Seventh Enemy Read online

  I touched her wrist. “Look,” I said. “You’ve already got your story. I haven’t told you anything you don’t already know, or suspect. Am I right?”

  “You haven’t told me anything. Right.”

  “I mean, that business about the rifle cartridges…”

  “What rifle cartridges?” She smiled.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So when you write your story, there’s no reason why I should appear in it.”

  Her free hand touched mine where it lay on her wrist. She leaned toward me. “Listen, Mr. Coyne. If I’ve got the chance to interview the victim of an assassination attempt before he’s assassinated, it would make one helluva story. Don’t you agree?”

  I took back my hand and used it to pick up my drink. “One helluva story, indeed,” I said. I took a sip. “Maybe you wondered why I agreed to meet with you.”

  She smiled. “You wanted to see what I looked like without my glasses.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know you were ever without them,” I said. “No, I just decided that if it was some whacko from SAFE…”

  “A big newspaper story might get the organization to crack down on its membership.”

  I nodded. “Something like that, I guess. And it would alert any potential, um, targets.”

  She tilted her head and gazed at me solemnly. “There seems to be one target who’s already alert. Maybe even a little frightened.”

  “He might not actually admit it,” I said. “But it could be true. And you might as well make it Brady, I guess.”

  She smiled.

  “And if you want to talk some more,” I said, “maybe we ought to get a table and have some dinner.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “I live just around the corner, on Marlborough Street. Why don’t I make something for us?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “You really know how to treat a source,” I said.

  Her apartment was hallway down the Berkeley-Clarendon block, on the third floor. Tall windows admitted the sun’s soft setting afterglow into her living room. Both side walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was a big sofa with a patchwork quilt rumpled on top of it, a pair of unmatched leather chairs, a coffee table piled with newspapers and mugs and ashtrays. In the corner stood a scarred cherry dining table with a typewriter and stacks of books on it.

  Terri Fiori and Sylvie Szabo, my former loves, both kept messy apartments, I remembered. Hell. I kept a messy apartment. And Alexandria Shaw’s place was messy.

  Gloria, my ex-wife, kept a decidedly unmessy home.

  There was probably something significant in that.

  A stereo system had its own table by the front windows. Alex flicked it on. Somebody was playing the saxophone. It could have been Stan Getz.

  She took my hand and led me into the kitchen. She waved at a cabinet. “Booze,” she said. “Help yourself. I want to liberate myself from panty hose.”

  I found a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, a glass, and a tray of ice cubes in a freezer that needed defrosting. I made a drink and took it back to the living room so I could study her library.

  It was a random collection, randomly organized. I found nothing on the subject of fly fishing. The closest thing was a paperback entitled Breeding Tropical Fish. I took it to the front window and stood there looking at the pictures and sipping my drink.

  Her cold hand on the back of my neck made me jump. I turned around. She had changed into a white T-shirt advertising the Walk For Hunger and black sweat pants. Her feet were bare.

  She reached up and tugged at my necktie. “If you don’t get comfortable I’ll feel obliged to wrestle my panty hose and bra back on,” she said.

  I took off my tie and jacket and handed them to her. She tossed them onto the sofa.

  She tiptoed up and kissed my chin. “That’s better.” She turned and went into the kitchen, trailing behind her the scent of soap. “Hope you like pasta,” she called back over her shoulder.

  A red candle burning in an old wine bottle. Fresh plum tomatoes and onion slivers, boiled down into a sauce, poured over linguini, and sprinkled with grated Parmesan cheese and dill. Sliced cucumber with a few drops of vinegar and fresh basil. Two bottles of chianti.

  The dill gave the pasta an eccentric flavor. I liked it.

  Alex Shaw was thirty-seven, never married. “Sequentially monogamous,” was how she put it. Her relationships tended to end when the man of the moment wanted to move in with her, or wanted her to give up her own place to live with him. “That’s how I know it’s not going to work permanently,” she told me after we had taken the second bottle of chianti to the sofa. “I figure, if giving up my space doesn’t feel right, then there’s no future in the relationship.”

  “And now?”

  She smiled. “That’s not why I called you.”

  “Nobody?”

  She shook her head.

  “Me neither,” I said.

  She looked at me for a moment. “You’ve been divorced for twelve years,” she said softly “Two boys. William, a junior at U Mass. Joseph, senior at Wellesley High. Ex-wife, Gloria, professional photographer. One-man law office, catering to prominent wealthy Bostonians. Mostly family law and probate. Avid trout fisherman. You once shot and killed a man.”

  “He was—”

  “He was a criminal. You were not charged.”

  “Alex—”

  She burrowed her head against my shoulder. “I’m a good reporter, Mr. Coyne, sir,” she mumbled into my chest.

  I stroked her hair. “I’m still not sure I trust you,” I said.

  “Does that mean you won’t kiss me?”

  “It means that’s all I’ll do.”

  And I did.

  And as difficult as it was, that was all I did.

