Kentucky Woman
Page 22
I pray my child can be found and brought to me very soon. But if I should pass away first, please tell my child that I love him and apologize for not knowing he existed until minutes ago.
Finally, I hereby direct my attorney, Fletcher Falcone, to revise my last will immediately so that my surviving child is now the sole heir of my estate, except for what I have left for members of my staff.
Leland T. Radford
Witness: Irene Whitten
“Radford’s last will!” Quinn said. “Signed, and witnessed by Irene.”
“And the reason she was attacked,” Ellie said.
“Yeah, and we need to give this to Fletcher Falcone. Then he has to give it to the probate judge fast.”
Ellie nodded.
“We also have to give copies to your attorney, Henri Delacroix, before the probate hearing tomorrow.”
“We have to do something else first!” she said.
“What?”
“Stay alive.”
SEVENTY
Quinn’s Uncle’s Escalade hugged the hilly curves like it was on rails. They were driving through the Kentenia State Forest. Ellie loved how these green forests and rolling hills always seemed to embrace her like they were her “mountain mama,” as John Denver sang.
A gray misty haze hunkered down over the hills today, as though concealing their pristine beauty from the greedy miners who wanted to strip them bare, the same strip-miners her father had fought off for decades.
On one hill, she saw a wispy rope of smoke curling up through the pine trees. Once, as a young kid, she walked to the source of a similar ‘smoke rope’ and found herself staring into the twin barrels of a moonshiner’s shotgun. He shouted, “Git the hell out of here, youngun!” She ran home.
Stills were big business in these hills, especially after thousands of Kentucky coalmines closed and tossed miners on the street. To feed their families, some ex-miners turned to the three Big-Ms – Moonshine, Marijuana and Meth.
Quinn passed a slow Farmall tractor. They were driving toward Professor Bossung’s mountain cabin where they’d hide out until tomorrow morning’s probate hearing. Only Professor Bossung and her attorney, Mr. Delacroix, knew they’d be at the cabin.
“Do I hear your brain working?” Quinn said.
“You do.”
“Working on what?”
“What’s behind my attacks. It’s got to be the money.”
“Yep. And behind the money would be – ”
“ – the Radford estate managers who might lose revenue if I inherit.”
“Or if you replace them. Or liquidate everything.”
“Same with their boss, Fletcher Falcone, I assume.”
“Absolutely,” Quinn said. “He’ll probably lose the most revenue. And frankly, I’ve had suspicions about jolly Mr. Falcone.”
She looked at Quinn. “Why?”
“Little stuff that’s been building up.”
“Like …?”
“When I first interviewed him, I asked him if Leland Radford had any other children. He said no, but it’s how he said it. He sort of blinked oddly, hesitated, then his eyes shifted right, which many experts say can mean deception or flat-out lying.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. When I asked him if I could talk to someone at The Pines, he seemed uneasy, concerned. Now, I wonder if he was concerned I’d learn about your mother … and ultimately you?”
“And you did.”
He nodded. “And another thing. Falcone was Leland Radford’s attorney back when your mother worked at The Pines. Irene said that Falcone met with Leland each week at The Pines and knew his staff. It seems reasonable that Falcone must have met your mom there over the years, or was introduced to her, or knew her name. Yet Falcone claimed he’d never even heard of Jacqueline Moreau until I mentioned her a few days ago.”
Ellie nodded. “Irene would know if Falcone had met my mom. Is Irene still in a coma?”
“Yes.”
Ellie said a quick prayer for her.
“But in Falcone’s defense,” Ellie said, “He kept saying I looked like Radford, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“And he also looked shocked when the Southern Genetic Lab DNA tests proved I wasn’t Radford’s daughter.”
“Lawyers can win Oscars.”
“But he even insisted the lab conduct another test.”
“Maybe because he knew -”
“ – the retest would also prove I wasn’t Radford’s daughter!”
Quinn nodded.
“One thing that bothered me,” she said, “is that Falcone is the one person who knew my address, and where we were driving, and when, and what vehicle you were driving.”
“True,” Quinn said, as he steered around a chunk of recapped truck tire.
“And speaking of driving,” she said, “I just realized something. I saw a black Navigator with a red handicapped card on the mirror parked near Falcone’s office. Red cards aren’t that common.”
“So …?”
“So the black Navigator that followed us from to the House of Grace in Barbourville also had a red handicapped card hanging on the rearview mirror.”
“You sure?”
“Same size, same color.”
Quinn looked surprised. “The law has an important term for all these converging circumstances.”
“What term?”
“A shitload.”
Nicolai Pushkin followed the beeping dot on his GPS tracking unit. Yesterday, after locating Quinn’s uncle’s Escalade, Pushkin attached a three-inch T-Trac GPS unit beneath its back bumper. Now, hanging back a couple of miles, he tracked the Escalade, enjoying every mile of these beautiful rolling hills and forests.
It’s nice, he thought, to have a rural assignment for a change.
He breathed in the fresh country air and smiled.
Heinrich De Groot smelled over-fried meat and overripe hillbillies as he sipped his second Maker’s Mark in the Rendez-Booze Saloon.
