The Green Trap (14 page)

He'd phoned Gould to report the bad news, got an assistant that he wouldn't talk to. His deal with Gould was that he worked for him and nobody else; he reported to Gould and nobody else. Gould wanted it that way.

So he stayed up half the night in this threadbare little hotel room waiting for Gould to phone him back. Nothing. He ordered a bottle of scotch from room service and was told that they served single drinks only.

“Okay, bring me six Johnnie blacks on the rocks.”

When Gould finally phoned him, early the next morning, Kensington felt gummy-eyed and headachy. He was glad the hotel didn't have videophone service.

“It's not your fault,” Gould said, once he'd heard the unhappy news. But his voice sounded less than pleased.

“You oughtta tell your travel people to try staying at some of the hotels they make me stay in,” Kensington groused.

Gould ignored that. “Cochrane grew up in the Boston area, according to our information. Why would he go back there?”

“With Sandoval.”

“You don't know which hotel they went to?”

“I got a friend in Washington could check her credit cards.”

Gould said, “Useless. By the time you find which hotel they used, they'd be long gone.”

Kensington thought it over for a few seconds. “Only thing to do is go back to Tucson and stake out Cochrane's place.”

“Yes, I've come to the same conclusion. But you'll have to use a commercial airline, I'm afraid. I need the Citation today.”

Kensington nodded, but he didn't like the idea.

C
ochrane and Sandoval recognized Kensington as he came aboard the plane and made his way down the aisle with the other embarking passengers. The man was taller than everyone else, except for a pair of buzzcut Marines in olive-green uniforms and a gangling black teenager wearing a Boston University varsity basketball T-shirt.

Sandoval, in the window seat, turned her head abruptly once she saw him. Cochrane looked down at his shoes.

“Do you think he saw us?” Sandoval whispered to him.

“Maybe.”

They sat in tense apprehension as the passengers stuffed their carryons into the overhead bins and the flight attendants tried to get everyone seated and buckled up. The pilot came on the intercom with his usual chatter about the flight and then, at last, the plane backed away from the terminal.

One of the flight attendants came up and bent over the woman sitting in the aisle seat beside Cochrane. She grumbled a little, but got up and headed aft. Kensington sat down in her place, all smiles.

“Well, well, well,” he said jovially. “Look who's here.”

Sandoval half whispered, “How long have you been staking out the airport?”

Kensington chuckled, low and ominous. “No stakeout. Just dumb luck. It happens sometimes.”

Seated between Kensington and Sandoval, Cochrane felt trapped and scared. But as the Boeing jet taxied to the end of the runway and took off, engines roaring, a different emotion began to take hold of him. Anger. This sonofabitch has been following us, he thought. He's working for Gould, trying to steal whatever we learn about Mike's work so that Gould won't have to pay us for the information. He's probably the guy who killed Mike in the first place.

Kensington seemed perfectly relaxed. He cranked his chair back as far as it would go, leaned his head against the headrest, and stuck his long legs out into the aisle. He closed his eyes. Sandoval, on Cochrane's other side, seemed to be trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible, like a rabbit facing a grinning wolf.

“I been thinking about that ten mil Gould offered you,” Kensington said, without opening his eyes. Cochrane barely heard his low voice over the thunder of the plane's engines.

“You hear me?” he demanded, louder.

“I heard you,” Cochrane said.

“Maybe I could get you more, from a different buyer.”

Cochrane stared at the man, surprised. Kensington's eyes were open now, he was looking up at the plane's ceiling.

“Yeah, I'd cross Gould—for enough of a payoff.”

Sandoval leaned across Cochrane slightly. “How much could you get for us?”

“More than ten,” Kensington said, still staring at the ceiling. “Maybe a lot more.”

“And how much would you want?”

“Half.”

She shook her head. “A third. There's three of us.”

Kensington turned his head to look at her. “You're counting
him
in?”

“He's part of this,” she said.

Cochrane said, “Hey, I'm right here. And I'm in this as much as you are.”

