No Coming Back (19 page)

“Was it really necessary to kill them?” I ask Tolstoy as he picks himself up and dusts himself down.

I keep my distance, keep the blade between us, just in case. My thoughts are in disarray, memories clashing and pulse pounding. I am not sure I can trust anything or anyone right now, including myself.

“Would you rather they killed you?”

He has a point.

“But you murdered the Chief of Police. That’s not going to go down well.”

He shrugs mantelpiece shoulders. “Flesh and blood, is all. Fancy title don’t make a man.” He wipes a hand over his neck and frowns at his fingertips covered in blood. “You cut me.”

“You’ll live.”

“I wouldn’t count on that happening.”

“So Lars sent you here?”

“Like I say. When he heard you were back in town, he asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you came to no harm.” His eyes dart to the three slain bodies lying close by. “Case in point.
Somehow
I don’t think they were members of your fan club. Mind if I take back what’s mine?” He sees my stance stiffen and adds: “Relax, boy. I’m your guardian angel.”

While Tolstoy retrieves his throwing knives, I sever the ties
binding
my wrists and peel off the wet gloves.

Then I watch, slightly horrified, as he wipes brain matter off the blades, dispassionately, as if he’s done it a thousand times. The fact that it was either them or me comes as no consolation. Already, I am worrying what Ned and Nancy will think when their son fails to come home. How will they cope with the news of another child’s death? What will they think if they discover my involvement?

Tolstoy picks up Meeks’s discarded firearm, wraps a big hand around Hendry’s thick neck and hauls him to his feet. “Excuse me while I fix this scene. We don’t want anyone pointing the finger of blame in our direction.” Then, holding Hendry upright with one arm, he aims the muzzle at Hendry’s forehead and pulls the trigger. Just like that. Brains and bone fly out the back of Hendry’s head and splatter all over a rack of camping gear. Unlike me, Tolstoy doesn’t even blink. He drops Hendry like a bag of wet sand, grabs hold of Luckman’s scrawny neck, hefts him into a vertical position and repeats the move, blowing his brains all over the counter.

“Isn’t that a little like overkill?” I ask.

Tolstoy drops Luckman to the floor. “Best to make it look like they had a falling out and the chief killed them.” He puts the gun in Meeks’s limp hand and feeds his index finger behind the
trigger guard.

“So who killed Meeks?”

Without evening stopping to think about it, Tolstoy picks up Luckman’s tire iron and plunges the straight length into Meeks’s chest, cracking through ribs and puncturing a lung. Meeks’s body lurches under the force of the blow and a bubble of blood bulges from his mouth.

Tolstoy steps back to admire his handiwork. “Looks to me like the chief was fatally wounded in the scuffle. He fought them off as best he could before bleeding out. As far as I’m concerned the man died a hero. All we need to do now is to cover our tracks and get you back to town, safe and sound.”

Tolstoy’s idea of covering our tracks is to set the cabin alight.

Mesmerized, I stand stock-still in the ankle-deep snow, watching as the fire takes hold and begins to consume the log cabin. The flames will be visible for miles. They light up the surrounding woodland, throwing a gray pillar of roiling smoke high into the inky sky. Even so, no sleepy firefighters will be rushing out here to douse the flames. Not at this time of night. Not out here. When dawn arrives and they come to investigate, no one will question the burnt evidence showing that Meeks killed Luckman and Hendry—for whatever the reason—before finally succumbing to his own death by their hands. Meeks’s abandoned Mustang will be found on the highway, riddled with bullets from Hendry’s gun. My tracks will be found snaking up over the ridge and down to the cabin, and be mistaken for his. The investigators will think that Meeks was forced to flee on foot, only to be cornered at the cabin. Two and two will be put together and no one will fail the math test.

They would have killed you,
a voice inside me says.
You had no choice. They would have put a bullet in your brain and buried you in the woods
.

“So what’s the story with you and Lars?” I ask Tolstoy as he stows the empty gasoline can back in his truck.

“I fix things for Mr. G when things need fixing. Him and me, we go way back. Been over fifty years since we first met down in Louisiana. Mr. G was in town at the time, fishing tuna out in the Gulf. I was eighteen and wet behind the ears. He saw me gutting fish on the dock one day and we got to talking, him and me. Said he was impressed with my skills. Said I could handle a blade like a magician handles his wand. Next thing I know, Mr. G is offering me a job I can’t refuse, including full relocation expenses and the promise of a bright future up here in the north. I moved to Harper the following week and never looked back.”

“Were you in Six Pack?”

He looks down at me like I’ve just called his mom a whore. “Let’s get something straight: ain’t nothing for a man like me in any setup like that. Be easier for a black man to be the King of England than be in that kind of club.”

“How about Lars?”

Curiosity thickens his brow. “Why you asking?”

“Because I believe one of its members killed Jenna Luckman.”

“And you’re trying to clear your name, is that it?”

“Something like that. It’s the best lead I have.” I don’t say it’s the only one.

