The Last Witness

by Glenn Meade

  As if the happy part of his past, when his mom was alive and his parents together—that time in his childhood when things were clear and bright, happy and safe—was a dream he longed to reclaim.

  On the shelves his son still kept photographs of them all together: Josh, Annie, him.

  Two were of Annie and Josh when he was an infant. Asleep in a smiling Annie’s arms on Myrtle Beach, their first vacation together. Another shot on the dock, five-year-old Josh holding his mom’s hand, both of them squinting into the sun, Annie not looking too happy. It was the year he redeployed to Afghanistan.

  He stared down at his son’s legs, or what passed for them, the scarred and puckered flesh where the surgeons had done their best to re-form the mangled tissue and crushed bone, to at least give him some semblance of a complete body.

  At that moment, Ronnie felt drowned by a wave of guilt. It never lessened. Never faded the way he prayed it would. He’d let his wife and boy down, put the army and his country first.

  Josh was never going to walk again. He’d come to accept that. There was never going to be any miracle cure—no Lourdes trip that would put everything to rights. All he could pray for now was that he lived long enough to protect his son as best he could, and teach him how to take care of himself.

  When Josh was discharged from the hospital, Ronnie had been tough on him. Like a drill sergeant, he’d pushed him to do things almost beyond himself physically, rigging up a set of exercise bars to strengthen his son’s upper torso, desperate to prepare for the day Josh would have to survive alone.

  There were times after hours of exercise when he’d carry the exhausted boy to bed, and laid him down to sleep. Those times brought him close to tears.

  For sometimes when he slept Josh had the face of a young girl, and it was a face Ronnie vividly remembered. Josh looked so much like his mom. The same magnolia skin. The same fine blond hair and full lips.

  If he closed his eyes he could still see her the first time they met in Gatlinburg, a girl of seventeen, wearing a pair of worn flat shoes and a faded floral dress she’d sewn badly in places.

  She was always a kind of lost soul, Annie.

  It was part of what made him want to protect her. Just as he wanted to protect Josh. Was it that same protective streak in him that drew him to Carla?

  He felt something for her. He wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t love; it was way too soon for that, and the timing was all wrong.

  But he sensed in her something vulnerable, something lost, a gaping wound so deep within her that it made him want to reach out to comfort her.

  Just like him she’d learned that grief and guilt are the hardest crosses to bear.

  Looking down now at Josh, he was beset by agony. He leaned over, kissed his cheek. Josh stirred, gave a tiny moan, fell back to sleep, his hands under his head.

  He hated going back on a promise—he prided himself on being a man of his word. But Josh needed him, and always would.

  With more time, they might have come up with a decent plan, but they didn’t have that luxury. As it stood, there were too many obstacles. He wasn’t afraid of men like Shavik. But Carla’s plans as they stood didn’t stand a chance—except of getting them both killed.

  Her couldn’t do that to Josh.

  He couldn’t hurt him again.

  No matter how much he might care for Carla, he cared more for Josh, and it couldn’t be any other way.

  He’d have to tell her that.

  He stood, crossed the room, flicked off the light, and took one last look at his son’s sleeping figure in the shadowy darkness.

  Bottom line, he couldn’t risk making him an orphan for a woman he hardly knew. He just couldn’t.

  From now on, Carla was on her own.

  66

  * * *

  “How are you feeling?”

  Carla came awake slowly. Regan sat in a chair next to the bed.

  “Drowsy. I . . . I went under as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

  Regan placed a bunch of flowers on the bedside locker. “For you. I’ll get the nurse to put them in water.”

  “Thanks, Regan.”

  “Ronnie told me about you being pregnant. But hey, he wouldn’t have had to.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve sort of got that look on your face all pregnant women get. Bewilderment. Shock. Joy.”

  “You reckon?”

  Regan half smiled. “Yeah. Like the doc stiffed you with a huge medical bill you never expected, but you’re still alive and ain’t got that incurable disease you thought you had, so you’re darned happy.”

  Regan gave a hearty laugh, the kind that made you want to join in. She looked past the window blinds, parted to reveal lake and mountain.

  “Nice view. What’s the matter? You look lost as a stray dog.”

  “The view kind of reminds me.”

  “Of where?”

  “The place I grew up.”

  “Where was that?”

  “A long way from here. A long, long way, and another life, Regan.”

  “By the sounds of it, wherever you came from wasn’t a happy place, was it?”

  “No, but it was once.” Carla clammed up.

  “Hey, I came back a few times to check on you. You know you talk in your sleep? Worse than Dwayne did after a skinful. They give you meds?”

  “Why, what did I say?”

  “Enough for me to know you’ve probably been through some heavy stuff.”

  Carla didn’t answer.

  “It sounded to me like you were having a nightmare.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You were muttering but none of it made much sense. Something about a boy named Luka. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Seeing bones . . .”

