Lockington said, “I doubt it.”
Kilbuck gave it to him anyway:
“When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young!”
Lockington squinted across the spacious front seat of the Cadillac. “Did you write that?”
Kilbuck shook his head. “No, but I wish I had. Touching, isn’t it?”
“Yes—where did you get it?”
“It’s from something by Charles Kingsley, an English clergyman—a Socialist, by the way.”
Lockington said, “Okay,” willing to let the matter rest. He’d never heard of Charles Kingsley. The rain had stopped, its darkness traveling east.
Gordon Kilbuck was saying, “And isn’t that how ifs gone for Alexi Fedorovich? He’s an old man now, it’s all behind him, his heroics, his strategies—what’s left but to come home?”
“Kilbuck, you’re a rank sentimentalist.”
Kilbuck had taken out a handkerchief, wiping his eyes, blowing his nose. He said, “I know it. So are you, but you don’t know it.” Lockington said nothing. “That verse would make one helluva windup for my book, don’t you agree?”
Lockington said, “I can’t say—I haven’t read your book.”
62
They left Kilbuck’s Caddy, walking toward the house. There was no walkway, just quack grass. Lockington said, “Better let me take the point.”
“It’s all yours. Lockington, would you carry my attaché case, please? It’s confoundedly heavy—notebooks, a ream of blank paper.” Lockington accepted the case, walking ahead, Kilbuck bringing up the rear, lugging the big tape recorder, the tip of his cane making little sucking sounds when it was tugged from the wet ground. Lockington mounted the sagging front steps to the weatherbeaten front porch, turning to lend Kilbuck a hand. Kilbuck muttered, “Thanks.”
Lockington saw no doorbell button, and he knocked lightly on the glass of the battered aluminum storm door. There was no response. They waited, exchanging glances. Lockington knocked again, louder this time. The inner door swung open just a crack. A woman’s voice said, “Yes, what is it?”
Lockington said, “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but are you Olga Karelinko?”
“Yes, what do you want?”
“Miss Karelinko, my name is Lacey Lockington, and I have with me a nationally-known writer of biographies who is doing a book on General Alexi Fedorovich. He’s been a long-time admirer of the general, and he’d be grateful if he could be granted a short interview.”
There was a lengthy silence. Then from a distance a male voice called, “It’ll be all right, Olga—permit them to come in.”
The door opened slowly. He swung the storm door toward him, stepping into the living room of the little house, Gordon Kilbuck on his heels, breathing heavily.
The room was tidy, stuffy, dim. It was furnished in old, comfortable pieces—a huge blue velvet-covered sofa resting on highly varnished mahogany lion’s paws, an overstuffed chair with a rumpled flowered throw, a worn but solid-looking platform-rocker, a small wooden table on which rested a blueshaded lamp and a black telephone, the dial type. Lockington saw no television set, just a Zenith cabinet model radio, circa 1940. There were a few pictures on the walls, one of a wolf sitting on a hilltop overlooking a village, another of a bony, aging Indian astride a spavined pony. Lockington recognized the picture of the Indian—The End of the Trail. Appropriate, he thought.
The door had closed behind them and an elderly buxom woman in a floor-length brown chenille robe said, “General Fedorovich is in his study.” Her eyes were red and swollen—she’d been drunk or she’d been crying, or both. She was gesturing toward an open doorway to their left. Lockington said, “Thank you, ma’am,” crossing the blue carpeted living room to enter the study. Kilbuck following closely.
There was a desk cluttered with papers, maps, and books, a padded swivel chair in better condition than Lockington’s, a two-seat leather sofa, a floor lamp, and a large rocking chair in which sat an angular, rawboned, craggy-faced, silver-haired man, a gray afghan over his lap and legs—the great one at last, hero and prey. Lockington stared at him speechlessly. The man’s thin-lipped smile curled over even tobacco-stained teeth. He extended his hand.
“Mr. Lockington, I know of you—I’ve heard nothing but good about you.”
Lockington shook the hand. “General, I wasn’t aware that you’d heard anything about me.”
