Fatal (33 page)

The panorama was truly magnificent, made even more so by the sun, now in descent toward the mountains. The house, while not built on a sheer drop, was set on the top of a steep slope. Ellen stepped to the edge. The slope was mostly dirt, weeds, and rocks, littered with boards, strapping, and chunks of concrete from the construction, left to be cleaned up when the place was finally landscaped. It was then she realized that the house wasn’t one story as it appeared from the road, but two and possibly even three, the others having been hewn into the hillside. She took a few tentative steps down the hill and gasped. There were two stories of living space—the floor she had examined and another beneath it. Each featured a solid wall of tinted glass, running the entire length of the house. And underneath the lower story was a garage—also built into the hillside, and accessed by a narrow driveway that arced far out to her right, then undoubtedly upward to a spot not far from where she had parked.

In the garage was a large, black Jeep 4x4.

Ellen felt a sickening tightness in her chest at the sight of it.

“Well, now, what have we here?”

Vinyl Sutcher’s booming voice was a spear through Ellen’s heart. Startled beyond measure, she whirled, stumbled, and fell to one knee, landing on a jagged piece of concrete. She leapt to her feet, mindless of the pain, the tear in her slacks, and the circle of blood rapidly expanding around it. Sutcher was standing above her, twenty feet or so away, hands on hips, his huge, flat face grinning down at her.

“I knew it was you,” Ellen said contemptuously.

“Get up here. . . . I said, GET THE FUCK UP HERE!”

Ellen hesitated, then slowly did as he demanded. She had made a terrible, terrible mistake and now she was going to pay for it in pain, and then, sooner or later, with her life. If the slope behind her was just a little steeper, she might have ended it quickly right there, or at least have tried to pull him over with her. As things were, the driveway below would stop any fall. All she could do was stand there and face up to him.

“How did you find this place?” he demanded.

“Isn’t it a horrible moment when you realize you’re not as smart as you think you are?” she said, as much to herself as to him.

Sutcher was dressed in black jeans, a black short-sleeved dress shirt, and black boots, and looked to Ellen as malevolent as any person could. His narrow rodent’s eyes glared down at her.

“I asked you a question,” he snarled.

He closed the last ten feet between them, grabbed Ellen’s wrist, and, with his other hand, forcefully flexed her knuckles inward until she dropped to her knees, crying in pain.

“I know who you are and I know what you did,” she managed.

Sutcher pulled her to her feet, but maintained his grip on her hand.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you get much pleasure out of hurting ladies that are old enough to be your mother?”

“I get pleasure out of hurting anyone. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time before the real hurting begins, how did you find me?”

Ellen pictured her granddaughter, sleeping in her room while this monster took photos of her.

“I just stood downwind and sniffed,” she said. “Then I followed the smell and here you are.”

Without hesitation, Sutcher hit her—a vicious openhanded slap that spun her around and sent her tumbling down the slope like a rag doll. Battered and bleeding, she came to rest halfway down to the driveway, on her belly, her arms and legs splayed, her gashed cheek grinding into a chunk of concrete. She was awake and alert, but hurting in so many places that in some strange way she wasn’t hurting at all. She remained motionless, her eyes closed.
What was next?
From up above, she could hear Sutcher’s grunts and the clattering of stones as he worked his way down the slope toward where she lay.

She opened her eyes a slit. Resting beneath her right hand was a three-foot-long thin slat of wood, and protruding from the far end of the slat was a nail—two inches long, maybe two and a half. She was going to lose to the monster, that was a given, but not without at least trying to hurt him first. Moving nothing but her fingers, she closed them about wood. Her only chance, if there was a chance at all, was to swing at his face and hope to catch an eye. Her hatred for the man was such that the idea of blinding him brought no distaste.

His labored breathing was getting closer. At least once she thought she heard him stumble.
Good!
. . . He was there now, next to her, nudging her over with the toe of his boot. If he noticed her hand clutching the slat and stepped on her wrist, her one chance to inflict any damage would be gone. But he seemed more intent on determining whether or not she was alive. To make it more difficult for him, she held her breath.

