Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2)

by Chad Huskins

  Spencer took a pair of tweezers and a few paper towels from the dispenser and soaked them under the sink, then nodded politely to the gentleman at the sink, who watched him take the QuickClot into the handicap stall (so he’d have more room). He locked the door and ground his teeth against the pain as he pulled off the woman’s coat, then peeled off Zakhar’s jacket. Then, off came Zakhar’s shirt. The blood had stopped flowing, and now that he had a chance to stop and look at it, it wasn’t that bad. Though, it had torn straight through flesh and muscle, and if not disinfected and stitched properly, he could lose the arm.

  Of course, prisons had doctors.

  Fuck that. Not goin’ back to the pen. Not goin’ back there.

  After washing the blood and the wound with the wet paper towels, Spencer checked the wound for foreign particles, such as pieces of the bullet or clothing, as per wikihow.com’s instructions. All he could make out in the mess was a single shred of his shirt, a strip of cloth that needed removing. He had enough strength in his right hand to hold the tweezers up while he heated them as best he could under the flame of his (Erik’s) cheap plastic lighter, also per the instructions on wikihow.com. All Hail the Internet, the Great and Powerful! He winced when the heated metal touched his wound, but after just five seconds he had removed the cloth, and tossed it into the toilet.

  Okay, he thought, looking down at his cell phone, perusing WikiHow. Next step.

  Shcherbakov turned sharply onto Kharlova Pereulok. Chelyabinsk Emergency Medical Center was straight ahead. He didn’t bother with finding a spot in the parking deck. Instead, he brought the Escort up around the half loop of the emergency entrance, and parked it right beside an ambulance and bolted out. He nearly smacked into the automatic doors because they didn’t open quite fast enough, then jogged down the hall, up to a nurse asking him if he had an emergency.

  He paused long enough to ask, “Have you seen a man in a long, black coat? Black hair, pale skin, a scar across his face, maybe bleeding?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. Is he a patient or—”

  He left her standing there. Halfway down the hall, he came close to colliding with a man stepping out of his room and rolling his IV rack around with him. Shcherbakov found a doctor walking leisurely down the hall, reading a patient’s chart. “Did you see a man come through wearing a tall black coat? He would’ve had a jagged scar on his face?” The doctor looked vexed, and replied, “No, sorry. Is he a patient?”

  Shcherbakov darted down another hallway, following the signs all the way to an open atrium, the front lobby of the visitor’s center. He went up to the circular desk and asked the women seated there, “I’m looking for a man who probably came through here, tall and with black hair, a scar across his face. He was probably wearing a long black coat. Did you see him?”

  The three women shook their heads. When Shcherbakov took off running again, one of them hollered that he needed to sign in.

  Spencer used his teeth to tear open the gauze package. The cream that it came with stung at first when he smeared it on the wound, but after a moment it dulled the pain significantly. Spencer applied ample amounts, then carefully spread the gauze bandage apart and applied light pressure to make sure it stuck.

  The entire process took about fifteen minutes, and was nowhere near what it needed to be for long term healing—Spencer would need to find a real doc for that—but as long as he got the antibiotics and some thread to sew it up, he should be all right to last the night. He figured he’d lost a pint, maybe a pint and a half, no more than was usually taken when folks donated it, so he also would be woozy if he exerted himself, might even pass out, and would need to eat. Fig Newtons and orange juice, so sayeth the Internet.

  Spencer went back to the First-Aid station and pocketed more QuickClot cream and strips. Then, he pulled on the shirt, then the jacket, and finally the coat. This process took almost two minutes, but once he stepped back into the lobby he already felt a little better. The arm still hurt, but it was just a painful throbbing now, nothing he couldn’t handle in the short—

  Spencer felt the floor rising up at his face. He blinked, staggered, and leaned against the wall before he could fall. Spencer took a deep breath, then took a couple of weak steps over to a bench and sat down. He took more steadying breaths while looking at a sign next to him that reminded him, in many different languages, to make sure he got all his baby’s vaccinations.

