The Voter File

by David Pepper

  I quickly unwrapped the thick rope from the rear cleat and, backpack in hand, jumped over the back gunwale onto the wet deck. The boat thrust forward, pushing me back a few steps before I recovered my balance.

  “Welcome aboard,” the voice yelled.

  I stepped forward as we accelerated, docks and boats now flying past us on both sides. Old Faithful shuddered from the burst of speed, her engine roaring like an old propeller plane on takeoff. I reached the metal ladder to the bridge, gripping its sides to stabilize myself, and yelled up.

  “Captain Terry?”

  Obscured by the bright lights above, his only visible features were that he was heavyset and bald. But Bosko’s simple summary—“the best boat captain on Lake Erie”—was all I needed to know.

  “Affirmative.” Smoke curled from his lips.

  “You were ready quick.”

  “I was told you needed help quick.”

  “I sure did. Thank you.”

  Old Faithful took a hard left as we left the safety of the harbor. The first big wave hit immediately, sending the bow vertical. The jolt upward pushed all my weight back, almost causing my wet grip on the ladder to come loose.

  “Hold on down there,” the captain yelled over the din of the engine. “There’s some chop out here.”

  “You don’t say,” I managed.

  The bow rolled back to even and then lunged forward, as if we were curling over the front of a waterfall. We then plunged down at a forty-five-degree angle before crashing into the front of the next wave, a loud boom shaking the boat as if we’d collided with a brick wall. Even though I braced with my arms, my chest slammed against the metal ladder, knocking most of the wind from my lungs. As a thick curtain of spray flew past and over us, the bow wrenched upward again, and I gripped the ladder to avoid falling backward.

  “Can she get through this?” I yelled up to the bridge as we rolled forward and down again.

  “If we can, she can,” the skipper yelled back, laughing. “This old Ensign was designed for Navy specs. It can withstand a lot more than this, not to mention small-arms fire.”

  We crashed into the front of the next wave.

  “Where to?”

  “Marblehead, if possible.”

  “Coming right up.”

  CHAPTER 95

  CLEVELAND

  It has been a long time.”

  Oleg Kazarov received the call as his steel-gray Gulfstream sat on the runway at Cleveland’s Burke Lakefront Airport. He’d felt weak on the car ride over, but once back in his plane—nestled in the seat he always flew in, a private nurse by his side dispensing medicine when needed—he regained some strength. He planned to sleep as soon as they took off, but the first storm of the fall was interfering with those plans. High winds were forcing the pilots to wait for a hole in the cold front big enough to poke through. They were now into their second hour of delay.

  Then the call came. From Brooklyn.

  “It has been.”

  “How may I help you?” a guarded Kazarov asked as the plane rattled from a strong gust.

  “You said to call if anyone ever inquired about the murders.”

  “I did. That was eleven years ago.”

  “Yes, well, an hour ago someone called.”

  CHAPTER 96

  LAKE ERIE

  What gives, brother?” the red-faced captain asked minutes after they’d hit the wild open water. “I waited for you, and I would’ve taken you either way.”

  “Keep going and stop talking,” the Butcher said.

  He’d debated whether to pull the Glock so early on the trip—he didn’t want Captain Rick radioing in that they were leaving—but brandishing the weapon also risked resistance. However, the rage boiling up within had settled the debate in favor of aggression. Before the targets had run from their hideaway, he was within minutes of accomplishing his mission. Instead, he’d wasted precious time racing around the island’s wet roads on a golf cart.

  The Butcher had driven his share of boats over the years—on the French Riviera, the Gulf of Finland, the Dead Sea—although nothing this big, in weather this rough. But he’d always been a quick study, building radios, cleaning guns, and fixing cars after observing someone else doing so only once. He was confident he could fly a small plane if necessary.

  So bracing himself with one arm, gripping the Glock in the other, the Butcher was far more focused on the skipper’s actions than his words. Every adjustment to the throttle. The angle at which he was hitting the waves. The direction he was heading, marked by both the compass and the lights on the horizon flickering between waves. Even the way he stood and how he gripped the wheel. He studied every detail.

  Every second that Captain Rick remained at the helm posed a risk. A proud skipper would not accept being a prisoner on his own ship for long. He’d radio or signal a cryptic message back to shore. Hit a wave in a way that would knock the Butcher off his feet. Flash his lights in Morse code. Something. There were too many options to cause trouble.

  So, once comfortable that he’d learned the basics, the Butcher unsheathed his knife and thrust it below the captain’s rib cage. Twisting it up, he impaled Captain Rick’s heart, killing him instantly. He shoved the rotund body aside and manned the controls, but not before the boat had slipped well to the left.

  The first wave slammed into the boat at a near-perfect right angle, rolling the craft violently and sending water crashing over the side gunwale. By the time it recovered, another wave hit the boat sideways with equal force, propelling even more water over the side. A disconcerting thud caused the Butcher to shoot a quick glance behind him: Captain Rick’s bleeding body was sloshing back and forth across the back of the boat, slamming into its sides.

