Текст книги "Cruelest Month"
Автор книги: Aaron Stander
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
28
Mackenzie had followed Ken Lee’s instructions carefully, and yes, there was a regular pattern. Mornings about 9 a.m., Sabotny and Rustova would leave their compound. After half an hour or so at The Espresso Shot, they would head for the Bayside Family Market, sometimes hand in hand like a loving couple, other times exhibiting some tension and distance. They would return about 20 minutes later with two or three paper bags, never plastic. Mackenzie speculated that they did European-style shopping, picking up what they needed for the day and not stocking a larder.
After several days of this, Mackenzie was ready to make her move. She positioned her car in an area of the parking lot used by the employees of the market, a far corner that afforded her a clear view of the entire area. From the moment they drove into the shopping area, she would have them in sight. Sipping on her own tall cappuccino, she watched them first enter the coffee shop and later head for the grocery store. She waited five minutes, then pulled into a parking place next to their vehicle. She’d rehearsed the placement of the GPS the evening before following Ken Lee’s step-by-step diagrams.
Taking several long, deep breaths, she glanced around to ensure that no one was in a position to observe her actions. Then, with the engine still running, she pushed her door open. After a quick second scan of the area, she moved to the rear of the SUV, dropped her purse, then quickly knelt to pick it up. In the process she slid the transmitter into position at the rear of Sabotny’s vehicle. Mackenzie slipped back inside her car, closed the door, and took one last look around before driving away.
That evening she and Ken Lee—2,500 miles apart—watched Sabotny’s movements from their separate locations, using Google Earth to get street-level views of his travels. Sabotny stopped at three spots: an Outback Steakhouse, a multiplex cinema, and a bar just south of Cedar Bay.
In the course of their conversation, Ken Lee reminded her that she needed to look again at the other guys who were in Sabotny’s company on the day of the attack. Her rational self knew that he was right, but her emotional self pushed back on the idea. The character she always saw in her nightmares was Richard Sabotny.
Before the conversation ended, Ken Lee mentioned that a friend in Florida had run the plates on the Range Rover and the Lexus. Both vehicles belonged to RS Investments, LTD, a company registered in Belize. “I had my friend do a little a more checking. RS Investments also has a couple of Visa debit cards and a merchant account at Belize Caribbean International Bank. That’s probably how Sabotny is getting around U.S. currency and tax laws. He has total access to his fortune because these transactions are currently almost untraceable.”
“How much is all this research costing me?” asked Mackenzie.
“Nothing. This was a quid pro quo. I’ll let you know if and when the meter is running. By the way, did you put the GPS transmitter in your Subaru?”
“Yes, and if you stay up a few more hours, you can watch me go to a 7 a.m. yoga class in Traverse,” she answered. “I’m taking a vacation day tomorrow. Living like a real person.”
“Good idea. Have fun,” he said. “I’ll watch your travels with my morning tea.”
Mackenzie woke at five, made coffee, and searched her almost barren cupboards and refrigerator for something appealing to eat. Her choices were one large brown egg, a navel orange, assorted energy bars, and some wilted celery. She opted for the egg and orange, tossing the celery in the garbage.
Lingering over her coffee, she used her iPad to check the web for times and locations and quickly came up with a schedule: yoga at 7 a.m., and a massage at nine to be confirmed by e-mail. She thought about having her nails done, maybe some shopping. She would ask the women in her yoga class to recommend places. She’d find a bookstore, too, and take time to browse—sheer luxury.
Several hours later, Mackenzie drove back north with new books on the passenger seat and bags of food and wine from the organic co-op filling the back hatch. The tension building for weeks had finally dissolved. Just doing a few routine things had pulled her away from the cloak and dagger world in which she had immersed herself.
A late season storm had rolled in the day before from the southwest, bringing a mixture of heavy rain, sleet, and snow, but this afternoon the drapes of her great room opened to a brilliant, sunlit landscape. The bay had only a modest chop and yesterday’s snow had all but disappeared while she’d been in Traverse. Even the grass on the hillside above the shoreline was starting to show the first signs of green.
Mackenzie pivoted back and forth in her desk chair as she studied at the names on her computer screen. Ken Lee was right. She had focused on Richard Sabotny as the main perpetrator and let the other boys who were present that day slide into the background.
