Spook

26

Nobody moved, nobody said anything.

It took me a few seconds to absorb the scene, assess it, come to terms with it. The blood on Tamara, the display of weaponry, the look on the stranger’s face built a virulent mixture of sickness and profound outrage. I made an effort to keep it from showing, to maintain a neutral expression to match the one Jake Runyon wore over in my desk chair.

The telephone rang.

In the frozen silence the noise was explosive. We all jumped, stared; the tension in the room seemed palpable, pastelike. Sweat had already begun to run on me, warm and slimy, like the feel of a snail track.

“Don’t touch it,” the guy with the gun said, “let it ring.”

Two, three, four...

“No, wait a minute, maybe it’s those bastards at Human Services. You, Tamara, pick up over there. That s who it is, you tell them get over here right now, make up some excuse, just get them here.”

She hesitated. Most of the blood on her face and blouse appeared to be darkening, coagulating. From a not-too-recent wound on her left temple, under the hairline. In some pain, from her expression, but alert, clear-eyed. And in control.

“I’m all right,” she said, as if reading my thoughts.

“Answer the fucking phone!”

She lifted her extension. The only item other than weapons and ammunition left on my desktop was the other phone; the gunman picked up at the same time with his free hand.

Don’t let it be Kerry, I thought. Please, God, don’t let it be Kerry.

Tamara gave the agency’s name, listened, said, “No, Mr. Bauer, he’s not here. Not expected back today.”

Sam Bauer, head of Coast States Insurance’s claims department.

“Soon as he comes in tomorrow, right, I’ll tell him.” Pause. Then, with a bitter edge just before she disconnected, “Merry Christmas to you too.”

The receiver on my phone clattered down, hard enough to bring a single ring from the bell. He said to me, “You, you’re Bill?”

“And you’re Thomas Valjean.”

“Smart guy. Everybody’s so goddamn smart in this place. Close that door, lock it again, hurry up.”

I closed it, locked it. As I turned, my eye caught Runyon’s; our gazes locked. He’d been in deadly force situations before, just as I had, but this had to be something new for him too — unstable, heavily armed man bent on a destructive siege. Valjean radiated hate; you could almost smell it in the office along with the stink of sweat and gun oil. On full alert, all his senses heightened. Everything in his favor, nothing in ours. Death was a heartbeat away. And the three of us had no means of communication except by eye contact and maybe careful gesture, nothing to rely on except instinct and luck and the hunger for survival.

I said to Valjean, “What’s this all about?”

“You’re such a smart guy, you figure it out.”

“My fault,” Tamara said. “He called before he showed up, started ragging on me, and I slammed his ear.”

“Not your fault,” Runyon said. “He was coming anyway.”

“That’s right. I was coming anyway.”

“Why?” I said. “Why us?”

“Why do you think? You sicced the cops on me. You and those Human Services bastards.”

Runyon said, “I told him that’s who hired us. Department of Human Services.”

Valjean jabbed the gun in my direction. “Straight talk or more bullshit?”

“Straight. They’re our clients.”

“Who do you deal with over there? I want a name.”

“It won’t do you any good.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not going to screw around with you people anymore, I want a name!” Growing agitated, fingertip beginning to slide back and forth along the weapon’s trigger, veins bulging in his forehead, cords bulging in his neck, eyes like holes in the wall of a furnace. “Give me a name, now!”

“Ray Chandler,” I said.

“Chandler, all right, Chandler, call him up, get him over here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I won’t tell you again, call him up!”

“He won’t be there. Nobody’s at Human Services now.”

“What kind of crap is that?”

“It’s after three. Their offices are closed.”

“I warned you, no more bullshit!”

“It’s Christmas week. All city offices close early this week.”

Fiery stare, his teeth clenched so tight I could see white ridges of muscle on both sides of his jaw. If he called the bluff, demanded one of us make the call, I’d be the one to do it; he didn’t know the number over there, and there were a couple of other offices I could call that would likely be empty this time of day. But if he checked first to make sure it was the right number...

He didn’t call the bluff. He said, “Lousy government bastards, take everything away from other people, average joes, people just trying to get along, keep all the perks for themselves. Christ, I wish I could fix them all, line ’em up and shoot ’em down one by one.”

Thought processes muddied by his hate; reacting with some clarity of focus but not anticipating, not thinking things through logically. And not quite ready yet to begin his killing spree. Thin thread of something — humanity, conscience, sanity — holding him back for the moment. But only for the moment. That thread would snap before long. A word, an action, something would break it, or it would just disintegrate from the strain.

Keep him talking. Talk had bought time already or Tamara and Runyon wouldn’t still be alive. There was still a chance he’d make a mistake, as keyed up as he was, or that one of us could figure a way to neutralize the threat. So far I couldn’t see any gamble worth taking. If Runyon had, it didn’t show on his face.

