This wasn’t enough.
He told Angelica to stay where she was, then stepped into the office, moving quickly to the wall beside the window. This exposure, as brief as it was, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He pressed his back flat against the wood, paused, then, turning his head and leaning again just a bit, looked through the glass.
Nothing, no one. Again, though, his line of sight was limited. There was little hope of seeing whoever might be out there, if there even was someone out there, unless that person actually strolled past the window—
—and, just as he thought that, this was exactly what happened.
Out of nowhere a figure appeared, moving swiftly and silently past the storefront window. The figure of a man, large, in a dark coat. There, and then gone. The direction from which he had come told Cal that this man had been at the western side of the building. What was he doing there? Cal looked back at Angelica, saw her peeking around the corner. He could just see her face. He raised his finger to his mouth. Shhh. She nodded. There was nothing for either of them to do but wait and listen.
Cal could hear footsteps now. The man had continued past the door, was walking down the length of the garage along the gravel driveway, moving away.
Walking the perimeter? Cal wondered. Casing the joint? Taking note of all exits?
Listening till the sound of the footsteps faded, and only then allowing himself to move, Cal hurried back to Angelica in the first bay. The look on her face was clear: What do we do?
Cal held up his finger once more, took a second to listen again, then whispered, “Take off your coat.”
A whisper came back. “Why?”
He was removing his peacoat. “We’ll make a break for it on the bike.”
“What?”
“We’d never make it to your Lexus. Anyway, I can lose him on the bike, cut across fields if I have to. Trust me.”
Angelica began unbuckling the leather belt. “Why do I need to take my coat off?”
“It’s too long.”
He handed her his peacoat, then hurried to the third work bay, where the Triumph was parked, nose to the door. His helmet was hanging on the right-hand grip, but his spare helmet was on the shelves under the stairs, so he quickly grabbed that. Angelica, still by the office door, her overcoat in a pile on the oil-stained floor, was putting on the peacoat.
Suddenly she looked into the office, then quickly ducked away from the door.
“Cal,” she whispered.
Cal froze, but only for a second. Approaching the first work bay, he was careful to follow a path that would keep him out of sight of the office. Reaching the door, standing to the right of it, he looked across at Angelica. She tilted her head to the side, gesturing into the office. Cal took a breath, peeked around the corner, and immediately saw what it was that had startled her.
Standing outside the window, looking in, was the man in the dark coat.
Perfectly still, hands hanging at his side, almost casual in the way he was studying the office.
Unafraid, that much was certain.
Cal remembered Messing’s words. Sending someone to get you. Here already, which meant Messing had sent him before making his call.
Cal also remembered Lebell’s warning about Janssen’s bodyguard.
Big guy. If you see him, fucking run.
This man was clearly a big man.
Shit.
Cal looked at Angelica, got her attention, and nodded toward the third work bay. Get ready to go. He peered around the corner again, checking the window. The man was no longer there. Cal crossed the doorway quickly, like a man expecting to come under fire, grabbed Angelica by the elbow, and was guiding her through the first work bay when he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks.
A faint but steady beeping.
Someone was working the outside keypad.
He turned, could still see the interior keypad from where he was standing. He counted six beeps, each one slow and deliberate, and then—what the fuck?—the indicator light switched from green to red.
Disarmed.
The door, then, to his disbelief, began to open.
His heart was suddenly pounding.
Angelica crouched down, had to pull a stunned Cal with her. Together—it wasn’t certain which one was leading the other—they took cover behind the rear fender of the Benz.
His mind reeled now; he was trying to make sense of this. He remembered that Messing had listened to him give the code to Amanda.
What more did he need? This, plus the fact that it wasn’t a uniformed cop Messing had sent to get him, left no doubt in Cal’s mind.
Messing was working with them.
He grabbed Angelica’s elbow again, guided her to the front of the Benz, staying low as they moved. It was a better hiding place for them, and his toolbox, and all the makeshift weapons it contained, would be in easy reach.
The office door closed, carefully, almost silently, and then Cal heard the sound of footsteps, counted enough of them to know that the big man had arrived at the door to the first work bay.
There was a pause, and then the click of a flashlight coming on, its beam making a slow sweep of the garage.
Cal and Angelica kept still, neither daring to even breathe. Finally, the beam came to rest on the stairs in the far work bay.
The man started toward it, through the first work bay and the second, pausing in the third to aim his flashlight at the motorcycle parked by the door. Reaching the steps, he turned and made another sweep of the garage, then began to move upward, stepping as softly on the old planks as his great weight would allow.
At the top, the man opened the door. Cal kept track of his progress through the apartment by the creaking of the wood above. When he knew the man was well into the living room, had the two bedrooms and bathroom still to search, Cal made his move.
He stood, pulled open the bottom drawer of the tool chest, and grabbed his ball peen hammer, doing it all as quietly and as quickly as he could. Taking hold of Angelica’s elbow once more, he guided her through the maze of vehicles and equipment and support beams till they reached the motorcycle.
Hurrying to the bay door, he removed the locking pins and slowly spun the center-mounted lever. All that was left was for him to raise the door, but that would make a racket, so he knew he had to wait till they were ready to go before doing that.
