by Dave Stanton
“One of his rounds ricocheted off something, maybe the light fixture. Got me right above the collar bone. Right next to the top of my vest.”
“You’re bleeding pretty good.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, but he looked pale, and then he sat on the floor. “Go get that piece of shit,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “I got your back.”
I turned to Serj Volkov and grabbed his shirt from the front, and in a single motion, tore it free of his torso.
“Po’shyol ‘na hui,” he said, and though I didn’t know what the words meant, the insult in his tone was unmistakable. I dropped to my knee, my self-control gone in a rush, and drove my fist toward his face, but I pulled back at the last instant. “I’m tired of hearing your voice, but I need you awake,” I said.
Cody lifted his shotgun with his left hand and covered the hallway entrance while I pushed the coat off his shoulders and saw where the bullet had entered his body.
“The round passed all the way through,” I said, eying the entrance point above his collar bone. “It’s just a flesh wound.” The exit hole was in the meat of his trapezius muscle, just over where his body armor covered his back. Blood was trickling from both holes.
“Got any whiskey, doc?” Cody said, trying to smile.
I ignored the question and looped Volkov’s shirt under Cody’s armpit, then once again, before tying it tight on his chest.
“Hang in there, buddy,” I said, standing and pointing my Beretta down the empty hallway.
The four doors were all shut. The first door on the left was to Mia’s bedroom. I eased it open, ready to fire if the African slashed at me with his machete. But the room was empty. I quickly checked the closet, then moved back to the hallway.
Across from Mia’s room was the den, where Melanie had fled to. I looked at the two remaining doors, one to a bathroom, and the other to the master bedroom at the end. The African could be behind either door. Or, he could be in the den, with Melanie. It was also possible he scrambled out a window in the back and was trying to escape into the cold night.
“Melanie, I’m coming in,” I said. “Okay?”
No response.
I took one more look at the other two doors, then I turned the knob and pushed the door open with my toe.
The lights were off, but once the door swung all the way back, I could see the room was empty. I stepped inside and flipped the light switch. I spun in a circle, then my eyes fell on the desk drawer. Inside it was the release for the bookshelf that served as a barricade for the secret basement Jeff Jordan had built to both store food and house his gun safe.
For a moment I considered the possibility that Melanie was down there with the African. I didn’t know what had transpired in the fifteen minutes prior to our arrival. Melanie could have already revealed the hidden latch and opened the safe to allow the Volkovs and the Africans to search it. Her best option would have been to stall; tell them that diamonds and gold were buried on the property, but they’d need to wait until daybreak for her to pinpoint the location. But I was sure they had threatened her life and her mind would have been frozen with fear. In that condition, it would be difficult to think strategically.
I went to the desk, opened the drawer, and reached in, searching for the release lever. I was bent over, my right arm deep in the drawer, my automatic in my left hand. My fingers had just touched the lever when a shadow fell over me.
“Freeze or die,” a voice whispered.
I stared at the wall, my chin on the desk. I heard the door close quietly.
“Drop the gun,” the African said, speaking louder now, “or I’ll put a second hole in your ass.”
I hesitated. I was in an awkward position, bent over, facing away, and not knowing for sure if the African held a firearm. I estimated the chances at fifty-fifty. I briefly considered a turn and shoot maneuver, but I wasn’t willing to risk my life on a coin toss. Especially not with Cody Gibbons, injured or not, in the next room. I let the Beretta slide from my fingers to the carpet, then I slowly straightened, pulling my arm from the drawer.
“Turn around now, so I can see your cowardly face.”
I turned and saw I’d made the right call. The African held a .38 revolver. It looked freshly oiled and cleaned, which made a misfire unlikely. He pointed the gun at my face, then lowered it to my crotch.
“You’ll die soon, but you will suffer first,” he said. His eyes were deep set in his skull, and when he smiled his gums were pink against his dark skin. His chipped teeth looked feral, the lower incisors triangular and sharp. “Too bad I don’t have time to cut you to pieces. But you will suffer like the dog you are.”