  The next wave was smaller, giving the Butcher time to fling the wheel to the right. Just as Captain Rick had, he pushed the throttle forward, powering over the next wave. From there, he mimicked everything else that he’d observed. After a few more waves he found a rhythm to the rollicking water that allowed him to steady the ride.

  At the top of each crest he eyed the most prominent light in the distance, slightly to his left, a point that Captain Rick had focused on as well. He’d assumed early on it was the lighthouse from the beginning of this endless day. The fact that his targets were heading its way confirmed that hunch.

  CHAPTER 97

  CLEVELAND

  The turbulence was no rougher than on other flights Kazarov had taken over the years, flights which hadn’t trifled him in the least. But in his weakened physical condition, he threw up twice before the Gulfstream reached its cruising altitude fifteen minutes after takeoff.

  But even after his stomach settled down, his mind did not.

  Kazarov made another call.

  “It’s me. Dyadya. Someone called the authorities about your mother’s death today.”

  A long pause on the other end. Dumbfounded, as he had been.

  “Did they know anything?”

  “I don’t believe so. But the call itself is worrisome, the timing even more so.”

  “Eleven years to the date.”

  “More importantly, right as our entire operation is unfolding. That call means someone is learning too much. Can you take care of this?”

  “Of course. Who was it that called?”

  CHAPTER 98

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  Don’t tie that up.”

  Stern line in hand, I was hopping from Old Faithful onto the wet dock when Captain Terry growled his command from the bridge.

  “Wait, you’re going back out?”

  “Yes, sir. If that is a commandeered boat, I’ll run interference for you. Old Faithful is a beast at ramming speed.”

  A few minutes into our trip, Captain Terry had spotted another fishing boat leaving Kelleys Island, following the same course we had. But its capt
ain had not radioed once and had struggled to keep a straight line in the rough waves, so we assumed it was the hit man. If nothing else, it reminded me that I had to get the tracker out of my leg.

  For a moment, his ramming plan sounded like a good idea.

  But then I gamed it out. If it worked, great. If not—and nothing had worked so far—I’d be right back on the run with no idea where he was, reliving a nightmare I’d already endured for days. Plus, I was tired of relying on and endangering others.

  “Do me a favor instead, Captain?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Watch him, but from a distance. Then let me know when and where he lands.”

  It was time to press my one advantage.

  “Are you sure? Old Faithful could sink the son of a bitch.”

  “I’m sure. But I’ve got a plan.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  I gave him my phone number before he pulled away.

  My first few strides along the wood planks of the dock were wobbly ones, as everything around me rocked up and down as if I were still riding waves. But with no time to waste and every leg muscle burning from my standing boat ride, I stumbled down the dock and back onto land as fast as I could manage. I passed the VFW hall to my left, crossed the street, and reached the inn two minutes later, and my room a minute after that.

  I stepped out of my wet jeans and, placing a clean white towel under me, sat down on the edge of the bed. Between the wave surfing and the running and the cold and the water, my legs were numb from top to bottom. Now was as good a time as any to do it.

  I opened the medical kit. Then, like a doctor scrubbing up for surgery, I laid every necessary implement in a row next to me—small scissors, tweezers, alcohol wipes, gauze, anesthetic gel, and bandages.

  I flipped my right foot onto my left knee, exposing my right calf. Water had soaked all the way through my jeans, so my skin was white and fleshy, the wound soft, wet, and oozing with watery pus. I dabbed the gel over it to numb it even further.

  My teeth chattered as I reached for the small, pointed scissors.

  Then my phone vibrated.

  He went 200 yds further to a private dock. Smart move. 2 mins from docking.

  Gotcha. Thanks.

  That left ten minutes at most to get out the door. Time to focus.

  After putting a small towel in my mouth, I pinched the loose skin around the wound with my left hand and picked up the scissors with my right.

  Bracing for the pain, adrenaline spiking, I bit into the towel as hard as I could.

  * * *

  • • •

  It looked like a grain of rice.

  While the stinging pain from the scraping had jolted my numb leg awake, most of the blood flowed after I tugged the tiny gray device from just below the surface, pulling it out from one end, careful not to squeeze too tight. I pressed a bandage against the fresh wound to stop the bleeding, then wiped it clean with alcohol, unleashing a new burst of pain. Then I pressed a new bandage against it, wrapping two pieces of medical tape around my whole calf to make sure it stayed on.

  As my breathing steadied, I held up the pint-sized tracker with the tweezers. The damn little thing had inflicted so much damage.

  The medical kit included a small plastic bottle of Tylenol, which I now emptied of its pills and replaced with the tracker. Knowing more pain was on its way, I washed four pills down with a glass of water. I pulled my wet jeans and tennis shoes back on, put the Tylenol bottle in my jacket pocket, and ran out the inn door and into the woods behind it.

