by Joseph Badal
He turned down the volume on his radio. “What’s up?”
“The license plate you called in. We finally got a response from DMV. It’s a rental. An employee at the Yugoslav Embassy rented the car. He called in an hour ago and reported it stolen. Something’s wrong.”
Newcombe launched himself out of the car. As he raced to the front door, he used his cell phone to call the Danforth’s telephone number. No response. He tried the front door handle. Locked. If he had to pay for a new front door, so be it. He kicked it in, jumped inside in a crouch, Glock semi-automatic extended. No one in sight. Water dripping from the ceiling, down one wall. He heard a thud upstairs and bolted for the stairs.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs seemed to distract for a split second the man holding her ankles. Liz twisted around, kicking her legs free of the man’s grasp. She saw the knife handle sticking out of his thigh. Leaping again at the man, she slammed the palm of her hand into the knife’s handle.
Vitas howled in pain and fury. He pulled his arm back and struck Liz a powerful blow to the side of her head. She crumpled to the floor. He looked for his pistol and remembered placing it on the dresser. Blood running down his leg, pain shooting into every synapse of his brain, the heavy sounds of footsteps on the staircase causing him to ignore the Danforths, he swept the pistol off the dresser, hobbled to the French doors at the far end of the bedroom, and pushed them open. He jumped from the narrow balcony toward a hedge below just when he heard someone burst into the bedroom behind him.
Newcombe ran to the open French doors and fired at the man limping across the backyard. Too many trees prevented him from fixing on his target. He turned back to the room and saw what the fleeing man had left behind. Quickly ripping the spread off the bed, he covered Liz’s naked body. Then he untied Bob. “I’m going after that guy,” Newcombe said. “Are you all right?”
“Just get the bastard,” Bob said.
As Bart started for the balcony, he said, “You’d better call an ambulance. Your wife looks bad.”
Vitas backtracked along the same route he’d used to get onto the Danforth property. He could feel the knife blade shift when the muscles in his leg contracted with each step. He didn’t dare pull it out, for fear it might be the only thing keeping the wound from bleeding out. He neared the place where he’d parked his car and saw a dark green Chevrolet Suburban backing out of a driveway a few meters away. He limped up to the open driver’s side window and grabbed the female driver by the throat.
The woman hit the brakes, hard. “Put the gearshift in park,” Vitas shouted. “Move to the other seat,” he ordered.
She slammed the shifter into park, scrambled over the console, and shrank whimpering against the far door.
Vitas opened the door and pulled himself into the vehicle. He moved the gearshift, gunned the engine, and backed the rest of the way out to the street. He raced out of the neighborhood. He’d driven five miles from Bethesda before the woman finally spoke: “Please don’t hurt me.”
Vitas ignored her.
“You have . . . a knife stick . . . sticking in your leg?” she said in a trembling voice.
Vitas sneered at the woman. “No shit!”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jack rushed from the elevator at Bethesda Memorial Hospital. He entered the all-white, sterile atmosphere of the Intensive Care Unit and stopped at the reception counter. Over the top of the reception nurse’s head, he spied Bob standing next to the bed in one of the window-fronted rooms facing toward a row of wall-mounted heart monitors. The asynchronous beeping of the machines grated on Jack’s already overly-stimulated nerves.
“How’s Mrs. Danforth?” he asked the nurse.
“Are you a member of the family?” the nurse asked, her face rigid. “We can’t give out information–”
“Look, miss, I’m not in the mood for any bureaucratic bullshit. Answer my question, or I’ll get the hospital administrator up here.”
The nurse’s mouth opened in a big “O,” then shut. She looked at Jack, as though trying to determine if he had the influence he threatened her with. Expelling a stream of air, she took a file from a rack next to her chair and opened it on her desk. After consulting the handwritten notes on the first sheet in the file, she looked up at Jack and said, “She has a very serious concussion. Keeps slipping in and out of consciousness.”
