by Linda Ladd
Increasingly, however, he was thinking she should pay for clubbing him in the head and taking up with the big man. He had no doubt she was free enough with her favors with him, whoever the hell he was. His jaw tightened. Kate shouldn't have spurned Dmitri's attempts to be merciful; she wouldn't find him nearly so accommodating to her feelings when he caught up with her again. As they liked to say in the American films Misha enjoyed so much, the time had come to play hardball.
He found his jaw clenched hard and relaxed it, forcing down the anger he felt. He was not a man used to failure. Or having to track down his targets more than once. His methods didn't account for that, and it galled him that Kate had humiliated him so deeply, then slipped through his fingers yet again today. The trail had grown cold after the waitress had spotted them at Hillbilly Junction and called Dmitri's cell phone. His instincts told him that this place, where he'd seen her companion, was the key. Jumbo of the biscuit fame knew where she had gone, Dmitri would bet on it.
Dmitri had begun to believe that Kate and the big man had probably been there the same time they were, had probably changed their looks there as well. It all made perfect sense due to its proximity to the river and the hermit's habit of trading there. Matty had sold hashish to the motorcyclist named Miller on the parking lot the very morning they'd left Jumbo's cabins to continue the search. Yes, the pieces all fit.
How they must be laughing at him as they lay abed together, making love. It galled Dmitri to think Kate might be telling this man about Dmitri's desire to let her go, his hunger for her so strong it blinded him to his duty. No, this was no longer merely a hit commissioned by Vince Saracino and paid for with a coveted Fabergé egg. This was personal now, between Kate Reed and Dmitri Kavunov. This time he would offer her no quarter.
Dmitri shifted his stance, angry inside, increasingly impatient. He glanced around the empty parking lot, tired of waiting for Jumbo to close up. He was eager to know who the man with Kate was and if she had known him before, if he was her lover, as Dmitri suspected. How else could she have hooked up with him so damn fast? Despite her ingenuity at escaping them, if not for him, they would've caught up with her by now. This guy knew what he was doing. He wasn't some random fisherman she'd stumbled upon.
All the lights in the restaurant were still on, sending a faint glow onto the tarmac. Someone moved into sight inside, at the front of the restaurant where the booths were. He saw Jumbo, a short, obese black man wearing a long white chef's apron, moving slowly toward the entrance to lock up for the night. A moment later he secured the door and headed back toward the kitchen, switching off lights as he went. Dmitri waited a moment after the restaurant was plunged into darkness. When the giant neon sign out by the highway went dark, he gave the signal to proceed.
Misha jimmied the lock within moments, more than facile with breaking and entering, then went in first, Yuri right behind him. They moved quickly, hunched down, guns drawn. Dmitri moved inside and reset the lock as his two companions burst through the swinging door into the kitchen. He could hear pots and pans clanging and hitting the floor in the struggle, but by the time he'd nudged open the swinging door, Biscuit Jumbo was spread-eagled atop a high cutting-block table, Misha atop him, one knee driven hard into his back. His nephew had the restaurateur's neck caught with a thin wire, holding his head up by pulling back hard on the tight ligature.
“Turn out all the lights except the one over the table until we finish with him."
Yuri moved off while Dmitri walked around to where the black man could see him. Jumbo's eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth gritted with pain as Misha forced his head up another notch.
“What'da you want?” the black man choked out, trying to swallow through his constricted throat. Misha shoved his knee harder into the man's back. Jumbo grunted with the pain. “Today's take's in the strongbox,” he managed hoarsely. “There in the cabinet by the door. Take it all."
“We don't want your money, my friend,” Dmitri told him calmly. “We have a few questions. Answer them and we'll leave you alive. Refuse and we'll cut out your tongue before we go."
Jumbo's eyes were open now. He stared at Dmitri. “Who the hell are you?” Jumbo's eyes darted to Yuri as he reappeared and put the end of his silencer against his temple.
Dmitri had a feeling that Jumbo knew exactly who they were, had helped the woman evade them. “Where is the woman, Kate Reed?"
“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about ... aaaugh..."
