by Glenn Meade
“That’s her husband. Someone blew up their car. That’s what the newspapers said. Weird, huh?”
Regan looked at the screen. “Yeah, I know. I checked, too.”
“It made me kind of wonder.”
“What did?”
Josh fell silent.
Regan stared at him. “You going to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to say it until Dad got home.”
“Say what?”
“In case he got angry.”
“About what?”
“Miss Carla wanted to borrow one of dad’s guns.”
Regan slapped a sheaf of papers on the desk, and stared back at Josh. “What did you just say?”
“She . . . she wanted me to open the gun safe for her.”
“What for?”
“She said she had to go someplace and it may be dangerous. She said that’s why Dad’s been teaching her how to shoot. I wanted to call Dad, ask him. But she kind of made me help her. She said she’d square it with him.”
“Josh, are you making this up? ’Cause it ain’t funny, boy.”
“I swear. You can check the safe for yourself. She took a Sig.”
“You opened the safe for her?”
“Naw, but I told her the combination was on top of your closet. She kind of insisted. Said it was real important, she needed the gun.”
“She take anything else?”
“A silencer, a box of cartridges, some gun-cleaning stuff.”
“Holy cow.”
“You think Dad’s going to be angry?”
“I’d say you’re in deep doo-doo, buddy.”
“Don’t say that, Regan.”
“What am I supposed to say? ‘Well done, here’s a medal for ya’?”
A vehicle pulled up outside. Regan peered out.
“Here’s your chance to find out what your daddy thinks.”
Ronnie strode in, carrying a cardboard box full of office supplies. He slapped them on the desk, looked from Josh to Regan.
“How come you both look like we’ve been robbed?”
“Tell your daddy, Josh.”
71
* * *
Ronnie bounded up the cabin steps and yanked open the front door.
Her luggage was gone, the room left clean and tidy.
A faint scent of perfume lingered in the air but that was the only trace of her.
Regan followed him up the steps and inside.
“She left a little after ten?”
“Yeah, about that.”
“How’d she seem at the hospital when you saw her?”
“Pretty okay. Why did she check herself out, Ronnie?”
“It’s complicated.” He took out his cell, called Carla’s number.
It rang out. Her voice message kicked in. “It’s Ronnie. Call me as soon as you get this.” He flicked off his phone.
“You want to tell me what’s going on with the gun?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated, too. Story of my life.”
“When I saw her this morning, I told her.”
“Told her what?”
“I wasn’t dumb. That I sensed something was going on. That I didn’t want you involved in anything dangerous because of Josh. You’re not going to do that, are you, Ronnie?”
He turned toward the door.
“Are you, Ronnie?”
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
“I figure she needs to return the rental to Knoxville. There’s a flight late this afternoon to New York. She could be planning to be on it. Can you hold the fort?”
“Will she be okay?”
“Maybe. If I can talk some sense into her.”
• • •
Five minutes later Regan was in the office when an SUV drove up.
A man came in, rapped his knuckles against the open office door. Tall, dark-haired, good-looking. A bad-boy impish smile, his teeth slightly prominent.
He wore a baseball cap, jeans and boots, and a pale blue casual shirt. A couple of bright-colored fishing lures were pinned onto the side of his baseball cap.
On the counter next to him was a dummy grenade, set on a wooden plinth. He picked it up. Inscribed on the plinth it said COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT. Attached to the grenade’s pin-pull was a slip of paper that read PICK A NUMBER.
“Funny.” Billy Davix leaned against the door frame and looked at Regan.
“That’s the South for you. Full of crazy but likable rednecks.”
“I thought it wasn’t PC to call them that anymore?”
“Not to their faces. Unless you like the feel of a gun barrel up your nose. Appalachian Americans sounds better.”
Billy flashed a smile. “Fish biting around here?”
“They’re always biting around here, honey. They’re like piranha.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Billy pushed himself away from the door frame. “Got a cabin for a traveling fisherman for a few nights? And a bass boat to hire?”
“Sure.”
As Regan got up, Billy winked at Josh, tipped his baseball cap. “Hiya, son. You surfing the Net?”
Josh nodded.
Billy looked down at the screen, saw the images, raised his eyes, tapped it with his fingernail. “Hey, that’s Jan Lane. The pianist. He’s world-famous. Or at least he was. Wasn’t he killed a short while back? I loved his music, especially live.”
“You heard him play?”
“Sure, once. In Carnegie Hall, New York.”
“Was he good?”
“Yeah, he was a blast.”
• • •
“Sweet. All the comforts of home.”
“Where’s that, mister?”
Regan followed Billy out onto the cabin’s veranda.
He raised his baseball cap, showing a full head of jet-black hair, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “New Jersey. But I’m a redneck at heart. Name’s Billy Lubbock. My folks moved up north from Roanoke when I was a kid. I’ll need some fishing lures.”
“No problem. How many nights?”