“Well, I reckon I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if that turned out to be the case. I hear they got up to some seriously weird stuff out there in Cody’s hunting lodge. As far as I know, Mr. G gave it a wide berth. Sure, he likes his fishing and all, but hunting
bigger
game never appealed to him. Maybe you should be asking that uncle of yours.”

“Owen?”

“Far as I remember, he was the big fish in that puddle. Nothing went on in that club without him giving it the yay or the nay first.”

Owen? My throat is tight and it shows in my tone. “But Lyle Cody ran the club.”

Tolstoy shakes his big head. “See, now that there is a popular
misconception
. Sure, Mr. Cody started things off back in the day, but it was your uncle who was the real brains behind the scenes.
Nothing
got by him without his say-so. If anyone knows
anything
. . .” His words trail off, eyes growing large enough to reflect flames.

“What is it?”

His mouth works wordlessly, then he gasps: “It’s my back.” And he twists, trying to see over his shoulder, to reach with a hand.

I turn him around and feel adrenaline flood my stomach.

Level with the top of my head is a long thin rod protruding from between his shoulder blades, at a right angle to his spine. Twelve inches of cold aluminum, glimmering in the firelight.

Beyond him, out on the lake, I can just make out the figure of a man in a camouflage jacket. He’s standing at the midpoint, on the frozen surface, loading another arrow into a big crossbow. I see him draw back the string, take aim. Instinctively, I grab a handful of
Tolstoy’s
coat and heft him behind the vehicle, just as the second bolt clatters against the hood and buries itself in the snow behind us.

“You’ve been shot.” I tell him. “There’s an arrow in your back and a guy out on the lake with a bow. I think it’s Chief Krauss.”

Tolstoy’s breathing sounds ragged: “Think you can pull it out?”

I reach up and put pressure on the metal shaft, trying to lever it free, but it’s stuck in tight. Blood squirts over my hand. Tolstoy howls and slumps against the truck.

With a loud clang, another bolt impacts against the metalwork.

I pull the giant upright. It’s like raising a felled tree with my bare hands. “Listen to me. We need to leave here, now, or we’re both dead. Give me the keys.”

With a big paw, Tolstoy pushes me away. “No can do. Mr. G wants you safe and out of harm’s way. That means dealing with whatever problem we have here. So don’t cramp my style, boy. I’m not done yet; I’ll take care of this.” He smiles for the first time, showing black blood on white teeth. “Now go. Shoo. Get the hell out of here, fast as you can. I’ll handle the chief.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
wo months ago, and after almost a year of unremitting abdominal pain, Tolstoy had put aside his distrust of the medical profession, surrendered to his wife’s pleas, and sought his physician’s professional opinion. He’d exhausted all the over-the-counter medications. Popped enough pills to make him rattle when he walked. Nothing had worked. He’d even obtained some stronger meds from one of the town’s more colorful junkies, but the side effects had made him nauseous, and had barely taken the edge off the pain.

Increasingly, when he went to the toilet, what little pee came out was predominantly pink.

The family physician had politely scolded him for not coming to see him sooner:

“These kinds of things are more responsive to treatment the earlier they are detected and dealt with,” he’d said. “Persistent and untreated bladder infections have been known to lead to
dementia
.”

Despite raising Tolstoy’s blood pressure, the physician had told him not to worry unduly and had taken a urine sample to send off for testing.

“The results of the urinalysis will be back in about five days,” he’d told him. “In the meantime, we’ll get you started on a strong course of antibiotics, just in case an infection is at the root of
everything
.”

Tolstoy had gone home, to take yet more pills and to put the problem to bed. Being ‘big-boned’ meant he was all too familiar with aches and pains. He’d had them all his life. Maybe the tummy ache, the weight loss, and the blood in his urine were just another phase he was going through, like getting old. Maybe there was nothing sinister to worry about.

But then the results had come back sooner than anticipated, and the physician had sent him to see a specialist. The urologist had taken more urine and blood samples and had performed a
cystoscopy
. Tolstoy had ground his teeth as the doctor had inserted a thin telescope into his urethra, poking around and chewing some lip. Then he’d arranged a follow-up appointment and the samples had been sent off for analysis.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t the best,” the urologist had told him matter-of-factly during the follow-up, without skirting the issue or softening the blow. “The lab detected cancer cells. Given your symptoms, and how long you’ve had them, it’s possible we’re
looking
at bladder cancer.”

Tolstoy had been stunned. “I’m going to die?”

“Mr. Peets, we all die. But it’s not necessarily your turn right now. These days not everyone diagnosed with cancer dies from the disease. Medical science has come a long way in recent years. Some forms can be successfully treated, even cured.”

Nevertheless, Tolstoy had been horrified. “What about this form?”

“It depends on how invasive it is. If the tumor is superficial we can operate on it, remove it, then get you all cleaned up with a dose of intravesical chemotherapy.”

“And if it isn’t superficial?”

“Now that’s a little bit trickier. If the cancer has spread into the surrounding muscles then we’ll still operate, but we’ll need to remove the bladder itself and put you in chemotherapy before and after. I’d like to get you in for CT scan sooner rather than later, if that’s okay? What about tomorrow?”

