The Raven

by Mike Nappa

  I take a step back. Did he see me, watching through the crack in the door? If so, he doesn’t let on. He just lets out a whoosh of air and turns his attention back to his opponent.

  “It’s clothing,” he says, and his voice sounds raspy from the spear-fingers thing. “You going to arrest me for carrying concealed laundry?”

  Samuel Hill doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides the bag over between them. He crouches down, unzips the canvas, and starts pawing through the contents. Even I can see it’s a bunch of shirts and pants, black, like waiters’ uniforms or something. He shoves everything back into the bag but doesn’t stand up yet.

  “Why a rifle bag?”

  Scholarship grins and shrugs. “Packer’s choice, I guess. You use what’s nearby when you pack for a trip.”

  They stare at each other, and I have to give Scholarship credit. Even though he’s been defeated, he’s not beaten, not by a long shot.

  Samuel Hill motions for him to get up, then he removes the handcuffs. “Okay,” he says, “you’re free to go. Next time just try a little cooperation with a police officer. Better for everyone.”

  Scholarship rubs his wrists absently, then picks up his bag, but he doesn’t leave yet.

  “Want me to walk you to your room?” the detective mocks. “I hear these halls are full of unsavory people.”

  The football player snorts a laugh in spite of himself. “I think I’ll come back later,” he says, “in case a little birdie is watching.”

  Is he talking about me?

  He walks out of my view, heading back toward the elevators at the end of the hall. Samuel Hill doesn’t follow him. He just stands in the hall outside my door, watching the other man leave. I hear the elevator ding, and then, before the doors close, I hear Scholarship again.

  “Detective,” he says, and his voice is calm now, though still a little hoarse from its earlier trauma. “You caught me off guard today. That won’t happen again. And believe me, there will be a next time.”

  Trudi Coffey’s ex-husband grins, and I think he means it when he says, “Looking forward to it, big fella.”

  After the elevator leaves, Samuel Hill pulls out his phone and walks slowly down the hall. I hear his voice, apparently speaking into his phone. “Trudi.” There’s a pause while the elevator doors reopen. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Trudi—” he says, and then the elevator closes.

  I find myself breathing hard, like I’ve just run up the stairs from the lobby to the sixth floor.

  “All right,” I mumble to myself. “At least I gave him the warning. Trudi says he’s good at helping, and I guess I can see that now. I just hope he’s good at helping her.”

  I sit in the darkness for a minute longer, then the elevator down the hall lets out another ding!

  I don’t hesitate this time.

  I pull out the washrag and shut my hotel room door.

  37

  Bliss

  Atlanta, GA

  Little Five Points

  Friday, April 7, 3:31 p.m.

  7 days to Nevermore

  Bliss June Monroe saw the black Cadillac Escalade ESV and knew it was coming for her. She held it in her gaze when it stopped at the red light where Mansfield Avenue North crossed Moreland Avenue, but just for a moment. Just long enough to make sure.

  She adjusted the brake on her wheelchair and settled in again on the sidewalk outside her store. The canvas beside her was mostly done by now, and judging by the thunder echoing lightly in the distance, she thought she should probably take it inside before the afternoon rains came, but she waited outside anyway.

  She’d planned to draw a sparrow today, something light and airy, with blue sky and white clouds as background, but she’d put down only a few strokes before she knew that painting would have to wait. Today it was a different bird, a large, sooty one with a glossy sheen, thick throat feathers, and a beak like a Bowie knife.

  Bliss saw the Escalade ease into the parking lot. It wasn’t too crowded today, and the car parked only about thirty feet from where she sat. She saw him exit the vehicle and make his way toward her. He nodded serenely when she greeted him by the front entrance of the Secret Stash.

  “Viktor Kostiuk,” she said. “You’ll have to go inside and get your own lawn chair if you want to sit down.”

  “Not necessary, Bliss,” he said. “I won’t be staying long.”

