[Jack Harvey Novels 02] Bleeding Hearts

by Ian Rankin

  Then I turned again, and saw Kline stepping over Spike’s body. He had his pistol pointed at my head. I ducked down, firing as I did so. His body fell forward and landed on the ground.

  From behind him stepped Bel. Wisps of smoke were rising from the barrel of her pistol. The back of his head was matted with blood where she’d hit him.

  She collapsed to her hands and knees and threw up on the ground.

  “Are there any of them left, Bel?”

  She managed to shake her head. I turned the Colt to Provost.

  He’d come down the cabin steps and was kneeling over Alisha.

  “Why?” he said, repeating the word over and over again. I left him there and checked the cabin. It was empty. The back window Kline had climbed out of stood wide open. Smells of forest and cordite were mixed in the air. I walked back out, and found Bel sitting on the ground next to Spike. She was stroking his forehead.

  “He’s alive,” she said. “Should we move him?”

  “We may have to.”

  I took a look. There was warm sticky blood all over his chest.

  He’d taken a clean hit in the front and out the back. If he’d been a little farther away, the bullet might have stuck or burst open inside him. I didn’t know whether he’d live.

  “You got a stretcher here?” I said to Provost. He looked up at me with tears in his eyes, and mouthed the word Why?

  “I’ll tell you why. Because she had a gun. Why did she have a gun? Because she wasn’t a Disciple of Love, she was working for Kline, the way Nathan was. Did you know Nathan was Kline’s brother? Did you know he was Nathan Kline? No?” Provost shook his head. “It’s in the files in your own office. How come your beloved Alisha didn’t tell you? Work it out for yourself, but first tell me if you’ve got a first-aid kit and a fucking stretcher!”

  He stared at me. “No stretcher,” he said. “There’s first-aid stuff in the office.”

  I turned to Bel. “Go fetch it.” Spike was breathing in short painful gasps, but he was breathing. I went over to him again. His eyes were closed in concentration. He was concentrating on sticking around.

  “Spike,” I said, “remember, you can’t afford to die. I suppose I better tell you the truth, Spike. There aren’t any guns in heaven.”

  He almost smiled, but he was concentrating too hard.

  I went back to Provost and stood over him.

  “Time to talk,” I said.

  “Talk? We could have talked without this. ”

  “Not my choice, Provost, Kline’s choice. Your man’s choice.”

  “My man?” He spoke like his mouth was full of bile. “Kline wasn’t my man.”

  “Then who was he?”

  “He used to work for the NSC. Have you heard of them?”

  “A bit.”

  “They retired him after an accident. I was the accident.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” He stood up. “You really think Alisha was working for Kline?”

  “It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you.”

  He glowered at me. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. West. Kline told me about you. He said you were coming after me. He failed to specify why.”

  “Questions, that’s all.”

  He turned away from me and sat on the cabin steps, holding his head in his hands. “Fire away,” he said without looking up.

  Fire away? I hardly knew where to begin. Bel had returned with the first-aid kit and was starting to stanch Spike’s bleeding.

  I walked over to the steps and stood in front of Provost. I’d taken Sam Clancy’s tape recorder from my pocket, and switched it on.

  “A woman was killed in London,” I said. “Her name was Eleanor Ricks. She was a journalist, investigating the Disciples of Love.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You didn’t sanction her killing?”

  “No.”

  “Then Kline acted alone.”

  Now he looked up at me. “You killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then answer me a question. Why would Kline need to pay someone to do the job when he had his own hired army?”

  It was a good question. So good, in fact, that I didn’t have an answer . . .

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me.”

  Provost smiled. “I can’t tell you. I can only tell you what Kline told me. He doesn’t know why you’ve been snooping around. He didn’t order any assassination, and he, too, was wondering who did. When you started asking questions, you became a threat.”

  “He’s had journalists killed, hasn’t he? He had Sam Clancy shot.”

  “Kline didn’t have much of a conscience, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “But what was he trying to protect? Why was he shielding you?”

  “Money, Mr. West, what else? Oh, I don’t mean I was paying him. I mean he paid me, and he’s been paying for that mistake ever since.” He glanced down at Kline’s body. “He paid most dearly tonight.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Kline worked for a part of the NSC involved with funding the Nicaraguan Contras. This was back in the eighties. He managed to wheedle ten million dollars out of . . . I don’t know, the sultan of somewhere, some Middle Eastern country. At this time, I had a little money. Elderly relatives kept dying. I got bored attending so many funerals. I liked to keep my money my own business, so I held an account in Switzerland.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was quite a coup for Kline, getting so much money for the Contras, but he didn’t exactly know what to do with it. Someone at the NSC, I’m not saying it was Colonel Oliver North, suggested holding it in a bank account until it could be disposed of as intended.”

  “A Swiss bank account?”

  “The NSC held just such an account. Only the gods of fate and irony stepped in. Kline copied the details of the account down wrongly. I can’t recall now exactly why I decided to check the state of my account, but I telephoned Switzerland one Thursday morning, their time, and was told the exact amount I had on deposit. It seemed larger than I remembered, about ten million larger. I asked my account manager how much notice I had to give to make a large withdrawal.”

