Under a Black Sky (Part of the Daniel Trokics Series)

by Inger Wolf

  "What if Connolly was lying?" Trokic said. "What if it's not him, what if it's his brother hanging around this gravesite? What if we're close to a place of his around here? Everything points to Marie being taken south, and that it's because of the mother and daughter's deaths. He's not finished with this."

  They thought over all the questions and possibilities for a minute.

  "It makes sense," Angie mumbled. "That little purple bag. Marie's room is filled with Hello Kitty stuff, even though she's getting too old for it. She's also a little older than the daughter here was, but probably only by a few years. Maybe the daughter had blonde hair, like her mother. Marie might have reminded him of his sister. Even taking into account the difference in age. So, he took her along, though he hadn't planned to. And now he wants to get rid of her if he hasn't already."

  "If that's true, and these are Marie's tracks, she could still be alive."

  Angie stared up at the sky again. "I don't like this, I don't like it at all. It's coming our way."

  "How much time do we have?"

  "I don't know. But we have to follow these tracks."

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  MARIE TREMBLED. The images kept appearing in her head. The skulls. The little bag. The stinging smell. Why had he showed all that to her? "See," he'd said, bringing out his pistol. “There they are." And she had stood frozen, not daring to say anything for fear he would shoot her with the gun he kept holding now. Charlie was falling apart. That's what she told herself. It was like the few times she'd heard her parents arguing when her mom said she was falling apart, the same intensely unhappy expression on his face, the furrows deepening, the gray skin, the slumping shoulders. She had the feeling he'd known the two people in the cave. A long time ago. He had spoken quietly, and he'd said goodbye solemnly, as if it was the last time he would see them. What was left of them.

  Finally, he'd said, "This is no good," and he had kept turning and fidgeting, a tortured expression on his face. "This isn't where it should be, it's not right." And she'd sensed that he wanted to hurt her right then. The unavoidable had happened, and he'd reached a point where she wasn't important anymore. She was in the way.

  But what if her mom and dad and Oliver were dead? What if it was true, what he'd said? Wouldn't she rather be dead anyway? Because what would happen to her? She had no one here. No one in Alaska. She felt herself falling apart, too. She wanted to cry, but she knew it would make Charlie angry.

  They returned to the cabin. Redoubt was erupting, she could feel the ground shaking slightly, could hear the rumble, but she didn't care. Didn't care if the ashes buried them both, forever. Charlie had stopped and stood still several times, listening. To the volcano, or to voices? She wasn't sure. But he held his gun as he strode through the snow, constantly looking to all sides. He mumbled, coughed, hummed; his weird behavior scared her. What was going to happen when they got back?

  THEY'D BEEN WALKING for about fifteen minutes. Several times he'd said, "No, this isn't any good either," and each time she suddenly couldn't breathe because when would it be good? She had peed her pants in fright, but he hadn't noticed. The urine had run silently down her leg; at first, her foot was warmer, but soon it became even colder.

  They were back at the cabin. And Charlie was angry.

  "It was my sister laying there. You understand that? My little sister, laying there for ten years. You looked so much like her, but you're not the same at all. You're different. You don't smell right, and everything is wrong."

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled. She felt sorry for the girl, who was a little bit like her, but not enough, not really. Who had died for some reason.

  "Sorry?" he screamed. "You're sorry? Your dad was the one who shot my mother. All these years, he was just this shadow in my head, then I spotted him that day at my brother's office at the university, just standing there, alive, the guy who did it. And then I remembered."

  "My dad isn't a murderer," Marie mumbled.

  Charlie smiled in a way that scared her. "Your dad wanted to shoot this bear so bad that he didn't look around. And he shot her, I saw her fall, and it scared me when I saw them. A coward, hiding behind a bush. And Beth just stood there screaming and screaming and screaming. And then they came, your dad and Griffin, and I heard them talk about prison, that they would go to prison for this, and then Griffin took out his gun and shot her. Shot Beth in the neck, just like you would an animal. They thought she was the only other one there who saw."

