The Abbey (29 page)

“Oh, Detective,” said Karen, shaking her head and walking towards me. She stopped about a foot away from my outstretched arm, the soulless smile back on her lips. “Was this your plan? Pull a gun out and see what happens?”

She stepped closer so that my gun’s muzzle rested against her chest.

“I hate to tell you this, but nothing will happen,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “My people won’t act without my say, and your people aren’t here.”

Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my legs felt heavy. I fought the urge to take a step back.

“Unless you want to find out if your breast implants are bullet proof, I’d back off.”

Karen didn’t. Instead, she tilted her head to the side and her smile broadened. My hand was starting to feel heavy from the weight of my outstretched gun, and my wrist was starting to shake. Her gaze traveled from it to my face and back.

“I’ve read your file. You may be depressed, but your department psychiatrist says you have a deep sense of morality and personal responsibility. I’m as safe with you as a babe in its mother’s arms.”

I swallowed and took a stutter step back to give myself some breathing room.

“You read a police psychiatrist’s report about me,” I said, trying to make my voice as hard and loud as I could. “I told her what she wanted to hear so I could get a job.”

Karen chuckled.

“Of course. You’re a real badass. Put down the gun, and I’ll let you walk out of here. Spend the night with your wife and daughter. It will probably be your last chance for the next thirty to forty years.”

I stood up straighter.

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged.

“You didn’t see the news tonight, did you? Somebody found a pair of bodies executed near Military Park. They were members of a drug cartel from Mexico and were shot with a nine–millimeter Glock 17. Speaking of which, didn’t the police confiscate that same weapon from you yesterday?”

“I should shoot you right here.”

“But you won’t,” said Karen, taking another step forward. I matched her movement by taking a step back. “For your own sake, put down the gun and forget we ever met.”

“No.”

Karen shook her head and crossed her arms across her chest.

“I tried to be reasonable. Remember that,” she said. She flicked her eyes above my shoulder. “Stick him.”

Before I knew what was happening, I felt something pinch the skin on my neck, and almost immediately my vision blurred.

“You should have done as Mistress Karen asked.”

I spun around to face my attacker and found the muscles in my legs had become limp. I slipped and grabbed a table, knocking bottles and glasses to the ground and dropping my firearm in the process. I scrambled forward, cutting my hands and chest on glass. My body wasn’t responding right. I tried to stand, but I was so dizzy, my legs fell from under me. I pulled myself to my feet on a nearby chair and leaned against it.

The guy who stuck me leered. He looked like he was about twenty and wore a tight, black shirt over an athletic build. He was big with black hair and sunken eyes. The collar of his shirt was popped up, making him look like a college–age version of Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. I tried kicking his knees, but it felt like I was in a swimming pool. My legs were slow, and he sidestepped me easily. I fell forward, landing on the arm of a chaise lounge.

“What did you do to me?” I asked, slapping my neck where I had felt the pinch. I felt a welt like I had been stung by a bee.

“I gave you something to make you cooperative.”

My chest felt heavy, and I could barely hold up my arms. I shook my head trying to clear it, but that didn’t work. I had to get out of there. I launched myself forward, pushing past Dracula with my momentum and stumbling headlong into the wall beside the stairs. Rather than go down, I steadied myself by grabbing the handrail. Karen’s men were on me before I could stand, so I flailed my arms until I caught something hard and metal on the wall. It was the fire alarm; I pulled it, causing floodlights to pop on and a piercing screech to replace the rhythmic pounding of the music. For a brief moment, it seemed like everyone in the club was silent, stunned.

Then they started screaming.

I lost my sense of time after that. Dracula threw me over his shoulder as easily as I would have done to my daughter, while the club’s patrons downstairs collectively freaked out. From my limited vantage point, the dance floor below looked more like a slowly writhing mass than a group of people desperately trying to escape an enclosed area. Everyone ran in different directions, knocking each other to the ground. Mick jumped on top of the bar, shouting and waving a towel like a traffic guard, but I couldn’t tell if he was helping or hindering. Hopefully he had at least taken my advance warning to heart and made sure the exits were open.

