In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  “Jason?”

  “Yes! It’s me! I’m going to get you out!”

  He tried a third key. Still no good. There were only three left. What if he had been wrong about the key ring? What if the padlock key was somewhere else entirely?

  “Hurry, please!”

  “I’m trying!”

  The fourth key slipped in perfectly. Jason’s adrenaline spiked as the padlock snapped open and fell to the ground. He opened the door and entered a small, dark room occupied by a bed and not much else.

  “The light is there by the door,” Yana whispered.

  Jason found it and switched it on. The naked bulb was bright and nearly blinded them both. Nevertheless, he gasped at what he saw.

  The near-naked woman on the bed looked as if she’d been through the wringer. She was bruised about the face, her hair was wild and knotted, and her skin was pale. Blood stains spotted the sheets she sat on. The chain was cuffed to her right ankle.

  “My God,” Jason muttered.

  “Hurry! Oh, thank you, Jason, thank you.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” he said as he went to her. “Out of the woods … sheesh, I didn’t mean that literally… oh, never mind. I’m sorry.”

  He sat on the bed and fumbled with the key ring. His hands shook uncontrollably—he couldn’t seem to grasp any of the keys between his fingers. Yana leaned over and took the ring from him. She knew exactly which key unlocked the cuff. She inserted it and the metal piece fell away, exposing a raw, red ankle.

  Their eyes met, and Jason was hit with the reality of what was happening. Could he do this? Yana threw her arms around him, squeezing him in a strong embrace. She almost sobbed. He patted her on the back and gently pushed her away. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. Do you … do you have more clothes?”

  She pointed to the floor near the bathroom. He handed her blue jeans, a torn shirt, and sneakers. That was it. Yana put them on and stood unsteadily.

  “Here.” Jason handed her his jacket. “Can you walk?”

  She nodded. “I feel very weak. But, yes. Thank you.” She put on the jacket.

  He took her by the hand and led her into the night. They moved down the path and back to the clearing, his flashlight beam pointing the way. “Be very quiet,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

  Jason slowed his pace, stepping softly as they moved around the side of the cabin to the front. He pointed to the road that disappeared into the woods. “That way,” he whispered. They reached the opening in the trees and then there was a sudden illumination. Everything became a little brighter.

  Jason swiveled and saw that the lights had been turned on inside the cabin.

  “Run!”

  34

  Annie reached Lakeway at 11:00 p.m. She would have arrived sooner had it not been for a massive three-car pile-up on Highway 37 that backed up traffic for nearly an hour. She had tried to call Captain Mike but only got his voice mail. It was frustrating, but she finally made it to the small, sleepy town that was a gateway to the Manistee National Forest—where the Bear Claws Case had first become a part of her daily life over the summer. It had been only three months, but already it seemed as if Memorial Day weekend, when she and Harris had first visited Lakeway, was in the distant past.

  The town was indeed quiet. With a population of two thousand, there wasn’t much to do on a Friday night. There was no traffic on the roads. Street lights revealed a deserted “downtown” that might have been the setting for a Hollywood movie set in the 1950s—complete with barbershop, movie theater with the vertical neon sign attached to the facade, a gas station, a couple of clothing shops, and a drugstore—there was also a Starbucks and a McDonald’s. Annie knew that Lakeway, like many communities in Michigan, was “dry”—no open bars.

  She pulled into the police station lot. Two patrol cars, a black pickup truck, and a Lincoln Continental were also parked outside the station. She noted that the Continental was a rental. She locked the Fusion, checked her weapon, and walked toward the front door.

  No one was in the front entry area of the building. The desk was unmanned, but the lights were on and Annie sensed the presence of people back in the Employees Only offices and the jail.

  “Hello?” she called. “Captain Mike?”

  “Coming!” She heard him in the back. The sound of boots running on the linoleum floor grew in volume, and the door opened. Baines held it open for her. “Glad you made it! Everything okay?”

