Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (12 page)

Livana handed him the typed page containing the address. She was hyperventilating and looked like she had escaped from the local psych ward.

“Need to get there,” she gasped. “Fast.”

“You okay, lady?” the man asked.

“Directions.”

He eyed her, then looked down again at the document. “Keep heading east, hang a right on Rockaway—”

“Write it. Write it down.”

She was flustered and did not trust her ability to remember his instructions once she pulled out of the service station.

He pulled a pen from behind his ear and scrawled the directions onto the page, then handed it back through the window.

Without so much as a thank-you, she screeched out the exit and onto Sunrise Highway, then ran the red light and accelerated. Seven minutes later, she turned off Peninsula Boulevard into the shopping center where the delicatessen was located.

Livana saw a candy store, a bagel shop, a supermarket—and the deli. She stopped at the curb and ran out of the pickup.

She burst through the door into the storefront restaurant and saw a tall, thin man behind the register—a manager? He grabbed a menu and started to walk toward a table. “Just you, or is someone join—”

“I’m here for Dmitri.”

He hesitated a second. “We don’t have anyone here named Dmitri. Is he a customer?”

“No, my son. I was told—” She looked around the interior and started walking briskly past the deli counter and then among the tables. He was not there.

Behind her, a ringing telephone.

“Lady. Livana!”

Livana turned and saw the man holding up a black handset, his palm covering the mouthpiece. “Call’s for you.”

She ran to the front, grabbed the phone, and stretched the coiled cord across the counter.

“Where is he?”

“My man hasn’t been released yet. Be patient.”

“Be patient? You’ve got me running all over the goddamn place looking for my son. I want him back now!
Now
, you hear me?”

“Lady,” the manager said. “Please. Keep it down.”

Livana lowered her voice. “Stop playing games. I want my son back. Where is he?”

“You listen to me. I’m the one in charge here, not you. I tell you when you’re gonna get your son back. And if I change my mind, you ain’t gonna get him back. Ever. So shut your trap or I’m going to hang up and never call back.”

Livana felt dizzy—and her knees started to buckle—but she grabbed the cash register and steadied herself.

She told herself to breathe. She needed to calm down before she lost Dmitri forever. The manager handed her a wet napkin and she pressed it against her forehead.

“I—I just want him back,” she whispered into the phone. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t give us a reason to. Something happens to him, it’s because you didn’t do what we told you to do.”

“We’ve done everything you asked. I don’t know what more you want from me.”

“You don’t need to know. Stay where you are. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

“But—”

The line went dead. Livana dropped the phone.

She looked at the manager, her mouth dry as straw. “I can’t leave. Is there someplace I can wait?”

He came around the counter and walked her over to a chair. “C’mon over here.” He guided her to the nearest unoccupied table. “Al, get her some water and a corned beef on rye.”

“I’m not hungry,” Livana said, almost mechanically, staring off at the back wall of the restaurant.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with your kid, if it’s a fight with your ex or what. And I don’t wanna know. But you don’t look so good. You need to eat.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m Maury. You need something, let me know.”

Livana nodded, then bent forward and rested her head on her forearms.

A minute later, a young man whose workboots were encrusted with salt around the sole set a plate down on the table in front of her. “Can I get you anything else?”

She leaned back, looked at the food, and gathered up the sandwich. After starting to chew, she realized how hungry she was.

NINETY MINUTES LATER, Livana had reached the end of her patience. She borrowed the phone and called Detective Proschetta’s line. But his shift ended early on Saturdays so he had gone home. She told the detective who answered that it was vital she speak to him immediately.

Three minutes later, Proschetta called back.

“My partner said it was important.”

“It’s about my son. They’ve taken him.”

“They—” He caught himself, then apparently realized what she was talking about.

“Tell me everything you know.”

She filled him in, then said, “I don’t know if they’re going to call back, if he’s alive or—” her throat caught— “dead.”

“I know the deli. I’m on my way. Give me twenty minutes. If they call back before I get there, leave me a note with the location. Address it to ‘Protch.’”

