Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  She straightened and stared through the windshield. He seemed miles away, like looking backwards through a telescope. He leaned across the top of the waist-high wall, forearms resting on the ledge, staring down.

  Could she stumble that far? Keep him from destroying millions of lives?

  Lucifer lay wrapped in a cloth on the dashboard where Kahlil had left it.

  The battery.

  If she removed it, would that stop the action he’d triggered? She had to try.

  With fumbling fingers, she pried the back off the phone and snapped out the battery. The parts slipped from her feeble grip to the floor. Already she felt loss of control in her hands. But she wasn’t done. He could simply replace the battery. She had to stop him. Permanently.

  With difficulty, she grasped the door handle and opened it.

  The wind caught it, yanking her sideways. Bitter, bitter cold. Maybe fresh air would revive her. Swinging her feet out, she tested them on the ground. She pulled herself up, holding onto the door. Rubbery legs flexed under her weight but held. Dammit, I can do this. I will do this. Anger supported her as she took a few tentative steps. She gulped air. It felt invigorating but she immediately began to shiver.

  How far away was Kahlil? Miles…hundreds of miles. Wind pinched her cheeks and penetrated her tee shirt, piercing deep to chill her core. She staggered toward him, one slow step after another. Her paces gradually quickened. But it was so cold.

  Her feet wove back and forth in a drunken grapevine. Just like Zumba. Stand up, don’t fall, keep going. A pulse throbbed in her ears, a drumbeat, the rhythm section to her relentless march. I must reach him.

  I. Must. Reach. Him.

  Closer. Getting closer. Now what?

  I’m dying but I’ll take him with me.

  The howling gusts echoed off the canyon faces. Don’t let him hear me coming. Only let him hear the wind. Don’t let him sense me coming.

  His shoulders shook. The wind blowing his jacket? No, a different movement. He was crying, leaning on the wall, sobbing.

  You motherfucker. You murder me and then cry over it.

  Anger inside her was solid ice, even colder than the outside temperature.

  She rushed him, right hand balling in a fist.

  The second before she reached him, he turned, saw her. Wet, red-rimmed eyes widened. Mouth opened.

  With all her strength, she rammed her fist into his Adam’s apple. A strangled gag erupted from his mouth. He clutched his throat.

  She drove both thumbs into his eyes, feeling the wet softness yield under the force. Her fingers twisted tight in his long hair, gripping his head while her thumbs wedged deeper into his eye sockets. He howled in agony. Blood ran down his cheeks.

  His arms shot up between hers, knocking her hold loose. But he was staggering, pawing at his bleeding eyes.

  She plowed her shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward on the parapet. Legs flailing, he writhed on his back on the narrow ledge, fighting for balance. His desperate fingers scrabbled for a handhold on the concrete.

  She grabbed his ankles, trying to roll him over the edge.

  His hips bucked. Powerful legs kicked, breaking her grip. One foot grazed her shoulder. The other connected with the side of her head, tearing her ear.

  The head blow made her legs wobble. She fell forward, the parapet catching her. Dodging his kicks, she seized one ankle, this time clinging to it with both hands.

  Keep him on his back, off balance, like an insect. Don’t let him get his legs under him.

  Hold tight.

  The gun in his pocket. If she could reach it…

  He twisted. She let go of his ankle and went for the pocket of his windbreaker, felt the hard shape of the pistol but it was tangled in fabric. He thrashed, blind, yet still so strong, powerful. One arm snaked around her head while the other braced himself on the parapet. Her torn ear screamed from the friction of his hold. He pulled her on top of him then rolled her over till she teetered on the edge.

  She yanked her head free from his grip. For an instant, the vertical drop of the dam wall flashed into view, beckoning her. Nausea lurched in her stomach.

  She made another desperate grab for his pocket to seize the gun. Still twisted in the jacket. He sat up, blind and disoriented. That gave her the chance to throw herself toward safety on the side of the wall toward the road. Again, his arm pinned her head, pressing it hard against his chest, pulling her toward the precipice. But the poison was sapping her strength. She couldn’t hold out much longer.

