The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [86]
“There would be chaos,” Christine said.
“At least.”
“I need time. Some time to think.”
“The sooner you take your trip, the better,” Dalrymple said. “I promise that getting away from this city will make the whole process much easier on you.” She stood up, withdrew an envelope from her purse, and handed it to Christine. “This should help you do what you must. Please call me if I can be of any further help. It is a difficult situation, Christine, having to hurt one to avoid hurting many. But the choice is clear.”
Christine followed her to the hallway and stood numbly to one side as she put on her coat. “Your sisters,” Dalrymple said, “all of us, are grateful for what you are doing.” She reached out and squeezed Christine’s hand, then turned and let herself out.
The blue sedan, parked in an islet of darkness between two streetlights, was virtually invisible. Slouched behind the wheel, Leonard Vincent kept his attention fixed on the house as he struggled to catch his breath. The close call beneath the window and his dash to the car had left him winded and, despite the chill night air, soaked with sweat. On his lap his right hand moved in continuous circles, working the blade of a knife over a whetstone with the loving strokes of a concert violinist. The blade was eight inches long, tapered and slightly curved at the tip. The handle, carved bone, was nearly lost in his thick fist. The knife was Leonard Vincent’s pride—the perfect instrument for close work.
The front door opened. Vincent snickered at the sight of the huge woman maneuvering herself down the concrete front steps. As she crossed the street to her car, he amused himself by planning the description he would use in his report. “At precisely five thirty a blimp floated into the house.” Vincent’s sallow face bunched in a mirthless grin. “She rolled out of the house and bounced down the stairs to her car. At precisely six fifteen she started getting behind the wheel. At six thirty she made it.”
Distracted by his own wit, Vincent was slow to react when the woman made a sudden U-turn and came toward him. An instant before her headlights flashed by, he dove across the front seat, striking his forehead on the passenger door handle. He cursed the handle, then the door, and then the fat bitch who had made him hit it. But mostly he cursed himself for taking a job without knowing exactly who was hiring him or even what he was expected to do.
It had started with a call from a bartender friend. “Leonard,” he had said, “I think I may have something for you. There’s this broad in here askin’ me if I know of anyone who’s interested in makin’ some big bucks. She says that whoever it is will have to be able to keep his mouth shut and do what he’s told. I tried to find out some details, but she just gives me this fucking look, shoves a fifty across the counter, and says that there’ll be more if I can get her someone who asks less questions than I do. You interested? I’ll tell you, Leonard, the broad’s weird, but I think she’s on the level. Also, she’s got great tits.”
Right away, Vincent hadn’t liked her or the setup. The name she had given him, Hyacinth, was a phony, he was sure of that. But no matter. Except for setting up the job, all she would do is deliver the money.
So he had ended up with twenty-five hundred bucks up front, a phone number, and a name—Dahlia. Another phony.
Vincent rubbed at the egg that had started forming over his left eye. He cursed Dahlia, who was responsible for his sitting out in a hurricane, bumping his head on a goddamn door. “Face it, Leonard,” he told himself, “you’ve really hit bottom this time, no matter how good the fucking money is.”
He watched the house until he was reasonably sure Christine Beall was not coming out, then he shoved the knife into a hand-tooled leather case and drove around the corner to a phone booth. A woman answered on the second