I took a step to my left, turning my hip but keeping my chest square to him. We were only ten feet apart, and if he fired, I hoped to take the round in my vest. Or my hip as a worst case. As long as the shot wasn’t immediately disabling, I’d have a chance to get my hands on him before he could pull the trigger again.
“Your knees first, stupid boy,” he said, lowering the pistol again. “No more walking, ever, for you.” His eyes gleamed with an evil anticipation that seemed almost carnal.
“Don’t do it, my partner will take your head off.”
“I’ll kill him next. But first you die.” He straightened his arm, his revolver aimed at my right knee.
“If you want your diamonds—
My sentence was cut short by a thunderous blast from behind. I jumped to the left, startled, my hands outstretched in a defensive pose. The African’s mouth puckered into a circle, his eyes round with shock. A crimson stain was spreading from a black hole in the center of his chest. The .38 fell from his hand, then another blast sounded, and a second hole appeared an inch above the first.
The African emitted an odd groan that reminded me of a sound an animal might make, perhaps a mule’s bray. Then he dropped to his knees, his head touching the ground for a long moment, before he fell to the side, his sightless eyes locked forever on whatever private hell encapsulated his life.
I turned and saw a wisp of smoke curling from the center of the bookcase. Next came a clunking sound, and the bookcase swung open.
Melanie stepped into the room. In her hands was a Browning .30-06 hunting rifle. She held the big gun at port arms, its length reaching diagonally from her knee to aside her head. She stared at the body on the floor.
“Is—is he dead?”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking in disbelief. “Don’t look at him. Let’s set that over here.” I took the rifle from her hands.
“You see the hole,” she said, pulling the bookcase closed. She pointed to an inch wide square aligned with the top of a hardback book. I walked over and felt its edges with my finger.
“No one could tell it was there,” she said. “Jeff designed it that way. He said, if I was ever in trouble, to lock myself in and shoot anyone who came into the room.”
I released my breath. “That was good thinking on his part,” I said.
“I guess so,” she whispered. Then her eyes locked on the bloody body of the African. He lay on his side, one arm twisted beneath his torso, the ankles touching each other. His eyes were wide and milky white around the dark pupils.
“You got anything to cover his face?” I asked, glancing around the room.
She shook her head. “He was here that night. I recognized his voice. He’s the one who cut Jeff.” A solitary tear ran down her face. “I suppose I got even, huh?”
“Yeah, and you saved my ass, too,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
******
In the front room, Cody sat leaning against the wall next to Serj Volkov. Cody had fastened a belt around Volkov’s thigh and was holding it tight. Despite his injuries, Volkov’s face was impassive, as if to convey he was unworried about his predicament. Cody, on the other hand, was grimacing in pain.
“Melanie, meet my partner, Cody Gibbons,” I said. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Yes, and I know how to use it, too.�
� She knelt and looked at the blood stained cloth I’d tied around Cody’s wound.
“Can you come with me?” she asked Cody. “I’ll shoot you with painkiller and dress your wound.”
“You sure?” Cody said.
“I trained for this,” Melanie replied. “Part of being prepared.”
Cody looked at me, then rose and followed her down the hallway.
“How about the tourniquet?” Serj Volkov said. He was bare chested and his shoulders and pecs were chiseled and no doubt the result of disciplined work outs. His waist was without fat, the abdominal muscles toned and prominent.
“No problem, Serj,” I said, kneeling and cinching the belt tight above the wound in his thigh. “Let’s also tend to your hand.” I removed the sleeve still clinging to his arm and wrapped it around his damaged hand, gently covering the stub that remained of his thumb.
“The bitch said she had something for the pain, too,” he said, cutting his eyes toward the hallway.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” I said. “I think you’re gonna be okay, back to the gym in no time. As long as you answer a few questions first.”
