Bernhardt's Edge (9 page)

H
E'D ALREADY SLIPPED THE
ice pick into its leather scabbard, already thrust the .357 into the holster at his belt, already put the surgical gloves in the side pocket of his jacket when he saw it: the Toyota, coming through the motel entrance, signaling for a left turn. He closed the lid of the saddle-leather suitcase on the Woodsman and the UZI. As he started the Oldsmobile, switched on the headlights and pulled out into the street, an oncoming car's headlights revealed a single head inside the Toyota—a man's head, unmistakably.

The bird was on the wing: fifty thousand dollars for a few second's work, more than most men made in a year, a whole year.

At the thought, he could feel it beginning: the rush, the certainty that he was a person within a person, the invisible hunter, a man like no other man, ever. Soon, he knew, the rush would carry him far beyond himself, setting him free. Already, images were flashing: snatches of random memory, some of them wild, some of them sad, all of them shattered pieces of some strange, mysterious puzzle. Sometimes he saw two people, a man and a woman, naked, locked together. The woman had his mother's face; the man's face was featureless, black but blank. Sometimes he saw Alvin Beachum's face, flattened against bloodied brick.

Ahead, the Toyota was slowing, pulling to the curb, stopping just short of a neighborhood bar, the Boots and Saddle. In the interior darkness of the Oldsmobile, Dodge smiled. When people drank, they got careless.

T
HE BARTENDER WAS ABOUT
forty years old, two hundred pounds, totally bald. He wore a checked gingham shirt and blue jeans. The flesh of his face was pale and flabby; the bulge of his belly overhung a wide, silver-buckled cowboy belt. His disinterested eyes were colorless, his nose misshapen, his mouth indeterminate. His voice was hoarse: “Help you?”

“Bourbon and water,” Nick answered. “Bar brand.”

Grunting, the bartender made the drink, put it on the stained mahogany bar. Nick laid down a five-dollar bill, swallowed some of the bourbon, set the glass aside, and turned on the barstool. Like the sign outside, the Boots and Saddle was tacky: a few split rails, a few dusty saddles hung from fake rafters, several rodeo posters tacked to the barnwood walls. Of the four booths, only one was occupied. Five customers sat at the bar: three men, two women. The two women were talking quietly together; the three men, scattered along the bar, were silently drinking. Watching himself in the mirror behind the bar, Nick drained half his glass, felt the welcome warmth of the liquor. At two dollars a drink, he could buy the beginnings of forgetfulness for a ten-dollar bill.

As he drained the glass and signaled for a refill, he caught one of the women's eyes in the mirror, a quick, appraising glance. Just as quickly, she looked away. But, still, she'd let the suggestion of an invitation linger. She was a brassy blonde, probably in her late twenties, early thirties. If he'd been with someone, another man, and if they could agree on who wanted who, they could probably move in on the two women, the blonde and her friend. Several drinks later—thirty, forty dollars later—they might leave together, one couple in the women's car, he and the blonde in his car.

No. Not his car. Betty's car.

No, not his apartment. Her apartment.

And the money in his pocket, that was hers, too.

He was aware that he was avoiding the thought, pushing it aside, consciously blanking it all out, especially the awareness that he was eyeing a woman in a bar while he was paying for a drink with another woman's money. There was a name for men like that—a name he couldn't allow himself to remember.

The mind, they said, was like a computer: an incredibly complex computer, millions of electrical terminals switching on and off. But computers could be controlled, and so could the mind. And he'd learned, long ago, the secret of mind control, of complete, utter concentration. So, even now, even here, he was able to control his thoughts, able to plan, able to see the big picture.

The big picture
…

God, it was one of his father's favorite expressions.

His father the salesman—the bowling ball salesman.

Even today, remembering, he smiled at the expression. “What's your dad do?” a friend would ask, usually a high-school friend. And he'd smile, playing it cool, and he'd say his dad sold bowling balls. They'd smile, too, his friends. Because they knew his father must make good money, better money than he could make just selling bowling balls. Their house was split-level, and their car was always new. And in Milwaukee, at Central High, if you played football, that was all you needed: a split-level house and a new car you could get on Friday nights and parents who knew enough to stay upstairs, whenever his friends came over to play records in the recreation room.