“Thanks,” he said and turned toward Liz’s room. He caught Bob’s eye when he happened to turn away from Liz’s bed.
Jack pressed his lips together and barely shook his head when he noticed Bob’s haggard appearance. His friend’s face looked transfixed with grief while he crossed the floor toward him. Bob’s eyes were blackened and swollen and bandages had been placed on his forehead, both cheeks and chin. He seems to have aged ten years since I saw him a few hours ago, Jack thought. He looks sick and old.
Jack put his hands on Bob’s shoulders. “Liz is strong, Bob. She’ll recover.”
“She took a hell of a blow to the head, Jack. I watched her drop when he hit her. I couldn’t do a thing to help. Did we get the guy?”
“No! So far we got nada. Every law enforcement agency within a hundred miles is looking for him, but we haven’t turned up a clue beyond what you already know.”
“Any word about my neighbor, Doris Fineberg?” Bob asked.
“No, not yet. We assume the guy snatched her. The local cops found his rental car outside her house, and she’s hours overdue for an appointment.”
“From what I saw of that guy,” Bob said, “Doris doesn’t have a prayer.”
Jack nodded, flexing his hands into fists.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Vitas knew he had to do something about stopping the blood trickling from the knife wound in his leg. He knew if he lost much more blood he might pass out. He already felt woozy. The pain was the only thing keeping him conscious. The Danforth bitch had bitten him right where the raccoon had wounded him. He reached for the pistol in his holster and pulled onto the shoulder of the highway.
“Take off your scarf,” Vitas growled at his passenger.
“My . . . why?” she asked, fingering the silk scarf draped around her neck.
Vitas narrowed his eyes and, for the first time, got a good look at her. She was moderately plump, but damned good looking, with green eyes and auburn-colored hair. Her clothes were expensive-looking. Her hair was coifed to perfection, and he figured she had fifty thousand dollars in jewelry on her hands and around her neck. Nice little bonus, he thought.
“Dammit! What is it with you American women?” Vitas shrieked. “You have more damn questions than sense. Ask one more fucking question and I will pull out this knife and stick it in your heart.”
She shrank even further away from him, her eyes a window to the terror he knew she felt. But she did as she was told and, with shaking hands, slipped the scarf from her neck. The fabric danced in her trembling hand.
“Now reach over here and tie it around my leg, above the knife. Tight!”
She knelt on the passenger seat to loop it around his thigh and tied it as tightly as she could. Then she backed away again, cowering like an abused dog.
The flow of blood immediately began to slow. Vitas waited a minute before he put his hand on the knife handle. Then, taking a deep breath and clenching his jaws, he jerked it free. White-hot pain surged through his leg. Even with the tourniquet tied above the wound, blood spurted across the console, spraying the woman and the window behind her with a fine red mist. She screeched like a banshee.
Vitas gasped. He suddenly felt even dizzier than before, his eye losing focus. He knew he was about to lose consciousness. Balling his fist, he struck the spot from where he’d just removed the knife, sending new shock waves of pain into his brain. The pain jarred him alert.
He glanced at the woman. Her eyes looked as though they might pop out of their sockets, and her high-pitched voice made the inside of Vitas’ brain feel as though it was full of broken glass. When she grabbed
for the door handle, he smashed the back of his hand into her face. He felt the crunch of bone and cartilage. “Shut your damn mouth,” he yelled. But she kept screaming. Vitas leaned over the console and cold-cocked her with his closed fist. Her head bounced off the window and she slumped down in her seat. He looked at the blood on his knuckles and licked his hand, enjoying the sweet taste.
Vitas put the Suburban in gear and, at the first break in traffic, floored the accelerator. Horns blared and brakes screeched while he veered from lane to lane. At the first exit, he cut across three lanes and made it to the off-ramp. Nearly passing out from the pain in his leg, he sideswiped a black Cadillac limousine and sent it careening off the ramp and into some trees. He barreled into the intersection at the bottom of the off-ramp, and took a left turn on two wheels through the red light.
