The Last Witness Page 37

  “You call that an answer?”

  “No. But I remember something your mother said in her final letter to me.”

  “What?”

  “She said that good and evil, like love and hate, are so close that they’re chained together in the soul. That we can unleash whichever one we choose. Perhaps she was right. I chose to unleash hate.”

  He stared back at her, remorse in his eyes. “You know, I’ve never got her out of my blood. Not ever. The only time I seemed to find peace was when I was with her. She made me feel alive again. She was a remarkable woman.”

  A fraught look ravaged Carla’s face, as if she was close to the edge of things.

  Shavik fell silent.

  The silence went on forever.

  Shavik went to reach out, as if his hand meant to touch her hair, a strange kind of look in his eyes, but then he drew back warily.

  “I’m not the beast you think I am. There’s something else. Something I didn’t know until that day your mother came to see me in the camp . . .”

  “No, I’ve heard enough.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I don’t care.”

  From somewhere in the house came a gunshot, quickly followed by another.

  Carla startled.

  A burst of gunfire stuttered in reply.

  Shavik jumped to his feet and said to Carla, “Don’t move.”

  He wrenched out a pistol and crossed the room. Opening the basement door, he peered up the stairs. Almost immediately an alarm went off inside the house, a high-pitched bleating that felt as if it was rupturing their ears.

  Shavik heard noise and stepped back. Moments later footsteps clattered on the stairs and Arkov appeared, wielding a machine pistol, sweat drenching his face, his left hand and shoulder bloody, a briefcase under his other arm.

  “We’ve got trouble. Get down to the boat dock, now!”

  82

  * * *

  Miriam Flores scrubbed the dishes and lay them on the sink to dry.

  She wiped her hands on the dish towel and looked at the wall clock.

  Five past midnight.

  These meetings sometimes went on late. Very late if she was unlucky. The old man and the two others, her boss and the weirdo one, the old man’s delinquent son with the cold stare of a killer.

  Talkie-talkie. Yap-yap. Babble-babble.

  In a language she didn’t understand or care to.

  The people she worked for were scumbags.

  Rich scumbags.

  Hardly ever talked to her and her husband. With luck, she’d get to bed at 3 a.m., and be up again at seven to cook them breakfast.

  They never thought about the little people who had to wait on them hand and foot. Little people were nobodies.

  Miriam sighed. Time to unwind. She poured herself a glass of Chardonnay from the refrigerator. Licking her lips, she opened a cupboard. Nuts and an apple. Great way to the curb the appetite. She took a packet of almonds from the cupboard, then plucked a plump red apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. Grabbing a paring knife in the drawer, she hit the TV remote.

  Reruns. America’s Got Talent or Jerry Springer?

  She preferred the Springer.

  Pure lowlife theater. Dumb, crazy people beating the tar out of each other and washing their dirty linen in public. She sipped her Chardonnay—pretty good. Munching a handful of almonds, she peeled a cut of crunchy apple, and upped the TV volume. She chomped a few mouthfuls, and stopped, feeling something hard touch her jaw.

  Not an almond.

  Cold steel.

  A gun barrel, pressing into her right cheek, like a toothache.

  She gave a tiny cry and a split second later a hand slapped over her mouth.

  • • •

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you make a sound I will.”

  A man’s voice. In the brushed, stainless steel of the refrigerator Miriam glimpsed a figure in black.

  Holy Mother.

  The hand came away, hovered about an inch from her mouth.

  “What’s your name? Speak softly.”

  “Miriam.”

  “Remember, not a sound, Miriam. Got that?”

  She gave a terrified nod, perspiration beading her brow.

  The hand moved away from her mouth. The figure spun her round. She was face-to-face with a man wearing a black ski mask, black clothes, black sneakers, holding a black gun. Brown eyes in the slits of a balaclava.

  The man held up a roll of wide gray tape. “Know what this is?”

  Miriam stared at the tape roll, pure dread in her face.

  “It’s duct tape, Miriam. Silence on a roll.”

  She looked at the man, not understanding, but had a feeling what was coming next; she’d be bound. Maybe raped or shot. She was sixty-eight next birthday. She had read about weirdoes assaulting older women.

  But the man must have sensed her fear, and said softly, “You do as I say and I promise you don’t get hurt. Yell, call for help, and it’s a different story. You understand me, Miriam?”

  Another nod. She wondered if deranged killers spoke like that just to lull you?

  “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “About your employers. Then I want you to be nice and quiet while I lock you in the pantry with that bottle of wine of yours for company, okay?”

  83

  * * *

  Arkov stood at the window, watching the Escalade carrying his father back to Cape May airport move out through the front gates.

  As the red taillights vanished into the fog, his mind lingered on a perverted thought. He hoped he’d have the pleasure of dealing with the woman himself. A tingling anticipation coursed through his loins, a feeling that was almost sexual in its intensity.

  He’d take a stroll down to the basement and see how Shavik was getting on. Better still, he could watch using the cameras from the privacy of the security room.

  He put his hand under his suit jacket, removing the Glock from its holster. He racked the slide, chambering a round, before replacing the weapon.

  Then Arkov snapped open his phone and hit the number.

