Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

45

Mackenzie sat at her desk, staring at the screen. With her index and middle finger moving slowly across the surface of the Trackpad, she scrolled up the page. Then she dropped her hands in her lap, folded them left over right, and gently swiveled in her chair from side to side, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

She thought about the mystery she had been reading the evening before, how the gutsy P.I. took on the bad guys with her fists, her gun, and her guile. Mackenzie liked that image, but she had to admit that she wasn’t that character. I’ve never been in a real fight, she thought. Yes, she had taken martial arts classes and proven herself in countless competitions, but everything had taken place in a controlled environment. They weren’t real world battles. She reached up to feel the budge of the gun holstered under her left breast. Again, she had proven to be an apt student and an expert shot, but how would she react in a firefight. Could I really pull the trigger?

Her mind wondered back to the tough Chicago P.I. If she emulated that character, what would she do? Directly confront Sabotny with gun in hand? No, that’s fiction, she thought. If there was only some way she could force a confession from him. But what was the likelihood that he would tell the truth?

Mackenzie opened the first page on the original planning document. At the top in bold letters was the overarching goal:

Conviction and imprisonment of everyone involved with Terry’s death.

She copied the goal statement and pasted it into a graphic outlining program. Then, she laid out her options with direct confrontation on the far left and going to the police at the far right. Mackenzie tried to make other possibilities fit between the two polar positions, but nothing seemed to work. She was just spinning her wheels. At this point those other possibilities were just modest variations on the extremes.

Ken Lee’s nagging thought that it was time to go put this investigation in other peoples’ hands continued to push into her consciousness. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to bring in the cavalry. That’s what she would have done in the corporate world. As a manager faced with overwhelming problems, she’d contract with the best people in the business to generate and implement solutions.

Mackenzie keyed Vision of the Future at the top of a new document. As she wrote, she could see how elements could be put into place to keep a close watch on Sabotny and further explore his background. Maybe they could find incriminating evidence to tie him to other crimes. Even if she couldn’t get him for Terry’s death, she hoped that she could bring havoc to Sabotny’s life, strip him of his fortune, and send him to prison.

Rereading her words, the dreariness that had enshrouded her for weeks started to lift. She could get away from the cold, damp Michigan spring and go back to California. From a safe distance, both physically and psychologically, she could monitor the progress of a group working on this project.

Mackenzie picked up her phone. She texted Ken Lee a four-word message. Put a team together.

Four minutes later he was on screen, “Why the sudden change?” he asked.

“Okay, so it took me awhile to figure out I wasn’t Wonder Woman. I apologize again for being less than nice to you. I just thought I could do this, find these people, and I don’t know….”

“You had to do what you had to do. And all the information we’ve gathered thus far will be a good starting point for the team. I’ve already started putting together a list of people, specialists, to pull together for this.”

“Am I going to end up broke?”

“I don’t think so. No. We should be able to move fairly quickly. If nothing else we can tip the IRS to the stolen cash. There’s enough there to put him in the slammer for decades. And his sweetie, Elena Rustova, may be implicated too. Once we feed them the info, I’m sure the I.N.S. will be happy to ship her back to Moldova.”

“But Sabotny, I don’t want that SOB to go to one of those federal country clubs for tax dodgers. I want him rotting in a dingy state prison for life.”

“I hear you. Maybe we can find a way for him to go down for Moarse. Your brother, that’s almost an impossible case. But I’ll do my best to get him one way or another.”

Mackenzie was playing with airline schedules as she listened. “I’m coming back to California.”

“When?”

“How about tomorrow. There’s nothing direct. I’ll have to go through either Chicago or Minneapolis. I could be there by late afternoon.”

“Dinner someplace on the ocean?” asked Ken Lee.

“Sounds like a date. Then I’ve got some other plans for you.”

“I’ve missed you, baby,” he said.

“Ditto, baby.

“I’ll get things in place. Leave your car in long-term parking. I think I can have people on the ground in a few days. Okay if they use your house?”

“Absolutely. And when this is all over, I want to bring you back here. It’s beautiful, especially in the summer, and I want to share it with you.”

