Fixed in Fear: A Justice Novel

by T. E. Woods

  And what do I do with this Allie stone in my heart? he wondered. Is Larry right? Is forgiveness the place I need to get to? Am I brave enough to even start down that road?

  Mort pushed the questions away. “I’ll leave you to your work, Larry. If you need me I’ll be out on the stoop, seeing what old Bilbo’s up to.”

  Larry was too engrossed in Carlton’s journals to respond. Mort admired his friend’s ability to become so wrapped up in whatever held his attention that the rest of the world ceased to exist. Perhaps the skill was what made Larry the respected scholar he was. Or maybe it was Larry’s own strategy for getting through the pain of Helen’s kidnapping and murder. Carlton spent his life searching for peace by finding a way to forgive his niece’s killer. Had Larry discovered another way? Could it be possible for Mort to find his own way to close off the reality of what his daughter had become and the gnawing fear that Robbie and the twins were in danger?

  Or maybe Mort was meant to simmer in his regret for the father he’d been to Allie. His wishing for a do-over with his daughter may not be the most effective way to deal with the pain of Allie’s actions, but at least it was familiar to him.

  —

  Mort found Bilbo right where he left him: still on the top stoop of Carlton’s porch, shaking out yet another Camel straight.

  “How many of those you inhale in a day?” Mort settled down next to the sixty-year-old relic from a bygone, tie-dyed culture. “You’ve heard the health bulletins, I take it.”

  Bilbo Runyan’s yellow-toothed smile was enough to answer Mort’s question. “Fuck that crap. I like to smoke. I don’t worry about what’s coming. It’s all about the moment, man. Living for today. Cuz I’ll tell you something. Today’s all we got. And one of these days we won’t even have that. Gotta live like you’re dying, man, cuz we all are.”

  Mort suddenly realized Bilbo’s grief over Carlton’s sudden death was probably more acute than Larry’s. Bilbo and Carlton had been friends since grade school and spent every day Carlton wasn’t traveling together in this house. Why hadn’t he realized that earlier? Edie used to tell Mort he’d get so caught up in whatever case he was working that sometimes he let the most obvious facts of human nature pass him by. He’d always promise to do better, but they both knew that wasn’t possible.

  “That’s okay,” Edie used to say. “I’ve got your back. I’ll let you know when you’re missing something big.”

  Well, he’d sure overlooked this damaged man’s obvious grief.

  “How’s it going for you, Bilbo? With Carlton gone, I mean. It must be tough for you to lose your friend like that.”

  Bilbo didn’t answer. Mort had come to appreciate the power of silence. He sat quietly beside him while Bilbo finished the Camel he had in his fingers.

  The Friday sidewalk traffic held Mort’s attention while Bilbo smoked three more after that. Young mothers in high-tech running clothes trotted behind strollers bearing toddlers wearing miniature North Face fleece jackets. Skateboarders traveled down the center of the street in packs of twos and threes, swerving reluctantly out of the way of the occasional car driving past. A hipster couple shuffled by, dressed oddly alike with his skinny black jeans and her tight black miniskirt. They held hands but didn’t speak. Each bobbed their heads to music heard only by them through look-alike red earbuds as they headed down the block to any number of trendy brunch places a half mile away. Mort checked his cellphone and ignored two calls that came in. Nearly an hour had passed when Bilbo finally spoke.

  “Nobody knows what Carlton and I been through, man.” Bilbo coughed, and Mort’s stomach reeled at the tobacco stench that wafted his way. “Well, mostly nobody. Helen got us, that’s for sure. I’d like to say we were brothers. But it was more than that.” He turned paranoid eyes toward Mort. “We weren’t gay for each other or nothing like that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Mort shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking anything. Tell me what it was like for you guys.” Maybe Bilbo could give him some kind of thread to tug on to track down why Carlton had been targeted in that sweat lodge.

  Bilbo pulled himself up into something resembling a standing position. “I gotta take a leak,” he mumbled.

