Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  He changed into street clothes and left the house before his wife had a chance to ask where he was going.

  *****

  Strachey missed Yang’s departure. He returned home at Amy’s request because she was worried about their friend. “Bob, I’m worried about Krystal. I’ve tried calling several times, both to her apartment and to her cell, but there’s no answer. Do you think something could have happened to her?”

  “Do you think we should drive over there?”

  “I just feel that something’s wrong,” she said. “Yes, let’s go over.”

  Krystal’s car was in the parking lot of her apartment building in Southpark. They looked at one another, concern reflected in their faces. When they got no response from knocking on her door, Amy used the spare key Krystal had given her.

  The sun shot horizontal rays across the living room and over the supine body of Krystal Murphy, sprawled face-up on the sofa, her mouth gaping open, and an empty scotch bottle and glass lying on the floor beside her dangling arm.

  Strachey and Amy looked at one another in alarm. “Christ,” whispered Strachey into his wife’s ear, “she’s had a relapse.” A little over a year ago Krystal’s flirtation with alcoholism had brought her very near disaster. She had said nothing to Strachey and Amy, but they had read the signs. To their gratification, she had pulled herself out of it and had seemed perfectly normal. She still drank, but only socially and never over the limit. Until I opened that bottle of Lagavulin in the office, he thought and mentally kicked himself for enticing her into overindulgence. Guilt rose in him like bitter bile.

  “She’s been very unhappy, Bob,” said Amy. “I think it’s more than the break-up with her boyfriend. I’m afraid she has some real issues, the kind of issues that require professional help.”

  Strachey was shocked. He had thought Krystal’s dark moods were a temporary phenomenon, a reaction to the break-up. Normal people got over such things. They moved on with their lives. But Krystal was not getting better, and the thought occurred that perhaps the break-up was a manifestation of her problem rather than the cause.

  Amy knelt beside the sofa and gently shook Krystal by the shoulder while speaking in a soft voice. “Krystal, wake up, honey. It’s Bob and Amy.”

  With a groan Krystal’s eyes opened a slit but remained unfocused. She tried to raise her head, but only groaned again, this time more loudly, as she fell back. Amy turned to Strachey. “Help me get her into the bedroom, then go to the kitchen and brew a pot of coffee.”

  They hoisted a semi-conscious Krystal to her feet and managed to get her into the bedroom where they laid her on the bed, which had not been slept in. “She must have come home yesterday and immediately started drinking,” said Amy. “Go away. I’m going to undress her and try to get her into the shower. I’ll call if I need help.”

  Strachey was not anxious to participate in getting a naked Krystal into the shower, thinking of the embarrassment it would cause her later, if she remembered. “Please, don’t call me unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said and headed for the kitchen.

  A half-hour later Amy led Krystal into the kitchen to a chair. She was fully awake now, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face pale with a tinge of green. Her auburn hair was wet, and she was wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe. She avoided looking at Strachey when he placed a cup of black coffee in front of her.

  “She needs something solid in her stomach,” said Amy.

  “I’ll make some buttered toast.” Strachey found the bread and the toaster and a few minutes later set a plate in front of Krystal who just stared at it for a beat before sighing deeply and taking a small bite. Even in this condition, thought Strachey, she’s an incredibly beautiful young woman. It was hard for him to understand what demons might have driven her to such self-destructive behavior.

  Krystal took another half-hearted bite of toast, still refusing to look at Strachey. Without warning, her face collapsed, and her shoulders heaved with wracking sobs as tears poured down her face. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, “I’m sorry and so ashamed.”

  Strachey and Amy both knelt beside her and wrapped their arms around her shoulders. Strachey was profoundly touched, and his voice caught in his throat. “It’s all right, Krystal,” he said. “We’re here for you.”

  “There must be something wrong with me,” gasped Krystal between sobs. “This isn’t right.”

  “We’ll see you through this,” said Amy, more in control of her emotions than her husband. “We’re not going to leave you alone.”

  When Krystal had regained her composure, Amy called home and told her father that Strachey would stop by for a moment to gather some things, but they would not return home that night. Not for the first time, she was grateful her father was living with them.

  Krystal managed to get the rest of the toast down but could not face the coffee. Amy found some tomato juice in the refrigerator. “You need to rehydrate,” she said. “Drink all of this you can and maybe some water. I’ll see if you have any aspirin. Then, I want you to lie down in your bed until you feel better.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Raymond Yang had had time to gather his thoughts in the wake of the Sunday morning phone call. It had set him on his heels, and he had stammered like a schoolboy when the threats and demands were made. Now, after cool reflection, he thought he knew how to handle the situation. Natalie Davis was probably bluffing. She had to be bluffing. There was no way she had decrypted those files.

  He was nervous when Sunday evening finally came, and it must have showed because his wife was concerned. “Is everything all right?” she asked. She’d made a family favorite, roast beef and mashed potatoes for dinner. The twins were enthusiastically stuffing their mouths while Yang shoved the food around his plate untouched.

  “Of course,” he replied, eyes fixed on his plate. “Just some stuff at work.”

