Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  They took a taxi to a car rental agency in New Haven. Vee handed over a fifty so the taxi driver would wait with Nick in the back seat while she made all the arrangements—always a bit tricky when not using a credit card. No sense adding to the number of people who could recall seeing the two of them together.

  On the drive to the eastern suburbs they paused long enough for a fast-food drive-thru and a visit to a discount store to pick up clothes and essentials like toothbrushes, soap, and groceries, plus a prepaid cell phone and a ball cap to shadow her face. Vee might be ready to drop, but she couldn’t put off the shopping. The trip back from where they were going wasn’t easy. And with the acquisition of a prepaid cell phone she restored their lifeline to Homeland Security.

  Small-town New England—despite the urban sprawl along Route 1, the old Post Road from Boston to New York—was a plunge into a different world. Here, the Thirty-fourth Street dirt that lingered on their clothes, the bandage and distorted face peeking out from under Nick’s floppy hat provoked second glances, swiftly lowered eyes, and not a few questioning frowns. To the most blatantly curious at the discount and grocery stores, Vee murmured, “Auto accident,” and marched straight on, while Nick, using the shopping cart as a walker, followed on her heels. Now, as she drove toward the center of one of the country’s oldest towns, the humor of it struck her. Big, bad Sergei Tokarev pushing a shopping cart through Target at eight-thirty in the morning, meekly heeling behind a female FBI agent. If she’d had someone to take a picture, she could have blackmailed Nick into talking. If, that is, he ever remembered what was locked inside that gargoyle head.

  They drove down Main Street in the classic New England town, which had once been a center for religious rebels intent on escaping the strict tenets of Massachusetts Puritans. Two churches and the Town Hall were perched on a central green, facing a row of two-story buildings with shops below and living space above. Post office, bakery, candy store, stationery, clothing boutiques, cafés. One of the churches—the one attended by Vee’s Great Aunt Victoria when that venerable lady was in town—had celebrated its 350th anniversary a few years ago. Although the building itself had been replaced a time or two, this was the church where the local ministers met to lay a contribution of books on a table and plan the founding of a university named for philanthropist Elihu Yale. And, just in case anyone wondered, the church archives held bills of sale for the land it had bought from the local Indians.

  A lot of history, Vee thought as she turned sharp right at the end of the green and headed south toward the shoreline. Surely, here they could find respite, catch their breath, re-group. This town was part of bed-rock America, its very air filled with the right to live out one’s life in freedom.

  Just before a low underpass that flooded with each full-moon high tide, Vee turned left, swiftly moving from town center to an area of tree-shaded late twentieth century homes with perfectly landscaped yards fronted by a line of mailboxes along the winding road. “Not my world,” Nick said, with something that might have been wonder in his voice. “I recognized the city. This, I am sure I have never seen before.”

  “Good. Then no one will think to look for you here.”

  “They will look for you instead,” he pointed out with cool reasoning that exploded in Vee’s head with far more punch that the remark deserved. He thought her an idiot, negligible at best. A pretty face, to be tolerated until he was strong enough to ditch her with all the regret of ridding the world of a gnat. He’d be off and running without a single twinge of regret.

  She was his bodyguard. The keeper of a man who might hold thousands of lives in his hands. She couldn’t afford to be angry, hurt, or dwell on worst case scenarios. Vee unclenched her teeth and told him the truth. “We’re going to a house that’s registered in the married name of my father’s aunt. You got that? In the name of the husband of the sister of my father’s mother. It’s really, really unlikely that anyone outside my own family is going to figure it out. And my family is about as reliable as . . . as God. So give me some credit here. If not for me, you’d be dead already.”

  Nick shrugged. “Nichevo. Is your show. Without you, I am roadkill, yes?”

  Vee frowned. What happened to Nick’s perfect idiomatic English? Was he turning into Sergei Tokarev before her eyes? “There are a few other things I haven’t passed along,” she said as she took a left fork onto an even narrower, more winding road, enclosed in a solid phalanx of trees. “In addition to qualities like ruthless and efficient, they told me Sergei Tokarev was handsome, a man with an eye for the women. Capable of amazing charm when it suited him. That he spoke good English, but with a heavy accent.”

