PrivateSector

CHAPTER FORTY

So we were huddled in my living room in our bulletproof vests, swapping stories, watching the big-screen tube, munching popcorn, the usual routine when you’re expecting a hit man to drop in.

The Army expends a lot of energy and money trying to understand things nobody but soldiers give a crap about. For example, the best time to attack somebody. The general theory holds this to be somewhere between 3:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M., when sleep cycles are heaviest, alertness is dullest, moonlight is dimmest, and, in our case, TV shows are worst. After Jay Leno, it’s a bottomless pit. Sometimes, before Jay Leno.

We were reduced to infomercials after about 2:00 A.M., and I was out of gas, as was Spinelli, since we’d both spent the previous night playing masked crusader and rushing to Janet’s rescue.

Charlie kept his nose tucked inside a small cathode-ray screen that led to the tiny camera that peeked out into the hallway.

By 4:00 A.M., I began entertaining the notion that this guy would try to hit me on the way to the courtroom that morning. For a variety of reasons, moving targets are easier to take down than stationary ones. But perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to nap.

The more unsettling notion I tried not to dwell upon was that nobody was coming after me. I had guessed right about Boston, but guesses are like coin tosses: fifty-fifty every time.

At 4:05, Charlie popped his nose out of the monitor. He said, “Somebody’s out there. Near the end of the hall, too far to see clearly.”

Bill helpfully suggested, “Could be a neighbor going for a jog or leaving for work.”

Yes; could be. But they all grabbed their rifles and shotguns, we adjusted our vests, and we crouched behind the shooter’s shields. I was beginning to wish I had a weapon.

Spinelli whispered to his partners, “Shoot to kill.”

The proper advisory was “employ only reasonable force,” and as an attorney, I should have swiftly corrected and clarified this point. I let it slide. People who try to get fancy in situations like this often get dead.

A few minutes passed during which Charlie kept his face pressed into his monitor. In fact, so much time passed that we were all starting to unwind and relax, when out the blue there was this loud, awful scream on the porch. At the same instant, the TV shut off and the lights went off, apparently from the energy surge on the porch.

Spinelli immediately spun around and began pumping rounds through the glass porch door, which showered outward.

Bill was beside me and he suddenly doubled over. Then Charlie flew backward off his feet and landed with a thud. Spinelli screamed, “Shit!” and kept firing his M16 through the destroyed porch door, where three dark figures had suddenly materialized, dangling off ropes, pointing silenced weapons inside, spraying my apartment with bullets.

A second later, my apartment door exploded from a huge blast that blew wooden splinters through the air.

Enough of this no-weapon shit-I scrambled around the floor, found Bill’s shotgun, rolled backward, and aimed it at the door. A dark figure came diving through, and I fired twice but couldn’t be sure I hit him. Then another figure dashed through, I fired again, caught him in the midsection, and he flew backward, right back into the hallway.

Spinelli had emptied his M16 and now resorted to his pistol. He was still firing at the porch, although when I spun around and looked, the figures on the ropes had vanished.

Then there was silence. I said, “Reload and stay down.”

Spinelli said, “Something’s stickin’ out my fuckin’ shoulder.”

I felt around the floor for Bill and Charlie. My hand crashed into a body, then a full head of silky hair-Bill, apparently, and I felt his neck for a pulse. The pressure brought a moan. His ticker was still pumping; faintly, but that’s all you need. I kept moving my hand around until it came up against Charlie; I could feel no pulse. Shit.

My ears were ringing, but then I thought I heard sirens. I tried to picture what just happened-three guys were hanging off ropes outside the porch, and at least two more had tried to make it through the door. Not one guy; five guys. I mean, what the…?

The phone suddenly rang. I crawled over and answered.

A male voice ordered, “Put Drummond on.”

The voice was baritone, but this weird mechanical baritone, as though it had smoked a million cigarettes, or was being distorted by some high-tech disguising device.

I said, “Who the hell’s this?” I mean, maybe I didn’t know who, but I did know what the call was about-roll call. Was I dead, or did I still need to be whacked? I’m not completely stupid, and I had no intention of confirming anything.

There was a weird laugh before he replied, “Tell Drummond it’s the dimwit from Boston. Stop wasting my time and put him on.”

I replied, “Can I take a message?”

“Heh-heh. You’re very funny, Drummond.”

Shit. “And you’re an incompetent fuckup. This is twice you missed. First Janet Morrow, now me. Your bosses know about this one yet?” “I didn’t do this one. I just dropped by to, you know, observe.” What an asshole. This guy’s ego was even bigger than I imag ined. I said, “I forgot. You only do unarmed women.” “I do who I want.” He added, menacingly, “For example, I’m going to do you.” “Before or after I mount your slimy ass on my wall?” “You have a wall left?” He laughed. “I heard a big explosion.” “The place was in need of a redo. Thank your pals for me.” “I’ll pass it along. But forget the redo. Waste of money.” “I’m out of your league, asshole. You do unarmed girls.” “You’d be surprised, Drummond. I kill guys all the time.” “You’re right… I’d be surprised.” We both let a moment pass, then I said, “You’re probably telling yourself the ghoulish things you did to those women were necessary to mislead the cops. Truth is, you’re a sick little pervert, and deep down, you enjoyed it.”

“You’re a shrink now? Stick with law.” I laughed. “Hey, truth is, I’m looking forward to meeting you.” “You’ll never see me coming.” “I’ve already seen you. Big, dopey-looking jerk-off who’s taken so many steroids your tiny dick’s stopped working. Maybe that’s why you enjoyed doing the women.” He paused a moment, then said, “ The priest… you were the one who yelled?”

“Confess to me, jerk-off. Tell me all how your mother mistreated you, how you saw her diddling Daddy, and how much that screwed up your head.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll tell you my life story as I cut body parts off you.” “I’ll be looking for the big pussy in ladies’ undies.” “Look all you want, Drummond. I never look the same twice.” “Discuss your identity issues with someone who gives a shit.” We both paused again, then I asked, “Incidentally, who trained you?”

“Self-help books and practice. Who trained you?”

“My little sister. That’s all I need to take your ass down.”

We both chuckled, a couple of adolescents trading dopey insults and playground threats. But we meant every word of it. And we both, through however we learned it, could deliver on our threats.

Then he said, “But in the interest of accuracy, Drummond, you don’t have a little sister. A brother, John, and a mother and father who also live in California, but no little sister. In fact, I have their addresses in my pocket.”

I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, asshole. Go near them and I’ll make your death indescribably painful.”

He laughed. “Well, this has been really fun. I enjoy getting to know my victims. It makes my work so much more meaningful, and memorable.”

But before he could hang up I thought of something else, and I said, “Hey, don’t you owe Morris Networks a rebate? Weren’t you supposed to ice me before I figured out and exposed the scam?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Morris Networks, bozo. The assholes who overpay you for your screwups and mishaps. I know all about Jason Morris, and about Hal Merriweather and about… well, about the lawyers working with them.”

“Drummond, you’re starting to annoy me.”

“Wait’ll I kill you, sport.”

“And I’ll be sure you have the opportunity to tell me how much you regret your taunts.” He paused a moment, then said, “Ah… one last thing, please be sure to pass my regards to Miss Morrow. Tell her I haven’t forgotten her.” Then he hung up.

At that very instant the cops rushed through the door and all hell broke loose.