The Survivor Page 31

  “Quite a Greek tragedy you got on your hands,” his father said. “And the Lou Gehrig’s on top of it all.” With an old-man groan, he lowered himself beside Nate, Casper reluctantly yielding ground, and they stared at the changing leaves, the breeze brisk, the air impossibly clean. “You got life insurance? For Janie and Cielle?”

  That was his dad—pragmatics first.

  “Yeah,” Nate said. “As long as I don’t kill myself.”

  “Was that a consideration?”

  “Yes.”

  His father nodded once, solemnly. “Dying’s rough. But so’s living wrong, I guess.”

  Nate’s shoe touched the stream, froth rising around the toe. “I’ve done enough of that already.”

  “As have I.”

  The air tasted of pine, a pleasant kind of smokiness. “How can I thank you for this?”

  His father chuckled a little, though Nate didn’t understand what he found amusing. “When your mom died, I was in no kind of shape. And I could tell that you just wanted to keep out of my way. But you couldn’t figure out how to do it. And I couldn’t figure out how to help you, help myself. It’s a terrible feeling, knowing you’re screwing up something so important and screwing it up anyway.”

  Nate thought about stumbling into Cielle’s room in the clutch of a nightmare, blood streaming down his forehead. Janie crying in the bedroom while he’d listened through the thin bathroom door. So many ways he’d been frozen in place, well before the actual ice block.

  “When I cleaned up later,” his father continued, “I figured I owed you. To repay the favor, keep out of your way. I didn’t figure you wanted me around.”

  This was the most Nate could recall his father speaking at one go, and he wanted to honor it by resisting anything trite, placating, or untrue. He said, “Maybe this is the one good thing out of this.”

  “What?”

  “Sitting here together now.”

  His father made a muffled noise at the back of his throat and nodded, a sad grin crinkling the skin at his temples. Side by side they watched the patterns of the stream form and dissolve, each froth-flecked curl spending its lifespan of a single instant before getting swept away under the bridge.

  * * *

  The cell phone rested on Nate’s thigh. Still nothing. He remained in the sole spot of reception on the bridge, a chained dog. But sitting with the scent of the pines and the rush of the stream, he didn’t mind. Janie brought him a blanket and a few cups of decaf, affecting a waitress’s demeanor, and he tipped her each time with a kiss. Now he closed his eyes and breathed the sharp air and waited for the damn text alert to chime.

  On the porch swing, Cielle flipped through a magazine. Beside her, Jason enacted a comically fake yawn and stretch, landing his arm across her shoulders. She pushed at him. “Go away. You smell like boy.”

  The predictable squabble ensued, escalating until Jason harrumphed inside. Cielle noticed Nate on his perch at the bridge and rolled her eyes at him. He shrugged. Her boots clopped across the porch, and she walked heavily over, letting gravity tug at her shoulders. She slumped down next to him.

  “Jay can be such a asshole.”

  “I thought it was shithead.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Then Nate was surprised to hear himself say, “He’s not so bad.”

  Cielle tilted her head, incredulous. “You’re sticking up for Jason?!”

  “I am just saying. You’ve always been so goddamned smart. So truthful. But you can use that to … you know, to bludgeon people.”

  Her mouth stayed open in a stunned half smile. “Like Jason. Jason as in My Boyfriend Jason.”

  “Yes. He’s not … terrible.”

  “Hang on. Lemme get a tape recorder.”

  “Listen, Cielle—”

  She appealed to an imaginary onlooker. “Court stenographer? Can you read that back?”

  “—it is possible to be too smart. And it can get in your way. You can shoot yourself in the foot—”

  Finally she broke character: “You’re in no position to point fingers.”

  “Sure I am.” He aimed his index finger at his chest. “Don’t be like me.” He risked a glance at her face. Sure enough, loosening into a grin. “I’m just saying, you deserve to have whatever you want.”

  “But he can be so annoying.”

  “No shit he’s annoying. But he also has certain attributes which are … not altogether reprehensible.”

  In his lap the cell phone rang. Nate opened the phone, set it to his ear.