Kensington made a sour face. “Listen, geek boy, I can find a hundred guys to run a computer for me. You're dispensable.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Like my brother was dispensable?”

“I never saw your brother.”

“Yeah, sure. But I wonder if the cops would believe you.”

Kensington slowly lifted his head from the seat's back and pushed his face so close to Cochrane's that their noses almost touched. “You call the police, four eyes,” he whispered venomously, “and it'll be that last phone call you ever make.”

Before Cochrane could think of a reply, Sandoval reached out and placed a placating hand on Kensington's arm. “No one's going to call the police. There's too much at stake now.”

“Damned right,” Kensington muttered.

They flew the rest of the way in cold silence.

 

K
ensington used the plane's in-flight telephone to reserve a rental car at the Tucson airport. Once there, he drove Cochran and Sandoval to Cochrane's apartment.

Wordlessly he went up in the elevator with them. As they stepped out into the third-floor hallway, Cochrane asked:

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“With you, pal. I'm not letting you out of my sight until you tell me what you were doing in Boston. We're going to be a cozy little family.”

Cochrane unlocked his apartment door and the three of them entered his living room.

“You two can have the bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch,” Kensington said.

“It pulls out,” Cochran told him grudgingly.

“Big enough for two, huh?” Kensington grinned at Sandoval. “Maybe you'd rather sleep with me, Elena? Leave geek boy to get his beauty sleep by himself.”

She didn't reply, simply turned sharply away from him and walked into the bedroom.

Cochrane followed her, seething inside. He can't be carrying a gun, he thought. They would have stopped him at the airport. He didn't check any baggage; he only had a carry-on and that went through the X-ray machine. So he's unarmed. He's a lot bigger than I am, but I can even the difference.

“What are you doing?” Sandoval asked as he opened the bedroom closet.

Cochrane didn't answer. He dragged out his bag of spare fencing equipment, unzipped it, and pulled out a saber. Its steel guard was dull with age, dented, but the blade was new and clean.

“Paul! Don't! You have no idea—”

But Cochrane hefted the slim blade and went back to the bedroom door. Kensington was in the kitchen, at the refrigerator, bending down as he searched for something to eat.

“Get out of my home,” Cochrane said, his voice trembling with rage.

Kensington straightened up and looked at the saber. “What the fuck's that, a toy sword?”

“Get out,” Cochrane repeated. “Now.”

“Hey, four eyes, you think that thing scares me? I'll stuff it up your ass.”

“Try it and I'll take your eyes out,” Cochrane said, moving another step into the living room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sandoval at the bedroom door, wide-eyed with fear.

Kensington slammed the refrigerator door shut and scowled at Cochrane.

“So you're gonna be a big hero for her, huh? Dumb schmuck.” He pulled a thick-bladed carving knife from the butcher's block stand next to the stove.

“Now, this knife really cuts, doesn't it, geek boy?” Kensington crouched slightly as he came around the kitchen counter and into the living room to face Cochrane.

Cochrane stood his ground as Kensington approached him, grinning toothily, waving the knife back and forth.

“I'll give you a chance to drop that toy sword of yours,” Kensington said. “If you don't, I'm gonna carve your balls off.”

“Try it,” Cochrane muttered, dropping into an en garde crouch.

“Your funeral, geek.”

Kensington stepped toward Cochrane, feinted once, then lunged with the knife, point first. Cochrane twitched at the feint, recovered fast enough to jump back out of Kensington's reach. The coffee table's behind me, Cochrane realized. He edged sideways until he could see it in his peripheral vision.

Kensington lunged again, faster. This time Cochrane parried the thrust, then snapped a flashing riposte to Kensington's wrist. Kensington yelped with sudden pain and lurched backward.

Cochrane advanced on him, smacked the knife blade sharply out of the way, and then slashed a backhand cut to Kensington's cheek. Blood spurted.

“It's not sharp,” Cochrane said, holding the blunted point of his saber before Kensington's eyes, “but it's as thin and flexible as a whip.”