Back at the Triumph, he handed Angelica the spare helmet, then grabbed his own from the right-hand grip. Angelica, uncertain how to put the helmet on, stepped toward Cal. She wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, though, focusing instead on figuring out how the helmet strap worked. She bumped into a wheeled cart as she walked, the cart that Lebell used to keep his tools handy while he worked.
The cart coasted for about a foot, silently at first, then collided with an old rusted oil drum they used as a trash can.
Above them, silence, and then the sound of footsteps moving from Cal’s bedroom, hurrying toward the kitchen.
There was no chance now of them mounting the bike and getting out before the man could reach them, so Cal dropped his helmet, grabbed Angelica again, and pulled her to the middle work bay, yanking her down to a crouch in front of the Citroën.
From there he ran for the first work bay, to the far side of his tool chest, where the fuse box was located. The ball peen hammer in his left hand, he opened the fuse box with his right, flipped the four breaker switches, killing the only light source.
Reaching for the top drawer of his tool chest, he opened it and grabbed two large sockets, all that would fit in his hand. Ducking down again, he took cover by the front of the Benz, just as the door opened at the top of the stairs.
In total darkness now, Cal couldn’t even see Angelica in the next bay, less than six feet away. He dared to whisper, though, said, “Stay there,” then lifted his head and looked over the hood of the Benz.
He could see, of course, nothing. Then, through the windows of the Citroën, he glimpsed
a light shining down the plank steps. He listened as the man began to move slowly down them. When he reached the bottom, the man first swept the garage with his flashlight one more time, then eventually began to search the nearby wall, looking, just as Cal had known he would, for a light switch.
Locating one, he stepped to it and flipped it. Nothing. He flipped it again. Still nothing. Searching the garage one last time with his flashlight, he finally aimed the beam on the motorcycle.
The helmet that had been hanging on the right grip was now on the floor.
The beam of light moved again, going to all three work bay doors, one right after the other. The man was, Cal knew, checking to see that they were locked. Seeing that the third one wasn’t, the man stepped into that bay and shined the light down one side of the old MG parked there.
Moving past the rear bumper, he shined the light down the other side. He then moved to the second work bay, did the same there. Instead of moving on to the first, though, he began to walk between the Citroën and the Benz, his flashlight now focused on the area around the nose of the former.
He must have seen something, or at least believed he had seen something, and was attempting to put himself between that something and the office, which was the only quick way out.
Cal passed the ball peen hammer from his left hand to his right, readying himself. Step by step the man drew closer to where Angelica was hiding, and though the light had yet to shine upon her directly, Cal could see that the shadow that concealed her was beginning to diminish.
Just a few more steps and she would be exposed.
Was this man armed? He must be. Was he the Russian Lebell had warned Cal about? Whoever he was, he was seconds from getting his hands on Angelica.
Cal listened to the creaking of the soft wood beneath the man’s feet. One more step, then another, his light trained on the Citroën’s nose.
Cal knew he had to make his move, and do it soon. He knew, too, that once he did, there would be no turning back, no escaping the consequences.
He placed one of the sockets on the floor, held the other in his palm, then, as quietly as he could, he threw the socket across the dark garage. It landed in the third work bay, and Cal expected that the man would turn his flashlight toward the sound, giving Cal the opening he needed to rise up and come at the man from behind and strike the back of the man’s head with the metal hammer.
Instead, the man aimed his flashlight at the Benz, at the spot from which the socket had been flung.
Had he heard Cal’s movements, the sound of his steerhide jacket maybe? Whatever the case, the light caught Cal in the eyes, blinding him. The man moved quickly to the front of the Benz, was immediately standing over Cal, between him and Angelica. In a heavy Russian accent, his voice flat and full of menace, the man ordered, “Stand up. Now.”
So this was the man Lebell had warned about. The one man from whom Cal should, no matter what, run.
Except there was nowhere to run now.
Cal stood, the blinding light remaining in his eyes as he rose.
“Drop the hammer. Step toward me.”
Cal did what he was told. The Russian backed up, keeping the distance between them equal. He was standing by the nose of the Citroën, must have been just inches from Angelica.
“Who else is here?”
Squinting, Cal said, “No one.”
“Move to the door.”
Again, Cal did what he was told, stepping around to the side of the Benz and walking past its driver’s door. The Russian followed, his flashlight on Cal, casting the kid’s shadow ahead. Large and dancing, it stretched the length of the work bay. Cal had taken three, maybe four steps, was frantically trying to think of something to do, when he heard a commotion behind him.
The light suddenly swung away, his shadow disappearing with it. Turning, he heard a scream—a woman’s scream, not a frightened scream but an angry one, a wild, guttural battle cry.
It was followed by the dull, sickening thud of the ball peen hammer’s steel head connecting with fragile bone.
The Russian staggered, and Cal saw his chance.
He went low, executing a wrestler’s leg dive, wrapping his arms around the Russian’s knees and drawing them together, further compromising the man’s already waning balance.
It didn’t take much at all to bring the man down.