Misha jerked the wire so tight the man's eyes protruded to a dangerous degree. Dmitri frowned. His sister's damned kid was going to strangle the man before the interrogation was successful. “We know she was here. We know a man was helping her. A big man, a man who we suspect is a friend of yours. Tell me about him, Mr. Jumbo, and maybe we'll let you live."
“Go fuck yourself."
The man was obviously very stupid. A pity. He didn't realize yet who he dealt with. He would have to die, the fool. But first he'd give up Kate Reed to them.
“Do you really wish us to kill you, my fat friend?"
Jumbo stared silently at him but he was beginning to sweat. His white shirt was damp with it.
“As you please. Tie him down."
Jumbo began to struggle but Misha's hold was too tight. Misha was still humiliated by his failure at the tavern and would no doubt release his frustration on poor Jumbo. Yuri took the coil of rope off his belt and quickly lashed their victim to the table, hands and feet secured to the table legs.
“Break his forefinger."
Jumbo's eyes widened but he couldn't move. He tried to double his right fist as Yuri spread his fingers out against the table. Misha smiled and picked up a meat tenderizer off the counter. It was heavy, made of steel, shaped like a hammer. Without a moment's hesitation, he brought it down hard against the knuckle of Jumbo's forefinger.
Jumbo's scream was shrill and awful to behold.
“Bind his mouth."
Yuri yanked a white apron off the table and jerked it tight across Jumbo's open mouth. The man continued to groan, his eyes rolling back into his head.
Dmitri found the task distasteful, a little crude for his sensibilities. Cold war stuff that he never should have had to resort to. Again, he was incensed at Kate for making him use strong-arm tactics. “I suggest you make this a bit easier on yourself. Where's the girl?” He motioned for Yuri to loosen the gag.
“I dunno, I dunno, damn you fuckin’ Russian commies...."
Dmitri sighed, annoyed by the man's stupidity. Why should the man choose to suffer at their hands when all he had to do was answer one goddamn question?
“As you wish."
As soon as Yuri had replaced the muffle on Jumbo's mouth, Dmitri nodded for Misha to proceed. He did, bringing the hammer down on Jumbo's middle finger. The scream came again, muffled, full of agony. The man thrashed against his binding ropes like a juicy rabbit caught in a steel trap.
Dmitri leaned against the counter and took a moment to light his meerschaum pipe, waiting patiently for Jumbo's groans to die away. Unfortunately, this might take some time. “Use your head, Jumbo, we have all night, you know."
Jumbo's face was livid with anger and pain, and he began to curse them, the profanities indistinguishable but the sentiment unmistakable. Dmitri had a feeling this man wouldn't talk, no matter how long they worked him over. He'd seen such subjects before, unfortunate victims of trained KGB interrogators. Like Alina. He thrust the thought of her out of his mind.
“Do his hand, Misha."
Misha raised the hammer high but before he could bring it down on the back of Jumbo's hand, Dmitri heard something. The scrape of a key in the locked back door.
“Keep him quiet,” he told Misha as Jumbo tried to yell a warning. Misha quieted him with a brutal elbow against his jaw. Jumbo's head thunked against the table. Dmitri motioned Yuri over behind the door that led down a narrow hallway to the back entrance.
The door finally opened with a loud jingling of keys. Th
e overhead lights came on, one at a time, and a few seconds later a big-busted black woman in a short red dress appeared, her white purse tucked under one arm. Jumbo moaned and tried to twist free when he heard her voice.
“Sweet stuff, you still down here? Forgot my damn house key again,” she called, about that time turning toward the table where Jumbo was strapped. She froze when she saw him, until Yuri grabbed her from behind. Then she fought like a demon out of hell. He got his forearm around her neck and flexed his biceps hard. She dropped her purse and clawed at his arm, choking as Yuri dragged her back to the table.
“Well, now, Mr. Jumbo, look who's come to visit. Mavis, I see, from her nice little plastic nameplate. Maybe she's a more cooperative person than you seem to be. Look at her lovely long fingers, and those scarlet fingernails. Very pretty, very pretty indeed."
Still groggy from the jolt to his head, Jumbo tried to wrench free, and Mavis's large brown eyes grew enormous as she stared in horror at Jumbo's purple, rapidly swelling ringers.
