by David Wood
He decided to wait. He’d tell her over dinner. Somewhere swanky.
Then again, now that he was unemployed, he’d have to think a little more frugally, at least until he figured out what he was going to do.
What am I going to do?
He wished he could ask his father for advice, regretted that he could not, but then realized that he already knew what Hunter Maddock would have said.
Let’s work together. Find Kidd’s treasure.
The thought brought a smile.
Why not?
He dug out his mobile phone, and scrolled through his call history until he found a received call from almost a month earlier. The number belonged to Allan Cole, the attorney who had acted as the executor of Maddock’s parents’ will. He dialed the number, and when the receptionist at the other end picked up, he identified himself.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Maddock. Do you want me to put you through to Mr. Cole?”
“That won’t be necessary. Can you just give him a message? Tell him I’d like to sell.”
“Okay.” There was a pause, presumably as the woman recorded this brief note. “Anything else?”
“Nope. I’ll be up there later in the week to pack everything.” He exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call, then immediately dialed another number.
It rang a few times and then a booming voice sounded in his ear. “Dane! How’s it going, my boy?" And then, with a note of concern added. “Are you doing okay?”
Maddock smiled and answered truthfully. “Never been better, Coach. Listen, are you still thinking about selling your boat?”
Cape Idokopas, Russia
Alexander Shamalov was a carpenter and woodworker, who specialized in hand-turned spindles and antique restoration. He had been called out to the dacha at Cape Idokopas to bid on repair work for a damaged section of the balustrade on the second story landing.
Shamalov had heard rumors about the incident, rumors of how a band of armed men had attacked in the middle of the night, gunned down the house’s former owner, notorious crime lord Sergei Telesh, along with his mistress and a small army of bodyguards. As he pulled up in front of the house, the only evidence he saw that anything was amiss was a piece of plywood covering one of the upper story windows.
A stout man with a florid complexion emerged from the house and came down to greet him. “Mr. Shamalov, good afternoon. I am Mr. Ponomarenko, the property manager.”
Shamalov shook hands with him and followed Ponomarenko inside. He wondered if he would see bloodstains and bullet holes. There were none, though the hardwood floor and carpets looked brand new and the walls still smelled of fresh paint.
“It is up there,” Ponomarenko said, gesturing to the staircase.
Shamalov grimaced when he beheld the damage. “What happened?”
“The former owner threw a party one night,” Ponomarenko said with a dismissive air. “Things got out of hand.”
Shamalov did not challenge the obvious fiction. Instead he climbed up to the landing and began taking measurements. “I will need to remove an undamaged section to use as a template,” he said, and then added, “provided of course that we can come to an arrangement.”
“Of course.”
Shamalov calculated the amount of time required for the job and the cost of materials, then tacked on a reasonable amount for labor—far less than he would normally have asked.
He had heard other rumors about this place, rumors that there would soon be a magnificent mansion built on the property, a lavish private retreat for the Prime Minister, paid for by generous donations from wealthy oligarchs. And why not? Hadn’t he made them all rich?
Shamalov loved the Prime Minister, and hoped he would become President someday. The man would make Russia great again.
He told Ponomarenko his price. The man seemed pleased with the quote. “Write it up, and take what you need.”
Shamalov nodded. “I’ll need to get some tools from my truck.” He hesitated and then decided to take a chance. “I am curious about something. I have heard that there are plans for new construction soon.”
Ponomarenko frowned as if disturbed by such gossip. “You should not believe everything you hear.”
Shamalov raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I only ask because I am interested in more work in the future.”
The other man appeared to think about this for a moment, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, admitted, “This is just between us.”
“Of course.”
“There are plans. Big plans. It will be beautiful. A palace worthy of the Tsars. But that won’t be for many years. That is why I am fixing up this old dacha. The architect will live here while he works on the project.”
“Well, I hope you will find my work satisfactory.”
The sharing of the secret seemed to have reduced the distance between the men. “I will provide you with a key so that you may come and go as you please. One thing though. If you need to use the toilet, use the one downstairs or out in the garage. The one upstairs is backed up and I have not yet arranged for a plumber to come take a look at it.”
“Plumbers,” Shamalov snorted. “Who needs them. Let me take a look at it.”
Ponomarenko raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“I insist. I will have it clear for you before I leave today.” It was a bold boast, but Shamalov felt certain that the problem was not as serious as the property manager believed. Then, with a wink, he added, “No extra charge.”
The other man inclined his head. “Very well. And I’m sure we’ll be able to find more work for such a talented craftsmen in days to come.”