“You’re on. Now get back here. I’ll need your brain and your skills in getting this thing organized.”

Mackenzie was feeling ebullient as she drove down M22. The lake glistened under the brilliant sunlight. The overture to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” was playing on the radio. She cranked up the volume.

Once at the yoga studio, she slid into the first of two unisex restrooms, carefully locked the door, and removed her weaponry and extra clothing. Clad in black Lycra, feet bare, and her tactical boots stowed with her other gear in her Patagonia backpack, Mackenzie rolled out her mat in a far corner of the studio and tried to quiet her thoughts.

An hour and a half later she was back outside in the warm spring air and sunshine, her spirits soaring. Stopping for dinner at a small French restaurant, she savored every bit of the exquisitely prepared meal and two glasses of Quintessa. The only thing missing was companionship, and tomorrow night she would have that.

Mackenzie noticed the white van with two orange cones behind it on the road just beyond her drive. She focused on them briefly, then reached up and pushed the garage door opener. She was looking down, collecting her things, when the side window of her car came crashing in. There was a violent jolt just before the world slipped away.

46

Mackenzie came to on the cold metal floor of the cargo van, her unsupported neck bent at an unnatural angle. Every bounce and sway of the vehicle intensified her agony. Struggling to inhale, Mackenzie discovered that she couldn’t open her mouth and that her nasal passages were partially obstructed. A wave of panic ran though her, the sudden jolt of adrenalin helping her break through the effects of the physical assault, pain, and nausea.

As she tried to pull herself into a more comfortable position, she realized her hands were bound behind her. As she strained she felt zip ties cut into her skin. She realized that her ankles were bound also.

Pushing her tongue against the surface of the tape that covered her lips, she focused on not vomiting, breathing slowly, trying to relax her muscles and control her panic.

Mackenzie tried to remember the events leading up to this nightmare. There was the shower of glass, the burning sting and high-voltage jolt, the biting chemical scent. Ether, she thought. She could still smell it. The nausea came back. She focused on her breathing again, trying to keep from retching, frightened she might drown on her own vomit.

Breathing deeply, she concentrated on opening her eyes. The right one cooperated, giving her an oscillating view of the floor of the van and storage bins attached to the wall. Her left eye was a source of pain. Groggily, she tried to comprehend what that meant. Was it damaged, swelled shut, missing? She pulled her eyes tight and slipped toward unconsciousness. Pushing against oblivion, she roused herself.

Inventory, do an inventory, she thought. Starting at her toes, she concentrated on sensations, what she could move, how was she bound. Feet still in boots, protected. Zip ties, painfully tight above the boots. She moved, her eyes closed, trying to visualize the condition of her legs, knees and thighs. Intact, she thought.

She felt a nagging pain in the hip she was resting on, but her chest and back seemed unharmed. One finger at a time, she probed the condition of each hand, then pulled again at the ligatures that held her wrists. Nothing broken, both securely bound. Her tongue ran along her teeth, left to right, top to bottom. Intact.

The truck bounced hard several times, came to a stop, and started again. Mackenzie struggled against the nausea once more, pushing it back to the edge of her consciousness. She focused on her breathing, slowing everything down, filling her lungs as deeply as possible.

She opened her eyes again. Once more, vision from the right eye only. Lifting her head, she could see some of the front windshield and a partial silhouette of the driver. How did this happen? She closed her eyes.

When she was awake again, there was no motion. She shivered against the cold metal interior. Then there was the sound of voices and the opening of doors. She was pulled by her feet into the night air, her body falling hard to the ground.

“Careful,” came a voice. “We might still have some fun with her.”

Mackenzie was aware of a bright light, the interior of her closed eyes glowing red.

“God, she’s a mess. I don’t want her blood all over my carpet.”

“Can’t take my van. We’d be stuck before we got 10 feet.”

“Got a tarp in that truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Get it, and do a good job spreading it around. I don’t want a trace of her left when we’re done.”

