Hard Rain (33 page)

Ivan sat in the easy chair. Jessie sat on the bed. A minute went by, then another. The phone rang. He picked it up. “Zyzmchuk,” he said; this time Jessie caught the name. He listened for a few moments and put down the phone.

He looked at Jessie. “‘Toi giet la toi'—there are accents, apparently—is Vietnamese,” he said. “It means, ‘I kill, therefore I am.'”

Jessie thought of the words in the tunnel and the song she'd heard at Erica McTaggart's: “Descartes Kills.” “I—I'm not sure I understand.”

Ivan rose from the chair and came toward her. He held out his hand. “Bazak,” he said, “meet Vaclav.”

Jessie reached out. They shook hands.

30

Ivan Zyzmchuk, sitting at the desk in room 20 at the 1826 House, opened Gerald Brenner's passport. Jessie looked over his shoulder as he turned the pages.

Gerald Burton Brenner. A bald man with a round head and a big, loose smile. Born Oakland, California, 1951. He'd done a lot of traveling—Hong Kong, China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, all in the past year. The most recent stamp was Thai: he'd entered Bangkok October 29, left on November 1.

“Seen him before?” Zyzmchuk asked.

Jessie examined the photograph. “No.”

“Could he have been the man in the tunnel?”

“It was dark so I can't be sure, but I think the man in the tunnel had a different shape of head—longer and narrower.”

He turned to her. “How many bald men can there be?”

“What do you mean?”

“One bald man at the car dealer, identified as your ex-husband. A second bald man in the tunnels and, let's assume, driving the van. You heard his voice. It wasn't your ex-husband's.”

“No.”

Zyzmchuk's index finger traced the outlines of Gerald Brenner's smile. “So is this baldy number three? Or is that stretching things a little?”

“Do you mean you don't believe me?” For a moment Jessie had a sickening feeling they'd swung suddenly onto the same detour she and DeMarco had taken.

But Zyzmchuk said, “Not at all,” and turned back to the passport. On the last page he found Gerald Brenner's address in San Jose, California; his next of kin, Ginny Brenner, wife; and a phone number.

“What d'you say?” he said.

“What do
you
say?” Jessie replied.

She saw the quick smile. “Strike,” he said, picking up the phone. “Strike, strike and strike again. Marshall Zhukov, or one of that crowd.” He dialed the number in Gerald Brenner's passport, then held the receiver so Jessie could listen too.

The call was answered halfway through the first ring. “Hello?” a woman said, sounding small and faraway.

“Gerald Brenner, please.”

There was silence on the other end. Then the woman said, “Who is this?”

“I'm a friend of Jerry's from Auckland. I'm in the States for a few days and thought I might look him up.”

After another silence, the woman said, “What's your name?”

“Vaclav.”

“I don't remember him mentioning you.”

Zyzmchuk turned the pages of the passport until he came to the New Zealand stamp. Jessie noticed how unhurriedly his fingers moved.

“We only met in July,” Zyzmchuk said. “But we seemed to hit it off. Are you Ginny?”

“Yes.” Static buzzed in the line. Jessie could barely hear the woman say, “Did he mention me?” The connection seemed to be breaking and so, thought Jessie, did Ginny Brenner's voice.

“He did,” Zyzmchuk said.

The woman began to cry. “Oh, Mr. Vaclav, something horrible has happened. Jerry's dead.”

“No. What happened?”

“He was killed. Murdered. In Bangkok. He's been missing since the end of October, but they only found his body two weeks ago.” She sobbed small, faraway sobs. “He—it was floating in one of the canals.”

“But—why?”

“They say it must have been robbery. Jerry made a big sale over there on the thirty-first, and apparently there was some celebrating. No one saw him after that.” Ginny Brenner's voice broke again.

“I'm very sorry,” Zyzmchuk said. “Is it absolutely certain?”

“What do you mean?”

“That it was Jerry.”

“Oh, yes. The—he was identified by the company's Bangkok subagent.”

“This is terrible news.”

“I know,” said Ginny Brenner. “I know.”

Zyzmchuk said good-bye and hung up.

Jessie backed a step or two away. “You were very good at that,” she said.