  “So,” she said, “did your man make my delivery?”

  He nodded. “Left it around lunchtime, in an anonymous FedEx Letter envelope.”

  Bliss let a little space fall between their words, listening to the sounds of rain building up in the distance.

  “I wonder what your boss would say,” she said, “if he knew his little spy was working for me now.” Viktor shrugged, and she felt suddenly irritated. She continued, “If you’d just done your job, we wouldn’t have this situation to deal with in the first place.”

  “I was doing my job,” he said. “She was a threat. She still is a threat, and even after April 14 she’ll be a threat. She was a witness to circumstances tying every one of us together. If she opens her mouth to her ex-husband, to anyone in law enforcement, my work gets compromised. Your work gets compromised. That’s a problem, and I found a clean, permanent solution. What better way to eliminate the threat than to have her sitting in the audience at Max Roman’s fundraiser next week?”

  “But you forget, she’s connected to me.”

  “Every war has collateral damage. She won’t be the only person in the audience.”

  “Yes, but she’ll be the only innocent person. The rest of those people, they’re all Max Roman sycophants. They ply him with money and favors and flattery and power. They keep him untouchable. They’re complicit in his crimes. They deserve what’s coming to them.”

  “We all do, I suppose.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, I think my approach was the best way to handle your detective lady, but I’m willing to be proven wrong. Maybe she’ll take the job offer. Then I can just steer her away from everything else.”

  “I hope so. But there is a backup plan just in case.”

  He gestured toward the bird on the canvas. “What about him?”

  “My problem, not yours.”

  A light mist began to fall over the parking lot. Viktor stepped closer to Bliss’s wheelchair, maneuvering to get fully under the awning of the store. She reached into her pocket and produced a small logbook with a gray cover.

  “I suppose you want this?”

  “It would be helpful,” he said. “Max Roman is expecting me to get it somehow.”

  “All you had to do was ask. No need to send a thief.”

  “Trying to keep my cover was all. What’s in this logbook?”

  “Enough to make your boss think he got what he wanted, but not enough to keep him clean and safe. A week from now, though, hopefully it’ll all be irrelevant.” She handed over the logbook.

  “Speaking of next week,” he said, “what about my Kipo?”

  “I got no love for any kook in puke orange.” She felt like spitting, but she also knew Viktor’s soldiers would serve a purpose next week. A necessary evil, she thought. “How many you going to have onsite?”

  “Nine. Plus Andrew Carr makes ten.”

  “What are they expecting?”

  “They think it’s all about money. Smash-n-grab job to steal cash and valuables from a bunch of rich people at a high-class banquet. Except for Andrew Carr, of course.”

  “Then they deserve what’s coming to them too.”

  Viktor didn’t respond to that. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “Where’s Darrent today?”

  “On vacation,” she said. “A cruise somewhere, I think. He’ll be out of town for a few weeks.”

  “Week from now I might join him.”

  “Maybe we all will.”

  They watched the rain begin to pick up in the parking lot around them, staining the world with a fresh, wet wonder, making the air taste warm and sweet.
>
  “You know, it’s not too late to back out,” Viktor said into the storm. “Call the whole thing off. Let Nevermore be just another almost-thing in the back of our minds.”

  Bliss grimaced. “I expected better from you, Viktor Kostiuk. You feeling sentimental about your family or something?”

  “Pavlo is a dog of a man,” he snorted. “I plucked him out of Ukraine just for this purpose. Why would I feel sentimental about that? I only wanted to give you one last opportunity to avoid an apocalypse. You’re sure it’s worth it?”

  “How long did it take me to get you inserted into Max Roman’s organization? And then to move you up, into his inner circle, without raising suspicion from anyone?”

  “All together? Seven years, give or take. Including the time spent in New York building my reputation.”

  One year after Davis’s death, she remembered. That was the beginning.

  “So what makes you think I’m going to invest seven years and then walk away empty-handed?”

