Bad Bones (Claire Morgan) (34 page)

“No way. I just came out here to protect my brothers, that’s all. I swear. Just to see who was creeping around and tryin’ to kill us. I’m on guard duty tonight.”

Claire peered down into his face, where he lay handcuffed and on his back in driving snow. He had regained his innocent
who me?
expression again. The one that she was pretty damn sure was contrived. This guy was not so innocent, she felt it. He knew how to sneak up behind her and take her by surprise. Unfortunately for him, that was as far as his assault skills went. “Where were you going to take me?”

“Nowhere. I just didn’t want you to hit me or shoot me, but you did anyways.”

Claire frowned. “Just sit there and shut up.”

Taking out her phone, she dialed up Bud. The line buzzed with static and cut out now, but he answered quickly and said, “You ready to hang it up for tonight? I am. The snow’s really comin’ down now. Bet you’re freezin’.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a prisoner that you need to take back and book into jail.”

“No, no, please don’t,” whined Percy. “I need to stay up here and guard the house so my brothers can get some sleep. We’re all in danger. You just don’t know how much or who’s after us.”

“Yeah, I do. Now quit whining. Patrick can come bail you out tomorrow.”

“I don’t want him to. I wanna go home now before he finds out I’m in trouble.”

“Well, you’re outta luck, kid.”

“Who’s that? You okay?” Bud asked.

“Percy Parker. You know, he’s the Parker who can shoot the best. Can you take him in for me? I want to stay out here a while longer. Maybe I’ll catch me some more guys. I have a feeling they’re lurking behind every tree now.”

“What’s the charge?”

“Assaulting a police officer with a weapon good enough?”

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah, he’s not very good at it.”

Percy Parker now appeared to be sulking, even while the sleet hit him in the eyes. “If you take me in, my brothers are gonna be worried about what happened to me. You just don’t understand the truth about stuff.”

“Just take it like a man, Percy, okay?”

“You just don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. But you are makin’ a big mistake. I’m not the one.”

“All I know is that you’re the one who held a gun on me tonight. That’s enough for me.”

After that, Percy just sat silently in the snow and looked bummed out about going to jail.

Within fifteen minutes, Laurie Dale had found them and was escorting Parker back to her farmhouse to be placed into Bud’s custody for a ride into town. Claire took over down the trail at Laurie’s vantage point, one that had the bird’s eye view of the village of Fitchville, but couldn’t see it all that well with the snow and sleet falling so heavily. She moved laterally up the fence row, ready to call it a day. About fifteen yards up, she saw that the fence had been knocked down. It hadn’t been down the last time she saw it, so she hunkered down and looked around and then moved cautiously to where it was lying on the ground. Then she looked at the thick pine trees all around her. Unfortunately, at that point, she was also looking at about five men who materialized like phantoms out of the snow-driven curtain, all holding very large shotguns and rifles that were pointed directly at her.

“Hello, detective. Nice to see you again.” Big Harold Fitch in the flesh with lots of little armed Fitches all around him.

Claire focused her rifle square on his chest. It seemed like the thing to do. “Yeah, nice. So move along now. I’m working. You are trespassing on Dale property.”

“Put down the gun. We will kill you. Don’t think we won’t.”

“Oh, I don’t think you won’t, but I do think you won’t get away with it. My partner knows where I am, and so do a lot of other people around here. Including the FBI. And you guys aren’t exactly ghosts, you actually leave your tracks in the snow. Tracks that they can follow home and arrest you, one and all. By the way, which one of you is Bones Fitch? You can tell me, really.”

“It’s gonna snow all night,” answered a new voice. One Claire immediately recognized as belonging to one undercover ATF officer by the name of Kevin McGowen. “You should’ve minded your own business. Now we’ve got to take you out.”

At that point, Claire was hoping to high heaven that he was playing his role of fellow Fitch murderer and cohort and that he was just joshing her, and didn’t really mean all those deadly threats, although he sure did sound like he meant them. These undercover guys, what was a girl to do? “You will never get away with this. Killing a police officer. That’s not so smart, not that anybody ever accused you of being smart. In fact, it’s gonna blow up in your face any minute now.”

“Well, you won’t be around to worry about it,” said Harold Fitch. “Kill her, Badidiah.”