He looked around the saloon. The same beer-belly rednecks he saw yesterday. The angry humpback who knocked out the bully’s glass eye looked happy today thanks to the blonde resting her hand on the hump in his crotch. Everyone cheered a Chevy Silverado crushing a Honda Civic on Demolition Derby.
Trailer trash, De Groot thought! But at least they don’t know who I am.
Or the man who just strolled in wearing bib overalls, a fake beard and a John Deere hat. The man sat down opposite De Groot as a skinny waitress with green spiked-hair and flyswatter eyelashes appeared at the table.
“Jim Beam, four fingers,” the man said.
Seconds later, she placed a full tumbler of bourbon in front of him. He gulped down half of it.
“So you got my message?” De Groot said. “Ellie Stuart’s a chimera!”
The man nodded.
“And that her chimera test proves she is Radford’s daughter.”
Another nod. “But you’re handling her.”
“I’m trying.” De Groot said.
“Very bad answer.”
“The problem is, I called off Pushkin when we learned she wasn’t Radford’s daughter. Then when the new test says she is -”
“ – you re-ordered him to handle her, right?” the man said.
“Right, but Pushkin’s still looking for her.”
“Another very bad answer,” the man said.
De Groot said nothing.
“Millions of dollars are at stake, De Groot! Your people should have handled her days ago! If they hadn’t fucked up, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. Your people screwed up bad. You fix it! And fix it in the next few hours or – ”
“ – let’s ask the judge for a delay.”
“What do we say – your honor, we need more time to arrange an accident for Radford’s daughter.”
De Groot said nothing.
“Tell me when Ellie Stuart is dead!” said Fletcher Falcone.
Then he stood and walked out of the bar.
SEVENTY ONE
In the side mirror, Ellie saw the same white van trailing them. She considered it, like all vehicles, guilty until proven innocent. The van had maintained the same distance for miles. Two large men sat in front. She grew concerned.
As she started to tell Quinn, the van exited onto a dirt road. She breathed out and released her death grip on the armrest. Face it, she thought. You’ve become a full-blown paranoid.
Her phone rang: It was Henri Delacroix, her attorney. She wondered why he was calling, since they just met with him to discuss tomorrow’s probate hearing.
She punched the speaker button. “Hi, Mr. Delacroix.”
“Hey, Ellie. You and Quinn heading to the cabin?”
“Almost there.”
“Good. But there’s been an important last minute development.”
“Oh …”
“Fletcher Falcone was visited by a young woman named Nafeesa Hakim. She has an Iraqi marriage certificate that states she married Rick Radford in Iraq.”
Stunned, Ellie and Quinn stared at each other.
“They were married a few weeks before Rick was killed in action.”
“The poor woman. How awful …” Ellie said.
“Yes, but Leland Radford and Fletcher Falcone never knew of the marriage.”
“So now what?” Quinn said.
“So now the judge will have to determine the validity of her marriage. If valid, he’ll decide, based on everything else, what claim, if any, she might be entitled to make on the estate.”
“Does her marriage appear valid?” Quinn asked.
“Her marriage certificate does, according to an Iraqi professor. I’m going to talk to him and a Lieutenant in Iraq who phoned Falcone with this news. I’ll let you know what I find out. And I’ll see you both in court tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
They hung up.
Quinn shook his head. “This case never quiets down.”
“But the probate ruling should quiet things, right?”
“Not necessarily. Appeals happen more than people think.”
She pointed ahead at a huge boulder shaped like a bus.
“That’s the boulder where Professor Bossung said we should turn off to get to his cabin.”
Quinn slowed, turned into the forest and they bounced along on two dirt ruts under a canopy of tall oak trees. As they wove through shades of lime green and dark emerald, she realized this thick, serene Kentucky forest looked as primeval as when Daniel Boone hiked through in 1769. It was still a great place to hike … and unfortunately, a great place for an assassin to hide.
She pointed ahead to Professor Bossung’s small cabin perched on a hill. Quinn crunched up the gravel drive and parked.
They stepped out and Ellie breathed in the sweet scent of the honeysuckle bushes beside her. She took one flower, slowly pulled out the long stamen and placed the clear drop of nectar on her tongue. She loved the honey taste.
She pulled out another stamen, placed the juicy drop of nectar on Quinn’s tongue and smiled. “Tarzan like!”
Quinn unlocked the cabin door and they entered. It was charming. Knotty pine walls, redwood chairs and sofas, a fireplace, and bookshelves with law books, western novels and family pictures. She followed Quinn into the kitchen where she saw a small table and chairs and an antique butter churn.
“I’m starving,” Quinn said.
“Me, too.”
“But I just remembered Professor Bossung told me he removed all food from the cabin. A bear tried to break in.”
“What? Assassins aren’t enough?”
Quinn shrugged and opened the refrigerator. Empty.
“We gotta eat!” he said, rubbing his stomach. “Let’s go back to that Mini Mart and gross out on junk food!”
“You go. I want to freshen up. And please get me some Moon Pies.”
He smiled, but still hesitated to leave.
“Don’t worry, Quinn. The Mini Mart’s only two miles back. You’ll be back in a few minutes. If the bear tries to break in, I’ll barricade myself in the bathroom.”