“Come on, over you go,” he said, working the toe of his boot underneath her.

Ellen allowed him to turn her nearly over before she finished the job. With a loud screech, she rolled to her back and swung her weapon in the same motion. The nail sank to the hilt through Sutcher’s cheek, less than an inch below his eye. He howled an obscenity and lurched backward, clawing at the wood. Just as he pulled it free, he fell heavily, tumbling over and over down the steep, rubble-strewn hill. Ellen was on her feet before he reached the driveway. Ignoring the pain of many wounds, she scrambled up the slope.

“You bitch! I’m going to kill you!” Sutcher bellowed. “You’re dead meat!”

Even if he had the key to his Jeep in his pocket, there was no way he could get to her before she reached her car. Half stumbling, half running, gasping for air, she charged across the dirt lawn to the Taurus. Moments before she reached it she was seized with the fear that he had flattened a tire or in some other way disabled the car. Neither was the case. Turning her car around before leaving it stood out as the lone bright spot in an afternoon of stupidity. She scrambled awkwardly behind the wheel and in seconds was skidding off down the road.

With her eyes darting from the narrow roadway to the rearview mirror and back, she negotiated the dirt track as rapidly as she dared. Nearing the end, she chanced fishing out her cell phone from her purse. Praying she was in range of a transmitter, she dialed the number Chief Grimes had given her. She was surprised when he answered himself.

“Mrs. Kroft, that certainly wasn’t a very wise thing to have done,” Grimes said after she gave him a quick summary of her situation.

Tell me something I don’t know,
she thought. “I think he’s coming after me,” she said. “What should I do?”

“I’m in the cruiser right now,” he replied. “Just keep driving as fast as you can until you see me coming the other way, then pull over. I’ll have the flashers on so you can pick me up.”

“Oh, thank you,” Ellen said, feeling her pulse rate begin to recede into the thousands.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Kroft. You’ve done a really dumb thing, but luckily you’re okay. I’ll take over from here. Just take a deep breath and let it out real slow. You’re safe now.”

“
NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT ! 
We’ve got a baby sleeping in here. Now go away, please. No more interviews.”

Don Cleary slammed the door shut and stalked back into his apartment, cursing the locked downstairs door and buzz-in security system, neither of which had been functional for a year or more. Damn, but it was going to be good to get out of the projects once and for all, he thought.

“More reporters?” Sherrie asked sleepily, from her spot on the sofa.

“They’re crammed on the stairway like rabbits, and there’re camera crews on the walk outside.”

He, Sherrie, her mother, and some friends had watched the Omnivax television program after being told about it by a woman named Tricia from Lynette Marquand’s office. As the woman promised, in order to protect their privacy for the moment, their names weren’t broadcast on the air. Of course, after the actual injection was given, things were going to change. That, they could count on. Mrs. Marquand, Tricia said, would be happy to provide them with a publicity person who would help them after the injection to deal with the press and also to benefit financially in any way possible—and there were bound to be a number of offers.

Then, just an hour or so after the program ended, the phone had started ringing. No one who called seemed to know exactly how they had gotten the Clearys’ phone number or Donelle’s name. At first, he and Sherrie had been excited. They gave a taped interview to a reporter from one of the Washington television stations and allowed a photographer from the
Post
to come in and take a photo of them with the baby. After that, as the media crush intensified, they began saying no. Now they were getting angry.

In her cradle by the sofa, Donelle began crying.

“Damn, I woke her up,” Don said. “I’m sorry, honey.”

He hurried to the cradle, lifted the precious bundle in his arms, and sat down next to his wife. The baby’s bleating stopped immediately. Her dark eyes opened widely and seemed to fix on his face.

“Is she lookin’ at you?” Sherrie asked. “What a flirt.”

“Yeah, just like her mother.”

