Kate Wilhelm - His Deadliest Enemy

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HIS DEADLIEST ENEMY

by Kate Wilhelm

It was a lovely sunny day, last day of March, crocuses up, daffodils emerging, and

on the table in her house Constance had seed packets waiting. There was a large bag

of starting mix in the back of the car. "Heirloom tomatoes," she had said to

Charlie, who had looked blank. "Not, as prolific as the newer hybrids, but better-

tasting," she had gone on, to a continuing blank look. "How many tomatoes do two

people need?"

He had dived behind his newspaper at that. She was smiling slightly as she

drove. Thursday, her last aikido class of the week was done, and seeds were waiting.

Charlie would be gone until late afternoon on Monday, or possibly Tuesday. Today

plant the seeds indoors, a head start on real gardening time. Friday clear straw from

the fence where she would plant peas. Saturday shop... .

She braked; a van was askew in the road, and a motorcycle half off the road, with

a woman with a cell phone and several other people milling about a man on the

ground.

Constance stopped and hurriedly got out of her car. "You're out of range here," she

called to the woman. "How bad is he?"

She ran to the man on the ground and as she started to kneel beside him, she

sensed movement behind her. Something was thrown over her head, over her

shoulders; she was toppled and caught as the something was pulled all the way

down her body to her feet, then drawn close, pinning her arms and her legs. She

felt straps or a rope tightening around her. Helpless, she didn't try to struggle,

didn't bother to scream or call out as she was lifted and carried. She drew in a

breath, then tried to hold her breath, but it was pointless. She was already blacking

out.

Charlie liked to fish, and he liked going fishing with Hal Mitchum, a good

companion, next-door neighbor, pal, but by the time he pulled into the Mitchum

driveway on Friday afternoon he admitted silently that he was pretty tired of Hal.

They had left on Wednesday, and on Thursday Hal had stumbled in snow knee-

deep, caught his foot in a hole, and had broken his leg. Thursday he had been in the

hospital and now, Friday, Charlie was taking him home where his wife and however

many of his four sons were around could listen to him complain. And Charlie would

go home to his nice fire where he belonged, snuggle a bit with Constance, eat good

food, and not wade through snow up to his keister. No one had expected the snow, but

there it was, and the fish were probably still in Florida.

All four sons met the van in the driveway, with Doris hovering behind them. The

boys were all a foot taller than their mother and a hundred pounds heavier—football

players. Two of them lifted Hal and carried him, one took the crutches, and the last

one grabbed his duffel bag, while Doris wrung her hands and Hal yelled back to

Charlie that he would make it up to him, sorry about this, rotten luck, did he want a

ride home ...

Charlie hoisted his own duffel bag, walked around the house, and climbed the

fence to the pasture, where Mitchum's goats came to see what was happening. He

crossed the field, climbed the fence to his own yard, and went to the back porch

door. He took his boots off on the screened porch, then entered a cold house where

the three cats met him with howls of indignation and rage.

After two steps into the kitchen, he paused. She wasn't home. He could always

tell and never could have said how, but the house was not the same with her gone.

Her presence filled it, made it home. Brutus, the evil striped cat, stalked angrily

around his feet while Candy, the tortoiseshell, cried piteously, and Ashcan tried to

climb his legs. "Where is she, you guys?" Charlie said softly. Their food dish was

empty, and the water bowl was dry. He walked on through the kitchen to the other

side with cats as close as shadows, and saw a letter propped against a vase of

flowers on the table. Seed packets were on the table, and her car keys. He picked up

the letter, opened the envelope, and read the note: "Don't do anything foolish. No

police, no FBI. Sit tight and wait for a phone call. Don't use the phone. She's safe

and comfortable. I trust you had a good fishing trip."

A lump as hard and cold as an iceberg settled in his stomach as he read it a

second time. He let it fall to the table and stood without moving for a time, then

shoved Ashcan away and went back to the cat dishes, filled one with food and the

other with water to shut up the beasts. After that he prowled silently through the

house. There would be a listening device, he thought, something to let them know he

had returned. No one would have expected him to enter through the back door. They

knew he had gone fishing. Did they know when he had planned to return? He

found the small device near the front door on the underside of a low table in the

foyer. He didn't touch it. It was probably voice-activated, or sound-activated, in

which case the cats might have set it off with their yowling. If they had, the phone

might ring any minute now. He looked at his watch, and continued his silent search.

No sign of a struggle, nothing conspicuously missing. She had gone to her class in

her gi, had not had a chance to change. Clothes were laid out on the bed, waiting for

her.

