The Missing Boatman Part 12

They had talked about "what if" one time, if one of them or all of them were somehow knocked off. What would the dead want of the others? Boomer's answer had been expected and joking joke, but Gary was stone cold serious. He told them both that if he were ever killed or somehow incapacitated, the others had permission to use whatever funds Gary had in his not-so-secret retirement fund-a load of hard cash done up in bundles of twenties, fifties, hundreds and a few purple thousands (he even had nice bars of gold in there). Use the money and find the f.u.c.ker who did him in. Find them, tell them who had wanted them to die, and then kill them. Gary had also provided them both with a name of an individual that was a myth on the East Coast. A man that did such professional contracts without suggesting neither Boomer nor Danny had the cajones to actually kill someone. Gary personally thought they didn't, but he never said that to their faces. He gave them the name of the person whose business it was to make people disappear.

Danny stood up. He remembered the name as easily as someone recalling 911. He informed the nurses of Gary's brief surfacing and left. He made his way to his car. Memories of his friends were in his head, being slowly replaced by what they were now. The Stick. The Stickman did both of them in and f.u.c.ked them up bad enough that death would be a release. Danny got behind the wheel of his car. He had a man to call.

Danny would see to it that the same courtesy would be extended to the Stickman.

Chapter 16.

In Miyagi prefecture, j.a.pan, in the mountainous city of Sendai, a celebration was beginning in the Sunny Hills Retirement Home. Fumiko and Natsuko Aso, identical twins, had their wheelchairs rolled into a common room filled with the pleasant gra.s.sy scent of brand new tatami mats. They were wrapped in white, flower-sprinkled blankets for extra warmth, and the instant they came into the room, they were surrounded by their remaining children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren. They gazed up with once-deep-brown eyes at the bright decorations one might see at a school party. The women were steered through the room towards a centre table with a huge cake on it and decorations of red and green roses. Peals of laughter enveloped them. A three digit number stuck out of the white frosting, burning lively and throwing sparkles into the air. Hands were clapping, and the ma.s.ses broke into song. Fumiko bared her unnaturally white teeth, new, only a year old, while Natsuko stared at the flaring numeral with eyes that looked immensely tired. She never asked for this. A smoke would have done her just fine. Her sister could have all the parties she wanted.

Camera flashes went off from both family and the press. The owner of the Sunny Hills Retirement Home, a Mr. Saito, beamed at the ladies from beyond the gathering of their relations. He left the families and the two newest centenarians to their birthday cake-which the children would devour-and the more traditional rice cakes that the sisters were much fonder of. He retreated without anyone noticing, the sound of applause dappling the halls of the retirement home. He knew of the sisters. And he remembered how they had asked him not to allow such a party to take place. They did not want one. Did not require one like some other people. Yet, ever since they became centenarians, thirteen years ago, they were given one, against their secret wishes. Each year, the l.u.s.tre of the day of their natural birth was a mark in time of not things to come, but of memories lost. Both had lost their husbands decades ago, and Natsuko had even outlasted one of her own daughters, a terrible loss to her, and something Saito did not like to dwell on. How could a person watch their child grow up, marry, have children, and then keep on watching as their child grew older and older and finally pa.s.sed on?

Regardless, Saito loved the twins. They were a living testament to the care he and his carefully selected staff routinely took in their work. The ladies were in perfect health for their age. Their diet was carefully monitored, and they lived as actively as their brittle forms would allow. And they lived on. Soon, the day would come when the twins would not be with Sunny Hills, but Saito did not want to think of that either. Perhaps it was the love of the grandchildren that kept them in this world, wondering just how old they were or how they felt and asking about the past with eyes s.h.i.+ning so bright and new.

The twins own eyes were old now, no longer as resplendent, and rolled from here to there to take everything in. These days, their eyes watered almost constantly with the strain placed upon them. Their fragile frames were hunched over, always felt chilled, with their faces marked and sucked dry by unseen years. Yet while their bodies were old, their minds were still sharp. They could remember the birthdays of their children before them, and although some memories made their eyes water even more than usual, the images they recalled warmed them better than any pretty blanket. If asked, they could remember Nagasaki, even before the great bomb destroyed the city.

One of Fumiko's most vivid memories was of how they sent their children to school, to huddle there while they clawed raw vegetables out of a scorched earth. Despite the almost total destruction of the city, the school's walls had been untouched. The roof of the school had been blown off completely, like the top of a toy house.

