Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
Another voice behind her.
“We’re in the Tampa Bay area. I’m calling based on a reference on an employment application to be a driver for us.”
“Who’s applying?”
“Isaac Edward Kane. He works for you in some capacity?”
Joe Bob covered the phone and took a deep breath.
“That son of a bitch? I fired his ass a month ago. You mean that dumb bastard had the balls to put me down as a work reference? That boy’s dumber than shit, I tell you. That’s why I fired his ass.”
Another pause. The rasp of a hand covering the phone on the other end. Muffled voices.
“Hello? You still there?” Joe Bob said.
“And do you know his current location, Mr Wiley?”
“Why the hell would I know that? Shithead could fall off the planet for all I care. All’s I’m saying is he’s not worth the hire. You hearing me, honey?”
“Thank you for your assistance. Have a nice day.”
The line went dead.
Joe Bob sat back in his chair. The back of his shirt was soaked with sweat. His throat felt dry as paper. He pulled a bottom drawer out of his desk and retrieved a bottle of Maker’s Mark that had been unopened since a vendor gifted it to him last Christmas. He poured a long slug to top off his lukewarm mug of coffee.
What the hell did you get yourself into, Isaac? And what the hell did you get meinto?
The two men sat side by side in first class on the short leg flight to Huntsville. Their leather coats creaked but they declined the attendant’s offer to put them in the overhead.
Karp was a big man. He struggled to find a comfortable position even in the wider premium seat. His right arm took up the entire console arm between himself and his traveling partner.
Nestor shrugged against the window, fiddling with a tablet. His fingers sliding across the screen pecking and swiping. He was slighter than Karp with a boy’s face that made him almost as pretty as a girl if not for a predator look apparent in his ice-grey eyes. His shoulder-length chestnut hair was worn loose to hide those eyes from those he hunted until it was too late.
They were airborne from Tampa with vodkas between them. Nestor took his with ice. He’d become an American. Karp found that contemptuous but they no longer spoke of it.
“This Isaac. It is as if he did not exist,” Nestor said in Russian, eyes on the screen of his tablet.
Karp grunted and shrugged.
“He was born, he went to school, he joined the army, he got married, his wife died. That is all. Years and years of nothing. No jobs? No school reunions? He is invisible to me,” Nestor said.
“Google him,” Karp said.
“You think I didn’t Google him? The first thing I did was Google him.”
“Re-Google him.”
“There is no such thing as re-Googling. It is not a slot machine, Karp. Same results every time.”
Karp said nothing. He was eyeing an attendant who was showing off a lot of ass bending over a service cart. I would Google that, he thought to himself. I would Google that until it bleeds. He caught Nestor’s disapproving glance.
“You should know this stuff, Karp. You should learn this stuff. What if there was a day when I was no longer here?” Nestor said.
“Then I would no longer be here, dear one. I would be dead as well,” Karp said and squeezed Nestor’s thigh with the same gentle touch that always surprised the younger man.
“Refresh those drinks?” the big-assed attendant said with a professional smile. His name tag read ANDY.
The plane arrived on time at Huntsville International. A man they knew from Detroit by way of Kiev joined them in the line for the bus out to the rental services. He had a FedEx package under his arm that he left behind when he got out at the stop for Budget. Karp picked it up off the seat and took it along when he and Nestor got out at Enterprise. The pair rented a car and drove out of the city to the apartment listed for Isaac Edward Kane on the driver’s license.
Karp drove while Nestor prized open the FedEx box. Inside were a pair of Browning automatics fully loaded with a spare magazine for each. There were two knives as well. A curved skinning knife in a leather sheath and a clasp knife with a four-inch blade. There was also a small pry bar that would fit in a pocket and a brand new pay-as-you-go cell phone charged with one thousand minutes.
Using the mini-pry bar they were into the apartment within a second. The place showed all the signs of a man who lived alone except for the neatness. The place was dusted. No dishes or glasses in the sink. The bed was made, for God’s sake. The bedroom was featureless except for a chest of drawers and a twin mattress on a platform.
Karp took the closet and Nestor the dresser.
The closet was all pressed casual or work clothes still in the plastic wrap from a cleaner. Karp sniffed and smelled gun oil. He uncovered a rifle and shotgun cleaning kit tucked behind a pair of Rubbermaid containers of neatly folded army fatigues in desert camo. He pulled the containers from the closet and felt the walls all around for panels. No hiding places for guns.
Nestor pulled drawers from the dresser and dumped them on the bed. Socks, briefs, t-shirts and running shorts. Some change fell to the floor and some of the coins sounded heavier than normal currency. Nestor crouched and picked up some colorful coins the size of silver dollars. They were decorated in gold and silver and enamel. One had a diving eagle on one side and a map of Afghanistan on the other. Another had Bart Simpson with a grinning skull face holding a bloody dagger in skeletal hands. They bore acronyms that meant nothing to Nestor except NCIS which he knew from television.
“He is military,” Nestor said tossing a coin to Karp.
Karp laughed at the spooky Bart and stuck the coin in his pocket.
They went into the living room which was as spartan as the bedroom. A pair of cheap armchairs. A pressed wood end table and the last analog television in America. In place of a table and chairs near the kitchenette was an antique roll top desk and wheeled office chair. These were the only interesting pieces of furniture in the apartment; the only evidence of any kind of the individuality of the occupant.
Nestor pried open the drawers and top to rifle the desk while Karp made sandwiches from the contents of the refrigerator. The younger man sat on a stool at the kitchen counter and went through paper files he found in the desk. Karp played homemaker placing sandwiches and beers between them. Swiss and hot mustard for the big man and peanut butter and jam for his little tovarich. Such an American Nestor had become.
“Bingo,” Nestor said.
Karp grunted through a mouthful of sandwich.
“These are legal papers. Our man Isaac is a father. He is suing his father-in-law in court for custody of his daughter,” Nestor said.
“America,” Karp said, spitting crumbs of bread and cheese as he spoke.
“This man was a soldier. You ask me, too smart to come back here. He must know that we know him now.”
Karp nodded.