“You get out! Donny, look, isn’t she perfect?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think she’ll be? A dancer? Or . . . or a doctor? Or maybe a famous athlete?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Don said. “The truth is, there’s only one thing I want her to be.”

“What’s that?”

“Healthy.”

Over in the corner, the phone started ringing again.

 
CHAPTER
30

IT WAS JUST TEN-THIRTY WHEN FRED CARABETTA 
arrived at Hal’s place—a rustic but expansive lodge with half a dozen bedrooms, three fieldstone fireplaces, and a boathouse, built atop a high ledge over a pristine, five-mile-long lake. Matt and Nikki watched through the kitchen window as he maneuvered his considerable bulk out of what appeared to be a Cadillac of some sort.

“Carabetta’s here,” Matt called out. “It’s going to be a tight squeeze in some of those tunnels, but I think he’ll make it.”

Hal came in from the kitchen, a camera case looped over one arm and a shotgun nestled in the crook of the other. He was dressed for their expedition in black, as Matt had suggested, and was clearly keyed up. But if he was the least bit frightened or tense, he hid it well. Knowing his uncle’s sense of adventure, Matt wasn’t at all surprised.

“And Freddy makes four,” Hal said cheerily. “Our security man should be along soon. With whatever weapon he’s bringing, plus old Hawk-Eye here, plus the handgun you have, we should at least be better prepared than you were when you and Lewis Slocumb waltzed in unarmed.”

“Believe me, I am much more competent at running than shooting anyway. Hopefully, though, nothing’s going to happen. It was just a fluke that the guards happened to be making their rounds when they did. They waltzed into the cave with no idea we were there. We’ll just stay alert tonight. There isn’t going to be any trouble.”

“I expect not,” Hal said. “You feel pretty sure you can get us in there?”

“I was paying really close attention on the way in. You’ll have to trust me on that. After what happened to Lewis, I just don’t feel right involving the Slocumbs again, even though I think one of the other brothers would come if I asked. They’ve done enough. It’s really a miracle Lewis is still alive.”
If he
is
still alive.

Carabetta knocked on the front door and was let in. He looked slightly ridiculous in a black pullover and watch cap, but he did have a rather sophisticated Pentax slung over his shoulder, as well as a narrow leather case that Matt suspected contained sampling gear. From the moment the OSHA official stepped through the door, he looked uncomfortable.

“Greetings, Freddy,” Hal said. “Are you ready to become Numero Uno at that agency of yours?”

“I’m not certain this is such a good idea,” Carabetta said. “What’s the gun for?”

“We want to be prepared for any situation,” Hal explained. “I don’t expect any problems. But if there are, at least we’ll be able to negotiate from strength.”

“That shotgun is strength?”

“Actually, we have another man coming with us—a professional protector, if you will. Believe me, Fred, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Go in, observe, maybe bottle some samples of the material, and get out. That’s all we want from you,” Matt said.

“I . . . I need to talk to you, Hal—in private,” Carabetta said.

“Talk to
me
,” Matt said firmly, sensing he knew now what the man was about. “This is my project. Come on, let’s go someplace quiet.”

“The master suite is fine,” Hal said.

Heidi, Hal’s significant other, was off visiting her mother for a week. Matt led Carabetta to the expansive suite, which featured a lush sitting area, a beamed cathedral ceiling, and a panoramic window overlooking the lake. He could see Carabetta staring into the master bath, which included a rock wall waterfall that cascaded into a large hot tub.
The kids’ college tuitions I never had to spend
was the way Hal explained the spectacular bedroom. Matt could read Carabetta’s thoughts.

More
.

“Okay,” he said, “what’s the deal?”

Carabetta pulled himself up straight and met Matt’s gaze defiantly.

“The deal is, this whole affair is way more complicated than I was originally led to believe. And now there are guns and . . . and bodyguards, and security people who may or may not show up while we’re there.”

“And?”

“And I don’t think what I’m being paid is worth the risk.”

Matt suppressed an explosion. Without Carabetta, they really had nothing.

