When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2)

by James W. Hall

  “Those motherfuckers,” he said. “It’s Benny the Beagle.”

  “Your daughter’s? You’re sure?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m sure.”

  He drew out his phone and walked onto the balcony and made the call. He was outside for ten minutes. Harper couldn’t make out the words but could hear his quiet manner, soothing, trying to pacify; then his voice turned terse, followed by a clipped back-and-forth, a bitter argument, then silence.

  When he reentered the room, his face was flushed and his breathing strained.

  “Julie Marie’s okay?”

  “Somebody stole the thing from her bedroom. She woke up, saw him, and she screamed, and the guy—it had to be Müller—came over to her and clamped his hand over her mouth, almost suffocated her. Her lips are cut up and swollen, and she’s so scared she can barely speak. It’s my fault, of course. Shelly said as much, and I really can’t argue the point.”

  “It’s not your fault, Adrian. It’s mine. I’m dragging everybody into this, putting everyone at risk, even your little girl thousands of miles away.”

  “Bullshit, Harper. I’m here because I want to be. Doing what’s right.”

  He gazed toward the balcony, then used the heels of his hands to rub at his eyes as if to erase the images of his daughter’s suffering.

  “There’s a note,” Harper said and held it out. “It was inside the wrapping paper.”

  He turned and searched her eyes before he read it. What he saw made him wince.

  She waited as he read the note a second time. When he finished, he sighed heavily, then wadded it up and flung it to the floor.

  “No way,” he said. “No fucking way I’m giving you up.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” she said.

  He shook his head and for a long uncomfortable moment couldn’t meet her eyes. He seemed to disappear into a place inside his head where no one else was allowed.

  She reached out and touched his arm to draw him back.

  “Is Julie Marie safe?”

  He blinked, and when he’d fully returned, there was a strain in his eyes, a hardness she’d not seen before, and when he answered her, his tone was distracted, as though part of him was still lingering in the faraway place where he’d retreated a few seconds earlier.

  “They drove to Shelly’s mother’s ranch near Salt Lake. I told Shelly that was too damn obvious, to get out of there right now, go to a motel, somewhere anonymous. Drive to another city, Albuquerque, Taos.”

  He finally looked at her again, his eyes heavy and mournful.

  “Would she know if she was being tailed?”

  “I asked her the same thing, but she got pissy and hung up on me.”

  “What about Lavonne?”

  “What about her?”

  “Maybe she could send people to protect them. At least locate them somewhere secure. A safe house.”

  “Even if Lavonne was willing, Shelly wouldn’t go along. Eight years in the service, she’s finished following orders. She’s a full-on rebel now.”

  Harper left him there in his unsettled state, walked out to the balcony, and stood looking toward the sea. A container ship was steaming into port, its wake extending for miles behind it, sending waves sloshing ashore along the narrow beach. Gulls wheeled and screamed above the frothy water, diving into the foam, feeding on the stunned baitfish. Along the promenade a parade of tourists meandered by, lovers holding hands, mothers with strollers, boys chasing other boys. A picturesque and cheerful world Harper had barely heeded in her days in Bari.

  In her chest she felt a pang of regret for all she’d failed to see in recent days. And not just now, but in the joyless months since Ross and Leo had been murdered, all of it lost in a bleary whirl. Thousands of disjointed images had washed over her, but few had left lasting impressions.

  She walked back inside. In those few moments on the balcony, nothing had changed, but things felt different. The ocean air was tangier, the light had a richer luster, and she felt a swell of certainty in her chest. She was ready now. Past ready to bring this mission to a close, to do whatever was required, accept any risk.

  “Let’s take them up on their offer,” Harper said.

  “Yeah? And how would we do that?”

  “Call the number on the note, let Bixel know you’re ready to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Handing me over.”

  “Really? Deliver you to those animals? And then what?”

  “That’s when we take them.”

  He shook his head as if to clear it of her nonsense, then he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, keeping her at a safe distance while he searched her eyes.

  “They know about Julie Marie. Maybe they’ve lost her for now, but they’ll find her if they try hard enough. Are you so sure you can trust me? What if I were to accept their bargain for real? Trade you for my daughter’s safety.”

  She managed a smile and kept it in place, and after a few seconds, his eyes softened.

  “Give me up?” she said. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  Naff held her eyes, and Harper felt something shift inside her, then a pins-and-needles tingle, as though a crucial part of her viscera that had been numb for a long while was awakening.

  Adrian removed his hand from her shoulder, turned, and retrieved the wadded-up note. He took it to the table and flattened it. Then he drew out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “Adrian?”

  “I’m not calling the number on the note. A different one.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know her. Name is Jennifer Dowdy. She’s a tech wiz, a friend of mine back at Albion. Got some serious skills.”

  “What kind of skills?”

  He tapped the note. “Kind that might come in handy in taking down these fuckheads.”

  Bonnie Albion cracked her father’s gun safe with ease. The four-digit combination her father had used was the month, day, and year of his own birthday. Not particularly clever, her father. Nor was he particularly fatherly. She believed if another father had been so unoriginal as to choose a date for his combination, he would have chosen the birthday of his only child. But not Bonnie’s father. No, not hers.