He found a pay phone in the parking lot of a closed-down convenience store. No one was around. When he opened the car door and put weight on his injured leg, the pain nearly killed him. The few feet to the phone seemed like a mile.
“Hello.”
“Paulus, it’s me.”
“I told you not to call me here. I–”
“I don’t give a damn what you told me, you stupid fuck. Shut up! I need your help.”
“The cops put your description all over the news,” Paulus said. “They say you tried to kill two people in Bethesda and kidnapped one of their neighbors.”
“Forget all that! You’ll help me get out of the country – or I’ll find a way to make you very sorry.”
“Okay, okay, what do you want me to do?”
Vitas arranged to meet Paulus at the safehouse in Alexandria after dark. He told him to bring a first-aid kit, painkillers, and some cash.
“Where the hell am I going to get cash on Friday night?”
“You have three hours to figure it out, Tomavic. I’m sure the Embassy has a slush fund.”
“What are you going to do until I meet you?”
“I need to dump some garbage.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Jack paid the cashier in the hospital cafeteria for his and Bob’s coffees, then led the way toward a table. His cell phone rang just when they took their seats.
“Cole here.”
“Mr. Cole, this is Tim Rutherford, the night duty officer at Langley. I’ve got a call here for Mr. Danforth from a Sheriff Don Mechem in Pineview, South Carolina. Do you know where I can–?”
“Hold on, Rutherford. Bob Danforth’s sitting right here.” Jack handed the phone to Bob. “Sheriff Mechem holding for you.”
“Hello, is that you Don?”
“Hey, Bob. How’s tricks?”
“Everything’s fine,” Bob lied.
“Good news here! We found Danny Farrell. He returned to his parents’ place. One of my deputies found him.”
“Was he all right?” Bob asked.
“Physically, he’s fine. But he’s scared shitless. He didn’t seem to understand he could be arrested for assault and attempted murder. He’s more frightened about what his stepfather’s going to do to him.”
“You said attempted murder. Did the boy’s father make it?”
“Yeah! Unfortunately. He had so much alcohol in his system, he probably didn’t feel any pain.”
“What’s going to happen to the boy?” Bob asked.
“Oh, the DA wanted me to arrest the kid. Dumbass politician! But I think I’ve got him convinced that would make him as popular around here as a Yankee carpetbagger would. The kid’s a real hero. I made sure the word leaked he’d saved a damsel in distress.”
“I appreciate the update, Don. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“It would be helpful if you could tell me how to get in touch with Miss Georgadoff. I need to take her statement about what happened and what a hero Danny is. I suspect that would go a long way in making the DA drop any thoughts about indicting the kid, once and for all. I suppose you’d prefer her writing something out to having her subpoenaed for her statement.”
“I’ll take care of it, Don. Thanks for everything.”
“Don’t mention it. My pleasure.”
The cell phone rang again. Bob handed it back to Jack.
“Mr. Cole, Rutherford again. I’ve got the Virginia State Police Captain holding. Can I transfer him to you?”
“Put him through.” Jack put his hand over the telephone speaker and whispered to Bob, “Virginia State Police. Maybe we’re finally going to get some news about our boy.”
“Mr. Cole?”
“This is Jack Cole.”
“Mr. Cole, this is Captain Gary Woolsley. We got information on the stolen green Suburban.”
Jack’s pulse rate quickened.
“A green Suburban was involved in a minor accident on the 495 Loop Road. It sideswiped another car, then exited the freeway at State Road 7. A witness got the license number. It’s the same vehicle we’ve been looking for. There were two people in the Suburban, according to several witnesses. The Fineberg woman may still be alive. At least that’s what everyone here is praying for.”
“I appreciate the information, Captain. Let me give you my cell number. I’d appreciate you calling me directly if you come up with anything else–no matter how inconsequential.”