“Strap down Miss Mavis's arm. Let's see what kind of gentleman is Mr. Jumbo here."
Mac Sharp lived in a relatively quiet section of Branson, in an RV park located along the bank of Lake Taneycomo that edged the older, so-called historic downtown area. From where his trailer was set up, it looked more like a river than a lake, but the wide expanse of cold green water that fed directly into the larger reaches of Table Rock Lake held great appeal for fishermen and young vacationing families alike. There were dozens of other campers and RVs lined along the graveled shore on the north side, just below the Highway 65 bridge.
Mac had dropped them off at the old but spacious Gulf-stream he called home, a vehicle that resembled a giant bullet out of the Lone Ranger's holster. He'd found himself a plum spot, however, set apart from other seasonal hookups, being as he was the sole year-round tenant. His place was sheltered by a thick grove of oaks and willows, and he'd built his own private dock where he could moor his prized bass boat under a roofed overhang. The craft was the best of its kind, purchased new at the Bass Pro Shop in Springfield several years ago, a boat that cost three or four times as much as everything else Mac owned, with the exception of the shiny new Mustang. Mac took his fishing seriously, almost as seriously as his collection of St. Louis Cardinal memorabilia.
Mac told them to keep out of sight until dark, then promised to see what he could find out from his old friends still working homicide on the St. Louis force before he hightailed it back to beat his taiko drum in Shoji's late show. They'd been relieved to find a place to lie low, and after examining some of the white game jerseys, signed baseball bats and balls hanging on the walls in polished oak racks, Kate fed Joey and put him to sleep. She fixed a couple of omelets by raiding just about everything inside Mac's health-food-laden refrigerator, and Booker found that she could cook as well as she could shoot and evade enemies.
Afterward she said she was tired, and when Booker cracked open a Miller Lite and went outside to wait for Mac, she crashed next to Joey in the sardine-can guest room with its built-in bunk beds and gigantic poster of Ozzie Smith. Last time he checked, she was still out like a light, and Booker was glad she could sleep. He sure as hell couldn't but he needed space to think anyway. Besides, he wanted to talk to Mac alone when he got back.
There was a scarred-up, ancient redwood picnic table on the dock, and Booker sat on top of it, where he could keep an eye on the trailer as well as the gravel road leading in from the highway. It was after midnight, real quiet outside in the cool, damp air, with just the sound of frogs and crickets and somebody's radio playing Frank Sinatra's New York, New York. No one was about, but he could see a couple of fishermen night-fishing out on the lake, up under the bridge, their small lights bobbing in the blackness. He felt they were fairly safe at the moment, but now that they were in Branson, he wasn't sure what their next move should be. He supposed that depended on what Mac found out. Too many things about Kate's story just didn't add up.
It was almost one in the morning when Mac finally drove up and parked his Mustang under the metal canopy covered with lattice and purple clematis plants that acted as his carport. Booker whistled softly as he got out. Mac turned and Booker could hear his footsteps crunching against the rocks as he walked down the path. He took a seat beside Booker on the table. He was smoking a cigar, and the aromatic scent carried on the soft night breeze.
“Never knew you were so good on taiko."
“Shoji's got a thing about those drums."
“He ought to, if the big one cost a million dollars like he told the audience."
Mac laughed and glanced up at the trailer. The lights were all on. “Where's the girl?"
“Inside. Asleep."
“Kid, too?"
“Yeah."
“Good God, Book, you stepped in it this time. Every goddamned cop in the state is after her."
“We're more worried about the hard-asses with Moscow accents that shoot first and kill second."
“Yeah, well, I made those calls and you're in shit up to your eyebrows, pal."
“Not exactly what I wanted to hear, Mac."
“You sure you can trust this dame?"
“Why? What'd you find out?"
Mac took a deep drag on his cigar, exhaled, sighed heavily, then spoke. “I got hold of a buddy of mine, a detective at metro. You know who that kid belongs to?"
“I know the cops think he's kidnapped from some family up there, straight out of Barnes Hospital. Kate says she got him nice and legal, and has papers to prove it. If her husband was mixed up in something dirty, she didn't know anything about it."
