Deadliest of Sins (23 page)

Suddenly, from the woods behind the motel, he heard shots—high-pitched, rapid-fire bursts that sounded like an old AK-47. He ran, keeping to the shadows, until he reached the back of the motel. Hugging the wall, he inched forward until he could look around the corner. He saw a man running across a trash-strewn parking lot, automatic rifle clutched in both hands, his eyes focused on some distant spot in the woods. He had the giddy look of a feral dog, about to fall upon some helpless prey. Without thinking, Galloway stepped from the shadows and called, “Hey!”

The man stopped, surprised. Before he could utter a word, Galloway pointed his gun at his heart. “Drop the gun now.”

For an instant the man looked almost amused, then he started to swivel in Galloway's direction. Galloway did not wait. He aimed and clustered three rounds in the middle of the man's chest. The machine gun fell to the ground, as silent and useless as the man who'd just fired it.

Thirty-Five

The pistol shots caught
Mary's attention. She'd been running through the woods with intentional noise, trying to pull the men away from Sam, as the quick
rat-a-tat
bursts of the automatic rifles echoed through the woods. Then three deeper shots rang out, silencing one of the machine guns and sending the woods into a truce-like calm. She crouched behind a tree and listened. Before, the two machine guns had been as reliable as the corners of a triangle—one coming from the southeast, the other from the southwest, with the Russian walking up the mountain below and between the two. But something had changed all that. Now she heard just the one automatic firing short, almost plaintive bursts from the southwest, like some bird honking for its fallen mate.

It's Sam
, she thought.
She got scared and broke cover, or maybe one of the machine gunners found her and she took him out with her glass shard. But who fired those shots? They sounded like a big handgun. Had the Russian turned on Sam? If so, then why was the remaining gunner still firing willy-nilly?

Go back
, she told herself.
If Sam is still alive, she'll need help
.

Mary turned and went back the way she'd come, only now instead of moving like a hungry bear, she slipped through the trees silently, a shadow among shadows. Though the remaining machine gunner kept up his distant patterings, he did not concern her. He advertised his location with every burst of fire. It was the white suit she worried about. He was silent, he was smart, and he was the one who wanted Sam.

She made her way to the top of the ridge. It was more exposed, but faster travel. And she needed to find the white-barked sycamore tree that she'd used to mark the place where Sam hid, down the hill.

She walked silently, peering through the darkness for the bleached-bone bark of the tree. Finally she saw it, a ghostly sentinel lifting branches into the night sky. She hurried on. When she reached the big tree, she stood against the side that faced the motel. Just to the left lay the fallen limb that hid Sam. It looked just as she'd left it—was it possible Sam was still there? She started to ease her way down the hill when a twig snapped behind her. She turned. Suddenly something hard jammed into the base of her skull. An instant later someone wrenched her arm back between her shoulder blades.

“I thought you might come back for your little friend,” a soft voice whispered.

She didn't have to look to know the man behind her was Russian, no doubt with a pistol ready to fire a round into her brain

“I don't know where she is,” said Mary. “We split up.”

“Then why did you come back here? You were almost to the road.”

“How do you know where I was?”

He laughed. “You think we have no forests in Ukraine? No night vision scopes in Moscow? You did well, though. For a little while, I could not find you.”

The second machine gun gave a short burst of fire, then abruptly stopped. The Russian held the gun to her neck harder as another vast, vacant silence settled around them.

“
Chort
!” he said, under his breath. “Idiot!”

Mary turned to look at the man. With his shaven head and deep-seat eyes, he looked like a walking skull in the darkness. He frowned as he cocked his head to toward the trees, as if the breeze might bring good news. When none came, he looked back at her.

“Who's down there?”

She shook her head. She had no idea what was going on, other than that his two machine-gunning henchmen had grown strangely silent.

“There is wild card out here now,” he said. “One of my men was killed a little while ago; I suspect the other just died as well.”

Mary would have laughed had a pistol not been nudged up against her brain.

“So I am thinking someone has come to your rescue. You work for governor—important, no?”

“Very important,” Mary said, hoping he wouldn't see through her lie. She couldn't imagine who would have come up here after her. Nobody knew where she was. And she was a laughably unimportant player on Ann Chandler's team.

“So we now have new plan. We are going to walk out of these woods just like this—my gun to your head, arm behind your back. We are going to walk in plain sight, around building to cars in front. If someone tries to kill me, you will die too. That I promise you.”

“What about the girl?” asked Mary.

“Fuck the girl. Some deals just don't work out.”

