Blizzard Ball

by Dennis Kelly

  “Pavel.” Basarov clenched his fist, pumping up his forearm and withering the snake. “Have you heard of him?”

  “No way! Pavel’s famous. He’s all over the Internet.”

  “My good fortune.” Basarov shared that he had simply admired Pavel Arefiev’s work, with little sense that the Moscow tattoo artist would gain worldwide acclaim.

  “Like, so, you’re from Russia? You don’t sound like anybody around here. I mean your accent and all.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Francisca.”

  “You related to the owner?”

  “Yeah, Carlos, he’s my papa, but he’s not here right now.” Francisca slipped into the booth and sat across from Basarov, admiring his tattoo.

  “Perhaps you can help me. I am looking for friend of your papa, young woman, her name is Alita.” Basarov leaned in, softened his voice, reeling her into his confidence. “I am insurance adjuster and have check to deliver on account of her cousin’s car accident. She must sign for it. Tragedy.”

  “Yeah, those guys were always in trouble. I know Alita’s pretty torn up about it. She’s staying out with Brian. I think they’re serious. He’s an artist.” Francisca pointed to the paintings hung throughout the restaurant. “Lives out about seven miles on Route 23.”

  “I am not supposed to be talking about people’s insurance business, so I would appreciate if you kept our conversation secret.” He dropped a twenty-dollar tip on the table.

  “Your food!” Francisca slapped her forehead and slid out of the booth. ”Sorry, I’ll put a rush on it.”

  “No worry. I will stop back after my business. Maybe show you the rest of my tattoo.”

  •••

  Basarov passed Brian’s farmhouse and drove on another two miles before doubling back to a white clapboard steepled church he had passed about a half a mile from the farm. The plowed parking lot wrapped around to the rear of the church and provided an opportunity to conceal his car. Donning the Cabela’s gear and snowshoes, he laid down long strides of waffled tracks. A windrow of conifers provided concealment as well as respite from a biting northwest wind. In the distance, Brian’s yellow yard light shone like a Cyclops eye into the night. Basarov picked up on it and kept on point.

  As he neared the farmhouse, he crested a knoll that provided an elevated view of the property. A dog bounded up the slight incline to the outermost perimeter of the yard light and barked into the night. Basarov tossed a beef jerky into the snow just beyond the reach of the light. The dog moved cautiously into the black night, head down, sniffing. Basarov set an arrow into the crossbow’s channel, cocked the weapon, and took aim at the dog. The dog circled, pawed at the ground, and dug the jerky out of the snow. The back door of the farmhouse opened halfway. A woman called for the dog, waited, called again, and gave up. Basarov lowered the bow, leaving the dog to chew on the treat.

  From the shadows, Basarov saw the upper torso of a man periodically pass by a window at the hayloft level of the barn. An owl hooted, turning Basarov’s attention to the brilliant night sky. He traced Ursa Major to the top end of the dipper. Under those stars sat the farmhouse, the barn structure, and unsuspecting people. Cold breath steamed from Basarov’s nostrils as he considered his choices: take out the man or the woman first?

  Scoreboard

  Kirchner sat in his office at the BCA feeling marooned. There was no antique car calendar on the wall, bowling trophy on the filing cabinet, or family pictures on his desk, the things that personalized the offices around him. Kirchner wasn’t into office nesting and avoided the headquarters and the politics as much as possible. He leaned back in his chair, his head tilted toward the ceiling, and thought about his wife. If he had stayed with her the carjacker would not have ripped her out of his life. He felt responsible for Bonnie too, failing to rescue her from the hands of a crazed miner. He picked up the photo of Alita Torres off his desk, her dark eyes seemed to be following him. He had been in contact with her twice, and each time he had screwed up. He always seemed to be out of step when he was needed most. He couldn’t bear the thought of adding another ghost to haunt him.

  Tyler rolled into his office and sat down with the crime scene investigation report taken from Alita Torres’s apartment.

  “We got a match on the ballistics between the shotgun blast at the Cash and Dash and the discharge in the apartment,” Tyler said. “Three different blood types were found. And from the volume of blood spilled, it’s guaranteed somebody didn’t make it out alive.”

