The Survivor (17 page)

The understaffed department processed over twenty thousand autopsies a year, and even so a crushing backlog waited in the wings. They were running out of space quicker than a state jail, the main lab and crypts jammed to capacity. Some years back there’d been a big stir when rats had gotten into the refrigerated annex behind the main building and chewed up the inert inhabitants.

“Yeah. Must be a full moon.” The chill tightened Nate’s arms, raised the hairs at his nape. “Did you work on Danny Urban?”

“Nine mil above the right eyebrow. A hit man. Heh. That got Jonesy fast-tracked.”

“Anything unusual about him?”

“Guy had a whole damn armory in his closet, a real gear queer. Cops took assault rifles and no foolin’ C4 into evidence. Not yer average Jonesy.” Eddie glanced up. “You give ’em all the treatment, don’t you? Sit and hold their hands. Read the reports. Even a hit man. Heh. I guess if it helps you with the next of kin. Not their fault, I suppose.”

Nate mustered a flat smile in response, glad to find Eddie focused again on his work. “Where’d you store him?”

“Dunno. Check the computer. I’m logged in. I’d do it myself, but”—he shrugged, gloves buried to the wrists in the Y incision—“got my hands full.”

Nate checked the computer, then found his way to the appropriate crypt. A security guard unlocked for him the thick metal door, which released a waft of cold, medicinal air as it yawned open. The corpses were not stored in metal drawers but slotted in plain sight on trays that lined the walls like bunk beds on a submarine. Full to the rafters. Nate moved among the scattered morgue gurneys that accommodated the overflow, checking tags attached to body bags or to the flesh itself. A short ways in, he found Urban’s gurney and nodded a thank-you at the guard, who left him alone with the body, as was their arrangement.

When Nate unzipped the body bag, it exhaled a puff of sweet rot and ethanol. As the vinyl fell away, Urban’s face emerged, cold and firm. The ridiculousness of the task struck Nate. But he hadn’t known where else to start.

“What’s your safe-deposit-box number?” he asked Urban.

The unblinking eyes stared up at him.

Nate searched the corpse, taking his time. Hairline, toes, shoulders. One ankle was swollen and discolored; Urban had probably twisted it in the shoot-out. Nate didn’t know what precisely he was looking for and discovered nothing of interest. Giving up, he sat beside the corpse and, more from habit than anything, took the intact hand in his own weakened grip. Alone with the dead, he considered the enormity of the job before him. A little more than four days to break into a safe-deposit box for which he had no number, to retrieve he knew not what. If he didn’t figure something out, Cielle would be next on that slab. So much to accomplish before he could rest.

As he rose despondently, Urban’s cool hand slid from his and he felt a slight rub on the finger. He turned over the hand, examining the white flesh. A thin seam of something sticky across the pad of the index finger. And a bit more under the nail. Adhesive?

The heavy door boomed back into place behind him when he exited the crypt, and he grabbed a few lungfuls of moderately fresher air as he crossed to the autopsy room. “There’s something sticky on Urban’s hand. Did you identify it?”

“I remember something,” Eddie said. “Turned out to be insignificant. Report’s on my desk, though, you wanna take a look.”

The file was there in Eddie’s tray, fifth down in a towering stack. Eddie had run the substance found beneath Urban’s nail, the lab identifying it as duct-tape adhesive. Stuck to the adhesive was a strand of white carpet matching that in Urban’s bedroom, where he was found.

Chewing his lip, Nate stared at the result, trying to figure out some way to make it relevant. Then he jotted down Urban’s address and headed for the exit.

*   *   *

The sky above the row of town houses had turned charcoal by the time Nate arrived at Danny Urban’s Van Nuys address. A shoe-box-size package waited on the porch, the orange-and-blue FedEx label frayed from transport. He toed it. Surprisingly heavy, it gave off a clank, its contents shifting. Behind a crisscross of crime-scene tape, the front door was locked. Judging from the way the door jiggled beneath Nate’s hand, however, it was not dead-bolted. He took a step back, looked in either direction, then kicked the door in. Ducking through the tape, he entered, reached back for the FedEx box, and eased the door shut behind him in the damaged frame. Then he clicked on the flashlight he kept stored in the cargo space of his Jeep.

The bullet holes pockmarking the entry wall addressed a question that had been lingering in a corner of Nate’s mind: Why hadn’t Shevchenko’s men tortured Danny Urban to force him to give up the number of his safe-deposit box? Answer: They hadn’t had a chance to. That’s the problem with trying to knock off hit men. They know how to shoot back.

