Scavenger

by Tom Savage

  “Hi, babe,” he said after the beep. “I’m thinking about you, and I’ll see you in a couple of days. I’m now in Chicago, believe it or not. This is the last of my research, I think.” He read the phone number of his room. “Give me a call if you’ve got a minute. I can’t wait to see you. You take care of yourself. I love you.”

  He hung up and lay back down on the bed, remembering their last night together, just four days ago. They had made love, and now he wanted her here with him. It was yet another inconvenience, another pebble in his shoe, courtesy of Scavenger. The man owed him dearly, and Mark was determined that he would eventually pay.

  He was nervous about going to sleep. He wondered if he would have the dream again, the nightmare in which his father appeared to him in the cemetery. He knew what the dream signified without having to consult a psychiatrist. It was obvious to him that Reverend Farmer was transformed into a monster, something unspeakably evil, by Mark’s own guilty conscience. He would have to suffer through the dream if it came again. He didn’t know what he could do to assuage his guilt and make the dream go away. He was here again, in Evanston, where his family had met their fate, and the guilt was palpable. He could taste it in the back of his throat.

  It took a long time for Mark to finally get to sleep. He slept for nearly eight hours, and the dream did not come. His sleep, at least for now, was undisturbed.

  39

  “The Red Rose Inn. It’s in Evanston, just a few blocks from the house.”

  “I see. And what is he doing now?”

  “Asleep, as far as I can tell. He checked into the room a couple of hours ago, and he’s been in there ever since.”

  “Okay. Stay there. If he goes anywhere, you know what to do. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Right.”

  The man with the scar put away the cell phone inside his coat, smiling to himself. Matthew Farmer was making the game infinitely more challenging for himself. That business at the L.A. airport, hair coloring and reflective sunglasses. He now had short blond hair. Not that he could hide from me, he thought, but that obviously wasn’t his intention. He’s thinking about the New Orleans police, the APB. He must continue on the assumption that at any moment someone might recognize him, turn him in to the authorities. So, a disguise. Very good, Mr. Farmer. One point for you.

  He wondered what else Matthew Farmer was thinking, what other surprises he had in store. Not that anything would surprise him: concessions had been made for just about every possible eventuality. It had been decided early in the planning stages that Mark Stevenson/Matthew Farmer was an unusually intelligent specimen, and that the notion of his altering the rules, going maverick, was not out of the question. He had changed his appearance, but that wasn’t his biggest act of defiance. Not by a wide mile.

  He was still smiling as he glided out of the motel to his new rental car, a green Oldsmobile Intrigue, trying to imagine the scene in the airport grounds last night as it had been described to him. His quarry had been doing the expected, driving from the hotel on Sunset to the airport, when he had suddenly done something unexpected. He’d stopped the car in a parking lot and walked away toward the runways. It had taken some fancy driving and a quick sprint through the lot in the darkness for his assistant to witness what happened next.

  He had destroyed the cell phone. But it was more than that, the man with the scar knew. It was the act of throwing it as far as he could that explained Matthew Farmer’s state of mind. He was obviously desperate now, desperate to reclaim some modicum of authority over his own life, his own fate. He was no longer meekly accepting his opponent’s autocracy. Whether or not this was a good thing remained to be seen, but it certainly made the game more interesting.

  He drove out of the motel lot and turned north toward Evanston. He had missed the incidents in the L.A. airport last night because he had already left for Chicago by then. He had come here last evening, rented a car, checked into the motel, and gone to get his materials for tonight. They were in the trunk of the car now, waiting for their eventual placement in the next location.

  Tomorrow, Saturday, would be the last day. Tomorrow at midnight, it would all come to an end. The final locale, the final retrieved article. Then would come the part Matthew Farmer did not know about, must not know about.

  Tomorrow at midnight, Matthew Farmer was going to die.

  It was that simple, really. He would watch Matthew Farmer die, slowly and painfully, and it would all be over. Complete. Perfect.

  He crossed Howard Street and entered the suburb of Evanston a few minutes later. It took him a while to find the right street. And there it was, the Red Rose Inn, just as he had been told. He parked in the lot of a church across the street from the guest house and relaxed back in his seat, waiting. In moments, his assistant materialized at the driver’s window.

  “He’s still in his room, second floor on the left. He’s driving a blue Cavalier that’s parked in back.”

  “Good.” He glanced up at the appropriate windows. The curtains there were closed. “I’ll take over now. Did you leave the message for him?”

  “Yes. When do I get the rest of my money?”

  “When it’s over.”

  “Right. See to it.” And the assistant was gone.

  He sighed and shook his head. Then he reached inside his black coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and sat back again, staring up at the curtained windows, thinking about how he would kill Matthew Farmer.

  He thought about the first man he’d killed, when he was fifteen years old. The two men when he was seventeen. And the three other men, all in one day when he was eighteen, who had felt his eight-inch blade enter their hearts.

  He thought about the five families: Tennant, Webster, Farmer, Carlin, Banes.

  He thought about the man and woman in New Orleans and the man in Los Angeles, and he smiled.

  At last, he thought about his wife, dead these many years, and the smile disappeared.

