Just as he shut the driver’s door closed, four shots cracked through the frozen silence. Sid staggered, and the car keys dropped to the snow. He staggered again, and then he fell on his back.
Jasmin’s scream blended with the sudden roaring of an engine. As the gunman swerved out of the parking lot, she got out, rushed around the Ford and fell to her knees in front of Sid. Before the sound of the engine died away, she knew Sid was also going to die: nobody could survive such horrid blood loss.
The hot, sticky liquid gushed from the four wounds in his back like water from four open faucets. One of the bullets had traversed his body. As if transformed into lava, the blood that flowed from the exit wound in his abdomen belched thick steam before it froze to his parka.
“Call an ambulance!” Jasmin screeched at a shadow that had appeared on the porch. Then she took off her jacket and pressed it against the exit wound. “Oh, God, don’t die, don’t die,” she wept into his ear. “Oh, please don’t—don’t—oh, no, no!”
Sid managed to lift his eyes to her and smile. The rest of his body was rigid, however, as if death had already claimed him from the neck down. The tears pouring out of Jasmin’s eyes ran down his paling cheeks as if it were he who was weeping. Somebody shouted from the porch that an ambulance was on its way. Jasmin feared it would come too late.
“It was me they wanted to kill,” she sobbed, stroking his hair. “Oh, my God, why did I ever . . . I’m so sorry!”
Jasmin knew the shooter must’ve been Renard or one of his henchmen, and the bullets meant for her. Sid had a similar weight and stature as she did, and the old Ford was hers. He’d only driven it because she’d had a drink after dinner. That stupid drink . . . she’d insisted on having one to celebrate their reunion. And now it was to cost the life of the only man she’d ever loved.
“I’m sorry,” she wheezed over and over. Despair and self-loathing crowded out her shock and frenzy. It paralyzed her more than the glacial wind.
Jasmin had wanted the Machetes assignment so much. And when a retired cop told her that the gang’s president might actually be a former Angel and a police snitch, she saw herself—at the age of twenty-six—soaring toward the pinnacle of her career. She’d have never imagined her ambition could kill her husband.
“Oh, Sid. It was me who should’ve been shot.”
A beam of happiness passed over Sid’s face. “I’m glad it . . . was me. I’m . . . so glad.”
He struggled to keep his eyes open as if he feared that if he blinked once, he would lose sight of her eternally. It was a lost battle, however. His pupils filmed, and his eyelids began to drop. The heaving of his chest grew deadly shallow.
Then his eyes opened wide. They dilated with terror. “Boars,” he groaned. “Can’t . . . you hear them? Grunting, squealing. A huge horde.”
Jasmin instinctively looked around. The parking lot was empty. All she could hear was the buzzing of the frosted power lines above her head. She felt like screaming. It was devastating to think that a frightening hallucination plagued Sid’s last moments on earth. “There’re no boars here, my love. Don’t you fear anything.”
He calmed down after a while, but then his eyes opened wide again. “You fiend!” The scream rattled in his throat. “Stay away from her, or . . . !”
Sid fell quiet, and his eyes rolled back so much she could no longer see his pupils. Jasmin feared he’d died, but then he moved his hand. His forefinger darted through the bloodied snow. At first, she thought he was having a spasm, but his moves were swift and precise. When she looked closer, she realized he was sketching a face.
His eyes were still rolled back as if he was depicting someone or something that had possessed his dying mind. Sid had always been helpless at drawing; Jasmin wondered what kind of uncanny power had endowed him with this talent in his last hour.
The face he drew was cruel and furry yet distinctly humanoid—at least until he topped the head with a pair of broad antlers, and until he drew sharp tusks that projected from the lower jaw. The finished sketch glowed strangely in the groping beam of the street light.
Sid’s pupils slithered back from under his eyelids, and he peered straight at Jasmin. “Don’t try . . . to seek . . . revenge. If you do, you’ll . . . ” He struggled to say more, but it was as if the hands of death—or the claws of an invisible fiend—had crushed his throat, and he could only wheeze.