Restless, she pushed back from the desk and walked to the wall of glass. There was his house across the bay. She looked through her telescope, zooming in on the windows. In the bright daylight, her scope couldn’t probe the interior, but she took some satisfaction in knowing that the mirrored glass on her windows provided a similar barrier to prying eyes.
Mackenzie returned to her computer and looked again at the file that contained the names and rather limited information she had been able to collect on the four boys, now grown men. Each entry included her personal memories of them.
Richard Sabotny, aka Rich. Leader of the group on the day of the assault. Known as the toughest kid in the school, even some of the teachers seemed to be afraid of him. Often involved in fistfights in the parking lot after school hours. Known for bullying people. According to Classmates bio, he was career military. Recently resettled in Cedar County. No hits on Google other than the Classmates piece. See more extensive note on Sabotny in Ken Lee file.
Zed Piontowski, aka Smokey, followed Richard Sabotny around, probably enjoying the status of being a buddy of the toughest kid in the school and also enjoying the protection that friendship probably afforded him.
Zed got on the bus several miles north of Sandville. He lived in an old trailer with a multitude of brothers and sisters from various fathers. His siblings had different last names.
At 15 or 16, he was short and rail thin. Like a small dog, Zed didn’t have a sense of his size. He was ready to throw a punch at the least provocation. What he lacked in stature, he made up for with his loud, obscenity-filled speech. He always smelled foul—lack of bathing, soiled clothes redolent with the smell of wood heat, tobacco, and greasy food. His jeans and tattered shirts were soiled, the holes genuine, not fashion statements. Away from school, he always had a cigarette in his mouth.
Listed in online yearbook at Classmates, but no photo available. No current phone listing in Cedar County or the surrounding area for anyone with the last name of Piontowski. Ditto for Facebook and Twitter. One hit on Google from the Galveston Daily News for a Zed Piontowski: homeless man identified by a former girlfriend, her name not given. No age given. Death caused by drug overdose. Deceased found with needle stuck in his arm.
Zed was with the other boys the day of the attack. He was hanging back, watching. In a strange kind of way he was a friend of Terry’s. Maybe it was a bond of poverty.
Jim Moarse, medium height, lanky, sandy hair, uneven home-cut look, bad teeth, empty gray eyes. He was in the special ed. class with the kids who had emotional problems. Known for uncontrolled rage, getting suspended from school, and problems with the sheriff.
Liked breaking windows. I remember him dancing on the glass that had been popped out of a classroom door, grinding the shattered pieces into finer shards with his heavy black construction boots, the steel heel-plates pounding the bits against the terrazzo surface.
Major player in the assault, roughly grabbing my breasts after Sabotny tore my shirt open. Moarse said something about my having a tight ass. Sabotny said it wouldn’t be tight when he got through with me. Everyone else would have to settle for seconds.
Local address available online. No phone listing. Arrests for domestic violence, DUI, and assault listed in local paper archives.
Chris Brewler, medium height and stocky. Brown hair, chipped teeth in lower jaw, scar across his forehead that separated his right eyebrow. His nose was off center, pushed over to the left at midpoint. The facial injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident. Chris also sported several tattoos—crudely done artwork and lettering. He bragged that his uncle had learned to do tats while in Jackson.
Chris was in Terry’s graduation class, but he was older, held back once or twice. He had been in several of my classes, usually a disruptive element on the infrequent occasions he showed up for school. He was on our bus route. Always talking about sex, hitting on girls in the crudest terms. More than once he said to me, “My uncle says your mother is the best piece of ass in the county. Bet you’re a chip off the old block.”
The day of the assault he was cheering Sabotny on. Made an attempt to pull off my jeans before Terry fought them off, giving me a chance to escape.
No local or regional phone number. No listing in Classmates, Facebook, Twitter. No hits on Google. No listing for anyone in the region with the last name of Brewler.
Mackenzie opened a new file and keyed a title at the top of the document: What Happened at the River:
It was a spring day, one of the first warm days. Terry and I had ridden our bikes down to the river a few miles east of Sandville. We had taken some lines and hooks. Terry collected some crawlers and crickets near the river, and was showing me how to hand cast, how to toss the lead weight and baited hook into the stream without getting entangled with the hook.
