Anna gasped. “My God, you have no shame.”
She put her hands on her hips, glared back at Anna, smiling triumphantly. “Shame? It was my finest hour, dear. And don’t think it was easy. Hell, I should get an Oscar for my performance. I cried. I sobbed. I told Seth that if he was a real man, he’d do something about it. It worked out rather well, I think. Men are wonderful. I do love manipulating them.”
I said, “You’ve been very clever, and it would be hard to prove any of that, but if you kill us, you run the risk of being caught for sure. Think about it, doubling down may not be your best option. You don’t have to do this.” By this time, I was just throwing words at her, hoping something would stick.
Ignoring me, she turned toward the door and said in a breezy tone, “Well, I’ve got to run along now.” As Semyon followed her out, she said over her shoulder, “You know what needs to be done, Semyon. Make sure they don’t screw it up.”
I tried to make eye contact with Semyon just as he shut the door and locked it.
Chapter Forty-one
I couldn’t look at Anna. I was ashamed of what I’d gotten her into. All I could think to say was, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t. Don’t say that,” she tried to smile.
We fell into silence again, lost in our own thoughts, but only briefly. The key rattled and the door swung open. Krebbs came in carrying two brand new, neatly folded blue plastic tarps. Anna gasped when she realized what he was carrying. Apparently, our executioners were determined to make a tidy job of it.
His eyes were little beads of excitement, and it was clear from the smile on his face that he was setting about an enjoyable task. His shirtsleeves were rolled up now, revealing a patchwork of crudely rendered tattoos. I glimpsed a couple of swastikas and the clenched fist salute of the white power movement. Picasso was right again. Krebbs wore long sleeves at the clinic to mask his choice of tattoos.
The hard blonde came in next, followed by Semyon. She must’ve shot up again, because her watery pupils were like full moons, and she had an excited look on her face that mirrored Krebbs’ expression.
Semyon’s face held no expression at all.
Krebbs handed the blonde the tarps and said, “Here. Spread these out, baby.” She took them and set about the task. Semyon walked over to me, pulled a small pen knife from his pocket and opened it with a fingernail. Anna gasped again, and although the knife seemed too small to be a murder weapon, I pressed back against the chair reflexively. But instead of cutting me, he started on the tape on my hands and as he leaned in, I saw something in his eyes I couldn’t read.
Krebbs had his revolver trained on me. “That’s right, Semyon,” he said. “No traces of that tape. Jessica said this can’t look like a kidnapping.” The blonde was spreading the second tarp next to the first. She looked up, failing to suppress a giggle. When my hands and feet were free, Krebbs said, “Stay right where you are.” Semyon began removing Anna’s tape.
When he finished, he folded the knife, put it back in his pocket, and turned to Krebbs. “I can’t do dis.” Then he hit Krebbs flush on the jaw. It was a vicious blow that sent him sprawling.
Krebbs hit the floor, and the gun skittered off across the concrete, stopping midway between Anna and the blonde. There was a moment when everyone in the room froze, then Anna screamed and lunged for the gun, but the blonde got there first. As she brought the gun up, Anna grabbed her wrist with both hands and the weapon swung in a wild arc as they fought for control. The muzzle of the pistol flashed twice, and Semyon and I hit the floor simultaneously. The stray bullets thudded into the cinder block wall to our right, the sound reverberating like thunder in the closed room.
Anna held fast to her wrist, but it was the blonde who had her finger on the trigger. Her other hand was in Anna’s face.
I leaped up to help Anna, but the gun swung around and discharged again. The round hit a foot in front of me, sending up a spray of concrete chips. I dove to the left just as the blonde squeezed off another round that punched a hole in the door directly behind where I’d been standing.
Crouched low, Semyon moved in from another angle. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye where Krebbs had fallen. “Behind you, Semyon!” I yelled, “Look out!”
It was too late. Krebbs came in fast behind Semyon. I saw a glint of steel from the shaft of a switchblade. His arm thrust forward. Semyon made a strange guttural sound from deep in his chest and frantically reached behind his back with one arm. Krebbs pulled the blade out and stepped back.