  After a minute, one of the ladies behind the counter started darting glances over at him. I’m probably a little pale. Need to move soon, before they send someone over to check on me. Probably can’t get past the front desk without checking in, though.

  A few more breaths, then he stood and walked over to the counter. “Excuse me,” he said, searching for the right words in Russian. “Alisa Rodchenko? She’s supposed to be, eh, in labor right now. I’m afraid I’m all turned around, don’t know where I’m at.”

  The woman could probably tell Russian wasn’t his first language, so she spoke slowly and told him where he could find the maternity ward—straight ahead, take a left at the big red wall with the poster of a child in a crib, go straight, take a left, then another left…

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Oh!” she said. “You need to check in.”

  “Of course.” Spencer signed, and was given a sticker nametag. She gave him a marker to write his name on it, and who he was going to see. He put the nametag on his right breast and gave his thanks, then turned to walk away.

  The nurse called out, “And if you see your friend, tell him he needs to come back and sign in. We don’t like it when undocumented visitors are wandering about.”

  Spencer paused, did a one-eighty. “My friend?”

  “Yes. At least, I assume he’s your friend? He described you exactly.”

  A smile played on his lips. “Which way did my friend go?”

  She pointed to where she had instructed Spencer to go. “Down the hallway. I assume he was on his way to see your friend?” She shrugged.

  Now the smile found a permanent home. Spencer took a step closer to the counter. “I’m not sure we’re thinking of the same person. Could you describe him to me?”

  The Grand Hotel Vidgof was tall and glittering. Though, the buildings around it were dim—Rideau had heard from news reports that there were power outages all over Chelyabinsk tonight, as well as surrounding regions. The storm was angry, and health and safety officials were issuing warnings about the cold. Shelters with back-up generators were welcoming anyone whose heat and power had gone out.

  The Grand Hotel Vidgof, though, apparently had more formidable generators. Rideau was nice and toasty in the lounge just inside the atrium, along with about twenty other people who weren’t patrons to the hotel, merely people caught out in the storm and who needed a place to take shelter. The hotel staff was gracious enough to supply some hot coffee to their visitors, even a few blankets for some children lying on the couches.

  Rideau knew that winters were always harsh in Russia, but the fact that the people were acting so surprised, and were seemingly so unprepared for this, spoke volumes about the intensity of this particular storm.

  She stood in a smaller anteroom connected to the lounge, where a tiny television was mounted on the wall, showing journalists reporting live from Moscow. The blonde-haired woman on the TV stood stubbornly in the storm with microphone in hand, and behind her was St. Basil’s Cathedral. Apparently, ice was collecting so heavily that there was cause for concern of collapse in one of the roofs. Built on orders from Ivan the Terrible, Rideau thought, remembering her history. More than four hundred and fifty years ago. Constant maintenance and government funding kept it up, but in one night a storm could destroy it.

  Rideau’s father had once told her that people were like buildings. They were always concerned about the upkeep of their bodies, and for good reason, but in the end the structure always succumbed to time and the elements.

  It was a stray thought that entertained
while she nursed her cup of coffee and looked through the small doorway into the main lounge area, which gave her straight line-of-sight to the front desk. Rideau had checked with the lady at the desk, who said that the man in room 533 had checked in earlier, but left, and, according to the people who cleaned his room, hadn’t returned. Rideau knew that, because of the weather, the occupant might not be in for the rest of the night, perhaps the rest of the week: the talk was that this storm could last that long. If Shcherbakov happened to be too far outside of the main city center when the storm hit, out in those areas not frequented by snow plows, he could very well be stuck.

  He might even freeze to death someplace. Now wouldn’t that be ironic?

  Rideau sipped at her coffee. With her free hand, she reached into her side pocket, and nervously touched the handgun that Dominika had given her. In the other pocket, there was a set of handcuffs. Dominika had left the options up to her.