  Carla went to speak, but faltered.

  Regan patted her arm. “Hey, you don’t have to explain, sweetie. You don’t have to tell me nothing.”

  “When I was a child there was a war . . .” Carla’s words fell away.

  Regan squeezed her hand. “I figured from the way you were squirming in your sleep something bad must have happened to you.”

  “I’ll spare you the details, Regan.”

  “That’s okay. The important thing right now is that you look after that baby, you hear? No overdoing it.”

  “You never have children, Regan?”

  “It came close. I miscarried once, before Dwayne and I split.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was burning the candle both ends—teaching, and working at the dock all hours because Ronnie’s wife had died, and helping to look after Josh.”

  Regan faltered.

  “I should have rested up, like the doctor told me. Losing the baby was maybe the hardest thing I ever had to deal with.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t fret, it isn’t the same outcome for everyone. But you need to take the doc’s advice. Mind if I say something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Look, whatever it is you’re doing with Ronnie, it’s really none of my business. But I know my brother.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “When he starts hanging out on the shooting range most days for the first time in years, and trekking up and down those hills like a mountain goat on speed, and with a woman he hardly knows, then there’s got to be more to it.”

  Regan fixed her with a stare. “I mean apart from the fact he likes you a lot. Don’t look so shocked. I think you knew that, too.”

  “Yes . . . yes I did. I like him, too. It’s just . . .”

  “I won’t even go there. But it doesn’t take rocket science to figure you and Ronnie are co-conspirators in something, whatever that something is.”

  Carla bit her lip.

  “Now he knows that you’re pregnant I bet he’s telling you to be careful? Not to take risks with your baby. Giving you advice like he’s your personal gyno, right?”

  “Yes.”

  �
��It figures.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Ronnie’s wife was seven months pregnant when she drove her car into the wall. That’s why it cut him up real bad. He felt the weight of his wife’s death, and their unborn baby. A baby Ronnie really wanted. It was kind of ironic. My brother was trained to kill, yet fate taught him the opposite: that life’s so very precious.”

  Regan’s eyes fixed straight on her. “I guess none of us really know the value of a life until it’s lost, but then you know that, losing Jan.”

  Carla faltered. “I . . . I had a young brother. I loved him very much. I lost him in the war I told you about. I never knew if he lived or died.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  She wanted to say more, wanted to tell Regan everything, but knew she couldn’t take that risk.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Regan, I think I need to be alone.”

  Regan pushed back her chair. “Sure. I’ve got lots to do over in Harrogate. That’s why I called in now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “P.m.?”

  “A.m.”

  “I . . . I slept all that time?”

  “The nurse said twelve hours. You must have been pretty beat. Stress can do that.”

  Regan paused at the door, looked back.

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Have you watched the TV news recently or read the stuff in the newspapers about Jan’s death?”

  “I’ve seen none of it.”

  “The cops seem to have hit a brick wall.”

  “I know.”

  “They’re calling it murder yet they’ve got no motive. Except I read a piece today that mentioned Jan’s past. I’m guessing the cops may want to talk with you about it at some stage.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “It said he was from Croatia, in the former Yugoslavia.”

  “What about it?”

  “The article mentioned that maybe there was some kind of vendetta, or revenge motive behind his death.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  Regan’s left eye arched. “Yet Ronnie’s teaching you to shoot? Honey, even if I had the brains of the dumbest sheep I could figure out that something pretty serious was being planned by you two.”

  Regan’s words hung in the air.

  “My brother’s a good guy, Carla.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s why I don’t want him getting himself into any situation where he might be harmed or killed, you understand? Josh needs him. Needs him badly. Ronnie pledged after Annie died that he’d never do anything to jeopardize his son.”

  Regan looked at Carla with clear, solemn eyes. There was no mistaking the steel in her voice.

  “So whatever it is you’re up to, I don’t want you putting my brother in harm’s way, you hear?”

  67

  * * *

  She waited until the door closed and Regan was gone.

  She sat there, feeling lost, helpless.

  She clutched her stomach, then buried her face in her palms.

  What could she do?

  If she took the doctor’s advice to protect her baby, she might never find Luka.

  If she tried to confront Shavik, she risked her baby’s life and her own.

  Racked by unease, she looked down at her hands.

  They no longer covered her face.

  She was anxiously folding and unfolding the corner of the bedsheet.

  She reached inside the nightstand, and found her handbag.

  From a side pocket she took out the big yellow envelope. She removed Luka’s blankie and the photograph taken on Dubrovnik beach.

  Staring at the image of Luka and her mother and father, she clenched the blue cotton so tightly that her knuckles hurt, turned white. She felt the pain of her conscience. A phone rang somewhere out in the hall. She remembered Angel’s promise to call.

