Bodily Harm (34 page)

“You’re just trying to justify your actions.”

Stenopolis advanced, his face again inches from Sloane’s. “You’re wrong. I told you, I need no justification. Unlike you, I feel no guilt.”

WHAT JENKINS NEEDED was time, and he was anything but certain he would get it. Once he delivered Albert Payne it was highly probable Stenopolis would shoot Jenkins and eliminate him as a threat. Jenkins would do the same. But not bringing Payne was also not an option. Jenkins would be playing Russian roulette with Sloane’s life, and, as Stenopolis had made abundantly clear, he would kill Sloane and hunt Payne down eventually. The only thing Jenkins possessed that Stenopolis might find of value was the name of the man who Stenopolis would believe
had given him up, the secretary of labor, Ed Hotchkin. A guy like Stenopolis didn’t stay in business long if his clients talked; his business was dependent upon fear and intimidation that fostered a code of silence.

Jenkins entered the house through the back door off the kitchen, Albert Payne behind him. Payne started for the family room, but Jenkins grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, stepping in front. Payne had been acting odd since Jenkins told him their plan had gone awry, as if he had known from the start that it was his fate to die and he was resigned to the outcome.

Sloane sat slumped in a chair. At the sound of Jenkins’s entering the room, Sloane raised his head.

“Oh my God.”

Sloane peered out of one eye, the other swollen shut. Blood, nearly black in the muted light, streaked his face, flowing from a cut along his forehead over his right eye. The right side of his mouth was equally swollen, and his hands and ankles were bound behind him. An empty chair had been placed beside him, and on it a thin rope.

Stenopolis entered from the opposite side of the room, gun directed at Jenkins. “Alive, just as I promised,” he said. “You made good time, Mr. Jenkins. Please remove your coat and drop it on the floor.”

Jenkins slipped the long black coat from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

“Step forward.”

Jenkins did.

“Don’t stand in the doorway, Albert. Come in. A man’s home is his castle.”

Payne remained off to the side.

“Turn around, Mr. Jenkins.”

Jenkins complied.

Jenkins heard Stenopolis approach from behind and thought again of trying to disarm him, but that thought passed when the hard steel pressed against the back of his skull. Stenopolis ran his hands over Jenkins’s body, searching for weapons.

“Turn around.”

Again Jenkins complied.

“Excuse my manners,” Stenopolis said, gesturing to the empty chair beside Sloane. “Please, take a seat.”

Jenkins sat. “If you think I’m going to tell you which one of your clients gave you up, Anthony, forget it,” he said purposefully.

“Actually, Mr. Jenkins, I had no such interest, but I appreciate the information. You, perhaps, should be wondering who gave you up. Your friend Mr. Wade was equally recalcitrant.”

Jenkins’s jaw clenched at the sound of Curley Wade’s name, but he tried to display no emotion. He had been right that Stenopolis had once had CIA connections and apparently still did.

“He told me to kill him because he would never break. A mistake, I’m afraid. He broke. I killed him. What he failed to comprehend is that a man who enjoys his work can keep at a task for a very long time, and I very much enjoy my work, as you are about to find out.”

Jenkins gripped the chair arms. “We all have to die sometime, Anthony.”

“How perceptive.”

Stenopolis kept a safe distance. “You will do the honors, Albert.” He pointed to the strand of cord. “The lengths of rope are sufficient to go around the arms and legs of the chair six times if you maintain proper tightness. I would suggest you do.”

Payne did not move.

Stenopolis shot at the floor, just missing Jenkins’s shoe. “Do not test my patience again, Albert.”

“Just do what he says,” Jenkins said.

Payne stepped forward and took the rope, kneeling and binding one of Jenkins’s arms.

“I’m disappointed in you, Albert. I gave you specific instructions and you breached those instructions.”

“He didn’t breach them,” Jenkins said. “I told you. We already knew all about you. One of your clients gave you up.”

Payne tied the second of Jenkins’s wrists.

“I doubt that very much, Mr. Jenkins, but we’ll determine that soon enough. I’ll reward your silence by allowing you to watch Mr. Sloane and Mr. Jenkins die, Albert. I believe you will find it fascinating.”

Payne finished tying Jenkins’s ankles and stepped back. Stenopolis checked the wrist restraints. Satisfied, he removed the poker from the fireplace. The end glowed orange. He approached Jenkins with the tip extended. “Now, Mr. Jenkins, the first piece of business, since you brought it up. Who told you how to contact me?”

