Inside the house, a dull light filtered through from the front rooms and the muffled voice of the man trying to awaken Nika came through the hallway.
Careful son, he’s armed.
I tiptoed closer, pulled my .45 and peered into the front room where the man had gone. Nika was lying with her head awkwardly angled over the arm of a davenport. Her slip was pulled down to her waist, exposing her breasts. Her color was chalky.
Through the doorway I watched the man patting Nika’s face, trying to revive her. Her head flopped to one side. He looked around. I recognized him from in the roster—one of the soldiers. A leer came over his face. He bent and began biting Nika’s breasts. He rubbed his filthy hands on her. I was filled with a sudden need to kill.
Wait! Make your move at the right time, son.
The voice in my head held me back. The thug pulled off Nika’s slip. Then he stood, unfastening his trousers. He growled something in Russian. I didn’t understand what he said, but rape is the same in any language—he was a pervert.
Now son, now!
I covered the ten feet between us in a quick second and caught him as he had one leg raised to step out of his pants.
My gun butt crashed down hard on his skull. He crumpled to the floor like a boneless eel.
I relieved him of his gun and stomped his nuts for good measure, then dragged him into a closet and flung the key from the lock out the window.
My fury had kicked away caution, but I still had enough to resist the impulse to rush back into the barn shooting and take several Russians with me into eternity. If I’d given in to revenge, there’d be nobody to save Nika. Revenge didn’t matter. Nabbing the ring didn’t matter. Only Nika mattered.
Her pallor was ashen and her pulse was weak. A hypodermic needle lay on the table with a tin of white powder and some liquid. Whatever it was, they might have used too much. I had to get her out of there. Dad was right—the only way to win this fight was to leave for another day.
I pulled her slip back up and hoisted her over my shoulder. Then I went through the front and out to the road. The dog began barking again, this time more insistently and in my direction. A dark sedan turned into the driveway with its headlights off and pulled to a stop with the motor running. I ducked in some shadows and waited. A slight figure got out and hurried to the corner window of the barn, spying on the meeting at the same spot I’d been a few minutes before. I recognized the way she moved, which is as individual as a fingerprint. Then light from the window fell across her profile—it was Kimbra.
Go, son, go! And don’t look back! You can’t save them both.
It was all surreal, things coming together at one time and place—the Russian mob’s headquarters, the revelation of Dad’s killer, Nika’s rescue and now Kimbra on the scene. But that’s the way life is sometimes—it can all come crashing down around you and survival is all that matters.
I bundled Nika and ran down the gully as fast as I could. Nika started moaning when I reached the car. I laid her in the back seat and put my coat over her. I found my extra .38 from under the dashboard and put it in her hand, in case she woke up and was frightened. I told her to stay put, that I’d be right back. Her mouth moved but she didn’t make words.
Moonlight filtered through the willows across her body—a haunting image. Even in that mess, with her life slipping away, she was terrible in her beauty.
I ran back toward the barn and ducked down in some bushes some twenty feet behind Kimbra.
Son, you can’t shoot them all—you’re way outnumbered. Why not get the girl to a hospital and call in reinforcements? She can’t use the gun you gave her.
“Dad, I know—by then they’ll all scatter. I may not have another chance to nail the bunch. The R woman ordered Ziggy to kill you—have you forgotten?” It was all spoken inside my head.
Kimbra was moving toward me. I was about to whisper her name, when two muscleheads grabbed me from behind and knocked me to the ground. The air rushed from my lungs like a punctured balloon. They were on top of me before I could catch my breath. The next thing I knew they were dragging me into the commie barn.
Dad wasn’t offering advice now—I didn’t blame him for giving up on me. At least he had the wisdom not to say he told me so.
They put me on my knees, held my head down and pinned my arms behind my back. I turned my head to one side to see one very ugly man rip through my pockets and take my .45, holding it up for his playmates to admire. Then he opened a long switchblade and waggled it in front of my face.
Alayna took a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back. Her breath was like pig shit on a hot day.
