Hardcase

CHAPTER 34

Niagara Falls is most beautiful in the winter, at night, in a snowstorm. All of these criteria were met as Kurtz parked the Buick—on a side street a few hundred feet away from the American Falls parking lot—retrieved the twenty-five-foot length of clothesline and Malcolm from the trunk, and carried him through a forest of ice-limned trees and snowy fields.

After midnight—it was almost 2:00 a.m. — the powerful searchlights were turned off and both the American and Canadian Falls seemed to roar louder in the darkness. Mist from various cascades drifted across the American-side parks, garnered as ice on the waterfall side of the trees, and occasionally snapped off branches.

Goat Island divided the American Falls from the Canadian, and someone had long since run bridges out to this island and the smaller islands on the Niagara River. The tourist bridges were closed to traffic this night, but Kurtz knew his way through the trees to the bridge and walked out along it, staying near the concrete rail so that his footsteps in the snow would be less visible. At least the heavier snow now would hide his footprints in a few minutes.

Kurtz paused to rest several times. Malcolm was a big man, and nothing is as cumbersome as dead weight. The night was dark, except for reflected light from the low clouds, but the white ripples on the rapids and the blue-white glow at the edge of the American Falls just a hundred yards downstream were quite visible. Malcolm began to stir and moan, but the roar of water masked any noise. Kurtz slogged on, adjusting Malcolm on his shoulder as he got onto the icy walkways of Goat Island and turned toward the observation point near the brink of the smaller Luna Island. The small bridge here rose just a few feet above the raging waters, and Kurtz had to watch his step on the ice. Wooden barriers were set out to keep people away from this point in winter, but Kurtz went around these barriers, coming out from the trees onto the small, icy promontory that separated the broad sweep of the American Falls from the even wider curve of the Horseshoe or Canadian Falls.

Malcolm stirred as Kurtz dumped him at the end of the promontory—less than fifteen feet from the precipice of the Falls on both sides. Kurtz removed Malcolm's billfold. About $6,000 in cash. Kurtz took the money and tossed the wallet in the river. Kurtz was no thief, but he also had no doubt that Malcolm had been paid more than this up front to kill him, so he had little compunction about keeping the money. He tied the end of the clothesline around Malcolm's torso just under the big man's arms and made sure that the knots were firm, even if the rope was cheap. He ran a loop of rope around the icy railing to help act as a brake.

Malcolm began to struggle just as Kurtz manhandled him over the icy railing and dumped him into the Niagara River.

The water revived him and Malcolm began screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs. Kurtz let that go on for a short while—the roar of the Falls drowned out the screams—but, not wanting the man to freeze to death or go over the Falls before they talked, he finally said, "Shut up, Kibunte."

"Kurtz, fuckyouasshole, fuckyouKurtzyouhonky-mother-fuckergoddamn—HEY!!!"

Kurtz had released the rope for an instant, allowing ten more feet to play out, clothesline humming around the railing, stopping it only when Malcolm's feet were five feet from the roaring white foam at the edge of the Falls.

"You going to shut up except when I say talk?" shouted Kurtz.

Malcolm was looking over his shoulder at his legs being tossed out of the water by the violence of the Falls. He nodded wildly. Kurtz hauled him ten feet closer. The two men were only about eight feet apart now—Malcolm's long fingers clawed and grabbed at the icy shore, but slid back into the raging water each time—and they had to shout over the waterfall noise.

"Sorry, they only had cheap clothesline at the Texaco mini-mart," called Kurtz. "Don't know how long it will last. We'd better talk fast."

"Kurtz, goddamn, man. I'll pay money. I've got a couple of million. Money, Kurtz!"

Kurtz shook his head. "Don't need that right now, Kibunte. I'm just curious about who hired you."

"The fucking faggot lawyer. Miles! Miles hired me!"

Kurtz nodded. "But who was behind Miles? Who authorized it?"

Malcolm began shaking his head wildly again. "I don't know, Kurtz. I swear to Christ I don't know. Jesus, it's cold. Pull me in! Money! Cash. I'll take you to it, Kurtz!"

"How much did they pay you for taking me out?"

"Forty K!" screamed Malcolm. "Goddamn, it's cold. Pull me in, Kurtz. Swear to Christ… money's yours. All of it."

Kurtz leaned back, holding the terrible weight of the man and the rushing water. The clothesline creaked and stretched. Malcolm shot glances over his shoulder at the blue-white precipice at his heels. Downriver, impossibly far away, car headlights glowed on the arch of the Rainbow Bridge.

"Yaba," Kurtz shouted. "Why yaba?"

"Triad sends it," Malcolm screamed. "Sell on the side. I get ten percent. JesusChristAlmightyKurtz!"

"Ninety percent to the Farinos through the lawyer?" Kurtz shouted over the roar of water.

"Yeah. Please, my man. Jesus Christ! Please. I can't feel my legs. So fucking cold, man. I'll give you all the money…"

"And you give the Triad guns from the arsenal raid?" Kurtz called.

"What? Huh? Please, man…"

"The guns," Kurtz shouted again. "Triad sends you yaba. You send guns back to Vancouver?"

"Yeah, yeah… Jesusfuck!" Malcolm clawed at ice. The current flipped him over and drove him underwater. Kurtz pulled hard and Malcolm's bald head broke through the water again. His collar and chin were crusted with ice.

"How did you kill the accountant?" Kurtz yelled. "Buell Richardson?"

"Who?" Malcolm was screaming now, teeth chattering.

Kurtz let the rope slip three feet. Malcolm clawed at the steep icy shore. His face went under again, and he came up spluttering.

"Cutter! Slit his throat."

"Why?"

"Miles said do it."

"Why?"

"Richardson found the Farino money Miles was laundering—ohSHIIIT!" The current had tugged him another three feet toward the edge.

"Richardson wanted a cut?" Kurtz shouted.

Malcolm was too busy looking at the roaring edge of nothing behind him to answer. The big man's teeth were chattering wildly. He looked back at Kurtz. "Fuck it! You going to let me die anyway," he shouted.

Kurtz shrugged. The rope was cutting into his hands and wrist. "There's always the long shot I'll let you live. Tell me what you know about—"

Suddenly there was a short switchblade in Malcolm's hands. He began cutting through the rope.

"No!" Kurtz shouted. He began pulling.

Malcolm cut the rope, dropped the blade, and began swimming hard. He was a strong, powerful man filled with adrenaline, and for ten seconds or so, it seemed that he was making headway against the wild current—aiming for a point fifteen or twenty feet upriver from Kurtz where he might make a grab for the icy railing.

Then the river reasserted itself, and Malcolm was swept backward as if slapped by the invisible hand of God. He reached the blue-white rim and was swept back and over in an instant—shark-attack fast. It was as if the Falls had swallowed him. The last image Kurtz had of Malcolm was of the man trying to swim into the air, grinning insanely, the diamond stud in his front tooth gleaming in the blue-white glow.

And then there was no one there.

Kurtz pulled the loop of rope free from his bloodless hand and wrist and tossed the remaining length of clothesline into the river. He stood there for only a second longer, listening to the roar of water in the night.

"Should have gone with the long shot," he said softly and turned to leave.