  Jimmy, the limestone crusher and campaign volunteer who suspected I was up to no good, had mentioned a helpful detail the night before.

  CHAPTER 99

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  A rare smile crinkled the Butcher’s mouth as the tension in his muscles eased.

  They’d hesitated, and he was catching up.

  Finally. After too many days and a body count that was growing uncomfortably high—each killing heightened the risk of capture—he could end this maddening chase and leave America behind.

  He checked his phone again as he pulled up to the dock. His targets, a kilometer away, still hadn’t moved, huddled back at the inn. Feeling safe, the fools were trapping themselves.

  Without tying up, he leapt from the boat and sprinted off the dock, climbed over a gate, and ran down two short blocks of residential streets before veering left on the main road. The large conveyor belt spanned across the road not far ahead, so the inn was close.

  After passing under the conveyor belt and then by the ferry parking lot, he first saw the narrow top floor of the inn, ahead to the right, rising a story above the other buildings in town.

  Only several hundred meters now.

  He slowed to a jog, approaching the inn carefully, when he peeked down at his phone. The targets were on the move again, leaving the inn, heading to the right and farther away from the road. Trying to escape.

  He sucked in a deep breath. Not this time. He remained as fast as he’d been back on the village soccer field and would not be outrun now.

  He sprinted by the inn’s dimly lit old stone wall before turning right, running through the parking lot. More good news. The vehicle that had been on guard in the morning was not there. The targets were unprotected.

  He checked his phone again. They were dead ahead, making their way through the large trees that were now visible on the other side of the parking lot and behind the inn.

  He activated his phone’s flashlight function and followed them into the woods, jogging through mud and wet grass, between and around thick trunks. His screen showed him gaining ground on his slower-moving targets, which loosened his limbs even more.

  They were so close he imagined he would hear them—rustling leaves, breaking branches, breathing heavily—if it weren’t for the rain and the wind. He’d heard it so many times before, the sound of desperate escape, followed by the pathetic pleading for mercy that he knew to ignore.

  Then, on his screen, the tracker shot suddenly forward. His targets were opening up more distance, running faster. Perhaps the woods had ended and they were on a firmer surface, no longer dodging trees or sloshing through the mud that was slowing him down.

  A few meters away, the dark shadows of the trees appeared to end. He drew another deep breath, knowing his burst was coming. He lowered his phone and mustered every ounce of speed he could. He would hit the flat surface like a center forward on a breakaway.

  As he drew even to the last tree, the surface hardened under his front foot—his right. Flat rock, he guessed, allowing him to plant himself firmly and lengthen his stride. His left foot landed on the same flat, hard surface, from which he pushed off with even more force and speed.

  Adrenaline raced through him, pumping his heart rate. He would draw even soon. Then it would be over. The long, draining day. This tiresome mission.

  The vision from the lighthouse had not been an omen after all.

  He swung his right foot forward, stretching it horizontally, then lowered it to plant again on the hard ground.

  But this time no hard surface came to meet it.

  Nothing met it at all.

  CHAPTER 100

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  Back at the inn, in bed, I shivered for the first ten minutes, then lay still.

  When Santini’s undercover guy knocked on my door, I sent him away. When Santini, Cassie, and Tori called, I let the phone ring through. When they texted after the calls, I let the phone vibrate without picking it up.

  I just lay there, on my back, staring up the white tiles of the high ceiling.

  It wouldn’t go away.

  I’d heard more than my share of screams of pain. When an offensive lineman snapped his Achilles tendon like a rubber band. When my ex’s epidural didn’t kick in in time. When a gunshot victim on a st
retcher stared at what was left of his hand. Their loud, high-pitched screams captured the agony of raw physical pain.

  But what I’d heard an hour ago had been different. Horribly different.

  Another knock on the door, this one lighter than the first. Since I knew no one in town but Santini’s guy, I got up. Even through the foggy peephole, Tori’s blue eyes glimmered, lifting my mood instantly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as she walked through the door.

  “I got fired from the Cincinnati campaign and, rather than sitting around feeling useless, I drove up here to help you.”

  I almost lectured her about needing to stay away for safety’s sake—something Chief Santini had been stressing since Wisconsin—but held back. It was too good to see her.

  “I’m impressed that you got fired as a volunteer.”

  “Let’s just say I took too keen an interest in their voter file.”

  I laughed, trying to appear calm, but my heart was still hammering away.

  Huddled behind a thick tree trunk, I’d witnessed it all. First, the dancing light from his phone went dark a few yards from the edge. Then the hit man, vaulting with a broad, elegant stride that bore all the agility and finesse of a top-flight athlete, catapulted himself out over the quarry. Visually, it ended instantly—the thin, dark figure disappearing into the blackness of the quarry below. But the spine-tingling, high-pitched shriek—the animalistic reflex at the precise moment when he’d discovered his fate—pierced through the wind and the rain and the rustling leaves every second that he plunged to the quarry floor eighty feet below.