“Don’t you worry about how I’ll react,” he said. “Just get me a copy of that photo.”
“That was the Powell University Historical Archives to be more precise.”
Jake shut off his engine and climbed out. “And?”
“The photo was taken in the late 1800s.”
Jake stopped. “Say that again.”
“In Slavonia,” Danny said. “Sound familiar?”
Jake said nothing. Felt goose bumps travel from the top of his head down to his toes.
“It’s true, Jake. You can check it out online yourself.”
He listened as Danny gave him the Web site information. “This is nuts,” he said. “Who the hell are we dealing with here?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to find out. We’re headed to Allenwood.”
“Why Allenwood?”
“To follow up on a lead Anna found in Susan’s notebook. Somebody we’re hoping can shed some light on all this. Are you in?”
“Jesus, Danny, I’m running on empty right now. How solid is this lead?”
“On a scale from one to ten? About a four.”
Not very promising, Jake thought. He stood on his walkway trying to decide between a potential wild-goose chase and some much-needed slumber. If he remembered correctly, Allenwood was a fairly good distance away, and the drive wouldn’t be short. And if something more substantial broke here while he was gone, he’d have to run his investigation long-distance. Not something he wanted to do.
Besides, McBride was a professional. If this lead of hers panned out, he trusted that she’d ask all the right questions.
“Think I’m gonna pass, Cuz. I’m beat.”
“Sorry to hear that. But don’t worry about it; we’ll rent a car and let you know what happens.”
“Assuming you can wake me from my coma.”
They said their good-byes and Jake clicked off, trudging toward the front door.
He was already inside, the door closed behind him, when he realized that somebody was sitting in his armchair.
Jake froze at the sight of him:
A small, Hispanic-looking man with two black eyes and a badly broken nose, wearing a neatly tailored suit. He was holding a Beretta 9mm, with a suppressor attached.
“Where are your friends?” he asked.
“Let me guess. You’re not the owner of the Tercel.”
“I work for Mr. Troy.”
“That would’ve been my next guess,” Jake said.
“Your cousin and the FBI woman. Where are they?”
“Sitting with a police stenographer as we speak, you stupid fuck. Which means your employer is shit out of-”
The Beretta went off with a small pop.
Jake felt a dull, burning thud in his chest as he flew back, hit the door hard, then slid to the carpet.
Something felt loose inside him. Loose and leaking. And as the light started to dim, he knew he was about to get more sleep than he’d bargained for.
Thoughts about past and future lives suddenly filled his head, and if Danny was right about all this nonsense, he wondered what the next life would have in store for him.
In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter.
Just as long as Ronnie was there.
“ The Deputy is dead,” Arturo said.
The voice on the line sounded thin and nasal. “What about the others?”
“He was alone.”
“Shit.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame. You had them all in one place last night.”
“What was I supposed to do? Pop them in my car? Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused. “So where do we go from here?”
“Not to worry,” Arturo said. “You have the ability to track a cellular GPS signal, yes?”
“I’ll have to jump through a few hoops.”
“Then you had better start jumping and put a trace on Pope’s cell phone.”
He recited the number from memory.
The voice on the line raised half an octave. “This is all getting a little out of hand, don’t you think? How many bodies do we have to pile up before Troy is happy?”
“As I recall, Captain Billingsly, you were the one who came to Mr. Troy, looking for a handout. Are you dissatisfied with the arrangement?”
“I–I didn’t say that,” Billingsly sputtered.
“Then stick to your commitment and don’t ask questions. We don’t like people who ask questions.”
“Sorry,” Billingsly said. “I’ll get right to work on that number.”
Arturo looked down at the dead man and smiled.
Compared to him, The Ghost had been a rank amateur.
4 2
In the end, it took them four hours to drive to Allenwood.
Anna rented the car, a Nissan Pathfinder, on her bureau account, which, to her surprise, hadn’t yet been suspended.
They took the I-15 past the Mojave National Preserve, then cut over to the 58, through Barstow and Boron and California City.
As she drove, Anna looked out at the desolate desert landscape and again wondered how people found themselves out here, living so far away, it seemed, from civilization. Yes, they had their shopping malls and their satellite TV, but the sun would bake you alive and turn your skin as rough as alligator hide, and she just couldn’t fathom the attraction this part of the world held for those who lived here.
About halfway through the drive, they switched off, Pope taking the wheel for a spell. Anna settled back in the passenger seat, trying to get some sleep, but was too keyed up to manage it.
She knew that Pope was doubtful about this trip. That he thought a visit to Antonija Zala was most likely a waste of time. And she appreciated his willingness to come with her anyway.
When she looked at him, sitting behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, she thought about how natural they were together. As if, without even knowing it, they had been searching for each other all of their lives. All of their many lives, perhaps.
She imagined herself as a seventeen-year-old Roma girl, posing for Jonathan O’Keefe’s camera, and later, sneaking off in the darkness to be with him. To feel his hands upon her, just as she’d felt Pope’s hands last night.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he’d said to her this morning.
And although she felt the same, she hadn’t been able to express it. Despite what they’d been through together, despite her complete abandon when they had made love, she couldn’t commit herself beyond the moment, because she had no idea how all of this would turn out.
And Red Cap’s success rate did not encourage her.
Unlike Pope, Anna didn’t think this trip was a waste of time. Knew in her gut that Antonija Zala would have the answers she sought. Just as she’d known she was meant to be here.
She felt as if she was being guided by a sixth sense. Some sort of cosmic homing device had been planted in her brain and she was zeroing in on the signal. And no matter what anyone else might think, she had to follow that signal until she found its source.
They saw the amusement park well before they reached the city proper.
Its rusted, steel-framed roller coaster was easily visible from the highway, standing out in stark relief against the desert sky.
Close by stood the mountain itself, all plaster and peeling paint, the sign atop it missing several of its letters:
B G MOU T N
It was surrounded by a sagging, weatherworn aluminum fence, topped with several coils of barbed wire.
Anna was saddened by the sight of it. It seemed to represent hope gone sour. Someone’s dream destroyed by time and indifference. A lifeless body lying on the side of the road, decaying in the hot desert sun, as the cars whizzing past paid little or no attention to it.
She thought about Jillian Carpenter and little Suzie Oliver riding that roller coaster, screaming in terror and delight as their car rose and dipped and turned. And in a way, this park represented them quite well.
One dead. One b
roken.
Pope pointed toward a highway sign. “There’s the turnoff.” It read: ALLENWOOD.
“This is it,” Anna said. “I can feel it. The place where it all comes together.”
Or falls apart, she thought.
It was an old, mid-sized city whose better days were behind it. Its population was well into the thousands, but was only half what it had been in its heyday.
Anna had looked it up on Wikipedia, which had described it as one of the fifteen poorest cities in the state. Big Mountain had been its stab at pulling itself out of a sustained economic slump. There had been an upturn in the beginning, but when the park ultimately failed, the fallout had been disastrous, leaving a city whose residents relied largely on welfare and public assistance.
Antonija Zala lived in the heart of what a dilapidated sign said was GYPSY TOWN.
“Not very PC,” Pope said as they drove past.
The streets were dusty and pockmarked, the storefronts in serious need of paint and repair. Some of the windows were boarded up. Others mended with masking tape.
“One-twenty-three Bronson Avenue,” Anna said, consulting the directions she’d printed out. “Turn left at the stop sign.”
Pope made the turn and drove slowly down a street that was more or less identical to the previous one-except for one major difference, which they nearly found out about too late.
“Shit!” he shouted, slamming the brakes.
They came to a skidding halt just inches from a large sinkhole, and Anna felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. The hole-more of a trench, really-spread all the way across the street, making it impossible to go farther by car.
Letting out a shaky breath, Pope backed up, then pulled the Pathfinder to the curb.
“A few barricades and a couple of warning signs would’ve been nice,” Anna said.
Pope shrugged. “We’re probably the first traffic this place has seen in months.” He killed the engine and unlocked the doors. “Looks like we’re on foot.”
Fortunately, the sidewalk was still intact. They climbed out of the Pathfinder and continued up the street, checking the addresses as they went.
Number 123 was set back from the street, not immediately visible until you were right up on it. It was a large, ramshackle Victorian, a remnant of an older neighborhood, whose owners had apparently refused to cooperate when it came time to revamp and rebuild.
There was a sign in the front window and Anna felt a stab of disappointment the moment she saw it.
It featured a red neon palm with the words FORTUNE-TELLER above it.
And beneath, in smaller print, it read:
MADAM ZALA KNOWS ALL
4 3
“ Madam Zala knows all,” Pope said. “So much for that lead.”
Anna ignored him.
Despite her disappointment, at least she knew she’d been right to come here. Her sixth sense was tingling now, telling her she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Either that, or it was warning her. She couldn’t be sure which.
A set of dilapidated steps led to the front porch and a tattered screen door.
“You sure you want to do this?” Pope asked, eying the place warily.
“I’m sure.”
Without even realizing it, Anna grabbed his hand as they climbed. When they got to the porch, they stood there a moment, unable to see past the screen.
“Come in, come in,” a voice said. Female. Warm. Friendly. “Madam Zala has been expecting you.”
“I’ll bet she has,” Pope muttered, just loud enough for Anna to hear.
Ignoring him again, she pulled the screen door open, and they stepped inside. With the storefronts on either side shading it from the sun, the place was dimly lit, and it took a moment for Anna’s eyes to adjust.
When they did, she saw a modest but tastefully decorated living room, full of furniture that had likely been there since the house was first built.
An ornate sofa faced the door, and an attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty sat smiling up at them.
Antonija Zala, no doubt.
For some reason-perhaps because of the photographs she’d seen-Anna had expected her to be wearing a shawl and a long skirt. But to Anna’s surprise, she wore muted pink slacks and a bright green tube top, looking much like a relic of the 1970s.
