The part about no paperwork turned her head.
"Really? No paperwork?"
"None, nada, zilch. We won't ask questions, and you don't tell us any answers. No need."
Nivea lay the gun on a shop rag on her side of the window counter. She reached inside her coat and pulled out a zippered bag. Then she counted out five-thousand-dollars. She passed the bills under the glass, where they were eagerly scooped up by the clerk. "Nice," he said. "Be right back with the magazines."
Minutes ticked by. Nivea worked the gun, field-stripping it and examining it for dirt or grime. But the gun was perfectly clean and went back together in a snap. She was pleased and happy with her purchase.
He returned holding three magazines hanging between his fingers. "Here we go, Miss--I didn't catch your name."
She took the magazines and dropped them into her coat's left side pocket. "Right," she said. "Now I need a silencer for this gun."
The clerk's head snapped up. "Silencers are illegal."
"That's why I'm willing to pay five thousand dollars for one. Go talk to your owner, please."
The clerk, a grim look on his face, left the room. Several minutes later he returned. He was carrying a long box about the size of a pocketknife box.
"Five thousand first," said the clerk.
"Nivea counted the bills onto the counter and pushed them under the glass. The clerk snatched them up, recounted, and, satisfied, pushed the box under the window.
"Try the fit," he said.
Nivea easily twisted the silencer onto the muzzle of her weapon. Now she was ready. She turned and began her walk to the front door, leaving without a word.
"See you around," the clerk said as she walked up the aisle toward the entrance.
"No, you won't," she said, suddenly spinning on her heel and aiming a finger pistol at the clerk. She smiled and turned away.
Minutes later, she was outside and climbing into the back seat of her waiting taxi cab.
Then she was gone.
Nivea stood in the showroom of the local Harley-Davidson dealer just blocks from Northwestern University. It didn't take long. She made her selection, paid for the bike with a fake American Express, and took the bike in the same name as the credit card. They offered to give her a lesson. She only looked at them blankly and shook her head. At last, the keys were handed over, the bike was rolled outside, and Nivea pulled on her helmet and straddled the bike. She stuffed her few belongings into the saddle bags and closed the covers.
The first ride was a short one--down to the end of the block and a filling station.
Then she began riding toward Michael Gresham's shore-side home. He lived in the north part of town, just off Ashland Avenue. Several blocks from his house, her next target came into view. It was a mail lady sitting in her doorless van, studying a clipboard propped up in her lap. Nivea parked a hundred yards away and began walking. As she drew abreast of the unaware mail lady, Nivea pulled the silenced gun from her pocket, closed the last ten yards, crept up to the driver's door, and fired at point blank range one bullet into the worker's head, just behind the ear.
Death was instant. Nivea climbed into the van and quickly undressed the corpse. She then undressed and pulled on the USPS's uniform. She reached back behind, then, and found the mail pouch with its shoulder strap. She dropped her gun into the bag and climbed out. Back at her motorcycle she climbed aboard and closed to within two blocks from Gresham's home. She had studied the place on Google Earth and would have no trouble identifying her target.
She parked the bike on the edge of a small local park, a place of green grass and great old oak and hickory trees, leafless in the winter. Then she shouldered the bag, removed the key from the ignition, and began hiking to the end of the block upon which Gresham's house stood. Her pulse was picking up its rhythm when she made the Gresham street, but she was steady as she always was at such times.
The dream state was taking over, and Nivea became one who saw herself in the third person, operating as if in a dream. She had become detached. She had become death walking.
Feigning mailing deliveries all along the street, she at last threaded through several government vehicles occupied by government agents and stepped up to the front door of the lawyer's house. She pushed the doorbell and waited.
An older woman answered, opening the door a crack and being greeted with the green card fastened onto an envelope representing a letter the woman must sign for. She opened the door a crack wider and reached for the letter and pen being held toward her by Nivea.
"Can I use your restroom?" Nivea asked. "It's been a very long morning, and I have to go."
"Of course you can, dear," the woman said, and she stood aside, allowing Nivea to enter. Once inside, Nivea plucked her gun and fired a silenced round into the woman's face, just between her eyebrows. The force of the shot knocked her backward several feet where her arms flew out to the sides, and she came to rest on her back, cruciform, on the wood floor.
Nivea ignored her, heading for the long hallway and the bedrooms she knew would be there. Sure enough, there were four bedroom doors along the hall, two on each side. At the second door on the right, she peered inside and encountered a little girl of maybe twelve, sitting at her desk, rocking up and back, up and back, in that common repetitive moment Nivea knew indicated a troubled mind. Standing at the doorway, she heard voices coming from the direction of the slain woman, voices growing in volume and now shrieking. It would be only a minute until the agents came charging inside. Nivea placed the barrel of the gun across the wrist of her other hand and squeezed off two quick shots, striking the girl midline on her back. Her head flew forward, hitting the desk and bouncing, and then she fell to the floor and came to rest on her side.