“Not only was he kidnapped outta Barnes, man, but Jimmy says the kid's Vince Saracino's boy, and in case you don't know, he's the guy who runs rackets up there for his bosses in the New York Mafia. I mean, this guy's straight out of The Godfather, Book, except he's a screwed-up mother who'd make Michael Corleone look like a Carmelite nun. Jimmy said he's nuts and gets off on killing people."
Booker frowned. “That makes the rest of it make a little sense. So he's the one who sent those guys after her?"
“Yeah, and Jimmy says they're probably his wife's bodyguards. She's a Russian, too, the daughter of one of Vince's business cronies in Moscow. He says the guy named Dmitri is ex-KGB. Bad news all around, Book, real bad news. These guys won't quit. Even worse, the rumor is that Vince's raging around like a bull and has put out a universal kill on her, and that means he'll pay anybody who brings her down and gets his kid back unhurt. He wants her stone-cold dead, no questions asked."
“Jesus Christ."
“Yeah, Book, she's as good as finished. It's a miracle you got this far without getting cut down."
“What about Michael Reed? Did Jimmy know anything on him?"
“Just that he was dirty. One of Saracino's mouthpieces."
“Kate's not in on this. She's thinking of sending the baby into hiding, then turning herself in until she gets things worked out."
“Bad idea. Vince has more people inside the court system than out. She'll get whacked before they snap her mugshot."
They sat in silence for a moment. “Got any ideas, Mac?"
“Yeah, but she sure as hell won't like it."
“Tell me."
Mac began to talk, softly, and the more Booker heard, the more he dreaded putting the idea in front of Kate. There was no way she'd agree to it, not a chance in hell. But if she didn't, and she didn't fast, Kate Reed, and probably the rest of them, too, weren't going to see too many more days before they were gunned down.
Twenty-Seven
KATE AWOKE to the faint murmur of male voices. She lay still a moment, recognizing Booker's slow drawl at once. The other one was Mac, Booker's friend. The men spoke quietly, calm and low, probably so as not to awaken her. She was still safe, at least for the moment. The small, windup Lenox alarm clock on the built-in bookshelf behind her head read eleven thirty. She had slept deeply, without dreaming of Michael or Dmitri, for the first time since
it all had begun. She felt better, ready for whatever the coming day had in store.
When she sat on the edge of the mattress to check on Joey, the pulled-out drawer in which she'd made his bed was empty. Her heart lurched but she relaxed almost at once, confident that Booker must have him. But she had to know for sure. She already wore a T-shirt so she grabbed her jeans and pulled them on, then stood up, only taking the time to run a brush through her sleep-tousled, dark hair. She stepped out of the tiny bedroom into the hallway. She could see Booker at the kitchen table. Joey was in the crook of his arm taking a bottle. She smiled, pleased despite the incongruity of an infant perched on the lap of a big, rough-looking man like Booker.
“Good morning,” she said as she joined the men. “I see Joey got up early."
“Yeah. This is his second bottle. When you didn't wake up the first time he fussed, I figured you needed more shut-eye so I brought him out here."
“Thanks.” She nodded and smiled again, but he looked uncomfortable, worry written all over his rugged face. She sobered. Mac had that same look. Something was wrong.
“There's a fresh pot of coffee. Over there by the stove. Mugs are hanging on the wall right behind the coffeemaker."
“Thanks, Mac."
Although she'd already sensed they had bad news, she didn't ask. Didn't want to hear it before she got some caffeine in her. She poured the strong, black brew into a heavy white mug with a Cardinal logo and scraped up a chair next to Booker's. She liked to stay close to him, just in case. His .45 was lying on the red Formica tabletop beside Joey's clown pacifier. Somehow, extraordinarily, that didn't seem an appalling sight to her anymore. She shut her eyes and took a bracing sip, wondering at what she'd become in so short a time. Joey was dozing, the nipple loose in his open mouth. Every once in a while he'd rouse and suck vigorously, then gradually nod off again.
Mac's coffee was so strong with chicory, or something Kate wasn't used to, that her eyes watered. The two guys remained silent, neither looking at her. The milk carton was on the table, so she stirred some milk into her cup. They had to be waiting for her to ask and she finally did. But she didn't want to.