Kilbuck had nodded to General Fedorovich, propping his cane against the desk, seating himself on the leather couch. He placed his tape recorder on the floor to his right, his attaché case between his feet. His hands were at the snaps of the attaché case when he turned to face the doorway, freezing in that position, his muddy eyes wide. A woman stood just inside the study. She wore a gray water-repellent jacket, gray slacks, and blue jogging shoes. She held a Mikoyan snub-nosed .32 pistol in her hand, its hammer cocked, its barrel directed unwaveringly at Gordon Kilbuck’s chest. Her eyes were pale blue ice, her voice was splintered flint. She said, “When you open your attaché case, do it slowly, please.”
63
Gordon Kilbuck’s face had blanched to the color of wood ashes. “But there’s nothing in it—just notebooks and spare paper—I can show you.”
Natasha said, “Do that, please—open it and turn it over.”
Kilbuck complied, spilling notebooks and paper onto the floor.
Lockington said, “Natasha—”
She waved him to silence, motioning to Kilbuck with her left hand. “On your feet—we’re going for a walk.” Kilbuck got up from the couch, groping for his cane. Natasha said, “Leave it, you won’t be needing it.” She pointed to the door, circling behind Kilbuck to pick up his tape recorder, following him toward the living room. Kilbuck gasped, “No, Natasha, pukzhahlstuhl!”
She shook her head. “Turn, and I will shoot you between the eyes—run, and I will shoot you in the back of the head.”
Lockington started after them. General Fedorovich held up a detaining hand. He said, “No, Mr. Lockington, this is a Russian matter—let Russians settle it.” His afghan was on the floor next to his chair. There was a revolver in his lap. The old man had been ready. He still was.
The front door was creaking open, the storm door banging shut. Olga Karelinko tottered to the couch, seating herself there, shaking uncontrollably. General Fedorovich looked at Lockington. “As you say here in America, ‘You win a few, you lose a few’.”
Lockington managed a tight smile. “I thought that might be a Russian saying.”
“In Russia, it differs somewhat—in Russia you win a few and you lose but once.”
The front door slammed and Natasha came into the study. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it. She said, “Now we’ll learn if it was or if it wasn’t.”
There was quiet in the room, thick, nearly tangible. Then, from the road came high-pitched hoarse-voiced shouts—“Puhmuhghat mnawyoo! Puhmuhghat mnawyoo!” Olga Karelinko buried her face in her hands, sobbing audibly. Fedorovich plucked absent-mindedly at a bit of lint on his trousers leg. Lockington started to speak, then thought better of it. Natasha Gorky’s shoulders were against the closed study door. She stared at the ceiling, her face expressionless.
The blast blew Natasha away from the door, halfway across the room where Lockington caught her. She looked up at him, smiling, her pale blue eyes bright. She said, “It was!”
General Fedorovich placed his revolver on a table to his left. He said, “All right, Mr. Lockington, you may go out now if you wish.”
64
Lockington left the study. The living room window had been shattered and the floor was a sparkling sea of broken glass. The pictures were off the walls, the telephone stand lamp was on
the sofa, the overstuffed chair had been upended. Lockington waded through the wreckage, stepping on the front door which had departed its hinges. He stumbled onto the porch, skidding to a stop there. Gordon Kilbuck’s blue Cadillac was a searing pond of orange flame, its roof half-gone, its windshield and trunk lid missing. Its doors had sailed twentyfive feet from the car in either direction. Barney Kozlowski was standing on the west side of Hack Road, motioning urgently to Lockington. Lockington waved back, leaping from the porch, shielding his face against the intense heat, skirting the blazing vehicle. Barney’s face was pale, his eyes were unbelieving saucers. “My God, Mr. Lockington, I saw it—I saw all of it!”
“Take it easy, kid—all of it—all of what?”