As Ponomarenko went to find the key he had promised, Shamalov went upstairs to get a look at the blocked commode. The bathroom was an extravagant affair, larger than Shamalov’s workshop, with an enormous Jacuzzi tub on a raised platform at one end, and a walk-in shower big enough to accommodate two or three people at once—just thinking about it brought a smile to Shamalov’s face. But the opulence could not disguise the foul smell that hovered in the air, and there seemed little question as to its source.
He approached the toilet cautiously, holding his breath in anticipation of the stench that would be released when he lifted the lid. His precautions spared his olfactory senses, but the vile-looking brown soup that filled the bowl was revolting enough to make him gag. He closed the lid and headed back downstairs. When he found Ponomarenko again, he inquired about tools for general maintenance.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted the other man. “There might be something in the garage. Feel free to look.”
Shamalov did exactly that, and in short order, found exactly what he needed—a handheld plumber’s snake with ten meters of wire in the drum. He hurried back upstairs and, after another deep breath, opened the toilet lid, pulled out a meter of the coiled wire, and stabbed it into the murk. The device had a pistol grip below the drum, and he held it firmly in his left hand as he began rotating the knob on the back of the drum, feeding out more of the wire. He could feel a little resistance as it hooked around the turns in the plumbing, but nothing to justify the clog. He kept playing out meter after meter of wire until it came to an abrupt halt.
“There you are,” he muttered. He was still taking shallow breaths through his mouth, though he was getting used to the smell.
He worked the drum back and forth, trying to clear the blockage, but was unable to make any more forward progress. After a few minutes of this, he began reeling in the wire. He grimaced as the nasty liquid dribbled out of the drum and ran down his hand—maybe he should have let Ponomarenko call a plumber after all—but then felt a mild surge of elation when the end of the wire came out of the water, with something caught in the spiral at the end.
It was a piece of red cloth.
If you enjoyed Bloodstorm try Destination Rio- A Dane Maddock Adventure!
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For more information on Sean Ellis and his work, visit his website.
BOOKS and SERIES by David Wood
The Dane Maddock Adventures
Dourado
Cibola
Quest
Icefall
Buccaneer
Atlantis
Ark
Xibalba
Loch
Solomon Key
Contest (coming soon)
Dane and Bones Origins
Freedom
Hell Ship
Splashdown
Dead Ice
Liberty
Electra
Amber
Justice
Treasure of the Dead
Bloodstorm
Adventures from the Dane Maddock Universe
Berserk
Maug
The Elementals
Cavern
Devil’s Face
Brainwash
Herald
The Tomb
Destination-Rio
Destination-Luxor
Jade Ihara Adventures (with Sean Ellis)
Oracle
Changeling
Exile
Bones Bonebrake Adventures
Primitive
The Book of Bones
Skin and Bones
Venom (forthcoming)
Jake Crowley Adventures (with Alan Baxter)
Blood Codex
Anubis Key
Brock Stone Adventures
Arena of Souls
Track of the Beast (forthcoming)
Myrmidon Files (with Sean Ellis)
Destiny
Mystic
Sam Aston Investigations (with Alan Baxter)
Primordial
Overlord
Stand-Alone Novels
Into the Woods (with David S. Wood)
Callsign: Queen (with Jeremy Robinson)
Dark Rite (with Alan Baxter)
David Wood writing as David Debord
The Absent Gods Trilogy
The Silver Serpent
Keeper of the Mists
The Gates of Iron
The Impostor Prince (with Ryan A. Span)
Neptune’s Key
The Zombie-Driven Life
You Suck
BOOKS and SERIES by SEAN ELLIS
THE NICK KISMET ADVENTURES
The Shroud of Heaven
Into the Black
The Devil You Know (Novella)
Fortune Favors
THE ADVENTURES OF DODGE DALTON
In the Shadow of Falcon’s Wings
At the Outpost of Fate
On the High Road to Oblivion
Against the Fall of Eternal Night (with Kerry Frey)
THE MIRA RAIDEN ADVENTURES
Ascendant
Descendant
Magic Mirror
The Sea Wraiths and Other Tales
Camp Zero
WarGod (with Steven Savile)
(with Jeremy Robinson)
Prime
Savage
Cannibal
Empire
Herculean
Helios
Flood Rising
Callsign: King (novella)
Callsign: King—Underworld (novella)
Callsign: King—Blackout (novella)
(with David Wood)
Hell Ship
Bloodstorm
Oracle
Changeling
Exile
Destiny
Mystic
The Elementals
Destination-Rio
Destination-Luxor