Ivan Zyzmchuk was still for a moment. Then his head turned toward the photograph of Kate at the beach, which lay on the desk. He looked at it, then at Jessie. He wasn't angry, not even annoyed. “Are we going to discuss means and ends?” he asked.

“No,” Jessie said, then added, “Not about this.”

Zyzmchuk laughed, a full sound that, like his voice, seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his body. “My kind of ethics,” he said. His eyes found hers for a moment, glanced away. “Do you feel up to a drive?” he asked.

“Where? Spacious Skies?”

“Bull's-eye,” he said. “You don't need me at all.”

Yes, I do
, Jessie thought. But she didn't say it.

She got off the bed. White fog crept round the edges of her vision; the room started to play its tricks again.

“Sure you're all right?”

The question reached her through wads of cotton batting. She sat back down on the bed. “Just give me a minute,” she said.

Jessie took a few deep breaths. She felt the gray eyes on her profile. Okay. Now. Slow and easy.

She stood up. Her vision stayed clear. The room stayed still.

“Let's go,” Jessie said.

“Take one of these first.” He was holding out the painkillers.

Jessie shook her head. “I have to be smart.”

“Take it for me.”

“For you?”

“Yeah. It'll bring you down to my level. And I'll feel better.”

Jessie took the pill.

They went to the parking lot. The cold found her weak spot right away, tracing the outline of her wound like an icicle tip. “Is this the kind of car the FBI hands out?” she asked, as he opened the door for her.

“Too fancy for the FBI,” Zyzmchuk replied. “It's on loan from the White House.”

They drove north, Zyzmchuk at the wheel, Jessie beside him in the passenger seat. Late afternoon: the sky hard blue, the earth gold, with the occasional blaze of a still-red tree.

“Do you have any children, Ivan?”

“No.”

Jessie glanced at his face. He was watching the road. The question in her mind, a foolish question but one that had risen there abruptly, all on its own, was, Are you married? But what she said was, “You seem to have accepted my story.”

“So far.”

“But why?”

“That's a funny question. Why not?”

“Lieutenant DeMarco didn't.”

“That's one reason right there.”

“Surely you don't know him?”

“No. I meant you didn't have to tell me he didn't believe you. So you've told me the truth, or you're operating on a very high level of cleverness. Either way, I'm curious.”

“Is that it, then: curiosity?”

“What other reasons could there be?”

“That's what I've been thinking about.”

Outside a cow raised its head over a fence rail and looked right through them as they went by. Next came a little boy in a plaid lumber jacket, surrounded by bushels of apples. M
ACS AND
C
ORTLANDS
—79
CENTS A BOUCHEL
. His eyes looked right through them too.

“And?” Zyzmchuk said.

“And I wondered whether you worked for Senator Frame.”

“Why?”

“You said you saw me talking to his wife. And you've got a D.C. license plate. So I thought you might be here on account of him.”

“I already told you I wasn't.”

“You told me you weren't guarding him. You might be working for him in some other capacity. Or for her.”

Zyzmchuk smiled. This one lingered on his face. “That adds up, all right, but not to the right answer. The senator and I have never met. I don't know his wife, either.”

“But you knew who she was, what she looks like.”

Zyzmchuk turned to her, an amused gleam still in his eyes. “How long is the interrogation going to last?”

“It's not—”

“Look,” Zyzmchuk said, “I'm a government investigator. You've figured that out already. Why not leave it there?”

Jessie went silent. More cows passed by and an orchard, bare and deserted. “But what are you investigating?” she said when she couldn't hold it back any longer.

Zyzmchuk turned to her as he had before, but now the humorous glimmer had vanished from his eyes. “I'll know when I find it.”

“It doesn't have anything to do with drugs, does it? You're not a drug agent?”

“I couldn't afford their haircuts.”

Jessie wanted to say, Why can't you tell me? But it sounded like a nagging question, and she didn't want to nag. Why not? She wanted the information, didn't she? Yes, but she'd finally found someone who might be able to help her, and she didn't want to antagonize him. And there was a second reason, too, or the beginnings of one, farther back in her mind, which she didn't want to examine too closely, or too soon. Jessie remained silent the rest of the way, except for giving directions.

