by Eskens,Allen
The second part of the fight, the part I’d never mentioned to Niki, happened on the steps of City Hall. I was leaving that day and found Whitton waiting for me. Although he pretended that our meeting was the product of mere chance, I knew better.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You got yourself quite the little geisha there.”
I tried to ignore him and walk away, but he stepped in front of me.
“Don’t think I don’t know why you want her for your partner, Rupert. I know exactly what you’re up to. Got yourself a case of yellow fever. Think you’re going to bang her between calls. Well think again. She’s a frigid bitch.”
My eyelids sank to half mast, which is something I’ve noticed that they do just before I lash out. It probably makes me look more sleepy than dangerous. I started to ball up my fists and the thought of striking a higher ranking officer played out in my mind.
“She struts around like she’s the queen of the fucking Mekong Delta, but in the end she’s a tease. She’ll use you the same way she used me. I’m just another stepping stone, and so are you, Rupert. You can have the bitch—get her the fuck out of my hair. I’m done with her.”
With that, he turned in a sharp twist and walked away. He’d said what he needed to say, and that was the last time that I’d spoken to Commander Reece Whitton.
Whitton ended our silence by clearing his throat and saying. “Yes, Detective. What can I help you with?”
Good, he was going to keep it professional. “I’m looking into a tattoo. I believe it may be a pimp brand. We’ve found it on two different females. I was hoping you might have some background on it.”
“Maybe,” he said, with an air of being an authority on the subject. “We’re seeing more and more of that going on lately. What’s the tattoo look like?”
“It’s a ruble—you know, the symbol for Russian currency. It looks like a capital P with a—”
“I know what a Ruble looks like, Rupert. I’m not an idiot.”
So much for professionalism. “Have you seen any of these around town?”
“Where did you find this tattoo? On what part of the body?”
Does that matter? I thought. “They had the tattoo on their necks, just behind the ear.”
“And you say you’ve seen more than one?”
“Have you seen any tats like that? Can you give me a name?”
“When was it that you came across any of these ruble tats?”
“It’s a cold case that we’re taking a fresh look at. If you have any names we could check out . . .”
“No.” He drew out his words as if giving my query due consideration. “I can’t say that I’ve seen a tattoo like that on any of the girls we’ve picked up. Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
What a waste of time. “Well, I appreciate the input anyway.” I said. “If you come across anything like that, let me know. Okay?”
“Certainly, Rupert.” He gave emphasis to my last name as if it were an insult.
I hung up the phone and stewed in my remembrance of why I hated that prick. I didn’t expect Whitton to be helpful, but it was a bridge that needed to be crossed.
Farrah McKinney walked into the cafeteria at exactly ten o’clock looking like a model from some business-woman’s catalogue: black suit, white blouse—both stiffly pressed, a leather coat over one arm and a computer bag under the other. A far different look than what she wore to the Hen House. I stood as she took her seat.
“How was court?” I asked as a way of breaking the ice.
“Slow. Court is the worst part about being an interpreter. I have to translate legal documents, and my God it can be boring. Lawyers use ten words when one will do. But it pays the bills.”
Farrah lifted the computer bag onto the table and pulled a tiny black thumb drive out of one of the pockets, sliding it toward me. “After the funeral,” she said, “I wasn’t sure what to do with this, so I tossed it into a drawer—just in case I ever got the inclination to send it to you. I honestly forgot about it until you called.”
“I can’t tell you what it means to me . . .” I picked up the drive and held it like a present that I wasn’t allowed to open.
Farrah must have guessed my thoughts and asked, “Would you like to listen to it? I could play it on my computer.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” I said.
She slid her laptop out of its case and flipped it open. I handed the thumb drive back to Farrah and we sat there in an uncomfortable silence as she waited for her computer to wake up. Then she plugged the drive into the port.
“It’s not much. She only spoke for a minute or so.”
