Blood Rites (33 page)

“Rats and bats and spiders, oh, my! Rats and bats and . . .” the girl teased in a singsong Dorothy voice.

Their argument could take time, and time, Helen knew, was precious. The girl dropped her pole on the ground and began walking toward the buildings. “Oh, fuck!” the boy yelled after her, hoping the swear would make him sound older, hoping even more that the word that his sister loathed worse than peas in cream sauce would make her turn back. A kick in the shins would be better than this adventure. Even the bar of soap Mom would make him lick after his sister told on him would be nothing compared to those buildings. “Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck, Carrie,” he screamed as loud as he was able. “Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck.”

Though she just kept walking, her shoulders shook. Oh, hell, she must be giggling!

The boy hated the old buildings but he hated being alone out here even more. He ran after his sister, just fast enough to close the distance between them.

And as they walked closer to the warehouses, the boy noted that only one of them had a new lock and a sturdy enough door to hide some magical treasure inside.

As the pair approached, Helen felt her first misgivings. They were too weak to use one of the scrap metal bars piled beside the building to pry off the padlock. The sight of her would send them scurrying for the police whose questions would be more than awkward.

And yet, they might be the only chance she and the boys would have for escape.

Trust your instincts, Stephen had told her.

But were these concerns true instinct or only doubts—and how was she supposed to know the difference?

III

Soon after Russ left the warehouse to make the call to Carrera, he stopped for a paper and scanned it for word of the murder and kidnapping. Seeing no mention of either, he decided to take the risk of phoning Carrera from downtown Windsor rather than driving twenty miles or more to a pay phone in a different town. Besides his ignorance about his hostages’ mental powers, smaller towns had nosier operators and he didn’t want to risk anyone listening in on this call. When he’d finished talking to Carrera, he stopped at a liquor store for a couple of bottles of Crown Royal for himself and the woman. He even grabbed a magazine, a chocolate bar, and some chips for the Wells brat, and since he couldn’t think of anything fancy Patrick might eat, he bought him a hula hoop from the display by the counter. Damn, he felt like celebrating! The conversation with Domie had gone well.
Better
than well. Domie had understood, had
believed
. Domie was going to take care of him. For the first time since he let her go, Russ found himself missing Donna. At least she knew how to fake a good time.

Well, there were other good times and one of them was trussed and waiting for him back at the warehouse. As he stood at the counter while the cashier tallied his bill on a piece of white butcher paper, he added one final item—a pound slab of garlic-flavored summer sausage. Now that he had time, he decided to do a little investigating and see if there were any traditional weak spots in Helen Wells’s nature.

As he drove down the hill toward the river, he saw a pair of children running down the street away from the warehouse. He waited until they were out of sight before driving inside, then carefully studied the lock. So far as he could determine, it had not been touched. He knelt beside Helen and took off the gag. “Did the kids out there see you?” he asked.

“No.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Because if the police come, you will kill the boys and me and yourself,” she said in a clipped even tone.

“I’m glad you understand my priorities,” he commented.

“Of course you intend to kill me and Patrick anyway.”

“Just you . . . eventually.” Russ expected to see some alarm in her expression as he gave his reply but Helen might have still been unconscious for all the emotion she revealed. He tried to hide his disappointment by delivering the food and presents to the back.

Patrick fingered the red hoop delicately, looking up at Russ with a solemn expression that made him dizzy. Though Russ hadn’t expected any thanks, he’d figured the gifts would bring a little relief from the tension, but if anything, it had increased. As he walked back to Helen, he shrugged off his uneasiness. This was the first time he’d handled a job this big without help. He had nobody for cards, nobody to swap lies or get drunk with. The loneliness might just be eating at him but he sensed a change in the warehouse, a definite shifting of tone that unsettled him as if everyone was smugly awaiting the sniper’s bullets in his chest. He checked Helen’s bonds carefully, running his fingers over every link in the handcuffs before he sat cross-legged beside her, unwrapping the sausage and uncorking the bottle. He used his knife to cut a slice of the sausage, waving it under her nose, disappointed by her almost amused reaction.

“Want any?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“How about a drink?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

“Water.”

