The Last Quarry Read online

  A sane man might have gone mad.

  I went coldly sane, getting to my feet, ignoring the civilians starting to approach the fiery scene, a chorus of Oh my Gods and Oh my Lords making a frantic premature funeral out of the ungainly pyre. But I was in no mood for ceremony and just turned away and headed for my rental Ford, which wasn’t in the lot, parked instead over on the next side street.

  In a weird way, the carnage of it made it easier for me to snap into the necessary gear—this was no clean kill, out of my more recent life, but a flashback to Vietnam, where I’d seen any number of friends blown to kibble thanks to land mines and mortar shells. Where you learned to react by retreating inside yourself, but not inviting the emotions in.

  So I was in combat mode when I went looking for him.

  Homewood had only seven motels, three of them major chains (Holiday Inn, Comfort Inn, Econo Lodge) which was where normally I would have started; but I had a hunch he would be staying close to my digs, since he was obviously keeping an eye on me.

  That’s why I began where I was staying, at the Homewood Motor Court. I even parked in my own space by my own door, and on foot prowled the line of cabins, looking over the parked vehicles, studying license plates, peering in windows to take in anything showing in front and back seats.

  Not many cars were in the spaces, as the motel catered to salesman and other mid-range business people, who were off with their cars pursuing their livelihoods. And when I made his ride, I was relieved to see it parked in the last space belonging to the last cabin at the far end, with no vehicles parked in the nearest four spaces.

  That was good.

  And the car hadn’t been hard to make—on the passenger seat of a Jeep rental were fanned-out magazines, Soldier of Fortune, Black Belt and several body building rags.

  Seeing those had made me smile. Not much of a smile I grant you, a bitter little slash; but a smile. The magazines not only said who this car belonged to, it indicated a guy reading on the job, bored by surveillance work. Usually reading indicates intelligence.

  Not this time.

  Through the crack of the window, between the wood frame and the drawn blinds, I could see him, hurriedly packing his duffel bag, which was emblazoned with a Marine Corps insignia. The sweats had been replaced by a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt and dark brown slacks and shades-of-brown running shoes. He might have been the president of the Young Republicans on a campus somewhere.

  When I went to his door, the nine millimeter was in my left hand, in front of me, so that anyone passing by wouldn’t see it.

  Not that anyone was passing by. The Homewood Motor Court on this Monday morning was deader than the driver of the Geo. I knew housekeeping didn’t come on for another hour. Plenty of time.

  The day, I noticed, was crisp and almost cold, the threat of rain making the sky dark. Days like this were surprisingly common in Vietnam, even if muggy hot ones were the norm, in the jungle.

  I knocked with my free hand.

  The door opened, allowing the room’s inhabitant a suspicious look over the night latch, and I was tempted to replay what I’d done to Louis, just shoot the prick in the eye and be done with it...

  ...but instead I shouldered through, popping the night latch, shoving the door shut behind me with my right hand, and pointing the nine at him with the other.

  DeWayne, stunned by the intrusion, belatedly raised the glock he’d had sense enough to take with him answering the door, and with my free hand, I batted it out of his grasp, like a mean sibling slapping a rattle out of a baby’s pink fingers.

  The gun landed on the nearby bed and bounced off onto the carpeted floor with a clunk, out of view, and reach.

  DeWayne’s room was larger than mine, a businessman’s mini-suite with a meeting area. The framed paintings were abstractions, as if gore had been spattered around in here already.

  My reluctant host—a little taller than me, and about as heavy, but overly muscular in a steroid-ish way—just stood there agape, his stubbly blond gyrene haircut seeming to stand on end. His light blue eyes—disturbingly long-lashed pretty eyes, really, feminine in the midst of all that otherwise rugged-jaw masculinity—had the same startled expression they’d worn when I slipped in beside DeWayne in his car outside the Log Cabin, a few months ago.

  Right before he thanked me for not killing him and I locked him in his trunk—remember?

  I shoved my nine millimeter in my waistband. But that didn’t seem to make DeWayne feel any better— in fact, he seemed unnerved, perhaps because I appeared so calm.

