Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  She hit the ERASE button and leaned back, considering what to tell Carly. But first, she had other work to do. She grabbed her shoulder bag and, turning off lights, hurried outside. Again in her car, she drove north on Wisconsin Avenue toward Chevy Chase. With luck, toward the house that had appeared again and again in her nightmares. Other than the Virginia phone number, its address was the only traceable piece of information the bad dreams had ever produced.

  She turned right on Nebraska Avenue, passed the rolling hills of Fort Reno Park, and then made a left onto Connecticut Avenue, finally entering Chevy Chase, one of Washington's most elite areas, where multimillion-dollar houses in a variety of styles sat on large wooded lots with swimming pools, pagodas, and manicured grounds.

  She turned corners. Her heart pounded. She slowed the car to stare. Shocked, she studied the black mailbox on an iron post at the street's edge and, on top of the box, the raised wrought-iron numbers. Just as it all looked in her nightmare.

  She shook her head to clear it. She gazed around. The house must be at the end of the driveway, which disappeared up into the woods. She hesitated, shrugged defiantly, and cruised ahead up the drive. She was trespassing. If someone challenged her, she would apologize. If someone tried to shoot her, she would speed away. To hell with all of them.

  As soon as she entered a clearing, she hit the brakes. Before her spread a surreal sight. Again it was just like in her nightmares: The thick, clipped lawn. The tall weeping willow beside the walk. And the big ranch-style house with a sloping roof, long front porch, and windows black as tarry pitch. Nervous and disbelieving, for a macabre moment she half-expected the garage door to rise and a riderless motorcycle to roll out, motor growling.

  She counted to ten. Then to twenty. But the door remained firmly closed. Just as she recalled, the house, garage, and yard were deserted and somehow threatening. Still, she would not leave. She had to find out more. So she drove up and circled, parking so her car faced back down toward the road, in case she needed to make a quick getaway. She waited behind the wheel, watching for danger and studying the house. She felt drawn to it, as if it guaranteed answers . . . or perhaps something else.

  A wave of uneasiness swept over her. She looked down at her hands, saw they were clenched in her lap. They wanted to kill her tormenter. She grabbed her shoulder bag, quietly opened the car's door, and slipped out into the shadows.

  17

  That night in West Virginia, Jeff Hammond was tired and apprehensive as he made his way down the sidewalk of the rustic little town called Stone Point. A long time ago—nearly ten years now—he had turned his back on an accelerating career and risked everything for a hunch that had seemed so right, so accurate, so prescient that to do otherwise was to betray who he was and everything he believed. Now, after all this time, he was close to confirming his suspicions. Still, ever since he landed yesterday in this remote mountain town, he had hit one dead end after another.

  He shook his head with frustration as he gazed around Main Street with its cracked sidewalks and cruising pickups illuminated in the weak light of dusty street lamps. It was the kind of poor West Virginia hamlet that had survived at first despite its isolation and lackluster appeal to outside commercial interests, and later because of them. Timber, coal, and railroads had kept it going, if barely, for two hundred years, until the booming economy of the 1990s had given hunters, fishers, and hikers the disposable income to discover the surrounding Appalachian paradise. And they'd spread the word. Now parts of Stone Point boasted fresh paint. Two new motels, one of which he had stayed in last night, sat on the outskirts. And residents had started a petition to fill potholes.

  Hammond had learned all this yesterday and today. He was thinking about it as he pushed open the door to the town's second bar. The first had been a bust, which was also true of the gas station, the stores, the city hall, and the small library he had visited. He might be many things, but at the top of the list was tenacious. He had gotten one turndown after another but kept going. One way or another, he would find Alexei Berianov and uncover whatever he was plotting.

  He cleared his mind. Set aside his emotions. And stepped indoors. Above the bar, neon beer signs showcased garish waterfalls and flying pheasants. From the jukebox, Johnny Cash's well-worn voice sang a melancholy song of train wrecks and lost love. The pungent odor of decades of cigarette smoke and lager made the air almost tactile. At the scarred bar, a man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt leaned over a long-neck Budweiser, while at the small tables sat a handful of men and women, companionable, with beer bottles and shots of liquor. Not a glass of wine was in sight.