“Little D’Angelo, I see—you’ve decided to drop in for visit. Charming. It looks like Vettski and Yefimitch have been sent for nothing.”
I squirmed like I was trying to get away so I could glance at the window. Kimbra wasn’t there. She had to have seen me being dragged inside. Yet they hadn’t made her there.
Alayna took the knife from the big ugly guy and stuck the point into the soft flesh next to the corner of my jaw. “You will talk much about what Nika gave you. Before I am done slicing you.”
It took all of my stupidity to spit in the bitch’s face. Something I instantly regretted. The knife swept along the edge of my jaw, bouncing on the bone and leaving a deep gash. Blood ran down my neck and the whole side of my face went numb except for the fire in the wound. I hadn’t felt pain like that since Korea.
“That’s installment one. Tie Mister Nosey to post. Let him bleed. Check outside to see if he brought comrades. We shall engage in American style democracy—choose the manner of his death by vote.” She turned to the others who were smirking at me with their ugly Russian faces and said, “I nominate Beheading. Slow beheading.”
The muscleheads unhooked a coil of rope and began to wind it around me and the barn post.
Somewhere near the road a car motor started up. Everyone looked around.
“This must be Vettski and Yefimitch,” Peter said.
But the car engine revved up too high. Tires spun and spit gravel. The roar was loud. Then planks, chairs, bodies and dust flew everywhere. Kimbra’s car had burst through the barn doors. I caught one glimpse of the hatred on her face, a face, like mine, that would be forever scarred.
I kicked one musclehead in front of the charging Chevy and he fell under the front wheels. Then I worked furiously to free myself of the rope, which hadn’t yet been tied tight. Obscenities flew in both Russian and English while gunfire and debris erupted from all directions. The other musclehead was groping on the ground for my.45, but I kicked his face in and snatched up the Colt. I plugged two of the Russians who hurtled toward me, sending them back against the trunk of the Chevy, which had ploughed directly into the seated group, throwing a dozen bodies aside, coming to rest against a wide tractor disc, one of those four-foot jobs. Impaled on a disc and split down the middle was the bloody body of Alayna, her brains scattered over the hood of the car. Kimbra hung out of the open door with blood running from a bullet hole in her head. I didn’t have to check her pulse. Revenge had killed Kimbra long before—the Kimbra I’d never forget and had dreamed about died much earlier.
I ran outside, bumping into bodies trying to get away. I shot one in the leg and the other in the back. I sprinted to the gully and reached the Buick. I’d lost some blood but didn’t care. Nika was still moaning. I grabbed the .38 from her hand and fired up the engine just as headlights from the cars around the house cut through the blackness, moving fast out on to the road in both directions. We were well hidden under the willow, but once they discovered I wasn’t among the dead, they’d be after me.
Nika’s breathing was shallow—I had to make a run for it. If I could make it to a doctor, she had a chance. I’d notify the local law and call Gerard—with what I had they could nab leftovers.
“You were right, Dad. But I didn’t see any other way to play it,” I said aloud.
No answer. “Yeah, maybe I’m nuts for talk
ing to a voice in my head.”
The Buick roared and spit dirt up to the road. I tooled down Klaxton just as high beams blinded me through the blackness. I held to the center of the road. At the last instant, a roaring Plymouth swerved and flipped into the ditch. A white Ford, with its lights off had zoomed past in the other direction. It wheeled around and roared up fast behind, ramming my bumper to force me off the road.
At the intersection a bullet exploded through my rear window and out the front. The Buick fishtailed toward town. I floored it. The headlights in the rear view mirror couldn’t keep up.
I kept talking to Nika, telling her how things were going to be; that she was safe now; how I’d never let anything hurt her again; how she had to hang on—for us. I babbled things that came from a place inside me that seemed strange and distant. A sick panic pressed me on. That and a sinking feeling from all the blood that had run down my side.
When I checked the rear view mirror again, the headlights were gaining. When they got within a hundred feet, I stuck my .45 out the window and jerked off a couple of rounds. They returned fire but slowed. Nika murmured my name, over and over. I begged for her to hang on, that we were almost there.
