Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

“Why?” asked Connors. “Of course we’re interested. We’ve got a lot of people on it, but he wasn’t the silent partner.”

“Because it’s an enormous event for the people we’re interested in. Why did it happen just now, and in this town? It doesn’t make any sense unless it has some connection with these other murders.”

Connors shrugged and puffed on his pipe. “Give me a hypothesis.”

“All right, here’s one. Castiglione was using FGE as a front for various operations, including a cover for professional killers. He had dealings with other powerful people—maybe heads of the other families. When the Senator’s committee made inquiries Castiglione had him killed. The others whose dealings with him could have come out got nervous and decided to get rid of him and the company’s lawyer and the company’s records.”

“Plausible,” said Connors.

“Of course it’s plausible,” said Brayer. “Everything is plausible if you haven’t got the answer. You have to go on what we know. What we know is this: somebody killed Claremont and Veasy and Orloff, and FGE is the common denominator. Somebody also killed Castiglione. Maybe it’s connected, and maybe not. In any case the hits were all done by professionals, and the chances are we won’t get professionals unless we get very lucky. So what’s left?”

“You tell me,” said Connors, “And make it good, because when we’re through here I’m going to have to either ask the. Attorney General’s office to authorize the expenditures you’ll need to pursue it or tell him I’ve scrapped the operation.”

“But it’s not that simple, Martin,” said Brayer, his hands now clenched on the arms of his chair.

“I know. But this is an expensive operation, and what have we got to show for it? You’ve lost a man and spent a lot of time and money.”

Elizabeth could stay silent no longer. “That’s not how to figure it, Mr. Connors,” she said. “What we’ve got is nothing but FGE. What we might have in a week is the man who killed a United States senator. Something big is going on, and this is just the start. They can cover their trail on FGE for a time, but we’ll know more eventually. What we ought to be doing in the meantime is watching all of the candidates to see if we can catch one while he’s trying to cut off the links with FGE.”

“Martin, look,” said Brayer. “They’re shooting each other down on the street over this. If we watch closely enough we’ve got a hell of a chance, and it won’t be tax evasion or stock fraud.”

Connors sat immobile, still puffing little clouds of smoke into the room. Finally he spoke. “I suppose there’s no alternative. I’ll speak with the Attorney General himself if I have to.” He stood up and nodded to the others in the room. “John, my plane leaves in an hour, and I’d appreciate a ride to the airport. I’ll arrive in Washington at nine thirty, and I’ll expect a call with a list of what you’ll need. You might as well include what it would take to find Edgar Fieldston and if necessary extradite him from wherever he is. I expect he’s probably dead, but the extra funds will give you some leeway.”

HIS EYES OPENED and he was alert and present, as though he’d stepped through a doorway from sleeping to waking. It had been years since he’d allowed himself the luxury of even momentary uncertainty about where he’d been when he’d closed his eyes. Had he heard something? No, it was just his instinct telling him it was time. The shadows in the room had deepened and melted together into darkness. He sat up and strained to see the dial of his watch. It was six thirty; the old man had been gone for over five hours.

He stood up and listened to the breathing of the empty house: the faint hum of the furnace in the cellar, the soft substantial sound of the clapboards standing up to the bitter wind. It brought back the feel of the house in Pennsylvania when he was a child, not so far from here, but too many years ago. It was as though he’d walked out, and when he looked back that world had been gone for so long that there wasn’t anyone else left who even remembered it. The house was probably still standing, like this one was, but now someone else lived there.

“It’s a safe house,” Eddie had said. “Nobody talks about it because they might have to use it someday. But I know. People have gone through that door and nobody’s ever seen them come out the other side. For all I know he turns them into niggers.”

He heard a sound outside the house. He drew out the Beretta and floated slowly and carefully into the kitchen, his ears tuned to the pitch of the first noise. It was the sound of footsteps making their way to the back door. He crouched at the kitchen door and leveled the pistol on the back hallway. He heard two pairs of feet, one scraping the pavement—probably the old man—and another harder and faster, clicking on the walk. That had to be the woman, taking shorter steps. But he didn’t move. What was to keep the old man from selling him? In five hours he could have found out who the buyer was.

The key turned in the lock and the old man called into the darkness, “It’s me,” then opened the door.

“Come on in,” he said, and stepped back behind the doorway away from the sound of his voice. The light came on in the kitchen and he could see them. While the old man was struggling out of his overcoat, he studied the woman. She looked right. She was about five feet eight, not tall enough to be noticeable and not too small. She was pretty, he decided, but she was smart enough to be the kind of pretty that didn’t strike the eye at first glance—she had done something to herself. It was the hair and probably makeup. The dark, shining hair was cut short and then waved so the angles of the face were softened into a kind of unremarkable pleasantness. He couldn’t tell much about her figure, but she seemed slim even in the thick coat she was wearing. As long as the coat wasn’t hiding gigantic breasts or a seventeen-inch waist she’d do—an attractive schoolteacher or maybe a secretary traveling, but not the kind that traveled with the boss—a secretary on vacation with her husband.

“This is Maureen,” said the old man.

He nodded to her, and she acknowledged it but said nothing. He said, “She looks okay. When do we leave?”

The old man said, “That’s not up to me. I’m going in the other room to watch a little television while you work that out. After that I’m going to bed. Just leave my two thousand on the counter and lock the door when you go. If it’s there when I get up tomorrow morning I never heard of you.” He walked through the kitchen door and closed it behind him.

“We can go any time now,” said Maureen. “Everything I need is in the car.”

“I’ll get my suitcase,” he said, and went back into the living room. The old man was gone, but he could hear the television in the bedroom. His suitcase was in the front hallway where he’d left it. When he returned to the kitchen he set the two thousand dollars on the counter and placed a coffee cup on top of it.

He let her out first, and followed her into the cold night wind. She took a different way, up the driveway and past a tiny garage. On the far side of the garage was another garage and a driveway leading to the street behind. He followed her to a three-year-old Chevrolet parked at the curb.

She handed him the keys and waited while he stowed the suitcase in the trunk. He let her in and took the wheel. The car’s engine sounded well-tuned and healthy, and he could feel the heater warming the interior. As he pulled away from the curb and down the street, he could tell that it had gotten colder by the way the tires wobbled and crunched over the ice chunks.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked.