Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  Fuck that.

  I unbolted the front door, threw it open, and ran out onto the porch and into the blinding glare of powerful searchlights. I flew down stone steps, bare feet barely touching, to the snowy ground.

  I heard Bogdan’s heavy steps behind me as he hit the porch.

  Run.

  Legs pumping, footsteps behind me.

  Run.

  Closer now.

  Ghostly words over a loudspeaker. “Drop your weapons, put your hands in the air, and get down on the ground.”

  Do it.

  I let the knife slip out of my hand, put my hands in the air, and fell to my knees in the snow and the ice, then dropped face-first into the snow, sliding forward.

  Pounding feet thundered behind me.

  I glanced back, a huge shadow closing fast.

  Dear God, I’m going to die.

  The air exploded with gunshots.

  Too many to count.

  Deafening.

  Oh my God, they’re shooting at me.

  There was a thud close behind me, as if a heavy log had fallen.

  The gunshots stopped, but the sound still echoed in my ears.

  I managed to move my face just far enough to see.

  Bogdan, lying still, eyes open, blood staining the snow and the slush and the ice.

  Dead.

  For real this time.

  I looked back down the hill and watched as the cops crept up toward me in slow motion, guns drawn, focused on whatever danger waited for them in the house.

  I wanted to shout out to them but couldn’t find my voice.

  They’re all gone. They’ve escaped into the tunnel.

  Suddenly, multiple gunshots, muffled, distant, too fast to count, like the finale of a fireworks display, echoed through the dark woods.

  The cops kept coming, slowly, wary, while weapons exploded, unseen, farther down the hill.

  I turned back to look at Bogdan’s body again, his dead hand outstretched, almost touching my bare foot.

  I was horrified.

  Bogdan’s eyes blinked.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Every cop car on that hill was either Connecticut State Police or FBI. Except for one.

  I sat wrapped in a blanket in the backseat of the only Sheffield Police cruiser on Oak Hill. Mike Dillon sat next to me, holding my hand while I did my best to stop shivering and hyperventilating.

  “The EMTs are going to take you to the hospital here in Brockton just to check you over. You’ll be out in a couple of hours, and then I’ll take you home.”

  I leaned over and put my head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “You know that once we’re certain you’re up to it, the FBI is going to want to spend a few hours asking you questions.”

  “A few hours?”

  I felt him shrug. “It’s FBI. It’s how they work.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  There was a knock on the window. John’s face appeared on the other side of the glass.

  Mike pointed and hollered, “Get in the front.” Then he leaned in close and said, “I’ll let this guy tell you.”

  I felt the momentary flash of cold when John opened the passenger’s side front door.

  I was pleasantly surprised when Shana Neese, wearing the same style insulated leather coat as John, slid into the driver’s seat of the cruiser. There was a wire cage separating the front and back seat of the cruiser. They both peeked at us through the black grid.

  Shana smiled at me. “How you doing, baby?”

  “Peachy. Mike was just telling me that John’s the one who figured out I was here.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “When Shana and I got what we thought was your text, we found your car last night in Danbury using the GPS. Then we went back to your place. I still have a key, by the way. Oh, and I walked Tucker last night and again early this morning.”

  “Did you feed him?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. I think he misses you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Shana spoke up. “You have a lovely home, Genie.”

  All I could manage was a weak smile.

  John continued. “I pulled out my laptop and went through the Caviness notebook, page by page. There were several notations on a regular basis that referred to this house and Merlin Finn. I looked up the owner, and right up until this week, the house was owned by Bristol Finn, Merlin’s wife.”

  Mike spoke up. “The feds had this place under surveillance right up until the place was sold. With the money they got from the sale, they left for Myrtle Beach.”

  I said, “I’ve got a news flash for you. After they left here, they moved right back in, like termites you can’t get rid of.”

  Mikes eyes got wide. “They were in there?”

  “I saw Bristol myself. She was leading everyone into the escape tunnel her husband had built.”

  John nodded and continued. “I looked up who bought this place. It was Corsair Properties.”

  “Who also owns the pill mill,” I mentioned.

  “And is a subsidiary of Wyatt Investments.”

  I cleared my throat. “Corsair and Valentin Tolbonov are one in the same. And Wyatt Investments is laundering money for the Russian mob on a global level.”

  “Connecting the dots, Corsair, Wyatt Investments, Wolfline Management, the Sheffield Meridian, I concluded the Tolbonovs were in this up to their necks.”

  Mike squeezed my hand. “Somehow, John got my home number and convinced me to get a DNA sample rush ordered from what we were certain was Bogdan Tolbonov’s body. I burned through a lot of favors getting it done in the middle of the night.”

