No thanks to you, Billy Joel.
New York was not Bill's first choice.
Or his second, but what the hell. One could get lost in a crowd of freaks, and the Big Apple was right up there with Los Angeles and Miami. If anything he could insert himself into society, and if he could manage to conceal himself long enough, he might be able to rewrite himself, change his name, and… and…
And then what?
He had no real idea.
It had been easier, he thought as he drove through the city, when he was alone. Just him and his job and his guns and not much else. But since he'd gotten attached to a, well, a family (he hated that word), he hadn't realized how much he'd put in the 'reasons to live' category.
But he couldn't go back. It was too late for any of it. They were like the mafia. Once they decided you weren't going to continue breathing, you didn't. Eventually, you had to let your guard down, had to rest or eat or sleep or something normal people did to keep up their strength, and you opened a door. It didn't have to be a very wide opening. The bastards could be very thin when they wanted to be, like snakes.
The side trip to Washington had been fun, though. He'd paid a short yet worthwhile visit to his old contact within the Central Idiot Agency, Casey Ryback. He'd paid his bill with the house, like he should have done a year or two back when all the shit hit the fan, and got the hell out of Dodge. But he'd swung by the hospital to see Hawk and Beth first. They both had wanted to know where his entourage was, but he'd evaded their questions as well as he could, even though Beth had picked up on his mood. He knew that she knew something was up. Bill had known her long enough to read that much on her face, and vice versa.
So, hopefully, he'd left in time. No one would bother his little family way out west in the boonies. And at least, no one who lived in the house was knowledgeable enough to find him. Except maybe Sam. Bill figured that the Boy Scout had better things to do.
He pulled out of his own thoughts when he saw the cross street he was looking for. He turned left, then drove past the building he was looking for, stopping four blocks north. The keys dangled from the ignition as he slammed the door, locking it. It wouldn't take too much time for the inhabitants of the neighborhood to break in and strip, or steal, the blue Chevy Blazer that he'd picked up a day before, but that was fine. He wasn't going to come back for it anyway.
Sam's big frame filled the space between the aisle and me. He had relaxed as much as the hunt mentality would allow, and had even got himself around a complimentary beer. I had the window seat, and when the view of the clouds had exhausted itself, I decided to try a little small talk.
"Seems like every time we're on one of these things together, we're after Bill," I said.
"Seems like every time I'm on a wild goose chase these days, it has something to do with his ass," Sam responded. "Yes, young lady, I believe I will have another. You want somethin', Li'l Sis?"
"You think you should be drinking all that much, Sammy?"
Ten seconds of the death look later, Sam turned back to the flight attendant. "After this. I'll stick to coffee, if that's no problem," he told the woman.
Sam was not the charming sort; he was too matter of fact for that. His appeal lay in his absolutely unassailable masculinity. I put myself in the shoes of the flight attendant for a minute. The man was huge. He smelled pleasantly and unobtrusively of after shave. He had the look of a man who had come to maturity watching John Wayne movies, and who had spent a good deal of time in the outdoors beating his face against convenient land masses attempting to achieve the Duke's weathered look. A carefully modulated voice rumbled up out of the depths and fell on her ears. She was puttying before my eyes. I could understand why. I wondered if it would change her opinion if I described Sam's response to having a ferret crawl up his pants. I doubted it much. Once the damage was done, it was usually done.
"Of course not, sir…just let me know when you'd like it brought to you. Ma'am? Anything for you?"
"No, not just now, thank you," I said. I would only have to pee if I drank anything, and that would mean dislodging Sam and he looked too settled. Later, when my bottom was stiff, I would gladly move his ass.
The attendant moved on with her drink cart. She appeared to have been run through a mangle.
"How do you do that?" I muttered to my companion.
"Do what?"
"Mess up strange women?" I could hear Bill in my head – any woman Sam Gerard was capable of messing up was strange, indeed, or words to that effect.
"What in hell are you talking about?"
"Never mind. If you can't see it, there's no point."
We flew on. Sam worked his beer. I stared out the window.
After a half hour or so, Sam reached over my head to summon the attendant.
"You want coffee, darlin'?"
I nodded, coffee was fine, I might even drink some of it. I looked to the attendant, to discover that we were being cared for not by the woman Sam had messed up earlier, but by her partner, a swishy little guy. Sam was messing him up. Since the little man instinctively understood that an attempt to flirt with Sam might end with his first and only skydiving lesson, he kept himself on task.
Sam's coffee was not up to scratch. We both knew it wouldn't be. Most airlines didn't make it a habit to hold the coffee three days and then partially reconstitute it, which was the only hope in hell they had of recreating the vile concoction Sam required in his cup.
He drank it black, with only a mild grimace. I toyed with mine, after adding a fake sugar.
"You want that?" Sam asked, gesturing at my cup.
"Not particularly, but you wouldn't," I said. "Sammy…how do you know what we're doing?"
Sam turned his eyes on me. The stare that had entirely intimidated the little swish was, for me, oddly comforting. It indicated the quality of the man.
"Strannix isn't the only one who knows people."
