She sensed clumsiness in his power, knew by it that this charge was pretty much all he had left. Ignoring her own pain, she spun, then rolled, mounting him again. He was just a lummox now. She went to place the muzzle of the revolver against his forehead, figured this would put a stop to all this foolishness, but before she could she saw him grab at something and swing once again, this time at her head.
From the corner of her eye she saw it coming, but there just wasn’t enough time to react.
The heavy ashtray struck her on the temple—she heard glass shattering and the dull, sickening crack of bone, saw in her mind’s eye a black egg with a center as bright as the sun—and then suddenly everything went black, everything fell utterly silent.
When she came to again all she could hear was a ringing in her ears, like the steady peal of a tuning fork struck hard and held too close. An unending wave of nausea gripped her gut, and when she finally opened her eyes, she could only focus one of them. It took all she had to see with any hint of clarity.
There was confusion, pain deep within her head, and a feeling that she might need to vomit. She was seated on the floor, must have just dropped like a stunned boxer—too stunned, even, to do anything more than sit in a slump. Militich was across the room, propped up against the wall, himself seated in a slouch. He was holding the .357 in his hand, but the way the weapon rested in his lap, she knew he didn’t have the strength to lift it. He was talking, but she, of course, could not hear over the tuning fork what he was saying. She reached for her left pocket, removed the Spyderco knife, opened the blade with her thumb. A well-practiced move, not discreet by any means, a gesture to tell him that she wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot. He was tough but she was tougher, don’t you forget that. She felt the jolt of the blade locking into place, and only then realized that he wasn’t talking to her, he wasn’t even looking at her at all, was rather talking to someone behind her. She didn’t understand this at first; finally she glanced over her right shoulder—this slight movement of her head sent an even greater wave of nausea through her—and saw that Karl was standing in the doorway.
He had his hands up, not in surrender but as a call for calm and reason. She looked back at Militich, was still unable to hear anything or do anything more than sit there and hold her knife. She watched as he said something to Karl. He was smiling now, Militich was, a defiant smile, an angry smile. He said something else to Karl, then looked at her.
Lifting his left hand, he gave her the finger, his smile now a sneer of contempt, his eyes suddenly empty.
This man, it turned out, was full of surprises.
Next he lifted the revolver, placed its muzzle under his chin, and, without a second’s hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot had broken through the ringing in her ears; she could hear now, heard Karl as he ran past her, his footsteps heavy on the wood floor. She watched as he crouched down and carefully peeled her gun from Militich’s hand. There was no need to check for a pulse; the top of Militich’s head was gone.
Moving behind her, Karl told her that they had to go, got her to her feet, wound her right arm around his neck and guided her through the door, out into the night. This motion made her sick, but she didn’t dare show it, kept up with him as he ran. Her trainer, her teacher. Ahead, the wrought-iron gate was opened slightly. As they moved through it, she noticed that the lock had been pried open. The Russian led her to the Town Car, which was parked a good hundred feet from the gate. Approaching it, she saw that the rear license plate was one of the many dummy plates Janssen had in his collection.
Opening the passenger door, Karl got her in, buckled her up, then hurried around to the driver’s side. He removed from inside his coat the crowbar he had used to open the gate, tossed it into the backseat. He started the engine, then took off, one hand on the steering wheel, the other across the seat, holding Eve’s arm.
He was talking, but for some reason she couldn’t hear him again. She watched him talk—whatever he was saying was clearly urgent—but all she could do was shake her head.
It went like that till she blacked out again.
She was being carried.
Cold air around her, the clouded night sky above. Suddenly she was indoors, moving through dark rooms, then rising up a set of stairs. Not cold here, but not warm either. Drafty. The staircase of that abandoned hotel. She saw Karl’s face above her, saw that he was looking down at her, talking to her. She remembered the night he had found her, brought her to that luxury hotel room in São Paulo, got her out of her filthy clothes, cleaned her up before bringing her to Janssen.
Was this that night? Had the years since all been some fucked-up dream?
Finally, she was on a bed. That bed in that room at the end of that hall. Strange before, it was familiar now. Three men were present, she could tell this much—Karl, another man by the bed, and a third man watching from the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.
She heard Karl say, “Militich is dead.”
“What happened?” This was Janssen’s voice. Angry. He was, then, the other man by the bed. She looked for him in the darkness, found him, or at least the blurred shape of him.
“Shot himself,” Karl answered. “There were two of us and only one bullet left. He said he wasn’t going to let us take him alive.”
Silence for a few seconds, then, “We need to find that friend of his. We need to know what he knows about the tapes.” More angry than before.
Even Karl—giant Karl, merciless Karl—seemed flustered by Janssen’s rage.
The Russian immediately nodded. From the doorway, the third man, still unknown to Eve, said, “I’d bet good money he’s back at the garage.”
Janssen looked at him. “Why?” It was more of a command than a question.