  Kirchner sat passively looking at Alita’s photo, listening for a clue that would help him locate her.

  “Fingerprints matched the two deceased Mexicans who got crushed with the stolen lottery tickets near Luverne. The lottery ticket fragments were definitely from the BlizzardBall Lottery. Paper checks out. Not counterfeits. And here’s a blast from the past, Superman. Apparently you and Ms. Alita Torres flew off the side of a building together.”

  “What?” Kirchner shot straight up in his chair.

  “Yep, got the records from the child protection agency. She had a different last name back then, something about her mother’s multiple partners.”

  “Holy shit,” he dropped the photo on the desk. How could he have missed the connection? Sure she was only seven at the time but he should have trusted his gut, those eyes, the feeling that only comes with sharing a traumatic experience.

  “Damn,” he said, disgusted with himself, feeling a heightened sense of urgency to protect her. If only he coud get lucky again on her behalf.

  “Tigers,” Tyler said.

  “What?”

  “We played them in the high school football sectional.” Tyler tapped the photo on Kirchner’s desk. “Their linemen weighed 250 pounds. Real hogs, bone crushers. Our team was down four points and pinned back on our ten with a minute left. We drove down and scored the winning touchdown just as time ran out. People in Albert Lea are still complaining it was the longest minute of football ever played.

  “Albert Lea, as in the town?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler turned the photo toward Kirchner. “See the Tiger hanging from the mortarboard tassel, and the colors, blue and red, not to mention the hicks she’s standing with. Absolutely Albert Lea.”

  “How far is it from here?”

  “Normally, an hour and a half, but got some snow moving in.”

  “Call the highway patrol, let ’em know I’m running 35W hot with my lights on. Then get in contact with the local county sheriff and have him locate the whereabouts of Alita Torres. They are not to move in or apprehend without me. Tell them I’m on my way.”

  Kirchner grabbed his coat and headed for the door, then hesitated. “What position did you play?

  “I ran the scoreboard clock,” Tyler said.

  Hot Water

  Alita shouted through the closed bathroom door toward the sound of footsteps in the second floor hallway. “Brian, I’m in the bathtub.” She was soaking her ribs, still sore from the fight in her apartment. “Dog’s still out. Could you let him in?”

  She could see that the light under the door was broken by someone standing there. The door handle turned, the door opened, and a dark figure filled the opening. Before Alita’s fear could fully register, Basarov reached the claw-foot bath tub. A hand snagged her by the hair and plunged her head under water. Shock and soapy water filled her throat and trapped her voice. She thrashed and fought for air. Basarov dragged her over the edge of the tub onto the bathroom floor. He slid her naked body like a wet seal out into the hallway, tossing her headfirst down the stairs. Family photos loosened from the wall crashed to the stairway and cartwheeled into her. Alita tried to move, protect herself, but could only muster enough strength to maneuver into a fetal ball. “Get up, punta.” Basarov threw her a towel and stagger-walked her into the kitchen, then twisted her arm until she was in a kneeling position. Brian was tied to a kitchen chair, his hands and feet bound. A wide piece of gray duct tape covered his mouth. His right eye was bru
ised and swollen.

  “Ready to have talk?” Basarov ripped the duct tape off Brian. Patches of facial hair came with the tug. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Blood and spittle seeped from the corner of his mouth.

  Basarov clamped a hand on Brian’s head and turned his bruised face toward Alita. “As the farm boy knows, I am here to reclaim the lottery tickets you ripped off from me. And I do not want any counterfeit shit. I have seen your barn loft operation. I am also aware, for whatever fucked-up reason, that you have given many of the tickets away. But I am assuming you retained the jackpot ticket, and you will surrender it, yes?” He tipped Brian’s chair back on two legs against the stove.