  She went for his eyes, a finger poking deep in one bloody socket. He screamed and released her, both arms thrown across his face. She jammed her hand into his pocket, at last touching metal. Where’s the trigger? Her thumb went through the loop of the trigger guard. She pulled with her last bit of strength.

  The shot deafened her. She didn’t know if he’d been hit or the bullet went into the parapet. But his back arched and he twisted, rolling to his side, closer to the edge of the wall.

  Push!

  She threw all her weight against him, driving her shoulder into his floundering body, shoving with both hands.

  And then he was gone.

  She collapsed across the ledge and watched him plummet down the curving wall of the dam, slamming into the concrete over and over. Down, down, down, hundreds of feet, his limp body bounced.

  She couldn’t see him at the bottom. He’d disappeared from sight. Or her vision had failed.

  The poison overcame her. She went limp, sliding down the parapet to the sidewalk, consciousness flowing away like spilled water.

  I’m dead, but I took you with me.

  Chapter 17 – Interrogation

  Dr. Virgie Belmonte closed and double-locked the front door of her condo against protesting voices. A mother tiger could not protect her young more ferociously than Virgie had protected Tawny from sheriff’s deputies, federal cops, and the media. Drapes darkened the living room against morning sun and prying eyes. Gradually, the clamor outside faded away.

  Tawny huddled on Virgie’s velvet couch, covered with a fleece blanket, trying to hold a mug of tea. One sip and her trembling hand threatened to spill it. She set the mug on the end table.

  Earlier that morning, Virgie had brought her up to date on the past two lost days of her life. An employee arriving for work at the dam had found Tawny, shivering violently, near death, at the side of the road. She’d stopped breathing in the ALERT helicopter as it rushed her to the hospital. ER personnel revived her but she remembered nothing of the next forty-eight hours in ICU. Law enforcement showed up, demanding to question her, but Virgie had spirited her out a back exit, bringing her home, claiming, “My patient requires monitoring 24/7.”

  In the kitchen, Virgie talked on her phone in a low voice. When she hung up, she returned to the living room and ran her hand softly over Tawny’s forehead, brushing away limp hair. “That was Tillman Rosenbaum,” she said. “He’s flying in from Billings. Be here by four this afternoon. Strict orders that you don’t talk to anyone or answer any questions until he’s with you.”

  “As if I had the strength.” Tawny’s head fell back against pillows Virgie had propped behind her.

  “Between hypothermia and respiratory arrest, my dear, you’ll be feeling puny for some time to come.” Virgie curled one leg under her in the chair next to the couch. “When I heard you’d stopped breathing, I thought we’d lost you. Your core temp was ninety-three degrees. Thank goodness the ER doc recognized a benzodiazepine overdose on top of hypothermia. If he hadn’t ordered that tox screen, they might not have found the Valium. Once the doc gave you Romazicon, you came around. I suggest you put him on your Christmas list.”

  Tawny nodded weakly against the pillow. She thought about asking Virgie the doctor’s name but talking required too much energy.

  Virgie leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “In addition to lawyer-client confidentiality, there is also doctor-patient confidentiality. Anything you tell me I can’t tal
k about.”

  “Nosy, aren’t you?”

  Virgie grinned. “Curiosity is eating me alive. A pal at the sheriff’s office told me a game warden found Kahlil’s body at the bottom of the dam. They’re reviewing the surveillance video to determine if he fell or jumped.”

  Or was pushed. They’ll know exactly what I did.

  Virgie went on, “Inside his rental car, there was a weird typed suicide note, except it’s supposed to have been written by you. Typed.” She cupped her chin in one hand and tapped her cheek. “If my memory is correct, you type about sixty-five mistakes a minute.”

  “I didn’t write it.”

  “Didn’t think so. Lots of rumors flying around. Love triangle. Murder-suicide pact. A woman with a fractured skull slumped in the back of your Jeep. Cash found sewed in your coat. And something about a terrorist plot. Your smartphone is being processed for evidence.” She tucked the blanket closer around Tawny’s chin. With a wry smile, she added, “Can’t imagine why I’d be curious.”