He wrenched her right arm higher up her back and stepped so close to her she could feel his slightly erect dick poking her hip. It repulsed her, but she couldn't move away. She and the Russian were now twins, conjoined by the pistol aimed at her brain. He pushed her down the hillside, matching her step for step. She glanced once at the log where she hoped Samantha still lay, then she veered to her right, once again steering the Russian away from the girl. They moved with difficulty, slipping on the same slick pine needles that she and Sam had negotiated on the way up. At one point she tripped over a root. As the Russian cried out, she heard something click on his gun. For an instant she thought she was dead, then he laughed as he jerked her to her feet.

“Better watch your step, Miss Governor Cop. My gun might think you want to get away.”

He shoved her forward. As they left the darkness of the woods and entered the back parking lot, she risked a look around. She saw no one, heard nothing. If anyone was here trying to rescue her, they were certainly not making their presence known.
More likely one of machine gunners had turned on the other and is now drawing a bead on the Russian
, she thought,
wanting to cut his partners out of the deal for Samantha
.

They crossed the parking lot, walking fast. At first she thought they were going to go back through the motel, but at the last minute, the Russian changed his mind. He turned her, and they went along the front of the building, passing the boarded-up windows of the rooms. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead as she saw, in the distance, a white Mercedes parked and waiting. That was where he was going. But what was he going to do with her? Kill her? Take her as a hostage? Let her go?

She almost laughed at her own idiocy. This man would never let her go.

Okay
, she told herself as he whisked her along the sidewalk.
Think. Get in that car and you're a dead woman—every kid in grade school knows that.
But there was no way she could struggle free—the arm that he'd wrenched behind her back had long ago gone numb, and the Russian was cleverly staying too close for her to get a good kick at his ribs or groin. Still, her left arm was free. If she could just figure out some way to connect with his eyes or throat, she might have a chance.

They sped up to a jog as they neared the office that stood between the two wings of the motel. She wondered if the Russian was going to stop and gather Yusuf and the other guy for his little expedition, but he made straight for the car without breaking stride. Her heart raced as she kept waiting for a new machine gun burst that would cut both them both in two, or a single shot from her unknown rescuer that would turn the Russian into a sack of dead meat. Neither thing happened—whatever drama had transpired between the machine gunners apparently had nothing to do with them.
What about Sam?
she wondered. Was she still up there, hiding? Or had she been caught in the crossfire?

Suddenly, the Russian pulled her roughly to a stop. “Tykho!” he whispered. “Slukhayle!”

She didn't know what he wanted, so she just stood there, trying to catch her breath. As she did, the faintest sound of siren came in on the breeze. It was far way now, but she could tell it was coming closer.

“Chort!”
he cried. “Go!”

He pushed her toward the car faster, still holding the gun to her head. They were no more than ten feet away now. She went one step, then two, then he stepped on the heel of her shoe. It made her lurch forward, off balance. As he grabbed to keep her upright and moving, she felt his gun slip up and point into her hair rather than her brain. This was her chance!

She lowered her shoulder and swung her left fist as hard as she could. She pegged him, a glancing blow to his ear. He wobbled for an instant, then he straightened his arm and pointed his pistol directly at her head. “Now you die,” he whispered, still holding her by her right arm.

She gulped, knowing he had her. But instead of fire and hot lead coming out of his gun, the thing exploded in his hand. Pieces of metal skittered along the ground while bits of his fingers splattered red against the white car. He screamed as blood spurted in long arcs from his wrist. Mary backed up, trying to dive for cover when suddenly, Victor Galloway leaped from behind the second car. He kicked the Russian in the jaw. The man fell, sprawling. He tried to crawl beneath the Mercedes, but Galloway was too fast, flipping him on his stomach, cuffing his mangled hand to the good one behind his back. As he took off his shirt to tourniquet the Russian's bleeding arm, he looked up at Mary and grinned.

“Galloway?” She was shaking so hard she could barely speak.

“To protect and serve, ma'am,” Galloway said as he tied the tourniquet tight. “We Campbell County cops aim to please.”

“And so you did,” said Mary, collapsing on the ground, tears swelling in her eyes as a line of cars with flashing lights roared into the parking lot of the Tocher Hunting Camp.

Thirty-Six

– Eight months later –

“Remember what Ms. Morse
is going to ask you about, Chase?” Mary smiled down at the little boy who sat fidgeting in a blue blazer and oversized tie in the Sligo County witness room. They'd moved Gudger's trial to the neighboring county—he had too many connections in Campbell for his case to be fairly heard.

“About how Gudger threatened to sell me. And how that gorilla came and beat him up.” He looked up at Mary, pale brows drawn in a frown. “Sam told me that Volk killed her friend Ivan. And that gay guy, too.”

Mary marveled at how much the little boy had grown. He was inches taller, and his straw-colored hair had deepened into a light honey color. “Bryan Taylor was going to do a movie about those other girls in the motel with Sam. Boyko found out and sent Volk to kill him. His fingerprints matched the unidentified ones in Mrs. Taylor's car.”