I said, “What did they do to you, Thomas, that you hate them so much?”

“Don’t call me Thomas, I don’t like it.”

“Tom, then. That okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. You want to call me something, you call me Mr. Valjean.”

“What did the government do to you, Mr. Valjean?”

“Ruined my life, that’s what they did.”

“How did they do that?”

“Took everything away from me for back taxes. Lousy economy, bitch wife of mine always throwing money away, bastards wouldn’t let me have another extension, kept tacking on penalties, then they slapped a lien on the house, on my business, forced me into bankruptcy. What they didn’t get Marjorie got when she walked out on me. But I took care of her, all right, I fixed her wagon.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Figure it out, smart guy. What you think I did when I went over to her apartment this morning, before I came here? Huh? You tell me.”

Runyon said, “So now you’ve killed three people. Same as Anthony Colton.”

“So what? You think I’m no better than he was?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Wasn’t justified, what he did. My three are. Three of you will be too. And all the rest after you, three more or thirty more.”

Get him off that. He was agitated again, increasing tension on the thread. I threw a non sequitur at him: “How’d you find out about Colton?”

“What?”

“Colton. Spook. How’d you find out he was alive, living on the streets?”

“Why do you care how?”

“I’d like to know myself,” Runyon said. “You bump into him one day, recognize him?”

“Smart bastards didn’t figure out that part? Not so smart after all.” Valjean’s finger had quit moving, eased off pressure on the machine pistol’s trigger. Thread still holding. “All right, you want to know, I’ll tell you, then you can all die happy. No, I never bumped into him, I thought he was dead a long time ago. It was that blackmailing son of a bitch, he’s the one found out.”

“Big Dog?”

“Yeah, Big Dog. Found some crap belonged to Colton, newspaper stories about what he did to Luke and Dot.”

“Spook’s stash.”

“Colton talked to them like they were still alive, Big Dog heard the names, same names in the newspaper stories. Even a stupid bastard like him could put two and two together.”

My desk chair gave a sudden low squeak. Runyon shifting position, lifting his hands to drywash his slick face. It didn’t mean anything to Valjean, but it struck me as an uncharacteristic gesture. I positioned my head so I could look at Valjean and watch Runyon at the same time.

I said, “How’d he know to contact you?”

Valjean didn’t seem to hear that. He muttered, “Talked to them, for Christ’s sake. Blew them away that day, walked in there and emptied that Colt into them. My brother... wasn’t anything left of his face, one of the slugs took his head half off. Killed them and got away with it, seventeen years, and he was still talking to them like they were alive!”

When Runyon lowered his hands again, he let the left one drop to his lap and the right one rest on the edge of Tamara’s desk. The only things within his reach were her computer screen and keyboard, the keyboard on the sliding panel just below desktop level. His gaze slid my way long enough to tell that I was watching, then eased the other way to catch Tamara’s. She was looking, too.

I repeated my question to Valjean. “How did Big Dog know to contact you? Something else in Spook’s stash?”

“Not me, smart guy. He didn’t come to me, not the first time.”

“Robert Lightfoot?”

“Yeah, Bob. He used to sell cars, had business cards and Colton kept one, who the hell knows why. Big Dog tracked Bob down, said he knew where Colton was, wanted five hundred bucks to say where. Bob called me. We didn’t pay him, not right away. He spilled just enough to Bob, we figured we could find Colton ourselves.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. We decided it’d be quicker to just pay the five hundred, so I met the bastard and gave him his blood money. Stupid. Should’ve punched his ticket for him then and there.”

Runyon’s hand was moving on the desktop, so slowly you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying close attention. When it crawled down a few inches onto the sliding panel, I realized what he was after: the mouse attached to the keyboard. His fingers came to rest next to it, near enough for him to lift his index finger and tap it once. He was looking at Tamara as he did it. I thought I saw her give a slight nod in return.

“You do it alone, shoot Colton?” I said. I moved a cautious half pace to my left as I spoke. Valjean didn’t seem to notice that, either.

“Yeah, alone. Bob wanted to be there to see it but he couldn’t, he’s in a wheelchair, so I did the job myself. Finally gave Colton what he had coming for what he did to Bob and me, Luke and Dottie and my folks, all of us, finally some justice after seventeen years. Payback, by God, eye for an eye. Colton and Big Dog and Marjorie and you three and anybody else gets in my way.”

Abruptly he began to pace. Crosswise behind my desk to within a couple of paces of the far side wall, turn, back across to the near side wall, turn. Head tilted sideways, eyes flicking watchfully over the three of us as he moved, his lips forming words that now only he could hear. Working himself up to it, the thread getting closer to the snapping point. I had the clear, chill feeling that when he decided to stop pacing, he would start shooting.

