The Clouds Roll Away (37 page)

“Let me die, let me die!” he sobbed.

“I can't.”

I waited. He said nothing.

“We love you.”

Still nothing. My arm ached under his body. And my left hip. I wondered if anything was broken. Turning my head, I searched for the flashlight, wondering if we landed on it. Above us, the city lights shimmered.

Another light, a single beam, was coming toward us. It pointed directly at my eyes. I yanked my arm out from under Wally, patting down my right side. I came up with my Glock.

“I'll take that,” said the man with the flashlight.

I moved my finger to the trigger, but yellow tracers ripped through the dark. His bullets pinged the steel cables with deadly speed, ricocheting into the river.

Then silence.

I could see the shooter, his shape outlined by the city light behind him. Another man stepped from behind him, holding the flashlight. His shoes crunched over the cold snow. Taking my Glock, he pointed the barrel at my left temple and drew back his foot. He kicked snow at Wally.

Wally continued to lie on the ground, inert.

“I was certain you would make every effort to save your friend,” RPM said. “My associate had doubts. But I was right, Minsk.”

“You win,” said the man with the assault rifle. He pronounced the word “vin.”

I looked over at Wally. RPM had the flashlight pointed at the side of his face.

“Wall-Ace feels bad. He likes you. Really, he does. The problem is, he likes crack more.”

My voice scratched up my throat. I felt ragged with adrenaline and strain and cold. And fury was packing itself down like gunpowder inside my chest. “You set this up,” I said. “You watched.”

“With an appropriate night scope, we can see this entire bridge from the iron works. We began our walk over after you pulled up in that rather attractive Mercedes. And I must say, Wall-Ace, you did an admirable job. You must give him some credit, Miss Harmon. We had the scope on you both. He didn't want you shot.”

The famous man once more planted the toe of his polished black boot in the snow, sending another spray of snow into Wally's face. I looked down. Wally had closed his eyes, ice clinging to his lashes.

“But for a moment there,” RPM told him, “I thought you might actually jump.”

chapter forty-three

T
he Hummer trounced out of downtown, smashing every bundle of snow in its path. RPM sat in the passenger seat, his body turned sideways. He kept the assault rifle pointed at me in the backseat. Wally sat listless, leaning against the back door. RPM followed the cello music on the stereo. He swung the rifle's barrel like a conducting baton, following the tune about angels near the earth, touching harps of gold.

“Quite nice on the cello, don't you think?” RPM asked.

Victor Minsky drove like a man in a hurry.

“Miss Harmon?” RPM asked.

I nodded and counted the days. Tomorrow was Christmas, a Monday. Maybe by Tuesday someone would trace the Mercedes abandoned at the iron works, linking it to a woman who would be shattered by then, paralyzed with fear inside her big empty house on Monument Avenue, her fragile mind a kaleidoscope of fractured images. Wally's suicide. Her daughter following him off the bridge.

They might even comb the river for our bodies.

But none of it would lead them to Rapland.

And when the Hummer finally zoomed around Rapland's keyhole drive, Wally slid across the seat. Bumping into me, he pushed off and opened his back door, falling on the snow.

Minsky opened my door, reaching in. He grabbed me by the wrists, squeezing the wire that held my hands together. He shoved me toward the house.

The night air smelled fibrous with cold and somewhere in the woods beyond, a bird pierced the darkness, its winter whistle ascending in silvery mercy. Minsky walked behind me, holding the barrel of the rifle against my back. Ahead of me, RPM hummed about glad hours and grace.

Wally stumbled inside the foyer.

“Keep going-k,” Minsky said.

We walked down the dark hall to the room with all the pictures. Dank mildew rose from the cellar and I wondered whether I would smell the geraniums, whether it would matter. When I slipped on the marble steps, Minsky grabbed the back of my coat, yanking me up.

The basement had not been cleaned. RPM walked around Sid's bloodstain, opening the door to the safe room.

“Please, have a seat.”

Wally stayed near the door. “Where's my hit?” he said. “I need a hit. You promised.”

Minsky shoved me through the door, pushing me onto the couch.