And on one day in the winter, the children in school looked to the heavens and smiled.

For it began to snow.

Great powdery puffs of snow fell magically into the school, and the children thought this to be the greatest thing. Those days and the images of smiling children gazing up at winter through a missing roof to watch rare falling snow were one of the treasures in Fumiko's old head.

Snow. As white as the not so sweet frosting on the cake before her. It was interesting what thoughts would come to her these days, and the times when they came. She realized then where she was and looked at her sister. Natsuko gazed at the cake, her mouth cracked opened ever so slightly. She did not have her teeth in today, and she wondered how many tiny bites she could manage before her stomach turned on her. There was a time when she could eat as much of anything as she wanted. She missed those days. Fumiko did, as well, but she did not dwell on them.

Then the people around them sang a birthday song that ended with a great omedeto gozaimasu and an applause that sounded like monsoon rains. It lifted the twins' spirits. They were with family today. They were amongst people who loved, cared for and honoured them, and it was that warm rush of emotion that kept the ache of their years at bay.

And it was yet another moment in their long, long lives.

Chapter 17.

At 8:45 in the morning, Danny sat in Gary's office behind the great desk. The police allowed the big, grief-stricken man into the office and did not protest when he closed the door to the crime scene. Danny quietly went to the safe set into the base of the desk. It wasn't hidden. No one ever expected the Beacon to be hit. And the Stickman hadn't been interested in the contents of the safe. It was untouched. Danny regarded the safe with half-opened, dead-serious eyes. Never did he think there would have been a day like this one. Never. And yet here it was, smack d.a.m.n in the middle of his face. He sighed and entered the combination on the number pad. He opened the safe and took out two of the six brown envelopes within. There was a brown wooden box next to the envelopes, and Danny knew that was where Gary kept his gathered gold. How many ounces, he didn't know and didn't care. Gary might have been a crime boss, but he was a friend. Instead, Danny plucked the white enveloped marked for either him or Boomer.

Boom.

Coughing from the swelling of emotion in his throat, Danny tore open the envelope. He tapped it with a finger, and a white card fell onto the floor. It was blank except for one long telephone number. Not caring if the cops could do anything with the telephone or not, Danny got into Gary's chair and removed the receiver from its cradle and began to dial. He had an idea who he was calling. He remembered Gary talking about the number and the man on the other end. Danny did not care. This was his friend's last wish, and he would see it through.

The voice that answered was not alert or careful sounding. It sounded bored. It asked questions, and Danny gave the best answers he could. There were pauses on the line, in that other place, and Danny wondered in those moments just where that other place was. More questions and pauses, m.u.f.fled, as if someone were covering the receiver and conversing with others nearby.

The voice finally asked Danny for his cell phone number, which he gave. He was then told to go home and wait.

In a blue daze, Danny did just that. When he got home, he asked Glenda to get dressed and go home. She asked why. Danny didn't give her an explanation. She started to ask again, but Danny silenced her with his big brown eyes and the pain therein. He told her he would call when he could, and she said okay. He saw her to the door, and once she was gone, he went back to the bed smelling of strawberry shampoo and perfume. He lay down and stared up at the ceiling, the phone nearby. He thought about better times with the boys Sometime later, his phone buzzed. He answered it. A different voice gave him instructions, a time and a flight number for that evening. The voice asked if Danny got everything, and Danny said he did. The connection broke. Danny went back to staring at the ceiling.

There was no going back now.

Crew placed the latest John Grisham novel into the magazine pocket in front of him. He would leave it there when he left the plane, amongst the magazines and the Where's Waldo ill.u.s.trations for aircraft emergencies. He started reading the book two days ago and while it wasn't up to par with The Street Lawyer, his favourite to date, it was still a decent read. He'd leave it for the next person to sit here if the attendants didn't find it first. He never stockpiled his books. What was the point? You buy the thing, read it and pa.s.s it on if it was any good. Why h.o.a.rd it? Read it again? Movies could be watched more than once if they were exceptional, but who had the time to read a book twice? Those who did had too much time on their hands in his opinion. And the second reading would be diluted anyway, just like a movie would be. You knew what was going to happen, but at least in a flick, you had music to sort of make it work. Not in a book.

Still, some folks derived something from it. Crew just didn't get it. If life was that boring for some, then they should just die and get it over with.