  I shook my head. My voice was still little more than a whisper. “You found out it wasn’t Bogdan.”

  John gestured with his thumb toward the stone house. “Obviously.”

  I was starting to warm up from the car’s heater and the shared body warmth from Mike Dillon’s proximity. I told them, “The body we found was Charlie Tomasso.”

  John nodded appreciatively. “I recalled what you’d said about Bristol Finn not closing up this dungeon, even though she’d suffered mightily in it. It made me think that the buyers wanted it for something. I figured this would be where the Tolbonovs would bring you.”

  I could have given him a kiss right on the mouth just then if we hadn’t been separated by the wire mesh.

  Mike said, “At first light, feds put drones in the air and took an aerial look at this property, saw all the vehicles, were able to run some plates. Most of them belong to Wolfline.”

  “You got the address from the notebook,” I whispered. “The fucking notebook.”

  John smiled. “It saved your life.”

  Recalling the footsteps in the dark basement and the tunnel door being thrown open, I said. “How many bad guys did you get?”

  Mike answered. “All of them. The drones spotted the tunnel entrance in the side of the hill before we moved into place. SWAT was waiting for them when they came out.”

  “Arrested?”

  Mike shook his head. “They came out shooting. Seven were killed. Five are in critical condition, in custody. We’re still sorting out IDs.”

  “What about Valentin?”

  John spoke up. “Caught in the crossfire. He’s dead. I identified him myself.”

  Shana whispered, “Good riddance.”

  A sense of relief washed over me like warm bathwater. Recalling his blinking eyes, I asked, “What about Bogdan? He’s dead too, right?”

  Mike, John, and Shana all exchanged glances. Finally, it was John who answered. “He’s still alive.”

  Dear God, no.

  Mike continued. “Critical condition. He’s on his way to the hospital as well. We’re not s
ure how many bullets he took, but when he left here, he was still breathing, barely.”

  I was suddenly gripped with dread. I heard myself groan.

  John saw my distress. “Genie, we’re not sure if he’s going to pull through. Even if he does, EMTs say his spinal cord was shattered. He’ll be a paraplegic for the rest of his life.”

  Shana hissed. “In a wheelchair, in prison. With the Aryan Brotherhood knowing that he killed Merlin Finn. His own private hell.”

  * * *

  “Genie!” Caroline must have been waiting at the front window, because when Mike dropped me off, she came running out of the house. She practically threw herself at me in the driveway. “I was so scared for you.”

  I clung to her. “Me too, baby. Let’s get inside.”

  Once we were in our living room, I shed my coat, picked up Tucker, and we went into the kitchen. “Mike told me on our way here that you guys flew back early.”

  “Once we heard you were missing, Aunt Ruth immediately booked our flights back.”

  I never thought I’d say this.

  God bless Aunt Ruth.

  “Gotta love her. Did she get over the feeling that someone was following you?”

  Caroline grinned. “Somebody really was following us. Or Ruth, anyway. Someone who saw her in the restaurant the first night we were in Aspen. His name’s Andy Savarese. He owns a wine shop in town. And he’s incredibly shy. He wanted to meet Aunt Ruth but couldn’t get the courage up while we were at dinner.”

  “So he followed you?”

  “Kind of romantic.”

  “Kind of creepy.”

  “Anyway, he finally got around to introducing himself. Ruth is thinking about going back to Aspen for a long weekend.”

  “Good for her.”

  Without saying anything, Caroline went to the cupboard and pulled a glass out. Then she went to the freezer and took a chilled bottle of Absolut, opened it and poured some, then dropped in three ice cubes. “Here.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her face was serious. “With what you went through, I thought you could use this.”

  I took it from her and sat down at the table. “Where’d you get the vodka?”

  “I had Aunt Ruth stop on our way from the airport and pick it up. I thought that if you were alive, I wouldn’t ever bug you about your drinking anymore.”

  I pushed the drink away from me, got back up, and hugged her again. “Don’t you ever stop bugging me. I love you so much.”

  “Hey, it’s Christmas Eve. Want to open the presents we gave to each other?”

  “I’d like that.”

  She dashed upstairs to her room to fetch the present I’d given her before she left for Aspen. The gift she’d handed to me still sat on the counter next to the toaster oven where I’d put it the day she left.

  I went to get it and poured my drink down the sink.

  When Caroline came back into the kitchen, she was holding the small box I’d wrapped. “Now?”

  “Yeah, you first.”

