Great Kills

by Kevin Fox

  I could always count on Kat.

  “Let’s go,” Markov told Pinky, unaffected by his friends’ deaths.

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” asked Pinky.

  “Like what? Call the police maybe? According to Detective Collins, the BMW has already called them.” Markov pushed me away from the car, its broken radiator hissing out steam that only thickened the fog. “No, we get what we came for,” he continued. “How far is it, Detective?”

  “A two-minute walk,” I managed to respond, still staring at the back of the driver’s head.

  Kat was breathing. I could see the slight rise and fall of her shoulders.

  “Start walking.” Markov pushed me again, and I almost turned on him. I wanted to stay and help Kat, but if I tried, I knew he’d kill her just to get me moving. The Beamer was equipped with Intelligent Emergency Call, so I knew help would be coming.

  I started walking, thinking about how to get out of this. Kat had given me better odds, taking out two of the Russians, but now I was on my own, one man against two with guns. I tried to think of what I had going for me. Staten Island was my home turf, I knew where I was going… and I had all my pinkies.

  So, not much. They still had the guns, and Burke was nowhere in sight. I know Kat had to have called him by now.

  So where the fuck was he?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Alone with Markov and No-Pinky, I was walking between the sporadic streetlights of Arthur Kill Road and the deeper darkness of Clay Pit Ponds. We were wet and cold, moving through fog that was coalescing into a misty rain. No-Pinky was tense and angry at the loss of his fellow Russian and the pain from both his knee and missing finger. Markov had little sympathy, struggling to walk in his expensive Italian shoes as they sloshed, full of water and grit from the swampy marshlands that gave the nature preserve its name. Personally, I was enjoying their discomfort, especially since it distracted them and might give me an opportunity as we got closer to our destination.

  Through the trees I could see long-abandoned natural gas tanks gleaming white in the fog. I used them as a fixed point to navigate by, veering deeper into the nature preserve. I kept the line of the rusted chain-link fence separating us from the Pioneer Bus Company lot to my right for another hundred feet, then veered for the ponds at the center of the wooded area.

  For once in my life, I knew exactly where I was going, and even though the trees had grown and all the underbrush looked different, the boat graveyard, the LNG tanks, and even the bus parking lot were fixed points that had existed here for as long as I could remember. I could find the exact place that I was looking for—a place out of my dreams, which, like the fog, had been growing more solid and heavy as the night wore on.

  “How far?” grumbled Markov.

  “Another fifty yards. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll shoot you and leave you here.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I answered. Actually, I expected him to shoot me no matter what happened. That’s why I had been mulling my options. It was becoming obvious that I couldn’t rely on Burke.

  I was on my own, but I wasn’t worried. If I could find a momentary distraction and run, I would either be dead or free within the first ten seconds. After that, the trees and underbrush would screen me from gunfire. I knew these woods better than either of them, and if I got a ten-second lead, I could get away. I’d make my move as soon as I gave Markov the box with the cash. His hands would be full. It was going to be then or never.

  The moment was getting closer… Less than forty feet ahead I saw the edge of the water and the gnarled old oak tree that leaned over it. The tree was thicker around, but its bent form hadn’t changed much over the years. I remembered the last time I’d seen it…

  …The oak tree hung out over the water, its thick foliage impenetrable. I was freezing, shivering in the cold and the darkness, and a fine, misty fog gathered around me as I ran toward the old tree. I was almost there when I stumbled, falling into the water. I took a breath, trying to get to my feet when I heard someone, as large as an adult, running through the trees, cursing under his breath. I wasn’t going to have time to climb the tree. He was too close.

  I knew what I had to do, and I thrust my arms into the darkness of the water, digging my fingers into the bottom, pulling up thick gray clay. After a moment I’d dug a hole deep enough for the metal box. Checking to make sure that it was sealed with oilskin and wrapped tightly in plastic, I shoved the box down into the hole, carefully packing the clay around it again.

