The Dead Saint (24 page)

Lynn and Galen lay restlessly awake in a strange bed in a now unprotected safe house in an isolated area, their minds muddled by the found/unfound crash-site reports. A thought whispered unrelentingly through her mind:
Was it on purpose?
"Love," she whispered in the dark, "do you think the false report could have been deliberate?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. But it delayed searching for the real site." She thought he would charge her with being a conspiracist. But he didn't. He didn't respond at all. She found his silence more discomfiting than the expected accusation. She began to tremble. "I feel we're rowing a little pirogue in the dark on mile-high tidal waves."

"The storm will end. They always do," he added softly. "You taught me that, my darling Lynn." He saved that phrase for anniversaries and deep moments when words were inadequate. He wrapped her in his strong arms. Held her. Kissed her hair.

She huddled in his refuge, a still cove safe from the world's stormy seas. Gratitude for him welled up in her heart, leaving no empty space where fear could crouch. Wrapped in the solace and ecstasy of each other's arms, they staved off the nightmare of reality.

It was midnight when Lynn awoke with a start. The memory of the President's plane descended like an avalanche on a lone skier. The storm had abated, replaced by an eye-of-the-storm eeriness in this remote and unguarded safe house. Careful not to awaken Galen, she reached for her blue silk robe beside the bed. Her toes brushed across the floor for unseen slippers. She felt her way to the bedroom door, puzzled that no light beamed from the lamp she'd left on downstairs. Feeling the wall along the way, she padded through the hall to the staircase. She gripped the banister, each foot groping in the dark for the next step.

As she neared the bottom, she had an eerie sensation of another presence. She paused. Remembered seeing Galen lock the door and hearing Major Nedelkovski say, "No one can follow our drivers." She repressed her fear.

She took the last step, then closed her eyes and opened them again, desperate to adjust to the darkness. Shadowy shapes loomed. Black against blacker. She felt for a light switch on the wall but couldn't find one. Her breath came loud in the noiseless night. She held it. Her heart beat like a kettledrum. Picturing the room, she extended her arms to keep from bumping into something and crept forward in cautious silence toward the lamp she remembered on a table. The sense of another presence, like the keen awareness of unseen bats in a dim, dank cave, grew stronger. The sniper's eyes revisited her in full-screen memory. She suppressed a shiver.

A powerful hand jammed across her mouth. A Rambo arm pinned her back against the man's chest. His chin pressed down on the top of her head. Terror sparked a scream.

His hand muffled the sound. His palm crushed her nose. Blocked her breath. His mouth bent to her ear. "You must not scream!"

She recognized the voice. Viktor! The Russian/non-Russian. Who'd crashed the President's coffee. Who'd heard her utter
St. Sava.
Who'd rushed away immediately. Terrified, she hunkered down in the chain mail of silence.

As Bubba drove his silver 'Vette to his favorite bookstore in the Quarter, he reran Lynn's email. When he'd first read it this afternoon, he'd felt angry with her for not telling him immediately about the stolen medal. He thought about it as he drove
. S
he'd blame herself for it. She cared more for people than anyone he knew and wouldn't forgive herself for not getting Elie's medal to his mother. And she'd beat up on herself something fierce for letting him down. She probably hadn't told him sooner because she dreaded disappointing him. "I shouldn't have laid that on her," he said into the wind. But he hadn't realized what he was asking. He didn't know then what he knew now.

The tone of her email bothered him far more than her delay in telling him. "Stay alert. Watch yourself. Imperative to guard words in emails." She wasn't a fearful person and didn't talk that way. But what really disturbed him was that she hadn't risked putting in an email the meaning of the symbol.

He parked and made a call on his cell as he walked toward the bookstore. "Cy Bill? Bubba here."

"I've already taken care of your little package, Bubba. Safe and unofficial. For your eyes only. No need to get into the
unless
part."

Unless something happens to me, Bubba finished mentally. "I need to talk to you."

"Do you want to grab a sandwich and call it dinner?"

"I'd suggest the Acme Oyster House, but we need some privacy. How about a bench at the Moonwalk? I'll pick up a couple of muffalettas."

"I can be there in half an hour."

Bubba pocketed his cell as he entered the bookstore and looked for a book on the Cyrillic alphabet and the languages that used it. He found one and looked forward to the challenge. He liked to learn new things. Maybe, like Lynn, he, too, would soon be able to read Elie's name in Cyrillic.