Barney was struggling to collect himself. He said, “She brought him out of the house at gunpoint and she made him get into the car! She handcuffed him to the steering wheel. Then she picked up a big tape recorder and shoved it into the back seat and slammed the door, and when she went back into the house she didn’t bother looking back! He was trying to break loose and then he started screaming—Holy Christ, they must of heard him in Cleveland! By that time I was running down here, but the Goddamned car blew up—the explosion knocked me flat on my ass! He’s in there, what’s left of him—if there’s anything! What caused it?”
Lockington was tight-lipped. “Offhand, I’d say about five pounds of Czech plastic explosive in the tape recorder, probably on a sixty second timer wired to the play-record switch. Try to put it out of your mind, kid.” He grabbed Barney by the arm, turning him toward Kirk Road, pushing him in that direction.
Barney said, “Who was she?”
“I wasn’t acquainted with this one—let’s get back to Youngstown.”
“How? That ain’t my car!”
Lockington said, “No problem—we’ll just borrow it.”
“But how are they gonna get back?”
They were getting into Frank Addison’s blue Chrysler. Lockington said, “Well, son, that’s their problem, ain’t it?”
Dellick and Addison had come pounding out of the trees. Addison was waving his arms and hollering. As he drove east, Lockington shoved his left hand out of the window, holding it above the Chrysler’s roof, clenching his fist, extending his middle finger upward, wiggling it.
65
In the parking lot of the Mahoning Avenue Shopping Plaza Lockington turned to Barney who was swallowing hard. “You gonna get sick, kid?”
“No, but I came mighty close!”
Lockington said, “Look, they all don’t turn out this way.”
“What percentage, would you say?”
“Maybe less than fifty.”
“How much less than fifty?”
“Not a helluva lot.”
Barney said, “Jesus Christ!”
Lockington said, “You still wanta be a P.I.?”
“You think the CIA might be better?”
“Boy, anything would be better.”
“How about the FBI?”
“There ain’t that much difference. You got a college degree?”
“No.”
“Then come down to earth and get one—criminal justice, political science, crap like that.”
“If I get a degree would I be accepted?”
Lockington said, “You get your degree and apply, and I’ll call in a few markers. If that don’t work, I’ll blackmail some sonofabitch. You’ll be accepted!”
“It costs something like ten grand to come out of Youngstown State with a degree! Where am I gonna get ten grand?”
Lockington reached for Barney’s hamlike right hand, turning it palm upward. He slammed a sheaf of bills into it.“There’s a good piece of it—I’m splitting my fee with you—you busted the case.”
Barney stared down at the money, blinking. He mumbled,“Can I do something else for you, Mr. Lockington?”
Lockington said, “One thing.”
“Name it!”
“It’s pushing dinner time. Take your old man out for a steak.” He started the engine. Barney got out, closing the door. Lockington drove to a plaza exit. Before he turned east on Mahoning Avenue he checked his rear-view mirror. Barney Kozlowski was standing in the parking lot, wiping his eyes with one hand, waving so long with the other.
Lockington tooted the horn.
66
He hadn’t taken the trouble to drive into the Flamingo Lounge parking lot. He’d left Frank Addison’s blue Chrysler on Mahoning in front of the Flamingo and a no-parking sign. He was sitting at the bar talking baseball with John Sebulsky when Addison and Dellick came in. Lockington didn’t turn, he watched their approach in the backbar mirror. Addison slapped a hand on Lockington’s shoulder, spinning him around. He said, “How would you like to go to jail for automobile theft?”
Lockington said, “How would you like to wear your teeth for a necklace?”
“Taking off with my car was absolutely uncalled for!”
“I’ve had a bad day, Addison—don’t fuck with me.”
John Sebulsky was staring at Steve Dellick. He said, “By the way, if this comes to fisticuffs, your ass belongs to me.”
Dellick glanced at Addison. Out of a corner of his mouth he said, “Better cool it, Frank.”
Addison shrugged. “Yeah, what the hell.” He pitched a twenty dollar bill onto the bar, motioning to John Sebulsky. “Can we get a pair of Buds and a double Martell’s in a booth?”
Sebulsky nodded and they retired to a booth. Sebulsky brought the drinks and Addison’s change. Addison said, “What the hell made you run off like that?”