Damn. They weren’t ones to mess around and shoot the bull with their victim like was done on most TV crime shows. Hell, two minutes hadn’t even passed and they were ready to pull the trigger. She had to make a move, right now, or die.

McGowen aka Badidiah said, “She’s right. Let me take her out to the killin’ field and do her there. We’re too close to the Dale farmhouse. They’ll hear the shot and come running. Our tracks won’t be covered up yet, not for a couple of hours.”

Claire sincerely hoped he was buying her time. Very sincerely. Meanwhile, she was deciding who to shoot first. Big Harold won that lottery.

“Just get rid of her,” Big Harold said suddenly, and then McGowen jerked his shotgun at her head and so quickly that she couldn’t even get her rifle around to shoot him. The end of the butt cracked up against the side of her skull just behind her ear, and she went down hard in the snow, dizzy and disoriented, but still slightly conscious. The last thing she remembered was McGowen jerking her up by the front of her jacket and then heaving her bodily over his shoulder.

When Claire forced her eyes open again, she was lying on her back in front of a roaring fireplace. She could feel heat from the crackling and popping logs warming one side of her face and body. She no longer wore her heavy parka and insulated fleece jacket. The fleece had been folded and placed under her head for a pillow. She put her fingertips to the throbbing lump behind her ear and realized her sock hat and gloves had also been removed. Then she saw McGowen. He was sitting in a rickety old rocking chair beside her, creaking back and forth and smiling down at her. He said, “Well, you really stepped in it this time, detective. I’ll give you that much.”

Realizing her danger, she jerked up to sitting position, and then groaned when a white arrow of pain shot through her head and hit her agony receptors head on.

McGowen was still calm and conversational. “I found this cabin way back in the woods behind Fitchville. Nobody knows it’s here. The ATF contact radio’s out here. I guess you’ve got a headache?”

“Oh, yeah, I sure do. Thank you so much for clubbing me like that.”

“Had to, but I picked my spot and didn’t hit you hard.”

“Felt plenty hard to me.”

“Better call your partner and tell him that you’re okay.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yeah, he’ll be worried and come looking for you.”

“Maybe I want him to come looking for me. Maybe you want me to do that so you can take your time killing me without a SWAT team busting down the door.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Claire. If I was, you’d be dead and buried by now. Problem is, now I’ve got to keep you out here and out of my way until I can arrange for your partner or somebody you trust to come in and take you out. Unless you think you can make it out on your own without your weapons. Otherwise, Big Harold’s gonna see right through me and then you’re gonna end up dead, and so am I.”

Claire wasn’t so sure she could or wanted to believe a single word he said. She slid her hand under her left arm in search of the Glock 19. It was still snug in its holster. The .38 was in its little bed, too. She could feel the heft of it on her ankle. He had not disarmed her. He had not taken her cell phone off her belt, either. She turned it on. McGowen didn’t try to grab it, just sat and rocked and watched her check herself and her weapons out. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt, not that she could see, which was good.

“I’ve got a little confession to make,” he told her.

“What now? You’re just kidding, ha-ha, and I have two minutes to live?”

He laughed, very softly, his black eyes glittering in the dim firelight. “You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

“You’re not my prisoner. But I’ll tell you one thing, you are way too reckless. You gotta get that in hand or you’re gonna end up six feet under.”

“Thanks for the tip. Well, go ahead. Hit me with the big confession. I can take it, I hope.”

“Okay. I’m not really with the ATF.”

Oh, God, that was not exactly something Claire wanted to hear. “No? So you’ve been lying to me. You are a bad guy, after all. With orders to kill me?”

“Well, I’ve never really thought of it in black and white. Everything’s gray in my world.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Hitting a police officer in the head and dragging her out here in the woods seems pretty black to me.”

“For your own protection. Harold found out about the real ATF agent right off the bat. The real Badidiah Fitch. Then he was very dead and very quickly. That’s how much they like undercover cops. Now I’m impersonating him to keep the ATF off their backs until they can clean out this place.”

Bigger question was:
Why wasn’t she dead yet?
She glanced around, wondering if McGowen had any kind of ulterior motive for keeping her alive. Then she thought:
What the hell?
She pulled out her Glock and pointed it at McGowen’s face.

The fake agent/fake best buddy didn’t move a muscle to stop her. “No need for that, detective. I haven’t been ordered to kill you, at least not by the guy I really answer to. So you can rest assured that you’re safe with me. I want you to get out of here in one piece, and the sooner, the better.”