He wedged his knees under her shoulders and lifted her head before uncorking a canteen. As she drank, he commented, “Carrera says Wells and your lover are in Cleveland now. I ‘m supposed to call him back in a couple of days and see when we make the trade.”

“Am I included?”

“The Wells brat is. So is your son. I told Carrera you were dead. After I take the boys to Cleveland, I’ll come back for you.”

“The trip will take some time,” she commented.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to deal with you while I’m gone. I think I’ve done a pretty good job so far.” He poured another drink, corked and rolled the bottle across the room. “I don’t want to have too much, you know. I got to keep my head around you. Besides, I got to make the booze last.” He dipped his finger in his glass and moistened her lips with the whiskey. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

She coughed. Even the smell of it made her sick. “Yes.”

“No drink? Not even blood?” He pressed hard on her forehead, forcing her head back, his face only inches from hers as he told her how Halli had died. Then, without repeating his question, he cut his arm in the soft spot above his wrist and let the blood drip onto her lips. He gave a grunt of pleasure when she opened them so the drops would fall onto her teeth and tongue. He gradually relaxed and let her suck the wound, running a hand down the side of her neck, feeling the ripple as she swallowed. “You’re so damned beautiful, you know that,” he whispered.

She understood the message Stephen had sent her. She no longer needed to hide. —Of course I do— she replied.

Her words in his mind; somehow Russ wasn’t surprised.

I

As was his custom, Volpe picked up his father on Friday afternoon at a west-side rest home. From there they drove to New Central Market where Volpe double parked in front of the fruit stalls outside the building and helped his father walk the sawdust-covered concrete aisles past women carrying babies and brown paper shopping bags. The old man, who had been partially paralyzed by a stroke, leaned on Volpe, stopping often to greet friends at the meat and vegetable stands, bitching as usual about the food and his roommate at the nursing home and how nobody in the family but his Angelo ever came to visit. Volpe didn’t correct him, but in the last year and a half, the old man had feuded with every other relation. Volpe suspected that his father spared him only because if they fought there’d be nobody to drive him to town. After the walk, Volpe took him to supper at the Greek place across from the Market, then to Friday night confession and back to the home. When he returned to his car after helping the old man inside, Volpe found a stranger leaning against it, waiting for him.

“I want you to take a message to your boss.” The stranger spoke with an obvious, though not quite placeable, European accent.

Even though his Friday night schedule had long ago become routine, Volpe was surprised. “Stephen Austra?” he asked, recognizing the man from the description Carrera had given. When Austra nodded, Volpe continued, “We expected you to call the office.”

“So the FBI could eavesdrop, yes?”

“You and Wells probably know more about that than me,” Volpe responded. Though Austra hadn’t made a move toward him, the stories Volpe had heard unsettled him as did the unwavering stare of the man’s dark eyes. Only a few weak street lamps shed light on the quiet tree-lined boulevard and the houses were set well back from the road. Volpe felt painfully vulnerable.

“I am looking for Russ Lowell. Do you know where he is?”

Volpe shook his head and opened his car door. In the Ford’s dim courtesy light, he could see Austra’s eyes narrow in what seemed like anger. Though Austra appeared unarmed, Volpe’s vague uneasiness intensified into real fear. “I’m sorry,” Volpe quickly added. Wanting nothing more than to end this lonely encounter, he pulled a grocery bill from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back of it. “This is a clean line. You call me tomorrow morning at ten.”

“I want to talk to Carrera personally.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Call me tomorrow.” Volpe dug his keys out of his pocket and got into his car. As he reached down to put the key in the ignition, he dropped the ring and had to maneuver his huge body around the steering wheel to grope on the dark floor for them. When he sat up and looked out the window Austra had vanished without even the sound of footsteps to hint on his direction.

Volpe looked up and down the street for some sign of a car but there was nothing. Not certain if he was more relieved or nervous by Austra’s sudden departure, Volpe sped away, relaxing only when he reached the heavy evening traffic on 25th Street. Even then, he cautiously headed through the empty flats and across the low Cuyahoga River bridges looking in the rearview and over his shoulder. Seeing no one following him, he got on the Shoreway and drove to the east side.