Without a sound he went through the kitchen again, out to the porch, on to the

garage, where the Volvo was parked. Her purse was on the front seat, a bag of

potting soil or something in the back and, again, no sign of a struggle. Thursday, he

thought then; they had taken her the day before.

Ten minutes had passed from the time he looked at his watch. He sat down at

the kitchen table and examined the note again, not touching it this time, although

he suspected that no fingerprints would be recoverable. Computer printout, cheap

copy paper, cheap envelope, no stamp, no date. Who had known he was going

fishing? A handful of locals, that was all. Ransom? He doubted that. Kidnapping

was a federal crime, too risky for the meager sum he could come up with. Revenge,

he thought then. And God knew he had made enemies over the years, first as an

arson investigator, then a New York City detective, and most recently a private

investigator.

He went over a mental list, shook his head. The folks he knew who might want to

get even would not have written that she was safe and comfortable, and would not

have added that bit about fishing. The envelope probably would have contained a

bloody finger or ear.

He realized that both of his hands were aching painfully and he looked at his fists

in surprise, then forced his fingers to open, to flex. The lump of ice was not melting.

He wanted to kill someone.

Ransom, revenge, pure deviltry, what else? In his head he heard a voice: "You're

exactly the person I want, Meiklejohn. I want your expertise."

"Merrihew," he said under his breath.

March first. Overnight snow again, and a cutting cold wind. Endless winter,

Charlie thought, disgruntled, when he went outside to bring in more firewood. He

took the wood to the living room, added a piece to the fire, and went back to the

kitchen to give a kettle of chili a good stir. It was his day to cook. Chili, cole slaw,

cornbread. Feast enough for the gods, he decided, sniffing, then tasting. Too spicy?

Maybe, but it was too late to do much about it. The doorbell rang and in his

continuing foul mood he went to see what idiot was out there instead of inside warm

and dry.

The man on the stoop was in his sixties, red-faced, but that could have been

from the wind. Dressed in a heavy mackintosh, a wool cap pulled low on his head,

heavy wool pants, and worn boots. Although he was carrying a large Manila

envelope, he definitely was not a salesman type.

"Merrihew," he said curtly.

Charlie opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Just long enough to get warm.

Is there a driver waiting?"

"No."

Charlie glanced at his boots, dry. He would not have waded in snow in the

driveway or walkway to the house. Charlie had shoveled enough snow that winter to

build his own ski resort. He motioned toward the living room. "You might want to

keep your heavy things on until you warm up."

Merrihew was already pulling off the mackintosh. He strode ahead of Charlie

and tossed the coat onto a chair along with his cap and the bulging envelope he had

brought in, then went to the fire and held out his hands to it, facing the flames. He

was a heavy man, solid, not fat, as if he worked out regularly.

"Mr. Merrihew," Charlie said pleasantly, "ten days ago I told your secretary that I

am not at present looking for a job. One week ago I repeated that same message to

you directly. Nothing's changed. I'm still not looking for work."

Actually, Merrihew's secretary had called and said quite coolly that her employer

would consult with Charlie on Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week, and if

he would name the day she would make a reservation at the Plaza for him. When

Merri-hew called he had said brusquely that he would make it more than

worthwhile and was keeping Wednesday afternoon open and would expect Charlie

at three.

Merrihew swung around and just then Constance strolled in, looking as elegant

as always, in a powder-blue sweater, slim black pants, and walking shoes. Her at-

home work uniform. "Constance, meet Mr. Merrihew," Charlie said. "Dr. Leidl, a

pleasure," Merrihew said, inclining his head fractionally.

Charlie raised his eyebrows at Constance and she nodded so slightly that it

might have gone unnoticed. Merrihew had done some homework. Constance had a

Ph.D. in psychology.

"I want thirty minutes of your time," Merrihew said. "I'll pay whatever the going

rate is plus a substantial bonus on satisfactory completion."

With an exaggerated sigh Charlie looked at his watch, then waved toward a

chair and seated himself in his Morris chair. Constance settled into the wing chair

opposite him, and Merrihew took the green upholstered chair that neither Constance

nor Charlie ever sat in. It was not very comfortable.

"My father was a hog farmer," Merrihew said. "I hated that farm with all my soul.

