Shadows and Lies (21 page)

It was ten minutes by his wristwatch when one of the girls screamed, followed by seven rapid shots of the Russian automatic he’d given Sheila. Powers held his ground and, as he’d suspected, a dark figure eased his way along the floor towards him from the rear bedrooms, intending to take advantage of the distraction. Powers pulled the pin of a second grenade and rolled it like a small bowling ball to him.

The explosion indoors was even more violent than he’d anticipated and he took shrapnel along his side. The pain burned white hot into his flesh. It was a full minute before his hearing returned and he detected the distant, then suddenly close sounds of the handgun firing again from below. He rushed outside to clear the basement windows when the night turned white.

~

Powers later determined he was out less than two minutes and was awakened by Giuseppe whispering insistently into his ear. “Wake up! Wake up! One’s here. Please!!”

Powers, feeling heavily drugged and remote from events, glanced leisurely left, right, then very slowly along his legs towards the house. A huge man was entering. Powers lifted his right hand and emptied the .45 into him before blacking out.

FIFTEEN

Northern Virginia, 6:28 a.m. 

Powers estimated that Estelle was blowing winds of 50 miles an hour with gusts exceeding that. The rain was heavy and often overwhelmed his wipers’ capacity. The semis were down to a crawl and more than one had stopped on the side of the interstate with parking lights marking its place.

His cell phone chirped. “Where are you?” Alta asked.

“Checking a lead.”

“In this storm? You’ll drown. Where are you anyway?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“You’re making this a habit. I’m starting to take it personally. Really though, where are you? I’ll get in trouble if I don’t know.”

“Stay out of this, Alta. It’s for your own safety. Find a way to get clear of this. It will be over, either way, very soon.”

“What do you mean by ‘either way?’”

“Better yet, find another job. I don’t think this one’s got much of a future. Goodbye.” The phone chirped ten times after that before it fell silent.

A man’s voice, less skilled and insinuating than NPR was speaking on the radio, “Locally, Hurricane Estelle has been downgraded to a tropical storm and will continue to pummel Virginia, Maryland, and the capital today and tonight. Additional heavy rain and gale force winds are anticipated along the coast and in the mountains. A storm warning has been issued by the National Weather Service. This is a good day to stay in folks. On the national scene, Special Counsel Coy Rampel issued a statement late yesterday that there will be no indictments prior to the election. Rampel stated that he wants to end damaging speculation and to not subject his impartial inquiry to baseless accusations of attempting to tamper with election results. The statement was denounced by Democratic Party leaders as partisan, coming as it does during the convention and on the eve of the First Lady’s address.”

Powers took the Markham exit, drove down several residential streets then stopped against the wall of a convenience market where he was shielded from the wind, lit another Camel and watched. Eight minutes later he went inside, bought two sandwiches from a wide-eyed teenage clerk who kept looking at the storm, then drove cautiously back to I-66 and turned west again.

St. Charles County, Missouri, Four Years Earlier

It had been daylight when Powers came to. His bleary vision showed Sheila standing not far away contemplating a table display of a vast array of weapons. He heard Gina say with concern, “His eyes are open, mama.”

Sheila glanced at Powers then smiled. “You did all right, Danny, and I think you’ll live.”

“The children?”

“All fine. Luigi’s dead though. Francesca’s in her room crying. I count two he got first. You got two more and I did the other. Five altogether I make it. Giuseppe found an empty van up the road. What now? I don’t think we should stay, do you?”

“No. How long was I out?”

“What do you think Gina? About an hour?” The blond-haired girl nodded while biting her lower lip. “Don’t do that honey. It makes you look ten years old.”

“Do we need a doctor?” Powers asked.

“Only if you plan to live. There’s a wound in your side and that’s a bullet you took across your pretty scalp but your hair’s gonna cover it up. Do I make the call or do you?”

Powers made it and learned then that Dorsey Tristan was dead. He got word to Carmine to report the attempt and that his family was well but he would be moving them. He ordered that the bodies be left where they lay in the woods, even Luigi’s, and instructed Sheila to drive them to a doctor in St. Louis who took care of his wounds.

“You should be in a hospital, Danny,” the friend told him. “You’ve got a concussion and if you’re bleeding internally you could drop dead if the proper medical staff isn’t on hand.” Powers asked for some pain pills and cautioned the doctor to say nothing about this to anyone.

He instructed Sheila to drive south on I-55 then slept most of the way, Gina tending to him like a mother hen. Outside of Memphis, just after dark, he told Sheila to load up with souvenirs and hair coloring. At a truck stop Sheila dyed her hair and the girls’ a rich chocolate. Powers then directed her to drive east on I-40 to Nashville. At a Hyatt, near the new Grand Old , they took a small suite, a family on vacation.

Giuseppe, who Powers now understood was the most valued member of the family, was assigned to tend to him and never left the suite. Sheila and her daughters took in the sights after Powers agreed they were more conspicuous holing up than playing tourists. Not even Carmine knew where they were. Giuseppe decided he didn’t like backgammon all that much when Powers won two games in a row and had them stick to chess, where he systematically destroyed Powers at every match. After two weeks, Powers drove north to Bowling Green to make his call.

The war was over and Zorya had fled the country. Half a dozen wise guys in Chicago had abruptly disappeared and the scene was so calm it was as if nothing had happened. Powers made his official report, then called Carmine to tell him where he could find his family. He was already in the hotel waiting when Powers arrived from Bowling Green, exhausted.

Powers said goodbye to Sheila – “Tell that wife to take good care of you” – and the two girls with Gina staring at him dewy eyed, then shook hands with Giuseppe. “You’re not too bad for a cop,” the boy allowed. “I don’t think practicing your chess will do much good.”

