Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis

by P. T. Dilloway

  “I guess that’s not surprising. We picked up a few of them a few days ago over by where you got Vendetta thanks to our mutual friend. They haven’t said anything yet; they’re claiming diplomatic immunity and all that bullshit.”

  “You think they’re the ones who shot Becky—Ms. Beech?”

  “I’d stake my pension on it,” Captain Donovan said.

  “So what do we do?”

  “We’ll try to find the source.” The captain snuffed out her cigarette and then held up a finger. “When I say we, I mean my people. Not you. Maybe you think you’re hot shit because you nabbed Vendetta and her friend and led us to these assholes, but you’re still a beat cop—a rookie beat cop.”

  “Captain—”

  “Look, kid, I’ve been where you are now. When I came out of the academy I wanted to prove myself too. I wanted to show all those asshole men that I could do the job better than they could. Twenty-five years later I’m still doing that. It’s like one of those fucking hamster wheels. You go around and around without getting anywhere.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Cruise around and wave the flag?”

  “I want you to use some fucking common sense. No one person is going to clean up this city. Not you or me or that freak with the cape. From now on you patrol the route you’re given and you stay with your training officer.”

  “My training officer is a lush.”

  Captain Donovan nodded at this. “I’ll have them assign someone else—if they can find someone crazy enough to want to work with a kid with a death wish.”

  “I don’t have a death wish.”

  “Yeah, that’s why you threw yourself at my gun.”

  “That was two years ago. Things are different,” Amanda said, though she thought of the meeting a few minutes ago where she’d stood up and again dared someone to shoot her. Her mother’s voice told her that eventually someone would take her up on the offer.

  “Listen, kid, you’ve got a lot of potential. You’re going to make detective someday if you want. You might even get to be a crusty old captain like me. But you keep pulling shit like this and you’re not going to make it. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot better cops than you get stuffed into a flag-shrouded coffin.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, these people nearly killed my friend. She’s never going to have a baby now thanks to them. You want me to sit on my hands and play it safe?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Officer—Amanda—this isn’t a Dirty Harry movie. You’re part of a team, not a lone wolf.” Captain Donovan lit another cigarette and then took a puff on it. “If I hadn’t heard your call come in, they’d probably be chopping you up for sushi right now. But I can’t protect you forever. For your own good, you’d better wise up.”

  “Maybe I should start taking some bribes, right?”

  “I’m trying to help you, Amanda. Like I said, I think you’re going to be a good cop. You need an attitude adjustment.”

  “That’s what my mom’s said for twenty years now.”

  “You ever think she’s right?”

  “Not once.”

  Captain Donovan snuffed out her cigarette again. “If you want keep up this bullshit, maybe you ought to buy some tights and a cape. If you want to be a police officer, then you start being careful. You got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I doubt that.” Captain Donovan opened her door to get out with a sigh. “Come on, kid, let’s go see what we’ve got inside.”

  Amanda followed the captain towards the fish market; she wondered if that whole speech had been for her or if Donovan had been talking to some younger version of herself. All things considered, Amanda decided she could do a lot worse than end up like Captain Donovan. To become a workaholic, broken down old captain who still cared enough to try to steer a young officer from trouble would be a lot better than to play shuffleboard in some retirement home.

  Chapter 17

  The drive from Bykov’s estate to Pskov took ten hours. For much of the way Emma and Jim said nothing; they both stared out the windshield at the bleak Russian countryside. Emma had found Bykov’s collection of CDs and selected a few of her favorite operas to play for Jim as she drove. He listened with his head tilted to one side as if in deep thought.

  “What they say?” he asked.

  “She’s saying that her daughter is dead,” Emma said. Her face turned warm as realized the implication of this. “I’m sorry.”

  “It just story.” After that Jim remained silent until Emma had to look over to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep. His rat friend had gone to sleep some miles back; the rat curled up between the front and middle rows of seats.

  They stopped for lunch on the side of the road. Emma made sandwiches from the contents of Bykov’s fridge. She wolfed her sandwich down as she realized she hadn’t eaten more than a crust of bread and a roasted squirrel in two days. Jim still didn’t seem to have much of an appetite; he gave much of his sandwich to the rat.

  Once she turned off the M-20 highway towards Pskov, Jim asked, “You sure plan work?”

  “I hope it will,” she said. “He cares about his son.”

  “Like we care about Louise?”

  “Yes.” Or at least she hoped Bykov would value his natural offspring more than his adopted daughter. He had agreed to a truce last time in exchange for Ivan’s life; she hoped he would do the same this time.

  “What if he not here?”

  “Then we’ll find him. No matter how long it takes.”

  “Good.”

  The sun had dipped to the horizon when they finally reached Pskov. From what little she knew about Ivan Bykov, Emma thought the bars would be the place to begin their search. She stopped in front of one tavern and then turned to Jim. “I think you should wait here,” she said. “I’ll go in and see if I can find him.”

  “I not leave you.”

  “I’m going to ask people if they’ve seen him.”

  “I not leave you,” Jim said again. His tone indicated he would accept no argument. Short of knocking him out cold, she supposed there wasn’t any way she could stop him.