“Protch?”

“No one knows that nickname except my college roommate and a few close friends.”

Livana dug at her scalp with her fingernails, thinking, not answering right away. “They said no police.”

“I’m off duty, I’ll be in my personal car. I’ll change my appearance some-how. But you’ll know it’s me.”

He hung up and Livana took her seat again, drumming her fingers on the table, wondering if she had done the right thing. All she could think about, however, was the fact that they had not called back.

Why? What did that mean? She exhausted herself trying to consider the possibilities—none good.

THE DELI FILLED with patrons for the dinner hour. Twenty minutes after Livana spoke with Proschetta, the phone rang again. Livana sat erect and swiveled in her chair. But no one was at the front desk. Maury, the man who had helped her earlier, was seating a family in the back of the restaurant.

She made her way to the register and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

“Livan—”

“Drive to the phone booth at this address: 3954 Patchogue Road, Port Jefferson Station. You have seventy-five minutes to get there. Don’t be late, and don’t bring the police. We’ll be watching.”

PROSCHETTA HAD NOT arrived yet. But did she still need him now that the bastards had finally gotten back to her? She had thoughts of calling him and telling him not to bother, but she could not trust Crinelli’s people.

After the busboy gave her directions, Livana left a note at the counter marked “For Protch” and ran out, not bothering to thank Maury for helping her and not thinking to leave money for the food. Her single-minded fixation was to get to Port Jefferson Station on time.

Although it was Saturday night, traffic was light. She zipped along the Southern State Parkway, keeping to no more than five miles over the speed limit. She did not want to get pulled over and lose valuable time while the trooper went through his procedural gyrations.

The man had told her not to be late. Whatever reason lay behind his remark, she intended to make her appointment.

The sun was well into its descent, but there was no clock in the truck. She had not put on her watch before she hurried out of the house that morning, and in the rush to leave the deli, she had not checked the time when the call came through.

Now that she thought of it, she realized she should have called Fedor from Woodro and told him what had happened. He and the kids were no doubt well beyond worried and wondering why it was taking hours for her to collect Dmitri. They had no way of knowing what the bastards were putting her through.

Livana pulled up to the address and saw a Mobil gas station. She drove in and parked next to the phone booth in the far corner of the lot. It started ringing the moment she got out of the truck, but stopped just as she pushed open the accordion door. She answered it anyway—but no one was there.

Livana looked around, hoping to see a clock somewhere, but there was nothing. She did not want to leave in case they called back, so she inched her way toward the pumps and shouted to the man who was checking the oil on a Chevy van.

“Excuse me, you got the time?”

He leaned back and angled his watch toward the station’s fluorescent lights. “Just about straight up, eight o’clock.”

But since she did not know what time they had called the deli, she had no point of reference. And a disturbing thought came to her: if that was the man who had hung up before she had answered the call, maybe she had arrived seconds too late.

And he warned her not to be late.

Livana stood there staring at the receiver. She closed her eyes, then kicked the metal bottom of the booth. “C’mon, damn it, ring!”

A minute later, a car pulled up: a shiny, dark-colored two-door Datsun. The driver extinguished the sedan’s headlights and got out.

“I’m sorry,” she said as the man approached. “I’m waiting for a call.”

“Livana, it’s Protch.” He had a Yankees ball cap pulled low over his ears and a fake scruffy beard and mustache. “Don’t say anything. I just wanted you to know I’m here. I assume they’re going to call you and tell you to go to another place. I’m gonna drive down the road a bit and watch. Don’t look for me. In case they’re also parked nearby and watching, I want it to look like you don’t know me.”

Proschetta threw his arms out to his sides, making it appear as if he was arguing with the woman who wouldn’t allow him to use the phone, then waved a hand in disgust, turned, and walked back to his car. He got in and drove off.

Livana rested her head against the cold metal of the booth and watched as the stars began poking through a small clearing in the cloudy, dusky sky. Passing cars were now using their headlights and Livana was once again beginning to doubt they were going to call.

