Dungeness and Dragons

by William Cook

  Chiara reached over and touched her hand. “Lots of things come without do-overs. When my father died, I spent the first three months just wishing I had time for one more conversation with him, one more chance to tell him I loved him and what a good father he was.” She let out a deep breath. “You’ll do fine, Patricia. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met.”

  “But I’ll have to live as though my mother is dead when she’s not.” It was the wail of a bereft child.

  “Volkov hasn’t had time to bug your mother’s house, and he may not. Why don’t you call her right now on our line. Say nothing about the case, other than you were kidnapped and now have to go into protection. Here.” Whitehorse handed her the phone. “Take as long as you’d like.” He turned to Chiara. “Please start the WISP application and find the nearest safe house while I talk with Dallas.”

  Thirty minutes later, Patricia concluded her call and dried her tears with a tissue from the box on the desk. “I thought I was starting over, re-imagining myself, when I moved here from the East Coast. But this is so much more. It’s like erasing all that went before. How do people do that?” She lowered her head. Her voice became a whisper. “And how do I get forgiveness for all I’ve done to get to this point?” She shook her head and fussed with her hair. “I must look a mess.” She sighed. “I guess there’s nothing for it. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Chiara turned away from her monitor. “We’re looking good. The safe house will be sending somebody over to get you in a few minutes. A man by the name of Timothy Crane, ID number 891.”

  Esperanza swiveled his chair around. “You’re gonna be fine, Patricia. You made it.” He didn’t hear her mumbled response.

  “At what cost?”

  Just then Dallas’s phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “Shit. OK. Yep. And somebody will be there? Thanks, man.” He turned to his friends. “OK, they got Ethan, but not before a lawyer by the name of Peter Mangold did. The little creep isn’t saying anything. He’ll be arraigned tomorrow. One of my friends will be there and give me a shout out.”

  “Do we know this Mangold guy?” Whitehorse asked.

  “I’m on it,” Chiara said as her fingers began to fly over her keyboard. “Peter Mangold. Defense attorney. Looks like he made a name for himself in the newspapers a few years ago when he successfully defended Abram Sokolov from money laundering charges.”

  Whitehorse smiled and nodded. “Why am I not surprised? I’ll be interested to hear what happens tomorrow.” He looked at Patricia and took a deep breath. “I won’t see you again, but I’m so happy to have met you. I couldn’t tell you how many nights I fell asleep wondering if you were still alive.”

  She rushed forward and embraced him. “Thank you for not giving up,” she whispered in his ear.

  Chiara helped her tuck her hair under a baseball cap and handed her a jacket from a small rack of clothes by the door. “Now you’re all set. Keep the cap pulled low over your face. Be strong.”

  A tall man in a brown leather jacket walked in. His wire frame glasses accented his silvered hair. He retrieved his identification from an inside pocket and showed it to the policemen. “I believe you have a guest who’d like to stay at our inn?”

  “That would be me.” Patricia looked at all her new-found friends. “Goodbye, everybody. Thanks again.”

  Chiara smiled and blew her a kiss. “See ya.” The ringing phone spared them any more awkwardness as the two took their leave. “Here you go, Charley.”

  “Whitehorse here. What can I do for you? No shit! Would you spell that for me?” He hastily scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “And you know this guy how? Good God! Well, thank you, I think.” He hung up the phone and turned to his colleagues, who were staring at him in anticipation.

  “The FBI has pattern-matched the voice on the 911 call. The guy who assaulted Chloe is Alyosha Preobrazhensky, former KGB. Apparently, if there were an Olympics for assassins, he’d get the gold. The Feds gave up on him after drawing a blank for almost two decades. They thought he was finally dead. Nobody can believe he’s lived this long.”

  Esperanza spat into the wastebasket. “Who’s the sonofabitch working for?”

  “No proof, of course, but your guess is as good as mine.”

  “If it quacks like a duck,” said Dallas.

  “Indeed it does. Walks like one, too.”

