The Vanishing Angle

by Linda Ladd

  “Time to meet the boss,” said his new tough-guy friend in the front seat. He was the one who’d ordered the girl around.

  “And who would that be?”

  “You’ll find out. He likes to introduce himself.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Get out. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  Novak was glad to get out of that stifling van. He stood and looked up at the house, stretching out his cramped neck and shoulders, gauging which guy he should hit first. The men inside the BMW all climbed out in a hurry, four more armed bullies in camo. Two of them roughly pulled the girl out of the back seat. She resisted and started cursing in some very blue language as they half-dragged, half-carried her up the front steps. They were using more force than was actually needed. She probably weighed ninety pounds, tops, if that much. Still, she was resisting and freaking out and digging in her heels and calling them names that he’d last heard at a Marine bar fight in San Diego. Under normal circumstances, Novak would have stepped in and made sure those guys knew how to treat a woman. At the moment, however, Novak could not dredge up a whole lot of sympathy for the kid. She’d gotten him into this mess. He didn’t owe her anything.

  Prodded at gunpoint, he mounted the steps, walking in front of his guards. He crossed the porch, and entered the house. The foyer was long and beautifully decorated, but the furnishings looked like they would be more appropriate in a mansion on the Cliff Walk of Newport. The room was wide and had portraits of lots of equestrians wearing tan jodhpurs and black jackets and riding helmets while sitting atop beautiful thoroughbred Arabian horses. Greek statues were placed here and there, the kind that looked legit and two thousand years old. Whoever lived here had an exemplary and wonderful cash flow. He followed the girl and her rowdy guards past a gigantic mahogany staircase to some closed double doors. When the guard knocked, a deep voice bade them to enter. The girl and Novak were encouraged to go inside with a hard shove to their backs. Only two of the men followed them inside. The door closed quietly behind them.

  The instant Novak saw the guy calling the shots, he recognized him. In the second instant, he knew his trouble had moved from fourth degree annoyance to first degree red alert. The great leonine head of white hair was a thing network legends were made of, as well as the man’s handsome, craggy darkly tanned features and clean-shaven square jaw. The Honorable Charles Edward Blackwood Esquire himself sat there before them in his big brown leather club chair, like the Emperor of Rome—Caligula, to hold the analogy. At one time, this guy had been a mega-famous nightly news anchor, but he had turned senator and served many decades in the hallowed halls of Congress. He was also the most crooked son of a bitch who ever walked up the Capitol steps, a man who had only escaped jail time by paying off many, many young female accusers. This guy was the epitome of scum of the earth, and Novak had always loathed the sight of him. During Blackwood’s television career, he had repeated insults about the military and its men, endlessly maligning them with snide falsehoods. He was a bombastic, despicable hypocrite well known for holier-than-thou speeches and a fortune in the billions, most of it garnered illegally.

  Blackwood said nothing, just stared at them. The fireplace beside him was roaring like a dragon’s mouth, hickory logs snapping and crackling and helping to provide the picture of the Victorian English lord in his library, which was what the former Senator wanted. To top off the effect, he wore a green velvet smoking jacket and held his trademark ivory meerschaum pipe cradled in one palm. Yes, the Charles Dickens Christmas card images just kept coming.

  “Ah, there you are, sweetheart,” he said to the drug-dazed, angry teenager. “You look rather exhausted, my dear. Please, Irina, ask your Mr. Novak to sit down.”

  ‘Your’ Mr. Novak, Novak thought. What in the bloody hell is he talking about?

  Irina scowled furiously at her father, as all teenage daughters were apt to do, then crossed her arms and put a pretty effective pout on her mouth. Despite her surly attitude, she looked so far gone that her pupils were nonexistent. She kept twisting a big gold senior class ring that she wore on her left hand. The big fake ruby glittered in the fire’s glow. She looked briefly at Novak and jerked a thumb at a tufted dark green velvet loveseat across from her father’s chair. She sat down atop the raised hearth and crossed her legs, trying to look bored. It didn’t come off. She needed a drug fix in the worst way. Novak took a seat where she indicated.