  Tawny closed her eyes and tried to summon courage. “Virg, Kahlil was a terrorist. He set me up to take the fall.” Speaking that many words sapped her strength.

  “Those strange deposits to your account? That was to make it look like you were getting paid by terrorists?”

  Tawny barely moved her head, nodding.

  “What about Neal? The kidnapping?”

  “Phony. Kahlil did it to force me into helping him.” Tawny jerked up, sending a shock wave through her brain. “Neal! Can you get a hold of him?”

  “Already in the works. When you tried to die on us, I contacted the Army and tracked down his unit. They’re flying him back on emergency leave.”

  “Emma?”

  “Found her on Facebook. Sent her a pre-pay card because her cell is shut off again. She’ll call later.”

  Tawny sighed with gratitude. “You’re the best.”

  “Why don’t you nap now? That lawyer’s going to be here pretty soon and he sounds like the kind of guy who’ll run a girl ragged.”

  “You got that right.” Tawny snuggled under the blanket.

  Virgie turned off the table lamp, darkening the room. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot. That bank that’s given you so much trouble? Heard on the news last night, the FDIC locked them down. Chained the doors shut, wouldn’t let any of the employees out.”

  * * *

  “I killed two people.” The words tasted bitter and Tawny’s stomach twisted.

  Tillman Rosenbaum sat in Virgie’s dining area, knees high, looking like an NBA player in a kindergartener’s chair. “OK, the first lesson you must learn is never, never, never say you killed anyone.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Virgie remained in her bedroom, door closed, to preserve attorney-client privilege. “Now take me step by step through everything that happened after I left you in Helena.”

  Tawny leaned elbows on the table, resting her aching head in her hands. She reviewed what she’d done after becoming suspicious of Kahlil, talking with the tech guru at the library, scoping out the bank, hearing Neal’s phone message. Then waking in the motel in the middle of the night with Kahlil lying next to her. She shuddered at the memory. “He knew everything because the smartphone was rigged. He’d listened to every conversation, everything I’ve said or done since he sent the damn thing to me. He knew I couldn’t be fooled any longer so he abducted me to force me to carry out his attack on the power grid.”

  Rosenbaum scribbled rapid notes on a yellow legal pad. “You were kidnapped, under duress.”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  “It was not good!”

  He kept writing. “It was terrible but from a legal standpoint, it’s good, really good. Just keep talking and let me worry about the details.”

  Tawny told him about finally meeting the woman who’d impersonated her and the stop at the deserted rest area. Then she began to cry. “I beat the woman to death with a mop handle.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Rosenbaum muttered. “She held you at gunpoint. You were being abducted by armed terrorists.” He reached across the table to pull back the sleeve of Tawny’s robe. “Look at you!”

  The zip ties had carved dark magenta lines around Tawny’s swollen wrists. Kahlil’s powerful hands had left purple and red bruises all over her arms. Her neck screamed whenever she turned her throbbing head. Spasms knotted her back and legs, despite the pain pills Virgie had given her.

  Rosenbaum whipped out his cell and snapped a picture. “Dr. Belmonte said your whole body is one big mess of contusions. She’s going to take photos later today while they’re fresh.” His fist dropped, thumping the table. “You were in fear for your life. That’s self-defense, Tawny. And don’t you dare forget that.”

  Sobs choked her words. “I didn’t have to kill her. Kahlil gave her a gun without any bullets in it. But I didn’t know that till later.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he growled. “You were in fear for your life. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Tawny’s question from that night came back. Why had Kahlil given an unloaded gun to his accomplice? Then the answer snapped into place. “He didn’t want to take the chance she might shoot me because he needed me alive. He knew I’d fight her.” She stared down at her mottled hands, remembering the sticky feel of blood contaminating her fingers. “She looked like my twin and I never even knew her name.”