Farrah looked up from the computer screen, I suppose to see if I was ready to listen. Then she hit play and I heard the voice of my dead wife fill the air. “Ms. McKinney, this is Jenni Rupert, from the HCMC. We met earlier today . . .with Zoya. I came by her room just now and she’s awake and talking. I’m writing down what it sounds like she’s saying but I can’t make anything out. ”
Jenni must have turned the phone toward Zoya because the girl’s unintelligible rambling became clearer. Then it faded again, and Jenni resumed talking. “I’ve set up a meeting for three-thirty today . . . if you can make it that is. If you can’t let me know, and I’ll reschedule. She still seems frantic, almost terrified. I don’t know what to make of it. Give me a call.” [Beep]
I couldn’t speak past the knot in my throat, so I just sat there staring at Farrah’s computer, letting Jenni’s voice soak in. Yet, mixed with my wife’s voice were the words of a young girl, frightened words uttered in a language that tangled in my ears. I didn’t understand what she said, but I could hear the desperation in her voice.
“The girl in the background . . . that was Zoya, right?”
“I assume so.”
“Can you make out what she’s saying?”
Farrah recued the recording and played it again. At the part where Zoya’s voice gets louder, Farrah said, “She’s talking about wanting to go home.”
“What about the rest?”
“I’ve never really listened that closely before.”
Farrah played the recording a third time, her eyes squinting as she strained to hear the voice behind Jenni’s. “I think she’s saying . . . Don’t call him. Please don’t call him.”
I put my hand on Farrah’s arm to signal for her to pause. “Does she say who not to call? Does she say a name?”
Farrah backed it up and listened again. “I can’t make it out. I don’t—wait.” Farrah hit pause, reached into her bag and pulled out a set of earbuds. She plugged them in and played it again, interpreting as she listened. “’Don’t call him. Please don’t call him.’ Then she says, ‘I just want to go home. I want to go back to . . .” Farrah backed up and played a small portion again. “’I want to go back to’ . . . it sounds like she’s saying Lida.”
“Lida? Does that ring a bell?”
“No, but it sounds like it may be her home town.”
I brought out my phone and typed in a search for Lida. Right at the top was a Wikipedia page, and I began to read. “A city in western Belarus?”
“That would make sense,” Farrah said. “The girl is speaking Belarussian and I can hear the Polish influences in her accent.”
“So, if I want to track down Zoya, I should be looking for a Belarussian from the city of Lida.”
“It’s hard to make it out, but that’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Okay, go on.”
Farrah put the earbud back in her ears and played some more. “She repeats that she wants to go home . . . ‘I miss my mama.’ Then she says ‘don’t call him. Mikhail will know and—’” Farrah sat up straight in her seat, her eyes staring at her computer as though it had become something to be feared.
“What is it?”
She listened again and said, “I never heard this part before. I never listened that carefully.”
“What did she say?”
“It sounds like she says ‘Mikhail will ki
ll me.’”
Chapter 22: Up North
Chapter 22
Up North
As I dig my fourth hole, I can feel roots of fatigue spreading through my shoulders and down my arms. I have a long way to go, and I start to question my plan. What good would all this effort be if I don’t have the strength to complete the opening? I hear those whispers of doubt, and I remind myself that this is about much more than simply opening a hole in the earth to feed him through. If my plan works—if he follows me to where I’m leading him—he’ll understand why he needs to die. He won’t accept it, but he’ll understand.
It’s just a matter of time and pressure.
I adjust my technique again, putting my forearm on the top of the auger at times to give my hands a rest. This lets me use more body weight to push the blade into the ice. I also start switching arms every ten turns of the crank, instead of twenty.
The temperature has dropped a few more degrees, and the breeze has picked up slightly, turning crisp against my cheeks and nose. It will be dark in a few hours. And with the darkness, the drop in temperature will be deadly.