“A couple, maybe more if they’re really biting. Anyplace around here a guy can get a beer and a meal in the evening?”
“The county’s pretty much dry.”
“No bars?”
“A few. You could try the Frog’s Rest, ten miles going east down the main road. If you see a sign that says ‘Banjo Lessons’ you know you’ve gone too far.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“The beer’s good and the company’s okay, if you don’t mind country and western. Last food orders are at nine thirty.”
“You ever go there?”
“Sure. It’s about the only place to go around here most evenings.” Regan noticed the man wore no wedding ring.
He looked at her. Their eyes met. He flashed the Billy Bob smile.
Something passed between them, he could tell.
Regan felt her face blush. “Let’s go pick you out a boat and some lures.”
• • •
The sun beat down on Billy’s neck.
He sat in the boat, a hundred yards offshore. A pack of Marlboro Lights lay on the seat beside him, the lighter stuffed inside the pack. The line was out, nothing biting yet, not that he cared if he caught anything.
No sign of the woman who checked him in but he could make out the boy in the wheelie, sitting on the dock, looking out at him.
The video camcorder in Billy’s hand was on, and he panned it left and right, zooming in and out when he needed to, getting shots of the marina from every angle. Details were important. He already had the aerial maps, the road maps, and the waterway route maps.
When he finished he put away the recorder.
He picked up his cell, punched the number.
Arkov answered. “Yeah?”
“I’m here. She’s got some connection to the place, for sure. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more.”
“Take care of i
t. I’m counting on you. The woman and the kid, too, if need be.”
“You think Mr. Shavik is okay with that?”
“Not your worry, Billy. Just get it done.”
“Sure.”
“Now tell me everything you’ve got.”
When Billy finally ended the call, he sat back in the boat, studying the marina, trying to figure out his next moves as he lit a Marlboro and inhaled slowly.
72
* * *
Shavik sat in the basement, listening to Angel breathing.
Deep, heavy breaths that told him she was completely unconscious. Her makeup was a mess, her head slumped to one side. He gripped her chin, lifted her face. Her eyes were closed, a purple bruise on her cheek where Arkov struck her. “Can you hear me, Angel?”
Nothing.
He shook her face, patted her cheeks. No reaction.
Two hours lost because of the overdose of scopolamine and still no response. He looked over angrily at the discarded syringe, just as the door burst open and Arkov returned, looking pleased with himself. He held a small glass bottle in his hand. “Got it.”
“You’re sure it’ll work?” Shavik asked.
“It depends how bad she is, but it’s worth a try.”
Arkov unscrewed the cap. A strong smell of ammonia salts wafted on the air. He held the open bottle under Angel’s nose. Her reaction was instant.
Her head jerked back, then snapped forward, and she dry-retched, trying to throw up on an empty stomach, but nothing came, only dribbles of mucus and saliva.
When she finished retching, she groaned, blinked, looked up at them, her pupils trying to focus.
Arkov grinned, and screwed the top back on the bottle. “Looks like it’s zombie time.”
• • •
Ronnie walked through the lines of polished rental cars in the Hertz lot opposite the arrivals building at Tyson Airport.
He came to a woman in a kiosk. Her name tag said Peggy.
He tipped his hat, smiled. “Ma’am.”
“May I help you, sir?”
“My wife returned a rental this afternoon. White Toyota Camry. She may have left her purse in the car and wanted me to check.”
“Your wife’s name, sir?”
“Carla Lane.”
“One moment, please.” Peggy tapped her keyboard, frowned. “You’re sure she returned the vehicle to Hertz?”
“Why?”
“I’ve no record of anyone named Lane returning a rental, sir.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. It’s been a quiet day. No white Toyota Camry, either.”
“Seems like my wife’s been lying to me, Peggy.”
• • •
He heard the angry roar of a jet taking off as he walked back to the airport parking lot.
Ronnie took off his hat, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and slid into the pickup. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair.
He didn’t touch the GPS on the dash. New Jersey was a long drive, at least twelve hours. He’d never make up enough time to catch up with her.
He took out his cell and tried calling her number again.
Her voice mail kicked in once more.
This time he didn’t bother leaving a message.
He tossed his cell aside and flicked open the glove compartment.
Inside was the envelope with the copy photographs of Shavik’s house in Cape May, and he spread out the images on the passenger seat. He studied them, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, his mind ravaged.
At the back of the glove compartment was a holstered Glock 26 with a spare clip that he kept for his own personal protection. He took out the handgun, stared at it, and again felt racked by indecision.
And again he asked himself the same question.
Could he break his pledge to Josh?
The same pledge he gave to Regan just hours ago.
And most of all, the promise he made to himself.
On the battlefield and in life he’d seen people behave just like Carla.
Driven by a powerful need to retaliate for the death of a comrade or a loved one, they couldn’t see past the red fog.
All that mattered was revenge.