  Brian’s eyes darted like a spooked fish, the chords on his neck bulged with palpable fear. “I told him we don’t have it,” Brian spit out, “couldn’t find it in the FedEx boxes, your apartment or your car. If we had it, we’d give the damn thing up. I’ll make you the winning ticket.” Brian’s heart hammered. Lines of sweat rolled down his arms and dripped onto the floor. “It will be perfect. I’ll even redeem it for you.”

  “Not what I want to hear.” Basarov turned on the stove’s gas burner. Brian’s long hair ignited like a dry Christmas tree. He shook his head wildly and screamed, surged against the restraints, rattling the chair against the floor. Alita, stunned by the flash of fire, froze. The shock pressed down on her like a millstone. She heard the sizzle of twisting burnt hair and her nostrils were filled with the foul smell of sulfur. Throwing off the horror, she pulled the chair back from the burner, stripped off her towel, and padded out the fire.

  Alita collapsed to the foot of the chair, hugging Brian’s waist. “I’m sorry, Brian.” Her words came in gushes and sobs. “I got you into this. I got Rafie and Eduardo into this. I’m to blame.” She looked up. Brian only moaned. Blisters had formed on his forehead. “Let him go. He needs help. We don’t have your fucking lottery ticket!” Alita screamed. The rage in her fired like a rocket. She charged blindly in a flailing attack on Basarov.

  Basarov met her with an open hand that spun her across the room like a playful kitten. She tried to brace herself as he came after her with a raised fist, but his strike was interrupted by the swing of the kitchen door. Alita heard the thump of a bow followed by the sickening crack of shattered bone. The arrow struck Basarov in the upper thigh. He staggered, dropped to one knee, and gripped the arrow with both hands; blood leaked down his leg and pooled on the floor. Carlos suddenly appeared and shouted orders in Spanish. The farmhouse kitchen quickly filled with Mexican workers, some of whom Alita recognized. Two men grabbed Basarov underneath the arms and another attended to Brian. Carlos stripped the slipcover off the sofa and wrapped it around Alita. She stared without a drop of sympathy at the twisted, anguished face of her tormentor as he was led out.

  Carlos had found his daughter sitting outside the restaurant at closing time, hanging out. He could sense she was waiting for someone. After some stern coaxing, Francisca had confided in him about the stranger with the tattoo. It was nothing more than curiosity, she assured him. Repeated calls to both Brian and Alita went unanswered. Carlos knew something was wrong, so he drove by the migrant housing camp and gathered up some reinforcements. They walked in from the road and found some of Basarov’s gear in the barn where he had taken Brian captive.

  With Brian and Alita attended to, Carlos stepped outside and instructed his men to take the intruder’s wallet and car keys. He pointed to Basarov’s snowshoes and singled out one of the men to retrace the tracks back to Basarov’s car and drive it to a chop shop, where the parts would be broadcast all the way to California.

  “What about him?” one of Carlos’ posse members asked.

  “Find out who he’s working with and take him over to Glazier’s place.”

  “Cerdo?” The man hesitated. He looked to Carlos for confirmation.

  “You heard me, expedir.”

  Old man Glazier owned a small hog operation. His hogs were known to be opportunistic eaters.

  Carlos watched the men load Basarov, who was showing obvious signs of shock, into a pickup truck. He then went to the barn and torched it.

  •••

  Kirchner met the local sheriff and two deputies in Albert Lea. It hadn’t taken much investigative work to determine where Alita was staying. Any uncertainty about how to get to Brian Hutton’s farm was short-lived as the flames snapping at the night sky drew them in like nocturnal insects.

  Alita had dressed and was attending to Brian’s burns in the kitchen.

  “Police!” the sheriff yelled, in the company of Kirchner, as they came through the back door, guns drawn. Two deputies likewise entered through the front door.

  Kirchner spotted Alita with an injured man. “On the floor!” the sheriff shouted. Alita and Brian dropped to their knees in Basarov’s bloody tracks. Kirchner met Alita’s eyes. “You all right?”

  “Yes, but Brian needs attention. He’s badly burned.”

  “We’ll call in the paramedics,” Kirchner said evenly. To show sympathy would undermine an unfolding situation that he needed to keep as tight as a gallows noose.