  43. The Shrill of the Violin

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 2019. “Who the fuck are you?” the young man said, as the police handed him his personal belongings and let him go. The door he had just walked through closed behind him and locked with a loud metallic clank.

  “I am Al,” the man said in a heavily accented voice. “I just posted your bail so you can leave all this.” He waved his arm around the well-lighted vestibule. “Unless you would rather stay in jail. No? Then please come with me.” He tried to take him by the arm, but Ethan pulled away.

  “I’m not going back to that goddamn boat. That place is as much a jail as this. No fucking way.”

  “Your benefactor agrees. But there are reporters outside. Let me help you get through them. Stay close.”

  He opened the door, and they were greeted by a cacophony of shouts from newscasters, each vying for a scoop on the person they had labeled “the mystery man.” TV vans lined the street. Men and women with cameras and microphones were jockeying for position, as the old man ushered Ethan to his waiting car.

  “Ethan, what do you have to say about the charges they’re bringing against you?”

  “Ethan, did you really kidnap Patricia Carmody?”

  “Ethan, tell us who you are.”

  The men got into a black Mercedes and locked the doors. Reporters crowded around, tapping on the windows, clamoring for a story. The old man started the car and pulled away slowly. Ethan turned to watch the mob recede.

  “So where are we going anyway?”

  “Somewhere no one knows you.”

  “Well, I’m fucking starving, so you better pull this heap into the next restaurant we come to.”

  “Are you this rude naturally, or did you go to school for it?”

  “Don’t be a wise ass, old man. I know stuff. And if my so-called benefactor doesn’t treat me good, I’ll give the DA an earful.”

  “Of course you will. Once I am sure there are no reporters following us, I will find you a place to eat. And please fasten your seatbelt.”

  Ethan harrumphed and clicked the restraint into place. “Just make it fast. I’m fucking dying here.”

  “Indeed.”

  Several miles later, he pulled the car into the parking lot of Carol Jazzman’s Fine Dining.

  As he undid his seatbelt, Ethan snarled at him. “Just so you know. I’m ordering whatever I want to eat and drink, and you’re picking up the tab. Got that, old man?”

  “Certainly. I understand that Jazzman’s has an excellent reputation. Make it a meal to remember.”

  “I’m glad we agree on something.”

  They entered the restaurant and were led by a smiling server into a dining room that looked out over a small pond bordered by cattails and marsh grass. In the twilight, several mallard ducks were swimming by the shore, the green feathers on the male’s head gleaming in the setting sun.

  “This’ll do,” said Ethan. They sat at a table where a small candle burned next to a crystal bud vase that held a single red rose. He ordered a Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon from the extensive wine list to accompany the restaurant’s signature dish—Filet Mignon Oscar. A server dressed in a dark suit and tie brought the wine to the table and opened it for Ethan to taste. The older man declined a glass.

  “Aren’t you gonna have anything?”

  “Not just yet. When I have you all squared away, then I shall eat and drink.”

  “Suit yourself, but this is a fucking good wine. And I’ll bet the steak’ll be killer.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  When the Filet arrived, cooked to a perfect medi
um-rare, Ethan attacked it with a vengeance. He shoved forkfuls of it into his mouth, chewing noisily while washing it down with great swallows of wine. “You shoulda got a steak,” he told his companion. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Slow down,” the Russian cautioned. “Take your time and enjoy it. Who knows when you will eat like this again?”

  “I’ll let you treat me tomorrow, too. Where are we heading anyway?”

  “As I said, away from prying eyes and ears. Somewhere safe. I’ll put you in a motel for tonight and check with your benefactor.”

  “Are we talking about what’s-his-name? Volkov? Ooooo. I heard about him on the boat. Supposed to be a badass dude? I’m all scared. Can’t you see me shaking?” He raised his hands and mimicked a trembling motion.

  The Russian frowned. “The wine may be loosening your tongue. We should treat our elders with respect.”

  “Oh, yeah? Elders like you, old man? Why should I treat you with respect? You sound like a Russian immigrant, like those guys on the boat. And I’m not drunk, by the way.”