I was doing ninety when I hit Main Street. The Ford slowed to a stop like they were deciding whether to follow. Steam poured out of their radiator. My shots had disabled it. Turning the corner past the bank, I spotted the sheriff and Gerard standing in front of his sedan. I was never so happy to see a sawed-off gumshoe.
My tires squealed to a stop. I scrambled out and lifted Nika from the back seat. She was barely breathing, and her skin was cold.
My bloody self and the prostrate Nika gave Gerard’s face a look like a troubled boy in the principal’s office. The sheriff helped me take Nika inside and place her on a cot. She looked blue and cold in the glare of the neon lighting. I held her hand and said a prayer that was an angry demand. God owed me. I told him so. God knew I’d been drifting; God and Mr. Daniels knew. It was time things worked out. It was time something beautiful was saved. Then I passed out.
Son, you did a great job out there. I just wanted you to get away. Still protective I guess.
“Dad, I’m not conscious so why can’t I see you?”
Rules, son. We have a few rules meant to save us from our own stupidity. Guess they figure if you could see us, and where we are, you’d give up trying to make it through life on earth.
“Dad, there’s so many things I’d like to talk to you about, ask you.”
I know, but I have a quota I can use with you each period. When I reach class five I can chat longer. For now it will have to stay with me warning you about danger. Plus they’ve given us another tool. I’ll tell you about it soon. You’re waking up now.
“Dad? Are you there? Don’t leave!”
Chapter 37 – A good looking scar
When I awoke, still calling for Dad, a nurse was stitching up the gash that ran from the corner of my jaw to my chin. It burned like hell from the disinfectant the nurse had poured in it. It was likely what brought me to.
“That’s a good looking scar you’ll have when this heals,” the nurse said. “But you’re good looking enough. Some ladies might find it attractive—you know, rough tough guy like you with a scar to keep him humble? Do you want me to call your father? You’ve been asking for him.”
I laughed, but it hurt like hell. “What did you pour in it? Cayenne pepper? Sorry, nurse, but Dad’s been dead a few years, though we do carry on a few important conversations.”
The nurse looked at me strange, finished with me and made away just as Gerard walked up to tell me the local doctor arrived in five minutes after I lost consciousness. He was still laboring over Nika, waiting for an ambulance.
“What’s the score?” Girard said. “We picked up Vettski and another duff who won’t be singing in the choir for awhile. Where have you been, D’Angelo? A lieutenant Anthony from NYPD has been bombing my office with messages for you. I talked to him this morning and told him I was headed down here.”
“Thanks,” I said, gingerly fingering the row of stitches on my jaw. “I’ll get in contact with him. The action was at Ratakilova’s farm east of town— Alayna—she’s the ringleader of the commie mafia for the whole Midwest. I’d say she’s really divided about things, lieutenant—split open between a Chevy and a giant tractor disc. Haven’t seen someone cut in half like that since Inchon harbor. Sheriff can show you the way.”
I fished inside my jacket and handed Gerard the letters and the roster. “You’ll find the whole dirty pack out there, and Forrester’s skull in a pickle jar with maybe a few other unfortunates. One car’s in a ditch. The other’s a late model white Ford at the edge of town with a disabled radiator. Those commie perverts drugged Nika because she’d discovered Forrester’s diary and brought it to me.”
“Is that the case you were so evasive about at your office?”
“Yeah—Shut up and listen—there’s more. You can make a big splash deducing this one—it’ll make your career better than six-inch lifts in your shoes.” He softened his expression. I had the little man’s attention, and the pained look on my face meant business. “This is the HQ for the Russian mob. Years ago they took in some of the old Detroit Purple Gang, including the grandson of one of the Bernstein Brothers, one Joe Ambler who’s since been deep-sixed somewhere. He was killed in a dispute over the drug and stolen diamond trade. You’ll find a ton of heroin out at that so-called farm. The Rat woman was the queen of the ring—involved romantically with Forrester, see? She leveraged him for smuggling millions in diamonds from Russia—heroin for diamonds, stolen from the Moscow Museum—it’s all in the letters. They also pulled the strings on a Tri-State operation from Newark—another case I broke a couple months back. If you want more on that mess, Anthony can fill you in.”
