by Linda Ladd
“Yeah, I’m just so ready to rest assured, since you’re so honest and straightforward all the time. How about I just call in that SWAT team to get me outta here? They can take down the Fitches while they’re at it. You, too, depending on who you answer to. And by the way, are you Bones Fitch, by any chance?”
“You are just so suspicious.” McGowen kept up the smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t want to. I like you, detective. Like I said, if I wanted to do that, you would no longer be breathing.”
“So what’s your real name? And who do you answer to?”
McGowen stood up. “So, how about a cup of coffee? Might help clear your head. Warm you up some, too.”
“Wow, you’re quite the gent when you’re not bludgeoning me in the head with your gun butt. But, hey, sure, I’ll take some. Got cream?”
McGowen laughed. Claire didn’t. She did not trust him, not one whit. He turned around and that’s when she saw the Beretta that he had stuck into his back waistband. He leaned over and picked up a pot that was suspended over the fire and filled up an old tin cup like Gold Rush prospectors used to drink out of. He handed it over, handle toward her.
Claire took it in her left hand; she kept her weapon in her right hand and pointed at him. Just in case. She took a sip. The coffee tasted pretty damn good. Nice and hot and strong and highly caffeinated. No arsenic aftertaste, which was always a good indication. “So, okay, you gonna tell me your real name, or not?”
McGowen sat back down in the rocker and thought about it. She drank the coffee, hoping it would stop the thudding in her head.
“Well, I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. Won’t matter much, one way or another. My name is Misha Chicherin. Nice to meet you.”
Then Claire figured out the whole thing. Without the slightest doubt, she knew exactly who he was. “Okay, I get it now. The Petrov organization, right? Please say no.”
“That’s right. And Ivan told me in no uncertain terms that nothing better happen to you, or there’s gonna be hell to pay. In other words, I’ll die a very painful death at his hands. Orders came down loud and clear that I’m not to kill you, no matter how much you provoke me. And you are an annoying lady. But intriguing, too. You’d be a valuable asset for us. You interested?”
“Yeah, I’d like that like a hole in the head. Well, what do you know? Ivan Petrov is my guardian angel. Frankly, I find that a little hard to swallow.”
“Not so hard, if you think about it. Anything happens to you, lady, anything at all, and all hell breaks loose. The entire Montenegro and Rangos organizations, down to the last man, will come gunning for us, not to mention Nicky Black and his own little team of ex-military buddies. Ivan does not want that, not in any form or fashion. We are not equipped for a mob war at the moment. Your husband-to-be has some very dangerous associates who are very fond of him.”
Well, thank God for godfathers, Claire thought, appreciating Black’s unheralded connections for the very first time in her entire life. Without them, she’d probably already be lying in a shallow ditch under a couple of feet of snow, nose to nose with the unfortunate real ATF guy, who hadn’t been so lucky.
“So Petrov and Big Harold Fitch are in cahoots. Who would’ve thought it? Guess that’s why it was a match made in heaven, right? What’s the cargo? Guns? Fitch helping you guys smuggle guns down Mexico way? That it?”
Her new best friend, Misha, shrugged and stood up. “No need to worry about that. You need to worry about getting home to Nicky alive and well. That’s my advice. Get the hell outta here because next time I might not be able to save your ass.”
“Why don’t I just arrest you now, just to get it over with? You can help me find my way outta here so I can get you down to the jail and locked up.”
Misha stared at her but didn’t take her up on the offer. “Don’t think so. Okay, I better get going. You gonna be okay here for a while? Sorry, but I gotta take your weapon so Harold will know you’re out of commission. I have to get back down there and tell the old man that you got away. They know you’re resourceful. They’ll believe me if I have your gun.”
Claire considered all that for a moment and realized he was probably right. Besides that, she still had the .38 strapped to her ankle. Reluctantly, she handed the Glock over to him, butt first. “Get that back to me, you got that? It was a gift.”
Misha took it and stuck it in his waistband. “I’ll do my best. Think you can find your way back to your vehicle? You still dizzy?”