While the crowd panicked, Karen Rea directed her minions like a well–practiced soccer mom. Her crew lined up like a kindergarten class and filed out orderly and neat. Dracula and I were the last to go. He hit my head on the winding staircase twice, and I’m pretty sure it was on purpose both times. I writhed against his arm and tried kneeing him in the face, causing him to slam my head against the wall hard enough to make my blurred vision turn black momentarily.

The first floor was chaotic. There were club goers everywhere. I tried shouting for help, but it came out garbled. My vision blurred with every step, and I felt what little strength I had fading. Some of the more sober party goers asked if I was okay, but Karen explained that I had passed out from smoke inhalation, and they were rushing me to the emergency room. I tried shouting for help again, but my mind couldn’t form the words.

By the time we got outside, I was fading in and out of consciousness. I remember the limestone steps in front of the club, and I also remember being put down and Azrael kicking me in the ribs when he found I had parked behind his
BMW
. All I remember after that are bits and pieces. I remember an
SUV
with a black, leather interior and a rough road. I kicked and screamed as well as I could until I felt a searing pain in my neck, like I had been stabbed with a red–hot needle. For a few minutes, colors danced in front of me, but then the world went black.

My eyes fluttered open to what seemed like blinding light. I was in a hospital bed, and I wore a pair of generic, blue pajamas that looked like something from a prison dispensary. I swallowed and sat up. My lips were dry and cracked, and my throat tickled like I was getting a cold. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. There was a cardiac monitor beside the bed and an IV bag on a stand shooting clear liquid into my arm. The rest of the room was like a hotel. The carpet was short and gray and there was a beige recliner alongside the far wall beneath a flat–screen television. Sunlight pierced through a pair of red drapes covering the windows.

I ran my fingers through my hair and to my neck. A pair of quarter–sized bandages covered the welts where Karen’s goons had shot me up. As far as I could tell, whatever they gave me hadn’t done permanent damage. That was something.

I stretched, swung my legs off the side of the bed, and looked for a button to call a nurse. I didn’t find one, so I did the next–best thing to get someone’s attention and peeled the electrode connecting me to the cardiac monitor off my chest. It screeched and within thirty seconds a middle–aged nurse with brown hair bounded into the room, breathing heavily and uncoiling a stethoscope from around her neck. As soon as she saw me, she skidded to a stop so quickly I thought she had lost her balance.

“Where am I?”

“Why don’t you sit back, Mr. Rashid,” she said, walking over and hitting a switch on the cardiac monitor. Once the monitor stopped screaming, she tried to guide me back into the bed. Her hands were chilly, and she smelled like the sort of soap found in public restrooms. “You’ve had a long night.”

“I’ve had a long week,” I said, refusing to budge. “Where am I?”

The nurse took a step back, and I noticed the name tag on her chest. Mary Ann. I always preferred Ginger.

“You’re in the Indiana University Hospital. You’re safe. There are people who want to talk to you, but in the meantime, I want you to lay back.”

Neither Mary Ann nor I moved for a moment. She raised her eyebrows and smiled, giving me the same patient, commanding look my wife gave my daughter when Megan was being stubborn. I thought about ripping the IV out of my arm and walking out, but I didn’t think I’d get very far, certainly not home. I didn’t have a car nearby, and in my limited experience, cab drivers tend to stay away from men in pajamas, even if they are near a hospital. I ran my tongue across the front of my teeth and leaned back. Mary Ann smiled.

“Good. Now how are you feeling? Any dizziness or nausea?”

I shook my head. She put her hands on my forehead and held open my eyelid.

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” she said, leaning over. She extended her index finger about a foot away from my nose and slowly moved it to the left and right. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”

Mary Ann gave me a quick examination, presumably checking for shock or indications of brain injury. Among other things, she asked me what year it was, what city I lived in, and who the President was. I must have received a fair bill of health because she called the hospital’s information desk when she finished and said I was awake. Lieutenant Mike Bowers sauntered into my room about five minutes later followed by two guys in suits. Bowers looked more haggard than usual. He wore jeans and his Oxford shirt was wrinkled. There was at least two days of growth on his chin, and his eyes were red.