She stopped suddenly, pulled her hands from the keyboard. I need to see the place again, she thought. I need to go there, shoot pictures, and record everything that I remember, then come back and write it down.
29
Mackenzie dressed in her bird-watching costume: baggy jeans, hiking boots, a flannel shirt, and Carhartt vest. She strapped a holster to her left ankle, slipped the Rohrbaugh R9 in place, pulled her hair under a stocking cap, and slipped a pair of compact binoculars into her vest pocket—something she would later drape around her neck as part of the costume. She also packed a notepad and a small camera, nothing expensive looking, nothing that would attract attention.
Reviewing the area on Google Earth, Mackenzie considered the probable route from Sandville to the part of the river where she and Terry had confronted Sabotny and the other boys. Her memory was that just north of the village they had biked down two-tracks and the bed of a deserted railroad. Then they got back on a two-track again. She scanned the area on her computer display, trying to determine the possible site.
There was an old bridge built from timbers just wide enough for a car that she remembered too—no side rails, just a deck. Upstream from the bridge was a low dam with a spillway in the middle and a pool behind it.
Twenty years before, she and Terry had been fishing below the dam, letting their bait swirl in the eddies at the side of the stream. But looking at the map, she couldn’t see a widening in the stream or anything that looked like a dam. She found what she thought was the bridge and the road that ran across it. It now appeared to be more than the trail of her memory, still dirt, but wider. The bridge also looked more substantial.
She scaled back the map until Sandville was in the lower right corner and plotted distances and directions in her head. When she got to Sandville, she would use the map function on her iPhone if she needed any assistance finding the location.
She was surprised by how quickly she found the place, even though her estimates of distance and time were way off. The big curve on the river was only about two miles north of the village. She remembered it as being much farther—a long slog or a hot dusty bike ride. Parking in a small lot at the side of the dirt road, she walked out onto the bridge. It was a new structure two lanes wide with steel rails bolted to concrete pillars. Looking upriver, Mackenzie searched in vain for the dam, but nothing remained of the structure or the wide pond. Crossing to the south side of the bridge, she peered down at the stream, much narrower and shallower than she remembered it. The only sound was the wind and the gurgling of the river as it snaked around and disappeared in the low shrubs on the flood plain. There were no humans or their machines. She snapped several pictures.
Returning to her car, Mackenzie noticed a trail running from the parking lot toward the stream. She followed it, concrete at the beginning, turning to sand as it wound through the brush and small trees near the water’s edge. Small patches of grass bordering the track were beginning to shed winter’s hues, green replacing brown. The willow buds, turgid with new growth, were on the edge of opening and the reeds in the wetlands approaching the water were taking on a summer’s green.
A small wooden dock was secured at the trail’s end, a launching point for canoes and kayaks. She stood on the platform and slowly surveyed the scene, looking upstream first, and then following the flow of rushing water to the south. She focused on sound—the gentle gurgle of the water dominating the wind moving through leafless trees. The air was heavy with decay. The leaves and dead plants emerging from winter’s cover were beginning to degrade under the hot sun, making way for a new season’s growth.
She gazed at the pallet of hues of the early spring landscape, earth tones mostly, a range of browns and dull greens. The water, lit at an acute angle by the early spring sun, was stained by the decaying oak leaves to the shade of weak coffee. Scanning the trees and bushes, Mackenzie could find no birds flittering about, no chirping, no cries of alarm or passion. She thought briefly about how silly her bird watching costume would look in this location to anyone who knew about such things. So much for disguises.
She scanned the air and water. Insect life seemed to be limited to a few water striders, their long legs floating on the smooth surface of the slow-moving eddies at the edge of the stream. In her memory the air was always filled with mosquitoes. She knew they would quickly emerge in the sudden surge of warm air. She took several more stills, and then switched to movie mode, sweeping from right to left.
