Doc - 19 - Chasing Midnight

by Randy Wayne White

  Good. It made the Russian less of a threat. But where the hell was Bohai’s wife while all of this was going on? Sakura, that was her name. English translation: “wild cherry blossom.” A benign name for a seditious beauty who’d maintained ongoing affairs with her husband’s rivals. Both of her lovers appeared to be in trouble, so where was their mistress now?

  Hiding, I hoped. But that seemed out of character for the opportunist that Umeko had described. “Rich men marry their mistresses because they have so much in common,” she had told me. “They are both ruthless and both are whores.”

  Bitter words from the bitter daughter of a man who had been murdered tonight. Yet, I couldn’t fault Umeko’s assessment after what I had just learned about the woman.

  I was thinking, Maybe Sakura’s hiding for a reason, which caused a fresh suspicion to bloom in my brain: if Tomlinson saved himself by shooting Armanie or Kazlov—unlikely in itself—Sakura might be waiting for him somewhere outside the room. The woman had already proven she was ruthless. Maybe she had already proven that she could kill. If Sakura wanted revenge, Tomlinson would be a helpless target.

  Instantly, I regretted the seconds I had just wasted by observing, doing nothing. Before sprinting toward the front entrance, though, I took one last look at what was happening upstairs—which is when, abruptly, everything vanished from my mind because of what I saw.

  I watched Tomlinson turn to say something to Kazlov… watched my friend slowly pivot and refocus on Armanie… Then, without additional warning, I watched the pistol buck in Tomlinson’s hands as he fired twice, the slugs hammering the Iranian against the wall, then dragging him downward with inexorable weight.

  I was still yelling “No-o-o-o-o!” as the gunshots careened off the clouds toward the fishing lodge, leaving in their wake a funerary silence of startled birds, of indifferent stars. In that silence, the response I anticipated slowed the seconds. It taunted me with images of Sharon’s face as a bipolar monster chastened her with Scripture, then pressed a gun to her head.

  To my right, from the pool area, I heard the bodyguard holler, “What is happening? Who did you shoot?”

  It was a senseless question because the gunshots had come from inside. The man was on his feet, struggling to walk, as I ran past him. “Stay where you are! Warn me if anyone comes down that path!”

  When I reached the entrance of the house, I checked the rifle to confirm a round was chambered, then tested the door. It wasn’t locked. Through a fogged windowpane, a lone candle shadowed the foyer and great room. They appeared empty, so I swung the door wide, then gave it a beat before stepping inside. The space smelled of cigarette smoke, varnish, synthetic fabric… Then I got the first acrid whiff of saltpeter, the principal ingredient in gunpowder.

  The twins had refused to give me a flashlight, so I had to deal with the Cyclops limitations of the TAM. I took a second to scan the area, the rifle’s bore pivoting in perfect sync with my eyes as I crossed the room to the stairway. From above, I could hear the thudding footsteps of someone running, then a rumble of hushed voices. Words were indecipherable, but it was Tomlinson’s voice; purposeful, as if trying to pacify… then a woman’s voice garbled by her weeping. A moment after their voices went silent, I heard the snare beat of someone running again, then a door slam.

  The stairway was a helix of varnished wood and brass. I charged up the steps, two at a time, rifle at waist level because the scope made the weapon useless at close range. My vision was tunneled by the thermal monocular, which transformed this strange night into a surreal dream. Walls, the darkened light fixtures, all radiated an eerie fungal hue; the heat signature of my own hands was neon bright, so piercing that I kept my eyes straight ahead.

  At the top of the stairs, my ears tried to pinpoint where I’d heard the voices. To my right was a double doorway where heated palpitations told me a candle was burning. Was it the room where Armanie had been shot? I sniffed the air. An odor of freshly sheared copper and patchouli confirmed that it was.

  As I moved toward the opening, Tomlinson suddenly appeared, his feverish black eye glowing brighter than the rest of his skeletal face. When he realized who I was, he tried to hug me out of relief, but I pushed him away.