“Yeah, I am, and thanks again for clubbing me senseless and not killing me. You’re a sweetie pie, sometimes.”
“I didn’t want them to think I had a problem with killing you. Or they would’ve done it themselves. Right then and there. Bullet in the temple. I didn’t take pleasure in knocking you out.”
“Well, that’s a step in the right direction, I guess. Maybe I can return the favor someday. You know, slug you a good one up the side of the head but only to save your skin, of course.” Claire sighed, suddenly just wanting to get out of that cabin and away from him, and the sooner the better. “I guess I do owe you, if you really are gonna let me go. Hey, this kid-glove stuff wouldn’t just be a bunch of small talk to put me off my guard before you shoot me, would it?”
“Not to worry. I like your gumption. I see now why Nicky’s so jealous.”
Jealous? How the hell did Chicherin know that? Not that Black turned green-eyed every minute of every day, usually it just happened when Joe McKay was hanging around too much. “Thanks, think I’ll wait on expressing any more gratitude until I actually walk out of here alive, though.”
Claire watched him shrug into his heavy orange parka and pull on a pair of leather gloves. He jerked up the hood and tightened the drawstrings. “Look, I’ve got to take your snowmobile down there, or they’ll know something’s up. If you get lost in this blizzard, just walk with the wind at your back, and you’ll eventually hit the road into town. Got that?”
“Yeah.” She studied his face. “You sure about going back down there and telling them you screwed up and I got away? Sounds like you might be putting a gun to your own head.”
“Lucky for me, they think they need me, and they’re afraid of Ivan.”
“So, what’s the connection with the Fitches and the Petrovs? Might as well tell me that, too.”
“Not if I want to stay alive. You better stay out of it, too, if you value your health. Ivan’s afraid of Nicky Black’s association with you. But the Fitches will put you down like a mad dog if they catch you again tonight, and they’ll probably come looking the minute I tell them you got away. Take care, detective, and please, get the hell outta here while you still can. Tell Nicky I said hello. He doesn’t care much for me, but he’ll probably change his mind after tonight.”
Then he opened the door, and was gone, leaving a swirl of snow and sleet blustering inside behind him. The flames darted and danced around and played shadow games on the walls. Then she was alone, and pretty damn shocked that she was. She stood up and punched in Bud’s number, but the service was down. Probably because the storm was obliterating the signal. She tried Laurie Dale’s number, and then Black’s, then the sheriff’s, but nothing was going through. So, it appeared that she and her headache were on their own in a snowy minefield of hillbillies and thugs, as per usual, when in life and death situations like this one. She stayed put awhile, trying to wait until her head quit spinning and she could walk straight. After the thudding subsided some, she put on the fleece jacket and then her heavy outdoor gear, pulled out her .38 and kept it in her hand. She sighed heavily, well aware she had a nice long trek ahead of her, wind and snow included, but resigned herself and headed out the door.
Before she got thirty yards away from the cabin, she was accosted by a shadowy figure in a black ski mask that came up quickly behind her and out of the dark night. Her assailant shoved her so hard in the back that she went down flat on her stomach, hit the ground, and got the air knocked out of her. She slid a few feet ac
ross ice crusted snow, fumbling to turn and get off a shot, which she did but she missed her assailant, and he was very quick or very practiced, or both. He had his knee on her back before she could draw in enough breath to fight back. He wrenched the gun out of her hand and twisted her arms brutally up behind her, where he secured her wrists with a plastic flex cuff, and then he was frisking her in a very rough and unfriendly but thorough fashion, a lot better than Percy Parker at takedowns. He was big, but not real tall, probably a little under six feet. So it wasn’t Misha Chicherin, and unfortunately, it wasn’t Bud, either. It appeared her nine lives had just dwindled down to a couple, possibly even the very last one, and that one was suffering some highly perilous circumstances at the moment.