  “All right. Just stay close to me.” She turned to the mirror, shook her hair free from its ponytail, and then smoothed it down. She wished she’d brought some makeup so she didn’t look quite so pale. She also wished she’d worn something more revealing than a sweater, or at least something a little tighter. She could have raided Markova’s closet for something more appropriate for a bar, something sexy. While Emma didn’t usually concern herself with this, she thought if she did see Ivan she could try to seduce him, ask him to take her somewhere, and then knock him out. She doubted he’d have much interest in her with her white hair, pale skin, and frumpy clothes. She would have to hope his standards were pretty low.

  The inside of the tavern was dark enough that she had to squint to make out who sat in the back. From what she could see, Ivan was not here. Emma sat down at the bar anyway and ordered a shot of vodka for her and Jim. He sat protectively next to her on a corner stool so he could keep an eye out for trouble.

  When the bartender returned, she paid him with some money taken from Bykov’s house. She included twenty extra rubles and asked in Russian, “I’m looking for Ivan Bykov. Have you seen him?”

  “Who are you?” the bartender asked.

  “We’re associates of his father. Has he been around here?”

  The bartender thought for a moment and then nodded. “He came in a week ago. Drank most of my vodka. Took home my cousin’s daughters. Haven’t seen him since.” The bartender turned to spit into a bowl.

  “Where is his home?”

  “He has a cabin in the forest. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Maybe.” She reached into her pocket for the well-worn picture of Louise. “Have you seen this girl?”

  “Can’t say I have. Don’t get many babies in here.”

  “Thank you.” She put a han
d on Jim’s shoulder to indicate it was time to go. They tried three more bars with similar results. From what Emma could tell, Ivan Bykov would come into town every few days to stock up on liquor and women. Then he would go back to the cabin.

  What he did there she found out at the fourth bar they visited. A brunette girl—she couldn’t have been more than seventeen—stiffened when Emma mentioned Ivan’s name. She turned to the girl and asked, “You know him?”

  “No,” the girl said. The way she looked down at the floor indicated she had lied.

  Emma took out the picture of Louise and held it up for the girl to see. “I’m looking for this girl. She’s my daughter. I’ve come here all the way from America to find her. Please, you have to help me. Do you know where Ivan Bykov is?”

  “I know where he was.”

  “The cabin?”

  “Yes. He took me there.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I’m not sure. It was dark.”

  Emma put a hand on the girl’s arm. “Please, try to remember.”

  The girl ran into the ladies room. Emma told Jim to wait at the bar and then followed. She could see the girl’s shoes beneath the walls of the dirty stall and hear her crying softly. Emma tapped on the door and said, “I’m sorry to upset you. I’m only trying to find my daughter. Can you help me?”

  “He’s an animal,” the girl said. She went on to describe what he did to her and her best friend after they’d gone with him to the cabin. His idea of fun involved collars, whips, and other sado-masochistic paraphernalia. He’d left both girls bruised and bloodied and then forced them to walk home naked. “He’s evil. Like his father.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “No. At least not until I get my daughter back.”

  The girl sniffled and then opened the door. “There’s a road outside town. Turn right and it will take you to the forest. Go about ten kilometers until you reach a fork in the road. Then go left. That path will take you to the cabin.”

  “Thank you so much,” Emma said. She hugged the girl briefly.

  “I hope you find your daughter.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said again.

  She touched Jim’s shoulder again to indicate it was time to go. In the car she told him what the girl had said. “We go now?” he asked.

  “No. It’s too dark. We could end up getting lost in the forest. We’ll head out at first light. He’s probably a late sleeper.”

  “Good plan,” Jim said.

  They found an inn nearby where they could rent a room for the night. It didn’t have cable or other staples of American motels, but the bed was comfortable enough. Emma lay naked beneath the heavy covers with Jim; his friend took up residence in the closet for the night. As she always did, she felt so much safer and more relaxed with the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She’d even come to love the garbage smell that always lingered around him. To her that smell was a sign she had returned home to safety of his arms.

  They made love tenderly beneath the covers. Ever since that first time, Emma had come to know Jim’s body almost as well as her own. He had come to know hers equally well, so that there was no awkwardness when they came together, even after they’d spent weeks apart. Emma wanted to spend every night for the rest of her life like this, with Jim close to her.

  More than that, she wanted Louise in the next room, asleep in her bed, a stuffed animal clutched to her chest while she dreamed. “Jim,” Emma whispered after they had finished. “I want us to be a family. All three of us.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t care where. We can build a house in the sewers if that’s what it takes.” She ran a hand down his bare chest, along the ribs that pushed up against his flesh. “We’ve already missed two years of her life. I don’t want to miss anything else. I know this isn’t the best time to talk about it, but I want us to be whole. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” He ran a hand through her hair to brush it off her shoulder. “I live with you. And her. We live on surface.”

  “We’ll buy a house—one with a big basement. Pepe can bring his family to visit.”

  “His family too many,” Jim said with a smile. She smiled back; he did have a point as Pepe’s extended family numbered in the hundreds by now.