“Anybody tell you lately that you look terrible, Bowers?”

Bowers ignored me and collapsed into the chair near the television. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands while the two men wearing suits stood at the foot of my bed.

“Glad to see you awake, Detective Rashid,” said the first of the two men with Bowers. He was in his mid–forties and was tall, black, and completely bald. His facial structure was almost serpentine; his eyes were far apart and dark, and his nose was hooked downward. He flashed a badge at me long enough for me to see that he was with the
FBI
. “Special Agent Howard Tallie.”

Tallie gestured toward the guy beside him. The man was white and athletic–looking. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, which meant he was still green on the job. Judging by his buzz cut, I figured he was recruited out of the army. I knew the type; still young enough to be idealistic and naive enough to believe his work was meaningful. That could have been me not too long ago. I nodded a greeting at him.

“My partner is Agent Brian Osbourne,” said Tallie. He turned and gestured to Bowers, already nodding off in my chair. “Lieutenant Bowers informs us that you two are already acquainted.”

“We go way back,” I said, propping myself up on my pillows and rubbing my forehead. I was dizzy for a moment, but it went away quickly. “So are you guys here to tell me what’s going on?”

Tallie and Osbourne looked at each other.

“We were hoping you’d tell us,” said Tallie.

“I woke up in a hospital ten minutes ago with track marks on my neck, and you’re asking me what’s going on?”

“That’s exactly what we’re asking you, Mr. Rashid,” said Osbourne. There was a tinge of Southern to his voice.

I would have laughed, but they were serious. I rubbed the sinus cavities beside my nose and under my eyes, relieving pressure, and then took a couple of deep breaths.

“I went to a bar last night to meet somebody and got stabbed with a pair of needles big enough to vaccinate a fucking elephant. Whatever I was shot up with knocked me out. End of story. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Probably Ketamine,” said Bowers. I didn’t think he had even been awake. He yawned. “We find it in clubs every now and then. Did you have weird dreams while you were out?”

“Yeah, sort of. I remember seeing lots of colors.”

I also tasted sounds, felt music, and danced with a panda, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring those up. Bowers nodded and stood. He stayed near the chair.

“You were high, Ash.”

Tallie put his hand up and glanced over his shoulder, stopping Bowers from speaking again. The Lieutenant sat back down and shook his head.

“Who were you meeting in the bar?” asked Tallie, turning his attention back to me. The man really did look like a snake. I half–expected to see his tongue dart out when he wasn’t speaking.

“I went to see a woman named Karen Rea. She killed my niece and probably a bunch of other kids, too.”

The
FBI
agents exchanged lingering glances but neither looked back at Bowers, who had gone back to sleep. Tallie took charge first.

“Let’s back up,” he said. “How do you know Konstantin Bukoholov?”

“I don’t, really,” I said, shrugging. “I met him a couple of times while investigating Karen.”

Tallie and Osbourne both took notepads out of their jackets and started jotting things down.

“And Karen is one of his employees?” asked Osbourne.

“More of a competitor. And shouldn’t you be asking her these questions?”

Tallie wrote something on a notebook he took from his hip pocket.

“It’s not the policy of the Federal Government to discuss ongoing investigations with outsiders,” he said without looking up. “How did Bukoholov come up in your investigation?”

I paused before saying anything. I doubted the
FBI
were Bukoholov fans, but I didn’t think telling them I had shot the guy’s nephew would help me. I shrugged and shook my head as if I didn’t know, stalling. The two agents stared at me intently.

“I guess I met him in a bar.”

“The Lucky Bastard?” asked Tallie.

I nodded.

“That sounds right,” I said.

“How many meetings have you had with him?” asked Osbourne.

“Two.”

“The one at the Bastard and where else?” asked Osbourne again.

“Lieutenant Bowers arrested me yesterday, but he let me go pretty quick. Bukoholov’s brother–in–law picked me up from the station and took me to see him at his club downtown.”