  I stopped five feet from the water’s edge, trying to gauge the distance between the base of the oak, the water’s edge, and other fixed points to remember where I’d put the box in my dream/memory and hoped that no one had discovered it in all the years since.

  “Give me a second. It’s right here,” I told him, buying myself some time to calculate my escape. “I just need to –”

  The deafening sound of a gunshot went off behind my head, and I flinched as the water rippled, the shot hitting its surface.

  “Detective, I am tired. I am cold and impatient. Get it. Now.”

  “Shooting at me isn’t helpful. I’m trying to concentrate. Not to mention that if anyone came to help the lady in the BMW, shooting will bring them here.”

  “I don’t care. You’ll be dead before they arrive. Move. Now.”

  I inhaled deeply, bracing myself to enter the water that I hated so much. The icy cold made my feet and legs go numb almost immediately. It was deeper here than I remembered, but Hurricane Sandy was probably to blame for that. When I was in up to my knees, about ten feet from a long root of the oak and fifteen from a large boulder on the shore, I knew that I was in the right place. I knelt down, getting wet to my waist. I felt my skin contract to retain body heat and as my knees hit bottom, they didn’t sink into the muck as I had expected, but hit a hard edge of rock, giving me instant bruises.

  I had forgotten about that stinging sensation, but now recalled that the same thing had happened when I was here last. So many years later, my heavier weight and older knees made the landing even more uncomfortable. I started to dig into the silt and vegetation above the heavy clay that lined the pond. The gelatinous ooze was cleared away easily, but when my fingertips finally reached the clay, clawing into it, the tendons in my hands tightened up from the cold and stretched with the effort.

  “The cash is in the water?” asked Markov warily.

  “In a waterproof box. It will be fine.”

  At least I hoped it would be. Markov might be slightly bent out of shape if I handed him a pile of pulp. I looked up at him, staring down the barrel of his gun, too cold and pissed off to filter my thoughts.

  “You know, if there’s as much money here as I think there is, won’t somebody just knock you off you to take it?”

  “Like who? Who would dare?” he said, confidently, giving me the perfect opening.

  “Your bodyguards, maybe? Maybe even this nine-fingered numbnuts?” I asked, nodding at No-Pinky. Somewhere in the simian part of my brain I saw a way to use their power dynamics for my own purpose. Insecurity and paranoia can be great tools if you know how to use them.

  “Three ounces of lead beat a bank full of gold every time. Power and money don’t last,” I said, glancing at No-Pinky again.

  “Jakob, move where I can see you,” Markov ordered, waving his gun to a point in the water closer to me and in front of him. It was working. I could see No-Pinky’s distrust build as he stepped closer, into the water and on the wrong side of Markov’s gun. If I moved fast enough, Jakob was now close enough that I might be able grab his leg under water and take him down. I grinned up at him.

  “Careful, Jakob. Josef Markov doesn’t like to share. You might end up dead in the water with me as soon as I find this box.”

  “I said shut up,” Markov hissed, pointing his weapon at me again.

  I did. Their paranoia would only grow with time. I’d planted the seed. When I looked ba
ck down, the water was calm and flat, reflecting everything. I could see Markov and Jakob behind me, both glancing at one another, neither one committing to pointing their weapons exclusively at me. I took a perverse pleasure in this as I dug deeper, hoping I would get a few seconds to make my break.

  Soon my fingers scraped something a few inches below the surface of the clay, and I felt around its edges. It was that same hard, flat surface I remembered, a two-foot square box wrapped in a waterproof oilskin. I pulled it up as the clay and water created suction around it, making it feel heavier than it was.

  “Is that it? Do you have it?”

  “I have to open the box to know for sure. Let me get it to dry land.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to gauge the timing of what I was about to do. If I threw the box to Markov and took down Jakob as I did, I might get my hands on his gun, or I might be able to make it to the safety of the woods. I tensed, ready to make my move—

  I heard leaves rustle, in a way that was too steady to be the wind. I didn’t have a chance to turn before I heard the bellow of a shotgun, deafening me—two shots in quick succession and then twin splashes, almost simultaneous. I froze.