  He sat there for several hours, smoking cigarettes in the green Oldsmobile Intrigue across the street from Matthew Farmer’s hotel, waiting for the next move in the game.

  40

  Scavenger was sitting in a green Oldsmobile Intrigue in the parking lot across the street from the hotel, smoking a cigarette. Mark spotted him immediately, as soon as he woke up and went over to the window to peer through the curtains. He looked as if he’d been sitting there for several hours.

  Good. Mark had planned the next few hours carefully, and the fact that the man was here watching him was good. More than good: essential. While he dressed, he went over his itinerary in his mind. His only other stop after this afternoon’s business was his family home, a mere four blocks from here. But first…

  He left the inn through the front door, walking slowly around to the lot at the back, careful not to so much as glance over at the green car. When he had driven a fair distance down the block, he saw the green Olds pull out into the street behind him. Fine.

  Now he was in charge. He knew something Scavenger didn’t know: he knew where they were going. He glanced up at the sky as he drove. It would rain soon, he knew. The dark clouds hovered above the city, as if biding their time.

  He was heading in the opposite direction from his home, and he wondered what Scavenger would make of that. His first stop was at a florist’s shop in Evanston, where he purchased two dozen roses, again with cash. The man wrapped them in green paper, and Mark thanked him, went back to his car, and continued on his way. Scavenger followed.

  As he drove west through Evanston, Mark passed a women’s clothing shop where his mother had bought many of her dresses. He thought about her, and about Josh and Mary. He had vivid memories of them: what they looked like, the sounds of their voices, the way they laughed. Mary, especially. He hadn’t been close to them at the end, had not seen them in years at the time of their murders, but he still remembered. He made a conscious effort not to think about his father. The graveyard dream was still too fresh. />
  The graveyard …

  He turned left off Dempster Street and drove to his next stop. Yes, there it was, up ahead on the right, surrounded by high stone walls. The entrance gate reminded him of the similar one in Los Angeles. He drove inside, aware of the other presence down the road behind him. He parked in the big main lot and proceeded on foot down a series of crisscrossing sidewalks, gazing around at the expanse of green lawns dotted with hundreds of graves. His second cemetery in as many days. And now, as then, he was being monitored.

  The four white headstones were similar to those of the Webster family, perhaps a little smaller. But the name FARMER was prominent on them. Jacob, Charlene, Joshua, Mary. The housekeeper was buried elsewhere, and the dog, Sam, had been cremated.

  Jacob, Charlene, Joshua, Mary. He stood before them, aware of their presence, of the feeling that they were here with him now. It was the familiar feeling of haunting, the one he’d assimilated, carried with him everywhere. He looked up from the graves at the dark sky. Yes, rain soon. He remembered the icy rain that Christmas morning, rain that had turned once more to snow in the following days. He remembered the bitter cold of the funeral, the snow everywhere around him in this place. The big crowd from the Church of the True Believers, singing and praying. The cameras and journalists. And over there, at a discreet distance, the lone FBI special agent, watching the proceedings. Ronald O’Hara. Ron. Respectful but vigilant. He was probably expecting The Family Man to show his hand, but nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The snow had fallen, the hymns had been sung, the words spoken. Mark—Matthew—had stood closest to the graves, surrounded by more than a hundred people. Yet alone; acutely, finally alone. And so cold.

  He knelt now and placed the roses between the two center graves, his father and mother. He wanted to weep, felt that he really should weep, but no tears would come. He stared down at the stones, dry-eyed, imagining himself as Scavenger must be seeing him from wherever he was. Somewhere behind him, no doubt. He tried to imagine what the tall man must be thinking as he watched him, but he hadn’t the slightest idea. The man was insane, and the insane could not be predicted.

  He sighed. It was nearly five o’clock now, and it was time for the next move. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants. Just before he left the graves, he uttered a small prayer, or part of one, half remembered words about the lambs of God coming together in Paradise. He wasn’t even aware of the meaning of the words, only of his need to say them, to say something over these people after all this time. It had been a long time since he had seen these graves, and much longer since he had last prayed to a deity in which he did not believe. But his family deserved a prayer from him, so he went through the motions.

  Now he had all the time in the world. He wandered slowly through the cemetery, stopping to read random stones as they appeared before him, deliberately taking his time. He, too, could be manipulative, and it felt good to have some measure of control back after the last few days. Scavenger would have to wait for him.

  He left the cemetery at last, walking slowly back to his car. The green Olds was stopped on the other side of the lot, its engine idling. Mark got in his car and led their odd little procession down Sheridan Road to Lake Shore Drive, into downtown Chicago. His new destination was Water Tower Place, the huge vertical shopping mall on Michigan Avenue. There were restaurants there, and he would find a likely one and enjoy a leisurely meal. Then he would go into the multiplex cinema and purchase a ticket for any one of the films on view. But he wouldn’t stay there. Theaters always had back doors, fire exits, and he would utilize one.

  When he was out of the theater, when he was certain that he had eluded Scavenger, he would be on his own. He knew where Scavenger would go, must eventually go, and he would prepare himself. After all, Mark now had one distinct advantage.

  They were now on his turf. This was his city, and Evanston was his hometown.