“You’ve come for a reading, yes?” the woman said. Her accent was vaguely Eu ro pe an, just like Red Cap’s.
Before coming here, Anna had wondered how she’d handle this. Show her credentials and question the woman as if she were a suspect? Or simply let it play out naturally?
A direct confrontation, she’d decided, would only force Zala to put her guard up. Better to try to engage her in conversation, then ease into the subject of Red Cap.
In preparation, Anna had kept her Glock hidden under her blouse, nestled at the small of her back. She was just another tourist.
“Yes,” she said, in answer to the woman’s question. “Can you help me?”
“Help? Perhaps not. Advise? Yes.” The woman’s gaze shifted between them. “Just one of you? Or both?”
“Just me,” Anna said.
“But I’d like to sit in,” Pope told her.
The woman held out a hand, palm upturned. “Fifty dollars.”
Anna and Pope exchanged looks; then Pope brought out his wallet and opened it.
“Twenty,” he said.
The woman frowned. “Thirty-five.”
Pope pulled out a twenty and a ten and laid them on the outstretched palm. “Take it or leave it.”
The hand closed with a snap, folding the bills, fingers tucking them into her tube top. She gestured to a nearby doorway with a beaded curtain.
“In there,” she said. “I will be with you in a moment.”
They sat in silence at a small round table, covered with a lacy cloth, a single, unlit candle at its center. The walls were blank. No photos. No paintings. No mirrors. The window to their right faced the crumbling gray brick of the neighboring building, close enough to touch.
Madam Zala had been gone for more than a moment. Closer to five minutes, actually.
“Probably making sure the bills aren’t counterfeit,” Pope said.
Then a toilet flushed somewhere inside the house and a few seconds later the curtain of beads parted with a rattle as Madam Zala returned, taking a seat opposite them.
She was carrying something wrapped in a blue scarf.
Anna shot Pope a glance, knowing he must be thinking that this was a waste of time. But she was convinced that Susan had written the name on the back of Chavi’s photograph for a reason, and the least she could do was let this thing play out, for better or worse.
Madam Zala reached to a dimmer switch on the wall behind her and turned the lights low, then lit the candle and moved it to one side.
Placing the scarf at the center of the table, she unwrapped it to reveal a deck of tarot cards, which she extended to Anna.
“Please shuffle them.”
Anna took the cards. There were twenty or so, but they were larger than normal and handling them felt a bit awkward. She did her best to shuffle them, then handed them back to Madam Zala.
The woman squared the cards. “You have a question for me?”
“Question?” Anna asked.
“Most who come here seek answers, yes? Without a question, the cards cannot guide you.” She glanced at Pope, then returned her gaze to Anna. “Something about your love life, perhaps?”
“I just want to know my future,” Anna said.
“That could cover many things. Is there something specific you’re concerned about?”
Anna thought about this. “There’s someone new in my life. A stranger. Can you tell me about him?”
Madam Zala nodded, then cut the deck and dealt several cards faceup on the table, arranging them in an elaborate layout. Each card carried a number in the corner, along with daggers and swords and naked goddesses and New Agey symbols. Anna had no i
dea what any of it meant.
“The Major Arcana,” Madam Zala said. “Each represents one of life’s journeys.” She pointed to a card, showing a man with a wand. “The Magician represents the journey of will. You have been weakened by recent events, only to gather strength and rally, your will growing stronger with each passing hour.”
She pointed to another card, showing an old bearded man. “But the Hermit crosses before you, representing caution. Fear. Prudence. Ignore him at your peril.”
Then another card, this one showing a man hanging upside down from a tree. “The Hanged Man,” she continued. “The symbol of sacrifice. To achieve the goal you wish to achieve your sacrifice will be great. Perhaps greater than you’re willing to accept.”
“What does any of this have to do with the stranger?” Anna asked.
“Patience,” the woman said, then pointed to yet another card. A skeleton holding a scythe. “Here is your stranger. The Death card. He is the cause of these things. The reason you have been put to the test.”
Anna sucked in a breath.
“But do not fear,” Madam Zala continued. “This card merely represents change. Transformation. Your life has been altered in significant ways, and you must adapt and change or suffer the consequences.”
Anna now wished that she had simply gone for the direct approach. She’d always thought of fortune-telling as a con game, designed to part unsuspecting fools from their money. What Madam Zala had just told her, however, was eerily accurate. Then again, it was also fairly generic and might apply to anyone who sat in this chair.
Enough of this, Anna thought. Time to get down to business.
Taking the photo of Chavi out of her pocket, she laid it on the table.
“What about this one?” she asked. “What does she represent?”
Madam Zala froze, staring at the photo, then her head jerked up, her gaze meeting Anna’s. “Who are you?”
“A woman on a journey,” Anna said, then unfolded the Temptress and Slave print-out and placed it in front of Madam Zala, pointing to the boy in the wagon. “And this is the stranger I seek.”
Madam Zala’s eyes widened. She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over as she backed away from the table. The candle wobbled, threatening to fall.
Kill Her Again Page 23