  She walked forward. “Yeah. Did you get my message? About why I am late?”

  “I did. It’s quite all right. No worries. We’re in the back here talking strategy, if you’d care to join us. You need anything there from the vending machine?” He pointed to the contraption that held chips and cookies. “Sorry, I didn’t make any coffee. Probably should have.”

  “No, I’m fine, I’d rather dive right in with you.” She started to move through the open door, but Baines stopped her.

  “Whoa, whoa … remember the rule? You have to leave your weapon in a cubby. Sorry.”

  Annie thought it was unnecessary, considering the time of day and urgency of the matter. “Really? I need to do that?”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Marino, but it’s my job and I was specifically told to enforce this rule, no matter what, by Chief Daniel.”

  “Is Chief Daniel here?”

  “No, ma’am, he’s on vacation. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I did.”

  “You can pick it back up as soon as the meeting is over. Chief’s orders: All visitors must surrender any firearms on their person. It’s just for back there, ma’am. You know it’s standard operating procedure. Please.”

  She knew he was technically correct, although it seemed a little ridiculous at this juncture. Annie rolled her eyes, unsnapped the holster, removed the Glock, and placed it in one of the safes behind the desk. She locked the door and pocketed the key.

  “There we go. Safe and sound. Anything else? That’s your only weapon?” he asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Didn’t you have an ankle holster last time you were here?”

  “That’s right, but I don’t have it today. Do you see it, captain?” She held her leg out a foot above the floor, revealed the lack of a gun, and lowered her limb.

  “Okay, I’ll trust you.” He winked at her.

  Jesus, Annie thought.

  “Oh, let me get the front.” He crossed the foyer, removed keys from his pocket, and locked the door. “No one can bother us now.” He then gestured for her to go ahead of him. Captain Mike followed her into the hallway toward the open office door. “We’re just there in the conference room,” he said. She walked on and entered.

  Greg Paley sat at the head of the table.

  Before she was able to react, Mike Baines grabbed her left arm, and another man, who had been standing just inside the door, grasped her right. She struggled to free herself, but the men were strong. The FBI training of defensive tactics moves kicked in and she stomped hard on Baines’s right foot, followed by a backward kick with her right heel into the other man’s left shin. Both of them yelped and nearly loosened their grips on her arms. She slam-wiggled her way out of Baines’s clutches and thrust the mound of her left hand into the captain’s chin. She had aimed for the Adam’s apple, but he had lowered his head and blocked the blow. Annie continued to tug with the man to her right, and she delivered a punch to his abdomen with her left fist. But by then, Baines had recovered, and he attacked her from the left. She felt what could have been the wallop of a sledgehammer on the side of her head as the captain hit her hard. Stunned, she fell forward. The men took the opportunity to bend her at the waist and ram her on top of the table, face down. The new man held her with her arms behind her back while the captain zip-tied her wrists together. Baines then expertly frisked her, removing her cell phone and car keys from her pocket. Then they released her. Baines threw the keys to the other guy.

  It was a nearly flawless ta
kedown.

  “She’s feisty,” Baines said, breathing hard and rubbing his chin.

  She rolled on to her side, shimmied off the table, and landed on her feet. It was then that she had a chance to look at the new man. He was older, in his late fifties or early sixties. Tall, bald, and quite fit—probably a former military man.

  Annie caught her breath and stared at Paley, who was obviously the man in charge. His demeanor had definitely changed since she had met him in his office. This was a very different Greg Paley.

  “What the fuck’s the meaning of this?” she spat.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Agent Marino?”

  “Why should I fucking have a seat?”

  Paley shook his head. “My, my, language, Anne Marino. How unbecoming of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “You’re committing multiple felonies.”

  “Sit down, Anne. Or can I call you Annie? That’s what your friends call you, right?”

