said, “we’ll tell you. But if it helps, we will do it. Not only because it’s him or us, but because we said we would. We’ll kill him.”

  “Well, it better be quick, or by God there’s going to be some accounting called for.”

  “First we have to find him,” I said.

  “He’s not at Mill River,” Ives said. “We can tell you that.”

  “And he’s not here in Waterfront Park,” I said. “So that’s already two places we don’t have to look.”

  “Gonna be easy,” Hawk said.

  “I know it’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got so far,” Ives said. “We get more we’ll let you know. But you’ve got to check in.”

  I nodded.

  “You people did pretty good in Pequod with the two instructors,” I said.

  “We have our moments,” Ives said. “You guys didn’t do so bad either. The Transpan facility is a shambles. Connecticut State arson people are climbing all over it. Federal Immigration people are chasing illegal aliens all over Connecticut … hell, all over the Northeast. They will have many questions to ask Transpan.”

  “What about the aliens,” Hawk said.

  “You sound like Steven Spielberg,” Ives said and laughed.

  Hawk didn’t say anything.

  “We’ll do what we can,” Ives said. “Remember, we made no promises beyond doing what we could.”

  Hawk nodded.

  A cycle cart selling chocolate chip ice-cream sandwiches cruised by us, turned in by the Marriott and set up shop near the railing along the water. A fat old woman with short hair was selling helium-filled balloons at the crosswalk on Atlantic Avenue. Ives was leaning on the capstan gazing at the cabin cruisers moored in the slip.