  Billy answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”

  “Do it. Kill them all.”

  • • •

  Dobrashin, Arkov’s bodyguard, zipped up his pants, flushed the toilet, and waddled back into the security room.

  All 320 pounds of him slumped into the swivel seat and it creaked in protest. He needed to oil that thing, man. A sumo wrestler’s build had certain advantages—like getting instant physical respect—but swivel seats that squeezed your butt like a zit were not on the reward list.

  Arms swollen with energy, he reached out to fiddle with the console buttons and scan the screens.

  All clear. Every image as it should be. Except one: the guy Shavik, in the basement, talking with the female intruder. He didn’t know what the heck was going on there but it wasn’t his business and he didn’t care.

  More than a dozen infrared cameras covered strategic locations both inside and outside the house and he could switch between any of them.

  Infrared beams out there in the garden, too.

  Anything moved, he’d see it, or if he didn’t, the alarms would sense it and go off. Which was how they caught the woman.

  Nobody could get past those beams or cameras, and even if they did they still had to face him. And the Heckler & Koch MP5—a short-barreled machine pistol lying on the console.

  Dobrashin reached down and grabbed what looked like a small violin case by the console. He snapped open the catches. Inside was a ukulele.

  Fact of life—everybody had a day job and they had a dream.

  His dream was to be like that Hawaiian guy with a quivering voice who had a massive hit with “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Dobrashin wanted to make it onto a show like America’s Got Talent or American Idol. Make it big. Forget the bodyguard stuff; he wanted big bucks, not to get wasted for s
ome rich moron.

  Dobrashin’s folks came to the United States when he was three and he played the ukulele since he was eight. He did a pretty good impression of the Hawaiian guy, could hit the high C’s no problem, even modulate his voice to get that quivering sound. Dobrashin started to strum the ukulele, got the song going, pitching his voice high.

  Oooo, oooo, oooo . . .

  Oooo, oooo, oooo . . .

  C, E minor, F, then C.

  “Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high . . .”

  “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

  Dobrashin stopped strumming, felt something hard touch his right ear.

  He went to turn, and the chair squeaked. He glimpsed a guy dressed in black, black balaclava, Glock in hand.

  “Don’t move again. You ever think of playing professionally, son?”

  Dobrashin was struck dumb.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d give it some serious thought. You’ve got a voice.”

  Dobrashin almost said, “Thanks,” but stopped himself.

  “I’m looking for a lady. I think she came here. Her car’s parked not far away. You know who I’m talking about?”

  Dobrashin nodded.

  “Where is she?”

  “The basement.”

  “Alive?”

  Dobrashin’s eyes shifted to the bank of security screens.

  Ronnie followed the bodyguard’s gaze, saw Carla seated in a room, another man standing, talking to her. Shavik?

  “I guess I’m a little late to change her mind. Is she in any immediate danger?”

  Dobrashin shrugged.

  “Lay the instrument on the console, and keep those palms down, away from the MP5. Then slowly—and I do mean slowly—bring your hands round behind your back. No tricks, or you’re going to screw up the coroner’s weekend.”

  Dobrashin laid down the ukulele. Slowly, deliberately, he put his beefy arms behind his back. He felt a couple of hard plastic ties slip over his wrists and get pulled tight. He couldn’t move his arms.

  Duct tape was run tight around his mouth. Dobrashin snorted.

  “I’ll take the tape off when I want to ask you some questions, so relax. For now, sit still while I put another set of ties on your ankles. You’re going to get hog-tied, buddy. It’s still a lot better than getting shot . . .”

  Dobrashin glimpsed a movement in one of the cameras.

  Arkov.

  Calmly walking down the hall, heading to the security room.

  The intruder behind him was too busy fiddling with the plastic ties to notice the screens because the moment the stout metal security door opened on its return springs and Arkov appeared, the intruder startled.

  Dobrashin twisted round in the chair, saw it all unfold.

  Arkov, shock registering, wrenching out his gun.

  The intruder went to reach for his but didn’t make it in time, Arkov firing first, two rounds smacking into the plaster wall above the intruder’s head.

  The intruder moved fast, grabbed Dobrashin’s MP5, rolled on the ground and fired, stitching the walls with rounds, hitting Arkov in the left hand and shoulder.

  Arkov staggered back out the way he came, and the return spring slammed the security door shut with a metal clunk, the steel two inches thick.

  Then there was only silence and the smell of cordite from spent ammunition, Dobrashin watching the camera screen as a wounded Arkov scurried back down the hall . . .

  • • •

  Arkov staggered toward the bedroom, knowing exactly what he had to do.

  The basement exit route led to the dock, but first he had important things to do. Sweat drenching his face, agonizing pains stabbing his chest and shoulder, he yanked out his cell as he moved, and fingered the number, frantic.

  A voice answered. “Felix.”

  “It’s Boris. We’re abandoning the nest. We’ll use the boat. You know the plan, stand by to meet us.”

  The call took six seconds, and as Arkov ended the conversation he reached the bedroom. Every second counted, all his instincts honed to survival.

