He’d thought of her often in the time since, her face popping up like a screen saver whenever his mind was idle enough. That night it had seemed like she’d had some wisdom to impart to him, her gaze containing truths about who he was, who they both were, but each subsequent time he’d thought of her she’d seemed more distant, less significant.
Now though it was like that night was fresh again, the sight and smell and feel of the package in front of him bringing back her scent, the way she’d looked, beautiful and naked, discreetly driven, and those eyes, an expression so intent it had turned him inside out. He remembered it all now, savoring the memory, the feel of it, an evocative triggering of the senses.
And then suddenly it was wiped out as he heard the front door open. He slid the package back under the bed, rolling under with it, pulling the gun from his bag, lying there in the dark with the smell of dust, the gun resting on the floor but pointing in the direction of the bedroom door. With his head low JJ would just be able to see his feet if he came into the room, and that would be enough.
The Russian stayed downstairs for a minute; there was the sound of water running in the kitchen, silence, the guy climbing the stairs, and silence again. He’d gone to his bedroom, but for a while there was nothing audible and it stayed like that until he went into the bathroom.
The shower started to flow. Then JJ heard him use the toilet and rested easier, a clear indication the guy still thought he was alone in the house. A moment later JJ heard him step into the shower, close the glass door behind him, the flow of water broken as it fell over his body.
JJ rolled back from under the bed and stood up, allowing himself a smile, thinking of showers, toilets, bedrooms—toilets probably the easiest, urinals in particular. Anything like that was a blessing, knowing that the victim was off guard, exposed.
The bathroom door was open and he could see straight away that the guy was just standing there in the shower with his back to him, not moving or soaping himself, just letting the water flow. It was a moment he could appreciate, the simple massaging pleasure of hot water after a run.
Confident that the guy was switched off JJ eased the glass door of the shower and stepped back again, letting it slowly swing open. It took a few seconds for the Russian to realize it had opened, and when he turned he still looked surprised to see someone there, like he’d been relaxed enough to believe that the door had opened on its own.
JJ put a bullet into his chest before he’d had a chance to register. He fell back heavily against the wall, sliding down it with a thumping splash, his legs flailing out of the shower’s confines. He made no other sound, no moan or cry, no words, remaining mute against the gentle background sound of the shower.
He sat there rag doll style like he was drunk. He wasn’t dead, and apart from the neat hole in his chest and the blood washing away with the falling water he still looked dangerous, muscular and taut, primed. His head was bowed though, a confused expression on his face, trying to comprehend what was happening.
Then, as if it had sunk in, he slowly looked up, produced a slight, disbelieving smile, and shook his head, acknowledging his own slip. Almost whispering he said in Russian, “Who are you?”
“No one,” answered JJ. “Who do you work for?”
The Russian smiled again in response, the back of his head resting against the tiled wall now, the water falling down onto his upturned face. For a while he looked hypnotized by it.
JJ pushed his sleeve up and reached into the shower to turn it off. He went back into the other room then and emptied the small bag onto the bed alongside the Russian’s discarded running clothes, the smell of sweat already turning stale.
The bag contained a couple of guns, ammunition, a mobile phone, two passports, one Russian and one Israeli, a wallet. The phone yielded nothing. He picked up the wallet and looked through it: a picture of a plain girl, another of the Russian with a mongrel dog, a small piece of paper with a phone number written on it.
At first the number looked familiar, and then he realized it was the first three digits, 802, the area code for Vermont. It meant the guy had a partner and the partner was somewhere in Vermont, which meant Holden was probably there after all, if not at the Copley then somewhere else.
The thought occurred to him then that the Russian had been Holden’s man and that the contact number was for Holden himself. JJ dismissed it immediately though, certain that if Holden had run for cover he wouldn’t have left someone at home with his forwarding address. He wouldn’t have used a Russian either, not at a time like this.