  And I was in fact calm, entirely matter-of-fact and unemotional. Which he should have been thankful for. If I hadn’t slipped into my battle zone, he’d have been dead now.

  I asked, in a purely conversational tone, “What the fuck was that about back there, DeWayne?”

  DeWayne blinked.

  I raised my eyebrows. “The car, DeWayne? The one you rigged that blew up this morning? Oh, but maybe you didn’t hang around to watch.”

  His mouth twitched, like it couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown or scream.

  “In which case,” I continued affably, “you’ll be pleased to know it did go off and blow Janet Wright’s car to hell and gone—driver and all.”

  His expression tightened into defensiveness. “Well, somebody had to do it! After you’ve been farting around for days!”

  “...How long have you been watching me, DeWayne?”

  He shook his head. “I told you—I followed Mr. Green’s slutty little princess here. She wasn’t supposed to be part of the mix, you know.”

  My hands were on my hips. “But, then, neither were you, DeWayne. Was that the plan? Let me do the job, then get rid of the loose end?”

  “No! Hell, no! I told you—”

  My eyes slitted. “I told you, last night. This is my job.”

  DeWayne risked getting in my face, just a little: “Which included fucking her, I suppose? Where is that in your job description, old man? You ain’t exactly a stealth missile.”

  I drew in a breath, let it out. “Car bomb,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Car bomb. Yeah. That’ll play as an accident.”

  My remark took the boldness out of him, replacing it with chagrin. “Yeah, well...things were...out of control. I made a...a pre-emptive strike. But you don’t need to worry.”

  My eyebrows went up again. “I don’t?”

  He smirked humorlessly. “No—you’ll get your money.”

  “...Well, isn’t that thoughtful. And then there’s all the credit—I’ll get that, too.” Finally I frowned at him. “Jesus, DeWayne—I’ve been seen all over town with that woman!”

  Now his eyebrows went up. “Is that my fault?”

  “No,” I admitted. “That’s my fault. Blowing her up in her car, that would be yours.”

  He backed away, hands half-up, saying, “Listen, I’m sorry I stepped on your fuckin’ toes...but I had orders to follow...and now I got a plane to catch.”

  Cautiously DeWayne returned to the duffel bag he was packing; his gun was over there on the floor, somewhere. Part of me wished he would go for it, please go for it, right now, go for it....

  “I need to finish packing,” he said, doing his best to sound casual, gesturing to the bag. “You got a problem with that?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all—but why don’t you pack after your shower?”

  “My what?”

  “When’s your plane, DeWayne?”

  Various vague gestures accompanied his reply: “Two hours from now, but I got to drive over to—”

  “You got plenty of time for a quick shower.”

  He stared at me like I was a raving madman, even though I was not raving. “What the fuck...?”

  Slowly but steadily, I removed the nine from my waistband and pointed it at him. “Take your clothes off, DeWayne.”

  His eyes and nostrils flared, the short blond hair damn near bristling. “The hell!”

  I ge
stured a little with the gun, not vaguely. “Go on and strip....I’m locking you in the bathroom so you don’t follow me.”

  He shook his head, wild-eyed, blurting, “I’m not gonna fucking follow your ass!”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Because I’m locking your ass in the can, and taking your clothes. That’ll give me the lead I need, to get out of this podunk.”

  DeWayne sighed. Shook his head. Opened his palms placatingly. “Please, buddy. Come on, will ya? What the hell’d I ever do to—”

  “Skivvies and all, DeWayne. All the way.”

  “...Christ.” His eyes popped with alarm. “Oh, Christ, you fell for her!”

  “Now, DeWayne....”

  Frantic, pawing the air, he said, “Look, you can’t blame me for this. It was Mr. Green. Once a guy like Mr. Green decides you’re dead, you’re fucking dead! You know that! She was a dead man walkin’—I was just the means to an end, and if it wasn’t me, it coulda been any—”

  “Spare me the horseshit, DeWayne, and strip the fuck down.”

  DeWayne slumped in defeat.

