Stolen Souls (17 page)

Occasionally, not often, but enough to be worrying, the conversations became heated. These incidents had become more frequent since he’d begun his work. Once, sometime between digging the second and third holes in his concrete floor, he had even come to blows with himself.

Such foolishness had to stop. He couldn’t afford to be unpredictable in his own mind. His work needed care and a steady hand. Rash actions would see him destroyed.

“Enough,” he said to himself.

Time to think of the now, the definite, not the maybes or the mights. It was afternoon already, and he still had a long day ahead of him. He had a young girl waiting for him, soft yellow hair on her pretty head, and two rows of lovely white teeth behind her lips.

He could almost feel them on his tongue.

34

H
ERKUS CURSED THE
traffic as he fought his way back to the hotel. Christmas shoppers flooding the city center, too stupid to have bought their presents beforehand. He shouted at them, spittle dotting the inside of the windshield.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that last hit of the cocaine he’d gotten from Maxwell. Two blasts should’ve been enough to shake the heavy murk from his brow, but still he took another.

He willed himself to be calm as he inched from Chichester Street on to Victoria Street. The hotel stood just a few hundred yards from one of the city’s biggest shopping centers. Horns blared as cars tried to enter and exit the underground car park. Two cops did their best to direct traffic, but were largely ignored by the motorists.

Herkus was stuck and could do little about it. He turned up the heat and shouted anyway. It made him feel better.

His phone rang.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s me,” Arturas said. “Where are you?”

“Not far, just down the road, but the traffic’s bad.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Herkus said. “Might be a while. I’ve moved maybe ten feet in as many minutes. Fucking shoppers.”

A pause, then Arturas asked, “Do you have anything for me?”

“Yes, I’ve got something.”

“Get out and walk,” Arturas said.

“What?”

“Pull over and park,” Arturas said. “You can walk here if you’re so close.”

Herkus gave an exasperated laugh. “No, I can’t. There’s nowhere to pull over. Even if there was, I couldn’t get across the traffic. It’s too—”

“I don’t care. Just get here.”

“Listen, boss, I—”

The knock at the driver’s window almost caused Herkus to drop the phone.

“Hold on,” he said to Arturas.

The traffic cop bent down and looked through the glass at him, his pudgy cheeks red and wet from the snow. He knocked again and made a winding motion with his gloved hand.

Herkus gave a polite smile and hit the down button.

“Afternoon, sir,” the cop said.

Herkus nodded.

“Any idea why I came over and knocked your window?” the cop asked, a tired flatness to his voice.

Herkus shook his head.

“I came over and knocked your window because I saw you using your phone,” the cop said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s an offense to operate a mobile phone when in charge of a motor vehicle.”

“Is it?” Herkus asked. He hung up, ignoring the tinny sound of Arturas’s voice, and dropped the phone onto the dashboard. Watching the policeman, he placed his hands in plain view on the steering wheel. The sweat on his palms slicked the leather.

“Yes it is,” the cop said. “I’ll not ask you to step out of the car because of the traffic, but I’ll have a look at your documents, if you don’t mind.”

“Dock-ment?” Herkus asked.

“License and insurance certificate,” the cop said, his pleasant demeanor growing more forced.

“I English no good,” Herkus said.

“License and insurance,” the cop said. “Now.”

Herkus shook his head. “No English.”

The cop opened the door, reached in, and took the key from the ignition, letting the car’s engine die. “Out,” he said. He jerked his thumb in a gesture that couldn’t be misunderstood, whatever the language.

Herkus let his right hand drop between his legs, his fingertips almost touching the floor of the car. The Glock and ammunition lay tucked into a compartment cut into the underside of the seat. He only needed to reach down, pull back the fabric, and grab the pistol.

“Out,” the cop said again.

“No English,” Herkus said.

Possibilities raced through his mind, but he knew they were fueled by the cocaine. The packet was hidden along with the Glock. He breathed deep, felt the winter air tingle in his nasal passages.

Be calm, Herkus told himself. Be good. They can’t touch you. He lifted his hand from between his legs and got out of the car.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” the cop said.