Kensington wiped sullenly at the blood trickling from his cheek. Then he made a sudden lunge toward Cochrane. With a blur of speed Cochrane slashed at the knife hand. Kensington howled with pain as the knife flew out of his hand and landed on the carpet at Sandoval's feet.

Slack-jawed, Kensington looked up at Cochrane with newfound respect in his eyes.

“Get out,” Cochrane said. “That's all I want. Get out of my home and stay out.”

“Okay,” Kensington said, rubbing his hand. “Okay. You win.”

He started for the door, but as Cochrane moved back away from him Kensington suddenly dove at his knees, knocking him over the coffee table. They thudded into the sofa, the air blasted out of Cochrane's lungs, the saber still clutched in his right hand but useless now as Kensington raised a fist the size of a basketball and slammed it into Cochrane's face. Cochrane's right arm was pinned to the sofa, his legs flailing helplessly as Kensington, grinning now like a demon, raised that big fist again.

And squealed in sudden pain, his body arching backward as Sandoval drove the heel of her shoe into his kidney again, then chopped viciously at the back of his neck. Kensington slumped to the floor. Cochrane pulled himself out from under him and got shakily to his feet.

“You…” He couldn't say more. He had to gulp for breath.

“He would've beaten you to death,” Sandoval said, looking suddenly frail and frightened.

“Just like he beat Mike.”

She nodded.

Kensington moaned and rolled over onto his back. Sandoval went to the bedroom door and picked up the carving knife. Cochrane pulled in a deep breath and realized he still gripped the saber in his right hand.

“What do we do with him?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I'd say push him out the window, but you're only three floors up.”

Cochrane stared at her. She was serious.

Kensington slowly sat up, looked up at Sandoval with the knife and Cochrane with the saber.

“Get out of here,” Cochrane said. “That's all I want. Just go away and leave us alone.”

Slowly Kensington raised himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the coffee table to do so. Without another word he stumbled to the front door and opened it.

“You haven't seen the last of me,” he said, his voice wickedly low. Then he left and pulled the door shut behind him.

Y
ou were… fierce,” Sandoval said, looking at Cochrane with new wonder in her eyes.

“You were damned good yourself. Where'd you learn that kung fu business?”

“A woman has to be able to protect herself,” she replied. “But you! I never realized how strong you can be.”

He rubbed his throbbing cheek. “Yeah, I almost got myself beaten to death.”

She went to him and kissed his cheek tenderly. He winced, despite himself.

“No, Paul, you were great. Wonderful “ Her voice trailed off, and he saw tears in her eyes. She was trembling.

“Hey,” he said, taking her in his arms. “It's all right. He's gone.”

“Do you think he'll come back?” she asked, in a tiny, whispery voice.

As he went to the door and hooked the security chain in place, Cochrane replied, “I guess we shouldn't be here if he does.”

“Where can we go?”

“As far from here as we can.”

“Maybe…” She pulled away from him, sank down on the sofa. “Maybe that's what he's expecting. Maybe he's out there waiting for us.”

Cochrane sat down beside her. “Do you have Gould's phone number?”

“He gave me his card,” Sandoval said. “It's in my purse.”

“Phone him. Tell him to call off his dog.”

Sandoval seemed to think it over for a moment, then she nodded tightly and went back into the bedroom. She came out holding Gould's card in her hand, sat at Cochrane's desk, and picked up the telephone.

Cochrane went to the refrigerator and packed a half dozen ice cubes into a dish towel, then pressed it gently to his swelling cheek. It burned.

“Mr. Gould, please,” Sandoval was saying into the telephone. “No, it's personal. Tell him Ms. Sandoval is calling, with important news.”

Holding the makeshift ice pack to his face, Cochrane went to the desk and clicked the button that turned on the phone's speaker. Sandoval replaced the handset with a brief piercing screech of feedback.

“Mr. Gould will be with you in a moment,” a man's voice scratched through the phone speaker.

“Thank you,” Sandoval replied.