Then she was jerked up by the back of her parka and prodded at gunpoint out ahead of her unknown captor. Her worst fear was that the man was Bones Fitch, but she didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, just tried to come up with a viable plan to get away. The hike was slow going because it was pitch black outside, but they were facing directly into the wind and the snow-blown drifts were very deep and getting deeper. He had stepped into a pair of crude snowshoes, but didn’t offer her any. When she stumbled and landed face-first in deep snow, he just stood back and waited for her to wallow herself back up onto her feet. No gentleman, this guy, uh-uh. This went on for what seemed like five hundred miles. She was snow-blind for all practical purposes within the first few minutes; the darkness was complete and the harsh wind was flinging ice particles into her eyes, but he seemed to know exactly where they were going and prodded her on relentlessly with the business end of his gun barrel. On and on and on, in fact.
One good thing, and there weren’t many good things going on at the moment, was that Bud and Laurie had no doubt already found her missing and were searching for her by now, thank God, and they would find the tracks they were leaving. But in the meantime, this tough guy was a serious menace that she had to deal with on her own. No rescuer flying in at the last minute this time. Not a chance. She had already decided that he wasn’t out to kill her, or he would have already shot her dead with his long gun when she went down under that first brutal shove. So she still had a chance to survive, albeit not one of high percentage, and if she didn’t freeze to death on their way to whatever hellhole to which he was taking her. Lady Luck had been pretty good to her thus far in her life, but she had a feeling that lady had gone south for the winter and wasn’t coming back to check on her any time soon.
When a dark mass that looked like a towering black mountain loomed up in front of them, he shoved her again and she slipped and sprawled forward, landing on her knees. When she gained her feet again, he prodded her toward a narrow crevice down low on the rock cliff, or whatever it was. At that point, Claire’s heart absolutely stood still, because then she knew for sure. He had to be Bones Fitch, had to be. If all the scary stories about him were true, and they most likely were, then she was an absolute goner. She did not want to duck into that low hole that led to God knew where. Unfortunately, she had no choice.
Once inside, however, she realized that it didn’t look like a cave, but maybe a mine shaft or something. When the guy behind her switched on a high-beam flashlight, she saw low tunnels leading off in three different directions. Despite the howling wind and pelting sleet outside, now that they were inside, it was very dark and very cold and very quiet. As he pushed her down through a passage that was so low that she had to bend over to walk through it, they finally ended up in a large open room that looked like it probably had housed a staging area for miners many years ago. A large fire pit encircled by stones was blazing high and warming the interior, and the smell of smoke was strong and caustic from the pall that drifted up and hung along the ceiling. It was furnished in a way, with an old couch and a couple of easy chairs, and a card table with two folding chairs. There were lanterns hanging around on the walls, providing a dim, flickering light. It was set up like a campsite with a Coleman’s stove and two small pup tents with sleeping bags and air mattresses inside. What Claire stared at, though, were the small metal cages lining one wall. The guy prodded her at gunpoint to the nearest one.
“I’m not getting into that cage.”
He didn’t answer, just knocked her to her knees, shoved her inside with his foot, slammed the door, and set the padlock. After that, he stood outside her cage and stared down at her. He was dressed entirely in heavy winter camouflage clothing and wore a black ski mask and fur-lined cap.
He finally said something. “Know what? Thomas Landers really truly loved you. He told me he did. He cried about you sometimes. I promised him that I’d go get you, if anything ever happened to him. Then the bastard screwed me over, anyway.”
Oh, God, Claire thought. Even in death Thomas Landers was putting her through hell. What had he been? A demon? And she had no doubt now. This guy was Bones Fitch, and he had brought her there to kill her.
“You shouldn’t’ve ever had your boyfriend kill him. He was my best friend over in that hospital. And now Bones is really mad at you, too, now that I told him what you did to my friend.” All riled up, it seemed, her captor jerked off his hat and ski mask and hurled them down on the ground, very angry, shouting angry words down into her cage.
