The Ethical Assassin_ A Novel Part 31

The guy shrugged, reached behind his desk, and handed me a yellow pages and then pointed to a pay phone. At least I had some coins so I didn't have to hear how the cop was not a change machine.

With the cab on its way, I returned the phone book and went to wait outside. Five minutes later, the cab showed up. I told him to take me to the bus station, where I hoped I might still be able to catch Chitra. I slunk into the backseat and leaned against the torn leather, closing my eyes, almost ready for sleep.

When I felt the car slow down, I opened my eyes again, but we weren't near the bus station yet. Instead we were on the gra.s.sy roadside-a ten- or fifteen-foot patch of crabgra.s.s and weeds that separated the road from the algae green ca.n.a.l. I saw flas.h.i.+ng blue and red lights as the cab pulled over. The car behind us was navy and white, and I recognized the stretch of road. We were in Meadowbrook Grove, and I watched Doe get out of his car and swagger over toward me.

Chapter 36.

DOE SAUNTERED OVER TO THE CAR, licking his lips. He was enjoying this. He peered at the cabbie for a minute. "You know you were speeding?" licking his lips. He was enjoying this. He peered at the cabbie for a minute. "You know you were speeding?"

"No sir, I wasn't. I know this is a forty-five zone, and I was going forty-five."

"You were going forty-seven," Doe said.

The cabbie laughed. "Two miles an hour. You're gonna write me up for that?"

"Don't matter," said Doe. "That's the limit. The limit ain't a rough estimate. It's the limit. limit. It's the speed over which you don't ever go, not a speed you try to stick to." It's the speed over which you don't ever go, not a speed you try to stick to."

"That ain't right," the cabbie said.

"Take it to court." He grinned at the driver.

He went back to his car and wrote up the ticket. He returned and handed it over. "I'll advise you not to speed anymore in my town."

The cabbie said nothing.

"Oh, and by the way," Doe said, "you know you got a wanted criminal in the backseat?" He rapped on the window with his knuckles. "Hey there, friend. You're under arrest."

This time, at least, he didn't bother with the handcuffs. He just put me in the back of the car. The whole thing had been a disaster. I kept telling the cabbie to call the police, and the cabbie kept saying that this guy was the police. "The county," I said. "Call Officer Toms at the sheriff's department and tell her that this guy arrested me."

"Look, I don't know what you want," the cabbie said while Doe led me away.

"I just told you what I want," I shouted, but after Doe locked me away he went back for a few more words to the cabbie, and I somehow didn't think the message would get through.

Now, in the back of Doe's police car, which smelled of stale French fries, Yoo-hoo, and sweat, I glanced out the window, watching the bleak scrub brush on the empty lots pa.s.s by. I could hardly feel the air-conditioning in the back, and the sweat was rolling down my sides.

Not that my comfort much mattered, since I might very well be dead soon. I considered this idea with a measured calm, though calm might be putting it too strongly. Resignation, maybe. I ran over all the possibilities I could think of-Doe would arrest me, question me, hand me over to the Gambler, torture me, let me go, all of it-but I kept coming back to one inevitable conclusion: It seemed pretty likely that Doe would kill me. Sure, there were reasons why it would be ill-advised. Aimee Toms had her eye on the situation and all that sort of thing. But if Doe killed me and hid the body, it would look like I'd just taken off. It was what I'd been planning on doing anyhow. As long as they never found a body, Doe would be off the hook.

So, it wasn't as though I were trying to convince myself that everything would be all right. I didn't believe everything would be all right. I thought it extremely unlikely that everything would be all right. But there was a calm nevertheless, like I imagined what a soldier must feel before he went into a hopeless battle, or a fighter pilot on realizing that he'd been critically hit and that he was going down with the plane. So, here I was. Cras.h.i.+ng.

Doe drove to the hog lot. No surprise there. He parked the car around the back, where it would be invisible to any but the most diligent search party, and then he shoved me, still unhandcuffed, toward the pig warehouse.

Maybe I should make a break for it, I thought. I'd already outrun Doe once, and he walked like a man who had trouble moving-legs wide apart, ambling, slow. But there was too much open s.p.a.ce, and we were too far from anyone who might see or hear my efforts to escape. Doe would have an easy shot at me if he wanted. A more heroic man might have tried to overpower the cop, but I knew that would only end badly, if not laughably. So I allowed myself to be pushed forward, and I waited for an opportunity and hoped for a lucky break, or at least the ability to comport myself in a respectable way.