  Abara said, “My house, midnight. Texting you the address now,” and clicked off.

  Nate slipped the phone into his pocket.

  Cielle was chewing her lip, no doubt still contemplating his last words. The shiny row of her bangs was ruler-straight, of a single piece. The richest, darkest hair he’d ever seen. A triumph of nature. “I…” She trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

  “No,” he said. “What?”

  “I wish I was something you could be proud of.” She kicked gently at the stream, specks of spray landing like ice on their cheeks.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That is stupid.”

  Her wide cheeks grew wider—a grin, despite herself. She backhanded his shoulder.

  “Proud of you?” he said. “You’re the single best thing I can take any credit for.” He hoped for some eye contact, but she kept her focus glued to the passing water. A blush came up in her cheeks, and it wasn’t all from the wind. “I gave you up once already,” he said, “and I’m gonna have to again sometime soon.” He swallowed, and it took some effort. “Besides your mom, you’re the only thing I’ll miss.”

  Cielle looked away, and then she smiled a sweet, faint smile. “Shut up.” She wiped her running eyeliner, and as a small gift to her he pretended not to notice. “But there’s so much stuff”—she sniffled, dragged her sleeve beneath her nose—“so much stuff you didn’t get to do.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “I got to do this.”

  The azure sheet of the sky dimmed a degree at a time. After a while she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  Chapter 53

  Rusted metal numbers nailed to a split-rail fence indicated Agent Abara’s address. The long driveway sliced through a swath of eucalyptus, towering trunks that disappeared into the ink-black sky. No house in sight from the main road. Nate drove right past, parked a quarter mile up the street, and cut back on foot. The past ten days had taught him that he couldn’t be cautious enough.

  Abara’s property was isolated here on a shoulder of the Santa Susana Mountains. Craggy boulders hemmed in the road. To Nate’s back loomed Rocky Peak, and unfurled below was the apron of the Valley, Chatsworth in the foreground with its parks and porn studios, its family homes and crack dens. A little something of everything in a brief throw of land, a rural twist on downtown L.A. thirty miles to the southeast.

  Curls of shed bark littered the driveway, softening his footfall. The cell phone in his pocket, now on silent mode, contained Abara’s last text with the address.

  The scent of the eucalyptus laced the breeze, reminding Nate of the heavy air of the banya. A humble ranch house lurched into sight around the bend with every step, coming visible in vertical slices between the trees. Farther back among the gray trunks, a freestanding barn blended into the shadows. Much of the main house was dark, though lights glowed in a few rooms. A piece of paper fluttered from the front door, distinct beneath the porch lamp. Odd. Nate felt a stab of apprehension. A good ruse for an ambush.

  He stared at the note, debating, then left the driveway, circled the ranch house as quietly as possible, and peered through the rear windows. The house, smaller than it appeared, was clearly a bachelor’s place. No girls’ rooms or purses or feminine jackets slung over chairs. In the main room, a TV and wet bar predominated. A single bedroom decorated with Lakers memorabili
a. For a moment Nate questioned whether he’d approached the wrong house. But then he spotted the framed certificate from Quantico on the wall of the converted office and the badge resting next to a set of car keys on the desk. This was Abara’s house, all right. But there was no Puerto Rican wife who misplaced her birth-control pills, no deceptive teenage daughters, no loyal dog who came home after Abara let him out through a gate that didn’t exist.

  Though Nate knew that Abara told his family stories as a manipulation tactic, the scope of the deception was pretty staggering. At the end of the day, he was a law-enforcement agent who lived alone and had invented an entire family life in hopes of eliciting rapport with suspects. Nate wanted to feel betrayal, even anger, but peering in at the single unwashed plate on the kitchen counter and the line of remote controls on the couch’s armrest, he could summon nothing but empathy.

  Still, it was odd that Abara had asked him here to the house where all the lies could be discovered. Had the direness of the situation made him abandon pretense? What else had he lied about? Was it possible that he might even be one of Pavlo’s well-paid contacts inside the system? It seemed unlikely. In his gut Nate sensed that Abara was a good agent.

