Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Maggie sprung to her knees and plunged the blade into his thigh above the knee. He shrieked, the sound piercing the tinny drone in Travis’ ears. Crimson blossomed on Scarson’s jeans. He swung the gun toward Dad and stumbled as he fired. Buckshot blasted the wooden stool into splinters. Dad’s legs thrashed in the empty space. His body twirled and twitched and twisted as he dangled from the rope.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Scarson fell backward from the recoil of the blast. Travis charged, ramming his head into Scarson’s gut. Scarson lost control of the gun and dropped it to the floor. As he scrambled for the door, Maggie pounced on the weapon. She came up with it, ready to fire.

  But he was already in the doorway. The bright sun flooded her vision with intense light. The door slammed to a close before she could react. She let the shotgun slide to the floor and ran to her father. His skin flushed with scarlet. The sickening noises he made reminded her of a rabid dog.

  He weighed too much for her to release him from the noose by herself. Travis said something to her, but the ringing in her head was still too loud to hear him. And he couldn’t help. He cradled an arm full of buckshot and bled onto the concrete like a royal prince.

  Panic rapped in her chest. Daddy needed something to stand on to relieve the pressure on his neck. The camp chair was too low and flimsy to provide any support. She dragged the broken card table from the wall and tried to prop it beneath his feet. But the table legs no longer locked into place. The rounded edges of the tabletop prevented it from staying upright on its side. He knocked it over each time his feet flailed. She scanned the empty warehouse for something to save her father.

  Fear choked her thinking. She loosed the knot on her gag and slipped it over her head. She spit out the washcloth and wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. If she had tools, she might be able to dismantle a shelf, but that took time. There were other cars in the parking lot. She hated to leave Daddy like this. And Travis. But finding someone outside was her only hope.

  Before she reached the door, it opened. The light wasn’t as startling this time, but she blocked the brightness with her arm. Jack Scarson led the way with his hands up. Armed with the backpack and several pistols, Penniski’s men followed.

  “My father. Please cut him down!” She barely heard her own words. Penniski’s man-in-charge motioned toward her father. Maggie knew he gave instructions to the others, but she couldn’t discern the words. While one man lifted her father from underneath to ease the tension of the rope, another climbed the pallet rack and removed the noose. They carried her father next to Travis, laying him on the concrete with surprising care.

  She fell to his side. A purple stain encircled his throat along with a crusty necklace of dried blood. Bruises covered his face. She pressed gently against his abraded skin and held her breath.

  A pulse. But beating rapidly.

  She lay her cheek against his lips and felt the warm rush of his frantic exhale, and then released her own.

  “Please, call an ambulance.” She placed the washcloth under his head and cut the tie wrap from his wrists.

  “Is he okay, Maggie?” Travis grimaced.

  Her ears still rang, but she could make out his question. “He’s breathing. How bad is your arm?”

  “It hurts. A lot.” He panted. “But I’ll live.”

  She turned to the big man. “We need a doctor. Please. Call an ambulance.”

  The big man squatted and checked her father’s pulse. “He has a heartbeat.” He stood and placed the laptop on the seat of the camp chair while another man shoved Scarson forward with the gun. “You open the bank account and show me the money. Then we call the ambulance.”

  Scarson limped the rest of the distance, glowering at Maggie. His shirt was soaked, and he reeked of desperation. Blood dripped from both his legs, giving her some satisfaction. She didn’t expect that feeling to live long. But she prayed that Daddy would.

  “On the floor.” The big man instructed Scarson.

  Scarson winced and groaned with every inch as he lowered himself to comply. His expression was tough to read. Pain, certainly, but Maggie suspected it was more than physical. The fire in his eyes was now extinguished.

  He logged into his bank account under the threat of two pistols. He tried to hide his typing, but Penniski’s men watched every keystroke. Scarson leaned against the wall for support and glared at Travis. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “Two million dollars. It was here. I saw it.” His mouth contorted amid the furrows. His voice screeched. “What did you do with it?”