His mind went back to Lynn's email. He wasn't scared for himself but he was for them. Something had scared her, and she didn't scare easy. No telling what they faced in the Balkans. The unsafest place on the planet right now. Worrying about them was like wringing his hands on the sidelines. He made a decision: here comes Broussard, an army-of-one. First he called Fay Foster at the bishop's office to check out their itinerary.

"They're in Macedonia, Bubba. In Skopje."

"Where the President's plane crashed!"

"Is missing," she corrected. "I guess in the Balkans, they see things like a crashed plane and dead passengers that turn out not to be there! Maybe it's their version of the Easter resurrection story!" She paused for breath. "I tell you what, Bubba, I'll be so glad when the bishop and Dr. Peterson get back home!"

"Me too. Do you know when they go to Sarajevo?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Thank you."

"Take care, Bubba."

He started to call Bishop Lynn's cell and remembered the time difference. Seven hours, he thought. He looked at the world clock on his phone. A bit past midnight. They'd be asleep. Soundly, he hoped. And safely.

He picked up the muffalettas and joined Cy Bill. They sat on a bench facing the river. Sunlight caught the water like rippling diamonds, and the sky celebrated the day in a sweep of blazing color. Bubba handed Cy Bill the email from Lynn. He read it through twice before speaking. "Do you think she's right about the sniper?"

"I'd bet a deep-sea fishing trip in the Gulf that he's alive and stole that medal. She knew the mime did the shooting before Chief Armstrong made the announcement. I was at their house that night."

"Why didn't she report the stolen medal?"

"Maybe she was afraid she'd be asked how she got it. That would lead straight to me."

"How did you get it?"

"Are you off duty?"

"Absolutely, bro."

"I removed it from the crime scene."

Cy Bill's eyebrows went up.

"The chain broke. I didn't want it to get lost." He swallowed and shoved the words out around the lump in his throat. "I wanted to give it back to him as soon as he . . . regained consciousness." Cy Bill looked away to give Bubba time to collect himself. Bubba dropped a mask over his grief and grinned. "Last I heard, dead men can't steal medals."

"I know she's reliable. But I've been doing my best on this investigation. If the sniper is alive, why haven't we found something? Anything. It's like he disappeared."

"Well, he didn't disappear. That . . ." Furious, Bubba said, "Even
I
can't think of words bad enough for him. And he's still walking around on God's good earth," he ranted. "Stealing things and scaring folks." For the first time in his life Bubba understood how someone could kill another human being.

"We need to talk to her."

"I'm planning to call them around midnight. Morning for them. I'll call you about the conversation after I run in the morning."

"Don't you generally run at six along the levee?"

"So?"

"So routines are predictable. They are helpful to people who want to harm us. You might want to vary it, Bubba."

He recalled Elie's warning. There are people willing to kill for it. The attorney's warning. And Lynn's. Now Cy Bill's. An epidemic of warnings.

I apologize for scaring you." Viktor Machek lightened the pressure of his palm against Lynn's mouth. "Don't scream. I won't hurt you. If ill-wishers are nearby, I want surprise on my side." He released his hand to turn on the lamp. The sudden light blinded her. He removed his night goggles.

She saw his briefcase by the sofa and remembered that the palace bomb was in a briefcase with President Nausner's initials. Panic seized her.

"Let's sit down." He gestured to the sofa.

She stepped to the wingback chair instead, farther from the briefcase. He took the chair's twin close by. Too close.

"You are a remarkable woman. I underestimated you in the beginning. Connecting Natalia's symbol with St. Sava was amazing. You note details and fit them together like working a jigsaw puzzle in a nanosecond."

She had succumbed to his flattery before. No more. His navy blazer fell open and she saw a shoulder holster against his blue shirt, the black gun handle visible.

He followed her eyes. "I would never hurt you, Lynn Peterson."

Right, Lynn! That's why he carries a pistol in his holster and probably a bomb in his briefcase.

Lynn heard noise from the stairs and turned. Galen jumped the banister. Rushed at Viktor.

Viktor drew. Aimed. "Halt!"

Galen crouched for a flying tackle.

"
No!"
Lynn shouted. "The pistol!"

"I mean you no harm!" Viktor held the weapon steady in a two-handed aim.

Galen paused, still poised to lunge.

"If I planned to shoot you, you'd be dead now." Slowly Viktor lowered the gun and gestured toward the sofa. "Please sit down."

"First, give me the gun."

