Beyond Suspicion

“The marshals.”

“Federal marshals?”

“Yes. They had a search warrant.”

“What did they want?”

“Your home computer.”

That spike was back in his head. He grimaced and said, “Did you give it to them?”

“Yes, of course. Rosa said I had to.”

“You spoke to Rosa?”

“Yes, I couldn’t find you. They wanted your office computers, too. Rosa’s going ballistic.”

“What’s the federal government doing in this? Did you ask Rosa?”

“No. But she did say something about the IRS.”

Jack was silent. Three little letters no one liked to hear. “You sure that’s what she said-IRS?”

“No. She said ‘Internal Revenue Service.’”

He took a deep breath, which was a big mistake. All it took was a little extra air in his chest cavity to press against the spine and send him reeling with pain. It was as if he were being kicked in the back all over again.

“Cindy, I’m going to call Rosa now. But as soon as I talk with her, we all need to talk.”

“You and I need to talk first. Alone.”

Between last night’s beating and now the IRS, he’d almost forgotten about the Jessie sex tape. “You’re right. We need to talk.”

“Sooner rather than later.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Okay. Just call me as soon as you finish with Rosa.”

“I will.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“What’s going on with the IRS?”

“I’m not sure. Listen, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

They said good-bye, and Jack switched off the phone. His mouth hurt, partly from having talked too much, mostly from having kissed the sidewalk last night. He spat a little blood into the grass and slowly pushed himself up onto two wobbly feet.

“Wonderful,” he said as he tried to straighten his back. “The IRS.”

24

•

Macon, Georgia, was a good place to die. And that was exactly his plan.

He called himself Fate, the favorite word of Father Aleksandr, the priest in his native Georgian village-the other Georgia, the lands beyond the Caucasus Mountains-who’d told him since boyhood that everything happened for a reason. The concept had always overwhelmed him, the very idea that every thought and every deed, every action and every inaction, was part of a bigger plan. The problem was, he didn’t know what the plan was, couldn’t fathom what it should be. What if he made a decision that somehow managed to screw everything up? He preferred to lay that kind of ultimate responsibility on somebody else, even when doing the very thing he did best.

That made him a peculiar killer indeed.

He was seated behind the wheel of his rented van, parked on the street corner a half-block away from the chosen household. The sun had set several hours earlier behind an overcast sky. The nearest street lamp was at the other end of the street, leaving him and his van in total darkness. Frost from his own breath was begi

He poured another capful of slivovitz and then lit it with his cigarette. The genuine stuff burned a pretty blue flame. He watched it flicker for a moment, then tossed the flaming cocktail down the back of his throat.

It was a ritual he’d performed since his teenage years, when Fate had found his first victim-or, more appropriately, when his first victim had found Fate. He and the other hoodlums in his gang never selected a target. Victims identified themselves. The boys set the criteria and waited for someone who fit the bill to come along. The next guy to walk by wearing sunglasses. The next woman with brown eyes. The next kid on a bicycle. Back then, it was just for fun, perhaps an initiation or other gang-related right of passage. That kind of silliness was behind him. His work now had a purpose. He murdered only for hire.

It was the perfect arrangement for a killer who didn’t want his work to upset the larger plan. Victims were preselected, not by him but by someone else. He didn’t even have to choose the ma

Everything happens for a reason. Not even the smallest act is meaningless. It all determines one’s fate.

He took another hit of slivovitz and turned his eyes toward the front porch. Jody Falder was standing outside her front door. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, apparently trying to stay warm. A cold wind had kicked up at sunset, transforming a mild afternoon into a dark, cold reminder that the South did indeed have winter. She wore no coat. Obviously, she hadn’t anticipated the drastic change in temperature, or maybe she hadn’t expected to return home so late.

Peering through night-vision binoculars, he watched her fumble for her house key, unlock the door, and disappear inside. Patiently he waited, his eyes glued to the porch light. Two minutes passed, and it was still burning brightly. He gave her more time, careful not to rush things. He couldn’t actually see her moving about inside the house, but it was easy enough to monitor her movement from room to room. Kitchen light on, kitchen light off. Bathroom lit, bathroom dark. Finally, the bedroom light came on and remained lit for several minutes. Then it switched off.

He narrowed his eyes, as if peering into the bedroom window, though he was merely imagining the scene unfolding behind drawn curtains. The unexpected cold front had surely left her bedroom colder than usual. Nipples erect, for sure. She’d shed her clothes quickly, slipped on a nightgown, and jumped beneath the covers. At that point, only a lunatic would jump out of a warm bed, run downstairs, and flip off the porch light. It appeared as though she’d made her decision. Porch light on. Quick and painless.

Lucky bitch.

He lowered his binoculars, then did a double take. The porch light had suddenly switched off. A twist of fate. It was apparently controlled by electronic timer. Arguably, it wasn’t her decision, but rules were rules. Porch light off: No more quick and painless. A sign of the times. We are all slaves to our gadgets.

Doesn’t that just suck?

A perverse smile crept to his lips as he slipped on his latex gloves, like the hands of a surgeon. It was a real source of personal pride, the way he managed to inflict all that suffering and still make death look like anything but homicide. He grabbed his bag of tools and pulled a black knit cap over his head, the same cap he’d worn on every job since his first mission as a mercenary soldier, a sneak attack on a rebel camp-six women, three old men, and two teenage boys, the first in a long line of noisy amusements for his knives. This job would be much cleaner and quieter, but the hat was still his lucky charm of sorts.