  “We often do not know what our elders have gone through—what makes them who they are.” He pursed his lips. “Or what they are capable of.”

  “I can guess what you’re capable of, you geriatric jerk. Let’s see…” Ethan looked up at the ceiling, then back at the man sitting across from him. “I’ll bet you’re capable of waking up every hour all night long to pee because your prostate’s gone bad. And you’re capable of eating prunes every morning so you can shit like you’re supposed to. How’s that? Want more?” He furrowed his brows and curled his lips in a sneer. “Al. Is that your real name? Well, Al, I’m guessing you’re not so capable of jerking off with that gimpy hand of yours.”

  “I do not wish to fight with you. Please, enjoy your meal.”

  “I’d enjoy it more if there was some bare-assed babe kneeling under the table, sucking my dick. Or maybe you’d like to do that for me?” He was beginning to slur his words.

  The Russian shook his head from side to side, exhaling deeply. With a gesture of his left arm, he motioned a server to the table. “May I have a Scotch, neat?”

  “Any preference, sir?”

  “Ardbeg 10 Year Old, if you have it. Otherwise, Macallan 12.”

  “Of course. Right away.” She walked briskly toward the bar in the other room.

  “So, I’m driving you to drink, old man? Can’t take it?”

  “You can be insufferable, but I will manage.”

  “You talk big words for a Russian. Think you’re smarter than me?”

  “Please do not bait me, Ethan. I have tried to provide you with a memorable meal. Good food. Good wine. You can relax when we get to the motel.”

  “I’ll want to bring a bottle back to the room.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  The server returned with his drink, and he sipped it gratefully. He raised the glass toward his charge. “Do you like Scotch?”

  “Never developed a taste for it. Maybe when I’m an old man like you.”

  “Maybe.”

  When Ethan finished his meal, the Russian paid for it with cash and left a generous tip for the server. Back on the road, he found a liquor store not far from the restaurant and accompanied Ethan inside, where the young man picked out a bottle of wine that was so expensive the shop kept it in a special locked cabinet.

  “We haven’t sold one of those in all the time I’ve worked here,” said the woman behind the counter. “This must be my lucky night. Let me get the key.”

  Ethan whispered, “Don’t go getting cheap on me now, Al. You’re paying for this, too.”

  When they returned to the Mercedes, Ethan began to complain again.

  “Where’s this fucking motel you’re taking me to?”

  “Not far. It is a little place. Inconspicuous.”

  The Stay-a-While Motel looked like a relic from long before the days of Jimmy Carter. As they parked in front of cabin 105, Ethan saw that the roof was in disrepair, the paint was peeling from the doors, and the broken neon sign was flickering V CAN Y to an empty lot.

  “What the fuck is this dump? I’m not staying here!”

  “One night only, I promise. You will be out of here in the morning. You have a perfect wine to tide you over. No reporters to disturb us.”

  “If I didn’t have such a full stomach and this bottle to look forward to, I’d kick your ass.”

  “Then I will consider myself fortunate. Come. I have the key. I checked in before I picked you up.”

  Ethan grumbled as he crossed the threshold. “If there’s bedbugs, I swear to God I’m beating the fucking shit out of you.” He put the bottle down on the dresser beside the ancient TV. “Hey! We forgot a fucking corkscrew. You’ll have to go get one from the manager.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Alyosha said, as he closed the door and latched it. “You have had enough to drink for what I have to do.”

  Whitehorse was back at the hospital that evening, accompanied by Dallas. Chloe had been transferred out of ICU an hour before they arrived, and they found her sitting up, sipping a chocolate milkshake. The large collar was still strapped around her neck. He took off his cap and jacket and laid them on the chair as he made the introductions. “Chloe, this is my friend Dallas, a retired cop who lives up in Tacoma now. We go way back.” He smiled at his friend and then turned back to his fiancée. “He’s gonna spend the night at our place until he heads back to Washington tomorrow. This magician just rescued our girl Patricia Carmody!”