  She tested the pistols, holding each in her hand, feeling their heft, their balance. Next, she stood before her father’s bedroom mirror and pressed each pistol to her temple to see if her hand quivered, which might alter the trajectory of the shot. In her readings about suicide, she had discovered that some attempts with handguns resulted not in death but in debilitating injuries because of such tremors. Victims doomed to live out their days in a vegetative state. It seemed impossible that one could miss one’s own skull at such close range, but apparently it happened.

  The pistol that seemed to fit her hand most naturally and whose muzzle conformed best to the shape of Bonnie’s skull was a revolver made by Smith & Wesson. So another decision was made.

  She used the ammunition in her father’s gun safe to load the weapon, then, again, touched her temple with the muzzle. Although she could sense the small increase in weight of the loaded gun, even after holding the muzzle in place for several seconds while observing herself in the mirror, Bonnie detected not even the slightest tremble in her hand.

  She returned the other pistols to their proper places, locked the gun safe, then returned to her bedroom with the revolver. Miriam was waiting for her, perched on Bonnie’s pillow and mewling.

  Before Bonnie committed the act, she had one more consideration. She needed to reflect on Miriam’s fate and make a decision. Her cat depended on Bonnie and never left her side when she was at home. Bonnie could not simply put Miriam out on the street to fend for herself. The cat would not survive a night in the outdoors. Bonnie had no friends she trusted enough to be Miriam’s caretakers. There was Bonnie’s mother, who had always shown affection for Miriam, but if Bonnie called her mother and proposed she adopt the cat, her mother would surely become suspicious and prob
e Bonnie’s motivation. Her mother was quite shrewd that way. If she caught the slightest whiff of Bonnie’s plan, she would undoubtedly intervene.

  So there it was. Until she had resolved the issue of Miriam’s future, Bonnie would have to delay her exit and simply hope she had sufficient strength to squeeze the trigger when that hour came.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Bari Milling Works, Bari, Italy

  “Who is that man?”

  “His name is Derek. My employer sent him as my helper.”

  Beyond the glass wall of Manfred’s office, Derek Müller was roaming the plant floor, observing the workers as they performed their labors with the olives and the machinery.

  It was almost nine on that Wednesday evening, and the hum of the mill was quieter than the night before. The muted rumble might have seemed soothing to Gerda if she had not been so furious and so broken.

  “I missed you last night, love,” Manfred said. “I made you a special dinner, all your favorite dishes. Käsespätzle, Kürbissuppe, Bratkartoffeln. You didn’t return. Where were you? You didn’t answer my texts. I was worried.”

  “You behave as if nothing has happened between us, as if there are no problems.”

  “Gerda, please. You’re clearly angry. What is it?”

  “Last night,” Gerda said, “you left me standing here and went to the jail to see about one of your workers, this man, Pagolo. You walked away and now you expect me to pretend we did not say those words. To pretend that everything is normal between us.”

  “Pagolo is charged with murdering a man. An American. I had to answer questions from the polizia and to make sure Pagolo was represented by an attorney. I texted you to explain.”

  “You’re avoiding the issue, Manfred.”

  He crossed the room, opened his arms, and tried to embrace her, but she put her hand against his chest and shoved him back.

  “Money?” Manfred said. “You want to talk more about money? Is that it?”

  “Not money,” Gerda said. “I’m done with that.”

  “What then?”

  “You spoke of my father. You knew of his mistreatment of me.”

  He blinked, looked away, then back at her. Nodded hesitantly.

  “I never told you about my father. Never.”

  He used both hands to sweep his shaggy blond hair away from his face, then looked down at the floor and let it fall back into place.

  “You’re lying, Manfred. I wasn’t drunk in the biergarten in Berlin. I am never in my life drunk. I remember that night distinctly. Why are you lying about this?”

  He took a slow turn around the office, shutting and opening his eyes as if trying to fend off an excruciating pain. He halted near his desk, put a steadying hand against it. Gerda fingered the bright-red scarf hanging loose around her neck. Toying with a terrible idea.

  “All right.” He looked off through the glass at his workers churning the fruit to oil. “You’re right. I lied.”

  “I already know that. Tell me how you knew something I’ve never told anyone?”

  Manfred could not summon the words. He walked over to the glass window and rested his forehead against the glass. So dramatic, this boy, who she had believed was a full-grown man.

  “My mother told you,” Gerda said. “She’s the only one who knew.”

  Manfred turned back to her and nodded, then bowed his head as if waiting for her to attack him. Gerda was close to doing it. Close to binding the scarf around his throat and choking off the rest of his lies.

  “When did she tell you these things?”

  “Months ago, in the spring.”

  “Why did she tell you?”

  “Because she learned that you and I cared for each other, that we were in love, and our love was serious. That I had intentions to marry you.”

  “That doesn’t explain why she’d tell you something like this. Talk to me, Manfred. Explain.”