Or at least buy a new book.

There were plenty out there.

The fasten-all-seatbelts light blinked on, and Crew felt the aircraft turn to the right. He adjusted the blanket he used to cover his legs with, using it more like a giant drop cloth than for warmth. He looked across the two empty seats. He had been lucky today. Out the window was Halifax. Nova Scotia. A city that once was flattened by an explosion that made G.o.d's own teeth ache.

What would he find down there?

At thirty seven years of age, Crew found himself asking that question more and more often with each job he took on. What would he find? Who would be found? What would be the hunt and where would it lead?

Who would die?

He was getting older, and those musings floated inside his skull. He managed to keep in shape, exercising four to five times a week, weight training and aerobics. He remembered Abbot giving him a hard time about the aerobics until he bet the man five hundred he couldn't keep up for fifteen minutes in the cla.s.s. Abbot actually managed ten-surprising Crew as it was the advanced cla.s.s he had chosen for the bet-but the man was white faced, trembling and sweating like he was about to drop right there on the floor. He might have even puked in the dressing room. Abbot never mocked Crew about the cla.s.s again. He even admitted the women there were pretty hot and wondered if Crew ever took a run at any of them.

So he was in shape, still had his hair, and only a few wire stripes of grey in the otherwise black military cut hinted at his age. He dressed well, if not tame. For this trip he opted on beige pants and a denim s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned to the throat. A coal black winter coat was overhead for the cold. Nothing fancy, but serviceable. He always maintained eye contact with the female flight attendants, always thanked them and always left them feeling easy. He sometimes caught them sizing up the horizontal scar on his right cheek, a brazen two inches long. He didn't mind that. He made the scar look good, and made it look h.e.l.lish when he needed to. He didn't like to draw too much attention to himself, but the number of phone numbers he sometimes collected spoke otherwise.

So f.u.c.k age, though he knew the nagging in his skull would return soon enough. After all, he would be crazy to be in his work still when he hit forty. And did he really want to be part of the Abbot's old guard then? Part of the permanent fixtures adorning the man's estate? The equivalent of a cop's desk job after a b.l.o.o.d.y career of servitude to a crime lord? Crew felt he was too educated, well-read-if one considered John Grisham and Stephen King being well-read-and had invested his money intelligently with the goal of getting out when he wanted to. Just disappearing. The question was would the organization let him? Crew did not know of anyone actually getting out. But he did manage to keep from becoming a full member. He was more of a contract cleaner, taking on work concerning folks outside of New York State. All he needed from whoever was contracting him was a name and an address. If there was no address, that was fine too. Crew enjoyed the challenge of finding someone as much as the next person enjoyed a crossword puzzle. He was a roamer, so he liked the travelling part of the job. He never allowed himself to work more than one hit at a time, never initiated small talk with anyone other than the Abbot and kept as much information about himself as confidential as possible. The Abbot once mentioned that working with Crew was like signing on a ghost with an att.i.tude. Crew liked that.

"You think all that's going to protect you if we really have to find you?" an a.s.sociate named Jones had once asked him over the phone. Jones sometimes talked to him if the Abbot wasn't around. Crew didn't like talking to Jones. The man always wanted to talk, and when Crew didn't, Jones would fill in the silence with what he thought Crew thought.

Honestly, Crew did not know if all the precautions he had taken over the years would be enough to save him from the organization if they really wanted to slag him. He believed he had enough fake aliases to disappear. He had money in multiple offsh.o.r.e accounts and was thinking about either Mexico or the Philippines for retirement. He stayed offline. He had no permanent address. He used disposable phones. He tried very hard to be the ghost people thought him to be. And when the day arrived when he did disappear, he would still have a plan B prepared just in case of any visits by old, unwanted a.s.sociates.

Problems. He possessed enough of them. Besides his eventual retirement, as he identified it, one was that he had enough money to get out today and live a life of luxury if he died at exactly sixty. If he died before then he would have thousands untouched. When to quit was a mystery to him.

There were also hints that the management would want to meet him face to face someday. Something which Crew considered a very bad idea. He wanted only to work, to do the job, collect his fee and move on. But the ride was going to come to an end. He could not ignore or side-slip the request for personal meetings forever.

He had a final problem, too. He enjoyed what he did. He enjoyed the hunt. If the target was outside New York and had to die, he enjoyed being contacted to do the deed. He liked what he did too much.