My fingers are freezing and I wad them up into fists inside of my gloves when I can. My size-eleven feet are worse. I’ve always had trouble keeping my toes warm, ever since I can remember. I’ve never experienced frostbite, although I’ve come close a few times, causing the tip of one of my pinky toes to go numb and stay that way for years. Hell, now that I think about it, that toe might still be numb; I‘ve probably just gotten used to it. I consider shuffling my feet or rocking up on my toes to get blood flowing, but I don’t want him to know that the temperature is getting to me.
It’s all about the mind game with this one. He’s lying in the snow, out of the wind, so the cold doesn’t hit him. He’s watching me, with his head propped up like he’s in bed watching television.
I covet his snowsuit. I’m not much bigger than him, but there’s enough difference that I’m sure the suit won’t fit me. I can tell it’s expensive, though. The pants and coat match, and have pads on the knees and elbows. Probably cost him close to a grand. His boots are way better than mine too, expensive, like they were made for an artic expedition. I think about taking his boots, but I can see that they are at least a size too small.
My clothes, on the other hand, don’t match at all. The most expensive piece of my ensemble is the imitation Carhartt coat that I found on a clearance rack at Gander Mountain. My boots are old and green and there’s a slight gap in the left toe where some of the stitching has ripped open. Jenni bought the snow pants for me, gray, nothing fancy.
The last time I wore these snow pants, I took Jenni sledding in Como Park. It was five years ago—our last New Year’s Day together. On our first run down the hill, we tumbled sideways and she ended up on top of me. We laughed and she kissed the snow from my face.
That memory gives me the strength to turn the auger a little faster. I go back to counting, to keep my pace steady: eight, two, three; nine, two, three; ten, two, three. I switch hands and start again: one, two, three . . .
I focus on my breathing, remembering that I should inhale through my nose to warm the air before it gets to my lungs, but my nostrils feel like they have been scraped raw with a blade and the air has taken on a metallic scent. I watch him as I crank. If he tries to slide off again, or wriggle out of his bindings, I’ll see it. He’s looking hard at the hazy tree line on the Canadian shore, his face placid except for a slight smile, the look of a man holding aces.
I stop cranking and examine the hills to the north, seeing nothing of interest. But then I hear it, the howl of a wolf rising up from somewhere deep in the woods, a mournful, throaty wail serpentining around the trees, echoing off the bluffs, and curling past our little nest on the lake. As if in answer, a second wolf, standing watch on a hill just east of the first, lets loose a howl, the two voices mixing in a discordant braid that fills the sky and breaks like a wave against the Minnesota shore. I hadn’t heard them over the grating of my auger. I pause to listen for a moment and to let my burning arms rest.
“Are you afraid of wolves?” the man asks.
“Wolves don’t bother me,” I say.
“You know, some Native Americans believe that if you kill a wolf, the others in the pack will hunt you down. Did you know that?”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“Wolves are incredible creatures,” he says. “Smart. Almost human in some ways. You see, I think wolves understand emotions like revenge. They’re pack animals. They have leaders and they obey those leaders. They love their alphas. Most people think the alpha stays on top out of intimidation, and that’s partly true. But once he’s the alpha, all the others fall in line and they’ll fight to the death to protect him from outsiders.”
I want to continue listening to the howls, but the sun is working its way toward the edge of the world, and hunger is starting to leach from my stomach up my arms and down to my fingers. I am ten times weaker than I was a mere hour ago, and I still have a lot of work to do. I must keep on task. I start the auger again.
“You know what I think?” he says. “I think that if an alpha wolf goes missing—say he doesn’t join the pack when he’s expected—I think the other wolves will come looking for him. That’s what I think.”
I lift my eyes to the northern shore again. I know what he’s doing. He’s still trying to get inside my head—and I’m letting him in. His wolf story has me scanning the horizon for boogey men. It’s a ridiculous notion, I know. He sees me looking and it pisses me off.
“I think you should just let me go,” he says. “We can let bygones be bygones. You still have time.”