  Provost stopped there.

  “You took out the whole ten mil?”

  “No, in the end I merely transferred it to a new account.”

  “Christ.”

  “It was Kline’s mistake. He was sent to reason with me—no matter how discreet Swiss banks are, the NSC has ways of tracking people down. We came to a compromise. I handed back half the money. The other half I kept.”

  “And he went along with that?”

  “He didn’t have much choice.”

  “He could have killed you.”

  Provost smiled. “The NSC weren’t mentioned in my will, Mr. West. He still wouldn’t have gotten the money. Besides which, his superiors were furious with him. They couldn’t possibly sanction something so messy.”

  “So they booted him out?”

  “No, they booted him into the shadows. His job was to make sure no one ever got to learn about the whole thing.”

  “And that meant stopping reporters from snooping too deeply?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which is why Eleanor Ricks had to be stopped.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve already told you, Kline denied it.

  And he went on denying it.”

  “Then it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe someone else hired your services.”

  “Yes, but I’ve . . .”

  He saw what I was thinking. “You’ve come all this way and killed all these people, and you’re no farther forward?”

  I nodded. My mind was reeling. I’d got most of my hearing back, but it didn’t matter, I could hardly take any of it in.

  “Two digits, that’s what did it,” Provost was saying. “Kline wasn’t much of a typist. He transposed two of the digits on the account number. And in doing so,
the NSC paid for the Disciples of Love. That, Mr. West, is why they had to keep it quiet. They’d funded a religious cult, and the interest on their money is still funding it.”

  “Where’s the proof ?”

  “Oh, I have proof.”

  “Where?” I wasn’t sure I believed him, not completely. There had to be something more. He looked to be having trouble with his memory, so I tickled his chin with the Colt.

  “Remember what I do for a living, Provost.”

  “How can I forget? There are papers in my wall safe, and copies with my lawyer.”

  Maybe it was the word lawyer that did it. I almost felt something click in my head.

  “You’re going to open your safe for me.”

  “It’s not here, it’s in my home in Seattle.”

  “Fine, we’ll go there.”

  “I want to stay here. The combination’s easy to find. I can never remember it myself, so I keep it written on a pad beside the telephone. It’s marked as an Australian telephone number.”

  I knew I had to see it for myself. I had to hold some proof of his story in my hands. Even then, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d come through all this, and dragged Bel and Spike with me, and still there was no answer, not that Provost could provide.

  A shot rang out. I spun round with the Colt. The guard had crawled from where Spike must have left him. There was blood all down his front. I didn’t make things much worse by snuffing out what life he had left. I’d robbed him of a few minutes, that was all.

  But when I turned back to Provost, I saw that he’d taken a shot to the heart. The guard had been aiming at him, not me.

  Suicide orders from Kline, no doubt. I eased the body onto the ground. Bel barely glanced up from her work. She’d patched Spike up as best she could.

  “He’s still losing blood,” she said. After feeling for Provost’s pulse and finding none, I walked over to her. Then I saw the car between the cabins. Its rear windshield had been shattered, but when I went to look, it had its tires intact. I felt in Kline’s pockets and drew out the keys, then reversed the car into the clearing.

  With Bel’s help we got Spike into the back of the car. He groaned and winced a little, so I repeated my warning to him about gun heaven. Then we got in the car and drove off.

  “What are we going to do?” Bel asked.

  “Get Spike to the hospital.”

  “But after that? I heard what that man said back there. He was telling us we’d come all this way for nothing. He was saying all those people died . . . and my father died . . . for nothing. ”

  I looked at her. She was crying. “Maybe he was lying.

  Maybe . . . I don’t know.”

  We passed a car on the road, hurtling toward Crescent Lake.

  It was the lookout. They didn’t even give us a second glance. I took a detour back to where we’d left the rangers. They seemed terrified to see us. I pulled them out of the Chrysler and left them propped back to back on the ground.

  “You take Spike to the hospital,” I said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Provost’s house.”

  She looked at me. “Do you think you’ll find what you’re looking for?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for, Bel. Look after Spike, eh?” Then I kissed her and got into the Chrysler.

  On the road back into Seattle, I managed to put America out of my mind. Instead, I thought back to London, right to the start of this whole thing and to Scotty Shattuck. Why hadn’t I hung around until he’d turned up again? He was the key to the whole thing. My impatience had led me in the wrong direction. I’d been going wrong ever since.

  Maybe I was still going wrong, but I kept on driving.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was prepared to kick down Provost’s door.

  But it wasn’t necessary. The door was unlocked. I eased the Smith & Wesson 559 out of my waistband and crept into the house. Someone had been there before me. The place had been turned over in what looked like robbery, except that nothing obvious was missing. The TV, video, and stereo were still there, as was some women’s jewelry scattered over the floor in the master bedroom. It had to be Alisha’s jewelry. I didn’t feel too guilty about killing her. She’d have killed me. But seeing the jewelry, plus her clothes, plus smelling her perfume . . . I had to rest for a moment and control my breathing.