“No deal,” he said, a forced smile on his face.
“You’re the only one in your group left alive, my friend. I wouldn’t take it for granted.”
“Everybody dies sometime.”
“I got to hand it to you Serj, you’re pretty tough.”
“You don’t know a thing about it,” he replied.
“Yeah, I do,” I said, rising. I brought my foot down on his bleeding hand.
He gritted his jaw and tried to remain silent, but his lips were twisted into an unnatural scowl and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“This can go on for a long time. It’s your call.”
“Eat shit and die,” he hissed.
I shifted my weight, then kicked at the bullet hole in his thigh. He screamed and began panting, his breath ragged and his heart beating visibly beneath the skin.
“I’m not even out of first gear yet, Serj. Tell me about the black man.”
I lifted my shoe from his hand. “Ready for round two? I asked. When he didn’t respond I stomped his hand and pivoted. His eyes jerked wide, and he ineffectually punched at my leg as a cry escaped his lips. A moment later surrender flooded his face, his eyes pleading, spit bubbling from the corners of his lips. And then answers poured from his mouth as if he couldn’t speak quickly enough.
******
When Cody and Melanie emerged from the hall a few minutes later, they were grinning, and if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn they just had quick sex in the bathroom.
“What did you shoot him with?” I asked.
“A double dose of lidocaine. It numbs the tissue and reduces bleeding.”
“She is one hell of a nurse, by god,” Cody said.
“Cody told me you found Mia,” Melanie said. “Is she, is she okay?”
“She looked fine, Melanie. I don’t think they hurt her.” I almost added, not physically, anyway.
Melanie smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. “Oh my god, thank you,” she said, her voice cracking. “Thank you so much.” She tried to continue, but then she dropped her head and put her hands to her face. Her shoulders shuddered, and she tried to mute a sob.
“I want to hear her voice,” she said between sniffles. “Can I call her?”
“There, there,” Cody said. “Sure you can, she’s with the police in Vegas. I’ll get you the number.” He put his arm around her as he worked his phone, but he wasn’t watching and his fingers bumped her breast.
“Hey!” she said, recovering in an instant. She spanked his butt with a quick swat.
“Sorry, my bad,” Cody said. “How’s he doing?” he added, nodding at Serj, who lay flat on his back, eyes closed. I’d tied the belt tight above the wound in his leg.
“I think he fainted,” I said. “But first he told me what I needed to know.”
“Everything?” Cody asked.
“Yup.”
“Melanie,” Cody said. “Go ahead and use my phone. But when you’re done, I’d say celebration is called for. We all deserve a drink.”
“You’re already doped up,” I said.
Cody ignored my remark. “You got any booze in the house?” he asked Melanie.
“Maybe a bottle of wine.”
“That’s it?” Cody said. “Just wine?”
“We never kept liquor in the house. Or beer.”
Cody frowned, as if it was the worst news he’d heard all day. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t help laughing. Melanie looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but before I could comment, Cody said, “Screw it, then. Bring on the vino.”
******
While Melanie called Vegas PD, Cody and I walked out to the front yard. We stood in the cold light and he pulled a cigarette from his pack. He was searching his pockets for a light when my cell rang. It was Abbey, reporting she was on the way back with the Cedar City police. I handed my phone to Cody.
“Tell them the situation here is under control,” Cody said. “That’s right, Abbey, they’re out of commission. What? No, it’s all taken care of. Tell them to keep their guns in their holsters.”
“Better enjoy the calm while it lasts,” Cody said after he hung up. He gave me a smoke and we sat on the steps, looking out over the smoldering squad cars. The scene had a surreal quality, as if a war zone had been transplanted into the most unlikely of locales. Smoke still drifted upward from the blackened cruisers, and I dragged from my cigarette, hoping to mask the odor wafting from the yard. At least three patrolmen lay dead among the twisted wrecks, two of them burnt beyond recognition. To my left was the body of the gunman I’d shot when we first arrived, and inside the house, two more corpses were staining the floors. And I couldn’t honestly say Serj Volkov wouldn’t soon join them, for he’d lost a significant amount of blood and had fallen unconscious just as he’d answered my final question.