The silent highway came alive with the wailing of a siren. An ambulance skidded to a halt right beside the Ford, followed by two police cruisers. The motel’s entrance filled with muttering and gasping shadows. None of the guests or staff had dared to approach the scene after the shooting. The lights of the emergency vehicles gave them courage, however, and drew them out as if they were a swarm of moths.
“Move back!” an officer boomed at those who’d come too near. “Let the paramedics do their job, for God’s sake!”
Although he was right beside Jasmin, she heard his voice as if it were coming from across a large lake. Like in a dream, she let the officer help her to her feet. She moaned when she saw the desperate look on the paramedics’ faces as they fretted around her husband. The sight of their rubber gloves dripping with Sid’s blood made her struggle for air. The flashing lights made people’s faces pulse with ghostly colors, making them look like angered specters, and she briefly hoped it was all just a nightmare.
Having patched up Sid’s torso, the paramedics covered him with a blanket, clasped an oxygen mask over his face, and put him on a stretcher to wheel him to the ambulance.
“No, please, no!” she screamed as if she knew she’d never again see him alive. It took two strong policemen to prevent her from leaping in after him. She fought like a lioness; only when the ambulance doors banged shut did she slump in the cops’ arms as if her soul had suddenly fled her body.
A FEW MILES TO THE north, the headlights of a snowmobile squirmed along the snowy tracks of a narrow forest path. The rivers and creeks that crisscrossed the woods were frozen over, and Razor was making good progress. He reached Palmer at about the same time Sid Bierce took his last breath on the operation table.
When Jasmin finally managed to speak, she told the police everything about her investigation—and about her suspicion that the bullets had been meant for her.
The Anchorage SWAT team raided the Machetes’ clubhouse and Renard’s house, but Renard was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, the police knew about the suburban house in Palmer, where the Machetes stashed illegal goods. They found Razor hiding in the cellar, and he eventually confessed to shooting Jasmin Bierce; it was only later that he realized what a mistake he’d made.
THE DAY AFTER SID’S funeral, Jasmin entered the Alaska State Gazette building, crossed the advertising department, and dragged herself upstairs to the newsroom. The CNN morning newscast was on, and most of her colleagues crowded by a large, overhead television to see the competition’s angle on the latest.
None of them saw her coming. Only two or three people who were hammering at their computer keyboards lifted their heads to give her a surprised look or a weak, compassionate smile. As she headed for the office of the chief crime reporter, Jasmin tried to smile back.
“What are you doing here, darling?” Sheila Mahoney asked when Jasmin entered her office. Her voice was rough like sandpaper. She wasn’t even fifty, but the two packs of cigarettes she smoked every day had turned her face into an oversized walnut.
“The cops wouldn’t talk to me, Sheila,” Jasmin said as she sat down.
“That’s perhaps because they know you’re supposed to be on a leave,” Sheila said with a slight frown that turned the wrinkles on her forehead into deep ruts. Then she smiled and said, “Or because you don’t have my kind of connections.”
Jasmin stirred on her chair. “Does that mean there’s some news about Renard?”
Sheila’s smile disappeared. She coughed nervously and said, “You don’t look too good, darling. Have you been eating at all? Are you still at your parents?�
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Jasmin nodded. She had a hazy memory of her mother’s gentle, dark hands placing a bowl of cereals in front of her this morning. However, Jasmin didn’t think she’d eaten any.
She also remembered glancing into the bathroom mirror and seeing something that might have crawled out of a shallow grave. The dark circles under her lifeless eyes made her look ten years older. Her hair hung around her face in tangled knots. Her skin was even more desiccated than Sheila’s. But her looks were the least of her concerns. “What’s the news, then?”
Sheila drummed her yellowish fingers against the corner of her keyboard. “It isn’t too good, I’m afraid. Renard seems to have left the country.”
Jasmin made a gurgling sound in her throat. A few tears rushed out of her eyes and dropped on her clenched hands. “Any idea where he might be?”
“Some of the Machetes told the cops that Renard had been planning to travel to Eastern Europe to see an old buddy of his. A crook who goes by the cute nickname of Panzer.”