Tamara had maneuvered her hand and arm onto the keyboard, and her fingers were slowly loosening the mouse cord-connector. Runyon’s gaze met mine again; when Valjean made a turn away from him he nodded once, as imperceptibly as Tamara had, to let me know he was ready.

I moved another few inches to my left on Valjean’s next turn. For most of his back-and-forth path, my desk was between the two of us; but when he went into his pivot at the near wall, there were a dozen feet of open floor space separating us. A dozen feet... like a hundred yards of no man’s land. I waited until he turned back the other way, looked at Runyon and made a couple of small motions with my head, one at the wall, the other at the floor.

Tamara had the mouse connector free of its socket.

Valjean was still pacing, not as rapidly now, no longer muttering to himself.

Runyon’s fingers closed around the mouse.

I widened my stance slightly, slid my left foot back a few inches, and held a breath, thinking Here we go.

Valjean was looking halfway between me and the others, so that he could keep all three of us within the range of his vision. If he saw any of the calculated movements we made, they didn’t register, didn’t put a hitch in his step. Three paces from the near wall, he about-faced again, an almost military heel-and-toe turn.

And in that second—

Runyon swept up and threw the mouse sidearm, all in one motion — not at Valjean but past and behind him, its cord flapping and twisting like the tail of a whip.

Tamara cut loose with a banshee shriek, so loud and shrill it was a pressure in the ear.

Valjean pulled up short, his stubbled face registering confusion, his attention caught by her and Runyon and the flying mouse — no longer seeing me at all.

I charged him, head down, body bent as low to the floor as I could get and still make speed.

He heard me coming halfway, spun in my direction. The machine pistol was a semiautomatic; it chattered two or three times, but confusion and haste and the weight of the thing and the high angle of its muzzle threw all the slugs past me by a couple of feet. Runyon was coming by then; I didn’t see him until he slammed into Valjean, throwing the gunarm up just as the pistol hammered again. I barreled into Valjean from my side, the two of us sandwiching him, and we all went down in a wild tangle of arms and legs and squirming bodies. Behind us something heavy and metallic made a thunderous crashing noise; I could feel the vibration in the floorboards as I clawed a grip on the gun... hot metal, burning my fingers. I yanked it loose of Valjean’s grasp, threw it behind me.

Runyon had the other arm and the big struggling body pinned. I heaved up and back to get leverage and hit Valjean in the face with as much force as I could muster. It hurt him, brought a grunt of pain and weakened his struggles. I slammed him again, a side-swipe blow to the temple so solid that it popped one of my knuckles — a sharp pain I barely felt. The fight began to go out of him. Runyon’s turn: one, two shots to the face, the second on the point of the jaw. Valjean stiffened for an instant, went limp all at once. Down and out.

It was over.

The two of us lay draped over him for a few seconds, sucking wind. Then I lifted up again, onto my knees, and yelled, “Tamara!” Tried to yell it, but it came out in a hoarse croak.

I saw her before she answered. She must’ve thrown herself down and under her desk after she screamed; now she came crawling out. “Not hurt. You? Jake?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

There was a pair of handcuffs in the bottom catch-all drawer of my desk. I didn’t have to tell Tamara to get them; she was already crawling that way. Runyon rolled Valjean over, and I yanked his arms behind him and snapped steel around both wrists a few seconds later.

It took a couple of tries to get up on my feet, a little effort to stay there. I leaned a hand against the desk to steady myself, jerked back because of a flash of pain in my popped knuckle, and switched support to the other hand. Runyon was up, too. Except for a grayish tone to his skin, you couldn’t tell that he’d come within inches of dying. Tamara’s eyes were huge, a lot of white showing, and there was blood on her lower lip that hadn’t been there before — fresh blood where she’d bitten through the skin.

Runyon said to her, “Good job with that scream. Helped with the distraction.”

“Yeah, well, wasn’t all good. I think I peed in my panty hose.”

“Damn lucky, all of us. If we hadn’t been on the same page...”

“But we were,” I said.

There were noises out in the hallway, but nobody tried to come inside. The air was hazy with aftersmoke from the fired rounds and foul with the stink of burnt powder. I saw holes in the plaster next to the door, another in the door itself. Saw something else, then — the source of the booming crash of metal that had shaken the floor. One or more slugs from that last burst had taken down the old, ugly chandelier that had hung between the skylights. It no longer looked like an upside-down grappling hook surrounded by clusters of brass testicles; now it was just a mangled pile of scrap.

Tamara said, “I always hated that thing.”

“So did I.”

“Place’ll never be the same again.”

“No. No, it won’t.”

The three of us stood there, looking at each other.

“Sweet Lord Jesus,” she said.