“You promised,” Wally whined.

With one hand the Russian yanked my coat, pulling it over my head and forward. My sleeves turned inside out, covering my wired-up hands. Another layer of restraint.

“I need it and you said—”

“Wall-Ace,” RPM said quietly. “Don't ever tell me what I said.”

The couch was set low, my knees rising above my chest. Minsky looked over at RPM, his cold blue eyes dancing.

“Geev him the drug,” he said.

RPM held my Glock and glanced at Wally, considering him with a detached expression. Wally's neck quivered, his head twitching. Under a track light, a scrim of perspiration shone on his skin.

“I am a man of my word,” RPM said. “You will find a pipe in the living room on the mantel. I believe the goods are stored in the cigar box.”

Wally stumbled away. I listened to his shoes slap the damp stones. Then his steps faded away.

RPM shook his head. “Poor Wall-Ace. He just can't help himself.” He smiled, lifting his eyes to Minsky. The Russian stood behind me. “Are you ready, Minsk?”

“Ray-dee,” he said.

I turned my head. But the Russian stayed out of view.

“You were asking questions about my airplane.” RPM stood in front of me. “I would like to know how much information you've gathered.”

Jimmy. But I stalled. “Who told you?”

RPM had not taken off his cashmere overcoat and when he brushed back one side, leaning against the kitchen counter, he was ten feet from my chair. “You'll be answering the questions, Miss Harmon.”

I held my mouth closed.

He nodded at Minsky.

A bolt of lightning shot through my shoulders. My back arched, rigid. I thought my spine would snap. But just as suddenly my body dropped, my head falling forward.

“You also took something down to Mr. Greenbaum,” RPM said. “I need to know how those stones came into your possession.”

I tried to hold my head up. “I don't know what you're talking—”

Minsky hit me with the Taser again. My shoulder twisted, torquing my body. I heard vertebrae popping and clenched my teeth. Count, count, counting to nine. When he pulled it off, I stared down at my coat. It was wet. Drool. I lifted my arms, they felt weighted. I wiped my chin. I couldn't feel it.

“My friend from Russia is more than happy to continue. But I sense a certain stubbornness about you. I'd rather not extend this time together. What will it take to convince you, Miss Harmon?”

“Answer my questions first.” My lips felt numb.

He considered the idea.

“Nyet.” It was Minsky.

But the proud man across from me wanted to tell me where I went wrong.

“Blood diamonds,” I said. “That's what this has been about?”

“She knows,” Minsky said.

“Miss Harmon knows more than she's telling.” He smiled again. “When you came here that first day with that empty paint can, I told Sid we needed to do a background check. In case you didn't succumb to our story. And lo and behold, we discover that Wall-Ace lives with your mother. I decided we had an insurance policy. Look how that policy paid off. You're here. And I'm leaving.”

“The chemicals, they're coming from Liberia?”

“Yes, the chemicals. When you found lewisite and mustard gas, not once but twice, I told Minsk we had to hurry up.”

“But why?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why all the killing?”

“You're referring to the gentlemen in the river?”

“The kid in the car, Moon. I'm guessing that was XL with him. And Sid—”

“Sid was a mistake,” he said. “Sid was supposed to come with us.”

“Nyet,” replied the Russian.

“Mr. Minsky does not agree. He killed Sid. Seemed rather unfair after Sid took care of those two groveling gangsters. I will miss him terribly.”

“But what, what was it all for?”

“You have an unfortunate need to know, Miss Harmon. All you were supposed to do was go after the Klan. Or that silly Wellington woman. But you had to keep digging, didn't you? And you sit here, minutes from death, asking why. I'll satisfy your curiosity. People became greedy. We had a profitable enterprise. Everyone received their portion.”

“The gang was laundering money through you?”

“Those petty thugs received pretty guns and diamonds for their cheap women, and they made me a tidy sum of money.”

“You need it?”

“Record sales are not what they used to be, particularly in my line of music. But money draws flies. The Russian mob wanted in, along with a national gang, and the local thugs decided they were something important. This was no different than a hostile takeover of any business. Although very hostile.” He smiled again. “Mr. Minsky and I decided the best strategy was to allow the competition to take out each other.”

