Zero at the Bone (15 page)

himself carefully like he was in pain, or expected to be at any moment. He spoke quietly, his tone measured. “I couldn’t help them folks,” he said. “I wanted to. Saw their faces and knew what they were in for, and I can still see every one a those faces. I learned ta shut it off, shut everythin’ off, and the best I could do for ’em was ta pass ’em by.” He sighed. “The jobs come ta me first ’cause I’m the best, Jack. I get it done, I don’t get caught, and I don’t flinch. So all I could do was hope that whoever took them other jobs would get sloppy. I know it don’t sound like much, but more woulda been the death a me in short order. Maybe that woulda been better fer everyone. I sure as shit don’t know what I was protectin’ myself for, or livin’ for.” The dead, uninflected recitation of this fatalism chilled Jack straight through. He sat down at D’s side, his anger sidelined for the moment. “How’d you get yourself into this?” he asked. “What happened to you?”

He shook his head at once. Jack could see the reflexiveness, as if he’d hit his knee with a hammer to see it jerk. “Don’t matter.”

It does matter. It matters to me. You matter to me, and that is scarier than anything
you can tell me about yourself.
“If it didn’t matter, you could tell me,” Jack said.

D looked up at him, then away again quickly. “Don’t wanna say.” Jack tried another tack. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“A cowboy,” D said, almost immediately.

“Really?” Jack didn’t think he could be more surprised if D had said that he’d wanted to be a ballerina.

“Yeah,” D said, smiling a little ruefully at himself. “Stupid, huh?”

“No, not at all.”

“Worked on ranches when I was a kid.”

“So… why didn’t you—”

“Enlisted when I was eighteen. Hadta.”

“Why?”

D took a deep breath and let it out. “Had me a brand new wife in the family way, Jack. Not too many options.”

Jack watched his profile, the stillness there, the control of every muscle and tic down to the roots of his hair, each strand standing up at regimented attention, brutally cut off when they got long enough to bend their own way. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Sharon. Course she ain’t… wasn’t—”

“You told me your daughter’s name was Jill.”

D nodded. His mouth was tightening like a drawstring, closing off the hood, shutting away the face.

“D, where are they now? Do you get to see Jill?” He straightened by degrees, like putting on a suit, then turned to face Jack, his face that granite shadow again. “They’re dead, Jack. Is that what ya wanted ta know? Sharon

’n’ Jill are both dead, and it’s on my head.” He stood up and went to the door. “You let me know when yer done judgin’ me, ’cause we got some shit ta work out and we cain’t stay holed up here forever. I’ll be out back.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Jack sitting there on the bed, staring at the depression D’s body had left in the mattress where he’d been sitting.

64 | Jane Seville

JACK emerged from his bedroom after a good hour of lying on his bed berating himself and D in turn.

Why’d you have to keep pushing him? The guy’s wound tighter than a suspension
bridge. So why is it up to you to unwind him, jerkwad?

He didn’t have to tell me.

Probably did it just to shut you up. You should have guessed that something awful
had happened to him.

What am I, the Amazing Kreskin? He doesn’t give anything away.

He didn’t want to talk about it, and you kept at him until he lost it.

He didn’t lose it. He never had it; he never lets it go.

Finally, he’d just put it aside and gotten up. It was done with, after all.

D wasn’t in the house. Jack found him outside, sitting in his favorite chair on the patio.
He’s a killer. He doesn’t deserve your pity, or your sympathy, or your gratitude, or
your… whatever else.
Jack could tell himself that, and he could even agree, but that didn’t change the fact that whether D deserved them or not, somehow he had all of those things.

He didn’t give any sign that he’d heard Jack come out the patio door. He came up behind D’s chair and stood there for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged.
You’re
going to be waiting a long fucking time,
he thought. He lifted a hand; it hovered there in the air for a moment, undecided, before finally falling on D’s uninjured shoulder. He felt D twitch just a little at the contact, but he didn’t move. His skin was warm through his Tshirt. “When did it happen?” he finally asked.