  As Hammond walked toward him, the barman glanced up, gave a quick but professional appraisal, then returned his attention to the room. He had a ruddy face in need of a shave and a nose thick and bent from some long-ago fight.

  "So who did it?" the barkeep asked in general. "What scumbag killed Lila?" He vigorously scrubbed a glass and set it on the shelf behind him.

  "What I want to know," said the man in the hooded sweatshirt, "is who was that kid who was screwin' her that got killed, too. 'Marty' somebody. Maybe he had somethin' to do with it. Any of you heard of 'im?"

  One of the women volunteered, "I was told his last name was Coulson. Martin Coulson. I'll bet he was from Bates's Hunt Club. He had one gosh-danged big bike sitting in front of Lila's place. That was a Bates Club bike, I swear. Nobody else round here'd have a bike like that."

  "Think of her parents," said the woman at the next table. "Those poor people. Makes you want to cry yourself empty." Her voice broke.

  Hammond leaned an elbow on the bar, watching and listening. Everywhere he had stopped, people were talking about the tragic deaths of the young lovers. Murder was uncommon here, but when it happened, it was almost always a crime of passion or revenge. The town could not figure out this one.

  He was curious, hoping there might be a connection between the murders and whatever Anatoli Yurimengri claimed he had not known about Stone Point. All he had been able to find out was that Lila had been the youngest of five children, living at home. The family had no serious conflicts with anyone in town. Lila had no past boyfriends known to be jealous. She had been a clerk at the local convenience store, and she had been well liked.

  Her young man—Marty Coulson—had apparently been part of a sports group led by a man named Caleb Bates, who had bought a lot of prime acreage among the slopes above Stone Point. His sporting club was one of a dozen new ones, members only, that drew hunters from all over the country and had been instrumental in reviving the area's economy. In fact, Bates's photo had been on the front page of the local weekly, with an article extolling the virtues of the backwoods life.

  Hammond had studied the picture: Bates was beefy, dressed in a hunting vest, cradling a Winchester in his thick arms. Hammond had not recognized him.

  From the details he had been able to pick up about the murders—single shots to both victims, no loud sounds of firing, gunshots so powerful they had knocked both young people half off the bed—he figured it had to have been someone who had known exactly how these things were done. But then, with the town's new growth, violent crimes of all kinds had been sure to increase here, too. After all, most of the villagers owned firearms of one sort or another. The police department—all three officers—were investigating.

  The barman focused on Hammond. He and Hammond were the same height, but he carried extra weight around his middle that would never be confused with muscle. Despite his florid face and broken nose, there was a dignity about him that Hammond liked.

  The bartender asked, "What can I get you, mister?"

  "A Bud. And an answer, I hope."

  Hammond pulled out a color photo from his herringbone jacket and slid it across the bar. It was of a white man of medium build with a slender, Northern European face. He was handsome in a tuxedo, confidently holding a half-full martini glass.

  Hammond said, "Ever see him?"

  The room was quiet as the t
wo big men exchanged a look, and the barkeep picked up the picture. It was dinnertime in the valley, but as anywhere, there were some who did not want to or could not go home. So they drank among their fellows, girding themselves against the long night or perhaps more loneliness than they cared to admit. Bars like this were hotbeds of gossip. That was why Hammond had allowed himself some optimism as he entered.

  "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell. What about you, Clyde?" The bartender handed the photo to the man in the hooded sweatshirt, who looked at it, shook his head, and passed it to the man at the table closest to him.

  Hammond frowned as the photo went around the tavern, each viewer indicating no knowledge.

  The last one said, "Looks kinda familiar. Can't tell you why."

  "Take your time," Hammond encouraged.

  The man studied the photo longer. "Nope, guess not." He handed it to Hammond. "Must remind me of someone I can't recall."

  "Anyone in Stone Point?"

  This time the man gave a decisive shake of his head. "Not a prayer."

  "So who is he?" the barman asked. "He's wearing a tuxedo, and he's at some fancy party. Don't think a guy like that'd be living here, do you, boys?"