  He pounced. “So I not Sergei Tokarev.”

  “Not until now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Vee saw Nick stiffen, his lips drawing into a thin line. He was silent as they drove across an old bridge over the mainline railroad tracks that ran along the Connecticut shoreline to Providence and Boston. “Told you,” he finally muttered. “With this face I couldn’t possibly be handsome. I’ve got about as much charm as Attila the Hun, and my English is as good as yours. No way am I some Russian wiseguy.”

  Wow. Just like that, the cloak had dropped back in place. This was Nick, beating vic, fresh out of the hospital. So who was the man behind the green eyes that had lit up at the sight of her black leather mini skirt and tight silk knit? For a moment, just a moment, she had caught a glimpse of Sergei, the charmer, the man who liked women. After that, it had been Nick, the sick guy. Angry, hostile, frustrated. Bewildered. Ready to seize any helping hand in a crisis. Nick, who would use her, then toss her away like an old bone.

  Almost, she preferred Sergei.

  Obviously, there was something about this man they’d all missed. But no time to think now. The last link in their long escape was in sight. Vee drove out of the trees and down a steep hill into a tiny shorefront community. Docks to the right, businesses along two short blocks on the left. A few Victorian-style homes scattered along the fringes. Dear God, they’d made it. They were almost home free.

  Thankfully, this wasn’t high season. Early morning in mid-September enabled her to find a parking space near the largest dock. Vee locked the car, handed one of two large canvas carryalls to Nick, took the other one herself. Dutifully, he followed behind as she crossed the dock toward a sturdy tour boat. She waved to the captain. “Hey, Charlie! Glad you’re still running. I’d have hated to swim for it.”

  The forty-something captain with dark curly hair grinned up at her. “Hey, yourself. Long time no see. Not to worry. Things get pretty quiet after Labor Day, but I’ll be around another month or so, mostly on call. Or for charters.” He paused, took a good look at the two of them. “Need a little R & R, Vee? This is the place.”

  As they crossed the short, steeply canted gangplank—the tide obviously at low ebb—the captain grabbed both heavy canvas bags and heaved them into a corner of the aft deck. “Mind giving it another ten minutes to see if anyone else comes along?” he asked.

  “To tell you the truth,” Vee said, “I’d just as soon nobody knew we were here. Let’s call this a charter, Charlie, and you never saw us.”

  The captain didn’t so much as raise as eyebrow. “Can do,” he announced cheerfully and swiftly shipped the gangplank. He entered the wheelhouse, and twin diesels roared to life.

  Nick scanned the harbor with narrowed eyes, decided he didn’t like what he saw. It looked like he was about to be marooned on some damned island. Trapped. Surrounded by water and so many nasty-looking rocks he couldn’t count them all. Everywhere he looked, rocks. Treacherous little rocks visible only at low tide. Rocks the size of train cars scattered starkly over the horizon. Rocks big enough to support trees and houses. All in all, an area that screamed, “Boaters, beware!” He could only hope the captain knew his business.

  One consolation: any stranger trying to navigate his way through this nightmare of granite obstacles was going to end up swimming. Or worse. So maybe M
s Frosty wasn’t so crazy. He could turn being marooned with Valentina—a good Russian name—to his advantage, he knew he could. Or Sergei could. The trouble was, he’d lost his looks, and he didn’t much like Sergei. Gangster, mobster, wiseguy. Lover. He was none of those.

  Not that lover was bad, but women weren’t his top priority; that much was conviction, not speculation. And besides, no matter what her orders, Frosty wasn’t going to fall into the arms of a guy who looked like Vin Diesel after a bar fight followed by a car wreck.

  Vin Diesel. Hollywood. Extreme action movies. The memory played odd tricks. He could recall a rough, tough action hero, but not himself. “Black houses?” he grumbled to the woman slumped at his side.