Mackenzie felt her body being moved again. She continued to feign unconsciousness. This time she was being carried. Then she felt the plastic of the tarp against her face, heard the sound of the hatch slamming and the doors closing, and then the rumble of a big engine coming to life. She was going with sensations, avoiding thinking about her situation. She could smell a leather interior and imagined the soft glow of the instrument panel.

“Did you check her for weapons?”

It was Sabotny’s voice.

“Just like you told me. You coulda been there to help.”

“No need to increase our exposure. No one remembers a white work van. Was she packing?”

“Yeah, a sweet little Glock right under her left tit. Big tits, just like her old lady.”

“Fucking pervert, copping a feel off an unconscious….”

“Like it matters.”

“No other weapons? You patted her down good?”

“Just the Glock. She had some kind of electronic device around her neck, though.”

“What did you do with that?”

“I smashed it.”

The men went silent.

Mackenzie listened to the mechanical sounds of the vehicle as it bumped along the uneven surface. Then things went silent. Doors opened. She was lifted out, carried a short distance, and dropped on sand—cold and damp against her Lycra shirt and tights.

“What’s the deal with the fire?” came the other voice. Mackenzie shivered, partially opening her good eye to the twilight surroundings. She could feel the breeze coming off Lake Michigan.

“I like fires. You know that. I always make a fire on the beach at night. We made a fire that night with Terry. Remember?”

Mackenzie could see the glow of the fire increase. The two men were drinking, passing a bottle back and forth. One of them, the heavier one, moved behind the fire. A scar ran between his eyebrows. Brewler.

“Why did you make the hole so fucking big? You could bury an elephant in here,” he asked Sabotny.

“I was trying to get the hang of how to use the backhoe on that old Kubota. Once I figured it out, it was too much fun. I was like a kid playing in sand. If we’d buried Terry like this, we wouldn’t be messing with this shit now. Just another runaway; that’s what they would have said.”

“If Terry had let us have his sister, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all. We’d a had our fun, maybe even started something regular.”

“Drag her over here, and put her back on the tarp. I don’t want her ass in sand. What a mess, she’s got blood all over. I told you to be careful.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t willing to put your ass out there. I had to do the whole thing myself. No time to be dainty.”

Suddenly Sabotny was standing above her, looking directly into her half open eye. “Good morning, darling,” he sneered. “You’re probably wondering how we figured this out.” He bent over and snapped his fingers an inch from her good eye. “Easy, once we found that GPS. Had to be someone local. And new people don’t go unnoticed, darling. And as luck would have it, Chris, here, serviced the back-up generator at your house, something you asked your realtor to take care of. That’s when we heard about the rich woman from California. And then there was the Subaru, seemed to be around too often. Besides, I always knew you’d be out there sometime looking for revenge. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Why don’t you pull the tape off? Let her talk,” said Brewler.

“Don’t mess with a good thing. I don’t care what she has to say.”

Brewler knelt at her side. She saw the flash of steel, the fire reflecting off a knife. He ran his hand under her shirt, then pulled the stretchy material against the jagged serrations of the blade. Then he slit through the bra, severing the band between the cups. He looked up at Sabotny, “I told you she had big tits, nice and hard with big nipples.”

“Too bad you fucked up her face.”

“Get a flag or roll her over. It’s all good. Should we tell her about Terry before we fuck her?”

“I think we should have a drink, then flip for who gets sloppy seconds,” said Sabotny. He tossed an empty bottle on the fire. Mackenzie watched as he walked to the Range Rover, returning with a fresh whiskey bottle. He stood near the fire, using a knife to cut through the foil, pulling the cork, then passing the bottle to Brewler.

“Too bad Jim ain’t here for the party,” said Brewler after taking a long hit.

“Yeah, too bad the stupid drunk cooked himself. He was just fucking drinking himself to death.”

“This shit is good,” Brewler said, passing the bottle back.

“Should be. Seventy bucks a bottle,” Sabotny said. “Drag her over near the hole. Make it easier to toss her in when we’re done.”

Mackenzie felt the tarp under her sliding over rocks and clumps of dune grass. She clawed against the ties, trying to free her hands.