  Mort waited on the front porch while Bilbo was inside. Five men whizzed by on bicycles he knew cost more than his first car. All were dressed in spandex shorts and neon-bright shirts. All had helmets color coordinated with their bikes. Mort shook his head and wondered how looking like shrink-wrapped peacocks enhanced one’s biking performance.

  Ten minutes later Bilbo returned. His eyes were out of focus, and he held both arms slightly off to his side as he slowly seated himself back on the stoop.

  Mort smiled. “Bet that burrito sounds good about now, huh?”

  Bilbo looked to his right and then his left. “Shoulda got it while I was up, man. I’m good right here, I guess.” Then, to Mort’s surprise, Bilbo started talking. He told the story again about how he and Carlton met. About how people couldn’t understand their interracial friendship. Mort heard about pranks they’d pulled together in school and scams they’d pulled on parents and women. Mort laughed out loud at a tale involving a canoe, a butter knife, and a rookie park ranger afraid of the dark.

  “You two were suited for each other,” Mort remarked. “Two peas in a pod.”

  Bilbo nodded. “Brothers from different mothers, man. At least we were. Then Helen went and got herself bumped off. Shit really changed after that.”

  Mort heard again how Carlton went crazy after Helen’s death. How he disappeared for weeks.

  “Thought that boy was lost to me forever,” Bilbo said. “But he come back. A changed man, but he come back. Promised still to always keep tight with me. But it was different.”

  “How so?” Mort hoped for a clue.

  Bilbo’s back stiffened. He swiped a hand across his face before running it through his graying hair. “Just different is all.” His tone lost its earlier air of friendly reminiscence. “Carlton had his religious shit and I guess you could say I had shit of my own.”

  “You guys ever clash? You two had what you might call different lifestyles, after all.”

  Bilbo stared straight ahead. Mort could sense he was losing him.

  “I got shit to do, man.” Bilbo stood and took a second to balance himself. “Ain’t got no time for these questions.”

  Mort pulled himself up and stood next to him. “But you remained friends. Despite the changes. It’s impressive. That’s all I meant.”

  Bilbo held his gaze with rheumy eyes. When he spoke it was with a world-weary voice. “What Carlton and I had? What we shared? It was a bond nobody could break.”

  Bilbo walked into the house without another word.

  Mort glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. He thought about his favorite sandwich shop and their pastrami on rye. Larry and he had once declared it the best in the city…and they’d gone on quite the hunt before making the pronouncement. He’d grab one for Bilbo, too, certain the man would prefer that to a microwaved burrito. He pulled his car keys from the pocket of his windbreaker and turned to enter the house to let Larry know he’d be right back. Before he could reach for the door, however, Larry was opening it from inside.

  “Talk to me, Morton.” Larry’s voice was a mixture of hesitancy and curiosity. “I’m having trouble making heads or tails of what I’ve been reading.”

  Mort’s eyebrows shot up. “You want my help? Listen, all I remember from my religious training are the words to ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ ”

  Larry waved him inside. “Carlton’s latest journal entries. I’ve been poring over them. It seems that for the past few months he’d been cataloging the similarities between the three Abrahamic religions’ take on forgiveness.”

  They were in Carlton’s office now. Larry stood behind the table, a cloth-bound journal in front of him.

  “What’s an Abrahamic religion?” Mort asked. “And lose the professor stuff. Tell me like you’re talking to a tw
o-year-old.”

  “Three great religions sprang from the same source: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The three religions each trace their origins back to the patriarch Abraham.”

  “Yeah? So I imagine they’ve got some similarities then. And given how much blood has been spilled in the name of those three religions, I imagine they’ve got their differences, too.”

  “Exactly.” Larry flipped to a page in Carlton’s journal he’d earmarked. “Carlton had developed a grid system on each religion’s forgiveness rituals. See?” He turned the book for Mort’s inspection. Carlton had drawn a grid, with columns for religions and rows for rituals. “Look where the religions agree.”

  Mort drew a finger down the page. “There’s an X for each religion for confession.”

  “That’s right.” Larry nodded. “Same concept, but the execution is different. Jews believe you only confess those sins to God that have offended God. Slights you do against men you confess to the person you’ve offended.”