  They laughed, the tragedy of the murdered lovers forgotten for the moment. They studied Hammond, appraising his long hair, gold earring, herringbone jacket, and jeans. But their stares were more curious than unfriendly. Take away the jacket and the earring, and he could easily fit in—an outdoors type who marched to his own drumbeat, similar to others here in the forested backcountry where individualism and eccentrics were part of the rough landscape as much as the big trees and wild vegetation.

  "He's Russian. Name's Alexei Berianov," Hammond rumbled. "I was hoping to interview him for my newspaper."

  "A Russian?" one of the men asked, surprised. "Whoa. No way. Here?"

  "Hey, I wouldn't mind meeting a Russian," said another. "Now Russia . . . that's pretty far away. A hell of a lot farther than New York. That'd be something, meeting someone from Russia. I wouldn't mind that. What newspaper you write for?"

  "The Washington Post."

  "Up there in Washington, Dee Cee?" said the man in the hooded sweatshirt.

  "Yes, sir." Hammond repressed a smile. "So have any of you ever seen any Russians around?"

  In that they were quickly unanimous. They shook their heads.

  "No way," the bartender confirmed.

  "I heard Russians talk in movies," said another. "Can't miss that accent. Sort of deep and growly. Nobody I ever met sounded like no Russian to me. Guess I know just about everybody lives here."

  "That so?" Disappointed, Hammond gazed around the room, hoping someone would disagree, but no one did.

  One of the women had focused on the man who had said he would not mind meeting Russians. "You like that idea, don't you, Kenny," she kidded. "Russia. Guess you should save up your pennies and go there. If you even know where it is."

  "Ah, come on, Alma. Don't you try to give me a hard time. Hell, you get lost goin' home. Three beers, and you think you're flyin' all the way to Wheeling. . . . "

  As the customers broke into good-natured laughter and kidding, Hammond tucked the photo back inside his jacket, paid for his beer, and left. Outside, pickups and old cars cruised past. He was frustrated and disappointed. When Beth Convey had related Yurimengri's dying words, he had been sure he would find a connection to Berianov in Stone Point, a connection to some deadly activity the once-powerful general had managed to keep hidden all these years. But Berianov had had an unmistakable Russian accent, something no one in Stone Point would have missed.

  Hammond jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, hunched his shoulders, and walked toward the drugstore, which was still alight. He was not quitting. Not now. He had invested too many years. What kind of idiot did that make him? But as soon as he asked the question, he answered with a shake of his head. He was no idiot. He was right. Someone in this benighted town would recognize Berianov's photo. . . .

  Then it happened. Hammond saw a shadow on the sidewalk that seemed wrong. Most of his adult life, he had automatically checked his path—car windows rolled up or down, building doors opened or closed, the way people walked and where they looked, reflections on all kinds of glass, and shadows. He had been trained to do it, and he had learned quickly it was prudent. Almost anyone else would have missed the bulge in the shadow ahead. It was cast by the wall on the alley's left and extended out across the sidewalk. It should have been a straight line.

  Either a person was hiding there, or the wall had a serious structural problem. He doubted it was structural. Hardly turning his head, he surveyed all around. Traffic was light. Four teenagers on the sidewalk were strolling and laughing, heading in his direction. As he tried to peer into the alley, which was fifteen feet ahead, Hammond's breath caught in his chest and a small, excited hum started inside his brain. He had never needed risk, but a part of him missed it. Although this was definitely low-level, it could be interesting.

  He watched carefully, ready to move, as the teenagers passed the alley. But whoever was in there was not sufficiently tempted, perhaps because the young people's pockets would not make for much of a robber's haul. Besides, there were four of them to deal with.

  He slowed to let them get safely past him. They were ambling with arms entwined, two young couples out looking for fun. The girls' laughter rang like clear bells. One boy stared into the eyes of his girl, and she lifted her lips toward him. Not only spring but sex was in the air.

  Hammond smiled and stopped to adjust his baseball cap. He leaned back against the timbered wall of a hardware store and wiped an arm across his forehead, buying time. When at last the lively little group passed and were out of range, he again scanned the sidewalks and street. For the moment, the only movement was their retreating backs. It was time.