  A deputy herded Carlos from the living room into the kitchen with Alita and Brian. Carlos was holding a phone. The deputy ordered him to drop it and get down.

  “Who’s in charge?” Carlos asked, standing firm.

  “I’m Agent Kirchner of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Kirchner said, extending an unwarranted courtesy. “Now do as the deputy says.”

  “Then this call is for you,” Carlos said, setting the phone on the kitchen counter and clicking on the speaker button. Kirchner looked at the phone cautiously, fearing it could be an explosive device.

  “This is the governor of the State of Minnesota,” said the phone, “Agent Kirchner, pick up.” Kirchner gave Carlos a studied look and picked it up. “I want the three suspects at hand to be released on their own recognizance until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, when they and you will meet in my Capitol office.”

  Immunity

  The governor’s secretary escorted Kirchner into the governor’s office.

  “We got lucky,” the governor said, pointing Kirchner to a chair. “It could have been worse.” He gave a slight nod toward Alita. She removed her large glam sunglasses.

  In the light of day, Kirchner could see the bruises on her forehead and blackened eye. Sitting next to her was Brian, his head bandaged like a mummy, and Carlos the one-armed man.

  At the governor’s prompting, Alita related her involvement in the convenience store robbery, the subsequent accidental death of the Irishman who stormed her apartment, Brian’s counterfeiting, and her encounter with Roddy and Gisele from the Canadian lottery operation. Carlos added that the assailant who attacked Alita and Brian in Albert Lea professed to be part of Morty’s lottery swindle. How Carlos specifically came by this information or the whereabouts of the aggressive Russian visitor was unclear. Alita, however, denied her cousins were responsible for the Cash and Dash owner’s murder.

  The governor requested immunity for Alita and her friend Brian. Kirchner knew he was holding a weak investigative hand. Alita’s relatives, the alleged robbers and murderers of the convenience store operator, were dead. The counterfeiting operation had been reduced to smoldering cinders. Plus it did not reflect well on his police work that he had not identified Alita earlier from the AA meeting, and that he had failed to scoop her up at

  the clinic prior to her being terrorized in Albert Lea.

  “The attorney general’s on board,” the governor said.

  Kirchner understood that the immunity deal was virtually done, by way of chain of command. Any objections he might have would be quickly snuffed out. The BCA had been formed by the state legislature and placed under the Office of the Attorney General.

  Kirchner could take a pass on Alita and company; his thoughts were on the scheme’s architect. Morty had set an ill wind in motion, resulting in a chain reaction of dead bodies. The Pakistani, the Irishman, Alita
’s cousins, the Lottery office bomb blast victims. He had manipulated the Lottery database to generate the jackpot run-up, used third party agents to traffic tickets, and tampered with the drawing. But none of these actions could be pinned directly on him. Testifying sources were either killed in the bomb blast or, in the case of Alita’s attacker, Morty’s accomplice, presumed to be permanently unavailable. Morty was no-stick Teflon. Guys like him never fried and were an affront to Kirchner’s need for closure. Kirchner never left a crossword puzzle undone or a debt unpaid. All scores had to be settled.

  The governor followed Kirchner out of the meeting into the reception area. “Make this problem go away.” The governor held a firm hand on Kirchner’s upper arm and paused, making sure Kirchner understood the full meaning of his request. “A long-drawn-out legal investigation and more bad press will only compound the public’s sagging faith in the Lottery and this office.”

  Kirchner understood the governor perfectly. “Morty’s going down,” he grumbled, brushing past the governor’s tenacious secretary on the way out.

  Thin Ice

  Kirchner had Morty on the phone. “Look out your window,” he said. “I’m in the navy-blue Crown Vic. My lights are flashing.”

  Kirchner’s car sat in the parking lot of the BlizzardBall Lottery headquarters next to a dumpster filled with debris from the explosion. The area of the building damaged by the blast had been boarded up. Otherwise it looked like business as usual.

  “Yeah, I see you.”

  “Let’s meet.”

  “No can do. I’m jammed with meetings.”

  “Either I come up to your office and shove my foot up your