CHAPTER 9

The Cottage

Stitch slept fitfully. He would doze off and then awake with a start. Several times he glanced nervously at the alarm clock, afraid he hadn’t set it right. Finally he was jolted out of shallow sleep by the irritating buzz of the clock. He got up quickly. It was 5:30. He wanted to be at the cottage early. Just in case Maxwell got different ideas.

As Stitch drove the back roads toward the cabin, the sun eased above the horizon in the east. The black trees slowly took on colour. The sandy roads gleamed white.

Around 6:15 Stitch reached the driveway to the cabin. He pulled off the road and stood looking down at the house below him. Something was wrong. Then it hit him. The car was gone.

Stitch jumped back into the Rav and roared down the drive. He pulled in front of the log cottage and rushed up to the door. He stopped and closed his eyes. The door was wide open. From the splintered door jamb, it was clear that it had been smashed in. Stitch took a deep breath. Then he walked through the door.

Someone had left in a hurry. A coffee table in the living room had been turned over. Women’s clothes were strewn on the floor next to an empty suitcase. Stitch walked cautiously into the living room. At the far end there was a huge picture window facing the river. Through it, he could see the porch. On his right there was a small kitchen. A few dishes were piled in a sink. A cup had been overturned. A pool of coffee covered the linoleum floor.

Beyond the kitchen there were two doorways. Bedrooms, Stitch figured. He slowly walked to the first. He stood with his back against the wall. Then he reached over and turned the round handle. He pushed the door open.

The door slammed open. Then there was silence. Stitch slowly moved around the edge of the door frame. He looked inside. The bedroom was empty. It hadn’t been used for a while. The bed was made. A thin film of dust covered a round bedside table.

Stitch made his way to the second door. It was slightly ajar. Again he stood against the wall. He pushed the door open. He listened for any sound inside. There was only silence. He turned from the wall and walked through the door.

The room was a jumble of overturned chairs, bed sheets and clothes. But only one thing caught Stitch’s eye. At the end of the bed there was a large rust-coloured splotch of dried blood about five feet up the wall. He couldn’t see over the bed’s wood footboard. But a man’s feet in white running shoes stuck out into the room. Stitch closed his eyes and shook his head. “Damn it,” he swore. “I knew it. Shit. Daffy’s right. I am a moron. I should have made him go with me.” But even as he said it, he knew he’d had no choice.

Stitch walked slowly toward the end of the bed. He saw that the red smear wasn’t only blood. There was a jagged hole in the middle. Bits of bone and brain stuck to the wall. He mentally noted that the blood had dried. The whole operation had gone smoothly and quickly. Stitch figured there had been two of them. One to kick the door down and cover. The other to find and kill their target. They must have shot Maxwell before he went to bed.

He rounded the footboard and looked at the floor. Bob Maxwell lay face down on the carpet. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when Stitch last saw him. A small red hole glared from the back of his head. Stitch took Maxwell’s limp wrist. There was no pulse. Then he rolled the body over.

Stitch never understood how they got away with such crap on TV. In the police shows, everyone died such nice, neat deaths. You saw where a bullet went in. But you never saw where it exited. He stared down at Maxwell’s face. Half his forehead was gone. His glazed eyes were covered in blood and brain. His shattered head lay in a pool of drying blood. There was a sickly sweet odour of blood and organs. It reminded Stitch of being in a butcher shop.

Stitch bent down and quickly studied the body. He turned the head. The bullet had been small, probably 9mm. Could have been a Luger. Or Glocks were becoming popular with hit men. More rounds if you needed them. He rolled the body back onto its stomach. The left arm was jammed upward, probably broken. They had grabbed Maxwell by the arm and wrenched it upward. Then they had smashed him into the wall. He wasn’t a big man. Stitch doubted he could have put up much of a fight. Once against the wall, bang. A quick shot to the back of the head. The body slid down on the floor. And the killers were gone. All in a matter of minutes.

Stitch glanced around the room. The killers were pros. He knew there would be nothing. No fingerprints. No shoe impressions in the mud outside the house. No asthma inhaler that conveniently slipped out of the killer’s pocket.

Stitch went through Maxwell’s pockets. His wallet was in his back pocket. There were maybe five 100 dollar bills still in the billfold section. These guys were not after his money. He glanced through the rest of the contents. No ID. A few receipts for recent purchases. A picture of his two kids. No last note intended for Stitch.

Stitch turned the body over. There were a few coins in his pants pocket. Stitch pulled a small calculator out of Maxwell’s shirt pocket. An accountant to the end, Stitch thought. He ran his hand around the inside of Maxwell’s belt. Then around the waist band of his pants. Nothing.

Stitch stood up. No voice from the grave, it seemed. No clue who did it. No ideas about where to go from here.

Stitch was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He looked down at Maxwell’s feet. He wore a pair of Adidas running shoes. Stitch cocked his head in thought. One was neatly done up. But the laces of the other were untied. The shoe looked as if it would fall off if Maxwell had tried to walk in it. Could he have been caught before he had a chance to tie it up? Possible, but unlikely. Other than the shoe, Maxwell was perfectly dressed. And he was not the kind of guy to walk around with his shoelaces untied.

Stitch crouched down. He gently pulled the untied shoe off Maxwell’s foot. As he did, a small slip of brown paper fell out of the shoe. Stitch looked around. A paper shopping bag lay on the top of the chest of drawers. A chunk had been torn out. On the floor next to the bureau Stitch spotted a red Bic pen.

Stitch picked up the paper and studied it. Red letters and numbers had been written in a shaky scrawl. He wrote this in a hurry, Stitch thought. Maybe he had heard them kicking down the door. He knew they weren’t neighbours coming to welcome him into the neighbourhood. He saw the pen and bag on the chest of drawers. He scrawled the message as they smashed in and headed for the bedroom. At the last second, he must have untied his shoe and slipped in the message. Just before the killers entered the bedroom.

What was it he so desperately wanted to say? Stitch returned his attention to the scrap of paper. On it was written: KN6631475. After the last number there was a line. It looked as if he had wanted to write more but ran out of time.

KN6631475. Stitch ran his hand over his hair. A licence plate? Too many digits. Phone number of some sort? A code?

Stitch carefully folded the paper and placed it in his wallet. Then he pulled his cell phone out of its holster and called the Parsons Police department. He had a homicide to report.