Doe took out a set of keys and shoved one into the padlock on the door. It opened, blasting us in the face with heat and stench. I winced but watched as Doe didn't. He was used to it, I thought. Or he just didn't care.

Doe pushed me inside the building and through the narrow corridors separating the pens. I had seen it before, of course, but now, in the dim light of the pig warehouse, with the low and despairing grunts of the animals around me, I felt a new and sharper sense of pity. Maybe it was identification. The pigs backed away from us, and the slow movement of the exhaust fans strobed their movements.

Toward the middle of the room, one of the pens contained a wooden chair, the sort of thing you might see in an old schoolhouse, the kind that had been standing since the fifties or longer. I had seen such things at my own high school, weird aberrations among the metal-and-plastic hybrids that dominated, alone and out of place like a Neanderthal among Cro-Magnons.

Doe opened the gate and shoved me inside, then latched it closed again with me inside. There was something comical in this. The gate wasn't four feet high, and it wouldn't have taken much of an effort to get out, but then it was latched for the pigs. Somehow I was troubled by the indignity of his thinking I required no more safeguards than the pigs.

"All right, then," he said. "Looks like you ain't going anywhere for a while, so I figure we can have ourselves a little talk."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed. My voice wavered, but under the circ.u.mstances I thought I did the tough-guy thing pretty well. There was even a kind of pleasure, a satisfaction, in acting tough, in projecting swagger even while still. I understood now why people did it.

Doe studied me for a moment. "What you probably know, what you probably don't need me to say, is that I want to know where my money is."

"I figured that out," I said.

"I bet you did. So, where is it?"

"I don't know." I shook my head.

"The thing about pigs," Doe said, "is that they'll eat anything. And they love the taste of blood. They just love it. And these here pigs haven't been fed so good lately, so they're mighty hungry. If I tied your leg to that there chair and cut it open, those pigs are gonna be on you like a bunch of sharks. They're gonna be sticking their snouts in the wound, pus.h.i.+ng it open, lapping it up. Next thing you know, that whole leg is gone, but they're gonna keep eating. They're like piranhas on land. You ever wonder if you'd even be able to feel pigs eating your nuts if you'd already had to live through them eating your leg?"

"I never wondered that," I said.

"I have-wondered what it would be like to watch it happen. I might just find out, too, if I don't get my money."

I took a deep breath. "Listen, I don't really know what's going on here. I know you had something going on with the Gambler and probably b.a.s.t.a.r.d and the guy in the linen suit-"

"Sounds to me like you know a whole h.e.l.l of a lot."

"But that's about it. And, look. I know that b.a.s.t.a.r.d is dead and the Miami Vice Miami Vice guy is dead. I'm guessing your money is lost or there's only one person who might have it: the Gambler." guy is dead. I'm guessing your money is lost or there's only one person who might have it: the Gambler."

Doe thought about that for a minute. "It crossed my mind, but he says you told him I was hanging around before b.a.s.t.a.r.d got killed. I think you wanted him to figure I took the money, and that means you've been running some sort of scam on us."

"Listen to me. I don't have anything to do with this. I'm just trying to make it through this weekend. I have no interest in turning you in or anything like that. Just let me go."

Doe laughed. "Ain't no chance of that until I find out what happened to the money. So, tell me this. What was going on with you and b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Me? Nothing. I never met him before I knocked on his door the other night."

Doe shook his head. "I don't buy it. There was something with the two of you. And you been asking about him. Even those morons at County think you had something to do with him. You'd still be there if I hadn't convinced one of Karen's neighbors to call in and say they were still alive."

Doe had called. At the time, I had thought it was Melford who'd rescued me, but it was Doe. "Well, gosh. Thanks."

"As far as I'm concerned, you knew him and had something going with him. Something to do with that missing money. Now, you want to tell me the rest?"

And that was when I realized that all of this was because of Melford. Melford had planned it all along. The fingerprints on the gun, which he claimed he would never use. Sending me to ask questions about b.a.s.t.a.r.d in Meadowbrook Grove, so witnesses would report that I'd been hanging around, asking questions about a guy the cops suspected had been killed. Had he even somehow arranged for me to sell encyclopedias at Karen's house? I couldn't see how such a thing would be possible, but Melford was a mastermind. Anything was possible.