  “They say Captain Kidd used to hide his ship in a cove over there,” she told him. “The houses on that island like to promote a pirate atmosphere. Among other things, if you live there, you have to paint your house black.”

  “Right.” Nick shook his head. Add one more proof to the theory that people with money were weird. Not that it might not be cool to live in a black house tucked under trees on a hunk of granite that once sheltered pirates, but right now close neighbors they could do without. And there seemed to be a whole cluster of ominous black homes squeezed onto the island, as many as eight or ten. But Captain Charlie never slowed, keeping the boat on a steady pace for wherever Frosty was taking him.

  How many islands were there? Nick wondered. They seemed to go on forever. There was even one that was only large enough to support a single home, built on stilts. No trees, not even a blade of grass. Frosty’s island seemed to be the end of line, with open blue water beyond. No more rocks. So maybe not so good, if the bad guys moved in from the west. But what the hell, it was better than camping out in a some no-tell motel.

  Only one house on this island and lots of greenery. A three-story white clapboard Victorian with elaborate gingerbread, set in a nest of tall trees on the crest of the island. Definitely the queen of safe houses. As the captain pulled up to a well-maintained dock next to a equally sturdy boathouse, Nick had to restrain a smile of satisfaction. He bet those big double-doors hid a boat as perfectly kept as the dock. Escape. They weren’t going to be marooned, after all.

  Now if he could only find the strength to get off the damn boat, walk up the rise to the house, climb the steps to the porch, and find his way to a bed. Which was probably at least one more flight up. Govnó!

  Nick’s mood improved ever so slightly when he saw Frosty stagger a time or two as they climbed the path to the house. She’d grabbed the bag with the canned goods, leaving him the one with the clothing. Good little bodyguard, a real Girl Scout. But he groaned when she lifted a fake rock at the foot of the steps to the front porch and took out a key. The damn place was about as secure as a public park on Staten Island.

  “You have a better idea, I’m listening,” Vee snapped as she stamped up the stairs to the gingerbreaded porch, threw back the screen door, and turned the key in the lock. “Maybe we can hitch a ride to the moon with NASA. Sorry, I forgot. They don’t do that anymore.”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Your thoughts have been loud and clear ever since we walked up the gangplank.” The canvas bag thudded onto the wooden floor.

  Nick dropped his bag beside hers. “Wasn’t walking the plank something pirates did to their prisoners?”

  “You can always go back down and jump off the dock.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?” Vee caught the note of exasperation behind Nick’s banter. So he was hurting. Too bad.

  More than that, she had to admit, after taking a second look. His skin had taken on a gray pallor beneath the stitches, the swelling, and the bruises. No wonder Charlie had offered to help bring the groceries up to the house. And she in her stiff-necked pride had refused the offer, never thinking of Nick who was supposed to have had an easy ride to the airport, followed by a cushy flight on a private jet to some equally cushy safe house. Instead, they’d had a barrage of bullets, an all-out rush for the subway, a winding path through the tunnels under Manhattan, a train ride to Connecticut, a shopping excursion, and a boat ride to what must seem like the end of the earth to a low-life city dweller like Sergei Tokarev.

  A fine keeper she was. The way she was going, she’d finish him off before he ever had a chance to regain his memory or consider joining the ranks of the good guys.

  Vee turned the dead bolt on the front door. “Okay, come on.” Supporting Nick by one arm, Vee started toward the central staircase. “You’ve got your choice of six bedrooms upstairs, and that’s not counting the servants’ quarters on the third floor.” She placed his left hand on the newel post, resumed her grip on his right arm. “Up we go, big guy. You can make it. Because there’s no way I can carry you.”

  Half way up, Nick ground to halt. Patiently, Vee waited, assuming he needed to catch his breath. “Double bed?” he inquired. Hopefully.

  “In your dreams.”

  “Not good, so many bedrooms,” he muttered.

  With Nick’s eyes hidden beneath his floppy hat and his facial muscles still unresponsive, Vee couldn’t tell if that remark was a taunt or a valiant attempt at humor. No way did she want to like this guy, but he was growing on her. She had to give him points for courage.