  “You should leave work at the office,” said Susan. “You need to relax weekends. Why don’t you take tomorrow off, and we could take a drive in the country?”

  He barely heard her and grunted noncommittally. She stood with hands on hips for a few moments before busying herself clearing the plates. She thought she might take the twins to visit her mother. Her husband had been uncommunicative and grumpy since Friday evening, and she had had enough. Let him sit and stew in his own juices, she thought. Yang didn’t even notice when she and the children left him alone at the table.

  He waited. It was 9:00 PM before the phone rang. He let it ring a few times before picking up the receiver.

  *****

  Amy finished the call with a feeling of satisfaction. Yang had tried to stymie her by saying he knew the files were encrypted. “If they actually contain anything incriminating,” he said, “you could never break the code.”

  Her response had been immediate and devastating for Yang. “Well, then, do you suppose the authorities won’t be interested in Emerald Trading and the hundred million dollars you’ve siphoned into that account in the Cayman Islands? All of that double bookkeeping must have been exhausting for you.”

  After a stunned silence, he’d asked, “What do you want?”

  She repeated the demand for one million dollars. “And I want it in cash,” she’d added.

  He said it would take some time to gather such a sum, and she gave him two days, saying she would call again Tuesday evening to tell him how to deliver the money.

  “We need to find a place for the exchange,” said Strachey. Amy had filled him in on the conversation with Yang.

  “I agree,” she replied, “but there are other things to think about. We’ve kind of rushed into this thing, and I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  “I think that if Yang is the killer, he may try to repeat his performance. That’s why we’re going to need Krystal.” He had no intention of putting his wife in the line of fire. Krystal was experienced and knew how to handle herself despite her problems.

  That their efforts could end in violence
had been obvious to Amy, and she was frightened, but there was another possibility. “What if Yang isn’t the killer and he just shows up with a bag of money expecting to get his files back? You’re betting a lot that he was responsible for the murders.”

  “You’re right. There are two possible outcomes: he’s a killer, and he’ll try it again, or he’s just a crook. If he’s just a crook, we’ll have to turn the evidence over to the police.”

  “You want Krystal to play the part of Natasha at the meeting.” The idea worried her.

  “Yes. She’ll be armed, and she’s experienced. And she won’t be alone. I’ll be there with my gun drawn and trained on Yang in case he gets the drop on her.”

  “There will be a lot of explaining to do,” she said, now more concerned than ever, “no matter how it turns out. I don’t like any of it. Maybe we should go to the police now and let them handle it.”

  He shook his head. “We can’t count on Curry’s cooperation. And he’s been warned off by our Federal friends.”

  “They can’t ignore the evidence.”

  “Of course, they can. They’re feds. Curry might bring him in for questioning, but the murders won’t be resolved that way. He might willingly serve a jail term for financial fraud, but he’ll never volunteer that he is a murderer.”

  She could not disagree with his logic. “So, we’re stuck with this wild hare plan, and you’re determined to put Krystal in harm’s way.”

  CHAPTER 30

  It was dark. She lay there squeezing her eyes closed in the soft comfort and safety of the bed and the warmth of the blankets. At first, she was confused, remembering sitting in her car outside Yang’s house. What happened next was like something concealed behind a semi-transparent veil that she could pierce only if she concentrated. She remembered coming home and pulling the bottle from its hiding place in the cabinet, then the first drink and another and another until there was no memory. Then more confusion until the cold water of the shower hit her and the pain and nausea began. She remembered embarrassment and crying like she had not cried since she was a child, and tears started from her eyes again and rolled down the sides of her face onto the pillow. Desperation to regain control seized her, and she shut her eyes tight, concentrating on restoring order to her thoughts.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there unmoving until she shoved the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. She was still wearing the terrycloth robe and discovered she was naked beneath it, as naked as she felt before the forces that buffeted her like a strong wind in a storm against which she had to struggle to move forward. She went into the bathroom, switched on the light and looked at herself in the mirror. Staring back at her was a pale face surrounded by a tangle of still damp auburn hair, but worst of all was the frightened expression, and fright was an emotion she had adamantly exiled.

  She could hear the television from the living room and realized someone was out there. It must be Strachey and Amy. She had no idea what time it was, and her watch was missing from her wrist. She found it lying on a night table and saw that it was nearing midnight.

  She didn’t want to face her friends, but she couldn’t hide in the bedroom forever. Screwing up her courage, she dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt and walked out to the living room.

  Amy turned at her entrance. Strachey’s head rested against the back of his chair, and she could see he was asleep. Amy had been watching an episode of a British mystery series, and she switched the television off when Krystal entered. She stood and smiled. “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Nearly human,” said Krystal and suddenly realized she was hungry. “I’m going to make a sandwich,” she said, and turned toward the kitchen.

  Amy followed. “Let’s let Bob sleep. “He’s had a long day, and he’s terribly worried about you. Do you feel like talking?”

