The Last Witness Page 35
Shavik fell silent.
“Carla Lane.”
“What about her?”
“She’s not just a witness who can destroy us all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her mother was Lana Tanovic . . .”
77
* * *
A thin fog rolled in from the sea as she turned off Exit 0 on the Garden State Parkway.
Ahead lay the coast, and Cape May’s slim white lighthouse stabbing the night sky. Quaint, gingerbread houses with picket fences, a vast array of Gothic and Victorian villas and mansions. The last place she’d expect someone like Shavik to live.
She drove east, toward an inlet with rows of impressive houses overlooking Delaware Bay. Stopping in a parking lot near a beach, she switched off the engine. She sat there, trying to calm herself.
She felt her hands shaking violently. Out of fear, she was tempted to simply to call the police, but she didn’t doubt Angel’s warning. Shavik would be gone before they arrived. She rolled down her window.
Fluorescent pools spilled from walkway lights. Was it her imagination, or was the fog getting thicker?
A salt tang on the air, but no breeze, the only sound the surf dragging on the beach. A sound she and Jan loved to listen to at night.
It made her think of him. She put a hand to her stomach. No cramps. But anxiety gnawing at her so much it made her feel nauseous.
Wherever you are, Jan, please try and protect our baby tonight.
Please.
For some reason a thought resurfaced: What had happened to her in Shavik’s office all those years ago? Would she ever know? Did she even want to?
She shivered, tied back her hair with a band, and slipped on the black woolen hat.
Her hands shook as she reached under her seat for the Sig. Laying it on her lap, she fitted the tac flashlight and retrieved the silencer and the box of cartridges.
She slipped on the shooter’s gloves and used the silicone cloth to remove the cartridges one by one from the box, loading the magazine, and the two spares. Her hands shook so badly she dropped at least half a dozen cartridges and had to scramble for them on the floor.
Three magazines of fifteen rounds each.
She felt her blood pounding in her temples. Would she really have the courage to kill Shavik? A surge of doubt threatened her, but a powerful memory crushed it.
In her mind she saw the faces of the camp victims: tormented women and children. The fathers and youths torn from their families to face certain death.
Then she saw again the shriveled remains in the closet and a livid rage took hold.
Her shaking stopped. A strange calmness came over her.
She stepped from the Toyota and pulled on her dark zip-up hoodie.
Her body ached after the long drive. Slipping the Sig into one pocket and the silencer into the other, she shut the car door, flicked on the alarm, and tucked the keys into her jeans, along with the spare magazines.
A sandy inlet lay ahead, a thin swirl of fog misting the air like smoke.
Somewhere out there was Shavik’s residence.
In her mind, she heard Luka’s voice again, calling out to her.
She dug her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and started to walk toward the inlet.
• • •
Her feet dragged in the sandy soil.
A few hundred yards on she saw it. Pale stucco. A private boardwalk with neon lights on above the jetty, a huge, sleek black powerboat tied up, its lacquered paintwork gleaming.
Even in the dim lunar light she could make out the shape of an eagle in the wrought-iron gate, the faint blue glow of an electronic keypad next to it.
She approached the gate. She saw steps leading up to a swimming pool. A few dim lights on inside the house. Her heart hammered again in her chest, so hard she could hardly breathe. She took deep breaths, and pulled out the Sig.
With trembling hands, she screwed on the silencer.
She fingered the gate keypad, carefully entering the code—2704—and hit the pound sign.
The gate solenoid sprang open with a buzzing sound, drowned by the wash of waves. She cocked the Sig and flicked off the safety catch.
As she pushed at the gate, it gave a tiny squeal. She gave it a few moments before she moved inside.
The Sig was outstretched in her hand but she didn’t dare yet to turn on the tac light. Moving up the steps past the pool, she came to patio doors. Darkness lay beyond. She heard a scraping noise behind her.
She spun round and a fist slammed into her face.
She staggered back and fell to the ground, dazed, dropping the gun. It clattered on tile as rough hands dragged her to her feet and powerful security lights blazed on.
Facing her was Boris Arkov, a baseball bat in his hand, a grin on his face.
Two muscular bodyguards held her arms.
Arkov grabbed her savagely by the hair. “Thought you were being smart, didn’t you?”
He punched her again, this time hard in the left temple.
Carla felt a pain blossom in her skull.
And everything went out of focus and she passed out.
78
* * *
Billy was sitting on the porch, his boots back on, his feet up on the table.
A bucket of crushed ice from the refrigerator stood next to them. A yellow citronella candle he’d found in one of the drawers glowed, keeping the mosquitoes away. As he lit a Marlboro in the candle flame he saw Regan pull up in a white Dodge Durango.
She peered over toward his cabin but went up the steps to her own place and let herself in.
He waited, flicked on his portable radio-CD player, kept it low, and the strains of Itzhak Perlman playing Beethoven seemed just made for the star-filled night. Five minutes later the front door opened again and she strolled down to join him.
