by Wendy Tyson
“I guess,” Vaughn said. That was all he got out before the sound of approaching voices shut him up.
Twenty-One
The voices got louder, rising above the sound of Vaughn’s whispers and the blood rushing rapidly through Allison’s veins. It sounded like three men. Startled, Vaughn closed his mouth, eyes wide, body tensed like a wild cat sighting prey. “Come on,” he mouthed. “It’s coming from the front.”
Allison didn’t need prodding. She flicked off the flashlight. Night was complete now, and the only solace was the glow of the moon flowing through the hole over the cabinets. Quietly, she started toward the back room, finding her way with a combination of memory and groping. Then she thought of the bathroom.
“Shit, Vaughn, we need to close that door again.”
“I’ll get it. Just get in the back room.”
Allison waited, her back up against the wall near the door to the rear of the cabin. Vaughn moved like a cat, gliding back to the broken board that had covered the bathroom entrance. He worked silently while Allison strained to hear what the men were discussing. Their voices were only a low murmur, though, competing with the chorus of crickets and her own barely-controlled breathing.
Finally, Vaughn was back by her side. “I did my best. One of the nails is missing, but it should hold for now.”
Allison nodded, aware even as she did so that he probably couldn’t see her. She led the way back through the door and into the rear room, Vaughn’s hand clasped in her own. Once in the back room, she heard the unmistakable sound of the board that covered the front door coming down. Whoever it was wasn’t worried about being heard. The boards gave way with a loud crack just as Allison and Vaughn were climbing back through the window, into the humid night air.
Still barefoot, Allison stayed against the dilapidated cabin and made her way toward the front of the building. She could feel Vaughn behind her. From their hiding spot behind the bushes, they watched the cabin. Light glowed from flashlights bigger than their own. The men were inside the cabin, sweeping the interior with powerful beams. Allison started to move toward the light, but Vaughn put a restraining hand on Allison’s shoulder. “This way,” he whispered.
Allison followed Vaughn, back around the rear of the cabin, through the brambles shrouding the side of the building that faced the woods, and around the side where the kitchen stove had been. There, from their perch on a small hill, they could see inside the cabin. One man was walking around the rear room, his bobbing flashlight all that was visible. The other two were standing in the middle of the front room. One was talking.
“Oh, Lord,” Allison said.
“Who is it?”
“Looks like Dominic and Alex.”
“Francesca’s nephews?”
“The very same.”
“Why would they be here?” Vaughn asked.
“I don’t know. Maria said they didn’t believe her. Maybe they had second thoughts.”
“Or they’re searching for us.”
The thought gave Allison pause. “You’re right. Vaughn, your car is at their house. All they would have to do is ask Jackie, and she’d point them to this cabin. They know we came here. They probably saw the glow from our flashlight.”
Vaughn took a deep breath. “Who is the third man?”
“I don’t recognize him.”
Vaughn was silent for a minute. “What do you want to do? We can make a run for it, but in the dark, without being able to use our flashlight, we could get lost.”
“No,” Allison said. “We confront this head on.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back inside.”
Katerina Tarasoff died six years ago, at her home in Kremsburg, surrounded by family. Mia found an obituary in a Russian-American newspaper, but it told her little other than the woman’s age at the time of death (68) and the fact that she was survived by a husband, three sons, one daughter and twelve grandchildren. No mention of the landfill. No mention of the Russian Mafia, either. But then, Mia mused, there never is.
Mia was sitting in her living room, Buddy at her feet, reading the obituary online. Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, all that was left, a thin orange line, helpless against the pressing darkness.
The chickens had been tended to and the sheep were in the barn for the night. Mia toyed with what her next step should be. She still hadn’t heard from Allison or Vaughn, and Jason hadn’t called her back.
Mia printed off the information she’d found on the Internet. The location of the landfill, the number for its corporate offices. And a series of articles tracking the history of the Mob in Scranton, including a statement by one local official that after the death of Vladimir Tarasoff, Katerina’s father, the Mob’s connection to the region had died, too.
It certainly seemed like the family kept a lower profile these days. Katerina’s oldest son, Nicholas, along with his father, Andrei, ran the family business. The rest of Katerina’s children had moved away. The daughter lived in New York City, one son was living in California and the youngest, Benjamin, resided near Allentown, Pennsylvania with his wife, where he was a professor of engineering. She’d make a visit to his university tomorrow morning. Maybe Mr. Benjamin Gretchko could shed some light on the true nature of his father’s business.
Allison watched the three men as they finished casing the cabin. Alex looked genuinely worried, Dom seemed angry, and the third man had a take charge demeanor that rivaled even Dom’s domineering persona.
After psyching herself up, Allison took a deep breath and walked through the front entrance. Vaughn agreed to stay behind, watching from outside in case anything happened.
“Looking for me, gentlemen?”
All three turned toward the door, taken momentarily off guard.
“We thought we might find you here,” Alex said. “Jackie said you were asking questions.”
Allison nodded. “Maria called me. She said Francesca was being held here against her will.”
Dom and Alex exchanged a glance. “Then you haven’t heard,” Dom said.