His eyes widened when I said millions. He could picture his mug on the front page already, with Mayor Daley kissing his butt. When the wire services got wind of the connection to the Purples, it would be a national story.
“I read about that Jersey mess. Some warden used a killer on personal field trips to prop up the operation—is that the one?”
“Same. Wild Bill Carty. He was wild on the wrong side of the law.”
“Why Mattoon?—nothing here but a bagel factory and farms.”
“Central, removed and exactly that—no one would suspect. Running things from a farmhouse doesn’t invite many crime crusaders. Anyway, Forrester wanted out. He hid the loot in a safe box in Mattoon, right under their noses, and tried to buy his way clear. The Ice Widow didn’t kill Forrester—Stahloff didn’t either—Alayna did. The bitch is mean.”
“And you have proof?”
I put the diamond in his hand. I told him it was one of hundreds on the way to my office in the US Mail. His eyes bugged out like a squashed frog. I could see him salivating trying to add up the numbers. When I laid the copies of the roster on him, they made the little man hop back on his heels. Nabbing the Russian Mafia kingpins would guarantee his entrance into the DA’s office. Still, he didn’t thank me. That wasn’t his way. I didn’t care.
I related details of the meeting I’d overheard. I put a great big bow on the case for him. I didn’t care about the credit; I only cared about Nika.
The ambulance pulled up and they wheeled Nika into it. I sat in the back, my heart in my throat and my jaw feeling like it would fall off. Doc struggled to keep her heart going. She was all limp and pale. I cursed and pled with the doctor to hang on to her, to bring her back, to do something, anything.
***
Later that night I dialed Rick’s home and caught him in dreamland.
“Never leave messages with the flatties out here—they’re not that efficient. I just got word.”
“Good news, Mike. A break in your father’s murder.”
“I just fell into a break about that myself—I’m in Mattoon, downstate. The cops are cleaning out what’s left of the commie rat’s nest. A Cuban or two and
some pals of the old Purples thrown in for good measure. I overheard the bitch leader brag about it all. I know who killed Dad now—same hitman these snakes used to frame me for Big Nose—Ziagorski. The bitch ordered it—Alayna Ratakilova. Only thing, the only proof I have is overhearing the confession.”
“We have some. A thorough search of Carty’s office turned up a .38 in a hidden wall safe. Slugs match your father’s killing. Ziagorski’s prints all over it. That proves Carty used Ziggy for the hit. They were no doubt setting you up for the same sort of send off, leading you out that tunnel. Lucky for you that you escaped. You’ll have to explain to me how you did that sometime, given the wild story I got at dinner from a hot little number named Dottie. I have a feeling she was instrumental in your getaway.”
“You figure they used that tunnel to get Ziagorski in and out of Trenton?”
“No. The tunnel was too recent, a response to security changes in checking vehicles in and out. For years Carty simply stowed Ziggy in his trunk and came and went as he pleased.”
“You mean, every time the dragon bitch here yanked Carty’s chain, he’d get the Zig man to perform?”
“You’ve got it, Mike. There’s more. He got a judge to work on appeals and legal help for Ziagorski, then handed him and Doak favors in stir. Pretty slick. No fingerprints, no murder weapon—careful and clean. If anyone saw or suspected Ziggy, he had an airtight alibi. Federal prison.”
“So that’s the end of it. I wonder how many executions Ziagorski pulled off for the mob.”
“We figure at least six. But the department will have to chase them all down without me. I’m picking up the certificate and gold watch today, pal.”
“Then what?”
“Thought I’d take an excursion out west. Stop by and perchance share inspiration from the most American of games in that stadium where they never play night games.”
“Sure. I know a Cubs fan who’d love to take us. She might like your ten dollar words.”
Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery Page 20