  He lurched into the walk-in dressing room, tearing away the clothes-laden hangers to get to the safe. A black briefcase lay below it. On a shelf next to him was a loaded MP5.

  Blood dripped down his arm where a bullet shattered bone, the pain excruciating, but it didn’t stop him from stabbing at the keypad with a finger.

  The safe sprang open.

  He grabbed the ledger, the laptop, and the decoder, stashing them in the briefcase.

  He hit an alarm button near the wall safe and a high-pitched siren shrieked all over the house. Holding the briefcase under his arm he grabbed the MP5, then stumbled out of the room and down the basement steps, the alarm still sounding, his wounds on fire.

  In all, it took him less than forty-seven seconds from the moment he exited the security room.

  Shavik already had the basement door open as Arkov staggered down the stairs.

  “Get down to the boat, now! We’ve got trouble!”

  84

  * * *

  The boardwalk was swallowed up by fog as they hurried from the basement exit. It led to the rear gate, and they moved out toward the lit pier.

  Neon overhead lights lit the way, but barely illuminated the boardwalk. The black powerboat was out there somewhere, lost in the mist of fog.

  Shavik dragged Carla by the hand, urgency in his voice. “Move. Don’t stop.”

  Carla was sure she heard police sirens, and then came the low but distinct throb of a helicopter in the distance.

  She could barely walk, her legs trembling with fear. It all felt so unreal, like a dream: Shavik urging her on, Arkov staggering behind, grasping the briefcase and a machine pistol, his bloody arm bent like a stroke victim’s.

  “You hear that? They’re coming closer.” Arkov’s voice sounded strained with fear.

  They reached the black powerboat, its sleek polished body complete with cream leather seats. Shavik let go of Carla and frantically untied the mooring ropes. The sound of sirens and the chopping noise grew louder.

  Carla saw her chance. She turned and started to run.

  She had barely gone five yards when Arkov stretched out his foot, tripping her, and she fell forward onto the boardwalk.

  Arkov tossed the briefcase onto the boat. “She’ll only slow us down. We finish this here and now.”

  “No!”

  But Arkov ignored the command and raised the MP5, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  “I said no!” In an instant Shavik crossed the distance between them and struck Arkov hard across the jaw, sending him reeling backward onto the boat, his head bouncing off the floor, the machine pistol gliding across the wood.

  “Start the engine, and be quick about it . . .” Shavik ordered.

  Arkov groaned, tried to sit up, but then he collapsed, his head slumping to one side. He looked out of it.

  The sirens grew even louder.

  Shavik’s face was lit by rage as he grabbed the MP5, then took hold of Carla’s arm and hauled her up . . .

  • • •

  Ronnie tried the steel security door. It was locked solid. He pounded the metal with a fist, then turned to Dobrashin, tore the duct tape from his mouth, and wielded the MP5. “Get that door open, fast.”

  “There’s a security feature, man. It’s time-locked. I can’t.”

  “There’s got to be an override switch. Where is it?”

  Dobrashin fell silent.

  Ronnie aimed the MP5 between Dobrashin’s legs.

  “If I have to ask you again, you’ll be hitting those high C’s even higher.”

  • • •

  TENNESSEE

  Billy watched the cabin from his veranda.

  All the lights out now, except one.

  Flickering, faint, like a TV. Was somebody still up?

  He couldn’t wait all night.

  Get in, get out, fast.

  That
was his rule.

  He slipped his legs over the veranda railing and strolled toward Regan’s cabin, not a sound except the crickets. The .45 and the silencer were in his jeans pockets, along with the tac light. At the bottom of the cabin steps he slid off his shoes.

  Better to move in his stocking feet. He inched up the stairs, keeping to the side. A tiny creak here and there, but nothing more. He reached the front door, and tried the handle.

  Unlocked.

  He grinned. Some idiots were still too trusting in these parts.

  The kind of trust that could get you killed.

  He slipped the .45 from his right-hand pocket and removed the silencer from the other. He screwed it on the barrel, then flicked off the safety catch, but left the hammer uncocked.

  Opening the door gingerly, he was met by darkness, except for the faint flickering of a TV, somewhere in the back, one of the bedrooms maybe?

  He heard muffled music, or voices, he couldn’t tell which.

  He moved inside, readying the .45. Flicking on his tac light, the low blue beam washed the walls.

  He was in a living room.

  The sound of music or voices, still muffled.

  He could make out the source of the flickering light down the hall. A TV screen illuminated from a crack in an open door. Billy padded down the hall, not making a sound, and approached the door.

  He peered in through the crack. A bedroom. The boy was asleep on the bed, almost looking like a girl, his hands under his head, MTV on, some band playing crap.

  Billy looked farther down the hall, saw other doors. Regan’s room had to be down there. He got a voyeuristic kick out of her not knowing he was in the cabin, and with it came a feeling of power.

  Which first? The boy or Regan?

  Get the dirtiest job over with first.

  He stepped into the boy’s bedroom . . .

  85

  * * *

  Shavik untied the last mooring rope and hustled Carla on board.

  He turned on the engine, lights flashing on the console. The bleating sirens sounded closer, somewhere along the inlet now, the lights of the police vehicles lost in the heavy fog.