“So the Russian mob lights the cross—”

“No, no.” He wagged the Glock. “This is where you're wrong. Sid lit the cross. Mr. Minsky planted the car bomb and lured his fellow Russians to the river. The gang thought the Russians were coming after their enterprise.” He opened his hands, smiling. “We just sat back and let it play out.”

I tasted blood on my tongue. “And now you leave.”

“Well, that's your fault. If you hadn't stuck your nose into this, I could remain here, a clear victim of hate crimes.”

“Time,” Minsky said.

RPM glanced at his beautiful diamond watch. “Yes, you're correct. We have to go.”

“Liberia?”

“I'm treated like a king there. But I will miss this home. I've rather enjoyed my time in Virginia.”

In the silence that followed, I heard the hum of the dehumidifier. The air was drying out for the gas. Seal the room tight. Fly away. I felt dizzy and nauseous. There was a ringing sound in my head. I thought the Taser had done it, but Minsky was tugging at my coat.

“It is phone,” he said.

He fumbled with the folds and for one split second I considered an uppercut. And then? RPM held my Glock. The assault rifle was on the counter behind him. And Minsky, he would come back, even more venomous.

The Russian flipped open my cell phone and read the caller ID aloud.

“Detective Greene.”

“You've spoken to the police?” RPM said. “About what?”

I shook my head. “I was meeting him tonight, to tell him. I'm late. He's probably wondering.”

“You will tell him something's come up. Tell him you will call tomorrow. If you say anything else, I will make sure your mother suffers. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

Minsky held the phone to my mouth and pressed the button.

“Hi, Nate,” I said. “Look, I can't make dinner tonight. Something's come up.”

He paused. I never called him Nate. Ever.

“I found what you're looking for,” he said.

RPM looked at Minsky. The Russian frowned.

“Nate, do me a favor. There's been a change in plans.”

“Not again,” he groaned.

“Get over to my mother's house right away, her address is—”

Minsky slammed the phone shut. He dropped it on the floor, grinding it under his heel. The third electric shock roared down my spine. Deep inside my head I heard a scream.

When he pulled the Taser off, the room was spinning. I leaned forward, preparing to throw up.

“Tell me what the detective found, Miss Harmon.” RPM stood directly in front of me now. “Tell me or I'll kill your mother.”

My tongue was almost useless, the words slurred. “Ammo, no marks. Homicides.”

“Call Jimmy,” RPM told Minsky. “Tell him to get the plane de-iced. We'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Minsky nodded, walking toward the cellar.

Wally stepped into the doorway. “Might be longer than twenty.” He held an assault rifle in his hands, pointed at the Russian.

“Wall-Ace, what are you doing?” RPM looked over coolly. “You're compelling me to shoot you.”

“Untie her,” Wally said.

“I have a gun.”

“And if I pull this trigger, you're dead.” His eyes looked too large for his emaciated face. “Untie her.”

Minsky didn't move.

“I already died on that bridge. I'm not worried about dying again.”

RPM looked annoyed. “Go ahead,” he told Minsky. “Untie her.”

The Russian stood between me and RPM. He pulled the coat sleeves, revealing my wrists.

“Hurry up!” Wally shook sweat from his eyes.

Blood stained my coat where the wire was cutting into my skin. I couldn't feel my hands. I stared down at the wounds and saw RPM's fine leather boot. The toe was pivoting, inching sideways. Moving for the assault rifle on the counter.

I looked at Minsky. He was watching the floor, gazing back at his partner's foot. I drew a slow breath and gave a one-word prayer. Flexing every muscle in my legs, I came up off the couch, ramming my head into Minsky's chin. With my fingers, I grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him close, turning him like a shield. I heard my Glock fire. One. Two. On the third round, the assault rifle released. I drove deep my fists into Minsky's solar plexus, pressing him forward.

But RPM wasn't there.

Minsky's legs hit the counter. He crumpled. I let go, diving for the floor, rolling under the desk. My Glock fired a steady
pow-pow-
pow
. I tucked my body into a ball.