  If I wasn’t dead yet, I still had a chance.

  I dropped the box and raised my hands. Tendrils of blood, black in the moonlight, snaked out into the water and flowed toward the center of the pond from the two Russians’ bodies.

  “I’ve got the money right here,” I told him, nodding to it. “I don’t need to turn or see your face. You can take it and go.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Collins,” he said, and I saw him move closer in the reflection on surface of the pond, where his features were obscured by the ripples in the water. It was a familiar voice, and a familiar reflection…

  …A reflection of a shadowy face—the dark-haired man with the mustache and the shotgun. I couldn’t move, could barely breathe… But then the moon cleared the clouds and I got a look at him, recognizing him as a cop my father worked with, back when he had longer hair and a mustache. I recognized Detective Burke…

  …Who was now Lieutenant Burke, bald and older, and he was standing over me again. I tried to keep my expression neutral as I ignored the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Damn, Burke, you could have arrested them. You had them dead to rights,” I said, hoping I could bluff him into believing that I remembered nothing. Burke’s eyes narrowed and he kept the shotgun pointed at me, but his finger relaxed slightly on the trigger.

  “No, they had to die. If Markov lived, his father would just buy his way out and he’d be back to kill both of us before we could testify against him. Trust me, it’s better this way.” Burke stepped closer, motioning with one hand.

  “Hand me that box and get out of the water. It’s gotta be freezing.”

  I nodded, grabbing the box and trudging toward dry land. When I set the box on the ground, Burke just nodded to me, unwilling to put his gun down.

  “Damn. It was right here the whole time… Unwrap it. Let’s see what all this has been about.”

  I did, unwrapping the box to reveal its rusted metal lock.

  “Where’s the key?” Burke asked, his trigger finger twitching.

  I shrugged. “No idea—but I think No-Pinky there had a knife. I could get it open if I had something to pry it with.”

  “Check their pockets.”

  “Sure. But why don’t you get Markov? I’ll get the other guy.”

  “Nice try, asshole, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can’t bullshit me, Collins. If you remembered where this box is, you remember everything—don’t you?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Rigan told me it was here.” I feigned stupidity, searching Markov’s pockets for something to pry the box open with. At the same time I was feeling underwater for the pistol Markov must have dropped somewhere close by.

  “‘Rigan’, huh? You got to know each other again?” Burke asked, eyeing the box lustfully but keeping the gun on me. “I’m not stupid, you know. Back in eighty-five I thought this was going to be my way off this thankless fucking job. I’ve spent all this time looking for it for the same guy who’s been paying me to keep an eye on you. You think I’m going to let it slip through my hands now?”

  “So you work for Markov senior?” I asked to keep him talking and buy myself some time as I held up the small knife I’d found on Markov.

  “Toss it here on the shore. Carefully, or you’ll be lying right next to him,” he said as his knuckle went white on the trigger.

  I tossed it at his feet, throwing it close enough to distract him, but it didn’t stop him. He pulled the trigger—

  And it all happened at once. I heard Rigan, somewhere close by yell, “Joe, no –”

  —In the same instant I was hit by the impact—hurtled backward into the water. Burke smiled for a microsecond before his forehead erupted, spraying bone, brains, and blood from above the bridge of his nose.

  …Then I was submerged in the water, looking up at milky moonlight through the murk of mixing mud and blood. Two silhouettes moved in the world above the water as I stared, wondering why I couldn’t breathe, trying to will my muscles to move upward but unable to do anything but stare. One was Rigan, holding Pete’s PP-2000 submachine gun…

  …The other was the familiar man without a left eye. Their voices were muffled and carried urgency as Rigan reached toward me and pulled me up to the surface where I sucked in air, making the sharp pain in my chest so much worse. Rigan was looking at the man in the shadows behind her, yelling:

  “He needs an ambulance.”