  “What the hell just happened? Are you okay?” I tilted the thermal unit upward and blinked as my eyes adjusted

  In the candlelight, my pal’s face was a tormented likeness of the Shroud of Turin. His wrists had been taped in front of him, and he still held the pistol in both hands. Fighting panic, he told me, “We’re almost out of time, Doc! We’ve got to get back to the lodge. I feel like I’m drowning in blood—I’ve got to do something right for a change!”

  I pulled the man out of my way and stepped through the doorway, rifle ready. Less than a minute before, I had seen a mirror image of this room from outside. It was a master bedroom: tile, imitation wood, ceiling fans and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

  Abdul Armanie was on the floor near the seaward window. He lay motionless, wide-eyed, face frozen in eternal surprise, his body as misshapen as a rag doll that had been thrown against the wall by a temperamental child. His formal dress shirt was a blotter of red where two dark holes, spaced a foot apart, pinned him to the tile.

  “He’s dead,” Tomlinson said over my shoulder, voice soft, talking too fast. “There was nothing I could do.”

  I was thinking, After you pulled the trigger, you mean? Instead I asked, “Does anyone else in the house have a gun? Where’s Kazlov?”

  “He’s in the next room. He bled to death.”

  “Died just now?” That struck me as implausible. The Russian had been on his feet only minutes before.

  “Ten seconds ago, an hour ago. It’s all a blur, man.”

  I didn’t react. There wasn’t time. We had only ten minutes to get back to the lodge before they shot Sharon—if she wasn’t already dead. With gloved hands, I took the pistol from Tomlinson as I heard a door open, then close somewhere down the hallway. I had to move my friend out of the way again to take a look. It was Bohai’s widow, Sakura. She appeared to be deep in thought, standing motionless outside the room where presumably the Russian had just died. As I wiped Tomlinson’s prints off the pistol, I noted that she had changed from her silk dress into sweatpants and a T-shirt that was baggy at the waist but skintight over her breasts. Kazlov’s clothing, probably. They were about the same height.

  Tomlinson was staring at the woman, too, as he whispered, “Before the lights went out, she and Kazlov snuck off to a guest room or something. One of the twins shot him when he came out to check on the power. I helped them get out of the lodge before those little freaks got another chance. But I didn’t know they came here.”

  I checked the pistol’s magazine, tucked the weapon into my waistband, then used the switchblade to cut Tomlinson’s hands free.

  “Doc, we’ve got to hurry. I delivered their damn invitations, what more can we do?”

  Now Sakura was trying to light a candle as she walked toward us, so I kept my voice low. “Did you leave footprints?” I used my head to motion to the pool of blood. “Did she see you shoot Armanie?”

  The question seemed to confuse the man for an instant or maybe he was already in denial mode. “See me—”

  Tomlinson stopped in midsentence, and we exchanged looks because he had been interrupted by a distant gunshot. Then we winced in unison at the sound of a second gunshot. To me, it was sickening confirmation that Geness Neinabor hadn’t lied about ordering an execution if an unexplained shot was fired.

  Tomlinson’s face showed bewilderment, then outrage. “You don’t think those freaks just shot Sharon, do you? We still have almost ten minutes before they said they would—”

  I glanced at Sakura, then pulled the man into the room to silence him. Hands on his shoulders, I shook him and said, “Answer my question. Did she see you kill Armanie?”

  Tomlinson’s reaction was inexplicable. He looked at me for a long moment, expression unreada
ble, then said, “I get it. You’re worried I’ll be arrested for murder.”

  “That surprises you? I saw what happened through the monocular, so spare me the act. Florida still uses the electric chair, pal.”

  He replied, “Yeah… that’s true,” and turned toward the doorway as if thinking about the woman, then looked at me. Abruptly, his expression changed. “My God… you’re thinking about killing her if she’s a witness—aren’t you?”

  No. It was an option I had considered, true, but not the best option. I shook him again. “Just tell me.”

  Tomlinson was studying me as if suddenly we were strangers and he was now searching my eyes for something familiar; some kindred linkage that would vanquish the creature he had just glimpsed. “No,” he said finally. “She didn’t see me shoot Armanie.”