  So now things were getting interesting. He’d never met Senator Blackwood in person, but he knew the man had a big horse farm somewhere in Virginia where he raised prize-winning Arabians, probably the ones in those foyer portraits. He knew Blackwood ran with the big dogs in Washington politics as well as the smoking cigars in the news media. Blackwood regularly attended every dinner party on Embassy Row and even visited the White House. Having strangers kidnapped out of popular steakhouses did not fit the picture of the regal law-abiding citizen that he presented in public.

  “Thank you for coming,” Blackwood said to Novak. He spoke in that famous slow-as-dripping-sorghum southern drawl for which he was so well known. He was retired now, Novak thought he remembered, but wasn’t sure. Novak tried to recall more about the guy. He had been elected first as the junior Senator from the Commonwealth of Virginia. During that campaign, he’d claimed direct kinship to George Washington, which was a baldfaced lie that had come out after the election. It was a safe bet that Novak was now on the property of Blackwood’s fabled farm. He called the place Arabian Nights, if Novak remembered correctly.

  “I had little choice but to come, Mr. Blackwood. As you well know.”

  “So you recognize me?” The old man actually sounded pleased. Novak tried to calculate his age. Blackwood had to be nearing eighty, if not already an octogenarian.

  “Everybody knows you.”

  Blackwood’s expression intimated that he didn’t care for Novak’s tone. The feeling was mutual and growing by leaps and bounds. Novak decided to come out swinging. He’d never been the timid type, especially with obnoxious egotists.

  “Want to hear a funny story, Senator? An incident that I’m fairly certain the big newspapers in D.C. might love to print and distribute. Your little girl over there? She pointed her finger at me when I was eating my steak and minding my own business. I don’t know her from a hole in the ground. I don’t know why she chose me to involve in your family drama, but I do know I was drugged and dragged here to your den by the thugs that work for you. I don’t want to be here, Senator Blackwood, and now you need to tell me why I was singled out and brought here against my will or I’m going to walk out that door and lodge a complaint with the local cops.”

  Blackwood was not impressed. He merely gazed at him, the picture of calm aristocratic dominance. Then he smiled. “So you’re denying Irina’s charges?”

  That one caught Novak by surprise. “What charges?”

  Blackwood studied him for a long moment. Irina stared into the burning logs, trembling all over, and three seconds from losing all grip on reality. The old man concentrated on relighting the meerschaum until the surrounding silence grew too long and laborious. He puffed the tobacco into flame and blew out a smoke ring that smelled like an exclusive London tobacconist shop. Afterward, he gave a put-upon sigh, nice and loud and long, and with a bare twinge of annoyance. “I’ve brought you here to do the right thing by my daughter. You’re older than I expected, certainly not her usual type. I suppose I’m old-fashioned in my tastes, but so be it.”

  Novak glanced at Irina. She continued to shake and clasp her hands together as she rocked back and forth. He looked at her aged father. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never seen your daughter before tonight.”

  “Don’t pretend innocence. It doesn’t suit a man like you. You don’t look like the type to deny your part in this disgusting mess, but I guess you are.”

  Novak was tired of the egomaniac pushing him aro
und. He’d been curious at first, but now he was just tired of it. “Look, Blackwood, I don’t know your daughter. I’m going to press charges on you and your men for taking me at gunpoint.”

  Blackwood frowned and made a show of placing his pipe in a cut-glass ashtray. “So you are categorically denying that you’re the father of Irina’s baby?”

  Stunned by the ludicrous charge, Novak could only stare at him. At first he was speechless, and then he gave a contemptuous laugh. “That’s ridiculous. She’s just a kid, a strung-out junkie, if you haven’t noticed. What is she, anyway? A high schooler? You got the wrong guy, Blackwood. If she’s pregnant, check out the local football team, because I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Maybe you will admit the truth once my men have a go at you. Irina identified you as the father of her baby. You think I would not believe my own daughter?”