  Charlie hid his head in his hands. "And me, the coward, I just laid there and looked and didn't do anything. I followed, watched them drag my mom and sister into the cave. Then Griffin stood outside and pissed up against a tree. Can you believe, he took a piss…and me, I had to wait for two days in the cave until my dad found me. You know how many flies there can be, even in September? A lot of flies, Marie. Big flies. They lay eggs. At last, it was like mom and Beth were flies themselves. Like they were moving."

  He made a fluttering movement with his hand.

  "But my dad didn't do it on purpose," Marie said. She was trembling all over now. "Why didn't you just kill Griffin?"

  "Smart question, Marie." He tilted his head. "Thing is, I didn't know who Griffin was; I had to get that out of your dad before he died. And believe me, it took a long time. I had to do things I didn't want to do."

  Marie remembered the bloody note with Griffin's name on it. So that was why. He'd written it down. Her dad had led Charlie to Griffin.

  "And I did it so Griffin would know my revenge was coming. I wanted him scared. Thinking about what that dollhouse meant. I wanted him to wait for me. Your dad was just a rehearsal, you could say. Griffin was the real thing. He was my revenge."

  Marie swallowed nervously. Deep inside, she knew it was true. She remembered that creepy Griffin, the guy her dad had always cowed down to. Now she knew why, and the thought made her sick.

  "Your dad was a coward too," he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. "He let Griffin kill a little girl to save his career. But now I've killed two birds with one stone. I got revenge for my family and helped my brother get the job Asger should have had. Soon…soon I'll be with him in Anchorage. But you can understand, Marie…I can't take you with me."

  She started to cry. "Please, don't kill me."

  "Shhh." He tilted his head. "I won't, Marie, I promise."

  But she didn't believe him. She could see it in his eyes; they were empty and he looked off to the side. He was going to kill her. Maybe there really was a heaven up there. With her mom and dad and Oliver and a bunch of animals.

  Then it began. The sky went dark, as if a black cloud had just passed over the sun, and ashes began to fall around her. She felt it immediately in her nose and mouth, and she started to cough. It was like the last time, when her mom had told her to come inside the house. But now she had no mom, and this was much worse because Redoubt was close by.

  "It couldn't be better," Charlie said, so low that she barely heard him. "It'll look like it never happened."

  "Like what never happened?"

  "Marie. How about building a snowman? If you walk over there, away from me, you can build a really nice one."

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  REDOUBT WAS out of sight now; they were in the forest. The wind had picked up, and snow from the heavy tree branches sprayed them. At first, the sun had still shone, casting shadows as they walked. Now it was as if a filter had been placed over the sun. Trokic looked up, but there were no clouds, only a pale veil of particles. It frightened him worse, the sense of being trapped by this black hell, with a killer out there somewhere.

  "It's coming," Angie said.

  She turned, pulled back her hood, and leaned against his chest. She kissed him hard but briefly. A moment of arousal mingled with his terror. Then it was gone, and in a way, it was worse now because it reminded him that her life was also in danger. She was strong and clear of mind, but it didn't make her any less vulnerable. She took a deep breath, pulled up her hood
, and focused on following the tracks.

  Immediately, Trokic felt lost. How far were they from where they started? Three or four miles? It was long past the time they'd promised to call the retired policeman; someone would be sent to find them. His sense of time had disappeared along with the sun, and his throat and eyes began to itch. The air was polluted, like heavy smog.

  Suddenly, the forest opened to reveal tire tracks that weren't exactly a road.

  "Someone drove here recently, but not today," Angie said.

  She unzipped her jacket halfway and pulled a map out of her inside pocket. She held it out, turned it this way and that. "I can't see much in this light, but it doesn't look like there's a road here on the map. The footprints go that way, anyway."

  She pointed to the left and resolutely began to follow the tire tracks. A few hundred yards farther, the tracks turned. They stopped at the sight of a small, dark-brown cabin with a blue pickup parked in front. It was almost hidden in the trees. A small clearing stood to the right, and even though it was covered with snow, Trokic sensed there was a lake underneath.