  “Don’t bother God with the small stuff,” Mort said.

  “Something like that. Christians mandate you confess everything to God.” Larry pointed to another area of the graph. “And Islam sort of combines the two. According to Islam, in order to be forgiven, a person must recognize and admit their wrongdoing to God, make a commitment to never repeat the offense, and, finally, if another person is involved, ask that person for his pardon.”

  Mort thought about that. “Is that why he was always at Kenny Kamm’s parole hearings? To make himself available for Kamm to confess? But that makes no sense. Kamm did confess. Remember? He told us that even though he doesn’t remember that night, he’s come to accept he was responsible for Helen’s death.”

  “That is confusing. But look at this.” Larry picked up a smaller ledger. “This is his personal journal. In the three months before his death, Carlton had even more entries about the need to confess and to address the person he’d harmed.”

  “Harmed in what way?”

  “He doesn’t say.” Larry set that journal down and picked up a third. “This is his calendar. The police found it in the room Carlton rented at the lodge. It was in the personal effects they gave me when I identified the body. Look. His calendar’s almost empty. Carlton spent most of his time, when he wasn’t traveling, here in this room.”

  Mort started with Carlton Smydon’s September schedule. He felt a heaviness in his chest when he saw the September entry for the sweat lodge. There was an exclamation point next to Carlton’s notation of his arrival at Tall Oaks Lodge.

  He’d been excited to be going.

  Mort flipped several pages back. Larry was right. There weren’t many entries in the calendar. There was a dentist appointment in August as well as an opening for an art exhibit. He flipped back to July. Carlton had arranged to have his car serviced. There was a dinner date with Larry that was crossed out. In June, Carlton had made note of a lecture at a local synagogue.

  Mort’s brow furrowed when he saw the notation for another appointment. On June 14, Carlton had written Abraham/noon. Mort looked to his friend.

  “Carlton made a lunch date with his brother. Abraham said he hadn’t seen his brother since Kenny Kamm’s last parole hearing. That was a year ago.”

  Larry’s hands shook as he took the calendar from Mort and turned back to July. “Carlton kept meticulous records. I couldn’t make that dinner we’d arranged. See? He crossed our appointment out.” Larry flipped back to June. “There’s no such X through his appointment with Abraham.”

  Mort let the news settle in.

  “I think there’s more at play here.” Larry laid his hands over Carlton’s journals. “I thought all these years Carlton was searching for a way to forgive Kenny Kamm. But from what I’m learning today, I can’t help but wonder if he was also searching for a way to be forgiven. But for what?”

  Mort wondered if Bilbo might be able to fill in some blanks. The two men lived together. Could he have an idea of why Carlton had wanted to have lunch with his estranged brother? He stepped into the hallway and called out. “Bilbo? Can you come to Carlton’s office?”

  There was no response.

  “He’s probably back out front smoking. I’ll get him.” Mort left Larry and went to the porch. When he didn’t find Bilbo, he came back into the house, walking through the rooms. “Hey, Bilbo. Where are you, man? I gotta ask you something.” Mort looked in the kitchen. Then the bathrooms. He felt his neck tighten when he found Bilbo’s bedroom empty. Mort picked up his pace and trotted to the back of the house.

  Bilbo’s car was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Allie would have loved to have slept in that Friday morning, but her guest was due at nine, which meant he’d be there at eight thirty, and she needed everything to be in place. The Russians were married to their rituals and traditions. In order to maintain her position as czarina, she’d need to show every one of her men that their rituals were now hers.

  Fyodor Ratchnikov had been reluctant to give Allie his allegiance when she made her move. She’d killed Tokarev in front of his men, then demanded loyalty from each in exchange for riches beyond what any of them could imagine. With guns pointed at them, they listened to her pledges and plans. One by one they recognized there was no other choice but to come forward and kiss her ring, thereby swearing their lives to her. It was only Ratchnikov who balked. He had been Tokarev’s most loyal lieutenant and was the last to fall in line.

