3

You got to hand it to the guy,” Winslow said as he watched their subject’s car weave into his driveway, narrowly missing a beater pickup on big tires that was parked to the side. “He’s been to, what, three bars? No, four. And he’s still able to navigate home.”

Kane snorted. He’d been within an inch of dropping a dime on the guy—a big, boring accountant named Robert Bland he’d been watching for eleven nights now—but didn’t want the complications that might arise from an arrest.

No, tonight his job was to hand off to Craig Winslow, a new hire in his twenties, a southern boy straight out of the military police with, as far as Kane could tell, no training in anything but shooting, saluting, and busting heads. Winslow, who was driving, had been far too obvious in following the subject, but with Bland as drunk as a Kennedy, Kane didn’t think it made much difference.

“Like I said,” Kane said, “this is aberrant behavior for the subject. Until tonight, he has been as exciting as American cheese.”

The case was more of the agency’s usual. Bland’s wife had decided she liked women better than men—or a particular woman better than Bland, anyway—moved out, and filed for divorce. She and her lawyer were convinced that they had to catch Bland at something—hookers, hidden assets, kiddie porn—to offset in court Mrs. Bland’s sudden change of sexual identity. So they’d hired 49th Star Security to find something. But a records search had come up dry and neither Kane nor the day surveillance guy had seen Bland do anything interesting, let alone suspicious. Tonight’s drunk driving was it for bad behavior.

“Can’t really blame the guy for having a few drinks,” Winslow said. “If your wife decided she liked muff diving better than what you got, you’d drink, too. If you didn’t do something worse. It’s a man’s worst nightmare, isn’t it?”

Oh, good, Kane thought. A moral philosopher. Between Mississippi, or wherever he was from, and the United States Army, Winslow would be amazing indeed if his ideas about the world were as advanced as, say, the 1900s.

“We’re not here to make judgments about the subject,” he said, wincing at his own pompousness. “We’re here to catch him at something, or to be able to say with certainty that he isn’t up to something.”

The night was typical for Anchorage in early March: overcast, dark, and cold enough that Winslow had left the agency’s nondescript midsize running so the windows wouldn’t fog. The only light was from a streetlamp at the corner. Kane watched Bland lurch from his car and start for the house that was all his at the moment, since his wife had moved in with her girlfriend. Bland entered a patch of shadows and didn’t reappear at his door.

“What the hell?” Winslow said. “Did he fall down?”

“I don’t think so,” Kane said.

“Why not?” Winslow asked. “It’s icy enough.”

Kane’s reply was drowned out by an earsplitting metallic racket. Blue smoke erupted from the exhaust pipe of the beater pickup.

“What the hell?” Winslow said again.

The pickup lurched, then shot out into the street, skidding and sliding through a 180-degree turn to point right at their car. The engine sounded like a blender full of nails, but it ran. Above the hood, Kane could make out Bland’s face, split by a maniacal grin.

“Oh, jeez,” Winslow said. “Oh, jeez.”

The pickup bolted forward. Winslow slammed the midsize into gear and stomped on the gas.

If it had been summer, or Winslow had known more about driving on the ice, they would have made it. But when Winslow tromped on the accelerator, the tires spun before biting. The car surged forward, but not quickly enough. The pickup smashed into the left rear quarter panel, sending the midsize spinning. By the time Winslow got it under control again, their car was slewed across Bland’s driveway.

Kane’s airbag was trying to smother him.

“Muef furf,” Winslow said, his voice strangled by his air bag.

Kane could smell burned rubber from where the left rear wheel had rubbed against the damaged bodywork, and hear the grinding of the pickup’s starter as Bland tried to get going again.

Got to get out of here, Kane thought. The air bag, which was supposed to deflate after deployment, clearly wasn’t going to. He dug into his pocket for his Buck knife. His left arm was trapped by the air bag, so he sat on the knife handle, pried the blade open one-handed, and stabbed the air bag repeatedly. Air hissed from the holes as it began to deflate. When he had clearance, he flipped the knife to his left hand and attacked Winslow’s air bag. It began to deflate, too.