“Beautiful night.” He stood politely.
“We get a lot of them around here.”
“Jack Daniel’s and ice okay? Or I’ve got beer in the fridge.”
“Jack’s good.”
“Will Josh be okay on his own, or is your brother back? I hate to think of Josh being left on his own.”
“Ronnie ought to be back soon. But Josh’ll be okay. Don’t let that wheelchair fool you. He’s able to take care of himself.”
She sat across from him. He could smell her perfume. He splashed the bourbon into her glass, scooped in some ice.
“Your friends all gone home?”
“They decided to hang on.”
“Don’t tell me they’re the band’s groupies?”
“They’re not that desperate.” Regan sipped, giggled. “But you never know. There isn’t much else to do around these parts. It’s either the bar or the lake.”
Hands behind his head, Billy looked up at the stars. “Know what you mean. Still, a man could get used to this life.”
She nodded to the CD player, Perlman’s silky violin in the background. “You like that kind of music?”
“I like any kind of music that’s good. Classical especially.”
“You don’t look like the type.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” He smiled. “I work hard at looking like a pest controller. Truth is, I studied music for two years. Wanted to play the oboe real bad.”
She giggled again. “You’re kidding? The oboe? Why?”
“I have a soft heart. I felt it was a much-neglected instrument that needed some affection.”
She pointed a varnished fingernail, smiling. “Now that there’s a definite lie. Tell the truth.”
“Okay, I played the banjo.”
Her giggle rippled, and she put a hand over her mouth.
“What about you?”
“I don’t play. But Josh does. Me, I like anything, really.”
“Jan Lane was pretty good—Josh had a pic of him up on the computer screen. I’ve got a few of his CDs. You should listen to his stuff. Talent like that is rare. Tragic that he died.”
&
nbsp; “I’d never heard of him until a little while ago.”
“No?”
Regan put down her glass. “It’s a real coincidence. You mentioning Jan Lane like that . . .”
“Yeah?”
“His widow Carla was here recently.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“How come?”
“My brother Ronnie served in the military with her grandfather.”
“Guess it’s a small world. Why’d she come?”
“To see Ronnie. You really like it here?”
“What’s not to like? I’d give my left leg to live in a place like this. Peace, fishing, scenery. More critters than a pest controller could deal with in a lifetime.”
A bee buzzed round them, then landed on the table. Billy raised his right palm, waited with the hard-eyed patience of a hunter, then slapped the table fast, squashing his target. “It doesn’t pay to bumble with the B.”
Regan put a hand over her face and almost snorted a laugh, leaning forward, and putting down her glass. “Either you’re funny, or I’ve had too much to drink.”
Billy wiped his palm with a paper tissue, leaned a little closer, too, scooped more ice into his glass. In the citrus light he saw expectancy glint in her eyes. Her lips were moist from the bourbon.
He figured she wanted to be kissed, but he was uncertain if it was such a good idea.
His hand came up, softly caressed her blond hair. For a moment, she seemed to go with it, and her mouth opened as she bit her lip, but for some reason she pulled back, the moment lost.
“Sorry. I . . . I don’t usually do this.”
“With strangers, you mean? So soon?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s okay. I understand. On a night like this. The stars, a few drinks, pleasant company . . .”
“I guess. Well, I better be heading to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
She finished her drink, stood.
“Billy.”
“Yeah?”
“I enjoyed talking tonight.”
• • •
CAPE MAY
Fog everywhere.
In the few places where it was lighter, stars glittered through the smoky haze.
Shavik stood on the boardwalk, a brandy glass in his hand, his shirt open at the neck. Silence, except for the ceaseless sound of distant waves.
He was in that place again, the place inside himself that he shared with no one. For the first time in a long time he felt . . . what?
A kind of dread?
He recalled what Ivan Arkov said:
“Her mother was Lana Tanovic . . . from your hometown. Do you remember her?”
Shock lit his face the moment he heard the words, before he replied, “I . . . I knew I saw her before. But her name—her name was different.”
“Saw her where?”
“In the camp.”
Now Shavik stood there, breathing deeply, and took a sip of brandy.
She was a stranger to him, this young woman.
Yet could he kill her? Knowing who she really was?
His own flesh and blood?
He took a long swig from the bottle.
Conflict building in him, he could feel it.
He could never forget what happened that day more than twenty years ago in the camp office.
Never.
And the secret he told no one.
It haunted him.
He heard footsteps on the boardwalk.
Old man Arkov ambled down, looking pleased. “I took a look over the Cayman deposit.”
“And?”
“A good haul this time, Mila. You did well.”
“You’re staying long?”
“That depends on how long the fog lasts. You look troubled.”
Shavik took another swig. “There are people she may have confided in.”
“That muddies things.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Boris said the woman’s pregnant.”
“So we believe.”
“Exploit that weakness. Do whatever you must to make her talk. Then send her the way of her mother.”
The old man left, his footsteps fading to a hollow echo.