  He nodded. “Sure, sure,” he said.

  “Besides, you and your little partner, you want to walk away from a lifetime’s worth of money just because I get cold feet?”

  Now he really grinned, a wolfish look that she’d grown accustomed to seeing on his face. “No, Bliss,” he said. “We definitely do not want to do that.”

  “All right, then,” she said.

  “All right, then,” he echoed.

  The rain was steady and warm now. Bliss almost felt like rolling into the parking lot, lifting her chin, and letting the cleansing water pour down her face and into her mouth. Instead, she went over the checklist in her head for the thousandth time.

  “Is the narrative set?” she asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said. He too seemed to find a little peace in their own private thunderstorm. “Computer diary dating back at least a year. A few Facebook rants. Pictures with guns and flags. Incriminating receipts. Weapons stash. Maps and photos pinned to a closet wall. Even a compromising nationalist tattoo on his shoulder. Those things will all turn up when the police investigate.”

  “How will it read in the papers?”

  “Ukrainian terrorist recruits disaffected American gang members and stages a violent protest to raise awareness of Russian atrocities in Eastern Europe.”

  Bliss felt the muscles in her back relax. It was all coming together—after all these years, justice was finally going to be done—and it would be blamed on Russian politics and American fears.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before we’ll know whether or not Darrent will be able to come back to Atlanta?”

  “He wants to come back? Why? Aren’t you paying him too?”

  “That’s none of your concern, now, is it? I’m just asking if you think he’ll be able to come back.”

  “If Nevermore goes according to plan, he gets to come back from ‘vacation,’ as scheduled, express shock and dismay to the media, then get back to work for America. If there are any hiccups, well”—he shrugged—“maybe he never comes back.”

  “There are always hiccups.”

  “Your manager knew what he was getting into. I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

  True, true, she told herself. “Yes, Darrent can take care of himself,” she said.

  Now Viktor turned to meet her eyes. “Everything has been planned and schemed and practice-run down to the minor details. The only thing we don’t know about is you. What happens to Bliss June Monroe when this is all over?”

  She takes care of herself too, she thought. Aloud she said, “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

  “Right,” he said. “I understand that. But you’ll have to leave the country, at least for a while. There are too many of your fingerprints that’ll show up in an investigation. Darrent Hayes can plead ignorance if he has to. Most likely you won’t have that luxury.”

  “What you don’t know can’t hurt you,” she repeated.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the hint at last. There was a lull in the conversation, then he said, “Well, it looks like the rain is letting up. I’d better be going.”

  “All right, then,” she said.

  He nodded toward the raven painted in blacks and grays on her canvas. “Beautiful art today,” he said. “I’m going to miss seeing your paintings.”

  “Take this one,” she said. “Remember me forever.”

  “Oh, I could never forget you, Bliss,” he said. But he still reached up and removed the canvas from the easel.

  “Careful of the paint, it’s still a little damp. Turn it facedown when you walk to your car, then faceup inside the car. After the rain stops, let it set somewhere to dry for a day or so before you touch it.”

  “Will do. Thank you.”

  “I won’t see you before next Friday,” she said as he prepared to leave. “Make sure you get your work done. And try not to make any more problems for me between now and then.”

  The wolf was back on his lips. “Don’t you worry, Mama Bliss,” he said. “Nevermore is going to go exactly according to plan.”

  Today . . .

  38

  Trudi

  Atlanta, GA

  West Midtown

  Friday, April 14, 4:44 p.m.

  Three hours and forty-three minutes to Nevermore

  “You hear anything from Samuel?”

  Trudi stood in the reception area of Coffey & Hill Investigations, badgering Eulalie for the fifth time today. The assistant was still patient nonetheless.

  “Nope, nothing yet. But he said he’d be there, so I believe he’ll be there.”

  “Ah, you poor, unsuspecting girl,” Trudi mocked, “so unwise in the ways of men.”