  “I can’t be seen here. My cover can’t be compromised,” said her friend, hesitating.

  “I’ll deal with him. You just call 9-1-1 and go,” she ordered as he started to fade into the forest shadows.

  Then she turned back toward me, checking my wounds and keeping my head above water. Luckily, Rigan’s yell had distracted Burke and I had a chance to dodge slightly to the right as he fired so the shotgun blast had hit me mostly on one side—in the shoulder and ribs. It hurt like fucking hell, but the bone had stopped any deep damage.

  “Who… was that…?”

  “No one. An old friend. Forget him. You’re better off,” she said, glancing after the man. I doubted that I could forget him again, but with my talents, I wasn’t really sure.

  “How’s Kat?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the pain, noticing Rigan’s eyes narrow as if the question annoyed her.

  “She was alive when I left, cursing because the ambulance was taking so long,” she answered, looking down at the box full of cash.

  “You didn’t help her?”

  “She needed professional help, and you needed me more,” Rigan said, glancing pointedly at the three dead men around me.

  “I thought I told you to leave,” I said.

  “I didn’t listen.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You’re welcome,” Rigan said with appropriate snark, pulling me with her so that my head and shoulders rested on dry land.

  “Thank you,” I grumbled reluctantly, slightly worried about how I was going to explain all the dead people to the department. Rigan turned away, pulling the box of cash closer, prying it open.

  “We need to call this in. Turn that over to the police.”

  “No. This belongs to us, and to those girls—and everyone who was sold out by those bastards,” she said with an ice-cold look in her eye.

  “It doesn’t. The courts can decide who owns it,” I said, reasonably, in too much pain to reach for the box as Rigan lifted it out of the water. Her eyes were shining, although it was hard to tell whether I was seeing tears or rain.

  “I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago … I’m sorry, Killian. I really am. I never should have left you behind in the woods... But they shot you in the head. I saw the wound. I thought you were going to die. I don’t want to do it again, but I can put this money to good use.�
�

  “Rigan, you’ve been through a lot. I’m sure all of this has triggered whatever PTSD you might have.” I spoke quickly, since she was walking toward the shore, carrying the box of cash away.

  “Is that what you think this is? That I’m the crazy one?”

  “Not crazy. Maybe just …it’s Markov’s money. He’ll come after you. He’s waited almost thirty years and now his son is dead, his money gone again.”

  “Let him come,” Rigan said, moving closer, her breasts now brushing my chest as she leaned in slowly and touched her lips to mine. They were warm and soft, and in the cold damp air I could feel the heat of her body on my skin before she touched me. I let her kiss me and couldn’t help but respond, aware the whole time that I’d sworn off crazy women and that getting involved with one who had just been involved in shooting and killing a New York City Police lieutenant—no matter how good a reason she had—was the height of stupidity. Still, the kiss was worth it…

  “Good-bye, Killian. I really am sorry.”

  I was starting to fade as Rigan stood and cocked her head, listening. I heard what she did—the far-off sound of sirens. Help was on the way to Kat, and if I was lucky, they’d find me as well. The sirens were getting louder as she kissed my lips again.

  “I’ll make sure they find you faster this time. I have to go. Things are moving quickly now—but know that I wish this could have ended differently,” Rigan told me, then kissed me again and turned away. I watched her fade into the darkness, not running this time, not a young girl, barefoot and in shorts, but a grown woman. Even so, I would have recognized her stride anywhere…

  … I was somewhere else, standing in the warm sun, barefoot in long green grass. Rigan was running toward me, her auburn hair streaming out behind her as she hit me full force, tackling me to the ground. We were young, no more than seven, and she was wearing a flowing white dress. Her skirt rose up her left thigh as she ran, and I didn’t see a scar... As the sun filtered through her hair, she grabbed my hand, pulling me toward a rocky shore. I closed my eyes, trusting her to lead me, feeling the sun on my face, the breeze teasing my skin, and the grass below me, slightly dry and itchy… I was more relaxed and happier than I ever remembered being…