Kane tried his door handle. Stuck. The impact had torqued the car’s frame, he thought. He heard the pickup’s engine catch, then roar. He reared back and smashed his shoulder into the door. It popped open. Winslow was wrestling with his seat belt. Kane jumped out of the car, grabbed Winslow by the collar, and pulled. Winslow’s seat belt popped open and he came out of the midsize like a cork out of a bottle. The two men stumbled and fell away from the car.

The pickup T-boned the midsize with a noise like the end of the world. The car bounded in their direction. They threw themselves behind a tree. The midsize glanced off the tree and hopped away.

“Mother jumper,” Winslow said, “the crazy bastard’s trying to kill us.”

The beater pickup sat there, its bumper pushed in where it had hit the midsize, roaring like some prehistoric beast as Bland fed it gas to keep the engine from dying. Kane looked over at Winslow. The younger man had his left palm flat against the tree and was using his forearm as a rest for a revolver as he sighted along the barrel. Kane reached over, grabbed Winslow’s gun hand, and wrenched it so that the barrel pointed straight up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he rasped.

“Defending myself,” Winslow said, trying to pull the gun away.

Kane slid his grip to Winslow’s thumb and pried it back.

“Give me the gun, kid,” he said.

Winslow grunted and let go of the gun. Kane took it, uncocked it, and laid it on the ground.

“We’re going to take enough guff for having been made,” he said to the younger man, “and the paperwork on the car alone is going to be a nightmare. What do you think the agency would do if you shot somebody you were supposed to be following?”

Winslow shrugged.

“So what we going to do?” he asked.

“You go for the passenger’s door, I’ll go for the driver’s,” Kane said. He bolted from behind the tree and ran for the truck. Bland sawed the wheel toward him and popped the clutch. The pickup died. Kane pulled the door open, reached up, grabbed Bland’s arm, and jerked. Bland was held in place by a lap belt and shoulder belt. His right hand scrabbled for something. Using his grip on Bland’s arm, Kane hoisted himself up and flopped into the cab, putting his momentum behind a right hand to Bland’s jaw. Bland’s head snapped back and his right hand came up clutching a tire iron. Kane reached across Bland’s body and grabbed his wrist to pin the tire iron.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Bland screamed. “I’ll fucking kill both of you and that no-good whore I married and the dyke she’s with. I’ll kill you all. Kill you all.”

He tried to hit Kane with his left hand, but the shoulder harness got in the way. Kane could hear Winslow wrenching the handle of the pickup’s other door. Bland threw his head forward and tried to bite Kane’s face. His breath smelled like the inside of a whiskey barrel. Kane head-butted him and felt Bland’s lips split. Bland’s head snapped back. Both men were breathing hard. Bland was repeating “kill you all” over and over.

Bland had the strength of a madman and it was all Kane could do to hang on. He heard the passenger’s door open and felt the truck shift as Winslow climbed into the cab.

“Duck,” Winslow yelled.

Kane buried his face in Bland’s midsection. He heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and felt Bland jerk. He heard the sound again and Bland went slack. Without letting go of Bland’s wrist, Kane reached across his body and took the tire iron from his limp hand.

“Let’s get him out of here,” Kane said.

The two of them got Bland’s seat belt undone and lowered him to the ground. Kane sat in the snow next to him, took out his cell phone, and called the police. Winslow leaned against the truck. For several minutes they did nothing but breathe. Then Kane reached over and rubbed snow in Bland’s face. He groaned and tried to sit up.

“I knew you were following me,” Bland said. His lips were puffy from Kane’s head butt and he was hard to understand. “Bitch told me.”

“What?” Winslow said. “Our client told our subject she was having him followed? Why would she do that?”

“Who knows?” Kane said, shaking his head. “Human beings are unpredictable. The same heart that was full of love can be full of hate. Even mild-mannered accountants can turn violent.”

That sounds profound, he thought, but what do I know? I’m the one who thought this job was too boring.