“I think I should have first crack,” said Sabotny.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m holding a gun. And I want her from the front. I’m not like you. Cut loose her ankles and wrists, then hold her down. And give me the knife so I can cut off her pants.”

Mackenzie was pushed onto her stomach, and she felt Brewler’s knee in her back. A knife ripped through the nylon ties, releasing her wrists and ankles. Then he rolled her on her back, violently pinning her shoulders to the ground with his knees, his hands pressing down hard, painfully holding her wrists near her shoulders.

She tensed her body, getting reading to make a move, focusing all her energy on breaking free.

Then, she saw the flash, followed by the roar of a pistol. Brewler’s grip weakened, he fell backwards. Sabotny kicked, then pushed him toward the deep trench until his lifeless body tumbled to the bottom.

Then Sabotny came back for her, moving slowly, staggering. Mackenzie reached for the Rohrbaugh, fumbling with a numb hand, surprised to find the pistol still in its holster on the inside of her boot. She swung it toward him.

“What the….” he threw himself at her.

She squeezed the trigger. He kept coming. She continued pulling on the trigger until the explosions stopped and the only sound was a mechanical click.

Crumpling to his knees, Sabotny fired back, one shot, and fell face first into the sand.

Mackenzie felt a burning sensation in her chest. She clawed at the duct tape covering her mouth, pulling some of it free, filling her lungs with the cold air coming off the lake, and falling, falling.

47

It was after 6 p.m. when Ray slowly rolled to a stop at the top of his drive. Hannah Jeffers, leaning against the side of her car, was waiting. Ray could see that once again his kayak was strapped to the top of her Subaru.

“Get in the car. Let’s not waste any sunlight.”

“I’ve got to get my gear,” he protested.

“Everything is packed. Your dry suit, fleece, and gear bag are in the back.

“Where will I change?”

“In the car or next to it. It’s not likely that anyone will be around. It’s not like I haven’t seen you au naturel. Besides, I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”

“What about dinner?” asked Ray, continuing to protest.

“Quiche. I ate mine while I was waiting for you. There’s a bottle of mineral water, too. You can eat while I drive. Get in. We’re wasting time.”

Ray pulled off his sport coat, threw it on the back seat, and slid into the passenger seat. “I’ve still got a gun and a badge.”

“Stash them under the seat.”

“That’s not secure enough,” he said.

“Okay, we’ll stuff them in a dry bag and put it in a hatch.” Hannah was already rolling down the drive. “Put your belt on. I don’t want to get pulled over.”

“So what’s going on?” asked Ray, noting Hannah’s agitation.

“Lot’s of stuff. I need to get on the water and drain some of this energy. Eat your quiche before it’s completely cold.”

Ray attacked the food, trying to remember if he had eaten lunch.

“There’s some dark chocolate in the bag, too. Ninety-three percent, just what you like. I only ate half the bar, total self control on my part. Plus I like you.”

Between bites, Ray counseled, “Slow down. The lake’s going to be there.” After a long pause, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“When I’m on the water, I’m okay. I need big, empty places.”

“Me, too,” said Ray.

“I’ve learned a lot by watching you.”

Ray looked across at her. She briefly turned in his direction.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“You know how to control the static. You own a TV, but it’s never on. Classical music is usually playing, the local NPR station. You read more than almost anyone I’ve ever met, and faithfully reflect on your day every evening in a journal. You always have your mind chewing on something. In between, you’re focused on food, making sure the next meal is worth eating. And at the edge is always the lake, the water, paddling or walking the shore. You seem to be able to keep the bad stuff in perspective.” She paused briefly. “I’m not sure how women fit into that scheme, but thank you for letting me into your life, at least a little bit.”

Ray pondered Hannah’s statements. He had never thought about his life in those terms before. She had seemed to nail it. He was still savoring the last bit of chocolate when she pulled into a circular parking area at a road end.

“I’ll undo the boats while you change,” she said, climbing from the car.

After carrying the boats to the water’s edge, they sat quietly for a while, watching the surf, each lost in their own thoughts.