  But he would find no firm answers here. He had to get to the note nailed to the front door.

  Taking his time, minding each movement, he returned to the driveway. A twinge pulsed to life in his left ankle, the disease reminding him it still lurked in his nervous system, biding its time. Pushing down harder on the foot, he thought, Not now. After picking his way through the trees around the front of the house, he risked an approach to the porch. The words on the paper were visible even from a distance: “Nate—I’m back in the barn.”

  The unlit barn toward the rear of the property.

  Backing away, Nate pulled the Beretta from the waistband of his jeans and began a cautious approach. With his other hand, he extracted his cell phone and thumbed in 911, but waited to push CALL.

  He advanced on the old-fashioned barn warily. No windows. The considerable door in the front was slid closed, and there would be no opening it quietly. Moving to the rear, Nate spotted a second sliding door, this one already open a few feet, showing a sliver of dark interior. From what he could see, the barn had been repurposed, with half-built cars, tools, and dissected engines strewn about the concrete floor. In the far corner, a bare bulb hung from the loft, what little it illuminated blocked by a decrepit stall partition. Was Abara back there, working on something?

  That stab of paranoia came again. Nate hesitated, not wanting to announce himself. Letting the gun lead, he eased inside. The foundation, tacky with oil, emanated a chill so intense it might as well have been air-conditioning. He planned each step, not wanting to kick a stray wrench. The stagnant air smelled earthy, a hint of rot.

  Moving farther in, he tried to get an angle around that stall partition, but various machinery and the rusting husk of a vintage Mustang blocked him from spotting what was beneath the bulb. The smell grew stronger, became a stench. The toe of his shoe struck something light and delicate on the floor, and it skidded a few inches, giving off a faint metallic rattle. He went rigid, thumb tight on the call button, gripping the pistol with his other hand. He stopped breathing, tried not to make a sound.

  Slowly, he crouched, keeping his gaze and the barrel on the darkness. His fingers patted the cold ground, searching out the object. His hand came up with it, lifting it before his eyes so he could make it out in the blackness.

  A holy medal on a gold chain. Abara’s necklace. The clasp torn.

  Like the floor, the necklace seemed unnaturally cold.

  Not just cold. Wet.

  His senses revved to high alert, fight or flight kicking in, the grainy gloom suddenly swirling with unseen menace.

  He pressed his trembling fingertips to the concrete foundation. A puddle. Frigid.

  Melted ice.

  With an industrial clang, the overheads went on, flooding the massive barn with daylight. His feet lost purchase on the slick floor. Down on his ass, blinking against the sudden glare, he took in the four men encircling him, the four hands gripping four pistols, each aimed at his skull. They’d been waiting, close enough to touch him in the darkness. But the Ukrainians weren’t what was most fearful.

  It was the sight beyond, finally visible behind that stall partition.

  Chapter 54

  The men were on him immediately, boots pinning his wrists to the floor, hands wrenching free first the Beretta, then his cell phone, which snapped closed. He was kicked once in the temple, his head snapping back, the sight beneath the bare bulb flashing again into sickening view.

  Ice block. Abara, unattached from himself, displayed in parts. Rescue saw on the ground, utterly slathered, the circular blade gummed up and bent from overuse. Matte black handcuffs, now empty, dangled from a chain.

  Woozy from the kick, Nate was hoisted to his feet. Two more ice blocks waiting at the back of the barn came visible, along with several rolls of plastic drop cloth. Reserved for him and his daughter.

  Blind terror. Bile creeping up his throat. He had to remind himself to breathe so he wouldn’t black out.

  Pavlo stepped around the partition, sliding a hand along the edge of the ice block. Tattoos crawled up his neck, down his wrists, escaping his shirt.

  “Mr. Abara was a sad man. No wife. No children. Alone.” Pavlo approached, and there was no mistaking the animal rage simmering just beneath the sinew of his face. “It is hard to be alone. To have nothing worth living for.” He wiped his hand on his pants, leaving a dark smear.