  Moving in slow motion, he began unbuttoning the pale yellow shirt, then—and this was admirable, he didn’t telegraph it all—swept a curving martial-arts kick around that popped the nine millimeter right out of my grasp.

  The gun slid across the carpet and hid under a chest of drawers, as if wanting nothing to do with any of what was about to come.

  Shaking my head and smiling, I said, “This isn’t really necessary, DeWayne.”

  He went into a karate-school stance that I wish I could say looked hokey, but it didn’t—he was a muscular young ex-Marine who clearly knew his shit, and it hadn’t all come out of Black Belt magazine, either.

  “That’s my call, Pops!”

  It was my turn to sigh.

  “Go ahead, kid. Take your best shot.”

  And he did, kicking high and out, aiming at my head. If it had connected, I’d likely have been dead, my neck broken.

  So I ducked it.

  DeWayne reared back, confusion coloring his face, and paused for a moment.

  “Couldn’t we just skip this, son?”

  Teeth bared, he tried again, rushing me with a flurry of blows, bladed hands here, fists there, and I ducked and slipped and dodged.

  He followed me as I circled away, and when he high-kicked, I got out of the way, and his running-shod foot broke a mirror over the dresser, shards raining noisily. I circled back and he charged me and I stepped aside and he busted off the top half of a chair, making a stool out of it.

  Finally he began to lose his cool, which isn’t a part of any martial arts program I know of; but you couldn’t blame the poor bastard—I was frustrating the hell out of him, avoiding his every blow, never raising my hands. I didn’t even bother taunting him, ignoring anything he said to me (“Stand still, gramps!”) and, with the mini-suite half demolished, he went for broke with a flying kick that I stepped aside for, and he crashed to the floor with a whump.

  I just stood there, arms folded causually, not having broken a sweat, while he got to his feet, then bent over, exhausted, panting, pausing with his hands on his thighs.

  “Je-sus,” he said, trying hard to catch his breath, still hunkered over, “Je-sus...why don’t you...you... fuckin’...fuckin’ do something?”

  I slammed a fist into the side of his head, connecting with his ear and temple, and the big guy went down, in a pile.

  He wasn’t out, but he was out of it, and when he finally looked back up at me, pitifully—his face red and fully sweat-beaded, his ear bleeding from the side of his head where I’d hit him—the nine millimeter was back in my hand, its dark eye staring him down.

  “See, DeWayne? You do need a shower.”

  That made him slump some more, as if all the remaining energy just drained out of him, but he was still breathing hard. He sat there, kind of sideways, his legs sprawled, like a cripple whose faith-healing hadn’t taken.

  “Just,” he said, and heaved a couple breaths, and then tried again: “Just do it. Awright? Just...fucking... kill me.”

  I shook my head and my expression was fairly pleasant. “I’m not gonna kill you, kid. Strip.”

  Allowing himself the luxury of being reassured, DeWayne somehow got to his feet—it was kind of like watching one of those demolition-of-a-building film clips played backward, a structure reassembling itself—and once again, back to slow motion, he began to unbutton his shirt.

  No tricks.

  No attacks.

  No surprises.

  All he did was perform the least interesting striptease I have ever witnessed, discreetly turning his back to me at the finish, his arms—muscular, decorated with various USMC tattoos—hanging as slack as his muscular buttocks were taut.

  He glanced back at me for his orders.

  “The shitter,” I told him.

  And I marched the dejected DeWayne into the bathroom. The young soldier wasn’t looking for an escape route, or at least I didn’t think he was. He seemed relatively unafraid, probably figuring I’d have killed him by now, if that was the point.

  Just inside the cramped bathroom, he again looked over his shoulder and said, “You mind a little friendly advice? Don’t tangle asses with Mr. Green. I know you’re not happy about how this went down. But just...go your own way.”

  “Semper fi, Mac,” I said.

  There was no tub, just a shower stall with the familiar pebbled glass.

  He swallowed. “Now what?”

  “Get in.”

  This seemed to alarm him, and his head swivelled on the muscular neck. “What the fuck for?”

