He wondered how the Russians had found him so quickly. After all, he had changed his car, yet here they were, those two men in their black 4x4. Merrick reflected that perhaps he should not have left Rebecca Clay’s ex-husband alive, but Merrick was not a man who killed without some cause and, as far he could tell, Legere knew nothing. Even his ex-wife had not trusted him enough to share anything about her father with him.
But Merrick was also certain that, almost since his quest had begun, his progress was being shadowed and his every move watched. He thought of the old lawyer in his paper-filled office, and his unseen benefactor, the mysterious other who had instructed Eldritch to help him, who had provided funds, a place to hide, and information. The lawyer had never provided a satisfactory explanation for his willingness to aid Merrick, and Merrick’s distrust of him had quickly grown, leading him to distance himself from the old man as soon as was feasible, the period of his recent brief incarceration apart. Yet even after that, when he was taking care to cover his tracks, there were times when he had felt himself being watched, sometimes when he was in a crowd, trying to lose himself in a mall or a bar, and other times when he was alone. He thought that he had caught a glimpse of a man once, a ragged figure in an old black coat, who was examining Merrick thoughtfully through a cloud of cigarette smoke but, when he tried to follow him, the man had vanished, and Merrick had not seen him again.
Then there were the nightmares. They had begun in the safe house, shortly after Merrick had been given the car and the money by Eldritch: visions of pale, wasted creatures, their eye sockets black, their mouths lipless and wrinkled, all dressed in soiled tan coats, old mackintoshes with buttons missing and reddish brown stains on the collars and the sleeves. Merrick would awaken in the darkness, and in that moment between sleeping and consciousness he thought that he could almost see them receding from him, as though they had been leaning over him while he slept, no breath emerging from their mouths, only a stale smell of something old and noxious lodged deep within themselves. Since he had abandoned the safe house, the dreams had come less often, but there were still nights when he ascended from the depths of sleep to a crawling sensation on his skin and a faint stench that had not been there when he closed his eyes.
Had Eldritch, reckoning Merrick to be a liability, told the Russians where he was, facilitated by the other, or by the man in the ragged black coat? Were this man and Eldritch’s client one and the same? Merrick did not know, and it no longer mattered. It was all nearing an end, and soon there would be peace.
The Russians had been careless. He had seen them coming, watching in the rearview as they hung three or four cars back, occasionally overtaking when it was necessary to keep him in sight. He had pulled over at one point to see if they would pass him, and they had, keeping their eyes fixed straight ahead, scrupulously ignoring him as he spread a map upon the steering wheel and pretended to trace his route with a finger, too many trucks passing for them to be able to take him while he was stopped. He had let them go, then pulled out after a few minutes had gone by. He saw them ahead, hanging back in the slow lane, hoping that he would pass them again, and he obliged. After a couple of miles, he turned onto Stream Road, and from there found a dirt track that would suit his purpose. He followed it for over a mile, past abandoned shacks set back from the road, past a double-wide trailer and cars slouched on tireless rims, until even those humble tokens of human habitation disappeared, and the road became rougher yet, bouncing him in his seat and causing his spine to ache. When there was only forest before and behind, to north and south, east and west, he cut the engine. He could hear them approaching. He got out of the car, leaving the driver’s door open, and moved into the trees, heading back in the direction in which he had come until the Russians appeared. They stopped when they came to his abandoned car. He could almost guess the conversation that was taking place within. They would have known that they had followed him into a trap. The only question for them was how to free themselves from it while ensuring Merrick ’s death and their own survival. Crouched in the undergrowth, Merrick saw the one in the passenger seat, the man with red hair, look over his shoulder. Their options were limited. They could reverse and leave, hoping to catch him again on the road, whether he tried to escape on foot or by car; or they could get out, one from each side, and try to hunt him on foot. They would be at their most vulnerable when they opened the doors, but their reasoning would be that if he opened fire on them, he might hit one of them at most, if he was lucky, and in doing so he would expose his position.
In the end, Merrick did not wait for them to open the doors. As soon as the redheaded man looked away Merrick lunged out of the bushes and began firing through the rear window; once, twice, three times, and as it disintegrated he saw a wash of blood appear on the windshield and the driver collapse sideways. His partner opened the passenger door and dropped to the ground, firing at Merrick as the older man advanced, for there was no retreating now. Merrick felt a tug at his side and a sensation of numbness, followed by a searing, red-hot pain, but still he fired, experiencing a surge of satisfaction as the body of the second Russian jerked on the ground, and the shooting stopped.
He advanced on the slumped figure slowly, feeling the blood flowing down his side, soaking his shirt and his pants. He kicked the Russian’s gun away and stood over him. The redheaded man was lying on his side against the right rear wheel. There was a wound beneath his neck and another almost dead in the center of his chest. His eyes were half-closed, but he was still breathing. Gasping at the pain of his injury, Merrick bent down, picked up the Russian’s Colt, then searched the pockets of the man’s jacket until he found a wallet and a spare magazine for the pistol. The name on the driver’s license was Yevgeny Utarov. It meant nothing to him.
Merrick took the $326 from the wallet and jammed it into his own pocket, then tossed the wallet on the dying man’s lap. He spit on the ground and was happy to see that there was no blood in the sputum. Nevertheless, he was angry at himself for being wounded. It was the first time he had been hit in many, many years. It seemed to speak to him of the slow march of time, of his age and his impending mortality. He swayed slightly on his feet. The movement seemed to distract the man named Yevgeny from the fact of his own dying. His eyes opened wider, and he tried to say something. Merrick stood over him.
“Give me a name,” he said. “You got time in you yet. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here to die. It’ll be slow, and that pain you’re feeling will get worse. You give me a name, and it’ll go easier on you.”
Utarov whispered something.
“Speak up, now,” said Merrick. “I ain’t bending down again.”
Utarov tried once more. This time, the words sounded like blades being whetted against rough stone deep in his throat.