Jenkins laughed. “Go to hell, Anthony.”

Stenopolis shook his head. “Mr. Wade made the same suggestion. But as you can see, I’m still here.”

He moved the tip of the poker toward Jenkins’s left eye.

The front doorbell rang.

No one moved.

It rang again, a repeated chime of bells followed by a loud male voice. “Al? Hey Al? You home?”

Stenopolis turned to Payne.

“It’s my neighbor,” Payne said.

The bell rang again. “Al?”

“Do not say a word,” Stenopolis said.

“He has a key,” Payne said.

Stenopolis’s nostrils flared. He shoved the tip of the poker back into the flames, grabbed Payne by the back of his shirt, and
shoved him out of the room. “Get rid of him or I will kill him too.” He turned to Jenkins and Sloane. “If either of you make a sound I will shoot them both.”

The front door was already opening, the neighbor struggling to pull the key from the lock. He startled when he looked up and saw Payne. “Al? Hell, you scared me. Didn’t you hear me yelling out there? Why are you standing in the dark?”

“I’m sorry. I was upstairs.”

“No worries. I figured you were home; I saw your car drive up and the lights go on. Mary and the kids at soccer?”

Stenopolis stepped into the entry.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

“Albert’s my cousin,” Stenopolis said.

The neighbor extended a hand. “Cousin? Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Stenopolis said.

The neighbor addressed Payne. “Well, then. I won’t keep you. I was just hoping I could borrow your ride mower. I wanted to catch you tonight in case you left early for work in the morning.”

“Sure,” Payne said.

“The wife’s been after me for about a week to cut the lawn. You know how that is. I won’t enjoy a minute until it’s done.” He turned to Stenopolis. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Lucky you. Al here knows what I’m talking about though, don’t you Al? The wife keeps me busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.”

“Let me get you the key,” Payne said.

The neighbor waved him off. “Don’t trouble yourself. I know where it is: top drawer in the kitchen. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute; sorry to have interrupted.” He spoke to Stenopolis. “Nice to have met you.”

Stenopolis nodded. He and Payne followed the neighbor into the kitchen, where he rummaged through a drawer beneath the
tiled counter. “Did you move it?” he shouted over his shoulder. “Ah nope, here it is.”

In one quick motion, the neighbor spun. Just as quickly, Payne dropped to the ground.

Stenopolis made a play for his gun but never got his hand behind his back.

Detective Tom Molia had the barrel of his gun aimed directly between Stenopolis’s eyes. “Go ahead. I can pick a flea off the ass of a white-tailed deer, shithead. So give me a reason.”

Stenopolis raised both hands.

“With your left hand I want you to very slowly reach behind your back, pull that gun from your pants, and let me hear it hit the floor.”

The gun hit the tiled floor with a thud and clatter.

“Now, take three giant steps back,” Molia said.

Stenopolis did.

Molia maintained ten feet between himself and Stenopolis. “Mr. Payne, pick that up and bring it to me.”

Payne approached cautiously, retrieved the gun, and brought it to Molia.

Stenopolis grinned. “Clever. Can I assume you are not the neighbor?”

Molia spoke to Payne but kept his eyes and the gun trained on Stenopolis. “Where’s David and Goliath?”

Payne pointed to the family room. “He has them tied up.”

“Take a knife and cut them free.”

Payne stepped to a drawer and pulled out a serrated knife.

“You’re well trained,” Stenopolis said. “I’m presuming you are an officer of the law, and perhaps a thespian; that was quite the performance.”

“Wait until you see me play the part of a pissed-off detective. I’m good at that. Put your hands on top of your head and interlock your fingers.”

Stenopolis continued to do as Molia asked.

“Now let’s you and me walk into that room.”

Jenkins stood rubbing his wrist as Payne cut the twine binding Sloane’s ankles.

“Jesus,” Molia said, seeing Sloane’s face. “You all right?”

Sloane retrieved Stenopolis’s gun from Molia, turned, and pointed it in the man’s face.

“David,” Molia said.

Stenopolis smiled. “Do you have it in you, Mr. Sloane? I told you we aren’t that different.”

“I want to know who you’re working for.”

