It will take some time. A few days, at least. What is the bigger problem for you, a walking and talking Scott Shields or a corpse?
“Scott,” Eli said, “I’m on the brink of a crisis decision. Please understand that.”
“You’re on the brink? Son of a bitch, you’re bringing these packs of idiots onto my property without giving me so much as a word of notice? I don’t give a damn about your troubles, I’m concerned with preventing my own.”
“You don’t give a damn about my troubles. Is that so?”
“Better believe it. We had an arrangement.”
“I remember. One stipulation was privacy. Have you told anyone else where I am?”
“Of course not. I know you’re lying low.”
“I’m just curious what my exposure here is.”
Scott’s eyes widened. His big chest filled. “Curious about your exposure? It’s my property! I’ve got the risk!”
“And I intend to eliminate that for you.”
That mollified him just slightly. “How are you going to do that?”
“Before coming to see me, who did you speak to? Maybe have a beer with, do some bitching about the problems I’m creating for you up there, running behind schedule?”
“Not a soul. I came up to see you and find out what the hell was going on.”
“No other contact, then. You haven’t spoken to, say, Lawrence Novak?”
“Larry? Hell, no. I told you, he thinks I’m back in Alaska. What does he have to do with it?”
“Not a thing, evidently, which is excellent to hear. Now, Scott. About your risks…the way I understand it is that, so long as the property remains in your ownership, you’re worried about every activity that occurs there.”
“Damn right I am! You already knew this. That was the-”
“You don’t own the land,” Eli said. “You only rent it.”
Scott pulled back as if Eli had slapped him. “What kind of drugs are you on? I own that land. Go down to the damn courthouse and look at the deed.”
“The deed is not the point. We’re all renters here. Of earth, of our time. We don’t own either of those things. Understand?”
“You’re a lunatic. My only concern is-”
Eli lifted a soothing hand. “I can assure you-absolutely assure you-that all of your worldly concerns have reached their terminus.”
Scott Shields cocked his head and gave Eli a confused stare with the barest glimmer of suspicion. Then he spoke again and got as far as “You mind putting that in English, you crazy son of a-” before Eli drew a tiny.22-caliber Ruger from his jacket pocket and shot him directly in his right eye.
Scott reeled back; his feet tangled, and he fell. Eli closed on him without hesitation, a pouncing cat, pressed the pistol directly to Scott’s left eye, and fired again. The little gun barely kicked, but Scott’s face spit blood back at Eli. He wiped it away and remained there, kneeling over the man, until he was sure that he was dead.
“Well,” Eli said, “we approach warp speed, it seems.”
Passersby here would be rare, and the RV was unlikely to give them pause, but a body lying in front of it would. Eli fished through Scott’s pockets until he found his keys, and then he unlocked the oversize motor home and stepped inside. There was a back bedroom with closed window blinds and a door that screened the room from every other window. It would do. There were far better hiding places in any direction in this rugged land, but Eli was short on time, and Shields was a large man, certain to be difficult to maneuver.
He left the motor home, returned to Shields, and grasped the collar of the dead man’s jacket. He dragged Shields inside and all the way to the bedroom, and then he heaved him up onto the bed. Shields’s head flopped onto the pillow and his body fell naturally into a sleeping posture. The peacefulness of it bothered Eli. He took the gun out and fired two more bullets, one into each eye again. With the existing wounds, the small.22 shells worked like drill bits, boring cleaner tunnels.
Better. Those who found him should be able to grasp the problem that had led to Scott Shields shuffling off this mortal coiclass="underline" his eyes were useless, for he had no capacity to understand what they offered him. By any definition that truly mattered, Scott had never been able to see things for what they were.
“Thanks for the land,” Eli told the corpse, and then he left the bedroom, checked himself in the bathroom mirror, washed the blood speckles off his skin and clothing, and returned to Scott’s truck. The pickup would be valuable; the ATV even more so. Eli hated the ghastly clatter of the vehicles and the smell of the exhaust, but sometimes, you had to make your deals with the devil.
22
Mark met Lynn Deschaine at a bar overlooking the Halifax River, a stretch of Intracoastal Waterway that was more like a lagoon than a river, separating the mainland from the barrier islands.
He sipped a beer, the cold bottle numbing the bandaged cut on his thumb, and watched a wood stork shift from one dock pylon to another, studying the water, and he waited on the Pinkerton to arrive. He thought of his uncle, wished he had a number for him, just so he could call and tell him that, because Larry would have loved it. Ronny would have loved it even more, but he’d been dead for years. Now it was just Larry, if he was even alive. That thought made him deeply sad. He’d walked away from his past for smart reasons, but he missed them all the same. His uncles, in particular, had been good men to him, if not to the rest of the world. And they’d cared for his mother.
Lynn Deschaine called from her cell phone while she stood in the shadowed interior of the bar, and Mark raised a hand to indicate where he was sitting. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than Mark, with hair so dark it shimmered in the light like oil. Her features betrayed some of the French look of her name, with high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, and eyes that seemed to be in on a joke that the rest of the world hadn’t gotten yet. They weren’t eyes that matched her phone style. Except for that one time he’d felt certain that she had smiled.
After she shook his hand, she said, “If you don’t mind my asking…what happened to you, Mr. Novak? You look a little worse for the wear.”
His face, neck, and arms were lined with scratches, and his hand was wrapped in gauze.
“Had a little trouble getting out of a house last night.”
“Why was that?”
“Your friend Janell had set it on fire.”
She stared at him.
Mark passed her a cocktail napkin that he’d been writing on while he waited.
“Refresh yourself,” he said.
She looked at the napkin and what he’d printed on it. Pinkerton Agency Code of Ethics, 1850
1. Accept no bribes
2. Never compromise with criminals
3. Partner with local law enforcement agencies
4. Refuse divorce cases or cases that initiate scandals
5. Turn down reward money
6. Never raise fees without the client’s pre-knowledge
7. Keep clients apprised on an ongoing basis
“That came from Allan himself,” Mark said. “The big boss.”
She lifted the napkin and held it up with two fingers of her left hand. He noted there was no wedding band. It had been a long time since Mark had noted that about anyone. He felt strangely ashamed by it.
“I truly don’t understand this,” Lynn said.
“Ethics?”
“No. Your amusement with my agency.”
Mark shrugged. “As a student of the profession, I feel like this is a really special opportunity for me.”
“I’m sure that it is.”
He leaned forward and took the napkin, set it down in front of her, and tapped it with his index finger. “These still hold true, right? The company never disavowed them?”