  She sat at the table, Tucker at her feet, tail wagging as if the present was a treat for him. Caroline opened it. “A locket?”

  “Open it.”

  She cracked open the gold heart. “It’s Daddy.”

  I’d purchased the gold locket on Black Friday after Thanksgiving. The photo was of Kevin smiling into the camera.

  She took the locket, undid the clasp, and placed it around her neck. “Thank you, Genie. I love it. Now open yours.”

  It was about the size of a small book wrapped in green-and-red paper with a scarlet bow. I carefully opened in and saw that it was a framed photograph. It was of Kevin and me. He was in a suit, frayed at the cuffs and worn from too many dry cleanings.

  But dear God, he was handsome in it.

  I was in a black dress that showed off my cleavage and my legs. I wanted to be sexy without being slutty.

  I was trying to impress him that night.

  I muttered, “This is from the first time I met you. Right here in this kitchen. I was driving your father and me to a fundraiser that night.”

  The photo appeared to have been taken from the kitchen doorway, surreptitiously, while Kevin and I were talking in front of the refrigerator. It wasn’t a professional photograph by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the only photo in the world of the two of us when we were together as a couple.

  Tears streamed down my face, and I started to cry.

  Not just a little.

  Full out shoulder-shaking sobs.

  Caroline came up and hugged me. “Why are you crying?”

  The stress on Oak Hill, nearly being killed, the escape, the gunshots…all caught up to me.

  And then the photo I never knew existed.

  “It’s just that I love you so much.”

  * * *

  I came downstairs on Christmas morning and found that sometime during the night, Caroline had been in the attic and brought down some decorations. We didn’t have a tree, but she’d hung ornaments on the shades of our table lamps and hung lights in the front window.

  John had promised to help me decorate. We just didn’t get the time.

  I thought about him. I liked having him around.

  Would we be working together at Lodestar Analytics?

  I made us breakfast, and then I sat down and wrote the story about Oak Hill at the kitchen table. Then I sent it to Ben with a note saying, “Here’s your Christmas present. By the way, you were right. I have proof that Galley knew about the mall. Ho ho ho.”

  What I didn’t tell Ben was that John Stillwater, while he was trying to figure out where I was being kept, discovered that Wyatt Investments was a majority stockholder in Galley Media.

  Confirmed by Valentin Tolbonov.

  I sent Ben that file as well.

  My cell phone rang, and I saw that it was Mike. Before I could say anything, he barked, “There’s a rumor going around that you’re taking a new job.”

  “I gave my notice two days ago.”

  In a softer tone. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll still be around. Just won’t be doing the police beat for the Post. It’s not like I’m moving away.”

  “Good. I like having you here.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  He added, “Let’s grab dinner some night.”

  Really?

  “What about Vicki?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure how that’s working out. You know…the age difference and all.”

  I smiled. “Dinner sounds good, Mike.”

  Right after we said goodbye, I got a text from Shana Neese:

  I’m having a little get-together on New Year’s Eve. I’d love it if you could join us. It’s always a very special party.

  I’ll bet it is.

  Oh, and I think John might be looking for a date. Got any thoughts?

  I smiled to myself.

  I love Christmas.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my publisher, Barbara Peters, and my editor, Annette Rogers, from Poisoned Pen Press, who were there to help me make this book a much stronger story. You ladies are terrific to work with, and I value your input more than you’ll ever know.

  I’d like to thank my fabulous agent, Kimberley Cameron, for pulling me out of the slush pile and matching me with a wonderful publisher. Through your incredible patience, grace, and friendship, you’ve changed my life. I’ll always be grateful!

  I’d like to thank Judie Szuets and Debra Hanson, two wonderful people I used to work with back in my newspaper days. Your voices continue to be inside my head when I write dialogue for Geneva Chase.

  I’d like to thank Dawn Brock from Coastal Press who, when I needed yet another hard copy of the book to
work from, would drop everything and print a copy.

  Thank you, Allie Miller, for the author’s photo and making me look good.

  And a shout-out to Bucky Oliver at the Boathouse at Front Street Village in Beaufort, North Carolina, who let me scramble around his marina’s massive forklift and take it for a spin (with an experienced driver, of course).

  I’d like to thank my incredible wife, Cindy Schersching, for her love, encouragement, and patience. You give me the confidence and the space to keep on writing.

  About the Author

  Photo by Allie Miller Photography

  Thomas Kies has had a long career working for newspapers and magazines, primarily in New England and New York. He lives and writes on a barrier island on the coast of North Carolina with his wife, Cindy, and Lilly, their shih tzu.