Stenopolis shook his head, amused. “Let me tell you how this will work, Mr. Sloane. I will tell you nothing, no matter how much you torture me. This officer will then ‘take me in’ in the parlance of law enforcement, where I’ll be allowed to make one phone call. When I do, within the hour two gentlemen will come to the police station and advise the good officer that they are taking jurisdiction of the suspect out of national security concerns. After several more phone calls and much hand-wringing and profanity by others, I will walk out of jail a free man and disappear, seemingly never to be seen or heard from again.”

Sloane turned to Jenkins, disbelieving.

Jenkins nodded. “Someone tipped him that Curley Wade had pulled his file. It had to be someone at the Agency.”

Payne stepped forward, shell-shocked. “Is that true? He’s going to get away with this?”

“He’s just trying to antagonize us,” Jenkins said. “He’s not going to get away with anything.”

“You know that’s not true,” Stenopolis said. “Your friend Mr. Wade told you that we were all once kindred spirits, the three of us. I had my reasons for disappearing, Mr. Jenkins. What were yours?”

“Shut up,” Sloane said.

“It’s not going to be over, is it?” Payne asked.

“To the contrary, Albert, we’re just getting started.”

“Shut up,” Sloane said, rage building.

“Oh my God,” Payne said, stepping away. “It’s not going to end.”

“I did warn you, Albert.”

“Shut up!” Sloane smashed the gun across Stenopolis’s face, the blow knocking him to the floor. He lifted himself to an elbow and flicked his tongue at the stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Molia stepped forward, but Jenkins gripped his arm and held him back.

“Who are you working for?” Sloane asked.

“Trade secret, Mr. Sloane, I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.”

Sloane kicked Stenopolis in the face, knocking him onto his back. He grabbed the poker handle, pulled the tip from the fire, and pressed a foot across Stenopolis’s neck. Standing over him, he lowered the smoldering tip to within an inch of his face.

Stenopolis grunted at him. “The problem you have, Mr. Sloane, is that while most people fear death, I don’t.”

“Who said anything about death, Anthony? Like you said, we’re just getting started. We’re going to find out about that fate worse than death. Now, who hired you?”

“David!” Molia again started forward, but Jenkins kept him back.

Stenopolis spit blood through a grin. His voice choked. “You can’t do it. You don’t have it in you.”

“Wrong.” Sloane stared down at the man who had stood over Tina and watched her suffocate on her own blood. “That changed the moment you killed my wife.” He pressed the tip of the poker against Stenopolis’s cheek, flesh burning. Stenopolis grimaced, growling between clenched teeth, but he did not yell.

“David?” Molia said, more forceful.

“The next time I aim two inches higher,” Sloane said. “You don’t answer, and I take out an eye. Who are you working for?”

Stenopolis smiled, but for the first time it was tentative and unsure.

Sloane inched the poker closer to his eye.

“David!” Molia yelled.

Stenopolis’s eyes widened then instinctively closed. Adrenaline pulsed through Sloane’s body, causing the poker tip to shake. He screamed and pushed it down, diverting it, the fibers of the carpet melting and emitting a strong chemical odor. He took his foot from Stenopolis’s throat and stepped back, throwing the poker across the room, his body continuing to shake with rage.

Stenopolis rolled onto his stomach, choking and wheezing. Molia freed himself of Jenkins’s grasp and stepped forward, handcuffs out. He knelt and grabbed one of Stenopolis’s wrists, yanking it behind his back and snapping the cuff. As he did, Stenopolis’s right hand reached behind and gripped the detective’s wrist. Stenopolis then spun onto his back. Hips arched, knees bent, his body uncoiled like a spring, he landed on his feet, bending Molia’s arm behind his back while his free hand grabbed the butt of the detective’s gun.

“No!” Jenkins yelled.

Sloane turned at the sound of Jenkins’s voice. Too late. Stenopolis had taken aim and the retort echoed as the dark blur crossed Sloane’s peripheral vision.

Before Sloane could refocus he heard another shot and watched as Stenopolis spun, letting go of the detective. Three more shots exploded in succession, a string of firecrackers. The bullets drove Stenopolis backward, his body impacting violently against the brick fireplace. Legs quivering, he remained upright, gun at his side, then slumped to the hearth.

Albert Payne advanced, hand outstretched, gun extended.

Stenopolis put a hand to his chest and held it up, staring at the crimson red staining his fingertips, as if not comprehending the sight of his own blood. He looked up at Albert Payne with an expression that was part bemusement, part disbelief. His jaw opened, as if he were about to speak.