  “There never was any money.” Travis shifted on the floor.

  Scarson raised a fist. “But I saw it. Martin said—”

  “My father has Alzheimer’s,” Travis yelled. “He thinks he’s Kirk Hammett.”

  On some level, the words seemed to sober Scarson. His head dropped to his hands, and Maggie heard him retch. But she kept her sight on the big man.

  Did he believe it?

  Penniski’s main man swiveled the camp chair toward Travis.

  “You made the money disappear?”

  Travis raised his head but said nothing.

  The big man slapped Scarson on the shoulder and laughed. “You have been duped by a boy.” He eyed Travis as if sizing him up for a body bag. “A big, smart boy.”

  Penniski’s men laughed with him until they heard a siren approach from the south.

  The big man said, “We must go.” He pulled Scarson’s cell phone and Maggie’s car keys from his pocket. He gave her the phone but removed his key from the ring before returning her car keys. “We won’t be meeting again unless you mention our involvement to the police.” He picked up the shotgun. “I’ll take this from you. It’s one less complication.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Penniski’s men filed out of the building as the siren wailed closer. Scarson wrenched himself from the floor and hobbled for the other exit. Travis was surprised the guy could move that fast in his condition. The siren eventually tapered off. Maybe they were across the tracks heading for a different destination. Apparently Penniski’s thugs didn’t want to take that risk.

  Maggie made the 9-1-1 call on Scarson’s phone. “We need an ambulance. My father and brother are hurt.”

  Scarson could worry about his own injuries. Though Travis would gladly unleash the police on his blood trail.

  Deep breaths caused Travis’s arm to throb. He couldn’t imagine a shark bite being any more painful. Or more bloody. Travis tried to stand several times to help Maggie and their father. But black spots floated in his field of view. He stayed down and stretched out on the cool floor.

  Penniski’s men took Scarson’s laptop, but they wouldn’t find anything. The programs Travis loaded self-deleted from the system after execution. Scarson confirmed that fact for Travis when he came up with the empty bank balance.

  Maggie spoke to the dispatcher about their father. “His breathing is shallow.” She came to Travis’ side with the phone pinned between her chin and shoulder. “Is your arm broken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “My brother doesn’t think his arm is broken, but it’s bleeding a lot.” She took off her outer shirt and tore it into strips. “Under the arm pit. It’s not spurting like an artery, but I don’t know. I’m trying to stop the bleeding now.” She threaded a strip under his arm and knotted it above his shoulder.

  Spasms rippled through his muscles. “Eeow!”

  “Yes. He’s in a lot of pain.” Her face furrowed in sympathy as her attention returned to her brother. “I’m so sorry.” She placed another strip under his arm to form a makeshift sling and knotted the ends behind his neck.

  “The police?” She listened to the dispatcher for a few more seconds, and then whispered to Travis. “The police and an ambulance are already on the way.”

  Travis drifted off and didn’t hear the rest of the conversation.

  The whine of the siren
s sputtered to a whimper outside the warehouse. “You need to stay awake, Trav.” Maggie shook her brother’s foot. Paramedics burst through the door with crash carts and oxygen tanks.

  “Here!” She barely got the word out before a male paramedic guided her away from Daddy and Travis. He grilled her about their medical history before returning to his team.

  “Ms. Fender?” A uniformed officer stood next to her. She hadn’t seen him enter. “I’m Sergeant Fahey. We received a call that said you were being held against your will in this building.”

  “Who called you?”

  “One of your neighbors. Fyodor Umanov.” He opened a notepad. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Maggie gave the officer a detailed description of Jack Scarson and showed him the blood-crumb trail that wended through the warehouse. Since they didn’t find Scarson’s car, he likely doubled-back and drove away. Driving or walking, he couldn’t go far in his condition.