“You found Francesca?” Allison asked, feeling suddenly breathless.
Alex shook his head, slowly, back and forth. “No, Allison. Francesca is still missing.”
“But Maria said—”
Another look passed between the three men. In the light of Alex’s flashlight, Allison got a better look at the third man’s face. He was old and wrinkled, with skin like a Shar-pei. His eyes, his nose, his lips—all drooped downward, as though they had given up on the fight against gravity. But there was a cruelty in his hooded eyes that made a chill run down Allison’s spine. He stared at her like her father used to, as though he were judging her and she was coming up wanting.
She pushed the negative thought away and said, “Tell me what happened, Alex. I got a call from Maria saying Francesca was being held captive in this cabin. But she’s not here. And it doesn’t seem like the police have been here, which is odd because I called them.”
“So it was her who called them,” the third man said to Dom.
“Who is this?” Allison asked. She directed her question to Alex, but it was Dom who answered.
“Reginald. He’s helping us look for Francesca.”
The man with no online record, Allison thought. The family friend.
“Are you here alone?” Reginald asked.
Allison debated what to say.
She didn’t think these men meant her any harm, but it would be better for them to know she wasn’t alone. Just in case. “Vaughn is here, too. He’s outside, looking around.”
Reginald stared first at Dom, then at Alex. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Finally he said, “Let’s go back to the house. There’s nothing more to see here.”
As the men walked toward the door, flashlights drawn, Alex shook his head. He looked wo
rn and apologetic, his dark eyes shadowed in the weepy light. She felt an unwelcome jolt when their eyes met.
“I’m sorry you’ve been pulled into this, Allison,” he whispered. “I really am.”
“Me, too. I just wish I understood what this was.”
“Maria is dead. It happened this afternoon at the processing plant.” Dom spoke with a steady coldness that made Allison wonder whether it was controlled grief lying under the surface or if he was glad to see his sister gone. “When we saw your car, we thought you might know something.”
“The police believe it was an accident,” Reginald said. “There was an explosion at the bottling plant. She was trying to fix an industrial steamer and was...well, steamed to death.” Reginald spoke the last words with disdain, as though dying in such a manner was somehow uncouth.
“Do you believe it was an accident?” Vaughn asked. He’d been quiet the entire walk back to the house, a quiet that Allison recognized as distrust and suspicion. Now he made no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice.
“We don’t know what to believe,” Alex said. They were in one of the Benini estate’s parlors. Formal furniture. Lace doilies, urine-colored from age. Family portraits lined up along the wall, tributes to ghosts from the past. Allison sat on a Queen Anne chair next to Vaughn who, like a bird of prey on the cusp of flight, balanced on an ottoman. Alex paced by the window. Dom and Reginald sat on the couch, on opposite sides, and Allison noticed that neither looked at the other. The tension in the room was thick.
Somewhere a clock chimed nine o’clock. It was late and Allison was tired. Her head throbbed, and her right food stung where she had stepped on a bramble.
She was trying to process this new piece of information. First, Francesca disappears while traveling with Vaughn. Then Paolo dies within an hour of their visit. And now Maria was dead, having been killed accidentally after speaking with Allison? First Impressions had become an angel of death. The thought spooked her, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, warding off the thought.
“Why aren’t the police here?” Vaughn asked.
“They were here earlier. They searched the cabin.” Dom said. “Before you were busy trespassing on our property.”
“Jackie gave us permission,” Vaughn said.
Dom’s hand curled into a fist. “Jackie didn’t have the authority—”
Vaughn matched Dom’s body language, stare for stare.
“Gentleman, please.” Alex spun around, features twisted in exasperation. “Allison, what, exactly, did my sister say to you when she called?”
Allison relayed the gist of the conversation with Maria, leaving out the bit about the tracking device. Some things were better left untold.
“Did she sound afraid, rehearsed?”
“She sounded,” Allison searched for the right word, “rushed. Insistent.”
Alex ran a hand through his hair. “What phone number did she use?”
Allison pulled her phone from her bag. Here at the house, she had reception again, and noticed three missed calls from Mia and one from Jason. She gave Alex the mobile number. “I assumed it was Maria’s cell. When I attempted to call back, no one answered and there was no voicemail.”
Alex peered at the number. “That’s Maria’s cell.” He looked at Dom. “She called at 10:14.”
Reginald said, “That answers that question. She must have made the call from the plant.”
Vaughn, posture still rigid, said, “Would she even have reception from inside the manufacturing facility?”
Alex nodded. “Good point.”
“She could have been outside,” Dom said.
“I don’t think so,” Allison said. “I heard factory-type noises. I’m certain she was inside somewhere.”
Allison watched a look pass between brothers. Reginald stood. “I’ll check with the police to see if they have any additional information. In the meantime, they may want to talk to you, Ms. Campbell. You should remain in town.”
“I was only too happy to talk to them earlier. Remember, it was me who called the police. No one seemed to take me seriously then.” She looked from Dom, to Alex and back to Reginald. “Why is that?”