  “She told me about . . . those events, I believe, to cause me hurt. To poison me against you. To suggest that you were damaged, soiled, contaminated. But it did not work, Gerda. It did not achieve any of that. It only made me love you the more.”

  “Why would she do that? You’re not telling the complete truth.”

  “To hurt me. To punish me.”

  “For what? Punish for what?”

  “I think you know, Gerda. I think you know already. I see it in your face. I hear it in your voice. You know already.”

  “Say it. I want to hear it from your lips. Say it, Manfred.”

  His shoulders sagged and he twisted away from her and said, “She was punishing me for betraying her.”

  Gerda drew an acid breath. Her lungs were suddenly laced with fire as they had been so often in the final lap of the thousand meters. Gasping for air, throat smoldering, desperate for the finish line.

  “When did this happen? What did you do?” Gerda did not want to know. Gerda had to know.

  “The year in Stuttgart, it started then. You were there, Gerda. It was when you were first working with Coach Schneider, those long hours with the discus and the javelin.”

  “While I worked, you were in bed with my mother?”

  “I was fifteen. I knew nothing of women. Your mother, she took me to your apartment in Weilimdorf. She gave me peach schnapps, made me drunk. I didn’t realize what was happening, what I was doing.”

  “How long did this last, this love affair with my mother?”

  “It was not love. It was never love.”

  “How long?”

  “Years.”

  “How many years?”

  “Four.”

  Gerda looked away and said, “That’s a great deal of peach schnapps, Manfred. Were you drunk for those four years? I don’t think so.”

  “She threatened me,” he said. “If I ended it, she’d claim I overpowered her, I raped her. She’d destroy my career. I was stupid. I didn’t realize how foolish her threats were. I was afraid of her, Gerda. I was afraid.”

  Gerda waved a hand in front of her as though fanning away a noxious smell.

  She took a moment to calm herself, then said, “All right. So let me understand. You started with her at fifteen and you continued until you were nineteen. Which means, if my addition is accurate, there was a time when you were fucking my mother in the afternoon and kissing me in the evening.”

  “I never felt anything for her. It was mechanical. That’s all.”

  “Did you ever tell her that?”

  “What you and I have, it is real. With her, it was nothing, it was as insubstantial as a dream, nothing more.”

  “A dream.”

  “It meant nothing.”

  “It meant something to her, I believe.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I want to hear everything, Manfred. I want every detail. The sex, every position, the sound of her orgasm, the smell of her, everything.”

  “No, I can’t do that. Even this much, putting these things into words, is torture.”

  “I will hear it. If you hope to make this right between us, I must hear everything, no matter how much it hurts you or it hurts me. If there is any chance for us, I must know it all.”

  She drew the scarf from her neck and held it in her right hand. Manfred looked at the dangling red cloth, then looked into her eyes. He moistened his lips.

  “So that too? She told you this as well?” She jerked the scarf.

  “What are you asking?” Manfred took a step away from her.

  “She told you how Max died. Didn’t she? Didn’t she?”

  He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His eyes, his face said enough.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “What you did was brave. It was right and just and moral. You did a good thing, my love. Killing your father, it was a noble thing.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Bari, Italy

  Thursday morning, Adrian came to Harper’s suite to share a room service breakfast. More pastry, more espresso, and today, for Adrian, a
plate of scrambled eggs with sausage. The ocean breeze was bellying out the gauzy curtains and filling the room with a medley of odors that had been whisking Harper back to her distant life in Miami.

  “I texted a message to the number on the note, made my offer to hand you over.”

  Harper sipped the coffee and nodded, prompting him to go on.

  “I said we’d meet them at ten o’clock tomorrow at Bari Milling Works. Made sense to piggyback on the real estate closing. They were coming anyway. Now they get a bonus. You.”

  “Do they trust you?”

  “Not any more than I trust them. But they’ll show.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They have no choice. I threw in a clincher.”

  “Something you didn’t run by me?”

  “I knew you’d approve.”

  “Go ahead, tell me.”

  “I said I knew about spittlebugs and a man named Dickens and a charming disease that might just undo the real estate transaction they’re so gung-ho about. Either they show up and prove Julie Marie is safe, or I tell Knobel he’s about to buy a whole bunch of doomed trees.”

  Harper shook her head. “Take their word for it that she’s safe?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “Chop the head off the snake.”

  Naff motioned for her to finish her thought.

  Harper said, “If Albion and Bixel don’t make it out of the room alive, seems like that would guarantee Julie Marie’s safety.”

  Naff searched her eyes for a moment, then shook his head in wonder.

  “You just don’t stop, do you?”

  They finished their breakfast in silence. Twice Harper caught him shooting coy glances her way, but she kept her focus on her food and La Gazzetta del Mezzogiorno, the morning paper.

  When they were done, Harper pushed back her chair, reached into her purse, and drew out a folded map.

  “We need to drive around,” she said. “Check out more groves.”

  “Why?”

  “I want evidence,” she said. “Something concrete to put under Knobel’s nose, show him this is for real.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that branch we left with the professor yesterday.”