Bill was afraid he'd made a very bad mistake.
He knew as soon as he turned on his television and saw his own mug staring back at him. Granted, these days he didn't look much like himself, what with the black, short-cut hair and beard, but he knew it wouldn't be enough to trip anyone that mattered up for long.
Out came his back up. From the bottom of the duffle, he produced two handguns. One was a Glock 60, a prototype edition he'd obtained through alternative means, and the other was a highly modified Heckler and Koch, with all kinds of nifty little gadgets protruding from it. A little too tweaked for his tastes, but it delivered a hell of a punch. A box of hand-packed ammunition for both pistols appeared after, hollow point man-stoppers. He'd had them for a year or so, assembled after he and Sam's little trip to the cabin, where Cole had tried to put out their lights.
After disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling both weapons, he loaded full clips into both of them, and stuck the Glock into his waistband. He dragged a chair into the far corner of the room and sat down in the darkening apartment, watching the shadows recede through his surroundings.
The apartment was one of his safe houses. The rent was electronically paid through a bank account with the name of George T. Wilde attached. There were no real furnishings, simply a couch, and chair in the main room, an empty kitchen (nothing in the fridge, but a few canned goods in the pantry), and a simple bed with a few linens piled atop. There was no need for too much else, since no one lived there. Bill certainly didn't expect to spend any more than a day or so there. Unfortunately, one does need to rest at some point, even if sitting up with a gun in their lap.
As he fell to a light sleep, his brain was busy mapping escape routes and maneuvers from different positions. They wouldn't send any more than two, three for backup... they didn't want to attract... attention...
Sam had gradually stopped talking the closer we came to New York. Not that he was necessarily a chatterbox to begin with, so that by the time it was our turn to land at LaGuardia I had the distinct impression I was transferring a set of remains that hadn’t yet landed in a box. He drank coffee steadily until the attendants had to stop serving, then he sat back and sank into himself. I had been with baby brother enough during similar states to know better than to rouse him, so I fidgeted in my seat.
Sam: Stay with me.
Deb: I have a ridiculous desire to get totally lost and be a white outpost in Bed-Stuy or something slow down already…
Sam decreased the length of his stride, but it still meant running to keep up. It was small consolation to have no baggage to try and hang on to during the mad dash. I wished I had worn shoes with leather soles. I might have caught hold of Sam’s coattails and simply hung on for dear life.
Deb: Where are we going?
Sam: Hotel.
Deb: Aw, shit! I thought we were gonna be able to sleep in Central Park like the rest of the derelicts.
Sam stopped cold, and I plowed into his back. It never seemed to fail, no matter how many times I chased after these clowns, I always whanged into them when they decided on a sudden stop. Sam staggered slightly and caught me before I could slide down his bulk onto my ass.
Sam: Keep your smartass cracks to yourself, young woman, or you can turn right around.
Deb: But you said…
Sam: I said I knew people. I’m just not sure they’re necessarily the right people. Keep quiet, let me think.
Deb: Then this might be a wild goose chase?
Sam: Could be. But I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t try something. So…keep up and keep quiet. Understand?
I had begun to think, or at least hope, locating Bill was a distinct possibility. After all, Sam was a professional hunter of people who made it their business to be hard to find. I had thought he might have some way of figuring something out. Now, listening to him, I wasn’t sure.
Deb: Then let me hold on to your arm, Sammy.
Sam managed a sort of a smile, then tucked my hand in his elbow. It beat the handcuffs. I thought about making a joke, but Sam didn’t seem to be in the mood. And to be honest, I wasn’t either.
If anybody had asked me to guess how many hotels were located on Manhattan Island, I would have told him to fuck off. Even with that level of interest, I stared like a dumb hick at the familiar hotel names. What the hell, I was a dumb hick from flyover country, and some of these establishments had been household names roughly forever. I wondered what it would be like to stay in a top-drawer establishment like that. I had to keep wondering. All I can say is, someone left the light on for us at our hotel.
Deb: Separate rooms, please.
The clerk stared at us in what looked like dumb astonishment. How many times did couples of a certain age come into to this out of the way motel and ask for separate rooms? Obviously he expected us to be there on the hourly plan. To his credit, he shut his mouth and recovered enough to reach for a separate registration card for me, since Sam already had one.
Sam: I don’t think so.
Deb: We can’t share a room…
Sam: We did it before. Damn, you’re the last woman I’d move on, use your head.
Now for the bullshit response. For a split second, I was actually offended by his remark. He wouldn’t move on me? Why not? What the hell was wrong with me that the Great Sam etcetera etcetera didn’t find me attractive and wouldn’t dream of moving on me. What was up with that?
Deb: Oh, for the love’a Mike…of course. What a doorknob.
Clerk: Excuse me?
Deb: Me. I’m a doorknob. Of course, we’ll take a single.
That was more like it. The rest of the transaction was completed swiftly, even taking into consideration the short but intense battle of the credit cards. I won, and paid. When the clerk saw our lack of luggage, it was all he could do to keep the knowing smirk off his face. In the meantime, I was chewing myself out for having the audacity to be offended at Sam’s remark. Of course he wouldn’t move on me, wouldn’t even think about it, we were like some weird, twisted version of family by that point.