“Then Volk was the real bad guy,” Chase said softly, gazing at the old-school house clock that ticked away on the wall. “I mean, he did all the killing.”

“They were all bad guys, Chase,” said Mary. “Gudger, Crump, Boyko—they did terrible things to young girls and boys and they're all going to be in prison for a very long time.”

“Everybody but Volk,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Volk will be dead even longer,” Mary said, wondering why the child was worrying about the giant Russian who'd died in the fiery car crash on Highway 74 that awful, long-ago night.

“I wish he were still alive,” Chase said. “If he were in jail, they might have found out a lot more bad stuff he'd done. You know, maybe found some of those girls who've been missing for so long.”

“That's true,” said Mary. “But sometimes things just don't work out the way we want.” She moved her chair closer. “So tell me about you, Chase. How's life in the eighth grade?”

“It's a lot better than the seventh,” he said. “I joined the band. I'm learning to play the drums.”

“That's great,” said Mary.

“Yeah,” Chase continued, lowering his voice as if he were embarrassed. “And Vicky Brewer asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance.”

“Whoa, Chase!” Mary lifted her hand for a high-five. “You go, buddy!”

Chase giggled. Mary was glad to hear it—she didn't want him obsessing over some dead Russian goon. She leaned closer and looked at the maroon-colored tie he was wearing. It was much too big and made his still-thin neck look even smaller. “That's a classy tie,” she said.

“It was my dad's,” he said proudly. “I'm wearing it for good luck. Dr. Knox helped me tie it.”

“You like Dr. Knox?” Mary knew that the older, soft-spoken doctor whose testimony nailed Crump had become a regular visitor at Chase's house.

“Yeah, he's great. He's got all these cool books and he knows everything about the Civil War. He bought me a really neat bike, too.”

“Does Sam like him?”

He shrugged. “As much as Sam likes anybody these days.”

Mary had no answer for that. An ordeal like Sam's marked most people for the rest of their lives. Even though she had crawled out from under that log unharmed, she would carry the memory of those two months at the Tocher Hunting Camp to her grave. “Is she still friends with Alice?”

“Yeah, they talk all the time. They're both here today.”

Mary thought back over the last eight months. The SBI had pulled Alice Reynolds off a Greek freighter, about to leave the port of Wilmington. She and Sam had both testified against the men who'd held them captive. At first the three defendants had sat silent and sullen, refusing to talk to anyone. But then Smiley had gotten so spooked by the girls' testimony that he'd ratted everybody out—happily naming names, giving dates, helping the FBI break up a trafficking operation that went the length of I-85—from Richmond to Montgomery. As a reward, Smiley had disappeared into the witness protection program. Boyko and Yusuf were both doing fifty years at the federal prison at Big Sandy, Kentucky. Crump had apparently sensed how his cards were going to fall and took a deal. He was now in for thirty-five of his own years at Central Prison, near Raleigh. Gudger was the last one left.

Chase fidgeted more, started flipping the end of his tie. “When do you think they'll start?”

“Pretty soon. Sometimes it takes a while to get through all the witnesses.” Mary knew Penny Morse was hoping Gudger would take the modest deal she'd offered before Chase had to testify. But Gudger was apparently brassing it out. Perhaps he thought he could intimidate the boy with that hard glare of his. She had seen tougher witnesses than Chase come unglued on the stand.

“You know, Chase, Gudger's going to be in there the whole time you're testifying.”

“Will he question me, too?” asked the boy.

“No. He can't say a word. He can't touch you. But he'll probably look really mean and try to scare you. His attorney might do that, too.”

“I don't care,” Chase said. “I'm still going to tell the truth.”

She squeezed his shoulders. “I'm proud of you, Charles Oliver Buchanan. I know your father is, too.”

Just then the door opened. A fat, florid bailiff stepped inside the room. “You're up next, young man.”

They stood up. “Okay,” said Mary. “Remember to speak clearly. And if you get scared, just look at me. I'll be sitting at the prosecutor's table, right beside Ms. Morse.”

“Okay,” said Chase, tightening his tie one last time. “I'm ready.”

The courtroom was packed. Not only with reporters from Charlotte and most of the Campbell County Police Department, but with a vast array of victims and their families. Of all sizes and races, the mothers held their newly found daughters' hands while reunited siblings sat with their arms around each other. Most had testified against Gudger—he had stolen years of their young lives away from some; others had not survived at all. The lost ones were remembered by sad, single mothers who sat alone, holding pictures of their daughters in hopes that somebody in the courtroom might remember their faces, might tell them they were still alive.