Mackenzie slowly swept the scene a final time, her eyes taking it all in, recording the images, meshing this moment with the old memory, resizing and revising her knowledge of the area. Then she retreated up the path, awash with emotions, lost in the past. She was standing next to her car, still deep in thought, keys in her hand, when she was startled by the roar of an engine. A rusty Jeep came rolling down the sandy road, slowing and turning in to park. Four boys climbed out, dressed in cutoffs and t-shirts, one in flip-flops, the others sockless in battered running shoes. Each boy held a blue and red beer can. They all seemed focused on her, not in a menacing way, just as something out of place in an environment with which they were familiar.
“Hi, guys,” she said. “How about this weather?”
“Amazing,” said the tallest of the group. “Should still be winter.”
“Well, enjoy,” she laughed, sliding into her car, hitting the door lock as she engaged the starter. But she didn’t leave. She sat for a while after the boys had disappeared down the path. Then, on her way back toward Sandville, it hit her. It all came rushing back. The sound of the engine, the smell of cigarettes and beer. She pulled to the side of the road, shaken. A Jeep, rusty, with oversized tires. She and Terry had seen it cross the bridge. And a few minutes later, Sabotny and the others were upon them, surrounding her. Terry had grabbed a piece of wood and used it as a club, allowing her to break free and run.
Yes, the Jeep explained so many things. Terry’s body didn’t get dumped. He was hauled up to where his body was found. A Jeep with big tires could have gone miles on the beach early in the season with little or no notice, especially back then. The question was, did they kill Terry, or just leave him on the beach to die of injuries and exposure?
30
Ray’s brain was somewhere else when his iPhone emitted a text message tone.
Ray—need to kayak. H.
He looked out the window at the brilliant sunlight, noting the trees swaying in the wind. He went to the NOAA website to check conditions. Record high temperature for the date, 81 degrees, winds 15 to 25, gusts to 35. Waves 4 to 7 feet. Water temp. 40 degrees.
Conditions on big lake marginal. Suggest quiet water or a walk on beach. R.
Want to do big lake. Can we meet at ur place in 45? H.
Will do my best. R.
Ray’s rough water kayak, a boat with lots of rocker built into the hull, was already strapped to the roof of Hannah’s car beside her own boat. Dressed in a fleece jumpsuit, she was leaning against her car talking on her cell. Ray thought she looked tense, perhaps even angry. He heard her finish the conversation as he approached.
“How are you?”
“I’ll be better when we are on the water. Get changed,” she demanded, her manner not lightening.
A few minutes later they were rolling toward the big lake. Ray glanced over at the speedometer. “I can’t get you off if you’re pulled over.”
She looked over at him briefly, then back at the road. Ray felt the car decelerate.
“Worried about your boat or your reputation?” she growled.
“The kayak,” he responded. “That was a special order. It would take months to get a replacement.”
She smiled weakly. “You’re one of the few people I know with their priorities straight.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, sensing the softening.
“Paddle first,” she said. “Talk later.”
“Are you sure you want to go out in this?” Ray asked as they stood and looked at the tempest—foam and spray blowing off the crests of the breaking waves.
“Yes,” she yelled back, protecting her eyes with her left hand from the blast of sand being carried along the shore from the southwesterly winds.
At the car they pulled on dry suits and spray skirts. Then they belted on towropes, and clipped and tightened their PFDs. Finally, they strapped on helmets and returned to their boats, securing back-up paddles under the bungee straps on the front decks.
“Do you want me to help you launch?” he asked.
“I can do it myself.”
They stood for another few minutes and observed the wave sets, before dragging their kayaks forward. Then they waited for a lull before quickly dropping in their boats and attaching the spray skirts. Ray was looking at Hannah when a massive wave pushed up on the beach, broaching and flipping her boat. He could see that she had been knocked onto her back deck, the boat now on top of her in the water and sand. He pulled the release strap on his skirt, but before he could get out, her boat was over and she was positioning it again to launch into the surf.
Ray reattached his spray skirt, waited for the next large wave to float his hull, and fought his way into the surf zone, positioning his bow perpendicular to the breakers. At times, he had to separate the surges crashing over his boat with his broad paddle to keep from getting hammered in the chest.