“Panzer . . . Who’s that?”
“The real name’s Simeon Borilov,” Sheila said, looking through her notes. “A real sweetheart, let me tell you. A prominent member of the Bulgarian mafia. He served a sentence in Spring Creek Correctional Center for human trafficking. Then he turned informant and did the rest of his time in the catacombs of the Anchorage police department. I guess that’s where he met Renard. Nothing can bond two scumbags better than stuffing the cops with damaging info on their other friends.”
“So where is this Panzer supposed to be now? Back in Bulgaria?”
“Went back home shortly after his release two years ago.” Sheila flipped through the printouts on her desk, and Jasmin tried to recall her geography lessons. If she remembered correctly, Bulgaria was a small country northwest of Turkey and south of Romania.
“He’s now the boss of a Bulgarian chapter of a biker gang called Satan’s Axers,” Sheila continued, her wrinkles deepening with disgust. “They do all kinds of charity work, especially trading with drugs and illegal arms. The cops believe Renard went to see Panzer to partner up and smuggle weapons and drugs to the States. As if we didn’t have enough junkies and mass shootings as it is!”
“Is the Interpol involved, then?”
“Yes, there’s an international warrant. But the cops I’ve talked to seem pretty skeptical about the outcome. Renard must have been traveling on a false passport. And as he must’ve found out that Razor’s behind bars, and that the cops are after him, he’s lying low. I’m sorry dear, but I’m not sure if they’ll ever find him.”
For a few seconds, Jasmin felt like bursting into tears. Then the old glow returned to her eyes. They were dry now, and she determined not to cry again. Yes, men like Renard knew well how to disappear in the black corners of the criminal world. But women like Jasmin wouldn’t rest until they dragged them back into the light.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The night had been cool and rainy, but the sun sprang up in rage on that morning in late June. As the shadows fled, sparrows began to chirp madly in the large tilia trees that abounded in northeastern Bulgaria.
The old man Yavor always woke up with the birds. And when he did, so did everyone in the building. Yavor rented out five rooms in his large apartment in the city of Varna. Every morning, he shuffled to the kitchen to watch the television and listen to Bulgarian folk music, both cranked all the way up.
Jasmin groaned when the blaring blend of noises punched her from her sleep. She’d been one of Yavor’s unfortunate tenants for five long months—and yet, she wasn’t anywhere close to finding Renard.
Jasmin had been hoping to find him through Panzer, who was the president of the local chapter of Satan’s Axers. Unfortunately, Panzer had also gone into hiding, and Renard might have long left for another city, country, or continent. She often felt she ought to go home and try to restart her life. Nevertheless, it was too hard to admit she’d been beaten.
Only the TV news was to be heard now, as Yavor was changing tapes in his old cassette player. Dull thuds were coming from below: the furious downstairs neighbor was probably using a broomstick again to bang on the ceiling. From the next room, a tenant shouted something in Bulgarian. Jasmin didn’t recognize the voice.
People were constantly moving in and out, and she often wished she could leave as well. However, she couldn’t afford anything else. The monthly rent was only two hundred Bulgarian leva, which was about a hundred and twenty dollars, and she’d have to pay at least double in any other place in the city. The flight to Eastern Europe had slashed deep into her savings. And as she was on an unpaid leave of absence, she was nearly destitute.
As usual, Jasmin raced through her morning routine to escape the noise as fast as she could.
When she waded through the renewed cacophony to the front door, which was just beside the kitchen, Yavor yelled in his broken English, “Miss Jasmin go to street?” His thinning gray hair clung to his head in sweaty clumps, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. As if to mock the strong sunrays that poured through the kitchen window, he was wearing a winter housecoat over flannel pajamas. A bottle of red wine stood on the table in front of him: his daily breakfast.
“Yes, Yavor,” she replied, unsure whether he could hear her.
“Miss Jasmin is a very good people. A beautiful people! Hey, Miss Jasmin? A beautiful people!”
