Dead End Fix (26 page)

“Stop, Allie.” Mort brought himself to his feet but needed to lean against the wall to stay that way.

“Am I the one woman you can't control? Is
that
what's bothering you?”

“You need help. Put down the gun. Call this guy off. I can help you.”

Allie huffed out a humorless guffaw. “With what? Becoming your personal idea of a good daughter? Like you're doing with your granddaughters? Raising them to be
sweet.
That's nothing more than code for submissive.” Allie turned back to Lydia. “And when I tried to help those little girls—when I came to show my nieces there's another life besides dancing to whatever tune a man calls—
you
stand in my way! You take my place with my family. With my father and my brother.”

A lesson her graduate-school mentor had taught her came to Lydia's mind as she listened to Allie's rant. Allison Edith Grant, a woman born into a loving home and given every opportunity. Blessed with intelligence and wit. Determination and beauty. A woman who threw it all away. First for thrills, then for power.

You can't fight crazy
, her professor had told her.
You can't negotiate with crazy. You can't deal with crazy. You can only protect yourself from crazy.

“What's your plan, Allie?” she asked.

“At last! Here's the reward seeing the light. There's no need to fret about sweet Oliver Bane. I imagine he's in his pajamas about now, thinking about tomorrow. How he's going to save the world, one perfectly brewed cup of coffee at a time.”

“Then why the photographs?” Lydia asked.

“Because I respect you, Lydia. You're smart. Savvy. There was a good chance you'd see through my assistant's phone call. For that matter, so might my father. For all he is and isn't, he
is
a damned fine detective. If you saw through my ruse and came armed tonight, or even on guard, I'd need you to believe someone else was in need of your skill set. That's your Achilles' heel, Fixer. My father's, too. One whiff Oliver might need saving, and you and Daddy would holster your guns, let down your guard, and go running full speed into the face of danger. I find your predictability boring, but at least I was able to put it to use.”

Lydia felt the heft of her weapon in the small of her back and the weight of her Taser in her pocket. She needed Allie to be distracted for just one moment.

I need to protect Mort from crazy.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now I'm going to give my father a choice. Listen carefully, Lydia. You have a vested interest in what he decides.” Allie stepped back enough to keep both her father and Lydia in her line of sight. “There's a man named Abu Al Fared. A fascinating fellow. Wildly wealthy. With a sophistication you're likely never to encounter in this Pacific Northwest backwater. His operation affords him a certain status along with an endless supply of resources. Like my own, his work creates enemies. I've been fortunate enough to inherit a loyal group of associates and I've recently augmented my staff with a military arm. Al Fared has no such militia. He and I have entered into an arrangement that promises to be quite lucrative. It's conditioned upon me delivering the Fixer to him. You will be his one-woman army. Al Fared will supply the targets, and the Fixer will do her thing.”

“That's not going to happen, Allie.” Lydia recalled another person who had hoped to make the Fixer his personal assassin.

“Whether it does or doesn't is no concern of mine,” Allie said. “I need only deliver you to him. What happens after that is up to you. Obey him. Kill him. It makes no difference to me.”

“You said I had a choice.” Mort's voice was sounding fuller now.

“You do. Abu Al Fared is no fool. He knows the Fixer's reputation. He'll pay specific attention to controlling Lydia. He comes from a culture where punishment can be cruel. Some might say savage. He'll do whatever is necessary to ensure the Fixer does as she's told. And I have no doubt what appetites might be aroused in him once he sees how lovely his new possession is. Again, he comes from a culture where women are to be used as he sees fit.”

“What's my choice?” Mort asked.

Allie paused. “I haven't forgotten your betrayal, Dad. I came to you. To my family. You rejected me.”

“You're a killer, Allie. You have to answer for that.”

“The World According to Mort Grant!” Allie snarled. “I grew tired of that dog and pony show years ago. You turned away your own daughter. Your blood. And Lydia was right there, cheering you on. Eager to take my place.”

“Lydia had nothing to do with that decision,” Mort said.

“Enough! No more lies!” Allie's face flushed with rage. “You're the great judge. Good/bad. Right/wrong. Door number one or door number two. Make one last decision. Get Lydia out of our lives one way or the other. That's the only way I can be comfortable with the family again.”

Lydia took her eyes off Allie long enough to take an assessment of Mort. She could see the devastation in his face as he listened to his daughter's sociopathic reasoning.

