Real Novel Chapter Nine
From PenguinWiki
Anderson hung up the phone. So Scolletti was dead. Anderson had long thought the bastard was unkillable, but it looked like someone had proved him wrong. It looked like a trip to the States would be in order very shortly. Katie alive, Big Tony dead...he wondered if this day could possibly contain anymore surprises.
Katie had been long gone by the time he made it to his own car, of course. He'd put the APB out immediately, of course, but he didn't expect results. She'd vanished without trace for 3 years: and if she had had the skill and the resources to do that, she could surely avoid the Melbourne Police a little bit longer. Long enough to tie up any more loose ends, anyway. He wondered if the category "loose ends" included him now, even after what they had shared.
He didn't expect an autopsy of Julian Keepsake, should he order one, to reveal anything unusual either. Katie was a lot better than that. His one slim hope was that she might have been pressed for time, that she might not have had dealt with things with her typical efficiency, and it was this hope he clung to as he pulled the car into the suburban driveway of the recently departed Mr. Keepsake.
The name Keepsake rang a bell deep within Anderson’s memory, but none of the details had surfaced so far. Keepsake wasn’t a common name, but there were a few out there. Or perhaps it was a more… literal connection.
It’s a shame that you don’t want to join us, Robert. Still, do what you must. Just take this as a… keepsake. And don't forget your fucking place.
Anderson shuddered, as if trying to shake the memory from his consciousness. He knocked on the door and waited. No answer. He took the house keys from the plastic wallet that had held Julian’s personal possessions from the time of his entry to the hospital and made his way inside.
Books and clothes lay halfway up the stairs, a crumb-laden plate was still sitting on the coffee table and the TV guide was lying over the arm of the sofa, open at yesterday’s date. The house was, well, a home.
Pictures on the mantelpiece showed a smiling Julian with what looked like a wife and two teenage children – probably at friends’ houses or after-school activities. Anderson stood there, torn. He could keep searching the house for more clues, but that would mean the possibility of having to break the news of Keepsake’s death to his family. It was one of the few things that made him regret joining the force. Years ago, he thought that he’d eventually get used to it, but every face’s reaction moved him. He pictured all of the people he’d done away with and imagined all the police officers and doctors that had to say those lines. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but…”
…But this was why he’d joined the force to begin with. So that nobody would have to be put in those situations.
Anderson moved quietly into the house, hand instinctively going to the gun at his hip. He pictured the tattoo that lay beneath the weapon; the genuine article, unlike the crude copy that had been swiftly penned onto the hapless Keepsake in obvious mockery, taunting him. Quebec, Romeo, Sierra...Tango. The unit's designation, and also their go code. The elaborately decorated letter 'T' was to be found on other hips beside his own. Anderson had been well and truly smashed that night - they had all been - but he had no difficulty recalling the vivid memories of the back alley parlour in Rabaul, where they'd all had themselves branded. Strange to think that that place had probably been buried in ash a few months after they'd been there, much like most of the rest of the town. Typical though, he reflected - if any bunch of people in history had ever definitely been harbingers of doom, it was Tango Unit.
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