Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“The readiness is all,” I said.

“Whatever,” Z said. “It’s working on me... which is why I suppose he’s doing it.”

“One reason,” I said.

“There’s another one?”

“It excites him,” I said.

“And it gives him the chance to pick his spot,” Z said.

“It does,” I said. “But he won’t act until the tension gets too big for him to hold off any longer.”

“You mean like sex,” Z said. “Foreplay, foreplay, then zoom.”

“Something like that,” I said.

We inched forward in the dense rush hour. The windshield wipers worked steadily. In the glistening rain, the traffic lights were jewel-like.

“Maybe we should pick our spot,” I said.

“And hope he’s ready?”

“If our spot looks really good to him,” I said, “maybe he’ll become ready.”

Z nodded. I began to push against the traffic, deking and diving as if maybe I were in a panic.

“First thing,” I said. “You want somebody to chase you, you gotta run.”

Stephano stayed with us. In maybe forty minutes we pulled into a construction site, off Mystic Ave in Somerville, where a warehouse was being rehabbed into apartments. Most of the apartments would have a view of Somerville. Some expensive ones would offer the Mystic River.

We parked close, and made a dash through the rain into the building.

Even as our eyes adjusted, it was palpably dark inside. As we felt our way in, we encountered gutted-out lumber and tool stands, loose wires, sawhorses, and bales of insulation. Behind us, the doorless opening where we’d entered was a very slightly paler shade of black. There was a large obstacle in front of us, which felt like a pallet of bricks. We wedged around it and stopped and looked back at the faint opening where we’d entered.

“Now what?” Z said.

“We wait and see what develops,” I said.

“Crees great warriors of the High Plains,” Z said. “Crees mostly don’t fight in warehouses.”

“One might,” I said.

“What if they don’t follow us in?” Z said.

“Then the plan didn’t work,” I said.

“Then what?” Z said.

“We find another way to outwit them,” I said.

The floor of the warehouse was concrete. There was no insulation in any of the exterior walls. The hard rain on the roof sounded through the whole building like a drum.

It took a half-hour, but the plan kicked in. There was just a hint of movement in the lesser darkness of the entrance.

“See that?” I murmured.

Z said, “Yes.”

Then the electric purr of Stephano’s voice cut through the blackness and the drumming of the rain.

“You can run, Spenser,” he said. “But you can’t hide.”

“He thinks we’re trying to hide?” Z said softly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Isn’t even a little afraid we might have set him up?” Z whispered.

“Too arrogant,” I whispered. “And probably too eager. It’s like he was dating us and we led him into the bedroom.”

“And he’s too hot to think,” Z whispered.

“Be my guess,” I whispered.

“Been there,” Z whispered.

I smiled in the darkness.

“Most of us have,” I whispered.

“You coming out of your hole, Tough Guy?” Stephano purred. “Or I gotta drag you out, squealing, by the tail.”

“How come all the talk?” Z whispered.

“I had to guess,” I whispered, “I’d guess he’s attracting our attention while his people sneak around and try to find us.”

“Maybe I’ll sneak back at them,” Z whispered. “Crees are great night fighters.”

“I thought they didn’t fight at night because if they were killed in the dark they wouldn’t reach the happy hunting grounds?”

“What movie you see that in?” Z whispered.

“Can’t remember,” I whispered. “But Gene Autry was the star.”

“He should know,” Z whispered.

“I’ll work left,” I whispered. “You go right. We’ll try to come in on each side of Stephano. Whichever of us gets there first kills him. And we’ll try not to kill each other by mistake.”

“Okay,” Z whispered. “Then what?”

“Then we’ll see,” I whispered. “His pals may come for us, or they may run. Play it by ear.”

“Think he’ll stay where he is?”

“I think he’ll keep talking,” I whispered. “He wants to distract us, and I think he enjoys it, like all the rest.”

“Come out, little rats,” Stephano called. “Be men. Don’t make us hunt you down like vermin.”

“It is a good day to die,” Z whispered, and left me.

The gutted interior of the warehouse was darkness visible. The litter of reconstruction made for very slow going. Particularly if you were trying to be quiet. I edged past something that felt like a sawhorse, and slipped under what felt like some loose wires. I stepped on a big timber with one foot and paused and felt around for a way past it. Probably a second-story floor joist. There were loose nails and screws underfoot. Enhanced by the wet weather, the black air was pungent with the effluvium of decay. I shuffled a few inches at a time. My gun in my right hand. My left forearm shielding my face.

Off to my right I heard a sudden scuffle of activity, sounding, in the thick silence, probably louder than it was. I stopped, listening. Again, silence. Was it Z, or was it one of Stephano’s helpers? A wavering holler. What the hell was that? Then I figured it out. It was Z’s version of a Cree war whoop. Z seemed to be rising to the challenge. There was no gunshot. The bowie knife must have proved useful. One down.

I smiled again. If I had been Stephano, the war whoop would have creeped me out. It couldn’t hurt. I inched along carefully, shuffle step by shuffle step, tediously edging around debris, containing the impulse to rush. I inched farther to my left, looking for the wall. Anything to give me some orientation. My shoulder hit something made of sheet metal. It rattled. I ducked low, and five rounds blasted past me as Stephano fired at the sound. I didn’t fire back. He wouldn’t be where he’d fired from. He wasn’t that dumb.

I felt the wall with my left shoulder. With my shoulder against it, I felt along the wall toward where Stephano had fired. If it had been Stephano. I didn’t bump into anything. Maybe the construction guys had cleared a passage along the wall. Stephano had no way to know if he’d hit me or not. Maybe I was dead. The uncertainty, coupled with the Cree war whoop, must have been stressful. Finally, sliding along the wall, I saw the faint square of lesser darkness, where we’d entered. I stopped. I couldn’t really make out much in the way of shapes. I was looking for movement. What I got was a bonus.

“Spenser,” Stephano said.

He was right in front of me.

“Let’s stop fucking around with this,” Stephano said. “You come to the door. I’ll be there. We’ll do it standing straight up, looking at each other, like two men.”

I raised my gun and aimed toward the sound.

“I’m right here,” I said.

And he moved. I fired at the motion, five shots as fast as I could shoot. I heard him grunt, and, after a moment, I heard him fall. I heard him breathe with a bubbly sound for a moment. Then I heard nothing.

I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled toward him. When I reached him, I put my hand out and felt him. I wasn’t sure where I was feeling. But it didn’t move. I felt around and realized I was on his leg. I traced up his leg to his stomach, then his chest, which was wet and warm. I found his throat and felt for a pulse. There was none. I stayed flat on the floor.

“Z,” I said loudly. “I got Stephano.”

From the darkness close by, Z said, “Yay.”