  Irina jumped up and gave a laugh that sounded slightly insane. Everybody looked at her. “Well, shit, Daddy, get real, would you?” She was quivering now, and so was her voice, but she was glaring death and hatred at the old man. She looked so out of it now that Novak grew worried. Her lips were pressed tight, and she held her stomach, lashing out at him through gritted teeth. “Okay, you win! I lied about the big guy over there. He’s not the father. I chose him because I knew you’d kill my boyfriend when you found out who he is. I wanted him out of town before your creeps beat him up. So just let this guy go. He didn’t do anything to me. I don’t know him, either. He just looked big and strong and able to take care of himself, so I chose him.” Her face changed along with her voice. “Please, Daddy, I need my shot. Please, I can’t stand it. I’m hurting bad.”

  Novak set his jaw and looked at Blackwood. He was supplying his own kid with drugs.

  “What boyfriend are you talking about?” Blackwood demanded. “You’re not allowed to have boyfriends, Irina. Tell me his name.” Blackwood was angry, but calmer than his daughter, though that didn’t take much. “You disobeyed me about going out with boys.”

  “Oh, yeah, Daddy, that’s exactly what I did. I’m not allowed to get knocked up, either, am I? But I did, so ha ha. Now maybe I won’t be so attractive to you, huh? Yeah, I’m gonna have a baby and the high and mighty Charles Blackwood can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  After that outburst, Irina looked proud for maybe two seconds before she slid down on her knees and put her forehead on the floor. Novak watched Blackwood. His face had gone the color of tomato ketchup, and he was gnashing his teeth. “Who is the boy? Give me his name. Now, Irina!”

  “No, no, no! I’ll never, ever, tell you his name. Not in a million years. You can beat me all night long and not give me my heroin, but you’ll never know who he is. I love him, and I hate you. Everything about you disgusts me. You’re old and you’re wrinkled and you’re gross.”

  As disgusting as this whole thing was, Novak rather enjoyed the way Charles Blackwood’s tanned face turned as white and hard as bleached concrete. Somehow the old man contained his rage, but it was simmering all right, just beneath the surface.

  “Shut your mouth, young lady.”

  Blackwood glanced away from her, but didn’t look at Novak or the guards. He was humiliated. Everybody sat still and said nothing. Irina started crying. The senator inhaled a deep, bracing breath, managing to contain the rage. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to where his daughter was sitting on her heels. He pulled her up. She stood there and glared unflinchingly up at his flushed face, hands on her hips. Without warning, he slapped her so hard across the face that it knocked the unstable girl off her feet. She fell sideways to the floor, stunned, then rolled over onto her stomach like a toddler, crying and mumbling curses at her father. A moment later she scrambled back to her feet and faced him again. She could barely stand, and her lower lip was cut wide open, bleeding profusely. She wiped at the blood running down her chin with the back of her hand, her eyes burning into Blackwood with unabashed hatred. “I hate you! You’re not my real father! You’re a monster!”

  Blackwood hit her again, this time a punch to the face that sent her reeling backward onto a couch. This time she didn’t get up. That’s when Novak decided he’d had enough. He stood up, and when Blackwood turned on him, his face still twisted dark with rage, Novak punched him in the nose with a blow so quick and brutal that the Senator was flung hard against his chair, overturning a side table before he slid down to the floor, blood soaking the front of his velvet robe. The two guards had been too shocked to move at first, but then grabbed Novak. He shook them off and decked one with as much force as he’d used to hit Blackwood. Blackwood pushed himself up to sitting, slightly disoriented, as more guards rushed into the room and grabbed Novak’s arms. Novak stopped resisting. He’d made his point.

  The girl was on the couch, unresponsive, but Blackwood was up on his feet now and leaning against the back of his chair for support. His nose was bleeding and already starting to swell. He held a big white handkerchief to it. He was going to have two black eyes and a headache in the morning, and that was a good thing. Then the Senator looked at him, a man so famous for his bombastic oratory in the Senate chamber, but his voice came out low and trembling, much as his daughter’s had.

  “I want him behind bars. You hear me, Petrov! I want him in jail now! Tonight! And get that little bitch out of my sight. Lock her in her bedroom!”