“That’s nice, Yavor,” said Jasmin, wondering whether Yavor’s eyes were as impaired as his mind. She’d lost at least thirty pounds since Sid’s death, and her cheekbones poked sharply at her skin, which had turned from fresh and lustrous to dry and sallow. She felt anything but beautiful.
“Hey, Miss Jasmin? Miss Jasmin is still single? Or is she double?”
Guessing that he was asking about her marital status, she gave him a sad smile. “I’m still single, Yavor.” And I don’t think I’ll ever be double in my life again.
“Still single!” Yavor nodded and grinned as if he’d just won the jackpot.
“Well, I’m going to get some fresh air. You should do the same, by the way. It would do you good.”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. Then he lit a cigarette. “Miss Jasmin is a very nice people. A very humor people! Hey, Miss Jasmin? A very humor people! Maybe Yavor will cook today—cook for Miss Jasmin!”
“Oh, that’s nice of you,” she replied, although she knew that his promises were as empty as his fridge. In fact, she often ended up cooking for him. “Thanks a lot, Yavor. I’ll see you later.”
Jasmin still could hear Yavor’s TV and music long after she’d left the apartment. It was a relief to be outside, but as she watched the masses of hurrying cars and pedestrians, each of them with a purpose and destination, she felt lost and helpless. Strolling toward the Varna Orthodox Cathedral, she tried to think of what to do today.
She could walk around the downtown pubs that were popular with foreigners, or the luxurious seaside hotels where mafia bosses dined with their crooked associates, or the little bar behind the mall that was supposedly frequented by outlaw bikers. None of these things had ever borne fruit before, however, and it was too early for anyone but Yavor to have a drink. She could go to the library to see if Panzer or Satan’s Axers had been mentioned in the English version of the Balkan Times. But she had done it yesterday, and the day before, and the day before . . . and there was always nothing.
It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a pleasant breeze coming from the Black Sea. The best thing she could think to do was to leave the city behind and head for Galata. The heavily timbered cape with a wonderful beach was her favorite spot in the region. And the eight-mile hike was bound to lift her spirits and inspire her with fresher ideas.
Jasmin walked past the cathedral and headed down Hristo Botev Boulevard. Stepping over grinning potholes and slaloming past overflowing garbage bins, she couldn’t wait to be in the beautiful forest. She crossed the mile-long Asparuhov Bridge, which spanned the two canals that connected the Black
Sea to Varna Lake, and walked down a ramp toward the neighborhood of Asparuhovo.
Normally, she’d continue along the main street. Today, however, she decided to try to reach the cape through the forest along the canal.
She left the ramp and walked down a littered path. While the sun had already dried the bridge, small puddles still lingered here in the shade of the pine trees, and her shoes sank into mud.
The trail forked. The path on the right-hand side was strewn with small hoof prints, and so she turned to the left. But as the trail disappeared in thick bushes, she had no choice but to go back. A tremendous squeal floated through the woods when she walked over the hoof prints. It was followed by a series of loud grunts.
Even though she looked around, Jasmin knew she would see nothing among the trees and scrubs. The sounds were distorted as if they came from a different place, epoch, and dimension. And yet they erupted straight in her head, where they echoed . . . echoed . . . echoed, as though she were encircled by a large horde of swine. Although they lasted only a few seconds, the grunts filled her with vague fear.
Boars. Can’t . . . you hear them? Grunting, squealing. A huge horde.
The notion that similar sounds had tormented Sid in his dying moments made her groan. Memories of that dreadful night rushed at her in a sweeping torrent. The antlered head Sid had drawn in the bloody snow poked out of the shadows of her mind. It seemed to leer and sneer as if it were alive somewhere in a realm of nightmares. Or as if it had settled inside her mind.
JASMIN PLOWED ON, WONDERING whether she was insane or whether the worlds she’d never believed in really existed. She kept expecting to see the canal behind every curve, but the path seemed to go on forever. When she’d begun to think she was lost, she spotted a large brick house whose red roof she’d seen from the bridge. If she remembered correctly, the canal was just behind it.
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