Hard Fall by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

and, as best as possible, remove any evidence of his having been there. He was practiced in such last-minute ordeals; they came as an accepted, though unwanted, part of his existence. The room had been paid in full through Friday morning, so that much he counted in his favor—a grace period. Enough time to train to Los Angeles and kill a couple of days in preparation. Yes, he still might pull it off.
    He had a plane to bomb.
    He left Ward’s car parked on a residential street where he assumed it might take the police days, perhaps weeks, to locate, and removed his rental from the Pay-and-Park.
    He had never intended to kill Ward. Now, for his actions, he paid the price in hasty departure preparations that put him at a much greater risk than he would have wished. In a perfect world, Ward would have lived, would have awakened the next day and gone about his business as usual, the secret of his affair, of his hour in the Duhning simulator, carefully preserved.
    Inside the lobby, Kort watched a slightly hunchbacked woman continuously vacuum the same spot on the immense red throw rug that lay beneath the embroidered couches and marble-topped coffee table that formed the focal point of the lobby. She appeared to have fallen asleep. A young man with hard hair that appeared permanently wet, and a bow tie that showed elastic at the mouth of the collar, stood sentry behind the registration desk, his dark eyes glassy with fatigue, his cup of much-needed coffee tucked appropriately out of sight, its rising steam giving it away.
    Kort didn’t stop at the desk. No sense in giving this kid a chance to remember his face. He rode the elevator to his room and phoned instead.
    â€œFront desk,” this same young man said, chewing his words through a yawn. “How may I help you?”
    â€œCould you scare me up a pair of pliers?” Kort asked.
    â€œPliers?” the front desk replied, somewhat surprised. “Is it anything housekeeping could help with, sir?”
    â€œNo. Just a pair of pliers. Can you get me a pair of pliers, please?”
    â€œMaintenance would have a pair. Or housekeeping might. I’ll check for you, sir. Should I send them up if I can locate some?”
    â€œYes, please. And call me if you can’t. You’ll remember to call me?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Kort waited by the phone expecting failure. It was his experience that problems ran in schools, like barracuda. No single problem was likely to kill you, but combined they could be deadly. Typically, when you least needed failure, it struck. For this reason, he always remained on alert.
    To his surprise—and a good omen—a room service waitress delivered the pliers less than five minutes later. They were an aluminum alloy with green rubber handle grips. Kort sterilized them first by cooking them in the hot-water coffee maker provided for the room. After a ten-minute cook, he heated the mouth of the pliers with his butane lighter until the metal began to smoke. Then he allowed them to cool while he gathered his nerve.
    The tooth had to come out. That was all there was to it. He had tried to make arrangements for it to be pulled professionally the following day, but he would no longer be here on the following day, so he had no choice. Rotten to the core, the tooth had to be extracted before he embarked on his train ride. The importance of the operation, and his relative isolation, forced the decision. Even so, he stood in front of the well-lit bathroom mirror, the pliers now cool and resting on a fresh towel, and stared at himself for several long minutes.
    No one was asking him to do this, he reminded himself. Not anymore they weren’t. Der Grund had been cut off at the knees. Out of a total of sixteen, only he and two or three others had escaped the bust. He had been disembarking an ocean liner in New York at the time he had heard about it. At that moment, he had realized both the jeopardy he faced and the freedom