  “She didn’t come in here after she heard the gunshot? I heard you two talking from downstairs. This is serious, old buddy. You only have one chance to get it right.”

  “I told her to go back in the room, but she didn’t see me shoot anyone. I’ll swear to that. I would swear on every holy book I’ve ever read.”

  I said, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” then turned to intercept the woman before she could get a look at Armanie’s body.

  Sakura had gotten the candle burning, one hand cupped around the flame, which created the illusion that her face was floating toward me, skin a shimmering translucence, her dark eyes wide, lips full in exquisite proportion to a body that had evolved to attract the most powerful males of her species. The woman’s eyes widened, though, when I stopped her in the hallway, saying, “You shouldn’t come in here. It’s better if you don’t.”

  As I spoke, I was aware of a phenomenon I’ve experienced before: a woman’s beauty is diminished proportionally as her character flaws are revealed. It’s the same with men, of course, but the result is disrespect, not disfigurement, and the truth provides awareness, not an unaccountable sense of loss.

  As the woman slowed, then stopped, her beauty vanished, replaced by webs of shadow and the glassine discord of an unshaded candle flame. Sakura looked from me to Tomlinson and asked, “What’s he doing here? Who is he?”

  “My friend’s right,” Tomlinson told her as he moved past me into the hall. “Keep out of this room. Lock the doors when we leave and stay with Viktor. Don’t let anyone in. Armanie’s dead. That was the gunshot you heard.”

  From Tomlinson’s tone, his careful manner, I knew he was trying to send the woman a signal too subtle for me to intercept. But I understood immediately. He had lied to me. Sakura had seen him pull the trigger, but he didn’t want to put her at risk.

  “Dead,” she said, unsure how to play it, and I sensed she already knew that her husband was dead, too. It was communicated by her aloofness, the way her attention focused instantly on her own self-interest; a woman alone in the world and suddenly very rich. “But what about Abdul’s bodyguard?” she asked. “He was outside, can I let him in?” Then Sakura recognized the rifle I had taken from the man and said, “Oh,” as if she’d just made a social blunder.

  I took an aggressive step toward her because I wanted the woman’s attention long enough to plant a subliminal message of my own. “There are two killers loose on the island. They’re twins: blond shoulder-length hair, about five-six, chubby”—I held up the pistol—“and they carry a gun just like this. One of them shot Viktor tonight. You saw the twin shoot him, didn’t you?”

  The woman’s eyes snapped upward, which told me whatever came next was a lie. “Yes,” she said. “I… I’m sure I did.”

  I continued, “Your husband might be dead, too. They were after him—doesn’t mean they would use the same gun.” Sakura was paying close attention as I added, “If they got the chance, they might even stab him—use any weapon handy.”

  I watched the woman nod as her hand moved automatically to the back of her head where earlier in the swimming pool I’d watched her remove an ivory needle and comb so her hair could spill free.

  “They wanted to kill Armanie, too,” I told her, then paused before asking, “Did you see a short blond man run down the hall after you heard the gunshot? The bodyguard didn’t see anything, so maybe you did.”

  Sakura was using her eyes, trying to communicate with Tomlinson, but I stopped her by saying, “Think about it. Lock the doors and try to remember what you saw. The police will ask a lot of questions when they get here. You need to have answers.”

  The woman was assembling details, already putting her story together, because she said, “Identical twins, it’s so hard to say. One of them was wearing…”

  “They’re both in baggy khaki shorts and black T-shirts.”

  Sakura was filing that away as I gave Tomlinson a push. I told him, “Let’s go.”

  20

  As we ran toward the fishing lodge, I felt the Gatling gun vibrations of a helicopter through the earth before I heard its engines. But it wasn’t until we both saw a searchlight probing the water north of the island that my pal reacted with careful optimism, saying, “The cavalry’s coming.”

  Then he added, “I’m scared, Marion.”

  I replied, “Finally, we have something in common.”

  “Not for myself. If they already killed Sharon, do you think they’ll stick to the schedule and kill someone else? I feel so shitty about all this because I’m the one who told Sharon about the caviar weekend. I never mentioned it before.”