I'd thought he was my friend for trying to help me get the checkbook back, but Melford was so meticulous, he would have gotten rid of the checkbook after he'd killed his victims. The budding friends.h.i.+p with Desiree now struck me as implausible, too. They'd hit it off immediately, despite the fact that she worked for B. B. Gunn. Now I realized it wasn't despite the fact, it was because of it. He kept telling me to forget about the money, and now I knew why-because he had it himself. I had been an idiot. All the talk of prison riddles and animal rights and ideology had been a smoke screen. Why hadn't I listened to Chitra? She'd seen it, and I hadn't.

Something s.h.i.+fted inside of me. I was willing to be dignified in the face of adversity when I was the victim of a psycho cop, but not when I was the victim of a double cross. There was no way I was going to let Melford get away with it. Doe might have been disgusting, but Melford, I now saw, was diabolical.

"All right," I said. "I think I have it figured out. I think I finally understand. There's this guy, a strange-looking tall guy with white hair named Melford Kean. He set this whole thing up. He killed b.a.s.t.a.r.d and Karen and then took the money, and for the past two days he's been making it look like I did it. But it was him. The whole time, it had to have been him. Look, I don't like you, and I don't want to help you, but this guy has screwed me over, and I'll help you get him and your money. All you have to do is let me go."

"So, this guy Melford Kean has the money," Doe said.

"That's right."

"And you'll help me find him."

"I will."

"And when I find him, I'll get my money?"

"Yes," I said. "I don't think it's that hard to understand."

"It ain't hard to understand your words," Doe said. "Just why I should be expected to believe such a bulls.h.i.+t story."

"Why can't you believe it?" I asked, almost pleaded. I was sure I would be able to save myself with this, or at the very least buy some time in which Aimee Toms might save me or I might think of something.

"Mostly," Doe explained, "because Kean's been working with me."

And there he was, walking out of the shadows, grinning at me.

"Do you really think I'm strange looking?" Melford asked. "First you tell people I'm gay, and then you tell them I'm funny looking. That's hurtful."

And in the dimness of the pig barn, under the flas.h.i.+ng vents, he looked more than strange: He looked vampiric. His hair stood out, his face was long and pale, and his eyes were wide-not childlike wide, but insane wide. How had I not noticed it before?

"How could you do this to me?" I cried out. I felt the urge, almost unbearable, to leap up and rush him, but Doe's gun kept me in place.

"You want me to explain myself to you when you were just about to sell me out? That's pretty hypocritical, don't you think? Look, I went to Jim when I realized there was money missing, and he and I have been tracking it since yesterday. And our efforts led us to you. I thought you were clean at first, but then all the evidence pointed to your outsmarting me and getting the money out of the trailer. I think you'd better start talking."

Melford somehow believed, truly believed, that I had the money. Maybe he thought the encyclopedia business was all bulls.h.i.+t, or maybe he found out that I hadn't told him about the Gambler. Maybe because he played and manipulated and lied, he thought everyone else did as well, and that my complaints and fears and hesitation had all been in the service of tricking him. And maybe he'd killed b.a.s.t.a.r.d and Karen for no more complicated reason than he wanted money, and now he was willing to kill me to get it, too.

I hadn't wanted to see it before, but there it was. It was ideology. The one thing about which Melford hadn't lied. We see what we think is there, not the truth. Never the truth.

"This is bulls.h.i.+t," I said with a kind of indignation I didn't know I could summon. But it was bulls.h.i.+t. That was the thing. It was unadulterated, cosmic bulls.h.i.+t.

Doe studied me for a moment and then turned to Melford. "You come to me. You tell me you can hook me up. Now I better not find out that you've been f.u.c.king with me."

"I'd never f.u.c.k with you, Jim."

"Don't sweet-talk me, a.s.shole."

"Then how about this? I want my cut, so I've got no reason to f.u.c.k with you."

"You sure he's got it?"

"Can't be sure of anything in this crazy world. Some people think the lunar landing was a hoax. Of course, that wasn't really in this this world." He paused and observed Doe's expression. "I'm pretty sure he's got it." world." He paused and observed Doe's expression. "I'm pretty sure he's got it."