“Will do!”
Jack laid the cell phone on the table. “The way things are going, no point in putting this in my pocket. It would probably ring again as soon as I put it away.”
“Jack,” Bob said, “I’ve only got a minute; I need to get back to Liz. I want you to do me a favor.”
“Just ask,” Jack said.
Bob swallowed. He didn’t like doing this, but he felt he had no choice. “It’s about Michael. Miriana told us the guy who kidnapped her intends to go after my son. He threatened the same thing when he had me tied up in my bedroom. There’s no doubt in my mind the man is from the Balkans. His features, his accent, even his clothes were a dead giveaway. We’ve got to get Michael out of there.”
“Bob, I already contacted the Pentagon. They as much as said they thought I was being melodramatic when I asked them to ship Mike back to the States. However, I did get them to agree to keep him out of the field and as far south of the Macedonia/Yugoslav border as possible.”
“Shit!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
As Vitas drove out of the old convenience store’s parking lot, he noticed that the woman was regaining consciousness. Her head bobbed back and forth, as though moving to strains of music only she could hear. He grabbed her arm and shook her. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Please let me go,” she pleaded.
“Maybe I will. What is your name?”
“Doris Fineberg.”
“I think maybe it is a good idea to let you go, Doris.”
“Really?” she said. Color began to return to her cheeks.
“That is what I said.”
He turned into a wooded park-like area and stopped at a little clearing that contained a picnic table and a stone barbecue pit.
“Can I go now?” Doris pleaded, suddenly finding her voice.
“Here is the deal, Doris. I get out of the car and walk around to your side. You wait until I open the door, then you get out. You run until you no longer can see the car. I will then drive away. You walk until you find a telephone somewhere. Call your husband. Or call the police.”
“No, no, I won’t call the police,” Doris said. “I promise.” Her eyes widened in alarm.
He patted her shoulder. “Do not lie to me, Doris. Besides, it will not matter if you call the police. I will be far away by then.” Vitas slid out of the car seat and walked stiffly around to the passenger side. It took him a long time. But she waited, like a stupid sheep. He opened her door and helped her out.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what? I stole your car, beat you, and scared you to death. And now I am going to kill you.”
Vitas watched her mouth open in silent shock when he drove the knife blade i
nto her stomach. He jerked it upward until it struck her sternum. She clutched his knifehand while he let her sink to the ground.
What an idiot! She could have run away, Vitas thought, grinning down at the woman. With this leg, there is no way I could have caught her. Vitas felt the slipperiness of her blood on his hand. A familiar thrill ran through him.
Two hours after nightfall, Vitas stepped from the blackness of the shuttered store’s doorway and approached the car that had stopped a few meters away. He opened the car door. “Right on time,” Vitas said, clumsily lowering himself into the passenger seat of Paulus’ car.
“Jesus! What happened to you? There’s blood all over your pants and shirt. Your hands.”
“What do they say in America? All in a day’s work, Paulus, all in a day’s work.”
The ride to the safehouse took fifteen minutes. As soon as they were inside, Vitas ordered Paulus to bring the first-aid kit into the kitchen.
Paulus knelt on the linoleum floor and raised Vitas’ trouser leg. His hand shot to his mouth and he gagged.
“What’s wrong, Paulus?” Vitas asked. “My wounds making you lightheaded?”
“Holy shit!” Paulus said, looking down at the scabby wounds and seeping blood on Vitas’ leg. “Who did this to you?” he asked, while he rose from the floor and fell into a kitchen chair.
“What difference does it make? Just clean it up.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I’ll see a doctor when I get to Yugoslavia. Just do it!”
PART IV
1999
CHAPTER ONE
Michael entered the 82nd Airborne’s Macedonian Headquarters tent, walked up to Colonel Sweeney’s desk, and came to attention. “Permission to speak freely, sir,” he said.
“Permission granted, Captain.”