“We have no idea,” Dom said.
Without another word, Reginald lumbered out of the room and down the hall. Dom followed. When the other men were gone, Alex finally sat. “I’m sorry, Vaughn. Again. For my brother’s behavior.”
“He’s upset.”
“Perhaps. That doesn’t excuse his words or his tone.” To Allison, Alex said, “Reginald is right, though. You should probably stay in the area in case the police want to talk to you. They seem to think it was an accident, but you know how these things go.”
She didn’t really, but she was quickly learning,
“You’re welcome to stay here,” Alex said. His eyes were an open invitation. He seemed to catch himself, though. He looked at Vaughn and said, “Both of you.”
That was the last thing they needed: another night at the haunted mansion. Allison replied, “Thank you, but no. If the police want to find us, they know where we live.”
Vaughn jumped from the chair and walked to the other side of the room, lingering by a portrait of a younger woman. Plain features. Somber expression. Dead eyes. “Tell me, Alex,” Vaughn said, “Now that the others are gone, do you think Maria’s death was an accident?”
Alex mulled the question. When he spoke, his voice had an ache to it that told Allison there was love between the siblings, despite the apparent conflicts. She believed Alex’s current turmoil, wanted to believe he was a good person. His aunt, his father and now his sister. Almost against her will, she found herself wanting to comfort him. But then she reminded herself that everyone in this crazy family was suspect, even the handsome man sitting before her, looking like a young boy whose first dog had died.
“Maria knew her way around animals and machines. If something was broken, Maria could fix it. Do I think she was in there trying to fix the steamer? Absolutely. But if it was ready to blow, she would have known that. So she was either trying to stave off a disaster, or she was set up.” He looked at Vaughn and then quickly looked away. “I’d like to say yes it was an accident, because that would be easier. But I’m afraid the answer is no. My sister was shrewd, smart, and very mechanically-inclined. She kept our machinery in top-notch shape.”
“So you think she was murdered?”
This time, Alex didn’t look away. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
It was almost eleven when Allison and Vaughn drove back down the winding Benini driveway.
“You tired?” Vaughn asked.
“Strangely, no.”
“Me, either. I saw a twenty-four hour diner about five miles down the road. You in?”
Allison looked down at her grass-stained feet and her soiled clothes. She wanted Brutus’s greeting, Jason’s shielding embrace, and a good night’s sleep. But that would never come tonight anyway. It was too late, and home was three hours away.
“Absolutely,” she said, suddenly certain that she wouldn’t be sleeping in her bed for a while. “Greasy diner food would be a fitting end to this day.”
Twenty-Two
The diner was a Greek mom and pop joint named Opa, situated on a busy throughway. Allison and Vaughn arrived at half past eleven. The restaurant had three large dining rooms, but other than a group of rowdy teenagers and a pair of tattooed truckers, the place was empty. An older waitress with a bored smile showed them to a booth.
“Coffee?”
“Hot chocolate,” Allison said. “And soup. Whatever you have.”
Vaughn said, “I’ll have the same. With French fries. And a piece of pie. Blueberry, if you have it.”
The woman nodded absentmindedly and walked away, still writing.
Vaughn yawned. “Hot chocolate and soup. Comfort food.�
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Allison smiled. “My mom used to make hot chocolate when we were little. It was one of her few nods to processed foods. And instead of mini marshmallows, she’d add marshmallow fluff. When my sisters weren’t looking, she’d put extra fluff in my mug. She knew how much I liked it.” Allison shook her head at the bittersweet memory, one of the few good ones she had of childhood. She felt the tears well up at the thought of her mom, and she smiled apologetically. “It’s late and I’m getting sentimental.”
Vaughn didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to—the warmth in his eyes was enough.
She studied her friend. He always wore an armor of reserve, but this current bearing was different.
Tough. Determined. Edgy. This was Vaughn the fighter, and, if she had to guess, it was this Vaughn who’d survived the years in juvenile detention and his time in a gang.
“I want to get a hotel for the night. If you need to go home to Jamie, I understand. I can rent a car.”
“He’s fine. I texted Angela. She’ll stay.”
“She’ll tell him what’s going on?”
Vaughn’s eyes darted toward the truckers. “I’ll email him.”
“You’re keeping him in the dark.”
“I’m trying to keep him safe.”
“Hiding this from him only makes it worse. He can help.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” His eyes flashed with anger. “My brother can’t run away, Allison. He’s a fucking sitting duck, prey for any jackass who wants to make a point. There is only one thing I can do. Understand?”
Allison held his stare and after a moment his gaze softened. “I’m sorry,” he said.”I guess I’m tired, after all.”
“You’re not in this alone. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Do you believe even one of these people? Because I sure as hell don’t. Reginald is a fucking PI? I don’t buy that for a second. And those brothers? Dom with his jacked up attitude. And don’t think I don’t see the way the other one looks at you, like he’s itching to score and you’re a whole pile of the white stuff. And now that crazy sister is dead. Dead, Allison, as in the sun will not be coming out tomorrow.” He shook his head. “What the hell are we mixed up in this time?”