  20

  AFTER THE NOONTIME RECESS on Tuesday; I took a cab from the courthouse in East Cambridge over to Mass General. Wally had a private room with a view of an air shaft. A vase of spring flowers sat on the table beside his bed. A television on an adjustable shelf flashed silent color pictures overhead.

  His bed was cranked up under his knees and behind his head, folding him into the shape of an N. A plastic tube was trickling clear fluid into the back of his hand. His eyes were closed.

  I poked his shoulder. “Hey, are you awake?” I whispered.

  He opened his eyes, blinked once, and focused on me. “What time is it?” he croaked.

  “Noon.”

  “Day?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “City?”

  “Boston.”

  “Correct.” He grinned. “You win another spin at the wheel.”

  “So how’re you feeling,” I said, “aside from that chronic pain in the ass?”

  He hunched his shoulders and rotated his head. He winced, then smiled quickly at me. “They wake you up every three hours to shove things into your orifices and then they ask you how it feels. With a thermometer in your mouth, all you can do is mumble, which is what they want to hear, because they don’t like to know that your worst problem is all the gadgets they’re sticking into you. All I want is a good night’s sleep. I try to sneak in naps between interruptions. Mainly, I feel tired. Coyne. Other than that, I just feel stupid.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can’t keep track of things. I can’t tell whether I’m awake or asleep. I have dreams.”

  “Drugs, huh?”

  “I guess.” He yawned. “You just missed Diana, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “She was here. Or else I dreamed it. Or else it was yesterday.” He grinned through his beard. “A certain part of it I dreamed, I’m pretty sure, because I don’t think I really jumped her. I’m not used to being tethered to a bed.”

  I pulled a wooden chair up next to him, turned it around, and straddled it. I rested my forearms on the back. “What do you remember about it?” I said.

  “It?”

  “Your accident.”

&
nbsp; “The last thing I remember is kissing Diana and taking Corky into the woods. He got to chase a rabbit, and we flushed a grouse.” He shrugged.

  “You don’t recall hearing anything or seeing anything.”

  “No.”

  “When we found you, you said, ‘They got me.’”

  “They?”

  “That’s what you said.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He turned his head and glowered at me. “Jesus, Coyne.”

  “I’m sorry, Wally.”

  “Enough of the fucking interrogation.”

  “Okay. I just hoped maybe we could figure it out. You do know what happened.”

  “Sure. I got bushwhacked.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  He grinned crookedly. “In what the nurses quaintly call my ‘moments of lucidity,’ it’s about all I do think about.”

  “Somebody tried to kill you. you know.”

  “Sure. I know.” He cocked his head at me. “Have you and I already discussed this?”

  I nodded. “Sort of. Back when you were in North Adams. You were heavily sedated.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “You said, as I recall, that you were sleepy.”

  “I didn’t mention anybody then?”

  “No. The sheriff out there is calling it a hunting accident, you know.”

  He smiled. “A hunting accident.”

  “Yes. He thinks a turkey hunter let off some wild shots in the woods that you got in the way of.”

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s probably what happened.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Of course not.” He reached up, grimaced, and adjusted the pillow behind his neck. “I don’t believe much of anything, Brady. But here’s what I think. I think if anybody was hit by a stray bullet, the first thing he’d do would be to try to figure out all the people who’d have a motive to murder him. And he’d sure as hell come up with a few names, and then he’d feel better about it, because, when you think about it. accidents are a helluva lot scarier than murders.”

  “In this case,” I said, “I personally would prefer it if what happened to you was an accident.”

  He grinned. “Sure. Because if it was, it’d mean nobody would be after you.”

  “You know about the SAFE enemies’ list, then.”

  He jerked his head at the vase of flowers. “Gene McNiff sent them. A copy of the newsletter came with them.”

  “By way of reinforcing the threat?”

  Wally smiled. “Nah. By way of telling me it wasn’t them.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think McNiff had anything to do with it.”

  “But somebody else from SAFE?”

  He tried to shift his position in the bed. The effort caused him to bite his bottom lip.

  “Pain?” I said.

  He nodded. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of an accident. I mean, random things just—happen. People invented a wrathful God to account for randomness, because the most arbitrary, vengeful God of man’s imagination is easier to accept as a cause than—than no cause at all. We want logic, motive, cause and effect, purpose. Without purpose, life is chaotic and meaningless. Nobody likes to think that bullets fly randomly around the woods hitting people who happen to be in the way. It’s a hell of a lot more comforting to believe in rational explanations than in randomness. Having an enemy out gunning for you—at least it makes a kind of sense. If things just happen randomly, that means they’re out of our control and the world’s crazy. Nobody likes that.”

  “Thank you Søren Kierkegaard.” I smiled at him. “You have been doing some thinking.”

  “It’s the best thing to do with a moment of lucidity”

  “So you don’t want it to’ve been an accident. Does that mean you believe you have an enemy who wants to kill you?”

  Wally chuckled. “That’s not especially comforting, either, is it?”

  “You were shot with a rifle, not a shotgun, you know.”

  “It felt like a bazooka.”

  “It was a rifle. I found some empty cartridges not far from where you were hit. They were .223 Remington.”