“Habit of mine—I always leave when the show’s over.”
Dellick said, “Helluva show.”
Lockington shrugged. “I liked Lawrence of Arabia better—not as much noise but the cast had class.”
Addison said, “Lockington, you’re pissed about something.”
“Aw, I wouldn’t say that—why should I be pissed? After all, everybody’s played it straight with me, haven’t they?”
Dellick said, “It was all in the game—there were a few things you couldn’t be told—you’d have lost your effectiveness.”
Addison said, “She drove us here—her car was on the next block east.”
Dellick said, “Hell, Lockington, she was just doing her job.”
“Well, she sure got it done—damned miracle she didn’t blow the roof off the fucking Mahoning County Courthouse!”
Dellick said, “No matter—she nailed that sonofabitch! Hey, this Foxfire, she’s a worldbeater!”
“‘Foxfire’—you call her ‘Foxfire’?”
Addison said, “That’s right—in the spring she was coded ‘Pigeon’, now she’s ‘Foxfire.’ What do you call her at home?”
“Too early to say—I ain’t home yet.”
Dellick said, “We invited her in for a drink but she said she had to go shopping.”
Lockington said, “Yeah, Tuesday, y’know.”
Addison said, “Massey told Carruthers to coax her out of retirement. She told Carruthers that she’d help on just this one case.”
“Why just this one case—why didn’t she agree to overthrow Castro and bomb the fucking South Pole?”
Dellick said, “Why the South Pole—what’s at the South Pole?”
Lockington said, “I’ll let you know—I’ll be there by midnight.”
Dellick waved for a round and Sebulsky delivered it. Addison said, “Well, anyway, Lockington, you did real good!”
Dellick said, “Yeah, I got a hunch you knew how it was going to play all along.”
“Sure, I just strung it out to make it interesting.”
Addison said, “There’s a parking ticket on my windshield. Who’s gonna pay it?”
Lockington said, “Get it fixed—you’re a Youngstown cop, you told me.”
67
She was waiting for him at the living room door. She said, “My God, are you ever drunk!”
“I found a tavern I haven’t been in befo
re.” She tried to kiss him but he grabbed her, holding her away from him. “Madame Foxfire, is it?”
Natasha stared at him, snapping, “Don’t manhandle me, Lacey!”
Lockington snarled, “Don’t manhandle you? That was the most ruthless, coldblooded, merciless fucking execution I’ve ever run into—and with my handcuffs yet!” He released her, permitting her to lean against the living room closet door.
“If Gordon Kilbuck’s tape recorder hadn’t been loaded, there’d have been no ruthless, coldblooded, merciless fucking execution, with your handcuffs yet!”
“The man deserved a fair trial!”
“A trial for Gordon Kilbuck—on what grounds—what would the charges have been—what could have been established—where was the hard evidence? Lacey, you were a Chicago police detective—you know the courts! Tell me, would he have been convicted?”
Lockington shook his head slowly, simmering down. He said, “Never.”
She pressed her advantage. “Kilbuck murdered Abigail Fleugelham, he murdered Candice Hoffman, he murdered Brenda Willoughby, he murdered Cayuse Bresnahan, he was highly instrumental in the murder of Cy Willoughby! He was about to finish the job—he’d have begun to interview General Fedorovich, he’d have activated his tape recorder, he’d have remembered something he’d left in his car, he’d have gone out to get it, and he’d have been on Kirk Road when the house was reduced to toothpicks! Olga Karelinko would be dead, so would General Fedorovich, so would Lacey Lockington! The explosion would have been attributed to a gas leak in the basement, and you’re talking about a fair trial for Gordon Kilbuck? Not to me, you aren’t!” She flew at Lockington like a jungle cat, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him until their teeth clicked together. Then she stepped back. She said, “What about Natasha Gorky—does she get a hearing?”
Lockington shrugged. “Why the hell not?”
She took his hand. “Let’s go down to the courtroom.”
The Fedorovich File: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book Three Page 20