And quitting was going to be a b.i.t.c.h.

Chapter 18.

The plane landed with a soft thump, and the grounds outside his window streaked by. The edges of the runway were white with snow. He felt for his heavy gloves and coat, all black, and a grey ringed toque if he needed it. He had brought a change of clothes good for three days. He had brought no weapons. He had his two hands and had no problem using them. If he really needed a weapon, he would pick up a hunting knife somewhere. That would be weapon enough.

He left the seat and book, and departed the plane with pleasant goodbyes to the cabin crew, catching their eyes for brief moments before moving on. He pa.s.sed through immigration without any trouble although he inwardly hoped that one day he would be contracted to knock off one of those ill-tempered b.i.t.c.hes or b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Perhaps the airport hired these people with that character trait in mind.

He made his way through the arrivals door with the rest of the pa.s.sengers, crossed the threshold, and stopped just a step beyond. He inhaled the fresh floor polish, and the overhead florescent lighting made the white tiles gleam like bare bone. Travelers were greeted by family or friends, or simply moved on to the parking lots and bus stops. Crew glanced up at a big LED clock and read 6:35 PM on the nose. He went to the baggage area, retrieved his one bag, a blue duffel job, and waited until all the others did the same and were gone. Then he saw his contact, a tall black man that could have easily made a career in football. The dark winter clothing he wore made him look bigger. After the crowds had dissipated, he was the only one still hanging around. Their gazes met. Crew approached the man after a short moment. He hoped to G.o.d the man didn't speak Ebonics or whatever the f.u.c.k it was. It turned his stomach to hear smart people talk stupid. And da wuz d' troof.

"Danny?" Crew asked quietly with a c.o.c.ked eyebrow.

"Yeah, that's me. And you are?"

"DJ," Crew informed him without a smile.

"Okay. You got much stuff?"

"Only the one bag."

"Travel light, huh?"

"Travel light," Crew answered.

"Well, let's get going then," Danny said and started walking towards the exit. Crew was content to follow, measuring up the big man from behind. In his mind, it struck him that Danny was polite enough as he made his way through people, excusing himself here and there, and avoiding playing 'chicken' with anyone smaller than him. Crew liked that. Most of the guys his size, like Jones for instance, used their weight too G.o.dd.a.m.ned much and suffered from what Crew labeled as 'Big Man Syndrome.' Every person coming their way had to move first or get a glare, a glare that suggested a willingness to get physical if the smaller person wanted to. The smaller folks rarely did.

Crew was glad Danny did not display any signs of BMS. And he was glad the man spoke normally. Another plus.

They stood in front of the rotating door that led to the outside, listening to the steady beat of the whirling gla.s.s as if it were the gills of the airport. In the reflection of the gla.s.s, Danny sized up the man just to the right and behind him. Crew was of regular height, in good shape, dark complexion, hair and eyes, with a b.i.t.c.h of a scar across his right cheek. A knife wound? Or maybe it was made with a nail or something. Quiet little guy as well, which suited Danny fine. For the life of him, he really did not know what to say to a person who killed people for a living. Danny was an enforcer, but he rarely had to fight. His size and reputation had plenty to do with that. His appearance could diffuse a situation in moments, and if the s.h.i.+t really looked like it was going to go down, Boomer was almost always at his side. Any of the fights he had been in were short and usually with drunks made both brave and stupid by their booze. And in truth, Danny felt like s.h.i.+t if he did have to thrash a drunk. Sometimes he and Boom would have heated debates on whether or not he had been in the business too long and was going soft.

He wanted to ask DJ if he had guns. Or knives. Or something. He read some spy novels where the guys wore wire around their wrists that could serve as a garrote if needed, but DJ had no adornments that Danny could see. And if he did have anything, he wanted to ask how he got the s.h.i.+t through security. But such questions seemed professionally uncool at the moment.

They took turns heading out the revolving door. They exited the airport and entered the cold of a Nova Scotia winter. The air was chilling and sobering, and tasted wonderfully pure. It was also cold enough to turn Crew's nipples into diamonds. His one thought was a teeth chattering Jesus! He looked ahead and saw in the distance a dark and frosty tree line illuminated by road lights. Danny kept a few steps in front, weaving his way through parked vehicles with the snow drifting up between them. He finally stopped in front of his car.

A 2001 Toyota Celica.

A black one.

Crew sized up the small sports coup and then studied the man before him.