Scrambling on top him, Cal yanked the flashlight from his hand. He was ready to beat the man with it, do whatever it took, whatever needed to be done, his lean body surging with adrenaline.
But even in this crazed state he was able to recognize right away that his opponent was motionless. More than that, the man was lifeless.
Looking up, Cal saw Angelica standing over them. The flashlight showed the bloodied ball peen hammer in her clenched fist. He stood quickly, a cold chill rushing through him, his breathing fast and frantic, and aimed the light at the Russian’s face.
Blood, shimmering in the harsh glare, was rapidly pooling around the man’s head. His eyes were open but stared vacantly at nothing.
Cal looked at Angelica again. Her chest, too, was heaving, but the rest of her graceful body was rigid, frozen. All sense of her serenity and calm was long gone. Her eyes were fixed on the felled man, but unlike his, hers were anything but vacant. Dread, shock, fear, anguish—they showed all these.
After a moment, realizing she was still holding the hammer, Angelica dropped it, couldn’t wait to get rid of it. She looked at Cal.
He didn’t know what to say at first, then managed to utter the one thing that mattered. “We need to get out of here.”
Reaching out, he gently touched Angelica’s elbow. Her mind must have wandered, because this gesture startled her a little. She looked at Cal for a moment, seemed to want to speak but couldn’t. There wasn’t time for this, though, he knew that, so he guided her away from the man in a heap at their feet, mindful of the spreading blood, leading her quickly toward the unlocked door.
Outside, they headed around back, where the Lexus was parked. Before they even reached the vehicle, however, Cal stopped short.
“What?” Angelica demanded.
The flashlight illuminated the front end.
“The tires are flat,” he said.
The Russian had obviously done that. They hurried back around to the front of the garage. Cal quickly searched the dark street as they moved, saw nothing there—but, he wondered, would he?
He told Angelica to meet him at the middle bay door, then entered the office, moving through it to the first work bay. He aimed the flashlight at the Russian as he approached him. The pool of blood around his head had grown even larger, and his eyes were still open, still staring.
Cal had never seen a corpse before—he’d seen the dead bodies of his father and brother, laid out in caskets, faces made up, dressed in suits, but never a corpse, never a dead body.
Certainly not the body of someone he had played a part in killing.
A chill shuddered through him. His knees suddenly went weak, but he remained standing, remained as cool as he could possibly be.
Though the immediate danger had passed, adrenaline was still surging through him. Chaos swirled like a storm within him, but he had to stand still, had to resist it.
He found then a degree of sense, grabbed a rag from the nearby work bench, then knelt down and picked up the hammer, wiping the handle, erasing Angelica’s fingerprints. Dropping the hammer again, he stood and made his way to the second work bay, lifting the unlocked door.
Angelica was waiting for him just beyond it. He pushed the motorcycle through and started the motor, then hurried back inside, grabbing his helmet and searching for Angelica’s. He quickly spotted it, picked it up, and, back outside, handed it to her. Pulling the door closed, he locked it out of habit.
He didn’t bother to arm the security system from the outside keypad, though. What would that matter now? He felt that he was forgetting something but could not remember what and didn’t think about it for too lo
ng. All that mattered now was getting out of here, putting this place—and the dead man inside it—far behind them.
He helped Angelica put her helmet on, then pulled the gloves from his and got them on. With his helmet on, he fastened the chin strap and mounted the bike, telling Angelica to get on behind him. She did. He unzipped the pockets of his steerhide jacket, told her to put her hands inside them. He had no gloves to offer her, but this would help keep her warm and, at the same time, allow her to hang on to him. He felt her lean close, laying her torso against his back, clinging to him.
Turning right onto Scuttlehole Road, he rode west, toward Southampton—it was an instinct; west was the way off the island. Once they had Southampton behind them he’d pull over and call Heather, but that was as far ahead as he could think.
He took the back roads through Bridgehampton, to avoid the main streets for as long as possible. His steerhide jacket did little against the cold morning air, but he didn’t care. The clouded sky behind them was beginning to lighten, and he wanted to get to wherever the hell they were going before morning light could surround them.
He drove aggressively, leaning into the many corners, slowing but not stopping for stop signs. He didn’t care about obeying traffic laws now.
Turning from Seven Ponds Road onto David White’s Lane, all that remained between them and Sunrise Highway, the main route west, was a straightaway—or, rather, a straightaway relative to the winding back roads he’d just maneuvered. He twisted the throttle, watched the speedometer spike as the bike quickly reached fifty miles per hour. It wasn’t an unsafe speed but was still above the clearly posted limit. Halfway down that straightaway Cal could see the main road ahead of them. Almost there. Soon he could give thought to where they were going. Soon he’d be far enough away to think of something other than running.
It was just past the halfway point, with only a few hundred feet left to go, that he spotted something else ahead.
A patch in the road, starkly and strangely black, shimmering in the predawn light.
Wet pavement? How could that be? And why there and only there? It wasn’t till it was too late, till the bike reached this section in the road and all hell suddenly broke lose, that Cal realized what in fact that odd patch of blackness was.
[2010] The Violet Hour Page 19