But then came the merger.

And, surprise, his father wasn't selling bowling equipment anymore, wasn't selling much of anything, really. Drinking a lot, and playing around, probably—and disappearing for days at a time, sometimes. But not selling much of anything, not bringing in much money.

Their house had never been a happy place, not really. But it hadn't been unhappy, either, not until the merger.

He finished another drink, put a dollar bill beside the one already lying on the bar, signaled for another drink. It was time to begin with the switches again, arranging his thoughts, getting himself aligned. He'd let his thoughts wander away, off the leash, back into the past. And so, as they so often did, his thoughts had betrayed him, left him high and dry, trapped by ancient defeats, puzzles without answers.

But it was the future, not the past, that could betray him now. Defeat lingered in the past, a constant, bitter goad. But danger threatened in the future—

—danger, and death.

Lifting the drink to his lips—his third drink—he caught the blonde looking at him again. This time he smiled.

D
ODGE PUSHED THE LIGHT
button on his digital watch, checked the time. Exactly an hour had passed since the mark had first entered the bar. Once Dodge had gotten out of the Oldsmobile, crossed the street, walked slowly past the bar, looked casually inside, made sure of his man. And once—no, twice—he'd reparked the Olds. He'd checked the guns, too: five cartridges in the revolver, with the hammer resting on an empty chamber. A full clip of high-speed hollow points in the Woodsman, but nothing in the chamber, for safety. He'd made sure the silencer was tight on the Woodsman, made sure the ice pick was free in its scabbard, under his arm. Now he made sure the surgical gloves were smooth over fingers and palms.

If he'd been somewhere else—in Detroit, or New York, or Los Angeles—he'd have more choices. The more people, the more choices, the better chance of getting close, getting the job done. He'd have a chance to use the ice pick, his favorite weapon, in a big city. He could take his time, pick his place, step in close, do the job: a jab at the base of the neck, from behind, or a thrust up into the heart, from the front. No fuss. No noise. No blood. With luck, he could be walking calmly away before the mark hit the sidewalk.

But here, in Santa Rosa, he couldn't get in close, not without sticking out, being remembered. And, anyhow, with the mark's car parked so close to the bar, there'd be no time for the approach, no room to maneuver.

So it had to be the Woodsman: two, three hollow points in the brain box. For the Woodsman, he was in perfect position, diagonally across from the Toyota, with half a car's length between the Oldsmobile and the car ahead, plenty of room to get out, without backing up. From this position, he could see the mark just as he came out of the bar. When that happened, he'd start the engine, make sure the transmission was in park, make sure the brake was set, make sure the engine was idling smoothly, so it wouldn't stall. Then he'd lift the lid of the suitcase, take out the Woodsman, jack a round into the chamber. He'd make sure the—

The door to the bar was swinging inward, the first time it had opened in fifteen, twenty minutes. Without realizing he'd done it, his fingers were on the ignition keys, ready.

Good. His mind was ahead of him, taking care of him.

“You're smart, Willis. You're truly smart.”

It was Miss Redmond talking, his fourth grade teacher, the only teacher he'd ever liked, ever brought anything to, from home.

“And you're—”

The door of the bar was fully open now. And, yes—God, yes—it was the mark, alone.

And, yes—God, yes—the engine was turning over, catching, running smoothly. The transmission was in park, the brake was set, firmly set, double checked. And now the top of the suitcase was coming up. As he watched the mark begin walking toward the Toyota, toward the front, his right hand closed on the familiar shape of the Woodsman's walnut grip. Keeping the gun low, he gripped the slide with his left hand, drew back the slide, let it thud closed. With his left hand free, he found the door handle, released the latch, pushed open the door.

Timing, now—everything was timing. The years had come down to hours, and the hours to minutes—

—and now the seconds were beginning: long, lengthening seconds, time within time, one long, silent scream.