  Angie took off her mittens, then she pulled his off, too. She stuck them in the backpack.

  "Let's lay it over here," he said, wriggling the backpack off his shoulders. "I have a really bad feeling about this."

  She nodded silently, and they both unzipped their coats and grabbed their pistols. Darkness was falling as they crept toward the cabin, the snow muffling their footsteps. They reached the pickup.

  "Shhh, I hear something," Angie whispered, her eyes big and black.

  Trokic leaned against the pickup and glanced inside. Except for a black coat on the passenger side, it was empty. But it wasn't locked, and the key was in the ignition. Then he heard the voices, too.

  "A little bit bigger, Marie. So I'll have a memento."

  Terror shot through his body—the killer was around the cabin with his eleven-year-old prey, so near and yet so far. He took a deep breath. Marie's life was in their hands now; there was no room for error. "They're over on the other side," he whispered. "I'll move in along the wall there and try to get him away from Marie; you grab her if you can. The pickup's unlocked, drive away, or get her inside the cabin if it goes too fast. And lock the door."

  She nodded and fell in behind him. With both hands on his weapon, he approached the cabin and slid over to the corner. Now he could hear Marie crying softly. He peeked around the corner; she was kneeling in front of an eyeless snowman nearly as big as she was. The wind ruffled her blonde hair and she rubbed her eyes. She made arms for the snowman. Several yards away stood a tall man in black pants and a green coat, his longish hair in a ponytail. Trokic recognized him on sight: Connolly's brother, Hank. All the pieces fell into place in his head, but at that moment, it didn't matter because Hank was walking back and forth carrying a pistol, mumbling to himself, watching Marie cry.

  Hank hadn't been able to bring himself to kill her, Trokic realized. But he was about to. He'd seen there was no other way out. That taking her had been a mistake, that he couldn't continue leading a normal life with a kidnapped child. Trokic turned and whispered, "She's building a snowman, and he's walking around six feet from her. I'm going in now."

  She nodded again. He noticed her eyes were moist and irritated from the ash in the air, just like his.

  "Kill him if you have to," she whispered.

  He raised his pistol and stepped around the corner. "Police," he yelled.

  Startled, Hank whirled around. Marie stopped what she was doing and turned. Now he knew: it really was Marie.

  "Drop your weapon; get down on the ground with your hands where I can see them."

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Hank threw himself on Marie and pointed his gun at the screaming girl. "You can't have her; she's coming with me."

  He pulled Marie up, his gun still on her.

  "Oh, no, oh, no," Angie whispered behind him.

  "I'm heading for the pickup now, nice and easy," Hank said, sneering at him. "Be careful with that gun. We're leaving. You try anything, I'll blow her head off."

  Marie shrieked as he pulled her away.

  "Stop, right now!" Trokic yelled. "Let her go. She could be your little sister."

  He laughed, nearly screeching. "So, you figured that out. Aren't you smart? But she's coming with me."

  Immediately, Trokic knew what he had to do. "Take me instead. Let her go. You can save her life and get away too."

  Hank stared at him in amazement. "You'll trade your life for hers?"

  "I know you don't want to kill her. Let her go and we'll leave together."

  "You think I'm stupid?" Hank bellowed. "Why should I take a man with me when I can get a woman?"

  He pointed over at Angie. Panic hit Trokic like a freight train. This wasn't at all supposed to happen, but it had.

  "Drop that gun and get over here," Hank yelled at Angie.

  Angie squatted down and let go of her weapon.

  "You too, drop it," he told Trokic.

  Trokic felt weak. What if he killed them all anyway? There was nothing he could do now. Angie walked over, kissed Marie on the forehead, and whispered something to her Trokic couldn't hear. The next moment, Hank's gun was pointed at Angie's forehead, and the frightened girl ran over to Trokic and hid behind him.

  "Marie, go inside the cabin," he said sharply in Danish. But she clung to him and dug her small fingers into his coat, as if she hadn't seen another human being for ages. He turned around and met her blue eyes; she looked so Danish. And she needed him so much right now.

