Dan Simmons - Hardcase

"It amuses her to call me that," said the Dane.

"She must be paying you a lot," Kurtz said.

The Dane nodded almost imperceptibly.

Kurtz looked back at Sophia. "One question before the party ends," he said. "Did you hire the homicide cop—Hathaway—to kill me?"

"Sure," Sophia said. She reached into her handbag. Kurtz expected her to pull out a pistol and his stomach tensed, but she raised only a small cassette tape. "Hathaway even brought me the tape of you calling the gun salesperson… what was his name? Doc. Hathaway thought I might use it to blackmail you or get your parole revoked, but we decided that a more permanent solution would be better."

"Makes sense," said Kurtz.

"I'm getting bored, Joe," Sophia said. "Your conversation was never very interesting, and today it's deadly dull. Also, we have to call the police and report this terrible attack by the late Mr. Kurtz at least before rigor mortis sets in. May I have the Beretta, Nils? I want to take care of this detail myself."

Kurtz continued sitting the way he had been, but he was very observant. If there was to be a moment in which he could act, it would come here.

There was no such moment. The Dane was the consummate professional, the muzzle of the Beretta never wavering even as the Dane moved sideways and moved the pistol to where Sophia could grasp it with both hands. When she had it, still aimed at Kurtz's chest, her finger on the trigger, the Dane took a step back out of the lamplight and out of any line of fire.

"Any last words, Joe?" said Sophia.

Joe thought for a second. "You weren't all that great in the sack, baby. I've had sexier encounters with a Hustler magazine and some hand lotion."

The sound of the unsilenced pistol was very loud. Two shots.

Sophia smirked. Then she dropped the Beretta and fell forward onto her father's body on the floor.

The Dane pocketed the.22-caliber Beretta Model 21 Bobcat and stepped forward to retrieve the 9mm Beretta from Sophia's limp hand. Kurtz allowed himself to breathe again when the Dane slipped the larger Beretta into his pocket as well. Kurtz stood up.

The Dane lifted the valise of cash from its place by Don Farino's wheelchair and then picked up the small audiocassette from Sophia's empty chair. "These are both yours, I believe," said the Dane.

"Are they?" Kurtz asked.

The Dane dropped the cassette into the valise and handed the valise to Kurtz. "Yes. I am a hired assassin, not a thief."

Kurtz took the bag and the two men walked out of the drawing room, Kurtz pausing at the door a second to look back at the five bodies on the floor.

"The last scene of Hamlet ," said the Dane. "I rather liked that."

The two talked shop as they walked out of the quiet mansion and down the driveway to Kurtz's car.

"You like Berettas?" asked Kurtz.

"They have never disappointed me," said the Dane.

Kurtz nodded. Probably the silliest and most sentimental thing he'd ever done had involved his old Beretta many years earlier.

They had passed the bodies of two guards in the foyer and another—dressed in black tactical gear—was lying outside near the drive.

"Extra work for you?" asked Kurtz.

"I thought it wiser on my way in to see to any possible problems that might hinder our way out," said the Dane. They passed a bush from which two dark legs and a polished pair of loafers protruded.

"Three," Kurtz said.

"Seven counting the night maid and the butler."

"Paid for by someone?"

The Dane shook his head. "I count it as part of overhead. Although the Gonzaga contribution could be prorated toward them."

"I'm glad the Gonzagas came through," said Kurtz.

"I am sure you are." They came to the gate. It had been left open. The Dane put his hand in his topcoat pocket, and Kurtz tensed.

The Dane removed his gloved hand and shook his head. "You have nothing to worry about from me, Mr. Kurtz. Our arrangement was explicit. Despite rumors to the contrary, one million dollars is quite generous, even in this profession. And even this profession has its code of ethics."

"You know the money came from Little Skag," said Kurtz.

"Of course I do. It makes no difference. You were the one who contacted me on the telephone. The contract is between us ."

Kurtz looked around. "I was a little worried that one of the Farinos might have outbid me."

The Dane shook his head again. "They were notoriously cheap." He lifted his face to the evening air. It was quite dark now and raining very softly. "I know what you're thinking, Mr. Kurtz," said the Dane. " I've seen his face. You haven't. This face is no more mine than Nils is my name."

"Actually," said Kurtz, hefting the valise higher, "I was thinking about this money and what I was going to do with it."

The Dane smiled very slightly. "Fifty thousand dollars. Was it worth all of your aggravation, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "It was." They walked out through the gate and Kurtz hesitated by the Volvo, jingling the keys in his free hand. He would feel better when he had the H&K in his hand. "One question," he said. "Or maybe it isn't a question."

The Dane waited.

"Little Skag… Stevie Farino… he's going to get out and take over this mess."

"It was my understanding," said the Dane, "that this was what the one million dollars was all about."

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "Little Skag is as penny-pinching as the rest of the family, but this was his one shot at getting back in the driver's seat. But what I meant was that Skag will probably want to tidy up all the loose ends." The Dane nodded.

"Hell," said Kurtz. "Never mind. If we meet again, we meet again." He got into the Volvo. The Dane remained standing near the car. No bomb. Kurtz started the engine, backed into the empty road, and glanced into his rearview mirror. The Dane was gone.

Kurtz pulled his pistol out from under the seat and set it on his lap anyway. He put the car in gear and drove away with one hand touching the valise on the passenger seat. Kurtz drove at or under the speed limit. He had no driver's license, and this would be a bad time to be stopped by the Orchard Park sheriff.

He'd driven less than two miles when a cell phone rang in his backseat.

Kurtz slid the Volvo to a stop on a grassy berm and was out the door, rolling in the grass. He didn't own a cell phone.

The phone kept ringing.

Semtex , thought Kurtz. C4 . The Israelis and Palestinians had specialized in telephone bombs.

Fuck , thought Kurtz. The money . He went back to the car, removed the valise, and set it a safe distance from the vehicle.

The phone kept ringing. Kurtz realized that he was pointing his H&K.45 at a cell phone.

What the hell is wrong with me ? He retrieved the valise, slid the pistol into his suit pocket, picked up the phone, and hit the answer button.

"Kurtz?"

A man's voice. He didn't recognize it.

"Kurtz?"

He listened.

"Kurtz, I'm sitting outside a little house in Lockport. I can see the little girl through the window. In about ten seconds, I'm going to knock on the door, kill that fucker who's pretending to be her father, and take the teenaged bitch out and have a little fun with her. Goodbye, Kurtz." The man hung up.

Normally it would have been a thirty-minute drive from Orchard Park to Lockport. Kurtz made it in ten minutes, doing well over a hundred on I-90 and almost that speed on the Lockport streets.

He slid the Volvo to a screeching stop in front of Rachel's house.

The gate to the picket fence was open.

Kurtz jumped the fence, 45 raised and ready. The front door was closed. The lights were out on the first floor. Kurtz decided to go in the back way. He moved around the side of the house—not quite running, paying attention but still in a hurry, his heart pounding wildly.