D shifted in his chair, looking away from where Jack stood behind him. Jack stepped to the side, letting his hand slide from D’s shoulder, and sat down in the chair he usually sat in, on D’s right side.

D shook his head. “Ain’t sayin’ no more about that jus’ now.” Jack shoved down his curiosity with difficulty. “Okay.” Finally, D turned and looked at him. “You ain’t gonna yell at me for bein’ a crazed killer lettin’ innocent folks die no more?”

Jack drew one knee up. “It bothers me, and I won’t say that it doesn’t just to make you happy.”

“You lyin’ wouldn’t make me happy.”

“The world’s full of people trying to atone for things they regret.”

“That what you think I’m doin’? Makin’ amends?” Zero at the Bone | 65

“Maybe. And maybe you’re trying to atone for more than just the contracts you didn’t take.”

D snorted. “Maybe I oughta lie down on a couch fer this psychoanalysis, ya think?”

“You can play it off all you want, but there’s something eating away at you, D. I’ve known you less than a week and I can see it plain as the nose on your face.” He took a deep breath and let it out, nodding. “Well, if somethin’s eatin’ away at me it mus’ be getting awful hungry, ’cause there cain’t be much left a me ta eat.” His fingers were twitching. “Jesus, I wish I had a cigarette.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged,” D said, but he cut Jack a sidelong glance that had a bit of a twinkle to it so Jack knew he wasn’t serious.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Jack stared out at the lake, letting the nothingness crowd out the noise inside his brain, just for a short time. A very short time.

“So, you said we had things to talk about,” he finally said.

D made a noncommittal grunting noise. “Gotta decide what ta do.”

“About what?”

“Cain’t stay here forever. Someone’ll find us.”

“But… we’ve been here a few days now and no one’s found us. Doesn’t that mean we’re pretty safe here?”

D just looked at him, the
dumbass
written all over his face. “Jack, that’s like sayin’

that if you ain’t got cancer by the time yer forty that yer safe. Gets riskier the more time passes, not safer. More time goes by the more’s the chance somebody’ll dig inta yer past and find yer connection ta this place. Besides, yer father-in-law’ll get wise soon enough.”

“I told you he never comes here except for—”

“He sure as hell might notice a big increase in the electric bill on this place and wonder why, though.”

“Oh,” Jack said, feeling like an idiot for not having thought of that.

“At some point we’re gonna hafta tell the Marshals that you ain’t dead too. Let ’em know that ya still intend ta testify. You jus’ vanish, and the trial’s like ta be postponed if the prosecutor can swing it, or worse it’ll go ahead without you on the stand and that’s real bad.”

“We’ve got a few months ’til the trial.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet that prosecutor’s spittin’ nails about you bein’ off the reservation too.”

“I only have one contact. I guess I could call him. But what do I say? He’ll want me to come in, and put me back in custody.”

“You jus’ say you don’t feel safe, that someone found ya and was gonna kill ya but ya got away, and yer hidin’ out on yer own but you’ll be in Baltimore fer the trial. He ain’t gonna like it but he ain’t gonna have much choice. You don’t mention me.”

“He’s never going to believe I got away from some hired killer.”

“Probly not, but he ain’t gonna have no grounds ta challenge ya and he’ll have no way ta track ya, so he’ll hafta live with it.”

Jack imagined what it would have taken for him to have actually gotten away from D if he’d decided to carry out his order after all. The thought was a bit daunting. “D?”

“Hmm?”

“When you were fighting that guy in the alley?”

“Yeah?”

“What kind of fighting was that?”

66 | Jane Seville

D frowned. “The bare-ass desperate kind. Whaddya mean?”

“No, I mean… you were trained in hand-to-hand combat, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind? Like, judo or something?”

D laughed. “Nothin’ that fancy. Military uses this fightin’ called Krav Maga. It’s real… useful. It’s all about savin’ yer energy and usin’ it where it counts.” Jack turned in his chair, the idea surging into his head with urgency. “Teach me.” D just blinked at him. “Teach ya?”

“Teach me to fight. Don’t you think I ought to be able to defend myself a little?”