“Here are your options,” Allie continued. “Do we (a) ship Lydia off to a life of caged cruelty at the hands of the best-looking maniac this side of the Gaza Strip? Or do we (b) kill her now, quick and easy with one blast of bullets?”

“Allie,” Mort whispered. “My God, Allie.”

“Decide, Dad. What's it going to be? What's your plan for the pseudo daughter you tried to replace me with?”

Mort lurched forward. Allie flinched at her father's sudden movement. She turned toward her henchman and opened her mouth, ready to bark an order.

But Lydia was on her before she could speak. She lunged low, hitting Allie's hip with her shoulder, sending them both sprawling to the floor. Lydia reached out her left arm, grabbing for the weapon in Allie's hand. Allie kicked herself free enough to shift her body several inches. Lydia kept her own body flat against Allie's torso as Allie struggled to gain balance enough to level her gun. Lydia grabbed a handful of Allie's flared raincoat and yanked. A shot fired from Allie's gun and a chunk of ceiling plaster landed two inches from Lydia's head. Lydia saw Mort dive toward them, only to be slammed to the floor again when Allie's guard jammed the butt of his rifle hard into Mort's chest.

Lydia pulled again on Allie's coat, spinning her shoulders nearer to her. She released her grip long enough to grab hold of Allie's hair. Allie twisted to her left, kicked Lydia hard in the face, and scooted away, rolling to her side and lifting herself up on her elbows. Lydia swallowed a mouthful of blood and reached into her pocket. She pulled out the Taser as Allie scrambled to stand and fired, hitting Allie in her upper thigh. Allie shrieked, fell again, and began to convulse.

Mort's voice sounded far away as he yelled, “No!” He tried to crawl to her, but the man kicked him savagely back to the floor.

Allie's madness fueled her strength. She held on to her weapon even as her body pulsed on the floor. Lydia pulled herself to her knees. Again Mort tried to stand. This time the man guarding him held his rifle in both hands and shoved Mort back against the wall.

“No move!” the man commanded.

Lydia gasped for air as she watched the spasms in Allie's body ease. She reached behind her back and pulled out her pistol. She managed to stand, keeping her weapon trained on Allison Edith Grant.

“No shoot!” the man guarding Mort called out. Lydia pointed her gun at him. The man responded by shoving the barrel of his rifle into Mort's ear. “You shoot, I shoot.” He nodded toward his mistress. Allie was now breathing hard, spitting out excess saliva and flailing to use one hand to wipe tears out of her eyes.

“Kill her!” Allie's demand came out in an urgent whisper. “Now!”

When her man didn't move, Allie tried to bring the weapon she still held up off the floor. But her arm flopped this way, then that. A secondary spasm hit her, flattening her again against the floor. A pool of urine spread as her bladder gave way.

Still she held the gun.

The man across the room kept his rifle in Mort's ear as he turned his eyes toward his mistress.

“She is czarina.” The man spoke with a thick Russian accent. “I am Fyodor Ratchikov. I am loyal to Vadim Tokarev.” He spit onto Allie's trembling body. “She kill him. Steal his work. Steal his men.” His face turned into a stone mask of hatred. “She make me kill own nephew. Prove my loyal to her. Kill the son my sister. She smiles and watches. Now I smile and watch. I watch my czarina.”

A small twitch twisted the corner of the man's mouth as Allie's body soothed itself in recovery from the Taser's jolt. She pulled herself up on one elbow and gave him a bleary-eyed glare. “Kill her now!” she rasped. “Kill them both!”

“No move!” the man warned Lydia. “No move!” He pulled away from Mort, still training his rifle on him, and took two steps toward Allie. Lydia weighed the risk of shooting him, but the man kept his finger on the trigger. He was close enough that even if Lydia killed him with one shot, Mort could still be hit with a spray of bullets released on reflex.

The man stood over Allie. In a thunderous thrust he stomped his right leg on Allie's wrist. Her gun flew away.

Mort clambered forward on injured legs.

“No move!”

“Don't kill her,” Mort begged. “She's finished. Leave her to me.”

The man shook his head slowly. “You beg her life. I beg life my nephew. You bounce her on knee when she baby,
da
? I do same for nephew.”

“Fyodor.” Allie's voice was softer than a whisper but conveyed the imperiousness of a monarch. “Fyodor, get me out of here.”