A holocaust survivor I met years ago had told me a story about his experience in the death camp. He’d found a secret cache of food, and to access it he needed to sneak through a room stacked with rotting corpses. The horror of the room never fazed him. The desire to survive deadened him to the fright or revulsion a person would normally experience. The survival instinct made all else trivial.
Sitting on the steps facing the yard, I wondered if I was experiencing the same phenomenon. For I felt nothing but numbness. Later, I knew I’d feel varying degrees of satisfaction, relief, triumph, and probably also guilt and regret, for death always brought that. But for the moment I was insensate.
Cody, on the other hand, was behaving as he always did after a shooting, which was not a great departure from how he behaved in most circumstances; he wanted a drink, and he hated drinking alone. When Melanie joined us a minute later, she held a serving tray with three glasses of red wine, and despite his proclaimed preference for hard booze, Cody didn’t hesitate to grab a glass. He held it by the stem and sniffed the contents suspiciously. “I guess it will have to do,” he said.
I took my own glass and Melanie sat between us. No one said anything at first, and I considered a toast, but I was out of words for the moment. But Melanie wasn’t.
“Here’s to you, Dan, for standing by me and rescuing Mia,” she said. “And to you for your help, Cody.” We clinked glasses, and I patted Melanie on the back, hoping to both console and thank her. And then I finally drank, ending my dry stint with a glass of merlot while sitting with my best friend and the woman who saved my life. I drank slowly, waiting for the cops in the brittle cold of the Utah desert, trying to ignore the grim carnage that lay before us.
CHAPTER 12
We sat listening as the sirens grew louder, until we could see bursts of red and blue light flashing against the hillsides and the low clouds. When they finally roared into the clearing, Melanie jumped up, waving her arms over her head as if signaling a boat from a deserted island. The headlights poured over us,
and her distorted shadow danced frenetically against the house. Then she seemed to realize the pointlessness of her gyrations and abruptly sat again.
And that’s the way the Cedar City authorities found us, sitting on the porch, huddled in our coats, finishing the last of the red wine. There were three blue-and-whites, two Ford SUVs, a fire truck, and an ambulance. The firemen and paramedics ran to the charred patrol cars, while the policemen, followed by Abbey, converged on us.
“Dear, do you have another bottle?” Cody asked Melanie.
I spotted Taylor Humphries, the Cedar City plainclothes detective. He wore an oversize, puffy down jacket over the same pleated khaki pants and red rugby shirt he was wearing when I first met him. His light blue eyes were wide and jittery.
Next to him was a man about fifty with a square face and a five o’clock shadow. He started introducing himself as the Chief of Police, but stopped when I jerked my thumb toward the front door.
“Three bodies inside. Two dead, one might still be alive.”
The chief gave rapid orders, and three uniformed cops went through the front door, guns drawn. Abbey walked around the remaining five policemen and sat next to her father. When she saw the empty wine glass, she rolled her eyes. “Really?” she said.
“We’ll need to interview you separately,” the chief said. He pointed at me. “You’re in charge?”
“That’s right.”
I followed him to one of the unmarked cars and stood in the glare of its headlights.
“I understand you were hired by Melanie Jordan’s parents, to investigate the murder of her husband.”
“And her daughter’s kidnapping.”
“So how did it come down to this?” He spoke through clenched teeth and his words were clipped. He thrust his arm at where the paramedics were working to extract the two unfortunate officers from one of the burnt squad cars.
“The Volkovs, a Russian crime family from Vegas, had partnered with an African national who came to the U.S. to try to recover diamonds that were stolen from his clan. Turns out the diamonds ended up in Jeff Jordan’s possession.”