  I kept my eyes on the fishing lodge, where a lone window was tinged with light. Of course the twins would execute another person if we didn’t make the deadline. I didn’t say it, though. Instead, I told Tomlinson, “Stop talking and pick up the pace.”

  I hadn’t mentioned the copter right away because my hopes had plummeted in the few seconds it took for me to understand what was happening. The Coast Guard still had no idea what was taking place on the island. They were searching for the electronic transmitter attached to the life ring I had flung overboard two hours earlier. No Más’s EPIRB had drifted free of the island and caught an outgoing tide that streamed toward Big Carlos Pass, five miles away.

  “If we can find a good flashlight, we’ll signal an SOS,” Tomlinson said after I had explained. Then he had to add, “Aren’t you the guy who says to always carry a light?”

  “That explains the corroded piece of junk I found on your boat,” I told him. “Concentrate—we can’t afford any more screwups.”

  Which was true, and my screwups still topped the list. I knew where a very fine palm-sized ASP Triad light was—at the marina, in fifteen feet of water.

  There was another frustrating fact, too: the jars of chemicals I had mixed were no longer in the cottage where Kahn had told me to leave them. I had sprinted ahead to check and had just rejoined Tomlinson when we spotted the helicopter’s searchlight. So Kahn, or maybe Geness, had grabbed the photographer’s vest, afraid I would use the weapons against them.

  Now we were only fifty yards from the lodge, close enough for me to slow down and adjust the thermal monocular as I listened to Tomlinson say, “Or maybe the pilot will notice all the lights are out and they’ll do a flyover and take a look.” He snapped his fingers. “Start a fire. That’s what we need to do. A fire would bring them running.”

  I exhaled in a way that communicated irritation, then knelt to do a quick thermal survey of the fishing lodge. Mosquitoes hovered near my ears, I was sweat soaked from running and my shaky hands were symptomatic of dehydration as I mounted the monocular over my eye. The first spot I checked was the fourth-floor balcony. If Trapper, the Third Planet lookout, was still at his post, he’d have a clear shot at us as we approached the porch.

  It was a good thing I looked. Trapper was there. Instead of a rifle, though, he was holding binoculars to his face. It took me a moment to figure out that he had spotted the helicopter and was watching it continue its low-level search. Judging from the man’s antsy movements, he was scared. He didn’t know I had released an emergency transmitter, s
o he assumed the Coast Guard helicopter was coming after him and his gang.

  Good. The Neinabor twins were sociopaths, but Kahn, Trapper and Densler were nothing but egocentric screwups with terrible judgment. Cowards, too, so the helicopter might scare them into surrendering before anyone else was killed.

  Yeah… Trapper was spooked, because now, as I watched, he was yelling something through the open doorway, yelling loud enough for me to hear but not understand.

  “He’s warning them,” Tomlinson said softly. “He thinks the cops are coming. Let’s hope the Diablo twins panic and run like hell.”

  As he said it, I watched Trapper kneel, get his rifle and disappear into the room in a rush to get downstairs.

  I asked, “How much time do we have?”

  “Six minutes. But it’s not like we synchronized our watches.”

  “I want to be sure of what we’re walking into. Give me another minute, then I’ll get into position. You understand what you’re supposed to do, right?”

  Tomlinson said, “Simple. I call the twins outside and you try to take them from behind. And you’re not going to use the gun unless you have to. You promised.”

  I hadn’t promised Tomlinson anything, and I was tempted to point out that, accident or not, he had forfeited the right to lecture me on the bad karma consequences of violence.

  I replied, “Yep, very simple—unless they decide to shoot before you open your mouth. The important thing is, stop at least ten paces from the porch. That’s important. Get too close to the porch, I’ll lose sight of you from the side of the house. Got that?”

  “What if the twins don’t come out? Or won’t open the door?”

  “We’ll have to play it by ear—but do not get any closer than about ten yards from that porch or I can’t protect you.” The man was thinking about it as I asked, “Are you sure you’re okay with standing out there in the open? I can try to pick them off from a side window before they realize what’s happening.”