  And that’s when he found me.

  I felt the cold muzzle of the gun against the back of my neck.

  It froze my whole body for a moment.

  “Toss the gun over there.”

  I did as I was told, and then was frisked from behind.

  “Walk into the living room.”

  I did so. I recognized the voice. I knew who was behind me.

  “Now turn around.”

  I turned around and was face to face with Leo Hoffer.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Take a load off. You look like you’ve had a heavy night.”

  “It’s been heavy.” I sat down on the sofa, but I rested on its edge, ready to spring up if I got the chance.

  “Get comfortable,” he said. “Go on, sit right back.”

  I sat right back. The sofa was like marshmallow. I knew it was almost as good as restraints. I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  “Yeah, it’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Hoffer was saying. “I sat in it earlier on while I was figuring out what to do. Took me five fucking minutes to get out of it. It’s a regular Venus flytrap. So, Mr.

  Wesley-Weston-West, what’re you doing here?”

  “The same as you probably.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve got some tools with you, because that safe isn’t budging.”

  He was pointing in the direction of the far wall. He’d taken down a large seascape painting to reveal a small wall safe. Even from here I could see he’d had a go at it. The wall all around it was scraped and gouged, and the metal surface of the safe was scratched and dented.

  “I can open it,” I said.

  “That’s good. Because I want to stick your head in it then push my pistol up your ass.”

  “That’s class, Hoffer.”

  “I’ll tell you what class is. Class is leading me on this fucking chase halfway across the world and back. That’s so classy I’m going to blow you away.”

  I felt tired suddenly. I mean, dog-tired. There was no steam left in me, no fight. I rubbed at my forehead.

  “I want a drink,” I said.

  “Provost hasn’t got a damned drop in the house.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out half a bottle. “That’s why I had to go fetch this.” He tossed the bottle onto the couch beside me. It was Jim Beam, a couple of inches missing from the top. I unscrewed the cap and took a good deep gulp. Afterward, I didn’t feel quite so tired.

  “How did you find me?”

  He came close enough to me to take back the bottle, then retreated again. He took a slug, keeping his eyes and his Smith & Wesson 459 on me. He didn’t bother recapping the bottle, but left it on the mantelpiece.

  “Don’t forget,” I said, “your prints are on that.”

  “And yours,” he said. “I’ll wipe it before I go. You look like you’re ready for another shot already.”

  But I shook my head. “Any more and I’ll fall asleep, no offense.”

  He smiled. “None taken. But I don’t want you asleep. I’ve never killed a man while he’s sleeping. In fact, I’ve never killed anyone, period, not even in anger, never mind anyone defense-less. I’m not like you, man. I don’t kill the innocents. You fucked up big when you hit Walkins’s daughter.”

  “I know.”

  “Yeah, and I bet you still lose sleep over it. I bet you lose sleep over all of them, man, all your victims. Well, I’m going to enjoy killing you. ”

  “Killing isn’t as easy as you might think. Maybe you should hide me away till your client can come and help. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind firing off a round or two.”

  “You’re probably right, but then he ha
sn’t worked for that privilege the way I have. How did I find you? I didn’t. You found me. I was waiting outside to see who turned up. I was expecting Provost or Kline.”

  “You know Kline?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. He was about as evil a fuck as has ever given me indigestion. I hate indigestion at breakfast, it stays with me the rest of the day. Heartburn, you know.”

  I nodded. “Provost’s dead, too.”

  “You’ve been busy. So what the fuck was it all about?”

  I shrugged. “Listen,” I said, “I want to thank you for something.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “Covering up Max’s head the way you did. His daughter found him.”

  “Well, those sick fucks left the head teetering on the body.”

  “I know, and thanks.”

  “Is she still around?”

  “She’s . . . she’s still around.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got no grudge with her.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “This is you and me, Mikey, the way it was always supposed to be. Oh hey, your folks say hello.”

  It was like a blow to the head. “What?”

  “I had this army guy check hemophilia cases. It was a short list, and one of the names was Michael Weston. I found your mom and dad. They say hello. That’s why I was so long getting here. Sidetracked, you might say. But I know a lot about you now, and that’s nice, seeing how we’re not going to be able to get ac-quainted the normal way.” He saw something like disbelief on my face. “Your father’s called John, he’s retired now but he’s still army through and through. Your mother’s called Alexis. They live in Stockport.” He smiled. “Am I getting warm?”

  “Fuck it, Hoffer, just kill me.”

  “What’s in the safe, Mike? Get me interested.”

  “Huh?”

  “You came here for whatever’s in that safe. I want to know what it is.”

  “Proof,” I said. “This whole shitty deal is down to Kline and a bloody typing error.”

  I had his interest now, which was good. It kept me from being killed. I told him the story, taking my time. I decided I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want anyone else to die. Not today, maybe not ever.