  The paramedics loaded Travis and her father in the ambulance. Maggie sat in the front seat on the way to Sequoia Medical Center. They wouldn’t let her ride in the back which was just as well. She didn’t need to see what the medical team was doing to either one of them, and she’d only be in their way. Travis required some kind of surgery. That much she knew without a first or second medical opinion. Daddy’s condition was harder to read.

  During the fifteen-minute drive while she answered questions, and after the medical team unloaded her family and left her alone to wait, like a powerful scent, Fyodor infused her every thought.

  Chapter Seventy

  Kurt Meyers strode into the dining room of Risatas ready to celebrate. Resembling a gilded Milanese opera house, the North Beach restaurant pulsed. Spencer Thornton motioned to him from a central table, holding a clear drink and wearing a grin the size of the Grand Canyon. Kurt clapped Spencer on the back and took a seat. Kurt was delighted to see appetizers covering the table. Carpaccio, risotto cakes, caprese, and bruschetta. He was famished.

  Spencer signaled to a waiter. “I take it you’ve earned your bonus.”

  “Damn straight I did.” The moment was sweet. Kurt checked the wine list and instructed the waiter. “A bottle of Armand de Brignac, Ace of Spades.”

  “A fitting choice for the occasion,” Spencer said.

  Indeed it was.

  Kurt and Spencer stood when Samantha entered the room. She swished across the black marble wearing a coral dress with spaghetti straps. Diagonal swathes of fabric draped her bodice. The SEC at its finest.

  “Ms. Merrick.” Spencer extended his hand palm-up and brushed his lips against her fingers.

  “Please, call me Samantha.”

  “Samantha. I’m Spencer.”

  She hiked the dress slightly at her hips while Kurt held out her chair. Something about women in dresses, they seemed all the more girly.

  “How’s dear Catherine these days? I hear Chairman Boson has set her sights on political office?” Spencer offered the plate of risotto cakes to Samantha while Kurt helped himself to the carpaccio. “A Senate seat in Maryland, perhaps.”

  Her smile dazzled. “There are rumors to that effect. You do keep up with Washington.”

  “I make it my business to keep up with all kinds of things.”

  “Let’s just say that the successful conclusion of the Patty O’Mara case would certainly encourage her run.”

  The waiter rolled a trolley to their table with an ice bucket, three flutes, and a gold bottle. He unwrapped the cork and warmed the neck slightly with his hands. The cork popped out, and Kurt instructed him to pour.

  When they each held a glass, Kurt raised his. “To Patty O’Mara.”

  Spencer recoiled. “Seriously?”

  “I would think you’d want to toast Patty, Spence. You brought him enough sacrifices over the years. The money was going to be half yours. ‘Partner’, he called you.”

  He set down his drink. “What the hell you babbling about? I was never O’Mara’s partner.”

  “Oh no? But that’s the reason Patty O’Mara wanted to meet me. He had some stories to tell me about you.” Kurt sipped his champagne. For the first time in his remembrance, Spencer started to sweat. “When the money went missing, you and Patty argued.”

  “How dare you.”

  “Save your protests, Thornton. I’d hate for all this wonderful food and bubbly to go to waste.”

  Samantha cut into a risotto cake. “I’m rather interested, Kurt. Please, continue.”

  Spencer’s stare seared them both. He downed his glass of champagne and poured another. “What the hell. I like a good story, too.”

  “You argued about the loss of the money. It just vanished from the accounts. He thought you took it. You thought he took it. He wasn’t planning to share this information with the SEC, but he wanted me to know.”

  Spencer leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Because?” He was playing now, admitting nothing but curiosity.

  “Because if I found the money, he wanted to make me his new partner.” Kurt enjoyed this part of the game best, knowing all the secrets and watching the bastard squirm. “But then something strange happened. Somebody killed Patty O’Mara. Which turned into very bad news for you. Another risotto cake, Sam?”

  “No, thank you.” She dabbed at her mouth. “Some caprese would be nice.”