“Jack, I cain’t fuckin’ teach ya ta fight in a coupla days and I sure as hell cain’t teach ya with a bum shoulder. Takes a long time ta get comfortable with that, and I can tell jus’ by lookin’ at ya that you ain’t never had a hand laid on ya in violence.” He had a point, Jack had to admit. “Well, then… can you teach me how to shoot a gun? That can’t be as hard.”

“Oh, hell yes it can.” D hesitated, his lips pursing and unpursing. “Ain’t a bad idea, though.”

Jack had never even touched a gun. The idea of holding one and shooting it was suddenly appealing in a way it had never been. He supposed there was nothing like near-death experiences to make a person appreciate the utility of weapons. “So can we do that?” he asked, sounding absurdly like a kid asking permission to go to the zoo or something.

D turned to him, a half-smile on his face. “Yeah, we can do that.” THEY set up a target along the longest clear path they could find in the backyard, and D

produced some earplugs from somewhere in one of his magic aluminum cases. Jack lugged one out onto the porch and D began unloading guns. “You know anything about guns?”

“They shoot bullets.”

“Well, that’s a start. First thing about guns is safety. Y’always assume they’re loaded, don’t never point ’em at nobody you don’t mean ta shoot at, and always remember that yer holdin’ in yer hand a piece a human ingenuity designed ta cause harm, and ya better goddamn respect that, got it?” Jack nodded. “Okay, then. This is a revolver,” he said, handing Jack a gun. “Revolvers are kinda old-fashioned but the mechanism’s simpler and they’re less likely ta jam up or misfire.” He drew out a sleeker-looking black pistol. “This is a semi-automatic pistol.”

“What’s the difference between a semi-automatic and an automatic?” Jack asked.

“I’ve just heard people say ‘automatic’.”

“Same thing. People say automatic when they mean semi. It jus’ means that the bullets come up from the cartridge by themselves so you can fire shots one after another without cockin’ it. Fully automatic means you jus’ hold the trigger and bullets keep comin’ ’til ya let up, like a machine gun.”

“Are there fully automatic pistols?”

D arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, but that’s some heavy shit. You don’t wanna mess around with that. Anyway, I ain’t got any here.”

“What do those look like?”

“Uh….” D squinted. “Didja see
The Matrix
?” Zero at the Bone | 67

“Sure.”

“That part where they was shootin’ up that lobby fulla SWAT dudes? They was packin’ machine pistols fer the most part there. Ya hold ’em in one hand. Nasty bit a weaponry. Don’t use ’em, myself. Don’t got much call fer fully automatic guns in my line a work. Handguns ’n’ rifles, mostly.”

“Rifles?” Jack said, perking up.

“Hold on there now, Tex. I ain’t got no rifles with me, and they ain’t fer beginners.

It’s one thing ta shoot a handgun but somethin’ else ta fire a rifle.” He took the revolver and handed Jack the black pistol. It felt natural in his hand, like it had been made to fit it, which Jack supposed it had. It felt weightier than its mass, and deadly. “That’s a Beretta ninety-two. That’s standard military issue in the U.S. Spent a lotta time with one a them on my hip. This one’s a Glock seventeen, real common with police departments and such.

Nine millimeter.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s the caliber a bullets it fires.”

“What about ones that are… what, three fifty-seven? Or thirty-eight?”

“Damn, you do watch a lot of movies. When they say thirty-eight that’s also the caliber, but that’s inches. Them are used with American-made guns. Glocks are Austrian so it’s metric.”

“What’s that really big scary one?”

D smirked and reached into his case again, withdrawing a pistol that dwarfed the other two. “That’d be this one, I guess,” he said. “It’s a Desert Eagle. I don’t think yer gonna be firin’ that thing. Tell ya the truth, it ain’t so useful as a handgun. Too big. Might come in handy if ya hadta shoot an elk or somethin’. Here, try this one,” he said, handing him a slimmer one. “That’s a Walther PPK. Look familiar?” Jack looked at the gun in his hand, frowning. “Kinda.”