Semyon dropped to his knees, met my eyes for an instant, then slumped forward.
Krebbs quickly took stock. Me first, then Anna, he must have concluded, because he started toward me with the knife.
Anna and the blonde were locked in a death struggle. The gun swung in my direction again, and another round tore into the wall, spraying my face and eyes with cement particles. Krebbs raised the knife and moved toward me cautiously. Without taking his eyes off me, he said to the blonde, “For Christ’s sake, Twila, hold your fire. Let me take care of him first.” I took a step back, wiping the grit from my eyes. The corner of the room was only another step behind me.
But Anna wasn’t through. With the blonde’s hand jammed in her face, she began to twist her body and pull with her outstretched arms. The gun started to swing back toward Krebbs, inch by grudging inch. Krebbs was focused on me, assuming, I’m sure, Twila would quickly prevail. He stepped toward me, the knife held low in his hand, light reflecting off the eight inch blade. The gun continued to move until the alignment between it and Krebbs was complete.
Twila suddenly screamed, “Ahhhhh! Stop!” Two shots rang out in quick succession. Both bullets slammed into Krebbs. He pirouetted like a clumsy ballerina and fell face-first onto the concrete. The knife dropped from his hand as he hit the floor.
Anna and the blonde were frozen there, motionless, like a couple of tango dancers, their arms extended, the gun pointing in the direction where Krebbs had been standing. Twila’s shoulders slumped, and she screamed, “No! No!”
A moment later Anna had the gun, and Twila was sobbing next to Krebbs’ lifeless body. Anna handed me the gun, and I kicked away the switchblade lying next to Krebbs’ outstretched hand.
Just like that, it was over.
Anna rushed over to help Semyon. She checked for a pulse, then looked up at me. “He’s still alive!” Pointing at the switchblade, she said, “Give me that knife, quick.” She used it to cut off a swath of Semyon’s shirt, which she folded and pressed against his wound to staunch the bleeding. He moaned when she touched him. “Stay with us, Semyon” she told him. “You’re going to make it. We’re calling an ambulance for you.”
I could still see Semyon’s eyes before he pitched forward. I think he tried to say something to me with that look, something like, “See, I’m not the coward you thought I was.”
I told Twila to get up, and when she did, she turned to Anna and held her up her hand. It was bloody with a deep gash in the middle finger. She said, “You bitch, this is your fault. You made me shoot him.”
Anna cast her eyes down and said in a voice I could barely hear, “I had no choice.”
While Anna worked on Semyon, I marched Twila out of the room, recovered my cell phone, and called 911. I found the duct tape down the hall and after marching her back into the room, taped her firmly to one of the chairs while Anna held the gun. Then I called Nando, and quickly filled him in. “Do me a favor, my friend. Go over to Anna’s condo”—I gave him the address—“and rescue Archie. He’s shut up in my car in the parking lot on the east side of the building.” Then I added, “If you wouldn’t mind, take him over to Caffeine Central and give him a couple of scoops of kibbles and take him for a walk. I have a feeling I’ll be here for a while.”
As we waited for the police, Anna was quiet and withdrawn. I said, “You okay?”
She no
dded and made a brave face.
“You didn’t kill him, Anna,” I said. “She had her finger on the trigger, not you.”
She looked up at me, held my eyes for a moment, then looked down without speaking.
About the time we heard the wail of police sirens, it dawned on me what Twila had meant when she accused Anna of making her shoot Krebbs. The finger with the bloody gash was on the blonde’s left hand—the one she had jammed in Anna’s face—not her right, which held the trigger. Anna had forced the gun around until it was trained on Krebbs, then she bit down hard on Twila’s left middle finger.
It was something Anna never spoke of afterwards and something I knew never to bring up.