Using almost vertical paddle strokes, he slogged forward, trying to get to the deeper water beyond the breaking waves, the boat rising up and crashing through the marching walls of water. As he neared the top of a large swell, it began to break, standing his boat vertically, then toppling it as the stern slipped violently backward, the end catching on the bottom as the full weight and force of the wave crashed into him.
Upside down in the swirling water, he attempted to roll, only to get hit halfway up by the next breaker. Submerged again in the sudden darkness and quiet, he reached for the release strap on his spray skirt and tumbled out. Catching the bow toggle with his left hand, he allowed the waves to carry him toward shallow water. When his feet touched the bottom, he walked toward shore, keeping the lake at his back and the boat to his front. He emptied the boat—now filled with water and weighing hundreds of pounds—on shore.
Then it was back out into the torrent, joining Hannah beyond the surf zone. Bracing on breaking waves, surfing toward shore, turning and paddling out into the safety zone for a respite, then searching for the next ride. Ray got capsized again, rolling up successfully. He saw Hannah get trashed two or three times, her finessed rolls bringing her back into paddling position within seconds.
Eventually, as they bobbed out beyond the surf, Hannah pointed toward the beach and paddled forward to catch a wave. Ray watched her progress and successful landing, and then followed her. He scrambled out of his kayak before he was broached and dragged it out of the water, falling to the sand next to Hannah.
“It’s starting to drop,” he said, after several minutes.
“I know. We got the best of it. You got tumbled.”
“Too shallow. Face in the sand. Couldn’t roll.”
After a while, Ray stood, grasped Hannah’s outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet.
They returned to Ray’s house in silence, both physically exhausted and Hannah not ready to talk. When Hannah emerged from the bedroom, dressed in fleece pants and top, her hair still wet from the shower, Ray was standing in the kitchen, opening and laying out his stash from Zingerman’s—farmhouse cheeses, bread, olive oil for dipping, and some Italian salami. She slipped into his arms, and he pulled her tight. After a long embrace, he could feel her begin to sob, gently at first, then violently for many minutes before beginning to regain control. Reaching past Ray, she grabbed a piece of paper towel, drying her eyes and blowing her nose, then slipped back into his arms.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything,” said Hannah. “This morning I was seeing patients when I was paged to the ER. Gunshot victim, a young woman six or seven months pregnant. She was flat-lining. Rolled her to surgery, opened her chest.” She pulled back from Ray and held out her hands. “Look at these: small, delicate, and very skilled. How many miracles they’ve given me.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “No miracle today. Too much damage to repair. I went to find the husband. He was in the ER too, a young deputy in the room guarding him, a nurse monitoring his vitals. The guy was comatose, drugs and alcohol. The deputy gave me the scenario. They were staying with the shooter’s mother. The husband had just been released from a downstate hospital, PTSD, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. Suicidal. He had OD’d on his meds, drunk a bottle of bourbon, and was trying to kill himself with a pistol his mother kept around for self-defense. He and his wife struggled for the weapon. She caught the bullet.
“I left the ER, walked outside. People were on lunch or breaks, celebrating the sunshine and the warm weather. Then a helicopter landed. It all came rushing back. The slap of the blades, the screaming jet engine, the blood, the carnage. I fell to my knees, people rushing to help me. Walking me back inside.
“All I wanted to do was get a bottle of Scotch and obliterate everything. That’s what I did in Baghdad; that’s what I did here.” She paused briefly. “I called my therapist in Boston. Probably talked to her for an hour. She walked me back. But Ray, I’m like that guy in the ER. I’m damaged goods. I’ll always be an outsider. I don’t think I can find a normal life. I listen to my colleagues talk about new houses, or daycare, or vacations. Just the usual, nothing wrong with it, but it’s not my world. I wanted to yell and scream about a world I couldn’t change. Then I texted you.”
“And now?”
“Better, at least for the moment. I’m like an epileptic after a seizure. Exhausted. Can I have a glass of wine?”
“You’re asking for alcohol.”
“A glass of wine, maybe two. Nothing more. Just some wine, food, music. Being here with you. Being quiet, maybe a walk later. Can I spend the night? I don’t mean to make you my minder, but this is what I need. I trust you. I think you are a survivor, too.”
“Let’s have some food,” said Ray. “Then a walk before it gets too dark.”