He died when I was sixteen and I inherited three thousand dollars; my mother got

the farm. I decided to spend my inheritance traveling and I went to South America,

to Peru. I wanted to see Machu Picchu. On a train I kept seeing the mountains cut

into tiers, stair steps with stone retaining walls, terraces with crops growing on each

level. Corn, potatoes, beans, squash.. .. It fascinated me. Those Indians did that with

hand tools, baskets, no wheels, no pack animals bigger than llamas. Centuries later

they're still there, still growing crops, irrigated, drained, cared for, and productive."

He was gazing at the fire with a contemplative expression. He sat stiller than

most people, Charlie thought then, no twitches or adjustments of his position, no

hand motions. As still as a buddha. "Something happened to me on that trip,"

Merrihew continued. "I didn't know what it was until years later, but that's when it

started. I talked my mother into giving up the farm, going into the meat-packing

business instead, and I made it work. I went to school, architecture and

engineering, and began to branch out in other enterprises. I made a lot of money."

He wasn't boasting. His voice was dispassionate, nearly a monotone. The cats came

in and Brutus eased himself into Charlie's lap,

Ashcan into Constance's. Candy sniffed Merrihew's feet and legs; he made a

shooing motion at her, and she raised her tail and stalked out disdainfully.

"When I was twenty-nine," Merrihew said, "I went back to Peru, but that time I

knew what questions to ask and who could answer. The terraces are marvels of

engineering in a landmass that must be the most inhospitable on earth. The Andes

are like steeples in many places, nearly vertical in others, but nothing stopped those

genius engineers. Wherever they wanted terraces, they carved them out of rock and

created them.

"I'm doing the same thing," he said in a lower voice.

He paused and turned his gaze to Charlie. "Twenty-five years ago I located my

mountain and bought the southern flank, all of it. I put together a team of architects

and engineers, and we started work on the plans. Eight years ago we started

earthmoving. I realized that that was what all the money had been about, to bring to

fruition my boyhood dream."

He began to describe the community he was building and his face changed,

became impassioned as he leaned forward with his eyes gleaming. Each terrace was

sixty feet wide, houses no more than thirty-five feet deep, backed up by the

mountain on the north, clerestory windows, skylights, solar panels. An elevator, an

escalator. Each to provide a lift to the next terrace, a people-mover belt to cross the

space to the next elevator or escalator, stairs, all covered with clear Lexan. A four-

foot-wide walkway winding through gardens along the entire length of each terrace,

spectacular views from every level. . . . "From below all you will see will be some

retaining walls and endless gardens rising up the mountain."

Charlie glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes.

Merrihew's eyes narrowed and he stopped talking abruptly. A moment later, in

the same dispassionate way he had started, with the same nearly impassive

expression he had worn, he said, "Then the accidents started. Five years ago, two

men, two fatal accidents. Four years ago two more. Three years ago, two. Last year,

three fatalities. Plus near-fatal accidents each and every year since they started."

"Accidents happen," Charlie commented. "Construction is a dangerous occupation.

I assume there were investigations."

"Of course. Locals, state, OSHA, insurance people. I hired my own detectives two

years ago. Nothing. But someone is out to destroy it all, to destroy me." A gleam in

his eyes became more pronounced and made him look dangerous suddenly.

Charlie dumped Brutus, stood up, and went to the fire to give it a poke. Sparks

flared and he turned back to Merrihew. "Look, it's hopeless. Accidents, all

investigated, that go back five years.

There's nothing anyone can do now. Use more caution on the job, bring in some

new superintendents, new foremen, a whole new crew, whatever it takes."

"I've done all those things," Merrihew said. He stood up. "There's a person behind

it. I want you to go to the site and spend a little time with the accident reports and

the investigators' reports. I've looked into you, your past work. I know you push the

envelope and get results. I want you, Meiklejohn, your expertise. Just find out how

they got killed and who's responsible. I'll handle it from there. The end of the month

or first of April. The snow will be gone by then. No work's due to start until late

April. You'll have time to look around, visualize the deaths and how impossible it

is that they were all accidents."

Charlie shook his head. "As I said from day one, no thanks. The end of this month

I'm going fishing for four or five days and when I return, it will be tax-wrestling

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HISDEADLIESTENEMYbyKateWilhelmItwasalovelysunnyday,lastdayofMarch,crocusesup,daffodilsemerging,andonthetableinherhouseConstancehadseedpacketswaiting.Therewasalargebagofstartingmixinthebackofthecar."Heirloomtomatoes,"shehadsaidtoCharlie,whohadlookedblank."Not,asprolificasthenewerhybrids,butbetter-tas...

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Kate Wilhelm - His Deadliest Enemy

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