Wolf's Blind (The Nick Lupo Series Book 6)

by W. D. Gagliani

  “What?” she said, startled. “Were you staring at me sleeping?”

  DiSanto felt faint. Not even the gunfight at the abandoned campground had done this kind of number on him. He nodded, weakly.

  Heather winked at him, her grin evil. “Still thinking about it,” she muttered.

  “About what?” Marina asked, half-turning.

  “Nothing my dear.” She stroked Marina’s hair. “Come, lick my pussy.”

  DiSanto’s head threatened to explode.

  Chapter Thirty

  Heather

  St. Michael’s was a private hospital, clinic, and rehab facility about a half-hour out of Minocqua, an hour away from Eagle River. Tucked into a lush, still-forested swath of acreage west of town, it was an exclusive, private, big-bucks kind of facility that looked nothing like private hospitals out of old movies, but more like a resort hotel. Indeed, an eighteen-hole golf course curled around one side of the property with only a stand of sentinel pines between them.

  It didn’t seem like the kind of place that could be sustained by local business, until you factored in the upper-crust level of the resort town, and the fact that its biggest business drove in from Minnesota and Illinois.

  Heather parked her Lexus near several Mercedes and Audis and looked at Marina, making her expression as soft and caring as possible.

  For her part, Marina rested her head back on the padded rest and sighed, long and hard. “I hate coming here,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.

  Heather reached over and took her lover’s hand. Just touching the slender fingers awakened Heather’s lust and she wished they were at the hotel, a nice little inn in the center of town, but Marina had insisted they come here first and she get her visit out of the way.

  Heather figured she was making progress anyway.

  They walked into the lobby, which was reminiscent of a modern hotel and spa combination, except that a few discreet wheelchairs and gurneys were wheeled here and there in the background as Marina checked in. They headed up to the fourth floor, the more serious ward in which the nearly hopeless cases were kept at arm’s length from those who were famous and recovering from cosmetic surgery or undergoing substance abuse rehab.

  They passed the low-key nurses’ station without seeing anyone. Marina frowned and marched faster down the hall. Heather had a longer gait but almost had trouble keeping up.

  Marina steamed forth like a dreadnought of old, reaching her father’s room and barging in without preamble. Heather followed in her wake, slower, standing just inside the door.

  The room was larger than most hotel suites, with skylights along one portion of the ceiling, and woodwork worthy of high-cost yachts or luxury lofts. Beautifully appointed, none of it mattered to the shrunken body on the high-tech hospital bed. Machines and tubes surrounded the head of the bed, but the patient didn’t seem aware of them. His eyes were closed, his skin sallow, his limbs rail-thin.

  Marina stood at the foot of the bed a minute, her hands—fists, really—on her hips.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she said, and she sounded like a little girl.

  Heather wasn’t sure why, but the voice turned her on. She half-smiled, but hid it when Marina turned suddenly to look at her.

  “This is just…this is incredible!”

  Heather raised an eyebrow and came closer.

  “Here,” Marina said, taking hold of the blanket that covered her father’s legs. “Help me.”

  “Okay,” said Heather.

  Together they lifted the blanket gently.

  “Goddamn it!” Marina’s breath hissed in and out. “Look at this shit!”

  Heather saw, but didn’t say anything. She reached out and took Marina’s free hand in hers. Marina shook it off.

  “Do you know how much we pay for this room, for the medical staff, for the care?” Her eyes were blazing. “Do you even have any idea?”

  Heather knew it was a rhetorical question. She wasn’t intended to answer it. She might have shown some anger otherwise—she didn’t appreciate being talked to this way. The wolf inside stirred, annoyed. Angering, if not quite yet angry. Heather suppressed, giving Marina her space.

  Walking around the bed, lifting blanket and sheets, checking under her father’s limp arms and legs, half-rolling him, the smell hitting them at the same time, the look of the exposed skin, the soiled bedclothes. Marina continued to fuss with the bedding, her motions clipped and jerky, body language telegraphing her state of mind.

