“Doesn’t mean it was bad.”
“So, it was good?”
Shane nodded. “Yup.”
“Feel like talking about it?” Tom offered.
Shane shook his head. “Not right now. Maybe later, Tom. Thank you.”
“Sure.”
They remained silent for a short time, Shane finishing the first cigarette and lighting a second off of it. As he field-stripped the butt, sliding the remnants into his pocket, he focused on the shed. “Have you tried it out?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah. Just with a couple of mellow ghosts, though. Nothing serious. Victor gets a little gun-shy about the idea of letting out one of the stronger ones.”
“You should, too,” Shane stated, gesturing with his cigarette toward Tom’s prosthetic arm. “It’s not like you both don’t have valid reasons for being cautious.”
“It’s the way it goes,” Tom replied. The finality, the bitterness in the teenager’s tone stung Shane. He knew how much Tom had suffered, and he hated the cynicism that appeared from within him on occasion.
“It is,” Shane agreed. “But it doesn’t mean you stop being cautious. That’s when you can get someone else hurt.”
Tom nodded but didn’t speak.
“Anyway,” Shane stretched, “we’re going to have to pull Mr. Thorne’s book out pretty soon. I’ll have to make a big old pot of coffee, too. I’ve got lots and lots of questions for him.”
“Think it’ll go smoothly?” Tom asked.
Shane shook his head. “Hell no. Almost positive he’s going to spend the first half-hour trying to figure a way out, and then the next hour or so attempting to negotiate.”
“Will you?”
“Depends,” Shane answered. “If he has something that’s worthwhile, sure. If it turns out he doesn’t, then I’ll set his damned book on fire.”
“Sounds like a good time,” Tom observed.
“Might be. Might be a pain, too. Anyway, feel like helping me get the place ready?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Tom replied, and together they straightened up. Shane paused long enough to pick up his cigarettes and phone, and then they walked into the house.
***
Friday, 6:30 AM
Marty Feldman looked at the email and shook his head as he read through it again.
Expect package today from AK. Will contain necessary tools to equip staff and assist in the acquisition of dead.
Marty got up from the laptop and walked into the kitchen. At the sink, he turned on the water, leaned over, cupped his hands, and splashed some onto his face. When he finished, he wiped his hands and face with a towel and then turned to stare at the laptop.
He never told us everything, Marty thought, shaking his head. He kept something back. Why?
Slow anger simmered within him, and he clenched his hands into fists. His nails bit into his palms, and his blood raced through his veins. Marty shook where he stood, and he knew he was close to losing control.
He forced his hands to relax, and he closed his eyes.
Because he wanted us to suffer, Marty thought. We could have gotten it done if he had just shared it all. I wouldn’t have lost my reputation because of this. My wife and children wouldn’t have gone to Canada. She wouldn’t have disappeared off the face of the planet with our girls.
All of this could have been avoided.
For a heartbeat, Marty considered murdering Alex Kallistos.
But it was only for a moment.
Marty was, if nothing else, practical.
Alex Kallistos was protected by both the living and the dead.
Even if I could get by his guards, I’d have to contend with Timmy. Maybe, with whatever the little brat is sending me, I could compete against Timmy. Get in close enough to do the job.
And maybe, I’d be killed before I could get it done, or draw a weapon, or anything.
Marty shook his head and opened his eyes.
No, there is no way I can get any sort of revenge on him. I need to deal with it. Get the ghosts he wants and get out of the contract.
With his anger dissipating, Marty returned to his desk and typed a quick response to Alex’s message.
Okay.
Chapter 21: Negotiations
Friday, 6:45 AM
Nick Fallon walked into the small, well-kept home of Linda and Zeke, and tried to understand what the hell had happened. The police had been able to tell him that his cousin had shot Zeke several times with an old Luger. They had even shown him a photograph of the weapon, and he had recognized it as the one their grandfather had brought home from Europe after the end of the Second World War.
No one knew why she had shot him, though.
Just like they don’t know what happened to her, he mused, coming to a stop in the kitchen.
Linda’s body, according to the police, had been found on the kitchen floor without any outward trauma except for a few signs of minor frostbite. The coroner still had to conduct an autopsy.
Nick pulled a chair out from the table, sat down, and looked around the kitchen.
Nothing was out of place. There were dishes in the drying rack. A pan of brownies covered with plastic wrap. A shopping list, written in Linda’s neat hand, lay on the table.
Standing up, Nick walked toward Zeke’s home office. The wooden floor in the doorway was stained with dried blood, and the window in the office was broken. A cool breeze ruffled the blinds, the old metal rattling and sending a strange sound through the stillness of the house.
I’m glad Jeff didn’t find them, Nick thought, sliding his hands into his pockets. That would have been too much for him.
He shook his head. He and his wife Sandy were going to have to fight for custody of the boy. Zeke’s parents, who had never been fond of the child, were vying for control, mostly because of the significant amount of money attached to him as the sole beneficiary.
They’d like nothing more than to sell this place, too, Nick thought, making sure to step around the bloodstain as he entered the office.
Why here, Linda? he wondered. Why the office? The detective said it looked as though you were waiting outside the door. All the shots were fired at close range, as though the door had been closed and you shot when he came out.
You put the shots center mass, just like grandpa taught us. Nick sat down in Zeke’s office chair and looked out into the hallway. Why the bullet through the window? Was there someone else in here? Is that it?
A glance around the room revealed something peculiar.
A pair of vintage sunglasses set on what looked like a financial statement.
They weren’t Linda’s. Nick knew that without a doubt. She didn’t wear sunglasses. She had always hated them.
Where did these come from? he wondered, picking them up. They were unnaturally cool to the touch, and he set them back down immediately. Another woman? Is that what you found?
Nick turned in the chair and saw that the bullet hole in the glass was at the right height for another center mass shot. He focused on the desk again and turned his attention back to the slip of paper that contained a listing of various financial accounts and the money withdrawn from them.
A cold, hard understanding settled over him.
You thought he was leaving you, is that it? You knew, somehow, that he had looked at the accounts. There’s a pair of women’s sunglasses in here, and they’re not yours. If there was another woman, was she here? Is that why you shot him? And where is she now? The gunshots were reported, the neighbors came out, and they said no one left the house.