  Eulalie dimpled and ignored the insult. “I did pick up your dress from the cleaners,” she continued. “Stunning. You’re going to look great tonight.”

  Trudi tried not to feel a flush of pride. It was a pretty dress. Samuel had bought it for her as a surprise gift when they were on the run during the early stages of the Annabel Lee case. She’d stuck it in her closet and then never had an excuse to wear it. When she’d pulled it out a few days ago, it was dusty and slightly wrinkled, but still the best thing she owned on a hanger. She kind of liked that she had something worth sending to the cleaners in preparation for the gala event. And, though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she liked that in a few hours she was going to get all prettied up and go out to a big party, even if it was just a political fundraiser and even though her ex-husband had insisted on being her date for the event.

  “Maybe I should just take you instead of Samuel tonight,” Trudi said.

  “Ooh, don’t tempt me!” Eulalie replied. “I love getting dressed up and going out. Will there be dancing?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Ah, forget it, then. Besides, he’ll be there. He said he’d be there.”

  Trudi was glad that things were back on a normal setting with Eulalie, and even with Samuel, at least as normal as they could be.

  He’d come when she’d asked him to last Friday around noon. She was still at her desk, staring at the picture, when he’d knocked on the outside door.

  “Locked,” Trudi had said to herself, stuffing the picture and the accompanying itinerary for the so-called Hawaiian vacation back into the FedEx Letter envelope. “Forgot Eula locked the door when I sent her home.”

  She went out front and let Samuel in. Together they’d walked back to her office.

  “So what’s the big threat?” he’d said, settling formally into his regular chair on the visitor side of her desk. He looked concerned. “What’s going on?”

  She’d handed him the FedEx envelope and waited while he inspected the contents. She wasn’t surprised that he ignored the Hawaii itinerary, leaving it inside. She too had been consumed by the picture when she first saw it, just as he was now. He pulled it out and stared at it in stunned silence. She could see a thousand thoughts synapsing through his brain, and then he looked up at her. There was worry fixed in his
gaze. She saw his jaw muscles tense.

  “He’s beautiful, Samuel. He’s got your eyes and chin.”

  He’d nodded, speechless.

  “What do you need to do?” She had swallowed her heart then. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it.”

  He’d nodded again, more slowly this time. She thought his hand trembled where the thumb and forefinger held for dear life on to the bottom corner of the photo.

  “Trudi,” he’d said. Then nothing.

  She’d wanted to ask the boy’s name, wanted to know more about the child with her husband’s smile. But she knew he’d never tell her too much. In his line of work, with the enemies he’d made, it was too dangerous to spread that kind of information around. She waited until he was ready.

  “He is a beautiful boy,” he’d said at last. He set the picture and the envelope on the edge of her desk. “He laughs a lot. You’d love his laughter, you really would.”

  “I know.”

  Samuel had blinked his eyes blankly, and she could see his mind processing the possibilities. Then he seemed to return to the moment and take in her presence.

  “Trudi,” he’d said again, “I know what you think of me. I know you thought I was with that redhead back at the Ritz. That I jumped at the chance.”

  “Samuel—”

  “That’s not me, Tru-Bear.” His eyes had searched hers. “I’m not that guy. I followed her upstairs because she suggested you might be in danger. I had to see if she was right.”

  Trudi didn’t know what to say, so she just said nothing.

  “I made a mistake seven and a half years ago,” he’d said, “I know it. The worst mistake I could make. I was young. I thought I was indestructible. I thought, ‘everybody does it, and Trudi will never know.’ But that was just stupid. Even before you found out, it tore me up. It made me wake up sick at night. I ended it, and I made a promise never to do anything that could hurt you, not ever again . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “We’ve been through this before, Samuel.”

  “No, not really. Because you think I’m still the same stupid pig who had an affair just because it was convenient, just because it was easy.” His voice went deathly soft. “I’m not that guy.”