With Carla, it went even deeper once you factored in her brother.
Big question.
How could he protect her? As much from Shavik and his kind as from herself.
As Ronnie sat there, he was conscious of time slipping away. Drops of sweat dripped from his brow onto the back on his hand. He wiped them away with his sleeve, touching his temples, feeling his heartbeat pulsing there.
No matter what, he couldn’t break his promise.
He just couldn’t, not for the life of him.
Finally, he replaced the Glock in the glove compartment.
He heard the harsh roar of another jet take off.
The big question came back.
How to save Carla from herself?
There was really only one way he could do it.
73
* * *
VIRGINIA
Carla drove off the highway and coasted into a McDonald’s drive-through.
She ordered a black coffee, then pulled into one of the parking spaces. She killed the engine, stepped out to stretch her legs, and sipped the hot coffee.
Her body ached after almost nine hours on the road. She turned on her cell. A missed call from Ronnie, and his voice message, asking her to call.
She desperately wanted to call him back, wanted to hear the reassurance of a male voice. Yet in her heart she knew this was her own private battle. It was wrong of her to expect him to risk his life for her, or break his promise to his son.
But the closer she got to New Jersey, the more she realized how bleak her situation was. Fear began to worm its way under her skin. She felt overwhelmed by hopelessness.
Someone like Shavik was too formidable an opponent for a woman like her.
Arkov, his bodyguards, and a property secured by state-of-the-art alarm system made her dread how impossible her task was.
And yet she felt driven—driven to know what happened to the small boy with the milky white eye whose face would haunt her until the day she died.
A razor-sharp memory flashed before her. Of Luka holding on to her, not wanting her to go, his face full of fear as he clutched her dress. Having to pry his tiny, determined fingers away, uncurling them one by one as he cried.
It ripped her heart out. She felt his anguish, his fear and panic and terror all growing within her again.
She closed her eyes, and recalled their pitiful last words.
“Carla, please . . . Carla don’t leave me, please . . .”
“I’ll come back for you, Luka, I promise. Carla will come back. Don’t be afraid.”
She fought the heartache, opened her wet eyes.
In desperation, she tried put her faith and trust in God, in some vague notion of a divine justice. But it didn’t reassure her, no more than it quelled the rising terror that grew inside her like a monster. And yet despite her fear the same desperate need drove her on.
Find Luka.
She climbed back into the car and rested the hot coffee cup in the holder.
One hundred and sixty miles to go, according to the GPS. If she could keep up her speed, and met no traffic delays, she’d reach Cape May in three hours.
She might just make it in time.
It was 9 p.m. exactly.
She restarted the engine.
I’m coming for you, Luka.
I’m finally coming for you.
• • •
“Show me the text.”
Arkov held out Angel’s cell for Shavik to see. Newark at 1 it is.
Shavik considered, then knelt in front of Angel again. “Talk to me, Angel. Tell me why.”
“Why?”
“Why open the safe?”
“Ledger . . .”
“But why do it?”
“My mother, my sister.”
“What about them?”
Dreamy eyes settled on Shavik, then swiveled, tried to focus on Arkov. The words sounded like a tired but angry snarl. “He . . . killed them.”
“Where?”
“Camp.”
“What camp?”
Silence.
“What camp, Angel?”
“Merviak.”
Shavik’s gaze shifted to the faded scars on each of her wrists. The scars she once told him were a long-ago suicide attempt.
He and Arkov exchanged glances.
Arkov went to speak, but Shavik held up a hand for him to be silent.
“Tell me about Carla Lane.”
Angel’s head rolled on her neck like a ball joint, then jerked upright again.
She looked comatose, as if behind her sluggish eyes there were strange dreams, confusion, delirium. She couldn’t help but answer every question. It was as if she were a submissive child, eager to spill secrets.
“Do you know her? Do you know Carla Lane?”
“Yes . . .”
“Tell me about her, Angel. Why did you meet her at Newark Airport? What did you discuss?”
A dribble of spittle slid down the corner of Angel’s mouth. Her lips parted, mumbled. “Lots of things.”
“Be specific. What did you discuss?”
“Arkov. Shavik.”
“What about us?”
Silence.
“Talk to me, Angel. Tell me.”
“I gave her . . .”
“Gave her what?”
“Photographs.”
“Of what?”
“House . . . photographs.”
“Photographs of this house?”
“Yes.”
“Is Carla Lane working alone?”
“She was alone.”
“I asked, is she working alone, Angel?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.”
“Where is she?”
Silence.
“Where is she, Angel? Is she here, in New Jersey?”
“Coming.”
“Coming where?”
“Here.”
“Tell me, Angel. I want to know everything.”
• • •
The moon was a big silver ball.
Shavik stood there, on the boardwalk, hearing the waves dragging on the shingle.
He drew on his cigarette, exhaled. He needed air, to escape the stuffy basement. To escape the inevitability of Angel’s death.