  “O’Mara was a textbook sociopath.” He handed her the plate. “He figured his investors still loved him. He knew you were a ruthless sonovabitch, and if anyone was going to kill him, it had to be you. But his death activated a contingency plan, and then O’Mara’s package arrived at my door.” He let the words sink in to Spencer’s flesh.

  Spencer swallowed another eighty-four dollars worth of champagne without tasting it. “What package?”

  “Fascinating stuff. It arrived this morning. Emails, taped phone calls, travel documents. It seems you kept his little soirees stocked with wealthy pigeons.”

  “Recorded phone calls aren’t admissible.” A smirk smeared across his face. “I was a happy investor. So what. I brought people to meet him because I was doing well at the time. That’s not evidence.” Spencer’s cell phone vibrated on the table.

  Samantha laid down her fork. “We have a signed confession from Patty O’Mara. As well as signature cards from several banks. Your name is alongside his. It was sufficient evidence for a federal judge to issue a search warrant. Agents are tossing your home and office right now.” She held out a plate. “Bruschetta?”

  “No, thanks.” Spencer poured another glass of champagne and tipped it bottoms-up. He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Just my attorney.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  When she saw Fyodor pacing the waiting area of the Sequoia Medical Center, Maggie wasn’t surprised. He caught her gaze immediately and waited, maybe to see if she would turn and run. And she considered it. But only because she’d treated him so badly. The air temperature suddenly felt cooler. She tucked her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and walked toward him.

  Maggie expected to see a vein of anger in his expression, but she didn’t detect any. Then again, anger implied caring. Maybe he was past that particular waypoint.

  “Fyodor.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I need to apologize to you for my behavior the other day.” She studied the swirl pattern in the carpet. “I’m sorry. Can you please forgive me?”

  “Consider yourself forgiven.” The calm tone of his voice eased her conscience. “How is Travis? Your father?”

  “Travis is in post-op. One of the shotgun pellets nicked an artery in his armpit, but the doctor says he should be fine.” Her head dropped. “But my father’s not in good shape.” She looked up and found his gaze comforting. “How did you even know we were in the warehouse?”

  “Let’s find someplace more private.” Fyodor led the way to an empty sofa near the elevator and waited for Maggie to sit. No one made you sit for good news. “I’ve managed thousands of routine security situations. But som
etimes, people come to me desperate with fear.” He leaned over and spoke softly. “When we last met on your porch, you carried that same anguish I see in those clients. You believed I was involved in your father’s disappearance. And there was nothing I could do to convince you otherwise, so I decided to find out what had happened. And now it’s my turn to apologize.”

  An elderly woman pushed a girl in a squeaky wheelchair down their aisle.

  “For what?”

  “The other day I saw an Audi A8 parked in your driveway. A beautiful car.” Fyodor glanced away. “I thought maybe it was a boyfriend, but it belonged to Kurt Meyers, the man investigating Patty O’Mara.” He grasped the two arms of the chair. “I found the warehouse today because I had you and your brother under surveillance.”

  Maggie flinched. “You what?”

  “When I found out Kurt Meyers was at your house, I remembered your comment to me about Vladimir Penniski. He was one of the more vocal and dangerous victims of O’Mara’s crime. Then I saw you at his residence in San Francisco.”

  Heat flared in her throat. “You saw me?”

  “I followed you there. I expected that you would ask him about me. Mr. Penniski could only tell you that he and I have never met. When you didn’t approach me at his building, you tied my hands. How could I prove my innocence in this?” He shrugged. “To you it made sense that one evil Russian must know all the others.”

  A whisper of shame tempered Maggie’s indignation. “A neighbor saw you talking with two Russian men wearing suits. Two Russian men were asking about me at the restaurant.”

  “You complain of Carl Pinkerton. Now who is the gossip? Naturally any Russian in a suit must be a gangster.” Fyodor pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “The men at my house work for me. I can’t speak for the others.” He swiped at the air. “I’m sorry for what you have been enduring. You don’t know me well enough to trust me yet.”