  She extended her hand without the IV as far as the pain allowed. “Wow! Dallas, let me shake your hand. This case has been driving my man absolutely crazy.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Chloe,” he said, as he gave her hand a gentle shake. “Glad I could help.”

  Whitehorse stroked her cheek and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “We haven’t told the Press, but we put her into witness protection. She’s safe.” He lowered his head as if worried how she would respond to what he said next. When he looked at her again, his eyes shone with his love for her. “The FBI identified the guy who hurt you.” He saw her body stiffen. “Alyosha Preobrazhensky, a trained assassin, probably one of Volkov’s.”

  Her hands clutched the bedsheets. “Where is he now?”

  “Unknown. He’s been a ghost for years. FBI thought he was dead. And just before I left the office, I found out they have a tentative ID of body parts from a car bomb in Wyoming. Looks like Paul Drake has taken his final bow.”

  “My God, Charley!”

  Eager to change the subject, he said, “They give you any idea when they’re going to let you go home?”

  “Probably a couple of days. This damn Foley catheter comes out tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to pee sitting down again!” She put her drink on the rolling tray table. “OK. Here comes the national news.” She pointed to the TV hanging in the corner. “Let’s see what they have to say about your exploits.” She jacked up the volume on the remote.

  “Breaking news tonight from our correspondent, Laurel Bandon, in Washington State. Laurel?”

  “Good evening, Lester. I’m here at the jail in Anacortes, where a young man is about to be released after his arraignment earlier today. He’s been dubbed the ‘mystery man’ for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. Here he comes now.”

  Microphone in hand, she raced to intercept the handsome young man, but her way was blocked by another, much older man. She watched as the two men waded through the crowd of jostling reporters, refusing to answer any of the questions that were being hurled at them like rocks or snowballs.

  “And there he goes, Lester. I’m told his one million dollar bail was posted by Alex Porter, that older man you just saw with him. But this story gets even stranger. The defendant refused to say anything other than to plead not guilty to charges of kidnapping, rape, and sodomy. Known only as ‘Ethan,’ he seems to have been living completely off the grid for years—no driver’s license, no credit cards
, no Social Security Number the police can find. He’s a mystery man who’s been living on the luxury yacht Elysium in the San Juan Islands for at least the last year, possibly more. Here’s a good picture of him. Police are asking anyone who has any information about him to call the number you see on the screen.”

  Lester interrupted. “We’ll post that phone number on our website for our viewers. Laurel, can you tell us who owns that yacht where he’s been living?”

  “Believe it or not, Lester, a shell company. Police have yet to attach anyone’s name to it because it was acquired prior to 2016, when the Customer Due Diligence Rule went into effect. That law mandates banks to know the names of their customers so they could be released to law enforcement agencies upon request. But it’s not retroactive.

  “And there’s still more. The alleged victim of the kidnapping, Patricia Carmody, has disappeared. No one has seen her since her escape from Elysium.”

  “Well, stay on this story for us, Laurel. I’m sure we haven’t heard the last from our mystery man or Ms. Carmody.” He turned to face the camera. “In other news tonight…”

  Whitehorse was nodding. “Well, they got that much of the story right. Hey, Chloe! What’s the matter, honey?”

  She was weeping under the covers she had pulled over her head. “Turn it off, Charley!” she shrieked.

  He grabbed the remote from the tray table and did as she asked. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached for her hand. “What is it?” He could feel the bed shaking from her tremors.

  “That was him! That was him! Oh, God, that was the man who attacked me!”

  Whitehorse leaped from the bed. “Dallas! Call your guy in Washington. Alex Porter, my ass! They just released Ethan into the custody of an assassin! Volkov wants him dead!”

  Dallas ran out into the hallway, frantically pulling the phone from his pocket. Whitehorse embraced Chloe and held her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. The protective collar made it awkward.

  Her voice was wracked with sobs. Her body trembled convulsively. “Don’t leave me alone here tonight. Please. Stay with me.”