  Vee sat Nick down on one of Aunt Victoria’s guest room beds, a high-standing double, complete with ecru hand-crocheted bedspread and lamps with genuine Tiffany shades. She removed his shoes and belt and tucked him in. He was docile as a child. But as she pulled the covers up to his chin, his hand closed over hers. “You chose room with double bed. You join me, no?”

  Sergei was back, and Vee was too tired to care. “No,” she repeated gently, disengaging her hand. She paused, waiting for his response, but he was already asleep.

  Vee closed the bedroom door, locked it from the outside. She scowled at the length of the hallway, the challenge of the imposing staircase. All she wanted to do was flop on her own bed, but the load of groceries couldn’t be ignored. Food was as essential as sleep, and from Outer Island there was no quick run to the corner store.

  She was stowing a pound of ground beef in the refrigerator when the night’s events finally caught up with her. If she’d missed a bug . . . if the bad guys came for them, it was game over. There was no back-up. Just Valentina Frost between Frankenstein’s monster and the bad guys. And she didn’t even know who the bad guys were.

  Vee sighed, her shoulders slumping under a burden that had exploded into far more than she’d bargained for. Wasn’t agreeing to whore for her country a big enough sacrifice? Somehow, when Wade Tingley briefed her, she hadn’t really gotten the message. She’d been so busy absorbing whore that she’d missed the nuances of bodyguard duty. The part where she might be called upon to take the bullet for a wiseguy who knew something vital to national security.

  So she couldn’t collapse just yet. She had to make a phone call.

  Chapter 5

  Vee came awake, knowing instantly she was in trouble. Nick, who was supposed to be locked in his room, was sitting on her bed, tucked into the curve of her waist—green eyes fixed on her face, one large hand wiggling her own damn gun in a ghastly parody of Naughty-naughty.

  “You need bodyguard,” he informed her kindly. “Not good sleep while strange man wanders your house.”

  “You may be strange, Sergei, but you’re not a stranger.”

  He cocked his head to one side, transferring his rapt attention from her face to the nine-mil. “I tell you keep it under your pillow, but not good idea with a Glock.”

  He was hatless, bandages on full display, his shaved head beginning to show a dusting of dark fuzz. Instead of looking invalid weak, he was a girl’s worst nightmare. He loomed over her, so close she could smell the soap from the shower he’d somehow fitted into his schedule before picking the lock on his room. Bastard!

  “I hate to tell you this,”Vee returned through narrowed lips, “but the experts say your problem is am
nesia, not multiple personalities. So can the act, and bring back Nick.”

  “Experts, shmeckperts, what do they know?” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the oddity of two personalities occupying his battered body. He leaned even closer, the hand with the gun pressing into the bed. “I must tell you, Valentina Frost, that you are not sufficiently paranoid to make a good bodyguard. You should have put me in a room with a deadbolt and hidden your gun.”

  “Maybe it’s all part of my plan to make you think I’m not dangerous,” Vee shot back, before she recalled exactly what her mission was with this man. Back-peddling fast, she added, “I mean, we’re supposed to be working together, right? I’m the girl who’s going to help you get your memory back.” It was a reach, but she managed a come-hither smile, a flash of fluttering eyelashes. “You know—you, me, mutual preservation. Trust.”

  The skinhead gargoyle face descended until his swollen lips were a scant two inches from her own. “Sergei will fuck you before he kills you,” he whispered. “Me, maybe I only fuck you. I’m not fool enough to bite the hand that feeds me, so I think I’ll keep you around as long as you’re useful.” Nick sat up. Using the Glock as a pry bar, he pulled the bedcovers down to her waist.

  Vee shivered as the cold black metal bit through the flimsy lavender nothing she’d bought to sleep in instead of a sensible cotton tee. At the time she’d told herself it was all part of her job. Now, she questioned her sanity. She couldn’t do this, she really could . . . not . . . do this.