Okay, he wasn’t Bones at the moment. He was the other personality, the nicer one. The one he called Punk. But when she got a glimpse of his face, Claire’s heart plummeted like a stone in a well. For such a raging, murderous, lick-happy lunatic, Bones/Punk Fitch didn’t look half bad. In fact, he looked exactly like the buttoned-down, preppie-polite, Bud-friendly Patrick Parker himself. As she watched him warily, he shed all his outer wear and threw it aside, apparently the I’m-Gonna-Talk-Your-Arm-Off-Before-I-Beat-You-To-Death kind of psycho. “But you know what else, lady? It’s been a real good night out there huntin’ prey so far. Storm’s a helpin’ me sneak up on people. Caught me two real different types tonight. But you? You’re the real prize. Bones is gonna love to get you. We can catch one of those goddamned Fitches any night of the week, but you’re real special. Too bad Thomas can’t be here.”
Claire wondered if he could be reasoned with, or if he was too far gone. “Okay, I get it. You’re not really Patrick, are you? You’re Preston Parker but everybody calls you Punk.”
“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?”
“Apparently not. You’ve got me locked up in a cage, don’t you?”
“You sure did fall for our little trick, didn’t you? You thought I was my big brother.”
“So you just made him up as a cover story after you escaped? That it?”
“Hell, no. Patrick was always my oldest brother, all through my whole life. Bones done killed him a long time ago, right where he sat watching the Rams play. We all look alike anyways. Everybody says so. Nobody could tell I wasn’t him because Pa always made us keep to ourselves. Nobody knew it was Bones, neither, when he was pretendin’ to be Patrick. Not even that Joe friend of yours.”
“And Percy and the rest of the guys didn’t notice your little charade? Not very observant little boys, are they?”
He grinned and sat down cross-legged on the ground right in front of her, the rifle across his lap. Like he was getting ready to tell her a campfire tale. “They knew, but they’re all scared spitless of Bones so they do whatever he tells them to. And he told them he was gonna be Patrick until I got outta that hospital, and they better play along or he’d beat the life straight outta them. Then when I finally came home, Bones and me took turns bein’ Patrick.”
“So it was you all along when Joe and I came out to the quick stop that first time?”
“Nope, that there was Bones. He told me all about you, though. He thought you was real cute, said he wanted to catch you quick and put you in this here cage. It was me, though, when you came back with Bud that other day. We look almost exactly the same, don’t we? We was gonna kill you both right then when you asked to go inside our trailer and make you pay for killin’ Thomas and nosing around our place. C
ouldn’t do it, though, ’cause I really did start to like that Bud guy you was with. Me and him are gonna be friends and hunt and stuff, once you’re dead and can’t tell him about me and Bones, and stuff like that.”
After listening to that rather eye-opening, psychotic rendition of friendly chitchat, Claire decided it would be wise to keep her mouth shut. This guy, both of him, was a legit, card-carrying member of Crazytown USA, no doubt about it. In the dim light of the fire and the lanterns, his eyes reflected little white spots of light, as if burning inside with insanity. Entering into some kind of a heated, suicidal argument with him would certainly not be prudent. Doing anything at all with him would not be prudent, even breathing the same air. And this psycho was supposed to be the docile half of the cuckoo duo? Seriously? Sure couldn’t swear that by her, no way. But if Punk was indeed the gentlemanly personality, the last thing she wanted was for his other, and hell of a lot more lethal, persona to come out of his sicko psyche and put the screws to her. She’d take her chances with Punk. Chances that wouldn’t be so good, either, but better.
On the other hand, Patrick aka Punk aka Bones aka Preston was completely at ease now, gun at his side, leaning back on his palms, all anger swirling away like water down a shower drain, gone quickly indeed. He was now acting as if they were back munching delectable fried chicken and drinking hot chocolate at his redneck quick stop. His tone was ultra-pleasant, but the questions he asked, not so much. “How the hell could you treat Thomas like that? He was crazy about you. And it was real, real true love. But you didn’t even care about him, did you? I hated his guts for leavin’ me behind and I’m glad he’s dead and all that, but listen, all Thomas wanted was a chance to be with you and make you happy. Just like I wanted to be with my girl. You oughta be ashamed of yourself. I knew you was a tease just like Landers said you was, trying to get men to look at you and take you to bed, ever since the first day you first came out to the store and asked Bones and the boys all those nosy questions. Even Bones fell for your crap.”