"Okay," Doe said. "Let's take it outside."

"What happened to feeding him to the pigs?" Melford asked.

"I have a better idea."

With the glare of the sun in my eyes, they marched me toward the waste lagoon. I could barely breathe for the fear and the stench, and I thought that I did not want to die with the smell of s.h.i.+t in my nostrils. I didn't want to die at all, but I knew that as options tightened, goals grew more meager.

I knew Doe and the gun were maybe ten feet behind me, I could hear him walking with his wide, awkward gait. Melford was between the two of us, I suspect because whatever deal he and Doe had struck, there was no trust there.

Doe told me to stop at the lagoon's edge, where the stakes in the dry earth marked the perimeter and the flies buzzed a greedy, manic hum. A single black mangrove tree, its roots gnarling into the pond, provided a modic.u.m of shade.

Doe told me to turn around. The two men stood next to each other, but only for an instant. Doe gestured at Melford with his gun. "Go stand over there a little ways. I want to be able to keep my eye on you."

"You don't trust me?"

"f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t, no. I'll trust you when I got my money and I never hear from you again. Until then, I figure you're about to double-cross me. That's how you survive in this game."

"Does that mean I should figure you're about to double-cross me as well?" he asked.

"Just stand on over there and stop p.i.s.sing me off."

"Always good advice when talking to an armed man at the sh.o.r.e of a waste lagoon," Melford said. He took a few long strides over toward where Doe had been gesturing, so now he was the third point of an equilateral triangle. Doe probably figured he could keep an eye on Melford from there, but not shoot him accidentally if he needed to fire at me. Something like that.

I tried to resist making eye contact with Melford. The powerless rage I felt at that moment was so great that I couldn't endure looking at the source of those feelings. I had broken into a criminal's hotel room, I had gone snooping around Jim Doe's backyard, I'd been in a raid on an animal test facility, I'd faced Ronny Neil Cramer, and I'd gotten the girl. I had, in short, faced down powerless Lem and replaced him with a new Lem, one who took charge of his own life. And now I was being held at gunpoint on the sh.o.r.e of a sea of s.h.i.+t, betrayed by a man I should never have trusted in the first place.

Despite my wishes, I made eye contact anyhow. A flash of something impish crossed his face. And he winked at me and with one finger pointed toward the ground.

I felt the thrill of exaltation. A sign, though an unclear one. The wink I understood-a universal sign, after all. But what did the ground mean? What did any of it mean? Had Melford screwed me over or not? If he hadn't, what was I doing here? What was he planning on doing about Doe? No, I could not a.s.sume this was anything but a trick, a ruse to put me off my guard. But to what end?

"How you like that s.h.i.+thole?" Doe asked me.

"Compared to other s.h.i.+tholes, or compared to, I don't know, an orange grove?"

"You think you're mighty tough, don't you?"

I had to stifle the urge to laugh. Doe was buying the tough thing. That was something. Not much, but something. "I'm trying to make the best of a difficult situation," I said.

Melford c.o.c.ked his head slightly. The impish look, the winking companion, was gone. He looked like a bird studying human commotion from a distance, studying it with an amalgamation of curiosity and obliviousness. In the sunlight, he looked slightly less h.e.l.lish than he'd appeared in the pig shed, but only slightly. Now he was only cadaverous and mean.

"I always wanted to see someone drown in a pool of s.h.i.+t," Doe said. "Ever since I was a little kid."

"You also wanted to see someone get eaten by pigs. I guess life is all about making choices."

"It looks to me like I'm going to get at least one wish. Now, before we even start negotiating, I want you to step on in there. Wade in until you're about waist deep. Waist deep in the waste." He laughed at that.

I looked at the lagoon. I wanted to stay alive, unpunctured by bullets, but there was no way I was going in there. No way. Besides, once I did, I was nothing more than the walking dead. I'd never be able to escape. I had to get away, but if I did that now, I'd be dead in seconds. The determination to die on the run faded like a drop of food coloring in a still lake. I would go along with what they asked. I would stall for what time I could get, and each second I would hope for something, some miracle, maybe in the form of a county police car or a helicopter or an explosion or something.

"Come on," Doe said. "Move."