They followed Route 8 to the third turning on the left. Zyzmchuk slowed down by the mailbox with the handpainted blue flowers curling around the faded peace sign and stopped the car. He checked the mailbox. There was nothing inside, Jessie saw, but why hadn't she thought to do that, on one of her previous visits? There might have been mail in it, business mail. She might have made the Eggman Cookies connection a lot sooner. On the other hand, having made it, she was no further ahead.

Zyzmchuk's car rattled as it climbed the rutted dirt road to the top of the hill. The sun was setting—a red-gold ball low over the western rise. Its image burned in the windows of the white farmhouse on the far side of the meadow. And burned too, Jessie noticed, here and there on the shingle roof and through some of the white-trimmed dormers.

She was still noticing all that when the car surged forward, so abruptly her head was knocked hard against the headrest; it began to throb immediately. She touched her bandages as the car hurtled down the hill and across the meadow and felt dampness. But she had no time to worry about it.

Red-gold tongues lapped around the corners of the white house, licked up the walls, danced wildly in the downstairs windows, more sedately on the floor above.

Spacious Skies was on fire.

Something boomed at the back of the house. A black ball of smoke rose in the air, glittering with gold sparks. Zyzmchuk skidded around the house, stopped the car in a swirl of dust.

A man was squatting in the barnyard. A big man with pale blond hair, almost white. He was pouring gasoline from a red can into king-sized Coke bottles. He looked up in surprise.

“That's Mr. Mickey,” Jessie said. Sudden fear rose in her like a storm tide, pitching her voice into a higher register.

Zyzmchuk got out of the car. Mr. Mickey stood up, and Jessie saw how big he really was: half a foot taller than Zyzmchuk and almost as broad. He held a bottle full of gasoline loosely in his hand.

Zyzmchuk took a step toward him. From the side, Jessie could see both how calm his face was and how rigid his back. Zyzmchuk asked Mr. Mickey a short question. Jessie knew it was a question from the tone, but that's all she knew. He'd spoken another language.

A language Mr. Mickey understood: his pale eyes widened; then, for an instant, his gaze shifted to the barn. Jessie saw pinstriped legs scissoring back into the shadows beyond the open door.

Perhaps Mr. Mickey had expected Zyzmchuk would glance that way too. Zyzmchuk didn't. Mr. Mickey threw the Coke bottle at him anyway. Zyzmchuk dipped his head to one side as the bottle flew past his temple, avoiding it with a minimum of fuss, like a boxer slipping a punch.

Then he moved in on Mr. Mickey, his hands curled into half-fists, held at waist level. Mr. Mickey didn't back away, didn't advance. He stood still and remained that way until Zyzmchuk was almost close enough to reach out and grab him. The next moment Mr. Mickey was in midair, his right foot a blur spanning the space between the two men. Zyzmchuk dodged. He was very quick. Mr. Mickey's foot shot past his chin, catching him on the left shoulder. The blow landed with the kind of thump a carpet beater makes and spun Zyzmchuk around.

Jessie saw Zyzmchuk's face go white, but he didn't fall. Instead he spun in a complete circle and came out of the spin like a projectile from a sling. Mr. Mickey wasn't quite ready. His other foot was on its way, but not so high this time, not so hard. Zyzmchuk curled over it. There was another thump, muffled, and then the two men were on the ground.

Dust rose.

Mr. Mickey cried out.

Zyzmchuk rolled on top of him.

Then a man in a pinstripe suit was standing over them. Jessie hadn't even seen him come. He had the gasoline can in his hands. He raised it high and brought it down on Zyzmchuk's head. Zyzmchuk toppled over and lay still on the ground.

That's when Jessie heard the siren sound, coming from the direction of Bennington. The man in the suit heard it too and looked up. Jessie had a good view of him—he was well-groomed, neatly barbered, wore horn-rimmed glasses. She'd seen him before, in front of Pat's house in Venice. He was the real estate man who had asked if the house was for sale, who reminded her of a commentator on TV. She couldn't tell whether he recognized her. Red-gold reflections shone on the lenses of his glasses, masking his eyes.

Mr. Mickey got up, slowly. He heard the sirens too. They grew louder. He said something to the real estate man. The real estate man picked up the gas can again and stepped toward the spot where Zyzmchuk lay.