  “Motherfuckers.” Heather could tell by the way the language rolled off her tongue that it was not unfamiliar.

  Marina swept out of her father’s room and headed down the hall, past the untended station, ignoring the beeps from the machines in open rooms. Heather snuck a look and saw more patients, none of them looking too good.

  They elevatored to the first floor, stormed past the lobby and into the administrative wing according to the brass plaque on the wall.

  “Wait here,” said Marina when they reached a waiting area that led to a series of plush offices. She barreled past a distracted receptionist, who said, “Hey…” and then gave up, because Marina was already past the doorway, the door itself closing behind her.

  Heather smiled wolfishly at the receptionist, who seemed to be trying to reach someone on her headset phone.

  Security, most likely.

  Heather sat in one of the visitor chairs, ready to be entertained. Whatever happened, it would be interesting.

  She heard voices from the office, muffled by pretty good sound baffling in the walls and a rather thick metal and wood door with huge shiny aluminum fittings. It didn’t sound good. She’d expected something like this, just not all at once. The chance to accompany on a visit had come up innocently enough, and she had taken the opportunity to suggest it could be a mini-holiday. She offered to get them a nice room, and to drive.

  God, that drive was a killer for boredom. Good thing they’d gotten up to some mischief while on the road. Having your nipples licked while truckers and extra-wide pick-up compensation vehicles pass you, weaving a little, certainly makes for interesting observations about men and their huge, solid…toys.

  She couldn’t have planned it better, finding Daddy Bastone in poor condition, getting Marina all steamed up. Being the supportive one wasn’t Heather’s style, but she knew how to act the part, and the sex was a happy by-product.

  Marina must have been on a tear in there. She wondered whether the story would be told or withheld, but ultimately she didn’t care. She wanted to be on the inside, and she’d edged a whole lot closer today.

  Voices raised behind the walls made her itch to march in there herself. Instead she smiled crookedly and shrugged at the irritated receptionist.

  Heather waited patiently, wondering when the guys from security would show up.

  Marina

  As soon as she’d stormed into the office, the dark-haired woman with the axe-shaped nose who sat behind the desk had half-risen in surprise.

  “Sit down!” Marina ordered, and something in her voice made the smaller woman obey. The hospital administrator froze, then sat back down and visibly placed a straight-edge smile on her thin red lips. Her dark eyes showed a flash of anger, however.

  Marina reached the desk and stood off-center in front of it.

  “I think you know why I’m here.”

  “Miss Bastone…”

  “I’m married now.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Marina said with a snarl. “If I didn’t show up unannounced, how long would my father have been kept in that condition? His sheets are soiled, he stinks, there’s no one in the ward. He has bedsores, you goddamn bitch!”

  “Now listen here,” said the administrator, whose name plate said she was Dr. Amanda Chambers. She started rising again. “You have no right to come in here—”

  As she spoke, Marina had edged closer to the side of her desk. Now she reached into her handbag and plucked out a large chrome
revolver. Chambers gasped, but by then Marina was too close, her voice all hard tones and sharp blades.

  “Do you know who my father is? Do you know who my husband is?” Now she was standing only inches away and she poked the revolver’s muzzle into the woman’s forehead. “Better yet, do you know who I am? Do you?”

  Chambers froze, terror in her eyes, her lips stretching back in a grimace that parodied a smile, her skin going pale as if a veil had been lowered over her face. Her eyes crossed as they turned upward and tried to focus on the cold gun muzzle that was pressing a forceful circle into her forehead. She obviously determined that silence was her best bet.