The man looked down at her. “As you wish, czarina.”

Then he lowered his gun and fired four rounds into Allie's chest.

Mort pulled himself to his hands and knees. He crawled to his daughter. Fell to the floor beside her. Cradled her body in his arms. Rocked back and forth. Stroked her blond hair and murmured endearments through tears as her blood drenched his clothing.

Allie lived long enough to whisper two final words. “Daddy. Hurt.”

The Russian rushed forward and rammed the butt of his rifle into Lydia's chest. As she dropped to the floor he used his weapon again to send her gun flying out of her hand. He then turned to Mort.

“You made her. How many die because of her…this daughter of you?”

Mort appeared oblivious to the man as he rocked his daughter's body. Lydia struggled for breath against the pain of broken ribs. Despite her pain, she pulled her knees toward her chest, watching the Russian. Watching Mort.

“You made this.” The Russian raised his gun.

Lydia's hand slid down her leg to her ankle.

“Take message to Peter Vestikov.” The Russian pointed his gun at Mort's head. “Tell his uncle love.”

In one seamless movement Lydia freed her knife from its holster and threw it straight into the Russian's neck. His gun fired on reflex, sending at least a half dozen rounds pounding into the walls as Lydia's office shook with the eruption. The Russian dropped to the floor, landing with a lifeless arm across Allie's legs.

Mort didn't flinch. He kept on rocking and cooing to his and Edie's only daughter.

Mort stood on a patch of Astroturf and stared down into the muddy grave. Allie's casket was bronze with silver fittings. Identical to the one Mort had selected for his wife a few years earlier.

How does this work?
he wondered.
Do designers change a handle here, a footing there? Could the average Joe tell the difference between this year's Restful Slumber and the same model from an earlier decade? Maybe the finishes change.

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was accompanied by a body leaning against his leg. Mort didn't need to look away from the shining metal box containing his daughter to know it was Jim DeVilla.

“We're here for you, buddy. Me, Bruiser…whatever you need. Pick up the phone and it's done.”

Mort looked at the spray of flowers the men took off Allie's casket before they lowered it into the ground. Champagne roses. He remembered Allie asking for a dozen of them on her twenty-first birthday. Some kind of little white things intermixed with the flowers. Looking like they were floating above the arrangement.

What did Edie call those? Was it baby's breath?
His own breath caught in his throat.
My baby won't ever breathe again.

“Don't worry about work.” Jim's voice seemed to come from the end of an endless hallway. “Take the time you need. Micki and I have it covered.”

Mort felt two quick pats. Then Jim's hand left his shoulder. Bruiser's weight left his side.

Are you cold in there, Allie? Is that silk blanket over your body warm enough?

An arm slid around his waist and pulled him into a sideways embrace.

“I'm so sorry for all this.” Micki's sweet voice pulled him away from the grave. “You love her so much. I can't imagine your devastation. But I'm here to listen to whatever it is you want to talk about. Anytime. Anyplace.”

He looked at the young woman he had mentored into and through the department. The woman who had grown from eager rookie to confident detective. “You're wearing lipstick. Is that a new thing?”

Micki's eyes were sadder than he'd ever seen them. She reached up and touched his cheek. “I'm here for you. You know that, right?”

For a moment Mort wondered if he was supposed to do something about how sad Micki seemed. But in the next moment a tsunami of his own grief washed his concern for Micki away.

“Thank you for coming.” Mort repeated the phrase that had gotten him through the dark days after Edie died. He didn't know what to say to people then. It was the same now. He watched Micki walk across the cemetery toward a long line of parked cars. How many people came to his daughter's funeral? He scanned the departing crowd. Dozens of uniformed officers mingled with men and women dressed for the day's frigid air. The mayor and her husband were there. So was the state's attorney and several of his associates.

Isn't anybody working today?

He walked to the rows of chairs arranged for the graveside service. Most were empty. The brief ceremony had finished ten minutes earlier. There had been no one to speak kind sentiments over the body of his daughter. No childhood friend mourning her loss. No former teacher wishing to extol her virtues. Robbie tried to say something about his sister, but he didn't make it through his first sentence before angry sobs choked off his words. A stranger—someone on the payroll of the funeral home—read a poem about celebrating life. Something about a sailboat on the horizon. Tony Braus, the department's chaplain, delivered a statement Mort was sure was intended to comfort.