  "Marie, you have to go in the cabin, now. It's safest there. We'll come back for you. Lock the door and hide. Stay away from the windows. We have more people on the way."

  He wasn't sure about that last part. How long would it take before Chadwick started to wonder and sent someone out for them? But Marie nodded and ran the other way around the house. Out of the line of fire.

  Now it was just the three of them, and a stern look came into Hank's eyes.

  "All right," he said. "Now it's just me and the bitch here. We're walking over to the pickup and we're leaving."

  He pushed Angie and they started over to the blue pickup, Hank's pistol pointed at her head.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  THE ASH FELL HEAVIER, like a fine mist. He felt it on his face, saw it on his coat and the snow and everything around him. His throat hurt, and the stinging in his eyes was unbearable, forcing him to blink constantly. They had to get inside, away from the ash, but Hank had ahold of Angie and was pushing her over to the pickup. He pulled her hood down, and even from a distance, Trokic could see the fright in her eyes.

  They reached the pickup. Hank fumbled with the door on the driver side, and in a flash, Trokic leaned over and grabbed his pistol from the snow and slid off to the side, out of Hank's sight. He crawled through the already blackening snow and ducked behind the pickup. Instantly, he weighed the risks of his options. Hank had to know he couldn't shoot Angie too soon, because he'd be killed, too.

  Hank kept his gun on Angie as he shoved her in and over to the passenger side. "You try to get out and I'll shoot you, understand?"

  Trokic couldn't hear her answer. Hank tried to start the engine, but it coughed loudly and died from the ash in the air. Trokic froze for a moment; if Hank couldn't get it started, would he realize he couldn't get away? Would he shoot Angie? He looked around in desperate, futile hope that the local police had sent someone for them. Hank kept trying to start the pickup, and finally, the engine sputtered to life. Trokic flung himself to the side as Hank nearly backed up into him. If Hank got away, he would kill Angie as soon as he was safe, and Trokic knew this was his only chance to save her.

  The pickup's engine roared, the snow flew up around the tires, the windshield wipers swung violently to remove the film of ash. Hank backed up farther, and now Trokic was beside the passenger door. He closed his eyes and hoped that Hank hadn't locked the door, then he grabbed the handle, ripped open the door, got
hold of what had to be Angie's coat, and yanked.

  The noise from the shot was deafening, and Angie fell over on him. Immediately, he saw she'd been hit, and she screamed in pain while blood flowed out from under her coat much too fast. Another shot rang out in the volcanic darkness, then Hank drove off down the ruts in the snow.

  "Let him go," Angie mumbled. "We'll get him later. Marie's safe, that's what's important."

  "I can't let him get away," Trokic said. "Stay down."

  Trokic's first shot at the pickup's tires missed, but after his second shot, the pickup swerved and stopped. The engine coughed as Hank tried to get it started. Trokic shot through the back windshield, and Hank threw himself out and shot at them again. Instantly, Trokic felt a stabbing pain in his leg, then he squatted, aimed in the dark at what wasn't much more than Hank's shadow, and pulled the trigger.

  Hank screamed and fell. Trokic ran over to the pickup; the blood running down his leg didn't matter, but Angie did. He reached the passenger side of the pickup and peeked around the fender. Hank lay on his side moaning, but he still held his pistol. Trokic turned and fired directly at Hank's chest. The pistol fell from Hank's hand, and Trokic ran over and kicked it a few meters away. Then he turned his attention to the man lying in the snow. His eyes were filming over, blood was spurting out.

  "I wanted my sister back," he mumbled. "She was the best person in the world. My friend."

  He coughed. "Looks like I might see her again."

  Suddenly, his eyes went blank. Trokic leaned over and pressed two fingers against his neck. No pulse. Hank Connolly was dead, no longer a threat. He stepped over and picked up his pistol, then he ran back to Angie. Pain jolted up his leg with every step. The bullet had hit his thigh, but most likely it was only a flesh wound. Angie's eyes were closed when he reached her; his stomach lurched, he thought he was too late, but then she rolled over on her side and coughed. A large pool of blood had formed beside her.