“Good. Yeah.”

In a daze, Tolstoy had gone home, fearful of what the scan might reveal, but even more fearful of telling his wife about the cancer. They’d been inseparable for over fifty years, built a lovely home together, and raised three wonderful children. The thought of putting an end to their perfect life was something he’d rather not think about.

“Men don’t deal,” a female friend of theirs had once said over lunch, in the aftermath of her own marriage’s breakup. “They defer. I say screw them. But not the way they want you to.”

The next day, Tolstoy had gone for the scan. He’d been nervous, not knowing what to expect. His sheer size had posed a challenge for the radiologists. They’d had him twisted and at all angles, just to make sure they’d imaged everything needed.

Afterwards, the doctor had called him into his office and had told him to take a seat, which was never a good sign.

“It looks like the bladder cancer might be secondary. There are other masses, mainly in the bowel, but elsewhere, too.”

He’d shown Tolstoy several monochrome images on a screen, pointing out various anomalies in the pictures, white patches against gray, as if they’d mean something to him.

“But you can cut them all out, right?”

Solemnly, the doctor had shaken his head.

Tolstoy’s stomach had turned over. “So, that’s it, then? You’re saying there’s no hope? How long you giving me, doc?”

“The bad news is, even if you take things easy, you’re looking at three months at the most. The good news is we can extend that to six months with intensive chemo. Tell you what we’ll do, let me get you hooked up with our oncologist and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

But Tolstoy had declined. He’d seen the corrosive effects of intensive chemotherapy on his wife’s cousin and vowed never to go down that road. In any case, it still led to a dead end.

And so he’d opted for quality over quantity, making the most of what he had left, while he could still enjoy it. He’d spent every waking moment with his family, turning down every job that came his way—all except those from Lars Grossinger. And only because he owed Mr. G his life, everything.

And now that it was coming to an end, he was determined to make his final moments count for something, to make Mr. G proud of him one final time.

You know what needs to be done.

Tolstoy waited until Jake Olson had backed away before hauling himself inside the truck and starting it up. Ignoring the pain slicing though his chest, he slammed his foot against the accelerator pedal. Snow and mud sprayed out from the wheels, rattling the fenders. The vehicle slewed on the unstable surface before grabbing hold and powering toward the frozen shoreline.

The pain in his back was immense—like somebody was using a power drill to bore a hole in his spine. Probably, the bolt had nicked a vertebra. His shoulders were on fire, pain pulsing outward from the point of impact. His breathing had become ragged and erratic, a disconcerting bubbling noise in his throat. Blood on his lips. A metallic taste in his nose and mouth. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the arrowhead had buried itself in one of his lungs. He knew it was only a matter of time before the lung filled to the top, then started to aspirate into the other.

The front wheels bounced over the narrow beach, almost jarring the steering wheel from his hands. More unbelievable pain lanced though his chest. Then the truck was leveling out and fishtailing on the frozen lake, tires scrabbling for purchase. Tolstoy wrestled with the wheel and straightened it out. He had the chief in his sights. He could see him hunched slightly forward, aiming the crossbow. There was a loud bang, reverberating through the bodywork, and a fractured hole appeared in the windshield in front of him. More crucifying pain exploded through his chest. The bolt had cut clean through the laminate and burrowed through his shoulder,
pinning
him to the seat. The truck was doing thirty, forty, on a direct
collision
course with the man standing calmly in the middle of the frozen expanse. Tolstoy floored it, closing the gap. Another deafening bang sounded. Something flashed by his face, slicing through the flesh of his cheek. Another feathered hole in the windshield.

The chief was ten yards away, standing his ground, reloading the crossbow. No escape. He had him now.

Then the world tilted, suddenly, dramatically, without warning. The steering wheel came up and smacked him in the face, hard enough to knock out teeth. He had no time to react, to save
himself
from the abrupt impact. Momentum catapulted him out of his seat and threw him into the windshield. His head smashed into the glass and electricity crackled. The front of the truck pitched downward, steeply, lifting the rear end up off the ice and pinning him against the dash.

The truck had broken through the thinner ice at the center of the lake, he realized. It was going under, sinking, taking him with it.

Black water thumped against the windshield, gushing in through the holes left by the bolts. It spurted over his face, icy.

He was jammed in tight, one cheek wedged against the glass. He tried reaching for a door handle, anything to help hoist himself up, but excruciating pain held him back. The truck let out a metallic moan and tilted some more, almost vertical now. Icy water breached the door seals and sprayed into the cabin. The lights flickered and went out. Freezing water showered over him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t avoid the inevitable, couldn’t breathe. Then the black
liquid
was rushing in, pouring over him, drowning him, and there was nothing he could do.

He grabbed one last bloodied breath as the blackness engulfed him. Then everything was calm. The cabin filled up with icy water, numbing him, taking away the pain, at last.

Suspended in the cold limbo, he thought about his lovely wife as the truck sank into darkness, taking him with it.