My daughter is in a cold metal box,
he thought as the gentle man spoke.
What words can take the sting out of that?

What was left of his family sat in a cluster. Robbie stared straight ahead. His jaw churned as though chewing something tough as leather while tears streamed down his face. Hayden and Hadley leaned on either side of their mother. Claire's arms enfolded them. She alternated kisses to foreheads. Murmuring in gentle French as she held them tight. Mort knelt in front of them.

“I don't like this, Papa.” Hadley's face was red from crying. “We're not ever going to see Aunt Allie again. She promised we'd visit again soon.”

Mort smoothed a hand across her blond curls. “I miss her too, sweetie.” He turned to Hayden, who buried her face in her mother's shoulder. “What do you need right now, little one?”

Hayden said nothing.

“Aunt Allie loved you. She may not have known how to be the way we wanted her to be, but she loved you both so very much.”

Hayden pulled her face away from the safety of her mother and looked at him with troubled eyes the color of a Caribbean bay. “You told me she was a code 6. That means I should stay away. Then she stole Hadley.”

“She didn't steal me, Hayden.” Hadley corrected her twin. “We went on an adventure. I had more fun than I ever had in my life. Aunt Allie said we'd do it again. All of us. She was going to take us places where magic happened. Castles and everything.”

Mort stroked Hadley's arm. “I know, honey. Aunt Allie didn't hurt you. We all know that.”

Claire kept silent while her eyes burned with rage.

Mort turned back to his granddaughter. “People are a lot of things, Hayden. We act in wonderful ways. Like when you folded all those towels for Mom when she was sick with the flu. Remember that? Or when you do your chores without Mom or Dad having to remind you.”

Hayden nodded.

“Sometimes we act in not-so-wonderful ways,” he continued.

“Like when you used my new crayons without asking me,” Hadley interjected. “You know I like it when the tips are all pointy, but you used them anyway.”

“It doesn't make any difference when—” Hayden tried to defend herself, but Mort interrupted her.

“The thing is, you and Hadley still love each other, right?” Mort looked at both girls. “It's easy to love when things are fine. It's when people do things that make us mad that we get an extra-special chance to show our love.” He looked over to his son, hoping Robbie was listening. “Aunt Allie isn't with us anymore. We can still remember the good. We can smile when we think of her.”

Robbie shook his head. He held his father's gaze for a few seconds, giving Mort full view of his son's anguish.

“Come on, girls.” Robbie stood and held out his hands. “Time to go home.”

Claire, Hadley, and Hayden hugged Mort in turn. Mort stood and watched them walk away, leaning on one another. When their car pulled down the cemetery drive, he went back to the rim of his daughter's grave.

How did I fail you? Please don't leave me ignorant. Let me atone. Let me learn. Let me do better.

“We've had an excess of this, haven't we, Morton?” The deep bass of L. Jackson Clark's voice pulled him from his fantasy. Mort turned and embraced his dearest friend.

“My god, Larry. You're here. So soon. Are you…? How are you…?” Mort was dumbstruck to communicate his gratitude at seeing the man who was more brother than friend. Larry was dealing with his own grief. He had recently experienced the gruesome death of a beloved family member. One that revealed a snake's nest of secrets, tragedies, and lies.

Larry pulled clear of the embrace. “Where else would I be? Life has a way of showing us we don't have a clue what's coming next. If we didn't have one another to sit next to in the roller coaster, we might just fly out of the car, don't you think?”

Mort looked at the man whose scorecard matched his loss for loss. Both were widowed. Now each had buried someone who'd met a violent, senseless end.

He saw a familiar woman standing a few steps behind Larry. For the first time that day a genuine smile came to his lips. Rita Willers, chief of the Enumclaw Police Department, nodded a greeting before stepping away.

“She come with you?” Mort asked.

Larry nodded. “I've forgotten how comforting the presence of a good woman can be in times like these.”

“Rita's one of the best. Be careful. You'll not be able to pull anything over on her. She's got the soul of a tracker.”

Larry gave him a weary smile. “Be gentle with yourself, okay? There's too much death about us, Mort. We'll go mad if we focus on it. We must each pay careful attention to the fact we're still here. We may not want to be among the living at this particular moment, but live we do. Pain is a part of life. We must take great care to be gentle with ourselves in the immediacy of our pain, while reminding ourselves the joys of living far outweigh the agony.”