  Krystal found a package of baloney and some cheese in the refrigerator and set about constructing a sandwich. Do I feel like talking? What did she have to say, really? That her life was a mess, and she didn’t know why? How could she express how she felt? She had spent most of her adult life suppressing her emotions, fearful that in her male-dominated profession emotions would make her weak, vulnerable to misogynistic criticism of being “soft.” So, she had locked her emotions away to be brought out occasionally in private moments and viewed like family jewels in a lockbox. In a flash of revelation, she again recognized a kinship between herself and Padruig Nessmith.

  She stopped working on the sandwich and turned to face Amy. “I think I do need to talk to someone,” she said. “I guess you’re elected.”

  “Make a sandwich for me, too,” said Amy, “then sit down here at the table with me.”

  Sitting across the table from Amy, she felt that if she did not lower her defenses now, she would burst. “I’m not very good with emotions,” she began.

  *****

  “We should leave her alone today,” said Amy. She and Strachey were driving home. It was 4:00 AM. “She has a lot to think about, maybe some personal reassessment to do.”

  “Tell me all about it tomorrow, er, today or whenever,” yawned Strachey. “Let’s catch a little shut-eye. I’m exhausted.”

  “Bob, you slept most of the night. You were sawing logs.”

  “I’m emotionally distressed.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder. “That’s not funny.”

  “Guess not,” he said. “You think she’ll be OK?”

  “Well, I’m no expert, but last night was cathartic for her. It’s something that’s been building for a long time. But your plan to use her to entrap Yang worries me.”

  “What about the booze?” he asked. Another bout with a bottle and his plan would go up in smoke.

  She looked out the window. There had been a light rain in the night, and the streets were wet. “I don’t know,” she said. “Alcohol is an escape for her, but I suppose that can be said of almost any alcoholic.”

  “So, you think she’s an alcoholic?” He was feeling guilty again for drinking with her in the office, especially the episode with the expensive scotch.

  She shook her head. “Like I said, I’m no expert. That’s something for a specialist to decide. I think she needs psychotherapy to work everything out. She has real issues, and they’re snapping at her heels like a pack of wolves right now.”

  Strachey said, “It must have been the break-up with her boyfriend that triggered it.”

  “Whatever it was, it burst the dam. She’s going to need us.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  He drove on for a while, the tires making hissing sounds against the wet pavement. “Do you think she’s still able to work?” he asked.

  “We’ll see. She seemed OK when we left. I think our talk did some good. But we shouldn’t push her.”

  “You’re right, of course, but a lot depends on her right now.”

  Could he in all good conscience ask her to do this? Krystal would risk injury or worse if things went bad. He knew she would accept the risk without question, perhaps even welcome it. But, still her safety might in the end depend entirely on Strachey’s own skills.

  There was a contingency he had been holding in reserve, and as he lay awake next to his wife, he turned it over in his mind again and again.

  CHAPTER 31

  Krystal had shown Amy the two remaining bottles of scotch in the kitchen cabinet and asked her to take them away. It was a first step. The rest of Monday she would take off, find something mindless to watch on TV, and prepare herself for the rendezvous with Yang the following night. Strangely, though she was alone again with her thoughts, escape into a bottle held no charm. She had succumbed three times over the past week, and it could not continue.

  The plan for Tuesday night kept her mind occupied. Action, she thought, was the antidote to what ailed her. She half hoped Yang would charge her with gun blazing.

  It was nearing noon when her cell phone rang. It was Wolf. “Can you meet me right away? I can’
t get away from the office for long, and I’m on my lunch break.”

  Wolf’s voice was pregnant with suppressed excitement.

  “OK, she said,” suddenly pleased to have an excuse to get out of the apartment. “Where are you?”

  “You live near Southpark Mall, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was interesting that he knew where she lived.

  “Meet me at Paco’s Tacos in ten minutes.”

  “Um, OK.” She exchanged her T-shirt for a bra and cotton blouse, combed out her hair, and headed for her car.

  Wolf was already at a table in the restaurant when she arrived. He waved her to join him. “I ordered some cokes and tacos,” he said, “to save time. I have to get back to the office before Curry gets curious.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It seems the shit has hit the fan with Natalie Davis.”

  Krystal thought immediately that somehow the cops had learned of Amy Strachey’s impersonation of Natasha.

  “How so?” she asked cautiously.

  Wolf gave her a long look, which worried her even more.

  “Someone took a shot at her last night,” he said.

  She sat in stunned silence for a few beats before she realized that her jaw was hanging open.

  Wolf continued, “I thought you should know. The Feds are all over themselves, more certain than ever that the Russians are behind it.”

  “Tell me what happened. When did it happen? Was anyone hurt?” The questions tumbled out of her.

  “It was around nine PM last night. Mrs. Davis and a CIA security guy – they replaced that girl – were in the kitchen, and a shot came through the window narrowly missing Mrs. Davis. The bullet came from a high-powered rifle. The security guy stayed on top of Mrs. Davis in case a hit team charged in and called for back-up. The entire neighborhood was locked down within ten minutes, but whoever fired the shot got away clean. They’re tamping down news of the incident and the Feds have taken Mrs. Davis to a safe site.”