Nivea was already gone, looking for the back door. Just through the kitchen she found a closed door, threw it open and was facing four steps leading down into the garage. She quickly jumped the steps and found the garage door opener, a switch on the wall. She punched the switch, and the door began crawling up. At three feet, Nivea was ducking under and coming upright and running for the alley that would lead back to the end of the block. Coming through the gate, she encountered two agents with automatic weapons running right at her. Rather than turn and run, she stood her ground, assumed a sidewise stance with the gun steadied in a two-handed grip, and she expertly fired off four rounds, knocking both marshals to the ground. Then she was running beyond them, headed for the cross street just a hundred feet away.
It was a short dash to the Harley and an immediate starting up of the two-cylinder engine as soon as she turned the key and hit the starter button with her thumb. Then she turned around and shot away.
So far, so good. No vehicles appeared to follow her.
She smiled. The girl was dead, she had done her job, and now she was free to go wherever she wanted in her exfiltration. At the corner, she paused, clicked open the hard-shell saddle bag behind her on her right, and pulled a powder blue sweatshirt out. It would offer some protection against the cold and would cover the gray waistcoat of the USPS. She pulled on the leather Harley coat, pulled on her gloves, and put her helmet on again.
She pulled onto Michigan Avenue for two blocks and then turned west on the back roads.
They were looking, but they didn't know about the motorcycle and didn't know about her gender as she rode with her helmet in place.
She laughed and kicked her legs out to the sides.
Freedom was everything!
45
From my office in the U.S. Attorney's Office in Washington, I called the U.S. Marshals' Service and asked for help. I was transferred to the Special Operations Group, that highly-trained tactical unit that, among other things, is tasked with protecting court witnesses and employees. I told them I had a witness, Annie Tybaum, presently in Evanston, Illinois, and that I needed to reach her without delay to prepare her testimony for an upcoming trial and that I needed the SOG to transport me there surreptitiously.
&n
bsp; They responded beautifully and inside of two hours I was airborne in a SOG aircraft to O'Hare in Chicago. Several SOG officers accompanied me as security for my witness. We touched down a little after noon and headed for the government terminal. Inside, there were no questions asked, but our group one-by-one flashed ID and badges. Then we were out the other end and climbing inside two waiting black Lincoln Navigators with one-way windows.
Jackie James, the group leader, turned to me from the front seat of vehicle 2. "What are we doing when we arrive? Just falling in with the perimeter boys? Or do you want us to go inside with you? Or just wait in the vehicles?"
"Hook me up with a headset and wait in the cars. How's that work for you?"
"That works just fine."
James rummaged around in the console, located another headset, and passed it back to me along with the transceiver. I immediately put the send/receive mic and earpiece on my head and adjusted the volume. "Can you hear me on the net?" I asked into the boom mic.
"Loud and clear," Jackie James came back. "Dial back your gain a quarter turn, and we're good to go."
I did as he said and then tested again. This time I got a thumbs-up from every marshal in the SUV. I was good to go.
Then our ear phones crackled to life. There had been a shooting at my house. Two people were down. Plus, law enforcement officers had been shot, too.
The marshals on either side restrained me as our driver floored the gas pedal. We were thirty minutes south of my home, but we covered the distance in half that time, running Code 3 with lights flashing angrily and siren angrily screaming.
Pulling into the circle drive at my house, the SUV screeched to a stop, the lights and siren turned off, and I was jumping from the back door even before the man nearest the door could exit. I ran for the front door, pushed through the agents guarding the entrance and froze in my tracks. Danny's mother lay on her back on the floor, arms flung out, clearly dead once I spotted the large bullet hole between her eyes.
"Michael!" I heard Verona cry from beyond the first knot of agents, "Annie's been shot!"
I pushed people aside and broke into a run for the bedrooms. The EMT cart stood at the far end of the hall, half of it inside what must be Annie's room. Down to the door, I flew, grabbing and door frame and twisting inside, just in time to find Annie being lifted by four EMT's onto the cart.
"What--what--" I cried.
"You're the father?" asked paramedic across her body.
"Yes," I shot back.
"She's alive. The marshals had your daughter wearing a bullet-proof vest. It saved her life."
"Where are you taking her?"
"To the ER to get her checked out. You're welcome to ride in our truck."
I moved around to the head of the gurney. Annie's eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. She wasn't evincing any pain though I knew the pain must be great. "Hey," I said and pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "I'm here."
At first, she didn't respond to me. Then she evidently identified my voice and immediately raised up both arms and reached out to me. I bent down to her and wrapped her in my arms and hugged her. "It's okay, Annie. I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you."
She then relaxed completely and fell back against the gurney's padded surface. Seconds later she was being rolled from her room and flying down the hallway.
We rode to the hospital in the back end of the EMT's truck, Annie and I. She was awake but quiet and refused to answer my questions or respond to my comments. We turned into the ER service lot at Evanston Hospital, and the EMTs had Annie headed inside on the gurney in under a minute. Then the ER staff took over, allowing me to enter the curtained room with her. The EMTs waited patiently with her while the hospital staff gathered and began examining the child. When they had cut away her shirt and had her sitting up, we were able to see two silver-dollar bruises where the bullets had impacted against her vest. That vest had saved her life, but she was definitely in a lot of pain. Even with a vest, gunshots can break ribs and damage internal organs. So the staff was taking all due care.
