The Killing Kind

“You're still looking for Marcy, aren't you?” There was resignation in her voice, and fear.

“The people who killed Grace Peltier are closing in on her, Mrs. Becker,” I said. “They killed Grace's father, they killed a man named Jack Mercier, along with his wife and friends, and they're going to kill Marcy when they find her.”

At the other end of the line I could hear her start to cry.

“I'm sorry for what happened the last time you came to see us. We were scared; scared for Marcy and scared for ourselves. She's our only daughter, Mr. Parker. We can't let anything happen to her.”

“Where is she, Mrs. Becker?”

But she was going to tell me in her own time, and her own way. “A policeman came, just this morning. He was a detective. He said that she was in a lot of danger, and he wanted to take her to safety.” She paused. “My husband told him where she was. We're law-abiding people, Mr. Parker. Marcy had warned us to say nothing to the police, but he was so kind and so concerned for her. We had no reason not to trust him and we have no way of contacting Marcy. There's no phone at the house.”

“What house?”

“We have a house in Boothbay Harbor. It's just a lodge, really. We used to rent it out during the summer, but we've let it get rundown these last few years.”

“Tell me exactly where it is.”

Rachel handed me a pen and a Post-it note and I wrote down her directions, then read them back to her.

“Please, Mr. Parker, don't let anything happen to her.”

I tried to sound reassuring. “I won't, Mrs. Becker. One more thing: what was the name of the detective who talked to you about Marcy?”

“It was Lutz,” she said. “Detective John Lutz.”

I signaled right and pulled into the hard shoulder. Louis's Lexus appeared in the rearview seconds later. I got out of the car and ran back to him.

“Change of plan,” I said.

“So where we going?” he asked.

“To get Marcy Becker. We know where she is.”

He must have seen something in my face.

“And let me guess?” he said. “Someone else knows where she's at too.”

“That's right.”

“Ain't that always the way?”

Boothbay Harbor used to be a pretty nice place thirty years ago, when it was little more than a fishing village. Thirty years before that the whole town probably smelled of manure, since Boothbay was then the commercial and shipping center for the fertilizer trade. If you went back far enough, it was pretty enough to provide a site for the first permanent settlement on the coast of Maine, back in 1622. Admittedly, that settlement was also one of the most wretched on the eastern seaboard, but everybody has to start somewhere.

Now, during the season, Boothbay Harbor filled up with tourists and recreational sailors, crowding a harbor front that had been brutalized by uncontrolled commercial development. It had come a long way from its wretched origins, or if you were one of the naysayers, it had come a long way to become wretched all over again.

We took 27 southeast from Augusta and made Boothbay in just over an hour, following Middle Street out until it became Barters Island Road. I had almost been tempted to ask Rachel to wait for us in Boothbay, but apart from not wanting to risk a sock to the jaw, I knew that she would provide reassurance for Marcy Becker.

At last we came to a small private road that curved up a rough, tree-lined drive to a timber house on a small hill, with a ramshackle porch and boards built into the slope to act as steps. I guessed that it couldn't contain more than two or three rooms. Trees surrounded it to the west and south, leaving a clear view of most of the road up to the house. There was no car visible at the front of the drive, but a mountain bike stood below the window to the left of the front door.

“You want to leave the cars here?” asked Louis, as we paused beside each other at the foot of the road. If we drove any farther, we would be immediately visible to anyone in the house.

“Uh-uh,” I replied. “I want to be there and gone before Lutz arrives.”

“Assuming he ain't there already.”

“You think he rode up on his mountain bike?”

Louis shrugged. “Either way, we best not arrive with our hands hangin' by our sides.” He popped the trunk and got out of the car. I took another look at the house, then glanced at Rachel and shrugged. There didn't seem to be any activity, so I gave up looking and joined Louis. Rachel followed.

Louis had pushed back the matting in the trunk, exposing the spare tire. He twisted the bolt holding it in place, then lifted the tire and handed it to me, leaving the trunk empty. It was only when he slipped a pair of concealed clasps that it struck me how shallow the trunk was. The reason became apparent a couple of seconds later when the whole floor raised up on a hinge at the rear, exposing a small arsenal of weapons fitted into specially designed compartments.

“I just know you've got permits for all these,” I said.

“Home, there's shit here they ain't even got permits for.”

I saw one of the Calico minisubs for which Louis had a particular-fondness, two fifty-round magazines on either side of it. There was a spare Glock 9-millimeter and a Mauser SP66 sniper's rifle, along with a South African-made BXP submachine gun fitted with a suppressor and a grenade launcher, which seemed to me like a contradiction in terms.

“You know, you hit a bump in the road and you'll have a crater named after you,” I said. “You ever worry about DWBs?”

Driving While Black was almost a recognized offense under law.

“Nah, got me a chauffeur's license and a black cap. Anybody asks, I just drivin' it for massa.”

He leaned in and removed a shotgun from the rear of the trunk, then handed it to me as he replaced the floor and spare tire.

I had never seen a gun like it. It was about the same length as a sawed-off, with twin barrels over a raised sight. Beneath the twins was a third, thicker barrel, which acted as a grip. It was surprisingly light, and the stock fitted easily into my shoulder as I sighted down the gun.

“Very impressive,” I said. “What is it?”

“Neostead. South African. Thirteen rounds of spin-stabilized slugs and a recoil so light you can fire it with one hand.”

“It's a shotgun?”

“No, it's the shotgun.”

I shook my head despairingly and handed the shotgun back to him. Behind us, Rachel leaned against the car, her mouth tightly closed. Rachel didn't like guns. She had her reasons.

“Okay.” I nodded. “Let's go.”

Louis shook his head sadly as he climbed into the Lexus and propped the Neostead against the dashboard. “Can't believe you don't like my gun,” he remarked.

“You have too much money,” I replied.

We headed up the drive at full speed, the gravel in front of the house crunching loudly as we pulled up. I got out first, Louis seconds behind me. As he was stepping from the car, I heard the back door of the lodge slam.

We both moved at the same time, Louis to the left and I to the right. As I rounded the house, I saw a woman wearing a red shirt and jeans ru

As I got within touching distance of her back, she spun around, the rucksack held by its straps, and caught me a hard blow on the side of the head. I stumbled, my ears ringing, then shot a foot out and tripped her as she tried to get away. She landed heavily and the rucksack flew from her hands. I was on top of her before she could even think of getting up. Behind me, I heard Louis slowing down and then his shadow fell across us.

“Damn,” I said. “You nearly took my head off!”