  “I will be back tomorrow,” said Marina, putting an extra beat’s pause between each word. “I expect to see a huge improvement in my father’s care, and I expect to see you personally supervising the staff on his floor. And I expect to see staff on his floor, not empty chairs. I expect to see something as a result of the check I write out to your pathetic little scam of a hospital every fucking month. I expect to see you wipe that patronizing look off your battle-axe face, and I expect to see some evidence that you’re not gonna just wait for me to disappear and then go back to this…this fucking fake concern you have always shown. Are we clear?” She put a little more pressure on the gun, pushing the Chambers woman’s head back just enough to redden the circle on her forehead.

  Chambers nodded, as furiously as she could with the muzzle pressing against her.

  Marina nodded once, then replaced the gun in her bag, turned around and marched out without a glance back.

  Outside, she approached Heather with a sweet, innocent smile.

  “Are you ready to go, sweetie? I’m a little horny.”

  “Did you have a word in there?”

  “Oh yes, I did have a word or two.”

  The elevator made a loud ding not far away, but by then they were stepping into the staircase.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Barton

  Chicago’s south side

  Corrado had come through.

  He wasn’t sure how, but the Mossad contacts were always solid in the end. They had quietly but enthusiastically encouraged his life’s work, and when Barton had been approached he’d climbed aboard. Corrado Garzanti was the Simon Wiesenthal of werewolf-hunters, someone had once said jokingly, but the joke fell flat because by now Barton was convinced it was true.

  He climbed the grimy outdoor concrete staircase to the second floor of a Red Roof Inn that had apparently never seen the recent renovations. Or maybe this one was an independent, trimmed off by the company. Whatever the case, it was probably one of the most dilapidated buildings Barton had ever seen still in operation, barely a rung above living in an alley.

  Reaching the second floor, he was faced with a long series of doors and large windows set next to them, each pair representing another motel room with some loser’s name on it, if not empty and raided of its meager valuables. He crouched lower than the window sills and crab-walked his way to the third door on the landing, his .40-caliber Glock in hand. The pistol was outfitted with a long cylindrical suppressor, not at all standard issue for DHS agents. It couldn’t completely silence the gun, as in the movies, but the reports would be reduced to the sound of a backfire in the street, if that much.

  When he reached the right door, Barton tried to peek over the sill into the room, but the heavy plastic curtain was pulled tightly.

  Well, no other way to do it.

  He didn’t identify himself. There was nothing official about this visit, and he was gloved and prepared to leave no evidence behind. A thin Lycra sleeve covered his own sleeves past his latex gloves. He had slipped a Lycra cap over his head, which also helped distort his features. His brass was polished before being loaded into the pistol magazine, so when it was ejected it would still be a dead end. He took a couple steps back, touching the wood-slat railing with his rear, then wound up and delivered a strong, practiced kick to the door. It collapsed inward as if it had been made of balsa wood, taking most of the jamb with it.

  Barton was already inside before the dust settled.

  The shooter was lying on the bed. He was out of it, trembling and moaning as he slept fully clothed. The smell that permeated his clothing implied he hadn’t seen a Laundromat in ages, as well. REM under his lids indicated some sort of waking dream state. Barton didn’t care. The professionals had been given a chance, but they’d failed. The system had failed. By the time the intersection of their worlds brought them both here, now, the former sniper had become Barton’s problem.

  The agent came in close, standing next to the bed on which the shooter writhed. The guy’d been a good Marine, an outstanding sniper, probably a good human being. But a switch had been thrown and he had become a problem, a liability. A killer.

  Barton wouldn’t have admitted it, but due to his upbringing he uttered a short prayer.

  “I’m sorry,” Barton whispered. “I really am.”

  A tear coursed its way down one cheek, followed shortly by a second.

  He extended his hand, but not in mercy. The Glock coughed once, twice. Both rounds hit the former sniper in the head. The spent brass skittered over the carpeting.

  Barton stifled a sob.

  Then he was gone, the door pulled back into place as best he could. He doubted anyone would find him anytime soon. When they did, they would eventually link him to the bus shootings—he’d seen enough weaponry there to tell the story.

  But Barton’s name would never appear in the report.

