Extreme Denial Read Online Free Page A
Author: David Morrell
leather jacket covered his pistol. His stomach continued to bother him.
8
It was noon exactly when, as scheduled, Decker knocked on McKittrick’s door.
No one answered.
Decker knocked again, waited, frowned, knocked a third time, waited, frowned harder, glanced to each side along the corridor, then used the lock picks concealed in the collar of his jacket. Ten seconds later, he was in the apartment, securing the door behind him, his weapon already drawn. Had McKittrick stood him up, or had something happened to him? With painstaking caution, Decker started searching.
The living room was deserted. So were the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bedroom, including the closets. Decker hated closets—he never knew what might be crouching in them. His chest tight, he completed the search, sat on a padded chair in the living room, and analyzed the possibilities. Nothing in the apartment seemed out of place, but that proved nothing. McKittrick could be in trouble somewhere else. Or it could be, Decker thought for the second time, that the son of a bitch stood me up.
Decker waited, in the process conducting another search of McKittrick’s apartment, this time in detail: in, under, and behind every drawer; under the mattress and the bed; under the chairs and sofa; in the light fixtures; in and behind the toilet tank.
What he found appalled him. Not only had McKittrick failed to destroy his notes after sending in his report but, as well, he had hidden the notes in a place not hard to predict— beneath shelf paper in the kitchen. Next to the names of the members of the group Decker had met the previous night, he found addresses, one of which was for the apartment building into which McKittrick had gone with Renata. Decker also found the address of something called the Tiber Club.
Decker memorized the information. He put the notes on a saucer, burned them, crumbled the ashes into powder, peered out the kitchen’s small window, saw the brick wall of an alley, and let a breeze scatter the ashes. Hunger fought with the discomfort in his stomach. He cut a slice from a loaf of bread, returned to the living room, and slowly ate, all the while frowning at the front door.
By then, it was two in the afternoon. Decker’s misgivings strengthened. But what should I do about them? he wondered. He could go back to the international real estate consulting firm and make an emergency telephone call to warn his supervisor that McKittrick had failed to be present at an appointment. But what would that accomplish, aside from creating the impression that Decker was determined to find fault with McKittrick? The guy’s tradecraft was sloppy—Decker had already made an issue of that. So wasn’t it likely that McKittrick had either forgotten or deliberately ignored the appointment? Maybe he was in bed with Renata right now.
If that’s the case, he might be smarter than I am, Decker thought. When was the last time I was in bed with anybody? He couldn’t remember. Because he traveled so much, he had few close female friends, all of them in his line of work. Casual pickups were out of the question—even before the spread of AIDS, Decker had avoided one-night stands on the theory that intimacy equaled vulnerability, that it didn’t make sense to let down his guard with someone he knew nothing about.
This damned job, Decker thought. It not only makes you paranoid; it makes you a monk.
He glanced around the depressing living room. His nostrils felt irritated by the smell of must. His stomach continued to bother him.
Happy fortieth birthday, he told himself again.
9
Decker had finished all the bread in the apartment by the time a key scraped in the lock. It was almost 9:00 P.M. McKittrick rushed in, breathless, and froze when he saw Decker.
“Shut the door,” Decker said.
“What are you—”
“We had an appointment, remember? Shut the door.” McKittrick obeyed. “Weren’t you told? Didn’t my father—”
“He relayed a message to
8
It was noon exactly when, as scheduled, Decker knocked on McKittrick’s door.
No one answered.
Decker knocked again, waited, frowned, knocked a third time, waited, frowned harder, glanced to each side along the corridor, then used the lock picks concealed in the collar of his jacket. Ten seconds later, he was in the apartment, securing the door behind him, his weapon already drawn. Had McKittrick stood him up, or had something happened to him? With painstaking caution, Decker started searching.
The living room was deserted. So were the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bedroom, including the closets. Decker hated closets—he never knew what might be crouching in them. His chest tight, he completed the search, sat on a padded chair in the living room, and analyzed the possibilities. Nothing in the apartment seemed out of place, but that proved nothing. McKittrick could be in trouble somewhere else. Or it could be, Decker thought for the second time, that the son of a bitch stood me up.
Decker waited, in the process conducting another search of McKittrick’s apartment, this time in detail: in, under, and behind every drawer; under the mattress and the bed; under the chairs and sofa; in the light fixtures; in and behind the toilet tank.
What he found appalled him. Not only had McKittrick failed to destroy his notes after sending in his report but, as well, he had hidden the notes in a place not hard to predict— beneath shelf paper in the kitchen. Next to the names of the members of the group Decker had met the previous night, he found addresses, one of which was for the apartment building into which McKittrick had gone with Renata. Decker also found the address of something called the Tiber Club.
Decker memorized the information. He put the notes on a saucer, burned them, crumbled the ashes into powder, peered out the kitchen’s small window, saw the brick wall of an alley, and let a breeze scatter the ashes. Hunger fought with the discomfort in his stomach. He cut a slice from a loaf of bread, returned to the living room, and slowly ate, all the while frowning at the front door.
By then, it was two in the afternoon. Decker’s misgivings strengthened. But what should I do about them? he wondered. He could go back to the international real estate consulting firm and make an emergency telephone call to warn his supervisor that McKittrick had failed to be present at an appointment. But what would that accomplish, aside from creating the impression that Decker was determined to find fault with McKittrick? The guy’s tradecraft was sloppy—Decker had already made an issue of that. So wasn’t it likely that McKittrick had either forgotten or deliberately ignored the appointment? Maybe he was in bed with Renata right now.
If that’s the case, he might be smarter than I am, Decker thought. When was the last time I was in bed with anybody? He couldn’t remember. Because he traveled so much, he had few close female friends, all of them in his line of work. Casual pickups were out of the question—even before the spread of AIDS, Decker had avoided one-night stands on the theory that intimacy equaled vulnerability, that it didn’t make sense to let down his guard with someone he knew nothing about.
This damned job, Decker thought. It not only makes you paranoid; it makes you a monk.
He glanced around the depressing living room. His nostrils felt irritated by the smell of must. His stomach continued to bother him.
Happy fortieth birthday, he told himself again.
9
Decker had finished all the bread in the apartment by the time a key scraped in the lock. It was almost 9:00 P.M. McKittrick rushed in, breathless, and froze when he saw Decker.
“Shut the door,” Decker said.
“What are you—”
“We had an appointment, remember? Shut the door.” McKittrick obeyed. “Weren’t you told? Didn’t my father—”
“He relayed a message to
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