Squatting, Nate opened the FedEx box, yanking and tearing until the cardboard gave way. When he glanced inside, the contents set his head ringing, and he glanced away and then back as if hoping to find something else there. Nested in the U of a curled hunting catalog were maybe twenty lock-blade knives. They looked so ordinary resting there, but Nate knew what they represented. Urban, stocking up for future jobs.

He left the box on the floor. The narrow flashlight beam restricted his view, so he progressed slowly, each movement a stomach-churning reveal. The town house’s interior told the story of the assault. Bloodstains on the counter in the kitchen, where the fingers of Urban’s left hand had been shot off. He must have had a weapon within reach when they’d burst in, for he’d returned fire quickly, punching divots into the entry wall and shattering a hanging mirror. Cupboards and drawers tossed, Shevchenko’s men turning the place upside down in their search. Bloody handprint on the wall halfway up the stairs. Cabinets knocked open in the hall off the landing, side table shattered by bullets. Bedroom door ajar, painted with a stroke of red. And then the cluttered master suite, covered with porn DVDs,
Soldier of Fortune
magazines, and faux-antique furniture. Nate stepped over a fallen chair, taking in the lush white carpet marred with more handprints and finally matted down where Urban’s head had landed once the triggerman—probably Misha—had caught up to him.

Tufts of foam poked through slashes in the mattress. A letter desk in the corner had been searched. The drawers were empty, half pulled out, papers rifled through by the Ukrainians or the cops or both.

Nate squatted over the amoeba of blood, which had hardened to rust in the thick carpet. Thinking about that white strand recovered from the duct-tape adhesive beneath Urban’s nail, he looked at the handprint smudges leading from the door at intervals. Urban had been dragging himself to safety. Nate pictured him wounded and desperate, clawing forward with a hand and a half, bathed in sweat as footsteps grew loud behind him. If they’d done this to a hardened hit man, what chance did Nate have against them?

He spun, scanning the wall, the flashlight beam picking across a stack of army-surplus woodland-camo fatigue shirts, a dented DVD player, and a single dirty sock. Something shiny winked at him, half hidden by the leg of the letter desk.

A roll of duct tape.

A crackle of electricity moved through him, pricking his skin, trepidation and excitement rolled into one. He crossed the room and picked up the roll. One edge speckled with blood. A few indentations, millimeters apart. Teeth marks. Nate called to mind the crime-scene photo, Urban’s square teeth spaced inside the terrible oval his mouth had formed in death. The man had needed to bite to tear the tape since by the time he’d gotten upstairs, he’d had only one functional hand.

With murderers on your heels, why go after duct tape?

Nate dropped the roll. Walked back to the blood splotch. Nothing. The flashlight beam moved toward the doorway as if of its own volition, illuminating the fallen chair. Then, slowly, Nate pulled it north to the ceiling above it.

A fan.

The electricity along his skin surged into a current. Urban had run up here not only to get away but to hide something. The thing Shevchenko’s men were after. He’d stood on the chair and taped it to the fan. He’d fallen off the chair. Twisted that ankle. Tried to crawl to a position of cover. And then.

His heart thundering, Nate walked across the room. Righted the chair and stood on it. Reaching up, he felt along the tops of the fan blades. Sure enough, on the second blade his fingers touched a lifted edge of duct tape. He tore it free and held it under the flashlight.

Adhered to one side like a glittering jewel—a safe-deposit-box key. Stamped on the head, 227.

He blew out the breath burning his chest, his vision spotting. Clenched the key in his fist. Relief. Now all he had to do was impersonate a dead hit man, provide false documentation at the bank, get into the vault, trick a manager into using the guard key, and remove the box’s contents while leaving no trace. Piece of cake. But still. He had the key. Which was further than Shevchenko and his team of expert thugs had gotten. Maybe Nate could find a way out of this yet.

The sudden ring of his cell phone cut through the silence, scaring him upright. He wobbled on the chair and had to take a quick step down, nearly turning his ankle in solidarity with Urban. His hands fumbled over the phone, finally opening it.

“Nate. Nate?” Janie’s voice, thin, wrenched high with fear. “You have to get here
now.
”

Chapter 19

Nate screeched up into the driveway, back tire swiping across the lawn. Flew from the Jeep, leaving the door ajar. He banged on the house door, shouting, and then hands fussed at the dead bolt and chain and Janie was there, her nostrils and the rims of her eyes red. He grabbed her shoulders. “Where’s Cielle?”