  Allie set to work making real her promise to her men. In the few months she’d been in charge, profits were up nearly 16 percent, with nothing but endless potential in sight. The men were happy. Their women were happier when Allie instructed each of her lieutenants to make sure they introduced their ladies to the finest jewelers in Moscow, London, and Paris. Allie threw lavish parties on a regular basis, providing a venue for the men to flaunt their gilded and bejeweled women. Times were good.

  But Ratchnikov kept his distance. Allie sensed his displeasure despite his impeccable manners and perfectly timed smiles. She could feel him waiting, like a tiger in the grass, for a moment of weakness from her. He would pounce. And she would lose everything.

  She needed Ratchnikov firmly committed to her if she was to maintain a firm grasp on the Russian cartel. Allie had plans for expansion into the Far East. The opportunity to secure supply lines, not to mention the billions of customers waiting for their product, demanded solidarity. She could not be distracted by potential power plays from Ratchnikov. So when her alarm went off at six thirty A.M. she overrode her desire to click it off and grab a few more hours of sleep. Instead she shoved aside the 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and headed for the shower.

  It had been nearly midnight by the time Staz delivered her back to the Larchmont after her visit to Lydia. Lydia had refused to intervene with her father. No problem. She’d try again. Besides, the drive to Olympia hadn’t been a total loss. Allie stepped into the shower and let the steaming water warm her skin as the memories of yesterday’s encounter with Oliver Bane did the same for her libido. She’d known she’d have no trouble. She knew how to get a man to invite her into his bed. But she hadn’t expected him to be such a tender lover. She leaned under the shower spray, let the water envelop her, and recalled the gentleness of his touch. It had been too long since she’d truly enjoyed a sexual encounter. When she was with Vadim Tokarev sex was a commodity to be used and exchanged. Tokarev was a barbarian who wielded his cock as a tool to control her. But Allie knew how to play his abusive game. She endured his brutality and taught him another way. It took her little time to convince him no man could satisfy her the way he could.

  Men are so easy to control after you get them to believe that, she decided. They instantly fall in love, convinced they’ve finally met a woman who understands what they’ve known all along…that their dick is king above all others.

  Tokarev had planned to kill Allie at what was to have been their engagement party and use her death as a way to cement fear
into the hearts of his men. But Allie had turned the tables with two shots…the first to his beloved penis and the second straight through his heart. Tokarev’s men realized their options were to pledge their faithfulness or join their fallen leader on that bloody dance floor.

  They all had. Even Ratchnikov. The entire cartel was now hers to command.

  And she intended to keep it that way.

  Allie wrapped herself in a soft cashmere robe and walked to the closet of her rented villa. She’d arrived in Seattle three days earlier and called the concierge to arrange for a personal shopper once she was satisfied the villa suited her needs. Allie always traveled light. She used one piece of rolling luggage and packed sufficient toiletries and cosmetics for one night, along with a single change of clothing. Her only indulgence was her six-inch cubed jewelry case. Allie detested packing and found it more convenient to have someone buy whatever she needed wherever she landed. That way she’d have clothing keyed to the local style, allowing her to be perfectly attired for her location, whether she found herself spending a week in Bali or a month in Madrid. She stood patiently while they measured her from head to toe and urged them to take free rein with their selections. The only request she had was that anything they brought her had to be of the highest quality.

  “Make me the best-dressed woman in any room I enter” was her one rule.

  The personal shopper the Larchmont had provided introduced herself as Calliope Valentine. She was a tall middle-aged woman. Rail thin with severe, patrician features. Dressed entirely in black. One silver band on her left ring finger. Calliope held herself with an elegant posture and spoke with an air of condescension usually born from years attending exclusive boarding schools and ski trips with Daddy on spring vacations to St. Moritz. Allie wondered what had led the woman from there and then to here and now: measuring the bust line and shoe size of a total stranger. But she didn’t ask. And Calliope Valentine did not disappoint. Allie stood in the villa’s room-sized closet and nodded her approval at the array of slacks, blouses, jackets, shoes, and coats the woman had selected. Everything near couture in quality and fitting as though custom-made for Allie, right down to the pajamas and slippers.