  Her smile faded as she realized what Jim would be giving up. He would have to leave his home, the world he had known for almost thirty years. “You don’t have to do it. If you’d rather not, we can find another way.”

  “No. I want to. Like you said, I want us together. All of us.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” They fell asleep in that position and held on to each other through the night. In the morning they ate breakfast from their provisions in the SUV and then set out to find Ivan Bykov’s cabin.

  ***

  His father always said he didn’t have any patience. Papa didn’t understand Ivan didn’t have any patience for ledgers and contracts. Throughout his education, whenever he’d tried to study as Papa demanded he do, Ivan would inevitably look out the window and think about stalking game.

  When it came to hunting, Ivan could be patient as death. So long as he had a few bottles of vodka to keep him company, he could spend days perched in a blind to wait for something worthy of his bullets. He’d spent two days already in his blind to wait for a bear to appear. One had already come by, but it was small, not much more than a cub. It wasn’t so much that Ivan had standards as the bullets he used—the same kind big game hunters used on elephants and rhinos—were expensive. He received a generous salary from one of Papa’s many companies, but Ivan preferred to use most of his money on drink and women.

  He’d already gone into Pskov three times in the last two weeks for a little fun. Little was the operative word as there was very little to do in Pskov, unless you liked to go to monasteries and churches, which Ivan didn’t because the only drink they offered was wine and the women were all untouchable. Still, he’d managed to entertain himself in local taverns and back in his cabin with a few willing ladies. Most females—including the untouchable ones—became willing once he gave his name. The son of the great Sergei Bykov was not someone to trifle with.

  Ivan had not seen his father since last Christmas. They hardly ever spoke anymore, not since the girl had entered the picture. Katya, that was the name Papa had given her. Ivan didn’t know where the girl had come from; he had come home almost two years ago to find Katarina changing the child’s diaper. “Who is this?” Ivan had asked.

  “This is your sister,” Katarina said. “Katya.”

  Though not an expert at anything scientific, Ivan assumed the little girl did not belong to Katarina. The child looked nothing like Katarina—or Papa either for that matter. Katarina had not volunteered any information on where the baby had come from. Papa was even less forthcoming. “She is my child. That’s all you need to know,” Papa said.

  When Ivan came home last Christmas, he found Katya in Katarina’s office, on the older woman’s lap. They studied an open ledger the way Papa had tried to get Ivan to do throughout his childhood. The difference was that Katya actually seemed interested in what she read. “What are association dues?” the child asked in a voice much too confident to come from a baby.

  “That’s money that people pay your father to be his friend,” Katarina said.

  “Do I have to pay Papa to be his friend?”

  “No, sweetheart. You’re already his friend. His best friend.”

  Ivan’s face burned with embarrassment, embarrassment that became worse at dinner. The little girl’s high chair rested beside Papa’s chair. Periodically he would lean over to whisper something into her ear or help her cut her food. Most babies Ivan had seen wound up with more food on them than in them, but Katya ate so daintily that she almost didn’t need a napkin. After dessert, Papa kissed the little girl’s forehead and then carried her upstairs. He sang the same song to her that Ivan’s m
other had sung to him.

  Ivan went to Katarina’s office later and locked the door behind him. “Who is that demon child?” he asked. “Where did she come from?”

  “You should ask your father those questions,” Katarina said. She turned back to her ledgers.

  Ivan pounded on the desk. “Tell me!” In a lower voice he growled, “Tell me or I’ll add your head to my collection.”

  Katarina sighed and then nodded. “She’s the child of an American woman. A very intelligent American woman. Your father took Katya from her to groom her as his replacement.”

  “Her? She’s a child!”

  “And yet she’s already smarter than you.”

  Ivan quivered with rage; he wanted to break Katarina’s neck, but he knew he couldn’t. Papa trusted Katarina with much of his business; she was far less replaceable than Ivan. If he lifted a finger against her, Papa would punish him if not physically than financially.

  The same applied to Katya, Ivan was certain. So he had forced himself to endure Christmas morning, where the child had opened a mountain of gifts with the same dainty precision as she ate her food. While Papa, Katarina, and the child went to church, Ivan had taken two cases of vodka from the cellar and set out until he ended up at the cabin outside Pskov a month ago. He wanted nothing more to do with that strange redheaded girl, the spawn of some American whore. His father had never seemed to be interested in physical pleasure after Mama died, but maybe it was a “midlife crisis” as the Americans said.

  Ivan finally heard from his father three days earlier. This came in the morning, the sound of the phone like a cannon shot to Ivan’s ears after he’d split three bottles of vodka with a pair of young girls the night before—he drank far more than either of them. He reached over one of the girls balled up next to him to answer the phone and was surprised to hear Papa’s voice on the other end. “You must be careful, Ivan,” Papa said without preamble. “There are people looking for me—and Katya. They may try to find you.”

  Ivan snorted at this. Since he was a baby his parents—first Mama and later Papa—warned him to be careful, that someone might come after him. “If anyone tries, I will take care of them.”