  She rummaged in her bag, found her cell, and flicked it on. No texts but two missed calls. Neither from Angel, which worried her, but from Baize.

  And two voice messages.

  The first was from Baize, asking her to call her when she was free.

  When the second message played, she recognized the Irishman’s voice immediately.

  “Mrs. Lane, it’s Sean Kelly. I wonder if you’d call me back as soon as you get this? I have some remarkable information. And I know for a fact Mila Shavik was the last person to have contact with Luka and—”

  Carla felt her heart thump with excitement.

  There seemed to be a moment’s time lapse over the line and then came a harsh noise like scraping metal, followed by a scream.

  “Dear Lord . . . no!”

  A muffled silence followed and the line went dead.

  It sounded as if Kelly had crashed his car.

  Puzzled, Carla punched her keypad and redialed his number.

  It rang out, and switched to answer mode, Kelly’s voice telling her to leave a message.

  She sat there, agonized.

  What was the remarkable information? What about Luka?

  Kelly’s tone sounded upbeat. As if it was good news.

  She would give it a few more minutes and call Kelly’s number again. If she got no reply, she’d call the ICMP headquarters in Sarajevo.

  When she could bear it no longer she clambered to her feet, gripped by a powerful need to know that she couldn’t ignore.

  The door opened, a nurse came in, all business. “Ma’am, you need to get back in that bed . . .”

  Grabbing her clothes from the nightstand, Carla hurried past her.

  • • •

  She opened the front door to Ronnie’s cabin as the cab drove away.

  Josh was sitting by the Yamaha organ, tweaking a few dials. He looked surprised to see her as he pushed his fringe off his face.

  “Hi.”

  Carla joined him. “Hi. Having fun?”

  “Just messing with my tuner.”

  “Is your dad around, Josh?”

  “Naw, he had to go out.” Josh picked up a McDonald’s bag. “He brought some Egg McMuffins for breakfast if you’d care for one?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a decaf coffee in the other bag that Dad left. You want it?”

  “Thanks. How about we zap the food in the microwave?”

  She crossed to the kitchen, popped the bag and the coffee in the microwave, figured out the timer, hit the button. When they were done she handed Josh the bag and sipped the coffee.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, ma’am.”

  He opened the bag, handed her one of the McMuffins.

  “Thanks.” Carla left it on the table.

  “Regan had to go Harrogate. She said she was going to visit you first.”

  “I saw her before I discharged myself from the hospital.”

  “Are you okay now, ma’am?”

  “I hope so, Josh.”

  “She likes you.”

  “Regan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like her, too.”

  He bit on the McMuffin. “She never stops kidding me. But I guess that’s kind of like affection, right?”

  “Sure it is. Did your dad say when he’d be back?”

  “Not until later. He had to drive into Knoxville. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is my dad helping you or something?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Why are you two working so hard on the range?”

  “He’s been teaching me how to shoot.”

  “Why, ma’am?”

  “I need to . . . to learn to protect myself, I guess.”

  “How’d you do shooting?”

  “Okay. I think. But I could probably do better.”

  Josh took another bite, swallowed. “You like my dad?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s a good man.”

  “That’s
what my mom used to say. Except she used to think he loved the army more than he loved her.”

  “You think he did?”

  “I used to, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why?”

  Josh shrugged. “Because I know he misses her.”

  His eyes flicked to the Yamaha.

  “Mom used to play while Dad was away in the military. That’s really how I started playing. She got bored, so she bought the organ and tried to teach herself.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “Naw, not really. It just gave her something to do. She was sorta lonely.”

  His head lowered just a little, with the kind of vulnerable purity only a twelve-year-old can show.

  “Josh, I need to ask a favor. Where does your dad keep his guns?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to borrow a Sig he’s been letting me use.”

  “Are you planning on doing some more shooting?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  68

  * * *

  Arkov sat on a basement stool, watching as Billy tied a piece of pencil-thick rubber around Angel’s arm.

  He slapped the skin, raising a vein. Angel’s head lolled to one side, her hair strewn, her makeup and lipstick streaked. Her skirt was halfway up her thighs.

  “Another five cc’s.”

  “You’re sure, boss?”

  “Do it,” Arkov replied.

  Billy held up the hypodermic in one hand, a glistening dewdrop of scopolamine forming on the needle’s pinhead, then he jabbed it into Angel’s vein, producing a droplet of blood, and sank the plunger.

  “You think this extra shot will work?”

  Arkov examined Angel’s cell phone in his hand and began to tap the keys. On the table next to him was a silenced 9mm Glock. “With scopolamine, it’s hard to judge the right dose.”

  “What is it with this stuff?”

  “They call it Satan’s breath. It turns its victims into a zombie. If it works, she can’t help but answer our questions.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I’m going to enjoy beating the life out of her until I get the answers I want.”