Herkus shrugged. The other cop had stayed where he was, directing traffic, but kept an eye on his partner as he waved and signaled at the motorists.

“Documents,” the cop said to Herkus. “License. Insurance.”

“Okay,” Herkus said.

He reached inside the car, pulled down the sun visor, grabbed his Lithuanian license and company insurance certificate, and handed them over.

Herkus waited while the cop examined the plastic card and the sheet of paper. “European People Management?” he asked.

“My boss,” Herkus said. “He pay insurance.”

“Your English has improved,” the cop said. “Well, let’s see if you can understand this: We’re going to move your car to the side of the road so we can have a proper chat. Okay?”

“Okay,” Herkus said.

The cop whistled at his partner, a taller, thinner man, and beckoned him over. They huddled in conversation, agreed something, and the fat cop got into the Mercedes. He restarted the engine while the other began directing traffic around it.

“Why don’t you move over to the pavement, sir?” he asked.

Herkus did as he was told, but took his time about it. He ambled toward the footpath as if it were his own wish to do so. The cop resumed his directing, talking into a radio on his lapel at the same time. The Mercedes inched its way to the curb.

The phone in Herkus’s pocket rang. He pulled it out, looked at the display. Arturas, it said. He cursed and hit the reject button.

Let him wait, Herkus thought. Or he can come out here and talk to these cops.

They didn’t care about him using a phone while driving. That was just an excuse to stop him. Something was going on here. What did they really want?

Wait and see, Herkus thought. Wait and see.

35

L
ENNON CUT ACROSS
the south of the city from Sandy Row, along the Lisburn Road, skirted around Queen’s University, then Botanic Avenue. He pulled up at the address on Rugby Road that Dan Hewitt had given him. A light burned in the window of the flat on the upper floor.

He locked the car and went to the door and rang the bell. Stepping back, he looked up to the window. The light went out. He rang the bell again.

“Coming,” a voice called from somewhere inside.

He heard footsteps on stairs, heels on a tiled floor coming closer.

The door opened and he saw a woman with an overnight bag. She stared at him for a moment, looked over his shoulder at his car, then back to him.

“Taxi?” she asked.

“No,” Lennon said. “Police.”

Her mouth and eyes widened, then her face hardened.

He held his identification out for her to see. She did not look at it.

“I sorry,” she said. “No English.”

“Rasa Kairyte.?” Lennon asked.

She shook her head. “No English.”

“Can we speak inside?”

“No,” she said.

“Here, then.”

She stepped back, tried to close the door, but Lennon blocked it.

“Tomas Strazdas,” he said. “Sam Mawhinney, Mark Mawhinney, Darius Banys.”

Her eyes brimmed. “No English,” she said once more, her voice breaking.

“You could be next,” Lennon said.

“No,” she said. “Not me. I did nothing.”

“I can help you,” Lennon said. “Talk to me and I can make you safe.”

She laughed. “Safe? With police? Arturas owns police.”

“Arturas Strazdas?”

A car pulled up, its tires spraying gray slush. It sounded its horn.

“I go now,” she said. She stepped out, closed the door behind her.

“What do you mean, Arturas owns the police?” Lennon asked as she pushed past him.

“I go,” she said. Snowflakes settled on her hair.

The cab driver got out of the car and opened his trunk. He took Rasa’s bag from her and dropped it in. As Lennon followed her, the driver watched him with narrow eyes.

“Where?” Lennon asked.

“Away from here,” she said.

The cab driver asked, “Something wrong, love?”

“No,” she said as she opened the rear door and lowered herself inside.

Lennon grabbed the handle, stopped her from closing the door behind her.

The cab driver tried to squeeze between Lennon and the woman. “Here, mate, you can’t—”

“Fuck off,” Lennon said, pushing him out of the way. He showed the driver his identification, then spoke to Rasa. “Who does Arturas have in the police?”

“You arrest me now?” she asked.

“No,” Lennon said.

“Then I go,” she said.

She pulled the door hard from his grip, closed it, turned her eyes away from him.

The driver hurried to his side of the taxi, climbed in, and put it in gear. The wheels spun as they fought for traction before the car pulled away.

