‘Yeah, Urnov. I put him in the hot seat and melted him like a stick of butter. He told me that Aslan owns a piece of a bar in Canarsie, so I gathered up Agent Horn, drove to Canarsie and there he was. It was only a matter of waiting for him to leave.’
Aslan was virtually incoherent by then, the hate in his eyes all-encompassing. I addressed Horn for the first time. ‘Take your weapon,’ I ordered, ‘and get the fuck out of here. And don’t call the cops.’
Horn looked from me to Aslan. I don’t know what message he took from Aslan’s contorted features, but he finally snatched up his gun and took off like a shot. I listened to his feet on the stairs, to the door slam behind him, then I raised my left hand to expose the AAA batteries in my palm. Aslan stared at my hand for a moment, then jabbed the ON button anyway. When nothing happened, he pressed it again, then again. Finally, his eyes darted to his left, to the DVD player still lying against the far wall.
‘Why,’ Aslan asked, his tone genuinely perplexed, ‘you have done this thing to me?’
I marveled at the question as I watched Hansen’s fingers move toward his weapon, thinking that the list of reasons, should I give them voice, would go on for hours. But the question was never meant to be answered. Instead, it was an attempt to divert our attention, and it might have been effective if Aslan hadn’t paused long enough to throw the remote in our direction before diving for the DVD player. Linde’s hand was on his. 357 even as the remote sailed over his head. He got off his third shot before Aslan took his third step.
The muzzle flashes were predictably blinding in the darkened room, inducing a series of images that persisted in my retinas -
Aslan turning, Aslan rising suddenly on his toes, Aslan halfway to the floor, eyes open, lips parted, the back of his head a spray of red particles fanning out across the room.
I dwelt on these flashes, on the entire sequence and my part in it, until my wildly expanded pupils again contracted, until the roar of Hansen’s. 357 gave way to the patter of rain on the windows. Hansen was kneeling beside Aslan. His fingers were pressed to Aslan’s throat, the gesture somehow ritualistic, as though he were blessing the body.
‘You realize,’ I said, ‘what would have happened if one of those bullets you fired off had ploughed into one of those bricks on the wall, right?’
‘What was I supposed to do, let him get to that DVD player, maybe turn it on?’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered, Hansen, because I cut the wires before you made your grand entrance.’
Linde rose to his feet and slid his revolver into the holster tucked beneath his arm. For a long moment, he regarded me with his hands on his hips. Then he grinned a grin that bore all the marks of his boyhood, towering blue skies, golden sunlight, fields of tasseled corn that ran all the way to heaven.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so one day Ole and his cousin, Sven, rent a boat and go fishing on Lake Chimmawabbee. They don’t have much luck at first, so they keep moving from one spot to another until finally, in the middle of the afternoon, they start catching fish. For the next half hour they’re pulling them in as fast as they can re-bait and cast off. Then they finally take a rest. “Sven,” Ole says as he lights his pipe, “we just better mark this spot so we can find it again.” After due consideration, Sven takes out a magic marker and draws a circle in the bottom of the boat. Ole stares at the circle for a moment, then shakes his head in disgust. “Ya big dummy,” he says, “how do ya know we’ll get the same boat tomorrow?”
This time, not even Hansen laughed.
THIRTY-SIX
There was nothing to do but wait there in the dark, wait to see if the shots were reported, if uniformed officers would come knocking. Sheets of rain continued to rattle against the windows and on the roof above our heads, rain that seemed to grow louder as time passed. In the kitchen, a wall clock in the shape of a black cat ticked away, its long tail and dark eyes twitching from side to side with every tick.
‘What next?’ Hansen finally asked. He was standing before the front windows, looking up and down the street as though expecting a SWAT team to appear at any minute.
I held him off with a raised forefinger, then took out my cell phone and punched in the number for Beekman Hospital as I walked into Aslan’s bedroom. The operator I got was as nasty as she was uncooperative, even when I identified myself as a police officer. I had to demand a supervisor before I was put through to the nursing station in Adele’s unit and found a sympathetic nurse. Adele was asleep, she told me. She was doing just fine.
‘Look, detective, I know it’s none of my business, but I want to offer my condolences. It’s a hard thing to deal with, a miscarriage, but it’s not the end of the world. There’s no reason why Mrs Bentibi can’t become pregnant again.’ I looked through the doorway, at Aslan Khalid’s shattered skull. No, no reason at all, I thought. No reason at all.
Hansen was standing over Aslan’s body when I came back into the room. ‘I didn’t have any choice under the circumstances, but Sarney’s gonna go nuts,’ he announced.
‘I’m a man of conscience, Hansen. I got you into this and I’m gonna get you out.’
I walked into the kitchen and searched beneath the sink, unearthing a bucket, a scrub brush, two rolls of paper towels and a roll of duct tape. In a cabinet next to the refrigerator, I found a box of garbage bags and a bottle of floor cleaner. I gave bucket, brush, paper towels and cleaner to Linde, then proceeded to wrap Aslan in the garbage bags, to create a fitting shroud for a man of his character. It wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined — Aslan’s limp body had the consistency of an under-stuffed sausage. But I finally got it done, without contaminating myself (so far as I could tell) with Aslan’s blood.
Hansen’s job lasted a bit longer, though his goals were modest. Given the low light, a clean up that would bear the scrutiny of the Crime Scene Unit was impossible. Hansen hoped only to deceive those who didn’t know a shooting had taken place, or who didn’t care. Our story, in the event that Agent Horn couldn’t be controlled, was that Aslan had used the threat of annihilation to make good his escape. Undoubtedly, he’d meant to kill us, but clever Harry Corbin had cut the wires before the dastardly villain got clear of the building.
‘Where do you think he got them?’ I gestured to the bricks on the wall. ‘I thought we kept track of plastic explosives in this country.’
Hansen shrugged, then went back to his scrubbing. ‘Plastics are used for demolition sometimes, so they could have been stolen off a construction site. Or he might’ve made the bricks himself. That’s something a Chechen guerrilla would learn how to do. Plus, from what I know, it’s not that hard.’
By the time Hansen finished wiping the plastic taped to Aslan’s body, he’d filled a trash bag with paper towels. I didn’t know what he intended to do with it, only that it was his and Sarney’s problem, as were the explosives. By then it was one o’clock and the bar on the corner was closing. I could understand why. I’d been watching for a half hour and I hadn’t seen a customer go in or out. Across the street, almost every window was dark.
‘You got a police radio?’ I asked Linde. He seemed more rattled now than he had when Aslan was alive. Myself, I was caught in the downside of an adrenaline rush. I felt heavy and lethargic, and oddly indifferent, though I knew my night was far from over.
‘I have a radio in the car.’
‘A portable?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You think you can get it, bring it upstairs?’
Hansen looked at me for a moment, then nodded. ‘I never killed anyone before,’ he said. ‘I never even shot anyone.’
‘Well, if you feel like holding me responsible, it’s okay.’
‘Does that mean you wanted me to kill him?’
‘Yeah, I wanted him dead and I wanted you to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted him dead because he killed Adele’s baby. I wanted you to do it because now Sarney can’t blame me for the fuck up. In fact, the way it’s playing out, Bill Sarney’s gonna be in my debt for the rest of his career.’
Hansen turned up the collar of his jacket, then stuck his hands into his pockets. ‘Sarney told me what