  Keeping it low-key, sticking the nine back in my waistband, I said, “I’m going to wedge something against the door, and lock you in. Buy me some time.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t—”

  “Right. Get in.”

  Compliantly, DeWayne opened the door and stepped in the stall, and stood there with a good-size dick hanging and an expression that was neither moronic nor intelligent—perfect makings for a Marine.

  “And?” he asked.

  “And,” I said, “be careful, DeWayne. You’d be surprised how many accidents happen in the bathroom.”

  He squinted at me, not getting that, and I used both hands to slam his head into the shower stall wall, with all the force I could muster.

  The sound of his skull cracking wasn’t loud but it was distinct, and perhaps DeWayne even had time to hear it; either way, he was already dead, wide-eyed and frozen in time, as he slid slowly down the wall, leaving a bloody snail-smear behind him.

  He sat there quietly, pretty blue eyes staring into eternity, his limbs like kindling, as I unwrapped a motel bar of soap and then flipped the thing to land near DeWayne’s big dead feet. I’d been careful to bash his head into the wall on the side where my fist had hit him earlier, the only blow I’d delivered in our hand-to-hand exercise.

  Then I turned on the shower, nice and hot (to make time of death a mystery), and let the steamy spray do its tapdance on the corpse.

  I hadn’t touched much in the room—the soap would be worn down by the needles of water—so I didn’t have much cleaning up to do.

  Not in Homewood I didn’t.

  Fifteen

  The massive ornate granite gravestone was a family affair, reading on top:

  MARY ANN GREEN

  (1940–1985)

  Beloved Wife and Mother

  JONAH ALLEN GREEN

  (1938–)

  and below:

  JANET ANN GREEN

  (1975–2005)

  JULIA SUSAN GREEN

  (1985–)

  Cherished Daughter

  From my post behind some rich man’s mausoleum, I couldn’t see that lettering; but I’d been at the cemetery since last night, and had taken in the inscription by moonlight. I’d been by far the first to get here for Janet Green’s farewell appearance.

  Her casket, on the other hand, I could easily see from here, m
y position elevated enough to view the copper capsule, which had already been deposited in the ground, the metallic tubes of the lowering device still in place. I’d skipped the funeral, not really feeling wanted, and the graveside ceremony was long since over.

  The morning was crisp and cold with moving clouds that sent phantom-like shadows gliding across the snow-brushed grounds of Oak Brook Memorial Cemetery. The mourners had drifted away, though a few lingered to pay their respects to the grieving father—Jonah Green, in his dark gray Saville Row topcoat, saying nothing, just nodding severe thanks with that square head with its square jaw, the shortcut bristly haircut giving him a vaguely military cast.

  And now Green was a solitary figure at his daughter’s graveside, standing with hands figleafed before him, head lowered, making a mournful picture that maybe, maybe not, had some real feeling in it.

  Who knows—could be there was some humanity left in this son of a bitch. Could be he felt a pang about killing his oldest daughter to gain more of his late wife’s money. He certainly seemed truly mournful as he bent to collect a handful of piled graveside dirt, then standing and tossing it in. Even from where I was tucked back watching, I could hear the soil shower the casket like hard, brief rain.

  The final cars drew away, leaving only the Cadillac hearse and a second vehicle, a BMW. The mourners, other than Green himself, were gone. The only company remaining was keeping a respectful distance, but staying alert: half a dozen scattered security men in dark raincoats and sunglasses, peppered here and there on the periphery, keeping in touch via headsets.

  Not that I’d give them high marks, since I’d easily kept out of their sight when they did their advance sweep of the cemetery, early this morning. Nor were they aware that the uniformed chauffeur assigned to drive the hearse was currently tossed in the back of the vehicle wrapped in more duct tape than a leaky drainpipe.

  Which was why—when the liveried “chauffeur” in cap and sunglasses approached Jonah Green at the graveside—neither the millionaire nor any of his six security boys thought anything of it.

  I stepped to Green’s side and, head still lowered, he said, “Just a few more minutes, Roger—I’m...I’m not ready just yet.”