“Yeah, I’m just so ready to rest assured, since you’re so honest and straightforward all the time. How about I just call in that SWAT team to get me outta here? They can take down the Fitches while they’re at it. You, too, depending on who you answer to. And by the way, are you Bones Fitch, by any chance?”

“You are just so suspicious.” McGowen kept up the smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t want to. I like you, detective. Like I said, if I wanted to do that, you would no longer be breathing.”

“So what’s your real name? And who do you answer to?”

McGowen stood up. “So, how about a cup of coffee? Might help clear your head. Warm you up some, too.”

“Wow, you’re quite the gent when you’re not bludgeoning me in the head with your gun butt. But, hey, sure, I’ll take some. Got cream?”

McGowen laughed. Claire didn’t. She did not trust him, not one whit. He turned around and that’s when she saw the Beretta that he had stuck into his back waistband. He leaned over and picked up a pot that was suspended over the fire and filled up an old tin cup like Gold Rush prospectors used to drink out of. He handed it over, handle toward her.

Claire took it in her left hand; she kept her weapon in her right hand and pointed at him. Just in case. She took a sip. The coffee tasted pretty damn good. Nice and hot and strong and highly caffeinated. No arsenic aftertaste, which was always a good indication. “So, okay, you gonna tell me your real name, or not?”

McGowen sat back down in the rocker and thought about it. She drank the coffee, hoping it would stop the thudding in her head.

“Well, I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. Won’t matter much, one way or another. My name is Misha Chicherin. Nice to meet you.”

Then Claire figured out the whole thing. Without the slightest doubt, she knew exactly who he was. “Okay, I get it now. The Petrov organization, right? Please say no.”

“That’s right. And Ivan told me in no uncertain terms that nothing better happen to you, or there’s gonna be hell to pay. In other words, I’ll die a very painful death at his hands. Orders came down loud and clear that I’m not to kill you, no matter how much you provoke me. And you are an annoying lady. But intriguing, too. You’d be a valuable asset for us. You interested?”

“Yeah, I’d like that like a hole in the head. Well, what do you know? Ivan Petrov is my guardian angel. Frankly, I find that a little hard to swallow.”

“Not so hard, if you think about it. Anything happens to you, lady, anything at all, and all hell breaks loose. The entire Montenegro and Rangos organizations, down to the last man, will come gunning for us, not to mention Nicky Black and his own little team of ex-military buddies. Ivan does not want that, not in any form or fashion. We are not equipped for a mob war at the moment. Your husband-to-be has some very dangerous associates who are very fond of him.”

Well, thank God for godfathers
, Claire thought, appreciating Black’s unheralded connections for the very first time in her entire life. Without them, she’d probably already be lying in a shallow ditch under a couple of feet of snow, nose to nose with the unfortunate real ATF guy, who hadn’t been so lucky.

“So Petrov and Big Harold Fitch are in cahoots. Who would’ve thought it? Guess that’s why it was a match made in heaven, right? What’s the cargo? Guns? Fitch helping you guys smuggle guns down Mexico way? That it?”

Her new best friend, Misha, shrugged and stood up. “No need to worry about that. You need to worry about getting home to Nicky alive and well. That’s my advice. Get the hell outta here because next time I might not be able to save your ass.”

“Why don’t I just arrest you now, just to get it over with? You can help me find my way outta here so I can get you down to the jail and locked up.”

Misha stared at her but didn’t take her up on the offer. “Don’t think so. Okay, I better get going. You gonna be okay here for a while? Sorry, but I gotta take your weapon so Harold will know you’re out of commission. I have to get back down there and tell the old man that you got away. They know you’re resourceful. They’ll believe me if I have your gun.”

Claire considered all that for a moment and realized he was probably right. Besides that, she still had the .38 strapped to her ankle. Reluctantly, she handed the Glock over to him, butt first. “Get that back to me, you got that? It was a gift.”

Misha took it and stuck it in his waistband. “I’ll do my best. Think you can find your way back to your vehicle? You still dizzy?”

“Yeah, I am, and thanks again for clubbing me senseless and not killing me. You’re a sweetie pie, sometimes.”

“I didn’t want them to think I had a problem with killing you. Or they would’ve done it themselves. Right then and there. Bullet in the temple. I didn’t take pleasure in knocking you out.”