  She sighed, trying to calm her nerves. It wasn’t working very well. Rideau was an agent of Interpol, and as such she had never made a single arrest in her entire time with the agency. Interpol agents were combination investigators, liaisons, facilitators, researchers, and coordinators. They collated data, searched for convergences, liaised with the appropriate agencies of a region, and, whenever necessary, they did their best to coordinate arrests in multiple countries at once, so that few criminals could give them the slip and vanish back into the ether. Toting a gun and carrying handcuffs was not their game.

  But if Dominika is right, nobody else is going to arrest this man. Not any time soon, anyway. The Grey Wolf would keep killing until FSB and Moscow Police had gotten their “big fish,” and then maybe they would tighten the noose around this soulless monster.

  A small child was crying in his mother’s arms. Rideau looked at the woman holding her son, patting him on the back. “Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh,” the mother soothed. “Hush now. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Rideau looked around at the others in the lounge. A couple snuggling in a love seat, chatting it up with three guys who’d wandered in. Total strangers, getting along swimmingly. There was an elderly man watching the big TV near the front desk, conversing with two younger men who were both nodding, perhaps receiving sage advice from their elder. Two small children, a brother and a sister, were snuggled together on a couch under a blanket, fast asleep.

  Rideau saw all of this and knew that if Shcherbakov showed up tonight, she could not in good conscious try to take this man here in the lobby. A monster such as he would not hesitate to shoot up a room full of innocents to escape. She would have to follow him up to his room, she would have to confront him, and she would have to do it alone. For to alert hotel security would mean alerting the local authorities, and if Dominika was right, Shcherbakov’s people would know about her little ambush, and not only would he evade her, but she would likely be his next target.

  I only get one shot at this. One chance to get it right.

  In her pocket, her phone vibrated. She expected it to be Patricia. It wasn’t. It was Mitchell, calling from her office. Rideau’s phone had one bar, and it was blinking on and off indecisively. “This is Rideau,” she answered.

  “Something strange just came down the wire,” Mitchell said, skipping greetings. “All the way from Atlanta.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ruffa Docks. Heard of them?”

  Rideau searched her memory. “Port of Chelyabinsk, right?”

  “Yes. It’s a group of docks owned by various shipping companies out at the port. They’re not very big, but we’ve always thought one or two might be owned by shell companies. It turns out, maybe we were right. I just got into the office, and we’ve got intel coming in right now about that area. It might not have been enough on its own, but then our source mentioned Zakhar Ogorodnikov. His name sound familiar?”

  It did. A person of great interest where the Russian Mafia’s operations were concerned in shipping. “Where is this intel coming from? What’s the source?”

  “Atlanta PD.”

  “Where are they getting it from?”

  “Remember the girls in Atlanta? The ones the Rainbow Room took?”

  Of course she did. Rideau had memorized those names. There were the Dupré sisters, Kaley and Shannon, and another girl named Bonetta Harper. The horrors Rideau had heard described in their story had sickened her for days, especially knowing that the Rainbow Room was connected to her investigations into the Russian Mafia. “I remember them, yes.”

  “Well, one of them said she suddenly recalled something about the Ruffa Docks. I’m having Chelyabinsk Police see about a search warrant. Might take a week or so to—hold on. Thanks,” he said, perhaps receiving an update from someone on the other end. “It might take a week or so to get the warrants, but I just thought you’d like to know about—”

  “Listen to me, Mitchell. You have to do it now,” she urged. On the other end, Mitchell went silent. “We won’t have a week. If you know about this update, then the vory know, and they’ll burn the evidence and move their operations now.”

  His tone went from conversational to very serious. “What’s going on, Rideau?”

  “We were wrong. We all were. Me most of all. Chelyabinsk and Moscow Police haven’t improved, they’ve…they’ve just gotten more sophisticated with appearing like they’re cooperating, and probably better at doctoring their crime statistics. I have a source,” she said. “One I picked up while here. I can’t say more over the phone, and you shouldn’t, either. Just know that if you wait too long, an order called a ‘non-comply’ will be put on this investigation, and the police here will bury any relevant information and never share it with other agencies.”