A few minutes later, she felt the vibration in the handset before she heard it ring. She snatched it up—and nearly dropped it—but managed to get it near her face as she shouted, “I’m here!”

“Your son’s just down the road. You’re very close. He’s waiting for you near the Port Jefferson Station Long Island Railroad station.”

“Waiting for me? What do you mean? Is he in a car, an office? Is he alone?”

The man snickered. “He’s not in a car. Or an office. But he is alone, and he’s terrified, so don’t keep him waiting. Once you hit the Esso on the left, look sharp. Park and walk to the train station. A little over one-tenth of a mile from the east end of the platform you’ll see a pedestrian bridge over the track. Walk to the center of the bridge. You have nine minutes. And if you don’t want to see your son end up like your husband, don’t be late.” He laughed. “Then again, you could bury them together, two for one—”

Livana left the phone dangling and ran toward the pickup. She got in and turned it over, then sped out of the lot.

THE PICKUP’S HEADLIGHTS must have been coated in dirt, because even the brights did a poor job of illuminating the dark landscape.

A good distance behind her, a car was following her along Highland Boulevard. She hoped it was Proschetta’s Datsun.

When she saw the sign reading Esso Standard Dealer, Credit Cards Honored, she slowed to a near crawl, looking out into the dusk, trying to see if she could spot the bridge.

“There!” She slammed on the accelerator and sped into the train station’s parking lot, her heart pounding.

“Dmitri, baby,” she shouted into the humid night air. “I’m coming!”

Seconds later, she was running along the curving platform toward the bridge, which crossed four sets of tracks. At this time of night on a Saturday, there was no one else around. No matter: she was focused on climbing those stairs, on getting to her son.

Was he there?

She struggled to see the center of the span, as the last vestiges of light had left the sky and there was no moon to speak of.

Livana hit the steps in stride, nearly out of breath and almost stumbling as she threw her hands out and grabbed the metal planking in front of her to keep her balance.

She reached the top and walked out to the center of the bridge. But she did not see Dmitri. Panic enveloped her as quickly as elation had over-whelmed her seconds earlier.

“Dmitri!” She spun in all directions. He was clearly not on the span. “Where are you?” She brought her hands to her face. “Where is he? What have you done with my son?” she screamed into the darkness. “Enough. Give my son back to me!”

“Livana.”

She turned to see Proschetta approaching on the run, flashlight in hand, from the same direction she had come.

“Dmitri was supposed to be on the bridge. They told me to go to the middle of the bridge. But he’s not here.”

Proschetta reached the steps and started to ascend them when he stopped. “Oh my god.” He moved his light along the ground. “Shit!” Without hesitation, he jumped down off the platform onto the track bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got him. I see him—look down, about thirty feet in front of you.”

Livana grabbed the railing on the east side of the bridge and did as instructed. The breath left her lungs. She got dizzy and had to steady herself to keep from collapsing.

Dmitri was lying face down on the tracks, unmoving.

“Is he—” Her voice caught. She forced it out, but it was weak and she was unsure Proschetta heard her. “Is he alive?”

Proschetta did not reply. He was walking along the center of the tracks, stumbling over the gravel and wood ties, trying to get there quickly while maintaining his balance.

Seconds later he passed under the bridge and was straddling her son.

Proschetta twisted his torso back toward her. “He’s alive.” He reached over and pulled on the boy’s torso but fell forward. He righted himself and jumped across the rail to bring himself alongside Dmitri’s body. “He’s chained down to the track. I need something to break the links. You got any tools in that pickup?”

Livana was in shock, hearing Proschetta but not listening.

“Livana, Fedor’s truck. Any tools in it?”

“I—I don’t know. I can go check.”

But at that moment, she felt a vibration. It was slight, but it didn’t take a genius to understand what was causing it. “Protch, a train’s coming.”

Proschetta jerked his head up, then started scurrying about, looking for something.