  “Varmint load,” he muttered. “Were they fresh?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head. “I just don’t think SAFE was behind this.”

  “You think it was a hunting accident?”

  “I kinda believe in randomness,” he said, “even if I don’t like it.”

  “But you said, ‘They got me.’ I assumed you meant SAFE.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t remember seeing anything.”

  “What about their enemies list? You’re number one. Hey, I made seventh place myself. Seems to me some whacko out there sees that, figures he’s going to answer the call.”

  He frowned at me. “Work his way down the list, you mean? Is that what you think?”

  I shrugged.

  “You were thinking of those phone calls,” he said.

  “Sure. That one I heard. He sounded pretty serious.”

  “He’d have to bump off a couple of United States senators to get to you, you know.”

  “I know. I was thinking he might skip over the hard targets. Paranoid, huh?”

  Wally reached over and squeezed my arm. “Shit, Brady. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Jesus, though,” he said. “It’d be incredibly stupid for SAFE to send out a hit man to shoot their enemies.”

  “Of course it would. I doubt that they voted on it in executive session, took nominations, elected an assassin. I just figure there’s one warped mind out there somewhere…”

  “I don’t know.” Wally squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t shed more light on this, Brady. All this thinking’s hurting my head. This moment of relative lucidity is deserting me.”

  “Okay.” I stood up, then leaned over and gripped his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

  “Good. We can do more philosophy.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Track down that turkey shooter.”

  21

  I GOT BACK TO the office around one-thirty. Julie was on the phone. I poured myself some coffee and sat on the edge of her desk to sip it. When she hung up, she said, “Where’ve you been?”

  “I visited Wally after court.”

  “How is he?”

  “He seemed pretty good. We had a long philosophical discussion. He’s out of ICU, so I guess that means he’s coming along.”

  “Want me to have some flowers sent over?”

  “I don’t think Walt’s the flowers type. I’ll bring him a book next time I see him.”

  I spent most of the afternoon on the phone, with frequent visits to the coffee urn, and it was nearly five when Julie poked her head in. “Lieutenant Horowitz has arrived and I am departing,” she said.

  “Horowitz is here?”

  “Yes. And I’m out of here.”

  I blew her a kiss. “Send him in.”

  He was wearing a green blazer with gold buttons over a pale blue button-down shirt, chino pants, loafers. No tie. He was working on a wad of bubble gum, as usual.

  He didn’t offer to shake hands. Horowitz wastes little time on ceremonies. He went over to the sofa and sat down.

  “You want some coffee?” I said.

  “Julie offered me some. I declined. Can’t chew gum and drink coffee at the same time.”

  “Nasty habit, that gum.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “You’ll get yourself a case of TMJ.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “I keep trying cigarettes. But I’m hooked on the gum.”

  I sat across from him. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, basically. Which bothers me. I talked to a friend of mine at the
headquarters in Springfield. Like I told you, it’s not a state police case. They got a report from the local cops, who’re calling it a hunting accident. No suspects. Presumably they’re investigating it. The local guy, this sheriff…”

  “Mason,” I said.

  Horowitz shrugged. “He interviewed the witnesses, which were you and the lady and the victim, and none of you saw anything, and he went up and looked around the crime scene, which had already been rained on by the time he got there and where he didn’t see anything, and when you cut through all the bullshit in those reports, he got nothing.”

  “You came all the way over here to tell me this?” I said.

  “I didn’t come all the way over here. I had some business downtown. So I was already over here, figured I’d drop in. You know, out of deep and abiding friendship, all that shit. Listen, Coyne. This stinks, as you know. There’s thousands of guys out there who confuse their guns with their peckers and who’ve most likely decided that Walt Kinnick is trying to emasculate them. It doesn’t take a particularly vivid imagination to build scenarios.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” I said. “Building scenarios.”

  “You don’t buy the hunting accident theory, either, huh?”

  “Of course not. It’s stupid.”

  “Figure it this way,” said Horowitz. “Our guy sneaks up on the cabin like he used to sneak up on VC villages and never quite got it out of his system. Turkeys are okay, but the rush just isn’t the same, right? I mean, Kinnick is the first certified enemy he’s had in twenty-five years. So he scouts it out, learns Kinnick’s habits, knows he goes for a walk first thing in the morning. Same basic route every day. We’re all creatures of habit. So our assassin lays in wait, and…” He shrugged.

  “That’s more or less how I see it,” I said. “It’s pretty obvious it wasn’t any accident. The question is, who’s the shooter?”

  Horowitz rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. “Those cartridges you gave me?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Proves it was no turkey hunter. They use shotguns.”

  I nodded. “I knew that.”

  “You were thinking an Uzi or something?”

  I shrugged. “An assault gun of some kind. Yes, that occurred to me.”

  “Not an Uzi. An Uzi takes 9 millimeter. The .223 Remington is a 5.56 millimeter load. The 5.56 works in an FNC Paratrooper, a Valmet, a Beretta AR-70, a Galil Model 223 AR, a Steyr AUG-SA, though. There’s some others.”