John Connolly - The Killing Kind

“I just know you've got permits for all these,” I said.

“Home, there's shit here they ain't even got permits for. ”

I saw one of the Calico minisubs for which Louis had a particular-fondness, two fifty-round magazines on either side of it. There was a spare Glock 9-millimeter and a Mauser SP66 sniper's rifle, along with a South African-made BXP submachine gun fitted with a suppressor and a grenade launcher, which seemed to me like a contradiction in terms.

“You know, you hit a bump in the road and you'll have a crater named after you,” I said. “You ever worry about DWBs?”

Driving While Black was almost a recognized offense under law.

“Nah, got me a chauffeur's license and a black cap. Anybody asks, I just drivin' it for massa.”

He leaned in and removed a shotgun from the rear of the trunk, then handed it to me as he replaced the floor and spare tire.

I had never seen a gun like it. It was about the same length as a sawed-off, with twin barrels over a raised sight. Beneath the twins was a third, thicker barrel, which acted as a grip. It was surprisingly light, and the stock fitted easily into my shoulder as I sighted down the gun.

“Very impressive,” I said. “What is it?”

“Neostead. South African. Thirteen rounds of spin-stabilized slugs and a recoil so light you can fire it with one hand.”

“It's a shotgun?”

“No, it's the shotgun.”

I shook my head despairingly and handed the shotgun back to him. Behind us, Rachel leaned against the car, her mouth tightly closed. Rachel didn't like guns. She had her reasons.

“Okay.” I nodded. “Let's go.”

Louis shook his head sadly as he climbed into the Lexus and propped the Neostead against the dashboard. “Can't believe you don't like my gun,” he remarked.

“You have too much money,” I replied.

We headed up the drive at full speed, the gravel in front of the house crunching loudly as we pulled up. I got out first, Louis seconds behind me. As he was stepping from the car, I heard the back door of the lodge slam.

We both moved at the same time, Louis to the left and I to the right. As I rounded the house, I saw a woman wearing a red shirt and jeans running downhill toward the cover of the trees, a rucksack over her shoulder. She was big and a little slow, and I caught up with her before she made it even halfway. Just inside the woodland ahead of us, I could see the shape of a motorcycle covered by a tarp.

As I got within touching distance of her back, she spun around, the rucksack held by its straps, and caught me a hard blow on the side of the head. I stumbled, my ears ringing, then shot a foot out and tripped her as she tried to get away. She landed heavily and the rucksack flew from her hands. I was on top of her before she could even think of getting up. Behind me, I heard Louis slowing down and then his shadow fell across us.

“Damn,” I said. “You nearly took my head off!”

Marcy Becker was squirming furiously beneath me. She was in her late twenties, with light brown hair and plain, blunt features. Her shoulders were large and muscular and she looked like she might once have been a swimmer or a field athlete. When I saw the expression on her face I felt a twinge of guilt for scaring her.

“Take it easy, Marcy,” I said. “We're here to help you.” I lifted my weight from her and let her rise. Almost immediately, she tried to run again. I wrapped my arms around her, gripped her wrists in my hands, and twisted her so that she was facing Louis.

“My name is Charlie Parker. I'm a private investigator. I was hired by Curtis Peltier to find out what happened to Grace, and I think you know.”

“I don't know anything,” she hissed. Her left heel shot back and nearly caught me a nasty blow on the shin. She was a big, strong young woman, and holding her was taking quite an effort. Louis just looked at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement. I guessed that I wasn't going to get any help from that quarter. I turned her again so that she was facing me, then shook her hard.

“Marcy,” I said. “We don't have time for this.”

“Fuck you!” she spat. She was angry and frightened, and she had good reason to be.

I felt Rachel's presence beside me and Marcy's eyes shifted to her.

“Marcy, there's a man on his way here, a policeman, and he's not coming to protect you,” said Rachel quickly. “He found out from your parents where you were hiding. He thinks you're a witness to Grace Peltier's death, and we think so too. Now, we can help you, but only if you'll let us.”

She stopped struggling and tried to read the truth of what Rachel was saying from her eyes. Acceptance altered the expression on her face, easing the lines that furrowed her brow and dousing the fire in her eyes.

“A policeman killed Grace,” she said simply.

I turned to Louis. “Get the cars out of sight,” I said.

He nodded and ran back up the hill. Seconds later, the Lexus pulled into the yard above us, hidden from the road by the house itself. The Mustang quickly joined it.

“I think the man who killed Grace is called Lutz,” I told Marcy. “He's the one who's coming. Are you going to let us help you?”

She nodded mutely. I picked up her bag and handed it to her. As she reached for it, I pulled it out of her grasp.

“No hitting, okay?”

She gave a little frightened smile and said, in agreement, “No hitting.” We started up the hill to the house.

“It's not just me that he wants,” she said quietly.

“What else does he want, Marcy?” I asked.

She swallowed, and that scared look darted into her eyes again. She raised the rucksack.

“He wants the book,” she answered.

As Marcy Becker packed the last of her things, the clothes and cosmetics she had abandoned as she fled from us, she told us about Grace Peltier's last hours. She wouldn't let us look in the rucksack, though. I wasn't sure that she completely trusted us yet.

“She came out of the meeting with the Paragon guy in a real hurry,” she told us. “She ran straight up to the car, jumped in, and started to drive. She was really angry, as angry as I've ever seen her. She just kept swearing all the time, calling him a liar.

“That night, she left me at the motel in Waterville and didn't come back until two or three in the morning. She wouldn't tell me where she'd been, but early the next morning we drove north. She abandoned me- again -in Machias and told me to knock myself out. I didn't see her for two days.

“I sat in my room most of the time, drank some beers, watched some TV. At about 2 A.M. on the second night, I heard this hammering on the door and Grace was there. Her hair was all damp and matted and her clothes were wet. She was really, really pale, like she had seen something that frightened the hell out of her. She told me we had to leave-quickly.

“I put on my clothes, grabbed my rucksack, and we got in the car and started driving. There was a package on the backseat, wrapped in a plastic bag. It looked like a block of dark wood.

“ ‘What is that?’ I asked her.

“ ‘You don't want to know,’ was all she told me.

“ ‘Okay, so where are we going?’

“ ‘To see my father.’ ”

Marcy stopped talking, and looked at Louis and me. Louis stood by the window, looking down on the road below.

“We better get going soon,” he warned.

I knew Lutz was on his way, but now that I had got Marcy Becker talking I wanted her to finish.

“Did she say anything else, Marcy?”

“She was kind of hysterical. She said ‘He's alive,’ and something about them taking him into town because he'd gotten sick. She'd seen him collapse on the road. That's all she would say. She told me that, for the moment, it was better if I didn't know anything else.