Penny Morse called Chase as a witness. The little boy walked to the stand. He gave Gudger a single, cold stare, then he put his hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth. Five minutes later, as he was recounting how Gudger poured hot sauce on his poison ivy blisters, the defense attorney asked for a recess to confer with his client. Fifteen minutes after that, the judge announced that the defendant had accepted the state's offer, that Ralph Newly Gudger would spend the next fifty-five years in Central Prison. A woman in a black T-shirt with
Dusty
sequined across it stood up, stuck her fingers in her mouth, and gave a shrill whistle of approval. Everyone else stood and clapped as two deputies escorted Gudger, head bowed and limping, out of the courtroom.

After the judge left the bench, Mary turned to Penny, who was beaming. “Nice job, counselor,” Mary said, shaking her hand.

“If I had lost this case, I would have quit the law,” said Penny. “Particularly after that sweet little boy put his hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth.”

“He did a good job,” said Mary. “You coached him well.”

“Was he nervous, back there with you?”

“I think Volk's still in his head, but he'll be okay.” Mary smiled at Chase, who was enjoying a boisterous group hug with Sam, his mother, Alice, and Dr. Knox. “Both those kids have a lot of grit.”

“Everybody in this courtroom had a lot of grit.” Penny clicked her briefcase shut. “I just hate it for the mothers of the ones who are still lost.”

“It breaks your heart, but like I told Chase, it's seldom that everything works out exactly like you want.” Mary leaned over and gave the young woman a hug. “You're a good lawyer, Penny. Count this one as a notch on your gun.”

“Thanks.”

As Penny turned to talk to a reporter, Mary turned to leave. Since Chase and Sam were still surrounded by triumphant well-wishers, she just gave Chase a thumbs-up as she headed for the door. She'd gotten halfway down the courthouse steps when Galloway came up, dressed in a brand-new suit. He looked cocky as ever—dimpled smile broad, blue eyes bright.

“Detective!” she said. “How nice to see you. I thought you were deep in the throes of an internal investigation.”

“Ended two days ago.”

“They didn't mind that you shot two people dead? And threatened Gudger with a pulmonary embolism?”

“They
were
a little miffed about Gudger. But the dead guys were machine gunners who were trying to kill the governor's special prosecutor. And I shot them in self-defense, anyway.”

“So one made up for the other?”

“I guess.” He looked at her and grinned. “Like my new threads?”

“I do,” said Mary. “Did they boot you upstairs? Are you now the police commissioner of Campbell County?”

“Actually, I'm not with Campbell County anymore.”

“You're kidding. What are you doing now?”

Shyly, he pulled a new badge from his pocket. It had the seal of the state of North Carolina on it and read
State Bureau of Investigation.

“You're SBI now?” asked Mary.

He nodded. “I got a nice call from the Honorable Ann Chandler herself. She thanked me for my service and said that if I ever wanted to take my talents to the statewide level, a position was waiting.”

“Galloway, that's wonderful.” Mary stretched to kiss his cheek. “Congratulations!'

“Thanks. I cleaned out my desk, and I'm heading east.”

“To Raleigh?”

He shook his head. “Actually, I'll be in the Charlotte office.” They fell into step together. “So where are you going?”

“Back to Asheville.”

“The governor didn't fire you?”

“No, she gave me a raise.”

“How come? Ecotron went to Virginia.”

“She still got a hell of a lot of political mileage out of closing down an international sex trafficking operation.”

“So North Carolina gay folks can now just twist in the wind?”

“No, she's still committed to gay rights. But I think she finally realized that you have to get the statutes changed first. Raleigh leads, everybody else has to follow.”

“Campbell County won't follow willingly,” said Galloway.

“Yeah, but that's not my problem,” said Mary.

They walked on. Both had parked on the street, under a huge elm tree. Galloway's green Mustang was nudged up behind Mary's black Miata.

“Well,” she said as she threw her briefcase in the passenger seat of the car. “I guess this is it.”

“Only if you want it to be,” said Galloway.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Charlotte is one hundred and twenty-two miles from Asheville. Two hours travel time—unless you're an SBI officer in that Mustang, in which case it's about an hour and a half
.
”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “So—you're saying you'd like to see me again?”

He took her hand, in a courtly, old-fashioned way. “Yes, Mary Crow. I, Victor Alejandro Galloway, would very much like to see you again. As soon as possible, in fact.”

She looked at him. Though he was not the man she thought she'd wind up with, she couldn't help but remember what she'd just told Penny Morse.
It's seldom things work out the way you want
. Maybe in this case, things might work out for the better.

She smiled. “You doing anything this afternoon?”

He shook his head.

“Then follow me.”

“Are you going on 74?”

“I am.”

“I hear it has some nasty curves.”

“It sure does,” she replied looking at him over her shoulder. “But I bet you're the kind of guy who can figure out exactly how to drive them.”