  And it would be his house.

  Smiling to himself, Mark continued on his way.

  41

  Damn Matthew Farmer, he thought. I’ve lost him.

  Or, to be more precise, Matthew Farmer had managed to lose him. It had happened at the crowded movie theater in the mall near the restaurant, and he cursed himself for his inattention. He had let the man get out of his sight for a mere ten minutes, but that had been enough.

  He had waited outside the restaurant while his quarry was inside. He watched as the man slowly, deliberately enjoyed everything from soup to nuts, obviously making a mockery of him. Then he had shadowed him to the multiplex and allowed him to go inside. He noted the man’s selection, then followed. He bought his own ticket for the same film and waited in the lobby for ten minutes.

  Ten minutes. In that short time, Matthew Farmer had disappeared.

  He’d waited until the lights were off and the movie had begun before entering the theater. He swiftly, efficiently scanned the room, walking down the side aisle to the screen and back. No Matthew Farmer. He’d dashed from the dark cinema back into the bright, crowded mall, but it was too late. He knew it even as he ran. He stood there, shaking his head in wonder and grudging admiration; admiration for Matthew Farmer’s success, wonder that he would even try such a thing. He had been so passive, so cooperative thus far, but now he was obviously taking the initiative. The blond hair, the wrecked cell phone, and now this. Matthew Farmer had led him into a bustling shopping center and lost himself in the crowds. The man was not merely following the game, but playing it.

  He had used his cell phone to place a brief call, and the result had been what he had expected. His employer was furious. He’d stood in front of the theater in the mall in Chicago, wincing at the hissed words, but there was no help for it. Finally, the new instructions were given, and he quickly, gratefully broke the connection. He was to let Farmer go temporarily, leave the mall, and prepare for tonight. He hated it when his employer was angry. He felt as if he had failed, as if he had let down the one person in the world to whom he owed everything, including his life and his freedom.

  Well, not his employer, really. His employer’s parents. But they were gone these many years, and for their sake he remained loyal to their child.

  He truly did owe them his freedom: that was no exaggeration. They had made it possible for him to stay in America. And Anna, his wife, his only love. They had taken both of them in when there was nowhere else to go, except back to Russia.

  Their international fame and frequent trips to the Soviet Union had made everything possible. Anna, at sixteen, had been assigned to the wife as a lady’s maid, while he—with the help of a family friend—had become the husband’s assistant. He had been sixteen, too, and the job had lasted a mere month, during which time a friendship developed between the two Russian teenagers and their glamorous charges in Moscow. And he and Anna had fallen in love.

  Then had come his father’s arrest, and his own, and the mining camp in the gulag prison system.

  His father had been training him and an ever-growing band of other men in guerrilla warfare. This had been almost forty years ago, of course, long before the sweeping changes in his country, and his father was preparing them for rebellion. A rebellion that never took place, as it turned out. Instead, he and his father had been sent to Siberia, and he had never seen his mother or his sister again.

  His father lasted only a few weeks in the grueling place, succumbing to pneumonia brought on by exhaustion in the mines and close proximity to too many dying workers. But he himself had survived for two long years, steeling himself for the day when he would make the long trek, or die. After two years in the mines, he almost didn’t care which. But he was bolstered in his survival by one dream: Anna.

  The American conductor and his Russian-born pianist wife had taken her with them. It had required much cajoling of bureaucrats to get the girl permanently employed, and to get her out of the country. Their celebrity had made all that possible. But even they could not get him and his father out of Siberia. He and his fathe
r were traitors, that much was certainly true, and their fate was sealed.

  Now, as he made his way back to the car in the Water Tower Place garage and drove north toward Evanston, he remembered the work in the mines, and his illnesses, and the hunger. He remembered the beatings, and the humiliation at the hands of the guards. The fight in which he had killed two men with his bare hands, a guard and a fellow prisoner. The resulting solitary confinement that had lasted six months.

  And he remembered his escape: the fences; the endless, bleak expanses of snow that almost permanently blinded him; the friendly but frightened farmers and townspeople along the way who concealed him and kept him alive; and his eventual arrival, weeks later, at a border manned by several soldiers, three of whom had spotted him, chased him, and caught him. They were responsible for the scar on his face. Three men in one day, with the blade that even now was strapped to his chest. And then a new expanse of snow, and a new life with Anna.

  He had found their benefactors in Vienna, performing, and Anna was with them. More red tape, more outright bribery, and the two young people, now eighteen, were on their way to America. They married soon after, and eventually became full American citizens, thanks to their famous friends.

  And now, nearly forty years later, he worked for their son. He had remained loyal to him all these years for their sake. He was bound to him: the man could not survive without him. So he stayed. Even after the murders. Even now, with one more killing to go.

  One more killing. Yes.…

  He drove through the quiet evening in the university town, arriving at last in the short, dead-end street that ended at the Farmer house. It was time to go to work again. He hadn’t truly lost Matthew Farmer, he knew. Matthew Farmer would show up again eventually. He’d simply had to go off on his own for a while, to give himself the illusion of being in control of the game. That was ridiculous, of course, and he was certain that Matthew Farmer knew it.