“How much?” he asked.

Carabetta again peered through the bathroom door.

“Another five thousand,” he said quickly.

Matt had not been told specifically what the original deal with Hal was, but something his uncle said had him thinking it was around fifteen. Now Carabetta wanted five more. Twenty thousand—not a bad night’s work. Matt flashed on his own anemic bank account, which could handle a five-thousand-dollar ding, but only just. Then he flashed on Armand Stevenson, and Blaine LeBlanc, and Don’t-Call-Me-Bob Crook, and the security men who had rousted him from the mine offices and then attempted to eliminate the Slocumbs, and finally, on Bill Grimes.

“Five thousand and not another penny after that,” he said.

“I expect to be paid first thing tomorrow. No money, no action from me regardless of what we find tonight,” Carabetta countered.

You are really a credit to your profession,
Matt wanted to say. “You’ll get your money,” he said instead.

They returned to the living room where, with a minute nod, Matt indicated to Hal that the deal was done. He then motioned Nikki into the privacy of the hallway, where he held her for a time, then kissed her lightly on the mouth.

“Thanks,” she said. “I was just thinking that it’s been too long. So, how much did Carabetta try and gouge you for?”

“He didn’t just try,” Matt replied. “The man is really a sleazebag.”

“But a well-placed sleazebag, at least for our purposes.”

“Keep reminding me. How’re you feeling about all this?”

“Nervous, maybe a little scared. What about you?”

“More angry than anything else, I think—for my dad, for all those other miners, for all the humiliation I’ve had to endure for just trying to do the right thing. Listen,” he went on, clearly searching for the right words, “there’s really no reason you can’t wait here until we get back.”

“You mean just hang out on the couch and watch Home Shopping Network while you men tromp off to even the score with the people at the mine and maybe the man who kidnapped me and killed Joe? Now, doesn’t that just sound like an opportunity I’d jump at?”

“I just—”

“You just kissed me,” Nikki cut in. “That means I’m going. Plus I want to make certain you come through this in one piece. You and I have some unfinished business when all this is over.”

Despite the beauty and sensual comforts of Hal’s home, Joe Keller’s terrible death was still too raw. They had spent the night in each other’s arms, talking and touching and knowing that soon, very soon, they would be lovers. Matt’s kiss this time was much less inhibited. Nikki dug her nails into the nape of his neck as she responded.

“We’ll do fine,” she whispered as they drew away from each other. “We’ll do just fine.”

Minutes later, a pair of headlight beams lanced through the darkness of Hal’s driveway.

“This must be our protector,” Matt said, gesturing out the window. “How did you find him, anyway, Unk?”

“I know you think of me as lily-pure and without fault,” Hal replied, “but the truth is that after spending much of my life around here, I know a few people. Just as you have your strange little connections around the valley, I have mine. I spoke to a friend with knowledge of such matters. He agreed to arrange for what we needed, and a few hours later, this is the man who called me.”

“What better recommendation could anyone get than that?” Matt said. “Do you even know his name?”

“I will soon enough. Remember, nephew, we are not hiring this gentleman to prune our rhododendrons.”

“I gotcha.”

The twin raps on the front door were like pistol shots—magnitudes louder than Carabetta’s had been. Hal swung the door back, revealing a man whose shoulders nearly filled the span and whose massive head barely cleared the overhead frame. The man nodded a greeting and stepped into the room. His impressive head and flat, pinched face reminded Matt of a villain in a Dick Tracy cartoon. There was a rather large bruise and healing abrasion over his right eye, and a square Band-Aid patch covering some sort of wound on his left cheek.

The man we want is the one who did that to him,
Matt was thinking.

“Sutcher,” the man said gruffly, “Vin Sutcher.”

His name rhymed with “butcher.”