“You really believe that?”

The grief in Larry's eyes lifted long enough for Mort to see that hope also resided there. “I do. Not because I'm giving in to some Pollyanna sugarcoat to make me feel a bit better. But because when I observe the world I see it to be true. There is joy all around. See it. Nurture the reality of it. Don't let this grief cloud your vision.”

“That's a tall order right about now, buddy.”

Larry nodded. “And you, my friend, are a person who never stepped away from a difficult task. You know where to find me.”

Mort shook his friend's hand, knowing no more needed to be said before Larry turned to make his way out of the cemetery with Rita, leaving Mort alone again. He pulled a rose from the floral spray and walked to the tombstone adjacent to his daughter's open grave. He ran his hand over the engraved name of his wife before placing the rose atop her marker.

“Our girl's coming to where you are, Edie. Hold her close. I wasn't able to do that. I'm counting on you.”

A montage of Allie's life played in his memory. He allowed himself the smiles that came with images of his daughter singing and dancing. He shook his head in joyful reverie as he recalled the pranks she had played on her parents and brother.

I'll cherish these, Allie. I promise you. I'll remember the good.

He didn't realize the skies were darkening until he heard his name called. How long had he been standing there, lost in his reminiscence? He glanced up. The long line of cars was gone. There was only him, the dead, and the woman who called his name.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

Lydia pointed to the crested hill to their right. “Quite a crowd.”

Mort shrugged. “You live in one spot almost sixty years, you pick up people. They didn't know who Allie was. They only knew she was my kid.”

“You're well loved, Mort. Accept that.”

“You look like hell.”

She raised a hand to her bruised face. “I could say the same to you. We'll heal.”

He doubted her prediction.

“What now?” she asked.

Mort glanced over his shoulder, back to the open wound in the earth. “I failed her. She needed something I wasn't able to give to her.”

“Allie became who she was destined to be.”

He'd heard that line of reasoning before. Sociopaths are born, he'd been told. Statistical anomalies. More common than you think. If channeled properly they can be quite successful.

Well, they're right about that. I've never encountered a more successful monster.

“Believe that if you want, Lydia. But I knew her as a child. There must have been something I could have done. Or not done. A father's one job is to protect his child and I failed her. Just like I failed little Benji.”

“The boy who was murdered? How?”

“I can't find his killer. Every lead is nothing but a tease. Witnesses, family, those gang members. Somebody knows who killed that boy and no one's talking. There will be no justice for Benji.”

“Like there's no justice for Allie's victims?”

Mort rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe. Hell, I don't know. I don't know one damned thing anymore.”

“Then let me tell you something. Stop searching for justice. It's a dead-end street.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Justice is an illusion, Mort. A cipher. Things happen. There's no righteous scale that can ever be balanced.”

Mort grunted his disbelief. He looked around the darkening cemetery to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “That's odd coming from you. The Fixer built her life around bringing accountability to people who'd escaped what they were due.”

Lydia shrugged off his observation. “Maybe that qualifies me to say that elusive thing I thought I was bringing is nothing but a myth. There is no justice. No balancing. No making things right.”

“I can't believe that.”

“No? Ask Benji's father. Ask him if catching the person who murdered his son would take away his pain. Those scales can never be balanced. Ask the mother of the little girl whose murder Allie ordered.” Lydia nodded toward Allie's grave. “Let her know her daughter's killer is dead. Ask her if she feels better now. Scales balanced. Debts paid.”

“That's a cruelty I can't accept. You're asking me to believe what I've dedicated my life to—what the Fixer dedicated years to—is a lie.”

“Not a lie, just the wrong word. Justice doesn't exist.”

“Then tell me the right word.”

Lydia paused. “I don't know. Maybe ‘done.' ”

“What?”

Lydia stepped close enough he could see the details of the ravages his daughter's attack had left on her face. “I made sure the people I killed were
done
. There may be mayhem in the world, but it won't be by their hand. Whoever killed Benji is done too. Be satisfied with that. However it happened, whoever did the act, the person who killed Benji is done. Same with Allie. There will never be justice for all she did. The carnage she inflicted remains. But she's done.”

Mort looked at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. He wanted to argue with her. His brain needed to defend the notion of justice. But he couldn't. Whether it was because he didn't have the energy or because he knew she was right, he wasn't sure. He decided it didn't matter.