  Baines hovered to her left, still nursing his chin and stepping lightly with his right foot. She had at least hurt the guy. The bald man was a lot tougher.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t know Louis,” Paley said. “This is my colleague, Louis Freund. Louis, meet Special Agent Marino.”

  “Pleasure,” Freund said with no warmth.

  “Mr. Freund works for Palit Wool. And he’s my closest friend and confidant. He’s also a terrific amateur tattoo artist, aren’t you, Louis?”

  Annie looked at the man. Tattoo artist?

  “He does some interesting work. There’s one piece you’d especially like—it’s one of those beautifully drawn and painted bear claws, with just a tasteful amount of blood on them. I think that would look real good on your neck, Annie. Maybe before the night’s over, you’ll have one. What do you think?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “We may get around to that, but I thought I’d explain to you what this is all about, since it’s what you asked for. Do you want to hear?”

  She looked at the other two men. Freund pulled out a chair so that she could sit without using her hands. He waited, and Annie resigned herself to the situation. She sat, and the men took their seats.

  “Now then, that’s better,” Paley said.

  Annie remembered that she had felt something seemed off when she’d left Lakeway the first time. Now she knew. “Captain Mike” worked for the bad guys. She doubted Chief Daniel was aware of any of it. The old man was nearing retirement, not eager to embroil himself in anything serious. He was on vacation.

  Annie was in a grave situation, but she had the presence of mind to take advantage of it. She’d learn everything she could about Paley’s organization. The best way to do that was to get him talking.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in New Jersey until Monday?” she asked.

  “Agent Marino, after I got Captain Mike’s message that said you were thinking of coming up here tonight, I decided to catch the first flight to Detroit. I told him to convince you to make the trip, but to wait until the end of the day so I’d have time to get here. And here we are. Now, I understand you’re looking for someone called The Bear.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Well, he doesn’t exist,” Paley continued. “The Bear is a myth, a legend, a persona that serves a purpose to instill fear, perhaps, in some people. For example, take a corporation—any business gets more respect and has more mystique when the CEO is a mysterious, powerful figure, don’t you agree?”

  “But, in reality, you’re The Bear,” Annie said.

  Paley shrugged and smiled. “I just tell The Bear what to do.”

  “The servers in St. Petersburg …”

  Paley creased his brow. “Servers?”

  “For the website. There are probably more, right? The websites you use to sell human beings.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re yours!”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  She shook her head. “Why? You have a successful business with wool, don’t you? Why would you do this? Human trafficking is one of the sickest, cruelest crimes you can commit! Do you have no soul, Mr. Paley? For God’s sake, you’re an American! You should be viciously ashamed of yourself.”

  “Are you through?” He stared her down. She could see a fire in his eyes that indicated instability. She had been fooled by his sincerity before. The man was a sociopath; there was no question about it. “Fine. I’ll answer you. Palit Wool does very well, I grant you that. But that’s my father’s company, or really his father’s company. I just run it now. I make a good living.” He shrugged. “But the trafficking, as you call it, brings in a half million dollars every three months. That’s something I can’t ignore. Now, you might ask how I launder my money. I will tell you. I invest in several of the nightclubs you know about—the Den, the Cat’s Lounge—there are more, not only in Chicago, but in other cities, too. Well, I personally don’t invest in them, at least it’s not in my name. I have an offshore shell company that invests for me. The profits from the so-called trafficking are filtered through a complex system of banks and offshore accounts until they end up in my shell company. I’m then able to play with some of that money as I slowly drip it into my personal, ‘regular’ account. I even pay taxes on that part of the income.”

  “Eyepatch, LLC? That’s your shell company?”

  Paley raised his eyebrows. “Very good. You people know more than I thought you did. To make a long story short, I just had to bring a select group of people into my confidence to run things for me. You remember Fyodor Utkin? He ran the US part of the operation, the ‘distribution,’ if you will. Until he messed up, that is, and then I decided to close shop.”

  Annie cocked her head at him.