“It’s all he knows,” the third man said. “Trust me, I know this kid, the family he comes from, the way he thinks. I can bring him to you.”
There was a local contact working for them, Eve knew that much. This had to be him.
“No, Karl will do it. Give him the code to the system.”
“No problem,” the third man said.
“I want you to retrieve her vehicle. There’s equipment inside we might need. Wake Tierno, tell him to help you. I’ll confirm whether or not the kid’s there.”
“How?”
“Never mind,” Janssen snapped. He turned to Karl. “If he is there, get him and bring him here. If he isn’t, we’ll use her equipment to track him again. I want this settled by tonight. No more fuckups.”
Karl nodded and left, taking the man from the doorway with him. She heard their footsteps receding down the hallway, the bodyguard’s heavy steps plus the sound of hard-soled boots.
Janssen was above Eve now, leaning over her. Just the two of them. She could barely make out his face, wanted to see more of it, to see it clearly. A kitchen pot filled with water was on the bedside table. Janssen began to wash her wound with a rag soaked with warm water. His touch, as always, was firm but loving, and the rag in his hand, she noticed, quickly became tinged with red.
It was only then that she realized she was bleeding.
Afterward, her wound cleaned and dressed, he loaded up a syringe. She watched him. Her arms were vascular, so he had no trouble finding the vein. As he injected her, he told her that she couldn’t fall asleep, not for a while, that there was the chance she might have a concussion and if she went to sleep she might not wake up again. She didn’t need to worry, he assured her; he’d stay with her, keep her company.
It didn’t take long for the sensation of floating to overtake her. The familiar rush of morphine. Like a terrible grip finally loosening.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Janssen stroked her dark hair, gently, tenderly, did what was necessary to keep her from crossing into unconsciousness.
Eleven
At a little before six, the eastern sky only just beginning to soften, Cal, still awake, was startled by the sound of a ringing phone.
It wasn’t Heather’s cell on his bedside table but rather the garage’s landline out in the living room.
He hurried to the extension. Reaching for the receiver, he looked down at the caller ID, saw a number he didn’t recognize at first.
Then he did.
Messing’s cell phone.
He pulled his hand back, was still trying to decide whether or not to answer when Angelica appeared in his bedroom door.
She watched him, and, in the silence between third and fourth rings, said finally, “Aren’t you going to answer it?” She sounded groggy.
“It’s the detective.”
She folded her arms across her stomach, guarding herself against the chill of the drafty living room. She said, though, nothing.
This call wasn’t part of Lebell’s plan, but that wasn’t all. Messing had once before—four years before—brought Cal bad news. Cal had no desire at all for a repeat of that.
The fourth ring had begun and ended. Finally, during the fifth ring, Cal answered.
Messing, his voice muffled by what sounded like a poor connection, didn’t waste any time. “Your friend is dead,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Only he didn’t sound sorry at all.
Cal said nothing.
“A neighbor called in gunshots,” the detective continued. “He was staying at some estate on Ox Pasture Road. A uniform responded, saw a broken gate and blood trail, found the body in the gatehouse.” A pause, then, “It looks like he shot himself.”
Cal was still unable to speak. He realized that his eyes were closed, so he opened them.
“That evidence of his, Cal. The tapes. Do you know where they are?”
“No.”
“He told me that someone did. Do you know who that someone is?”
“No.”
“I need you to tell me the truth, Cal.”
“I am.”
“I’m trying to help here. I’m trying to help you.”
“And I’m telling you, I don’t know.”
“I need that evidence. It’s very important that I get it right away. Do you understand me?”
“Whoever has it will make it public. You’ll get it then.”
“You’re not listening to me. I need that evidence. If you don’t have it, I need to know who does. I’m going to assume you know who that person is.”
Cal said nothing. An urge, an instinct—something told him to just hang up, but he didn’t.
“I’m sending someone to get you,” the detective said. “I need you to stay put till he gets there. If you disappear on me again, I’ll get a warrant for your arrest. Do you understand me? We’re not playing, Cal. I’ll put you in a jail cell if I have to. Is that what you want? I thought you were the one with his head on straight. I thought you weren’t going to end up like your father—”
Cal hung up.
“What’s going on?” Angelica said.
He couldn’t look at her. “Lebell’s dead. Militich, Mickey, whatever. He’s dead.”
“How?”
“We have to get out of here.”
“How was he killed?”
“They must have cornered him or something. He told me he’d do this if he had to, but I didn’t...”
“He told you he’d do what?”
He still couldn’t look at her. “He told me he’d kill himself before he let them get their hands on you.”
“Christ.”
“We have to get out of here, Angel. Now.” He was looking everywhere, knowing he must appear to her like a man unable to decide in which of the several different directions he should move, but he didn’t care now how crazy he looked.
“What’s going on, Cal?”
“Just please, get your things.”
“What’s going on?”