  Using the store's wall for cover, he padded toward the alley. His motions grew liquid and smooth. An old power he had not felt in a long time seemed to take him over. His heartbeat slowed. His senses had that razored edge he recalled. With one huge fist, he reached inside the alley, grabbed cloth, and yanked.

  The voice attached to the clothing he grabbed was outraged. "Jesus Christ, Hammond!"

  "Shit. Steve Thoma. What in hell are you doing here?"

  The two men stood motionless at the alley's mouth, Hammond's hand knotted on Thoma's lapels, their angry faces inches apart. Thoma was smaller than Hammond, with wavy hair, a stubborn jaw, and eyes that shot fury. He was dressed in the usual simple, dark suit with white shirt. But just as Thoma started to reach behind and under his jacket, Hammond slammed him back out of sight into the alley with one hand, while the other expertly yanked a 10mm Smith & Wesson from the holster at Steve Thoma's back.

  "That's gonna cost you," Thoma snarled.

  "Sorry, I'm allergic to guns being pulled on me. Guess you're slowing down."

  "Like hell I am. I gave you a break." Thoma glowered.

  Hammond stuffed the Smith 10 into his waistband. "Classy toy. So you're armed. Correct that: Were armed. What'd you expect to find here—some assassin?"

  "You said that, I didn't." Thoma's wavy hair was tousled, and his pudgy face was swollen in anger at being outfoxed. "The question is what did you come here to find?"

  Hammond's lower lip thinned. His exit from the FBI one step ahead of being discharged had left a lot of hard feelings against him among the other agents. "Not you bushwhacking me, that's for sure. It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain dead KGB defector named Yurimengri, would it, Thoma?"

  Thoma curled his lip and checked out Hammond up and down. "Christ. You look like a bum. You need a haircut. And why are you wearing an earring? You always were a weird son of a bitch. Now it shows. God knows why the Bureau ever hired you in the first place."

  "It's good to see you, too, Thoma. Only it won't get you out of answering my question. Why now? The Bureau hasn't shown any interest in me in years."

  "Fuck you, Hammond." As the agent spoke,
his expression changed. The anger and chagrin faded into a sly visage of. . . what?

  And then Hammond knew. It was in his bones, like an old disease. Still holding onto Thoma's lapels, he twisted. The footfalls had been quiet as a cat's steps. The four men and women in their dark suits and white shirts seemed to appear from nowhere, their pistols trained on him. Somehow, Thoma had summoned them.

  Inwardly Hammond swore at himself. "You had a silent alarm." It was not a question. Hammond knew it had to be true.

  Thoma gave a cocky grin and popped open a seam in his belt to display a nickel-sized medallion. "It's attached to my holster. As soon as I—or you—took my gun, it was activated. All of us have them. Fortunately, I'm the one got lucky with finding you."

  "Yeah. I can see that."

  "Give Thoma back his weapon, Hammond. We're taking you in." It was Chuck Graham, another of Hammond's former colleagues. He was a slender man with a narrow, lined face. About ten years older than Hammond, he was in his mid-forties. Everything about him was spit-and-polish, from the knife-blade crease of his trousers to his freshly pressed, button-down shirt and smoothly shaved cheeks.

  Hammond had always respected Graham, even though he had not been crazy about his by-the-book style. "Taking me in for what?" He pulled the Smith out of his waistband.

  Immediately the four armed agents tightened their ring around him, their weapons aimed at his heart. So much professional firepower . . . it gave him one of those nasty moments when he knew he could get himself killed.

  "Sorry." He put an innocent smile on his face and carefully rotated the gun so it was butt first. He handed it to Thoma.

  Graham, who seemed to be the agent in charge, relaxed a fraction. "We want you for the murders of Lila Kennedy and Martin Coulson." The lines on his thin face deepened with disappointment. "Why'd you do that, Hammond? Hell. A couple of kids. I thought more of you than that."

  "Are you nuts? I didn't kill those kids. Why would I? I never set foot in Stone Point until yesterday."