Sam: Why are you a doorknob, girl?
Deb: Huh? What?
Sam: You called yourself a doorknob.
Deb: Unnecessary response to something. Never mind.
Sam did. Never mind, I mean. Which was enough by itself to tell me that he wasn’t paying a lot of attention to what I’d said.
There was a minor glitch in the machinery, though. We discovered that the room we had been given only had one bed.
Sam: I’ll go get another room.
Deb: Forget it, Sammy, forget it. I’m sick of that little twerp staring at us and laughing up his sleeve. You’re not going to move on me, remember. We can manage this.
Fortunately we didn’t have to manage it right away. It was early evening, far too early to think about going to bed. We prowled around the room for ten or fifteen minute, neither of us wanting to say much for fear of saying too much.
Sam: I’m gonna see what I can do about a car. Go on and clean yourself up, whatever it is you do.
Had he forgotten so quickly? When he’d been with Beth, he could describe her ritual chapter and verse, and bellyache about it in detail. He could also marvel at her rapid preparations when time was tight.
Deb: Hang on. I’ll wash my face and hands and we’ll both go.
My credit card wasn’t smoking. Yet.
The little smirking man at the desk was able to arrange for a car, in fact, there was an Avis counter right in the hotel. This time the payment was made by someone name of Gerard, and we discovered ourselves equipped with a Kia Sportage.
Sam: Damn baby truck, what’n hell do people do with these things?
Deb: Drive them when they’re looking for someone, maybe?
Sam: We’re not gonna find ‘im any faster if we take a minute and get somethin’ to eat first.
I ordered a salad. Sometimes watching Sam destroy some defenseless piece of meat wasn’t good for the appetite, and this was starting to feel like one of those times. I pushed the lettuce around in the bowl.
Sam: Eat.
Deb: Last I checked it’s what I was doing.
Sam hacked off another cubic yard of cow. A few more slashes rendered the chunk bite-sized and Sam went to work. I rearranged my lettuce some more.
Sam: Strannix won’t be too happy, he finds out you’re not takin’ care of yourself.
Deb: I have a fat ass, Sam. I neglect a bowl of lettuce once in a while I won’t die of starvation.
Sam: Don’t worry.
I wasn’t worried. I never worried about Bill, not anymore. Scared was a different subject entirely and I was bugshit out of my mind with it, but I wasn’t worried at all. Bill could take care of himself, the question was, would they take care of him first.
Deb: That’s not it, Sam.
Sam: Then what is it, exactly?
Deb: I’m not so sure. I know I’m frightened…and before you say a word, I know how much good that does me. Mostly I guess I’d like to see him and make sure he’s still on his feet. I don’t need to get any closer than the other side of the street, but as long as I know he’s still getting around under his own steam, it won’t be so bad.
Sam had torn through the steak and now was allowing himself an after dinner cigar. The restaurant didn’t mind it a bit. In fact, the bastards who ran the place were encouraging it. Our waiter appeared with a small bit of heavy paper. Wine list? Dessert list? Of course not, it was a list of cigars that they kept on hand for their patrons. Sam indicated his choice and the waiter returned with the selected stinkbomb. It had been trimmed and made ready for consumption, and Sam was practically flat on his back on the chair as he smoked. He appeared to have died and gone to heaven. I was ready to help him with the dying part. What a reek!
There was only so much overt bitching I could do about the cigars before getting the evil stare again, so I contented myself with huge sighs and banging around of things like my purse. I forgot totally about my cellphone, or at least the one I kept in the bottom of my bag which I only used for emergencies when I needed to talk to Bill right now and that doesn’t mean call when you need another truckload of catfood, dammit. I never used the phone, really. Never even thought about it…until I heard it ringing. Bill had told me it had an automatic ringback or that it would ring when I dialed until he picked it up or something like that. It was ringing cheerfully in the bottom of my bag now. I clawed it out and stared at it, horrified. Something must have activated it, a bump or a poke, and it had been on…hell…hadn’t Bill told me he would mind it and all I would have to do if I needed it was just hit the speed-dial button and wait?
Sam heard it, too. He leaned forward in his chair, that intent look back on his face. His hand was out, making that ‘gimme’ twitch that was so familiar.
Sam: What the hell
is that?
Deb: You’re hovering again, quit hovering!
My hands were shaking the way it was, because once I got the phone out of the bag I could hear evil sounds coming from it. Bill was hissing into the phone, panting lightly and quickly. He said ‘dammit, punk, you tryin’ t’get my ass killed?’ and then there were the unmistakable sounds of gunshots, several of them.
Deb: Oh, man…
Sam: What’ve you done?
Now he was half up out of the seat and reaching. His twitching had a much more imperative look to it.
Deb: I’m sorry there’s no lake for you to chuck this thing into but it’s mine and shit happens.
Beisdes, the phone was dead. The transmission had been cut cleanly off after those ominous crackling sounds.
Sam: Oh. Jesus. Christ.
Moving right along…