“I’m hanging up my pieces.”

On the drive to the airport, Carmine related how he knocked off the Russians then took care of his own boys. “I had to settle for runnin’ a couple out of the city when I’d rather’av fed ‘em to the fishes, but that’s the way sometimes. How about that, Giuseppe? Just like his grandfather, God rest his soul. He heard the shooting outside, then nothing, so went out to see what was goin’ on. Found you. If you hadna come to, and killed the Roosky, I think the boy woulda done it himself. Who says genes don’t count? The boy never met his name’s sake and acts just like him. What a son!”

As they approached Carmine’s private plane that would fly Powers back to St. Louis, he expressed his devotion. “You saved ‘em all and I’m grateful, you got that? My boy, that Giuseppe, he’s everything. You got a friend for life here. Don’t ever hesitate callin’ me, you got that? And forget what Sheila says. Things don’t work out with your wife or God forbid something should happen to her, my Gina’s first class, and I fix it up for you. You just say so. You’re family now, Danny, family.” There were tears in Carmine’s eyes as he embraced Powers beside the airplane. “For my son, anything you want. Anything.”

Northern Virginia, 6:51 a.m. 

The wind was so violent that fully grown trees had been uprooted and lay on their sides. Other trees were snapped clean 15 feet above the ground. There was no sign of a tail and in this weather one was virtually impossible but Powers decided to continue as if he was being followed. At Strasburg, off I-81, Powers change course, waited and watched, drove, reversed course, then ran four evasive routes along parallel State 11, none of the maneuvers easy in the increasingly angry weather, before picking up I-81 at Toms Brook. From the runoff and gale force winds he was wondering if it would even be possible to reach the cabin. It was as good a job at shaking a tail as he was capable of. The telephone sounded in his pocket. He hesitated then answered.

“Someone’s askin’ about me,” Shanken said. “I’ll bet it’s you.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Powers said as the Cadillac was rocked again by the wind.

“Shitty all around if you really wanna know. That a rag head you talking to earlier?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t give a fuck, but you gotta admit it makes me wonder whose side you’re really on.”

“The same one you are, Chesty. Was there ever any doubt?”

“What’s that suppose’da mean?” When Powers said nothing, Shanken continued, “What I hate about cellphones is you can’t tell where someone is, ya know? So where are you, buddy? It’s not nice to just take off like this. Our lady friend is asking about you and what am I supposed to tell her?”

Powers disconnected. The hourly news came on the radio a few minutes later and he turned the volume up. Estelle wasn’t moving as quickly as expected and the local area could anticipate even more heavy wind and rain. Then the announcer turned to politics. “In an unusual development former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger spoke to reporters today at the National Press Club expressing concern about the conduct of the Tufts Administration in dealing with Saddam Hussein.”

Kissinger’s familiar flat, accented voice came over the speaker. “The President’s dealings with Saddam are not from a position of strength but rather from weakness. This is a man who responds only to power. That should be obvious to all concerned by this time.”

The announcer returned. “In a related development the fragile Gulf Coalition is showing its first major fracture with a statement by the French foreign minister demanding that President Tufts state categorically that his Administration is not engaged in secret deal making with Saddam Hussein. There has been no word from the White House as of this hour.

“Nationally, the United States Supreme Court issued a decision today, ruling that the First Lady is a private citizen and does not possess personal immunity for quasi-official acts. She was ordered to turn over to the special prosecutor all personal and White House documents he subpoenaed last spring. Reaction to the ruling, coming as it does the day of her speech...”

Powers turned off the radio.

~

Midday was a murky grey green and there were few cars on the road, though more than Powers expected given the circumstances. Having deviated from his directions already he took State 211 at New Market and turned east. The road conditions deteriorated even more. He had crossed the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains on I-66 and was doing it again, though on a much less developed road.

Streams and runoffs were overflowing. The water was to the bottom of the small bridges and debris was collecting against them dangerously. County road crews in yellow slickers worked stoically but their real job would begin only after the storm passed. Whatever was going to happen was beyond their efforts at this point.

At Luray, he took State 675, a narrow paved road and slowed to a crawl. In more than one place water was passing across the road, once rising above the bottom of the Cadillac’s doors. From that point on Powers never spotted another vehicle on the road.

It was late afternoon and he had smoked the last cigarette from the first pack an hour earlier as he finally drove through Seven Fountains, the little burg looking abandoned. Just outside of town a pine tree lay uprooted across most of the road and he crawled his way around it. Ten minutes later he drove slowly passed the mailbox marked “Ostergren.” He continued, as he was passed it, to the first place on the road where he could easily make a U-turn, careful not to leave the asphalt and risk getting stuck, then he drove back to the mailbox. He sat in the car with the engine idling a long minute as wind and rain buffeted the car then headed up the graveled road. It stayed to high ground and was well packed so the going was easier than he expected.

Nearly a mile in, he broke from a clump of trees and spotted the blue Taurus. His sense of satisfaction was short-lived, for next to it was a four wheel drive Ford Explorer with a stocky man in a green rain parka standing beside it. He looked startled then raised his hand as if to point his finger. There was a flash of light and at the same instant a shot shattered the windshield in front of Powers.

            
 
SIXTEEN

Seven Fountains, 6:33 p.m.

Powers shoved the Cadillac into reverse then pressed the accelerator to the floor as he threw himself across the seat. The tires spun on the mud and gravel, the rear of the car weaving crazily for several seconds before a second shot tore into the windshield shattering it across the car’s interior. Then the tires caught and the Cadillac roared backwards. Powers peeked over the seat and steered around the first curve of the road then killed the ignition and raced from the car into the woods.