“If you think a veiled threat is enough to bring this to a halt, you have misjudged the current,” I said. “You have friends? I’ll be more than happy to entertain them if they show up. But I’m thinking you might not be as popular as you think.”
“Friends? What are you talking about,” he says. “I was making a comment about wolves. You’re not making sense, Detective.”
“How about you shut the hell up,” I say. “I’m getting sick of your yammering.”
“And I’m getting sick of this bullshit,” he shoots back, his words dripping with challenge. “What are you going to do to me if I don’t shut up? You going to kill me twice? You think you have what it takes to kill me? Bring it. Otherwise, fuck you Detective. And fuck your wife too—what’s her name again? Jenni?”
“I said shut up!”
“Yeah, fuck Jenni. Fuck her.”
I dive at the man and punch him in the face. Grabbing his throat with my left hand, I punch twice more, and when I raise my fist for a fourth blow, I hold off.
I expect to see fear, or maybe a grimace of pain. Instead, he’s looking at me with calculating eyes. He knows he’s gotten to me. I relax my grip, and a slight smirk crosses his face. There is blood trickling from his nostril, and his left eye has already begun to puff up.
I stand, walk back to the auger, and start to turn it again.
He spits out some blood and says, “You think I’m a monster, but what are you? I’m wounded. I’m tied up. I can’t defend myself and you jump on me and beat me. You must be so proud. Your wife must be so proud of you too.”
I grunt and turn the crank harder hoping to drown out his voice.
“You tell yourself that you’re doing what you have to—stomping out evil in the world, but which of us is the monster here? I’m willing to put my cards on the table. You think you know something, well give me your proof. I dare you. Show me what you got, because I’m betting you have nothing. I’m betting you won’t say a word because you’re afraid I’ll prove you wrong. Kill me without a trial? You’re the monster here.”
I stop turning the auger and look at him, my face devoid of all expression, and say, “You may be right about that, but that doesn’t bode very well for you now does it?”
I’m getting closer to the bottom of my fourth hole, so I get down on one knee and d
rill from that position. He can see my exhaustion, but I don’t care.
“Talk to me, dammit. What did I do? How did I kill your wife? Give me a chance.”
The noise of the blade isn’t enough to drown out his voice, and I can hear reverberations of panic and desperation in his words. He’s scared. He’s trying to get to me, but I’m getting to him. He knows I’ll do it.
Time and pressure.
I’m almost through to the lake, and I double my effort.
“This ain’t justice. This ain’t right. You can’t do this to me.”
I break through to the lake with my fourth hole.
“For Christ’s sake!” He’s pleading now as a ripple of lake water washes up to touch his heels. “Give me a chance to defend myself! Give me a chance to prove that I didn’t kill your wife. I’m begging you. I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I didn’t do it.”
I look at the fifth starter hole. My palms are raw from pressing down on the cap of the auger. There’s no way I’ll have all eight holes drilled before it gets dark, and I still haven’t gathered my stones. That’s a task I cannot do in the dark.
“Talk to me,” he says
I walk over and pick up the snowmobile cover, the pouch to hold the stones that will carry him to the bottom of the lake.
“What are you doing with that?”
I take the auger with me so I can drop it far enough away that he can’t reach it. No sense leaving a blade—even one that dull—laying around to tempt him with thoughts of escape. As I’m walking away, I look over my shoulder and say, “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 23: Minneapolis—Yesterday
Chapter 23
Minneapolis—Yesterday
I had planned to be back at the office by noon, but that wasn’t going to happen. Just as I finished my meeting with Farrah McKinney, I got a call from Mr. Clark, the security officer from HCMC, letting me know that he’d found the Burn-Unit footage from that morning. Clark, whose first name I learned was Dan, seemed a different man on my second visit: polite, helpful. I’d even go so far as to say friendly. He led me to a little breakroom adjacent to his office where he had set up a laptop.