“Well, that’s a step in the right direction, I guess. Maybe I can return the favor someday. You know, slug you a good one up the side of the head but only to save your skin, of course.” Claire sighed, suddenly just wanting to get out of that cabin and away from him, and the sooner the better. “I guess I do owe you, if you really are gonna let me go. Hey, this kid-glove stuff wouldn’t just be a bunch of small talk to put me off my guard before you shoot me, would it?”

“Not to worry. I like your gumption. I see now why Nicky’s so jealous.”

Jealous? How the hell did Chicherin know that? Not that Black turned green-eyed every minute of every day, usually it just happened when Joe McKay was hanging around too much. “Thanks, think I’ll wait on expressing any more gratitude until I actually walk out of here alive, though.”

Claire watched him shrug into his heavy orange parka and pull on a pair of leather gloves. He jerked up the hood and tightened the drawstrings. “Look, I’ve got to take your snowmobile down there, or they’ll know something’s up. If you get lost in this blizzard, just walk with the wind at your back, and you’ll eventually hit the road into town. Got that?”

“Yeah.” She studied his face. “You sure about going back down there and telling them you screwed up and I got away? Sounds like you might be putting a gun to your own head.”

“Lucky for me, they think they need me, and they’re afraid of Ivan.”

“So, what’s the connection with the Fitches and the Petrovs? Might as well tell me that, too.”

“Not if I want to stay alive. You better stay out of it, too, if you value your health. Ivan’s afraid of Nicky Black’s association with you. But the Fitches will put you down like a mad dog if they catch you again tonight, and they’ll probably come looking the minute I tell them you got away. Take care, detective, and please, get the hell outta here while you still can. Tell Nicky I said hello. He doesn’t care much for me, but he’ll probably change his mind after tonight.”

Then he opened the door, and was gone, leaving a swirl of snow and sleet blustering inside behind him. The flames darted and danced around and played shadow games on the walls. Then she was alone, and pretty damn shocked that she was. She stood up and punched in Bud’s number, but the service was down. Probably because the storm was obliterating the signal. She tried Laurie Dale’s number, and then Black’s, then the sheriff’s, but nothing was going through. So, it appeared that she and her headache were on their own in a snowy minefield of hillbillies and thugs, as per usual, when in life and death situations like this one. She stayed put awhile, trying to wait until her head quit spinning and she could walk straight. After the thudding subsided some, she put on the fleece jacket and then her heavy outdoor gear, pulled out her .38 and kept it in her hand. She sighed heavily, well aware she had a nice long trek ahead of her, wind and snow included, but resigned herself and headed out the door.

Before she got thirty yards away from the cabin, she was accosted by a shadowy figure in a black ski mask that came up quickly behind her and out of the dark night. Her assailant shoved her so hard in the back that she went down flat on her stomach, hit the ground, and got the air knocked out of her. She slid a few feet across ice crusted snow, fumbling to turn and get off a shot, which she did but she missed her assailant, and he was very quick or very practiced, or both. He had his knee on her back before she could draw in enough breath to fight back. He wrenched the gun out of her hand and twisted her arms brutally up behind her, where he secured her wrists with a plastic flex cuff, and then he was frisking her in a very rough and unfriendly but thorough fashion, a lot better than Percy Parker at takedowns. He was big, but not real tall, probably a little under six feet. So it wasn’t Misha Chicherin, and unfortunately, it wasn’t Bud, either. It appeared her nine lives had just dwindled down to a couple, possibly even the very last one, and that one was suffering some highly perilous circumstances at the moment.

Then she was jerked up by the back of her parka and prodded at gunpoint out ahead of her unknown captor. Her worst fear was that the man was Bones Fitch, but she didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, just tried to come up with a viable plan to get away. The hike was slow going because it was pitch black outside, but they were facing directly into the wind and the snow-blown drifts were very deep and getting deeper. He had stepped into a pair of crude snowshoes, but didn’t offer her any. When she stumbled and landed face-first in deep snow, he just stood back and waited for her to wallow herself back up onto her feet. No gentleman, this guy, uh-uh. This went on for what seemed like five hundred miles. She was snow-blind for all practical purposes within the first few minutes; the darkness was complete and the harsh wind was flinging ice particles into her eyes, but he seemed to know exactly where they were going and prodded her on relentlessly with the business end of his gun barrel. On and on and on, in fact.