  “Azarmina Hodja.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the woman found unconscious in the back of your Jeep. She’s in the ICU at the hospital here. Been on an FBI watch list, although it doesn’t sound like they were watching her very closely. Reportedly an actress, touring in road companies around the U.S.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “So far.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Rosenbaum rolled his eyes. “You are beyond comprehension.” He flicked on his tablet. “My sources in Homeland Security tell me Kahlil Shahrivar is an alias, no surprise there, but what’s really interesting, he’s related to Azarmina Hodja. She’s his wife’s sister.”

  Tawny recalled the tension between Kahlil and the woman in the car. Did she blame him for her sister’s death? “At first, he told me his wife died in childbirth. Then later he said a drone killed her.”

  “From her dossier, the wife sounds more like someone who’d eat her children. Suspected in several bombings, including a sidewalk café in Jerusalem two years ago.”

  “Oh God.” She covered her eyes with both hands, pressing hard against the headache. Was it possible? Had Kahlil’s wife killed the Roths? Then he’d moved into their home? How sick, how depraved.

  What kind of strange marriage did Kahlil and his wife have? Tawny had believed his grief was as genuine as her own. But now, she wondered.

  Rosenbaum continued jabbering while she drifted back in the memory.

  She revisited Kahlil’s last expression. Eyes red-rimmed and tearing. Agonized. Suffering. He’d believed she was dying in the car.

  And he finally let down the mask, the act, he had maintained since the first moment they met.

  Was it possible he really did regret murdering her? That he did love her, in a perverted way she would never understand?

  Rosenbaum flipped a pen between his long fingers, tapping it annoyingly on the table to retrieve her attention.

  She forced herself back into the present.

  “Anyway,” the lawyer continued, “the feds knew she was working with someone.”

  “Excuse me. Who?”

  “Azarmina,” he said with exaggerated impatience. “Kahlil was harder to pin down. He evidently had flawless credentials to give him access to installations he’d targeted.”

  “He was a psychologist.”

  “Figures.”

  She didn’t know what Rosenbaum meant but asking required too much energy.

  “So, go on with what happened.”

  Tawny described the plot to bring down the grid Kahlil had revealed
to her on the long drive, his peculiar tale of the death of his family, and killing his father. When she got to the part about drinking the poisoned water, she started to shake. Cold again, deep into her bones.

  “Let’s take a break,” Rosenbaum said. He helped her to her feet and led her back to the couch, where she flopped down, exhausted. He pulled the blanket over her.

  Gradually the shivering subsided. But memories tumbled in her mind, crashing into each other. Their lovemaking mixed up with Kahlil’s betrayal, the trust and safety she had felt with him collided with his duplicity. Yet, how could she feel such agonizing regret for causing his death? She buried her face in the back of the couch.

  Rosenbaum’s hand on her shoulder squeezed with more comfort than she would have imagined the usually rude lawyer was capable of. He handed her a tissue. She blew her nose, pulled herself to a sitting position, and continued with the part of the story she dreaded the most.

  “He gave me the drugged water. I was terribly thirsty and guzzled it. He kept looking at me strangely.” She wiped her still-sniffling nose with the tissue. “Now I know why. He wanted to make sure I drank enough to kill me. But there was something else in his eyes too. He said he didn’t want to watch me die, so he left me in the car, alone.

  “I hated him. I was so angry. That’s all that kept me from passing out.” Tawny wadded a handful of blanket into a ball, knuckles whitening. “Anger, hatred, revenge. If I was going to die, I’d make him pay for it. I made myself throw up, trying to get rid of some of the poison.”

  Rosenbaum raised his eyebrows. “The cops noticed the vomit in the Subaru at the scene. Pretty smart move. That probably saved your life.”

  Yeah, I’m a regular genius. That’s how I got myself into this mess. “I pulled the battery out of the phone, hoping to stop the destruction.” She glanced at the fixture in the dining area, the lamp on the end table. Bulbs burned brightly. Electricity still flowed through the wires.

  Rosenbaum nodded. “Yeah, you interrupted the upload. Another smart move. Big bonus point for your defense.”

  Defense against a likely murder charge. She plucked at the blanket, pulling it tight to her chin. “I knew I was going to die but I wouldn’t let myself go until I stopped him. I forced myself to stay awake, to go after him. When I reached him, he was crying.”