  This problem had been handled off the books, as more and more of Barton’s job was being handled these days.

  By the time he reached the street where he’d parked his non-official vehicle, his cheeks were dry.

  Heather

  She could tell from Marina’s flushed face that something had gone down in there, and she smiled.

  Marina calling her sweetie was funny. It was not typical of her demeanor, but more in line with Heather’s own sense of humor.

  She wondered, not for the first time, if she would have to kill Marina sooner or later. She knew the woman carried a piece in her bag—and she wondered if it had made an appearance in that office. How much did the woman know about her new husband? How much did she know about the family business? Joe Rabbioso had moved fast, swooping in to marry her after only a few months of sporadic dating. He had clearly been in the middle of setting up the internal coup when the whole Eagle River casino takeover thing had gone down, nearly killing the Don. Lupo had really tossed a grenade into the Mafioso’s family, but that had opened up a whole new avenue for Heather—as well as for Rabbioso, who had taken his opportunity when it came.

  She mused that he was a lot like her, as a matter of fact.

  If she had to kill Marina, there was definitely a chance for her with him.

  Heather followed Marina to the parking lot, feeling the vibe.

  There would be great hotel sex tonight, if they even made it there. The Lexus was pretty comfortable, after all.

  Heather smiled secretly as she drove them away toward town and Marina’s hands, and lips, were all over her.

  The threat of violence was an aphrodisiac, and no one understood that better than Heather Wilson.

  Colgrave

  She had a concussion, cuts and bruises, but no major wounds after almost being squashed flat by that fucking helicopter.

  She was back at work, fending off questions and admiration and offers for dinner and drinks, as everyone wanted to know how she had gotten on to this new attempt by Organized Crime to take over an Indian casino.

  It was a good thing she had made the obvious inquiries beforehand, put out the Rabbioso BOLO, and generally papered over the possibility that her whole story was nothing but gossamer.

  Ironically, Lupo said that he’d seen Rabbioso go under when he was taken by the current, but his body had not washed up anywhere. Lupo was convinced he’d managed to slither away again, and Colgrave was inclined to agree. Blind or
not, Rabbioso was a powerful werewolf, Lupo said, and he was tough to kill. Lupo was hobbling for real these days, and he joked that if the asshole hadn’t been blinded by his own ego, instead of playing a game he would just have drilled a couple of those silver slugs of his into Lupo’s brain and that would have been it.

  Ryeland was buzzing behind her like a friendly bee. He was talking commendation, certificates of bravery, laurel leafs—you name it, Ryeland wanted to reward her. Her actions had looked good to the sheriff up there, he said, even if she thought McCoyne had managed to show up just late enough to avoid getting his hands too dirty.

  She’d heard a nasty rumor about him, and she would have to run it past Lupo.

  It appeared Lupo had plenty on his mind these days. But she had added to it when she’d approached him in the hall.

  “Proposition for you,” she had said on approach.

  “Oh oh,” he joked. “Always worry when a beautiful cop propositions you.”

  She fake-slugged him, but his smile faded at that.

  “Really, I just want to be part of your team.”

  “Team?” he said, puzzled.

  “You know, the people you go to when things get heated.”

  “Are you an adrenaline junky?” he said, gently joking again.

  “Maybe.”

  Actually I think I have some sort of death wish.

  I want to look Death in the face.

  She had no idea where that came from, but it explained why she was willing to go off-book so often.

  Ryeland wasn’t so pleased at how his homicide detectives had been involved in the whole affair, but he had to allow that Joe Rabbioso had been out for sadistic revenge, and Lupo was an innocent victim. DiSanto and Colgrave had figured it out, and the rest was easy to fit together.

  Barton looked at her funny, but he also smiled at her in the hall now.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Have to ask Lupo about him.

  But Lieutenant Roman was another story altogether. He stared at her the way a snake stares at its prey before his jaw unhinges. She was going to talk to Lupo about Roman.