Yes, the door was fully open. And, yes, the engine was running, not overloading, not stalling, like one of them had done once, in Boston. And, yes, he was standing beside the Oldsmobile, with the Woodsman down at his side. He'd practiced this, practiced in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, like a dancer.

Across the street, the mark was rounding the front of the Toyota. The mark's right hand was reaching into his pocket, for his car keys. From the left, up the street, came the sound of an engine, a flash of headlights. And from the right, too: another engine, another pair of headlights—two cars, coming at the same time, from opposite directions, against the odds he'd calculated so carefully for this quiet residential street.

“Don't forget the odds,”
Venezzio had said once.
“If they aren't for you, they're against you.”

Range, thirty-five feet, at least, an impossible shot in the darkness, with a pistol. The car from the left passed, a Datsun Z loaded with kids. The mark was at the Toyota's door, bending slightly at the waist, fitting key to lock. To the right, the second car was still a half block away, coming slowly. From the Z car came the trailing sound of teenage laughter.

The Toyota's door was slowly coming open. The mark was swinging his right leg into the car.

At his side, the Oldsmobile's engine was still idling strongly. Without that, the engine running, he'd never make it, never get away.

“A wheelman is good,”
Venezzio had said.
“But then he knows, he's your weak link.”

Quickly, he looked to the left, then to the right, up and down the dark, deserted sidewalks. Except for two dogs, trotting side by side beneath a streetlight, the sidewalks were deserted. Across the street, the mark was inside the Toyota, behind the wheel, with the door closed. In seconds, the mark would start the engine.

—
for you, or against you
—

A hundred feet—fifty feet—the headlights from the right were coming slowly, steadily closer—

—past. Finally past.

He was moving ahead, quickly crossing the street. Each step was a century, the total of everything: the schoolyard fights, won and lost, the .45, bucking before his eyes. Even the women, wild beneath him. Everything.

And nothing, too.

If fear ever caught him, nothing was left.

“Think of the money,”
Venezzio had said once.
“Just the money.”

The Toyota's engine was turning over on the starter, finally catching. Range, fifteen feet, and closing. The mark must first back up, before he could go forward, get out of the parking place. Was the driver's window up or down? Did it matter? Had it ever happened before, that he'd shot through glass with the .22, a hollow point .22?

The money: a stack of hundred-dollar bills—five hundred of them.

Ten feet. Five feet. The Woodsman was coming up. And now, magically, it was the Colt .45. They all became the .45, lined up on Beachum.

Behind the glass, the mark's head was turning—eyes wide, mouth open. On the trigger, his finger curled, tightened. The muffled explosion hardly moved the barrel, with the weight of the silencer holding it down. Instantly, the glass was crazed, turned milky-white, thousands of tiny cracks surrounding one small black hole—

—surrounding the hole, concealing the face behind, protecting the mark behind.

Another shot—another hole, an inch from the first hole.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.
For fifty thousand dollars, not nearly enough.

Seconds, now—it all came down to seconds.

With his left hand, he reached for the door handle. Thank God, he'd remembered to put on the gloves. Once he'd forgotten. Just once.

The door was coming open, swinging wide. From his left, he could hear another engine, see another pair of headlights, coming fast. Was the Oldsmobile's engine still idling? If he could pray, he would.

Inside the car, the mark lay on his right side, across both front seats, facing forward. Still alive, still breathing, softly moaning. Good; the eyes weren't turned on him, begging for life. That had happened once, too—another time long ago, more money in the bank. Hard earned money. Nobody knew, would ever know, how hard it came, all that money.

Moving now with a mind of its own, the Woodsman came close to the skull, just behind the ear. Until now, this instant, he'd done it all, guided them both, himself and the gun. But then the gun came alive. It was always so surprising, this final moment, when he gave himself to the gun, finally to free himself.

The first explosion rocked the head, already bloody. And the second explosion, and the third, muffled by both the silencer and the car, all of them made the head move loosely, like the mark was shaking his head, arguing about something.