HAL AND MATT 
had decided they would park in a small public lot at the base of a series of hiking trails. From there, the walk to the cleft would be half a mile or so over terrain that Hal felt Fred Carabetta, clearly the physical weak link of the expedition, would be able to negotiate without too much difficulty. The tunnel to the cave might be another story, but Matt felt confident there was enough room for the man, even in the tightest passageways. They took two cars to the spot—Hal, Nikki, and Carabetta in Hal’s Mercedes, and Matt in Vin Sutcher’s Grand Cherokee.

Matt was surprised to find the man erudite, well-read, and quite willing to discuss his life and profession. Sutcher had gone to Penn State on a football scholarship, but tore up a knee and ended up leaving school after his second year. He sold automobiles for a time, then insurance. Finally, because of his size and willingness to “mix it up,” he found employment with an agency that provided bodyguards for rock stars and occasionally movie stars as well. He traveled a good deal, but had chosen a house in the hills just west of Belinda as his home base because the hunting and fishing were excellent in the area, and he had always liked the privacy. It was sheer luck that he happened to be around when Hal’s friend called.

Sutcher’s choice of weapons included a handgun stuffed in a shoulder holster over his black, long-sleeved T and some sort of semiautomatic submachine gun, which he cradled with a loose familiarity in his right hand. Matt wondered if he had ever killed or even shot anyone, but there was no way he was going to ask. Regardless, he felt much more confident and secure knowing the man was coming along.

It took half an hour to make the walk to the cleft along an ill-defined path. Hal knew the way, though, and led the silent, single-file procession. Carabetta followed Hal, then Nikki, Matt, and finally Sutcher.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Matt said to Nikki as they trudged along.

“You’re very cute when you’re intense,” she whispered back.

Although they all had flashlights, only Hal had his turned on and then only as necessary. The cloudless night was lit by a silver gibbous moon that was bright enough to illuminate the trail. The group crossed the broad steam now familiar to Matt, and reached the cleft without difficulty.

“Okay, Doctor,” Hal said, “you’re up. Get us in, get us out.”

“Roger that,” Matt said, taking over at the head of the line. “Fred, why don’t you stay right behind me. There’s going to be some pretty narrow squeezes, and one place where we’re probably going to have to crawl on our bellies for a few feet, but I believe you’ll make it okay.”

“Jesus,” Carabetta whined, “no one said anything about wriggling along on our bellies.”

“Just keep on thinking about all that money and the citations you’re gonna be awarded, suitable for lamination. It’ll make you thinner. Also, we’ll be edging our way along some drop-offs. Just don’t pay any attention to them.”

“Aw, Christ,” Carabetta said.

The second time along the damp, narrow tunnel was considerably easier for Matt than the first. He moved silently ahead with some confidence despite, at times, actually having to hold the hand of a softly cursing Carabetta to get him around a drop or across a ledge. Whether it was his familiarity with the passageway, or the distraction caused by being the leader, Matt’s claustrophobia was less of a strain than he had expected it would be.

With surprising ease, Carabetta made it through the tight passage that required them to drop onto all fours and crawl. But at the still narrower one, where Matt motioned them onto their bellies, he balked.

“No fucking way,” he said loud enough for all of them to hear. “This is as far as I’m going. You can keep your damn money.”

“Fred, come on,” Matt urged. “You can make this. And after about ten feet, you can stand. On the way back, there are other trails we can take that won’t be so narrow.”
Provided I can find them.

“No way. I’m staying here.”

“Mr. Carabetta, come speak with me,” Vin Sutcher rasped.

Without questioning the order, Carabetta worked his way past Hal and Nikki to confront the giant. Sutcher bent over and whispered something brief into his ear. Even in the nearly black tunnel, Matt thought he could see Carabetta blanch.

“All right,” he said, pausing midsentence to clear a bullfrog from his throat, “but if it looks the least bit like I’m going to get stuck, I’m going back.”

“What did you say to him?” Matt whispered to Sutcher after all five of them had negotiated the low schism without major difficulty.

“I told him that if he didn’t get moving, I was going to rip his arm off,” the bodyguard replied, without a fleck of humor.

“Very effective.”