“Very good, Ms Carr. Now slowly place it next to your right foot.”
The Fixer did as she was told. Humiliation burned behind her eyes.
“Now kick that gun as far as you can, Ms Carr.” A chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Simon Says.”
Her instinct was to turn and run into the frigid night. Escape through the pre-dawn darkness of the abandoned wharf. Find her way back home. But the images of automatic weapons and the insistence of a “we” held her in place. She gave the gun a kick and heard it skate across the concrete floor.
“Good girl,” Boston Accent continued. “Now come along.”
The pinpoint moved forward three feet. The Fixer stood in darkness.
“I said come, Ms Carr.” A squeal of feedback punctuated the demand.
She stepped toward the beam. As she moved, so did the pinpoint. She followed it in darkness, keeping her eyes on the tight circle of light as it weaved past crates and boxes. When it stopped moving, so did she.
“Have a seat.” The speakers now offered the synthesized voice of woman. Warm and comforting. The circumference of the pinpoint expanded and softened, revealing a folding metal chair. The Fixer peered beyond the focus of light. Nothing but black void. She took four short steps, sat, shielded her eyes with her hands, and looked up.
“I’m here,” she called. “Tell me why.”
A soft chuckle came over the speakers. “So defiant. I find it as unattractive as I do futile. I suggest you adopt a more respectful tone.”
The Fixer had spent her adult life constructing a world in which she held the power. The emptiness of her efforts crushed her as she sat on the cold metal chair. She was defenseless. Waiting for the pain to begin. No longer curious as to the form it would take. Knowing only that it would come. She closed her eyes and waited.
“So tell me, Ms Carr.” Another laugh from the speakers mounted around the warehouse. “What brings you in today?”
She kept her eyes closed.
“You’ve visited Mr. Buchner.” The callous tone couldn’t be erased by any mechanical disguise. “It was kind of you to accept my invitation.”
She opened her eyes but the effort proved pointless. There was nothing to see beyond the dusty rays of the spotlight. She swallowed hard and blinked away the image of Buchner’s bloodied corpse. “I saw your gracious note and couldn’t refuse.”
A laugh rang through the warehouse. “Now that’s more like it, Ms Carr. A sense of humor brightens even the dreariest moments. I imagine you have a few questions.”
“I do,” she called out to the emptiness. “For starters I’d like to know why Bastian was the wrong target.”
“For starters, Ms Carr?” Taunting now. “You have other questions?”
She knew she had nothing to lose. “Two more. How’d you find me and are you going to kill me?”
The speakers transmitted a laugh more suited to witty cocktail chatter than the situation at hand.
“Kill you? Would I have gone to all this trouble if I intended to kill you?”
The Fixer paused. “No. I imagine you’d be more efficient if that was your intent.”
“Exactly. Now tell me another thing, Ms Carr.” The voice took on a sense of genuine curiosity. “If I did intend to kill you, would it matter?”
The question surprised her. She gave herself a moment. Time to reflect on how she got there. The faces of her targets. Her erstwhile efforts at justice. The epic loneliness of her life. It was all for nothing.
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t think it would matter at all.”
“So there you go.” The woman’s voice replaced now with what sounded like a teenaged boy. “Your scariest question asked and answered. Now, let’s get on with the other two. Let’s take the easier one first. What did Walter mean when he said you’d killed the wrong guy?” The speakers went silent for several seconds. “Relax. Bastian deserved to die. Everything Walter told you, everything you saw on that recording was true. Bastian was a butcher. And perhaps that was the least of his sins. Nothing could have stopped him. You deserve a round of applause.”
Relief washed over her. “Then why did he say that?”
“To get you here, of course.” The voice of someone teasing an old friend. “I had to think of some way to bring you back.”
“Why? And why did you have to kill Buchner?”
The sound of an impatient tongue tsk’ed over the speakers. “Will you let Walter go, Ms Carr? He hired you on my behalf. I’m your employer, not Walter. And I have another job for you.”
The Fixer snapped her head up. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not a gun for hire. One fix. It’s done.”
Successive claps of thunder boomed out of the speakers at louder-than-rock-concert levels. Sound waves pounded against The Fixer’s chest. She heard the wooden crates quake in the surrounding darkness. Concrete vibrated under her feet. She covered her ears and felt the roar rattle along her jaw bone. She bent forward, head on knees, covered her head with her arms, and waited for the roof to collapse.
The thunder stopped. Echoes rumbled through the warehouse. The Fixer’s ears rang in panicked pulses, taking their time allowing sounds to register again. After several minutes the speakers broadcast the resonant tones of no-nonsense masculinity.
“That was your one rebellious move. I’ll tolerate no other. You are in my employ, Fixer. You’ll do what I say when I say. Make no mistake about it.”
The spotlight washing her went dark. The same wide screen Buchner used in their earlier meeting glowed to life on the catwalk above her. The Fixer blinked her focus toward it and felt the vomit rise in her throat.
There was Monica O’Leary in her red beret. Stumbling across Fred Bastian’s deck balancing the potted poinsettia. There she was slipping on the steps of his deck. A cutaway shot revealed her walking into his sunroom. Sharing a drink with the drunken professor. Teasing him. Reaching into her boot for the syringe. Plunging it into his neck. Standing by, waiting for him to die. Tidying up. Leaving.
The screen went blank. The spotlight returned. The Fixer tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t respond.
“You will be of great value to me, Fixer. It goes without saying any dissent on your part will be met with the immediate release of this DVD to both the legal authorities and the media.”
She sat. Hearing her blood pulse in her ears. Feeling her short breaths blow cold across the sweat of her upper lip.
“Lest you think my knowledge is limited to Bastian, look again.”
Once more the spotlight darkened. The flat screen glowed with a new offering. A collage of video clips. The Fixer jogging through a park. Standing in line at a coffee shop. Parking her car. Walking up the steps to the clinical offices of Lydia Corriger. Walking through the front door of her own home. All with no disguise. Her true identity revealed.
The screen went blank.
“You’re no longer freelance, Fixer. You are in my sole employ.” The voice over the speaker switched back to Streisand. “Leave now. I’ll be in touch.”
She couldn’t move.
“Leave now, Fixer,” the diva boomed.
She shivered in impotence, pushed up from the metal chair, shuffled to the warehouse door, and stumbled into the freezing rain.
Chapter Seventeen
Lydia clicked on the lamp and squinted at the bedside clock. A few minutes past five. She cursed the phone that had awakened her and threw herself back on the pillow. Six rings later she reached for it and checked the screen. She cursed again and answered.
“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Corriger.” The male voice sounded too chipper for the pre-dawn hour. “This is Darrel Johnson. Attending physician, Black Hills ER. We’ve got one of yours down here.”
Lydia struggled into a sitting position. She’d finally slept a few hours after two sleepless nights. How did her