After the physician had examined her, she was put on a slow drip, and it was explained to me that medications were being administered that would ease Annie's pain and help her sleep. I stayed with her during all of this, holding her hand as I was able and speaking softly and reassuringly to her.
An hour later she was asleep and I placed her arm and hand back on the examining table. As I did so, she opened her eyes dreamily and reached for my hand again. I wasn't going anywhere, I could see. So I held her and did what I could to soothe her until she was once again sleeping. A nurse brought me a coffee with cream, thank goodness. I drank with one hand, holding onto Annie's hand with my other. At long last, she lapsed into a deeper sleep, and I was able to free my hand and take one of the chairs at her bedside.
Nurses kept coming in to take vitals and check on her every ten minutes or so. Finally, the same physician returned and advised me they would be admitting her. They wanted to see not only her physical status return to normal but her emotional status to. "These little guys can deal with trauma in not-very-healthy ways," the ER doc told me. "We're going to keep her here so we can avoid some of that initial reaction."
"Whatever you say, Doc," I replied. "Is she going to be okay, though?"
"Oh yes. Those bruises will disappear in a month. She'll be feeling no pain the rest of the day and tonight. By morning, she'll be pretty much pain-free."
"Can I stay with her?"
"You're her father?"
"Yes."
"Then of course. That's just what she needs is her dad around just now."
"All right."
I pulled out my cell phone then and called Verona. She was a strong woman, but I could hear the tears in her voice. "Your mother-in-law died instantly, Michael. She's with Danny now."
"She is," I said. Verona, Russian by birth and raising, surprised me in her spiritual belief just then. But she was always surprising me.
"How are the other kids?"
I knew they'd be fine. They were at school when the break-in happened.
"They're fine. I've checked and re-checked. The marshals are out collecting them up as we speak. We'll not let them out of our sight again until this horrible killer is caught. Who is it, Michael? Do you know?"
"It's a she. Hired by a man in Washington. He's already successfully had Annie's two siblings, and her father killed, as I've told you. Now Annie is all that stands between him and twelve-million dollars. Too much for him to resist, evidently."
"You're staying with Annie tonight?"
"I am. You stay with my kids, please. I want to see you, but we can't do that just now."
"I know, I know, damn the luck."
We talked for a few more minutes before hanging up.
Annie was moved upstairs to a private room thirty minutes later.
At six p.m., Annie's eyes blinked open and she began weeping. She looked around wildly for me until I stood and made it to her bedside. I hugged her and kissed her forehead and made myself available to her.
"I want you with me, Michael," she finally said. "Please don't leave me alone again."
"I won't, I won't."
Which was a lie. Her aunt in Berkeley expected her as soon as Nivea Young was tracked down and locked up. The woman called me every other day or so always asking "when."
But now I was uncomfortable with that. Annie wanted to be with me, and I felt the same way. She'd been through enough, and if she was happy being with me, then that's how it should be. Except the aunt had the legal right to have Annie with her and the aunt was a lawyer and already knew this. For now, I would leave that on the back burner. For one thing, Nivea Young hadn't been located, and for another thing, I could see Annie's eyes and how they pled to stay with me.
That changed the complexion of the entire thing.
46
Annie made the trip back to Washington DC with me. I got her a connecting room at the Hyatt. Then we began lo
oking for an apartment in Georgetown. We must have looked at a dozen places before we found one that suited Annie in the ways unknown to me that it takes to suit her about such things. The one she selected was no different from the ten or eleven others we'd already inspected; still, the one with the hydra-jet tub in her bathroom was the one she wanted. I had to hand it to her: I'd never seen a hydra-jet tub turn anyone's head before or make a house lease happen, but there was a first time for everything--especially with Annie.
The place was a four-bedroom, which gave us room enough for my own two kids when school let out, and they could join us. So the townhouse was the right place. If things kept going as well for me at the U.S. Attorney's Office as they had been, our growing family would look for a permanent home in a couple of years.
Then Aunt Geraldine called me at work. Aunt Geraldine was Gerry Tybaum's sister. Which gave her first choice as Annie's legal placement ahead of me. Geraldine was a hugely successful class-action lawyer in Berkeley, and she'd never married. The idea of her taking Annie away from me when the woman had no experience with child raising at all was more than I could accept.
So I returned her call that night when I was home.
"Geraldine, Michael Gresham here. I'm calling about your niece, Annie Tybaum."
"The government contacted me, the Special Operations Group, to advise they had intervened in her welfare. By law, they have to notify me because I'm her guardian."
"Sure, so you know the whole story. But what you might not know is that Annie and I have become very close through all this. Now she wants to stay with my family and me."
"Your family consists of who?"
"Two younger children and my fiancée Verona Sakharov. We are very functional, loving, caring people. We all love Annie and are praying she remains with us. I hope you can support us in this."
"Ordinarily I would say yes. But where there has been so much killing I'm afraid I want to see Annie get a fresh start. Someplace away from old memories, places, and things. No, I want Annie here with me, Mr. Gresham. Has the mad woman who was stalking her been arrested?"
Annie's Verdict Page 22