“I’m not worried about a bear.”
“No one followed us here. I checked every few minutes.”
He said nothing.
She handed him her cell phone. “Call that old farmer that Professor Bossung told we were coming. The farmer that watches this cabin for him.”
“Luther.”
“Yeah. I saw Luther’s house just down the road. His light’s on. Call and ask him to keep an eye on the cabin until you get back.”
Quinn dialed Luther’s number and waited.
“No answer.”
“Leave a message.”
“No voice mail.”
“Just go ahead, Quinn. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Quinn frowned, looked outside. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Promise you’ll stay in the cabin. And keep the door locked to everyone except Luther.”
“How will I know it’s Luther?”
“He’s eighty-four and limps.”
“Oh …”
“But make him show you his birth certificate.”
She pushed Quinn out the door. “Go get my damn Moon Pies!”
He hurried out to the Escalade.
She slid the metal bar across the door, walked to the window and watched Quinn drive off. He was seriously concerned about her safety. The last person seriously worried about her safety was Mark Miller – and the sad truth is – she should have been seriously worried about Mark’s safety.
Because a roadside bomb took his life.
Fate.
Like fate had taken both sets of parents from her.
Would fate take Quinn away from her?
SEVENTY TWO
Nikolai Pushkin smiled as the big Escalade raced back down the hill toward the main road, leaving sweet young Ellie Stuart all for him. Finally, I get a little udachi … luck!
Pushkin walked toward the cabin. The dense forest and hilly terrain reminded him of the Urals and brought back pleasant memories of shooting wolves, pheasants, and some guys he didn’t like. He’d come back here and hunt one day. But right now, his prey was just thirty yards away.
He watched Ellie’s shadow move behind lace curtain.
He checked his syringe containing succinylcholine, a toxin that would kill her and disappear in her blood within minutes. The local medical examiner would assume she had a heart attack. But, when the autopsy found no heart disease and the tox report found no drugs, he would order more tests. His rural lab would not have the very sophisticated test that detected succinylcholine. Still, he might request the test. Which concerned Pushkin.
He would have preferred using the heroin he intended to inject them with at Quinn’s uncle’s mansion, but when the house alarm went off, he tossed it in the sewer.
Pushkin stepped closer to the cabin and something white caught his eye. A large propane tank. He saw the tank’s badly corroded, rusty tubing where it entered the cabin. Corrosion and propane gas were a deadly combination when exposed to flames or sparks … like say the static sparks caused by bullets.
Propane explosions blew up trailers, homes, boats and their occupants each year.
But he had a problem – fat black clouds pushing in overhead looked ready to unleash a downpour any second – a downpour that could kill the fire before the fire killed the woman.
He grabbed a long thin shaft of wood and slipped it soundlessly through the door’s outside handle and the door frame, locking her inside.
Thunder rumbled overhead like a gutter ball.
He rushed back to the side of the cabin, took out his Beretta, and tightened the suppressor. He moved behind two thick oak trees to shield himself from the explosion. He raised the weapon and aimed at the exact spot where the corroded tubing fed into the tank. He tightened his finger on the trigger.
Then he heard something …
… a sickening, familiar, deadly click.
Behind him.
He spun around and stared into the twin barrels of a Mossburg 12-gauge shotgun held by a scrawny old guy in bib overalls. His skin looked as withered as a Dead Sea scroll, but his blue eyes had locked on Pushkin like a stone-cold sniper.
Shit! Pushkin felt like he’d swallowed battery acid.
“Reckon you’ll be droppin’ yer gun, mister. Right slow!”
Pushkin realized he couldn’t turn and fire before the old bastard blew him away.
“If’n you ain’t droppin’ it, I’ll be droppin’ you. Then I’ll be draggin’ your sorry ass inside the cabin, so’s it’s nice and legal lookin’!”
The old guy meant it. His hands were steady.
“You understand me good?”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand good.” Pushkin placed his Beretta on the ground, wondering how to reach the Glock tucked in his back.
“You got one of them accents, ain’t ya?”
“Yeah.”
“Where ya from?”
“Sweden.”
“What was you fixin’ to shoot at, mister?”
Pushkin scrambled for an answer. “A big raccoon. Foaming at his mouth. Rabies maybe. Behind that big bush near the cabin. I’m with Harlan Exterminators. The owner says raccoons are getting into his cabin.”
“Didn’t mention no coons to me.”
“Well, I saw a big sick one behind that bush.” Pushkin pointed, as he inched his right hand closer to his Glock.
“You Harlan Exterminator fellas always work in fancy store-bought suits?”
Pushkin thought quick. “Oh, that. I’m on my way to a big event over in Dillon.”
“The Tractor Pull’s next month.”
“No. Tonight. A wedding.”
“You Harlan Exterminator fellas must make good money to drive a big Mercedes.”
Pushkin paused. “Heck no. I rented it for the wedding.”
“You also rent that silencer fer yer gun?”
Who is this guy? Ex-cop? Pushkin searched for something to say. “Well, I didn’t want to frighten the neighbors.”
“You’re lookin at the neighbor.”