Chapter Forty-two
Two Months Later
In Oregon, summer makes up for all the winter rain and then some. The Coast Range and the Cascades were tinged in violet that day, and the floor of the Willamette Valley was a familiar checker board of greens, yellows, and ocher. Clouds that had scaled the Coast Range scudded from west to east against a cobalt sky. We were out on my deck having lunch—Anna, Nando, Picasso, and me. I had made a salade Niçoise with seared Ahi tuna and served it with a baguette and chilled bottles of Sancerre. Archie, of course, was lying next to Anna’s chair, and she was stroking his fur with one of her bare feet.
I was breathing a little easier financially, owing to the deep pockets of one of my clients, a wealthy Dundee vintner who was anxious to shed his current wife. I’d waived Picasso’s fee, since he was applying to art school, and used the money to pay Nando what I owed him. Despite this, the business discussion we were having had turned a little testy. Nando speared a couple of green beans along with a slab of fish and held the fork above his plate. “So why would I want to make my building available for a law office? It is not good business. I have big plans for that property. I am in business to make money, after all. I am a capitalist.”
Anna said, “It would be a charitable donation, Nando. You can take a big tax deduction.”
I said, “Look, Nando, like I said, I’ll cover the first floor renovations, but paying rent at the outset is going to be tough. I’d only use it a couple of days a week, you know, for pro bono work. Maybe over time I could take on some paying customers and then pay some rent.”
Anna said, “Homeless kids need all kinds of legal support, Nando. This would be the first of its kind in Portland. Cal’s making a big commitment here, but he can’t do it alone.”
Nando popped the forkful in his mouth, closed his eyes and chewed with obvious relish. “The dressing on this salad is magnificent.”
“The secret’s fresh herbs,” I said, pointing to the pots of oregano, thyme, and three different kinds of basil standing in the sun at the edge of my deck.
Nando speared another forkful and sighed. “I don’t know. A tax deduction is a one-time thing. This building could generate a nice cash flow.” He shook his head. “I think that perhaps you are asking too much of me.”
Picasso had finished eating and was sitting outside the group busily sketching the view of the valley. He had been a free man for seven weeks and gotten his arm out of the cast the week before. The arm was pale, thin, and deeply scarred, but it was fully functional. “Tell you what, Nando,” he said, looking up with a playful grin on his face, “if you do this deal, I’ll put you in my mural.”
Nando’s gaze swung around to Picasso, his eyes registering surprise, then delight. “You would do this? You would put me in your mural?”
Picasso nodded. “Cuba has one of the best health care systems in the world.”
“How would you manage it? The mural is nearly complete. The public showing is next week.”
“The mayor and the city council are going to be there,” Anna chimed in.
Picasso said, “I take somebody out, I put somebody in. No big deal.”
“Would I be toward the front of the march?” Nando asked, smiling slyly.
“How about a whole body shot? I’ll even slim you down a bit,” Picasso answered, winking at Anna and me.
“Put him next to Semyon,” I added. “He’s right up near the front.”
“I can do that,” Picasso answered.
So it was that Nando became immortalized in Picasso’s mural, and Caffeine Central became my Portland law office.
The week before, The Oregonian had reported that Twila Burgess—the woman I’d dubbed “the hard blonde”—had agreed to fully cooperate in the prosecution of Jessica Armandy in exchange for a plea bargain. Armandy was charged with the first degree murder of Mitchell Conyers and Milo Dorfman and the kidnapping of Anna and me. Burgess’ lawyer stated that she had detailed knowledge of all the alleged crimes. So far, Semyon Lebedev, who had also been cooperating, had not been charged with anything.
And just the day before, Cynthia Duncan called to tell me Sherrill Blanchard had agreed to talk about the sexual abuse she had suffered at the hands of Larry Vincent. So, it looked like Cynthia would get to break her exclusive story after all. The timing would prove unfortunate for a group of citizens who had planned to erect a statue of Vincent in one of the city’s parks.
Oh, and by the way, Cynthia told me she and Xavier Bidarte are now engaged to be married.
As for Anna and me? Well, we plan to attend the unveiling of Picasso’s mural next week, and then we have to rush off to PDX. We’ve got a flight to Bergen, Norway, to catch.
I can’t wait to see those fjords.
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Matters of Doubt Page 27