  “What…but why?”

  “To save face. They can’t appear weak in the eyes of the international community. Now listen, I don’t care what you have to do, you have to get that order to search both the docks and Ogorodnikov’s residence,” she asserted. “Do you hear me? Do whatever you have to do. Get the Director and the Deputy Director on the phone and tell them what I’ve told you. If we don’t move on this now, we could lose a gold mine of actionable intelligence. Tell them we’ve got to move before FSB issues their non-comply order and all local agencies shut their lips about what they find at those locations.” After that happened, she imagined much of the evidence at both locations would be documented by FSB and sealed.

  If they weren’t going to play nice and share with the rest of the international policing agencies, Rideau would make them, or die trying.

  “Okay, got it,” said Mitchell. “But there’s something else. A little strange, but it came through the wire at about the same time. It’s Pelletier. Chelyabinsk Police are all over him. His description was given after he stole a car, and some anonymous tips came rolling in with his name tossed around. There have been a couple of high-speed chases, causing some wrecks, and two officers were shot dead. The pieces coming together make it look like it’s all the same guy. Rideau, he’s on a rampage down there.”

  Rideau sighed. “Well, at least I know local police won’t stand for that. They can’t have an American making them look like fools, so you can trust them to do that much.” She glanced at the lobby, scanning the front desk. A newcomer walked in, but it was a man too tall and too skinny to be Shcherbakov. “Where is he now? Do they know?”

  “Uh, not exactly sure, but another anonymous tip just came down the pipeline. They think he may be wounded and headed for some hospital, I forget which one. Police are heading there now, though, and hospital staff and security are being alerted.”

  “Keep me posted. And do as I said.”

  “You got it.”

  Rideau hung up, and when she replaced the phone in ther pocket, her fingers touched the pistol. A Glock. She hadn’t fired one in over a year. In her job, there just wasn’t much reason to hone her shooting skills. In fact, never in her career had she ever had any reason to. She hadn’t even ever pointed her gun at another human being.

&nb
sp; Could she do it? When push came to shove, and it was either shoot Yuri Shcherbakov or let him get away, could she really do it?

  Her phone buzzed. A text message had come in while she was talking to Mitchell: You still doing okay?

  Rideau sighed, and sent her wife a reply.

  At the reception desk of Chelyabinsk Emergency Medical Center, Liliya Vetrov was the one to answer the phone. It was a man from Chelyabinsk Police, and he was very direct. Had anybody come through recently with a gunshot wound? No. Had anybody come through under suspicious circumstances? No. Had there been any strange occurrences within the last hour? Besides one of the doctors passing out from exhaustion, having worked a day and a half without sleep, no. Had she seen a man with a scar across his face, wearing a long black coat?

  Why, yes, she had.

  The officer informed her that she ought to initiate emergency lockdown procedures, and that she should connect him immediately to the head of their security personnel.

  At the same time she was doing this, Liliya saw the automatic doors open at the other end of the lobby. A pair of dark-gray dogs stood there, the doors’ sensors having detected them. The animals stood there a moment, looking at her. Liliya watched for their owners, prepared to tell them that they couldn’t bring the animals in here, but then the two dogs turned and slinked away, the automatic doors shutting.

  She picked up the phone to transfer the waiting call to the hospital’s security personnel, and called Dr. Sitnikov to have him issue the emergency lockdown.

  13

  It wasn’t too difficult to spot a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep ready to stampede. They got jittery, one cow mooed too loud, or one sheep baaahed a little too stridently. There always came a shuffling of hooves, one animal bumping into another as the rumor of the wolf passed through their collective. At first, the animals had no plan. There was a buzz of activity as each animal tried their own hand at escape, but eventually they followed whichever animal happened to find itself in a lead position. At least, that’s what Spencer reckoned it was like, he’d never actually been close to that many herds or flocks, especially not when they were about to stampede, but he’d seen enough National Geographic episodes, and he could imagine.