Hannah slid behind Ray, putting her arms around his neck. She pulled him tight and playfully nibbled at an ear, then stood up. “How much light do we have?”

Ray looked at his watch, then at the horizon. “Two hours, with the gloaming, then some moonlight. The lake should be flat by then, and we can paddle in the dark. North or south?”

“South. Get your GPS going. Do five or six miles, then turn back.”

They launched through the surf, Hannah first. Ray pushed her into the waves, then followed. They settled into an easy rhythm, more relaxed than usual. The sun moved toward the western horizon and slowly sank into the gently curving lake.

The light was almost gone when Ray and Hannah neared the take-out point. Ray’s phone, in a protective case under his front deck lines, started to ring.”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” said Hannah. “Don’t give in to the static.”

“It’s Sue, it’s important” he replied. “Raft up with my boat.”

Ray answered and listened as they floated on the still water. He pulled his GPS from the deck and illuminated the screen.

“We’re about two miles south. I see the fire. It’ll take us about 20 minutes. Get all the resources in place. When I’m in position, I’ll text you. Come down the beach fast, lights and sirens, on. That should create enough of a diversion for me to make a move.”

“What’s going on?”

“Something bizarre. There was an apparent kidnapping, a possible hostage situation. We’re going toward that bonfire. Get my gun.” He leaned over Hannah’s boat, holding onto her deck lines, steadying the two kayaks, so she could pull open his back hatch cover. She passed him the dry bag and re-covered the hatch. Ray pulled the pistol from the bag and stuffed it in the top of his PFD. “We need to paddle fast. We’ll land where a stream dumps into the lake. We’ve been there before. Sue’s going to create a diversion, and I’ll see if I can get to the hostage. Stay with the kayaks until I yell.”

Ray and Hannah paddled furiously along the shoreline, 30 or 40 yards from the edge of the beach. As they neared the area of the bonfire, shots rang out. Ray paused, grabbed the phone, and hit Sue’s number. “Now Sue. Shots fired. Now.”

He paddled toward shore, releasing the spray skirt, grabbing his pistol as he tumbled from the boat and scrambled up the embankment, cautious at first, then fully standing up to survey the carnage. “Hannah,” he shouted. He held a flashlight for her as she quickly did a triage on the three gunshot victims.

“The guy in the trench is dead. That one,” she motioned, “may be salvageable. This one,” she said, soon after she began checking the woman on the ground, “has a sucking chest wound, and was severely beaten. I need your hand here.” Hannah pointed to the torn flesh with a flashlight. “Enough pressure to keep air from escaping. I’ll be back.”

Ray stayed in position, his hand covering the warm, slick flesh until Hannah and an EMT returned, took over and dressed the gaping wound. They loaded the woman onto a basket stretcher and trotted toward one of a collection of four-wheel drive vehicles waiting on the beach. The other shooting victim, clinging to life, was also quickly carried from the scene. Ray stood on a bluff above the dwindling bonfire, watching the receding lights.

Sue came to his side.

“What just happened?” asked Ray.

“It’s going to take some time to sort all this out. I don’t even know where to start. Probably there,” she said, shining the beam of her flashlight on the body in the trench. She half circled the body from above. Two eyes, unaffected by the glare, stared up at her.

It was almost light again when Ray caught up with Hannah Jeffers in green scrubs and a dark blue surgical skullcap.

“You were amazing,” he said, putting his arms around her. He felt her puddle against his body. They clung to each other for several moments, and then she pulled away.

“How’s my boat?” she asked.

“On your car. In my garage. How are…?”

“The woman, gunshot wound to the chest, broken rib from the bullet, tissue damage to the breast. But lucky as hell. The bullet was on a non-lethal trajectory. I can’t say about her eye yet. We’ll know a lot more when we wake her up. What do you know about her?”

“Very little at this point. How about the man?”

“Four wounds, two in the left shoulder, one to the gut, one to the groin.”

“Will he live?”

“Probably. The gut shot is the most problematic. He’s been in surgery for hours.” She hugged him again. “We’re both in desperate need of a shower.”