Lennon cursed and headed back to his Audi. His phone rang before he got there.

“We’ve found your man,” the duty officer said.

36

P
LASTER AND WOOD
dropped away until the first hole was big enough for Galya’s shoulders. A gap of four centimeters, then more wooden slats, plaster on the other side of those. A few minutes more and she had put a fist-sized hole through that. She dropped the drawer front to the closet floor and wiped sweat from her brow.

The voice above shrilled and undulated. Galya ignored it. Her shoulders and elbows throbbed, pulsing as if still hammering at the wall.

She reached through the opening, her fingers finding cool air. Stretching upward, she felt a hard, smooth surface. Downward, coarse fabric. Towels, she thought. A closet, like this one.

Where did it open to?

She strained, splintered wood catching on her sleeve. Her fingertips found wood. She pushed. A door gave way. A breeze stroked her fingers. She withdrew her arm and put her eyes to the hole. Daylight, weak but insistent, showed the contents of the closet. Beyond, a hallway, banisters, a handrail.

Galya lifted the drawer front again. She turned it in her grip so the sharpest corner faced the hole. The slats gave more easily now that she was forcing them outward, away from the joists they were nailed to. She grunted with each blow, feeling a deep and hot satisfaction as each piece of wood and plaster fell into the closet on the other side of the wall.

The voice from above answered every strike with a wounded cry. Fevered with the exertion, Galya imagined it was the house that howled, protesting the injuries she inflicted upon it. She howled back as the hole opened out, larger and larger, until light from the hallway beyond touched her face.

Galya let the drawer front fall. She coughed as plaster dust prickled her throat and lungs. It coated the inside of her mouth, so she rolled saliva around to clean it, then spat on the floor. Mama would have scolded her for such an unladylike act. Like a beast in a field, Mama might have said.

Galya laughed, then shot a hand to her mouth. She tasted blood, realized her hands were blistered and cut. Her heart knocked hard against her breast.

“Calm,” she said to herself.

She sniffed, spat again, then snaked both arms through the hole, her head following, then her shoulders, still tender from being forced through the gates of a building site in the early hours. The splintered ends of the wooden slats scratched at her clothing. She pushed stacked towels out of the way and grabbed the forward edge of the shelf they sat upon with her hands. She pulled.

Her feet cleared the floor by no more than a few centimeters. She pulled harder. Sharp points of wood pierced her top and through to her chest. The fine chain around her neck tightened, then snapped, and she felt the cross drop away. She kicked at cool air, trying to force her weight forward. Her heel connected with the closet’s doorframe, and she understood. She wedged one foot at either side of the door and pushed with her legs.

Her top ripped on the wood, jagged splinters cutting stinging tracks along her stomach and sides. She pulled with her arms and kicked forward with her feet until her own weight dragged her across the shelf and through the hole. Towels tumbled around her as she fell to the floor on the other side, the jarring of her shoulder and neck cushioned by the thick carpet.

Galya rolled onto her back, gasping, dust billowing in the air above her. She coughed, and burning pain flared in the muscles between her neck and shoulder. No air to scream, she drew her knees up and clenched her jaw. Black points appeared in her vision, like deviled stars.

Slowly, she pulled air into her lungs, pushed it out again, in again, until her vision cleared. She rolled to her side, holding her shoulder steady as she moved, then got to her knees. Towels lay strewn on the carpet, its pattern darkened by age, flowers interwoven across it.

The paint on the banisters was a dull brownish yellow, the wallpaper the same. It was as if someone had closed the door of this house thirty years ago and never returned. Even the air seemed tainted by decay.

Galya climbed to her feet and stretched her arm out, testing the pain in her shoulder. It eased as she moved the joint. She held her breath and listened. The voice from upstairs still rose and fell, but now it seemed to tire. At first, Galya thought it might have been a dog, but now she knew it was human. A human in pain.

On the far side of the room Galya had escaped from was a narrow flight of stairs. She could only see the first few steps before they rose into darkness. The cries echoed from up there. She turned her eyes to the stairs leading downward, out of this place of strange men and locked doors.