The Killing Kind

36

The bell above the Bait Shop’s door jingled as the sandy-haired man let himself inside, sunlight streaming in around him on all sides. It was a little after four p.m. on Saturday. The bar had been open for all of five minutes, and save for Lester, it was unoccupied.

When Lester heard the bell, he peeked over the bar toward the door. He could just make out his would-be patron’s head and shoulders from where his wheelchair sat. Black sport coat. Black turtleneck. Black kid gloves, evidenced when he raised a hand in hello. And the palest of blue eyes. The man limped slightly, and his face was bruised, but his expression conveyed no discomfort-the slightest of smiles graced his lips, as if he’d just remembered the punch line of a joke long since forgotten.

“Afternoon,” Lester called to him. “Kitchen’s closed, so if you’re hungry, keep walking-but if a drink is what you’re after, I’m happy to oblige. What’s your poison?”

“What, indeed?” asked the man-his smile coming out in full now. His English was flawless, but its edges were sharpened by an accent that clearly marked him foreign. Austrian, Lester thought, or maybe Swiss.

The man looked around the bar’s small dining room. Empty booths, empty barstools, empty chairs. There was something sinister about him, Lester realized. Something predatory. Fear uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, he said, “Yeah, it’s been a little quiet around these parts today. But no worries: this place’ll be hopping in no time.” He hoped it sounded less a bluff to this man than it did to his own ears.

“Yes, Lester,” said the man, sliding the bolt on the door behind him and flipping the sign on its inset pane to Closed. “I suspect it will be.”

The threat was hard to miss. Lester didn’t hesitate. He tripped the panic button hidden beneath the lip of the bar-signaling Hendricks-and went for the Beretta M9 Velcroed to the underside of his chair. Maybe if he’d gone for the gun straightaway, he might have had a fighting chance. The man, mongoose-quick, grabbed a wooden chair from the nearest table and hurled it at him. Gun hand and chair legs connected. Lester’s Beretta slipped from his grasp and shattered the mirror behind the bar. In seconds, the man was on him-vaulting over the bar, his knee connecting hard with Lester’s groin. The pain was excruciating. Lester’s world went a little wobbly around the edges.

“That was hardly the most hospitable of welcomes, Mr. Meyers,” the sandy-haired man hissed as he backhanded Lester across the face. Lester’s head rocked sideways at the force of the blow.

Black-gloved hands zip-tied Lester’s arms to his wheelchair’s armrests with practiced grace. A whole lemon from the garnish station was stuffed as far as it would go into his mouth. Juice bled from it where Lester’s teeth pierced its skin, invading the cuts those same teeth had left in his own lips-twin bee-stings, top and bottom.

As quickly as the man was on him, he was gone. A terrifying, animal grace. He strode calmly but with purpose around the perimeter of the bar-closing blinds, checking the restroom for occupants. Briefly, he disappeared into the kitchen-checking the storeroom and service entrance, Lester supposed.

Whatever’s about to happen, Lester thought, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Once Special Agent Garfield had supplied Engelmann with Hendricks’s file, finding Meyers was a simple matter of placing a phone call. His Council contact let it ring so long, though, it was clear that he-and by extension, his organization-wished to register his displeasure at Engelmann’s lack of progress.

“What?” his contact answered, eight rings in.

“I need a favor.”

“So far, you’ve needed plenty of favors, and we haven’t seen much in return. What makes you think you deserve another?”

“I’m close,” said Engelmann. “Closer than anybody else has come.”

“You’d best be. What, exactly, do you need?”

“I assume you have sources within the military, yes?”

His contact hesitated. “Maybe.”

“I need to find a certain Lester Meyers. All I know for sure is that he’s a military veteran. Late twenties, I’m guessing-maybe early thirties.”

A long, calculating pause. “He our guy?”

“No,” said Engelmann, “he’s not. But I believe him to have information I require.”

“This Meyers…is he underground?”

“I have no reason to assume so, but his military record is under lock and key.”

“Seems to me the bucks we’re paying you, you oughta be able to do your own goddamn legwork.”

“I understand-but time is of the essence,” said Engelmann.

“Law’s onto this guy, too?”

“Yes. And if they locate him before I do…”

“I get the picture,” his contact said. “Gimme five minutes to do my thing, then call me back. And Alexander?” He said Engelmann’s first name with exaggerated care, as if mocking his hired killer’s mannered grace.

“Yes?”

“That call better be the last I get from you until your target’s dead.”

The sandy-haired man returned from the bar’s back room and fetched from his inside coat pocket a black leather kit the approximate size and shape of a woman’s clutch, zippered on three sides. It looked to Lester like a particularly extensive lock-pick kit.

And after a fashion, it was.

The man unzipped the kit and set it on the bar. He made a show of unfolding it-three panels, all told. Its contents, held in place by a series of leather loops, snapped at one end, were the stuff of nightmares.

A set of scalpels. Awls and chisels in assorted shapes and sizes. Something that looked like a cross between a ball-peen hammer and a hatchet. A small bow saw. A hand drill with an assortment of bits. And sundry forceps, clamps, and scissors.

They were old, no doubt-antiques, perhaps, dull-looking and rust-flecked-but there was no mistaking their purpose. They were surgical instruments. But in this man’s hands, they were meant to undo rather than repair.

Lester’s chair rocked from side to side as he struggled against his restraints. The sandy-haired man cooed over him as though he were a crying child, but made no move to stop him. Lester struggled until his limbs and chest burned from exertion, and sweat plastered his hair and clothes to his body. The zip ties dug into his flesh, drawing blood. It dripped onto the hardwood in quiet, rhythmic taps. Eventually, Lester’s struggles ceased, and he eyed the man before him in unadulterated fear.

“Are you quite finished?” asked the man. Lester was silent. “Good. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alexander Engelmann. Now,” he said, one hand hovering over the open surgical kit a moment before selecting from it a small, wooden-handled awl, “you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about one Michael Evan Hendricks.”