“Cielle’s okay. She was up in her room. With Casper.”

Hearing voices, Nate charged back toward the kitchen. Janie had described the intruder in their brief conversation. Yuri, the giant from outside the bank. Yuri of the mashed nose and the rescue saw. “He came to the house,” Nate said, still grappling with the fact of it.

“Yes, the driveway.”

Nate rounded the corner and saw Pete sitting on the counter, cradling his hand, which he’d wrapped in a dish towel filled with ice. His mouth was clenched, lips bloodless and trembling, his broad shoulders drooping. Cielle stood before him, Casper leaned into the backs of her legs as he did when agitated or craving attention.

“I was in the car.” Pete choked back pain. “Right in the driveway. Janie was inside.”

Nate wheeled to Janie. “If he laid a finger on you—”

“No,” she said. “I never saw him. I heard the noise outside.” She carefully unwrapped the dish towel, and Pete’s breathing quickened. “And then he was gone.”

“What did he do to you?” Nate asked Pete.

“He grabbed my hand. Slammed it in the car door.”

Cielle gave out a little cry. “Why? Who
was
he?”

Janie finished unfolding the blood-spotted towel, laying Pete’s hand bare. It looked wrong, bent at the middle, his thumb lolling at an unnatural angle. His skin was pink, angry from the ice. “It’s broken, honey,” Janie said. “There’s no question. We need a doc to reduce and cast it.”

Pete said, “How will we explain it?”

“Fell off a ladder,” Janie said.

“What are you talking about?” Cielle asked.

“Why’d he come here?” Nate asked. “Just out of the blue?”

Janie shifted with discomfort, and Pete’s grimace tightened. “Pete called his friend,” she said. “The cop. Earlier. From work.”

From the set of her mouth, Nate knew that this had already caused a disagreement between them. He felt his pulse beating at his temples. “Despite what we agreed?”

Pete said, “I’m not really in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“So they caught wind of it,” Nate said. “You broke the one rule.”

“Someone
please
tell me what’s happening!” Cielle yelled.

“Don’t lay this on me,” Pete said. “This began with
you,
Nate. It’s on
your
shoulders—”

Nate’s voice rose to match Pete’s. “You put my daughter at risk—”

Pete lifted his good hand, the fingers trembling. “I didn’t. The guy, he said, ‘Next time, we take her.’ So she’s safe now. At least as safe as she
was.
”

Cielle screamed, a rush of fear and anger.
“What the hell is going on?”

An abrupt silence, broken only by the
chop-chop-chop
of a sprinkler in the backyard.

“What?”
With dread, Cielle glanced from face to face. “What are you keeping from me now?”

Janie looked over at Nate. Save the freckles across the bridge of her nose, her skin was washed of color. She gave a little nod.

“The guy behind the bank robbery found me,” Nate said. “And he thinks I owe him for breaking up the heist. He wants me to steal something for him.”

Cielle’s eyes widened. “Or what?”

“He threatened to hurt you.”

“Me? What did
I
do?”

Nate reached for her, but she jerked back as if he’d struck her.

“I will not let him touch you. I will do
any
thing—”

“So that guy, that huge guy you’re talking about…?” Cielle was shaking her head, still backing up, twisting away from him. “And you—you weren’t gonna tell me?
I’m
the one at risk, and you kept it from me?”

“That was my fault,” Pete said. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Well, guess what?” Cielle kept her glare on Nate. “I’m fucking scared.”

*   *   *

With the longest of the kitchen knives held across his knees, Nate sat downstairs in his former living room on his former couch staring at his former TV, though it was turned off. In the dark rectangle of the flat-screen, he could see his pale reflection and the portrait of Pete, Janie, and Cielle on the wall behind him. Their frozen faces hovered ghostlike over his shoulder.

Since Janie had to take Pete to the emergency room, Nate had agreed to stay and keep watch over Cielle, who had retreated angrily to her bedroom. Twice he’d gone up to knock and talk through the locked door, but his attempts at comforting her were met with no response. The sounds of her frightened crying eroded something inside him until he’d put his back to the wall and slid to the floor. He’d sat in the hall outside her bedroom for a time torturing himself before taking up the more strategic position on the couch. His anger had spent the last few hours simmering as he contemplated what to do.