• • •
Shavik waited until he’d gone, then he flung the glass onto some rocks, and heard it shatter. He’d make her talk. But he knew what he was dreading.
The journey back into the private hell of his past.
A past he preferred to forget.
What monstrous dreams awaited to ambush him? What terrifying gargoyles lurked in the dark belfry of his mind?
He flexed his fingers, as if to prepare himself, then started to walk back toward the house.
• • •
KILGORE’S MARINA
UNION COUNTY, TENNESSEE
Billy watched Regan stroll back to her cabin and step inside.
Billy smirked. Billy Lubbock. Pest controller. It gave him a kick, role-playing. Like his acting days. He blew out the candle, grabbed the bottle of Jack and the glasses, and brought them back into his room.
He slid out his cell and called the number. While he waited, the cell cradled between his cheek and his neck, he pulled the Kimber .45 from under his mattress, felt the solid weight of it as he screwed on the silencer.
Arkov answered.
“It’s Billy. She’s been here. Her name’s in the guest book.”
He had the book in front of him. Had taken it from the office and he’d get rid of it. He didn’t want his signature anywhere. He popped two spare loaded magazines in his pocket as he filled Arkov in.
“You did well, Billy. We’ve made progress, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Angel talked, and we’ve got the Lane woman.”
“How?”
Arkov explained everything. “We’ll deal with her. What about the guy who runs the dock?”
“His sister says he ought to be back tonight.”
“I’ll find out how much the Lane woman told her redneck friends. Can you can handle things your end if you need to?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call you once we know. With luck, an hour or two at most.”
The line died. The Kimber .45 was still in Billy’s hand. He flicked out the magazine. Loaded, ready to go. He slammed the mag back into the butt and it made a familiar click. Man, he loved that sound.
He felt his adrenaline kicking in, his palms beginning to sweat, the way they always did before a kill.
He didn’t particularly like the idea of wasting the boy in the chair, but if he had to, it was a done deal.
Pest controller. He sure liked that. A nice touch. All those zingers just came off the cuff. Bugbusters. Licensed to kill. It doesn’t pay to bumble with the B.
Darn, he was good.
Another hour or two.
At most.
Then it would be time to say adios to some pests.
Buenas noches, roaches.
79
* * *
Carla jolted awake, a caustic smell piercing her nostrils.
It drifted down into her lungs like poison gas and her head snapped back, eyes wide open. She took a deep breath, felt a razor-sharp pain knife her lungs, so hard that she gasped in agony. Her hands were bound behind her back and she was seated in a wooden chair.
“Welcome back. Feeling better, sweetie?”
Boris Arkov grinned, knelt down to face her, patting her stomach.
“How’s the baby?”
Carla felt her blood chill.
Arkov winked, shaking his head. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that pregnant women should pay attention to their health? You ought to have been more careful sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Too late now.”
Carla’s heart sank quicker than a stone.
Arkov picked up a hypodermic syringe and filled it with the clear liquid from a small bottle. “Time to feel Satan’s breath.”
He grabbed her arm,
painfully hard. She struggled as he went to jab the needle into her vein.
“Leave it! No drug this time.”
Mila Shavik emerged from the shadows, a bottle of brandy in his hand.
His shirt was undone a few buttons, his tie loose. “Get out, Boris . . .”
“But the drug will be quicker loosening her tongue . . .”
“It could also kill her. Leave us.”
“Going easy on her will get us nowhere. Her kind only respond to brute force.”
“I said get out. Now.”
An enraged Arkov tossed the syringe on the table and stormed out, banging the door after him.
“Boris doesn’t like taking orders. He also has a fondness for violence that seems to run in his blood.”
Carla said nothing.
“You know who I am?”
“Mila Shavik.”
Without a word, Shavik knelt in front of her. His right hand reached out, touched her stomach as if to feel the swell there. He almost looked mesmerized.
“It’s true that you’re pregnant?”
Carla didn’t speak, an icy shiver flooding her heart with terror.
Without a word, Shavik moved behind her, and loosened the ropes.
She looked at him in disbelief, and rubbed her arms and hands.
“Boris wanted to do it the hard way. I thought first we’d just have a friendly talk, and see if we can work things out.” He switched a moment to Serbo-Croat. “Do you still speak your mother’s tongue?”
“No. How did you know I was coming? Angel?”
Shavik slipped his hand into his right pocket, took out two cell phones, held them up. “Easy. You gave yourself away.”
“Where’s Angel?”
“Not your concern.”
“Is she dead?”
He didn’t reply as he pulled up a chair, and slipped the cell phones back in his pocket. He sat facing her and produced a pack of Marlboro. “You’re a defiant one, aren’t you? Ever since that day on the camp parade ground. You haven’t changed.”
Now that Carla was close up to Shavik, oddly she felt nothing, no rage, no revulsion. But there was another feeling there, buried deep. She tried to divine it. Was it a kind of pity? It felt strange.