"You fit in that thing?"

"Just barely," Danny said with a reflective smile as if there had been some difficult times in the past. "No one sits behind me when I'm driving."

"You mean you haven't taken out the front seat yet?" Crew said seriously. "Holy s.h.i.+t."

Not bothering to answer, Danny unlocked the car door. He reached inside and popped the trunk. Crew hoisted it up and threw his bag in.

"Nice country here," Crew remarked.

Then Danny did something that would have inspired David Copperfield. The big man lowered himself and disappeared inside the tiny sports coup. It impressed the h.e.l.l out of the New Yorker. The pa.s.senger door opened, and he got inside.

"Man," Crew said, wondering how in the h.e.l.l Danny could fit in the driver's seat. "If you stretch out, your legs'll be chewed up by the engine."

"Yeah," Danny replied in a weary voice as if he had heard it all several times before. He started the engine and jacked up the heat. The powerful glare of the dash caught Crew's attention. It was a gorgeous interior, and the lights blazed at him. Danny turned on a techno tune with soft violins and adjusted the volume so they could talk. The music hit Crew from the front and back. If he were into cars more, he could've appreciated the Celica's charms, but as it was, it was simply 'nice.'

"Did you bring a picture?" Crew suddenly asked.

This brought a sigh from the big man behind the wheel. He looked down into the gentle glare of the dash lights. "No. Nothing."

That wasn't good.

"A name then?"

"Crawford Ryan. They call him the Stickman or Stickman. Or just Stick sometimes. Short guy. A little shorter than you, but built like a wall. Did some time out in Saskatchewan. He's the main guy for Badger. He was the one working for Mr. Tigh." Danny always referred to Gary by his last name when talking to business folks. He went on and explained the background of Badger and how events came to putting him in a hospital. Danny told the man all he knew. When he finished, Crew was staring out at the night, looking though a winds.h.i.+eld reflecting a diamond's sharpness of dash lights.

"Some f.u.c.kheads just don't get it," Crew shook his head. "It pays to stick with college grads in this business. Definitely higher than high school."

This made Danny nod sagely. Stealing from a boss and then sticking around certainly wasn't the smartest thing to do. No, Badger wasn't the brightest bulb, but how bright was the Stickman? Danny drummed a finger on his steering wheel as he peered ahead. He didn't think the man was overly intelligent, but the word cunning came to mind. The man had to know that hitting Gary in his office would bring about retaliation, and he was hunting Levin against a clock now, before he was taken out for his attempted kill. So he would probably be heading west after Levin, but would he be coming back? If he was smart, probably not.

"I know what he looks like," Danny said quietly. "And where he's heading. I want to come with you."

There was no response from the other man, and for a moment, both of them sat while the motor quietly warmed the interior of the Celica. It was no real surprise to Crew. He supposed he would do the same thing, if he allowed himself to get close to any of the people working in the organization. And he tried very hard not to let that happen. That was a conditional that he could not allow. Not if he wanted to retire clean one day.

"So you a bouncer?" Crew asked him.

"I prefer 'peacemaker' myself," Danny informed him with the barest of smiles. "And you're a..."

Whatever, Crew thought. Fixer. Cleaner. Stain Remover. He once overheard someone call him the Ghost of the Sea. Another once referred to him as the last magic show the condemned would ever see, and many people had disappeared when the show went on the road. But that was stateside. His reputation was there. This was a different country.

"You know where he's headed?" Crew wanted confirmation, ignoring Danny's question.

"A general idea," Danny said.

That was fine for Crew. "Usually I get all the information I need in a brown business envelope. You're a little bigger than that."

"I'll probably talk more, too," Danny said. "So what's the verdict? You okay with me coming along."

In the illumination of the dash, the cogs of Crew's mind slowed. He did not like having travelling companions. The more people that knew his ident.i.ty, the greater the threat to his peaceful retirement. If he had to, he would kill this man if he became such a threat. He did not go into a long lecture about being careful. The truth was if Danny did become baggage, he would be terminated after the Stickman. Sooner if Crew could identify the man on his own. He hoped he would not have to do such a thing. He hated collateral casualties.

Still, word from the Abbot spoke highly of the one called Danny.

"You packed?" He finally asked.

"Everything's in the backseat."

This made Crew glance around. Right there, in the middle of the rear seat, darker against the darkness, were two small overnight bags.