  Valerik gripped one of Nate’s arms, Dima the other, while Misha pressed a pistol to Nate’s temple. His face a swollen mess, Yuri looked on, wearing gloves and another black guayabera. Blood flecked the front of his shirt, thighs, forearms, face, even the key fob hanging from his breast pocket. Struggling to find air, Nate turned away, wanting to see anything but the ice block and its gruesome display.

  Pavlo grabbed Nate’s face, grinding his cheeks painfully against his molars and forcing his head toward what remained of Abara. “This man was your last hope. He told everything. As will you.” He leaned in, and Nate could smell the breath leaking through his teeth. “Where your daughter is. We will get her here.”

  “No.” The word barely left Nate’s lips.

  Pavlo laughed. “You do not realize that before we even played this chess match, you had lost. Because we are in America, you think your laws cannot be bought? Your computer systems and watch lists? Every one of your movements. Each ATM withdrawal your wife makes.” His hawkish eyes searched Nate for a reaction.

  “I know. You buy people—”

  “No. We buy people’s time. In five-minute chunks. Little favors. One database search here. A bank report there. There is nowhere you and your family could have gone that my money would not reach. It was over before it began. And now we will have you and your daughter side by side. When we are done with you, you will beg us to hurt her instead of you.”

  “Either way,” Nate said, “you’re gonna kill me.”

  “Yes. You will die. But that is not the part that interests me.” Pavlo’s eyes reshaped, a squint of amusement and menace. “It is the hour before that.” Keeping his stare on Nate, he gestured with a hand. “Bring saw here.”

  Yuri did as he was told, thrusting the dripping saw at Nate until the smell made him gag. Grabbing the handle, he shoved it away.

  Yuri raised the saw, checking the set of prints on the sticky handle, the bent blade rasping against the guard bar. Content, he walked the saw over and set it at the base of the ice block. Exhibit A.

  “He trusted you,” Pavlo said. “Abara. But the other agents, they did not. They will be upset to learn you justify their suspicions. Would you like to hear recording of call he made to headquarters telling that he changed his mind over you? That he was concerned you were…” He turned and murmured a question to Misha, who said, “Unstable.”

  Nate fought another lurch of hi
s gorge and forced out the words: “But the FBI has a file on you—”

  “Everyone has file on me.”

  “They have evidence on the witness killings. They’re building a case—”

  “Let me be clear,” Pavlo said, sounding out each word. “They can use team of forensic accountants, but they will never connect me to Danny Urban”—the name barely making it through the sneer—“and those killings.”

  The confidence blazing through Pavlo’s glare removed all doubt. In that instant, Nate felt every hope collapse. His only law-enforcement ally lay severed on an ice block. Nate himself was captured, sure to be tortured, sure to die. And Cielle was next on the chopping block. He gagged some more on the wartime smell and the feeling of the residue on his hands. Choking on despair.

  He reached for anything to give him strength. The impression of Janie came to him, her mouth at his collarbone: Why’d you make me wait so long? And then his vow to Cielle: I will let nothing happen to you.

  You can’t promise that.

  Yes. I can.

  He lifted his head, steeled with purpose. Stall, gather information, negotiate, redirect. Anything and everything to shake loose that grain of a chance.

  Pavlo had turned to Misha, brushing against him. “Let us get started.”

  “You went to all this trouble to frame me,” Nate said. “But once the cops find my carved-up body, they’re gonna know I didn’t kill Abara. And they’ll come after you for it.”

  Misha flicked his yellow bangs from his eyes, the ridiculous Beatles mop moving as a single hair-sprayed unit. “No one will find your pieces. Only your fingerprints. And the agent. We will clean the scene. Prepare it.”

  “You will tell us where your fat daughter is,” Pavlo said. “You will kill her with words from your own mouth.”

  “You broke the saw,” Nate blurted. “What are you gonna use on me?”

  Yuri: “We haff backup.”

  Pavlo nodded at him, and the big man ambled toward the door.

  Nate said quickly, “I made a 911 call. Before I walked in here.”