  “That’s right, I’m shutting it all down. I figure the feds are going to bust us.” He held up his hands. “Yep, I’m admitting defeat. When the FBI got involved in that ridiculous car crash last May, I knew it was over. It was a good run while it lasted. But now my team and I have enough money to move on. I’m leaving the country in twenty-four hours, and I won’t be back.”

  “Where do you think you can hide? Russia? They’re on to you there.”

  “I know. I’m not going to Russia. I’ll keep my destination to myself, thank you very much.”

  “Where you’re going is down, Mr. Paley. The Bureau knows all about you. They know I’m here. You can’t get away with holding me like this.”

  “It’s the weekend; your people aren’t going to miss you until Monday morning. You are supposedly in ‘good hands’—you went up to Michigan to talk to a couple of suspects in the company of local law enforcement. No big deal. You see? We have time. Since you’ve wrecked my operation, I’m staying in town long enough to deal with you, Annie.”

  Annie’s heart pounded in her chest. She had been in frightening situations before, on operations out in the field, but nothing like this.

  “What happened to Fyodor Utkin?” she asked, attempting to keep the man talking.

  “He was a loose end that had to be silenced. Fyodor hired that drunk to drive the car. He also did some things in St. Petersburg that caught the attention of the Russian authorities. They were starting to close in on that side of the network. Fyodor ratted on me, plain and simple, and he stole a little money. If you hadn’t gotten so close to me, then the Russians would have, thanks to him.” He held up his hands again. “What could I do? It’s too bad, he was a friend for many years.”

  So it was Paley that the ALAT had been trying to identify—the unknown man in the St. Petersburg restaurant with Fyodor and Evgeni Palit. It all made sense now.

  “You killed him. When you were in Russia in June,” Annie said.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t personally kill him.”

  “You gave the order. Who did? Someone from the Novgorod mafia? How did you ever get involved in something like this, Mr. Paley? What about your family? Your daughter? Your wife?”

  He shrugged again. “Survival is m
ore important than family. My wife and daughter will remain here, living off a trust I’ve set up. As for how I got involved? You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. We have some time. It really started before I was born. My great-uncle Isaak, cofounder of Palit Wool with my grandfather, was tight with the Russian mafia back then. Yes, it already existed. Ever heard of Sergei Babikov? He was head of one of the most powerful Russian syndicates that flourished all through the Soviet years, and it’s still around today. His son, Nikolai, runs it now. I told you some of this in my office when we first met. Anyway, my great-uncle Isaak did some deals with Babikov, and Babikov smoothed things out with the Soviet government so that the wool could be exported to America. The government was certainly corrupt back during the time of the Soviet Union. Well, besides wool, there was a little bit of art and jewelry smuggling going on in those days. Isaak’s son Evgeni took over Palit Wool later and continued the relationship with the Babikov family. My father, however, tried to clean up the operation and refused to work with Babikov. The business suffered for years, but it didn’t die.

  “Then, in the early eighties, after I was discharged from the army, I spent some time in St. Petersburg, learning that end of my father’s business. I made the acquaintance of Nikolai Babikov, and we started working together. With Palit Wool as a cover, we continued the smuggling through that decade—drugs, jewelry, arms. Whatever would sell. By the time we got to the nineties, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we realized that the sex trade made much more money. There were plenty of girls who wanted to go to America. It was easy to get into that. We started bringing girls over from Russia in 1991. It was to populate strip clubs, mostly. Then the Internet happened, and we realized how much more we could get away with—and for even more money. So we started the brothels. That led to the buy-a-slave opportunity we offered to some very select clients. The very special girls—we found we could make a tremendous amount of money off of them.”

  Annie burned with anger. She struggled against the zip ties but only managed to painfully grind the skin of her wrists. “So you … rank your product by what level of exploitation you think it’s good for? What she is good for? A human being? Grade A, B, or C? You are one pathetic son of a bitch.”