“Messing is sending someone to get us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone is on his way to take us in.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Cal said nothing. He decided which direction to go, turned, and walked past her, heading into his bedroom.
She followed him, stood in the doorway. “Cal, I’ve lived in this town for thirty years,” she said. “I helped the goddamn mayor get elected. Mickey told me a little bit about you. You don’t have to be afraid of the police. They’ve cracked down, cleaned up the department, it’s not like it used to be back when your father—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Cal had stepped to the only window, was looking down now at the dark street beyond. “Messing’s working with them.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“But how?”
“He must have followed us back to your place from the beach. How else could they have found Lebell so quickly? Or maybe he saw your license plate—whatever, he didn’t sound right.”
“How did he sound?”
Cal needed to think for a second to find the right word. There was only one he could come up with. “Threatening.”
“Isn’t that an old cop trick?”
“Listen, I know all their tricks. This was ... different.” He looked at her. “I promised Lebell I’d take care of you, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
“Lebell told me that you’re the only one who knows where his evidence is, and that if something happened to him, you’d know what to do with it.”
Angelica hesitated, then said, “What does that have to do—”
“Lebell told Messing about the tapes so Messing would get the word back to Janssen. Lebell wanted to fix it so he could leave in a way that guaranteed they wouldn’t bother him or us. Messing just said he needs to know where the tapes are, that he’ll arrest me if he has to.”
“He can’t just arrest you, Cal. That’s not how it works. Anyway, I know the chief, he’s a friend—”
“They’ll make us tell them what they want to know, Angel. You don’t understand. Lebell told me the things these people do to get people to talk. I promised him I wouldn’t let them get their hands on you.”
“Let me just call the chief. He’ll take care of this—”
“We can’t trust the police. We can’t trust anyone. We need to get out of here, we need to get somewhere safe. Please.”
He heard the fear in his voice. If he had neighbors, they would have heard it, too. It had been his father’s fear, one he’d heard the man express every day, in one form or another, for years. Clearly, though, it belonged to him now.
The kind of fear that can’t be ignored, that is there to save your life.
Cal was out of breath—out of words, too.
A moment passed, and then Angelica nodded once and said softly, “Okay. So let’s go. Later on I’ll call Mickey’s lawyer, and we’ll figure out what to do.”
She returned to Heather’s room to get her belongings. Cal put on his steerhide jacket, then his peacoat over that. Wrapping his scarf around his neck, he placed Heather’s old cell phone into his jeans pocket, felt as he did a piece of paper.
He pulled it out and unfolded it. It was the number to Heather’s new cell phone. Knowing it was stored in her old phone, he tore the paper into little pieces and placed it in a glass of water on his bedside table to destroy it.
He remembered then that the directions to Shelter Island were in the pocket of his peacoat. He tore that paper up as well and put its pieces in the same glass.
We have to think like criminals, Lebell had said. Leave no traces.
Cal hurried to his closet; if they were going to run, they’d need money. He still had in his pocket the five hundred that had been meant for Angstrom, and that would do for a few days, but they’d eventually need more, so it was probably best to get it now.
He was removing the loose floorboard, wondering how much to grab and ho
w much to leave for later—or should he just grab it all?—when he heard Angelica call his name.
Quickly replacing the board, he stood and ran out to the living room. She was standing by the window, had her overcoat and scarf on and was buckling the old leather belt.
“I think I just saw someone,” she said.
“Where?”
“Down there?”
She nodded toward the southeast corner of the driveway, where the property met the road. Cal saw nothing but the faint shadows cast by the first somber hints of morning.
“What did you see?”
“I don’t know.”
“A cop?”
“I don’t know. It was just a quick glimpse of someone moving.”
Cal continued to look, saw, still, nothing.
“What do we do?” she said.
“We’re safe in here,” Cal told her. “If there is someone out there, he can’t get in without the code.”
“So we just wait and hope he goes away?”
Cal didn’t have an answer for that. He thought for a moment, said finally, “Wait here,” then headed toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going down to have a look.”
“Won’t he see you?”
“The windows are all covered up.”
“I’m coming with you.”
She followed him through the kitchen and down the plank steps. It was dark in the third work bay, the only light source right now the dim glow of a wall-mounted clock in the far corner, above Cal’s tool chest. This had little influence, did nothing more, in fact, than cast a dozen long and deep shadows.
Cal walked to the second work bay and through that to the first. He could have done this in pitch black if he needed to; he knew this place that well. Angelica was right behind him, her hand on his back so she wouldn’t lose him. Just outside the adjoining office, Cal stopped.
Its large storefront window wasn’t covered, so he stood to the left side of the door, out of sight, keeping Angelica behind him. Leaning his head to the side, he looked through the door and toward the window.
He could see the keypad to the right of the main door, its indicator light red, and the window to the left. His line of sight was angled, so all he could see was part of the narrow driveway that ran past the window and a segment of the dark road beyond.
[2010] The Violet Hour Page 18