  When he said Petrov, Novak stiffened at the Russian’s name. Somehow it rang a bell, but he couldn’t remember why. Turning, he looked at the man who’d run into the room with the others. He was tall and lanky, maybe around six feet, with long arms and legs and a wiry build. He looked to be around fifty, maybe less. He had a shaven head, but Novak could tell by the barely visible hairline that he was not naturally bald. He had pale blue eyes that looked almost white in the firelight. He looked calm as an iced-over arctic lake, ready to do whatever was necessary. Novak felt he was a man to be feared.

  Petrov frowned when he met Novak’s stare. He looked as if he was trying to place him, too. Novak broke eye contact and returned his regard to Blackwood, who was coughing and spitting out blood. The girl lay unconscious on the couch. Nobody paid any attention to her, as if that attack was routine, something that happened every day. Petrov was in charge, probably head of Blackwood’s security, because he ordered the men to seize Novak. Novak didn’t fight them. He went along willingly, because he’d have a better chance of justice if he was arrested. In fact, he was surprised they didn’t take the law into their own hands; they seemed the types. He could prove who he was and when he’d arrived at that marina. That would clear him of the girl’s claim. Her face in the morning would verify that her father had hit her.

  They marched Novak outside, slapping him in a pair of handcuffs that Blackwood seemed to keep handy. That was a bit concerning. Novak wondered if they were not taking him to jail, but out on some backroad where they’d beat him to death. As it turned out, he was wrong about their intentions. They drove him back into the strange Christmas town and ushered him into a sheriff’s office that had flower boxes full of bronze-colored mums attached to the front windows. There, custody was handed over to a spiffy little shined-up deputy who didn’t even inquire as to his name or the charges lodged against him. Apparently, in Hallmarkville, Blackwood’s word was law, no superfluous questions asked. That couldn’t be good news for Novak’s immediate prospects. The deputy marched him back into the bowels of the jail and locked him behind bars in a cold cell. On his way out, he finally told Novak the charges: breaking and entering and physical assault and battery on the Honorable Charles Blackwood’s craggy old face. Then Novak was left there alone. A moment later, the lights were turned off.

  Novak shed his jacket and used it as a pillow. The bunk was hard and too short for his legs. It wasn’t a bad cell considering some jails he’d been in—Cambodia and Brazil, for instance. He had spent many a night cooling his heels in various lockups around Southeast Asia and Africa and
South America, so he took the false charges in stride. He could talk his way out of it, maybe, once any legit law enforcement officer showed up or Novak got a lawyer. He hadn’t received his phone call, so that could mean a kangaroo court was not too far on the horizon, probably as soon as the sun came up, along with a judge’s hasty decision to send him to prison. Nobody would be the wiser because nobody even knew Novak was there, so it could be just a good old-fashioned lynching.

  The old man would not want bad publicity, especially when it concerned his young, strung-out, recently abused daughter whom Blackwood had violently assaulted right in front of Novak. Of course, the former politician could just have him taken out to the back forty and buried where his prized stallions grazed. On the other hand, Blackwood knew that Novak could have kith or kin who’d come looking for him, maybe important and bold enough to make waves. Worse for them, Lori Garner could show up and really raise some serious shit. Novak was counting on that.

  Still, his acceptance did not mean he wasn’t royally pissed off. He was eaten up with it, and it only grew stronger as he lay there in the cold darkness. He finally slept fitfully and awoke at dawn. Then he paced and listened for voices, but heard nothing and nobody. He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling, alternately cursing and worrying about Irina Blackwood’s health after taking such a brutal blow. Finally, a police officer he’d never seen before made a big deal of presenting him with a mighty awful death glare as he unlocked his cell door. This guy was dressed in all black, a uniform that looked like a close derivative of German Gestapo garb. Novak sat up and looked at him. This was the sheriff himself, a short guy, maybe five-five or five-six, if that, but stocky and perfectly groomed, from his slicked-back black hair to his shiny black jackboots. The man stood there silently, probably trying to intimidate him, before he said in a loud voice, “You happen to know a woman by the name of Lori Garner?”