II

Volpe was so easy to follow.

Stephen traveled without lights, extending his mind to keep track of Volpe, often letting Volpe make a number of turns before speeding up to close the space to a few blocks between them. He would not have followed Volpe at all but their brief mental encounter had proven fruitless. Volpe did not think in terms of addresses or names. With the familiarity of someone who had lived most of his life in a few square blocks of city, he probably didn’t know street numbers at all.

Stephen became aware he was being watched from the time he’d crossed the invisible boundary into Carrera’s neighborhood. The Cadillac didn’t sound like one of the familiar cars so shades moved up a few inches, windows suddenly opened, and one old woman, oblivious to any threat from the street below, craned her head out a window and watched him drive by.

He had called this Carrera’s empire and he had been correct. These streets were as much Carrera’s domain as AustraGlass was his. But Stephen felt safe in Chaves, hardly fearing even exposure, whereas Carrera’s empire was an unsettled one, the monarch himself uneasy.

He waited until Volpe had parked his car in a narrow alley and been let inside before pulling up in front of Carrera’s private office above a darkened bakery. Not wishing to surprise the men on guard downstairs, he knocked on the front door. As he did, he sent a quick mental order that the men inside open it to talk to him. A moment later he entered and the dim inside light went out.

The upstairs room was sparsely furnished—a desk, six chairs, and an overhead light softened by a milk-glass globe. The windows and shades were closed for privacy and protection so a small air conditioner kept the room cool. Carrera, facing the door, was just beginning a game of gin with Volpe when Austra joined them without a knock or word of warning. Carrera looked up at him, and though Stephen knew he’d been startled, he did not show it. Instead he slowly lowered his cards and asked, “Stephen Austra?”

“Yes, Senhor Carrera. That is my name.” As he had with Volpe, he maintained a distinct Portuguese accent. He chose it because he wanted Carrera to treat him as a foreigner, one who perhaps held power elsewhere. He certainly held no power here.

They looked at each other across the table, Carrera’s eyes raised, Stephen’s, almost benevolent, as they looked down. Neither man spoke so Volpe nervously commented, “I don’t know how he followed me. He didn’t even have a car.”

Carrera knew. Stephen felt him resisting the odd tugging in his mind and settled less for control than for following his adversary’s thoughts. Carrera sent Volpe downstairs to check on the guards. Volpe returned quickly, pale and shaking. “Jimmy’s dead. I don’t see a mark on him. Red is alive but. . .” Volpe fell silent. He couldn’t begin to explain what had happened to Red.

“Men like that are expendable,” Stephen said coldly. “Men like Halli are harder to find and men like you, Senhor Carrera, are irreplaceable. Please, for your sake, keep your hands on the table.”

Close up Austra seemed even more delicately built than he had at a distance, with hands whose sole purpose seemed to be to display rings like the ruby rock on his middle finger. Nonetheless, Carrera decided that Austra had issued a warning, not a threat. The distinction between these seemed oddly sharp, and unquestionable. “You killed Jason Halli?” he asked.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“He gave some ill advice to Russ Lowell. He ordered Lowell to kill my son. Family to me, as to you, is sacred.”

“I am pleased you understand this, Mr. Austra. It makes our bargaining so much easier.”

“There is no bargain. I am here to demand that you give me Alan Wells and . . .” Stephen hesitated, then, realizing Carrera thought Helen dead, merely added, “and my son.”

He watched Carrera’s eyes widen as the compulsion to obey hit his mind. Carrera forced his gaze to move to his hands, speaking calmly, reasonably, as he responded, “You’ll have your son in time, I think. As for Wells—one less cop in the world, who can argue with that?”

“I sometimes agree with you. Small men given power often take advantage of that power, yes?” Stephen answered dryly, pleased to see that the analogy was not lost on Carrera. “But you see,” Stephen continued, “Captain Wells shot in self-defense and killed a son who, by all accounts, has been a disgrace to your family. If you went to prison, Senhor Carrera, and your son had sat at that desk for even a few short months, how much of what you and your father have built would be intact in a year? In two?”