"You're unarmed! And you dare to demand my weapon!" A twinkle replaced the invincibility in his eyes. "I need to change my image of bishops' spouses."

"Most people do," Galen replied with icy calm.

"Lynn Peterson, your husband is David and Daniel rolled into one."

A good description, she thought, admiring her hero in maroon pajamas.

"
Give me the gun!"
Galen's raw power introduced her to a side of him she didn't know.

A smile played at the corners of Viktor's mouth. He removed the ammunition clip and handed him the gun.

Immediately Galen stepped back beyond reach and pointed it toward the floor. "I remember what my father taught me as a boy: Every gun is loaded."

"A careful man."

"This semi-automatic, for example, retains one bullet when the magazine is removed."

Viktor looked surprised. "I underestimated you. Book knowledge or experience?"

"I don't plan to aim this gun at you, Viktor Machek. But let's be clear. If the need arises, I will." Galen spoke with authoritative calm, his fierce eyes as backup. "And I will make the single bullet count."

Lynn felt his resolve crackle in the air. A flicker in Viktor's eyes told her he did also. She knew Galen had spent a good part of his childhood target-practicing with his father. She'd seen his medals. But he hadn't handled a gun since his father died.

The two men locked eyes. Tension packed into the room like too much air in a balloon. "No one holds me captive," Viktor replied, the words measured and menacing. He eyed Galen in his own let's-be-clear statement: I don't need a gun to protect myself.

Four men with Uzis had proved that. Lynn wanted desperately to ease the tension. "Viktor," she said his name softly in a tone as calm and soothing as she could muster and then offered him a face-saving compliment, "Agent Nedelkovski told us about your brilliant capture of four men with Uzis who were wanted by the State." An image from the first
True Grit
came to mind: John Wayne wearing a black eye patch and holding the reins in his teeth, both guns blasting, his horse thundering toward the gunmen. Still trying to dial down the tension, she said lightly in the same gentle tone, "You're another Rooster Cogburn, Viktor."

A grin turned up the corners of his mouth, reshaping his care-worn face. "I know that movie."

She grinned back, admitting to herself that she liked Viktor.

But tonight he scared you to death, Lynn! And he may be the one who broke into your hotel room and read your email this morning.

Ivy made sense. Was uncanny Viktor playing a good-writer game with her on the plane? Was he on that plane because they were? He'd stayed close behind them in the airport security line and would have seen Natalia's stash of euros and the symbol with them. Did he also follow them to the Hotel Aleksandar? He'd managed to get himself invited to join them for coffee in President Dimitrovski's garden and had interrogated her about the symbol. That still rankled her. "I'm curious, Viktor. Why did you search our hotel room and open my computer?"

The question stunned Galen. He almost dropped the gun. For an instant Viktor was also taken aback. His eyes moved from side to side like a clock pendulum as he reran a mental scene. Recognition dawned in his eyes. He raised one eyebrow. "The bit of hair! You deliberately placed it on your computer."

She was surprised that he'd noticed the hair and even more surprised that he didn't deny the break-in.

He began to chuckle. "Rooster Cogburn meets Baby Sister!" Lynn and Galen joined him in the runaway laughter of tension release. Finally, Viktor said, "I came here to protect you."

"In a safe house?" Galen's suspicion was not subtle.

"A safe house with no security tonight."

"Agent Nedelkovski sent you."

"No." He gave Galen a searing look. "Agent Nedelkovski and his team have more important things to do than guard you in this time of national tragedy. I followed your driver here."

And you've been hiding out, spying on us since we got here, Lynn thought but didn't say.

What would you expect of Viktor the Voyeur, Lynn?

He seemed to have access to information on lots of fronts. She took a leap and shifted the conversation's focus. "I'm deeply concerned about President Dimitrovski. I don't understand how officials could find a crash site with no survivors and later simply wave the report away as a mistake."

"
Mistake!"
Fury distorted Viktor's face. "Almost immediately they report the crash site—the wrong one! Then just before dark—when it's too late for further searches—the report is retracted!
Excuse us!"
he mocked. "A minor mistake has been made. There were no bodies at the crash site after all. In fact, there was no plane!" His voice rose. "It was not a
mistake
but a
diversion.
It protected the real site from discovery this afternoon and all night tonight, allowing ample time to alter evidence!"

That wasn't the road she wanted to go down. But what else makes sense, she wondered with a shudder.

Viktor clenched his fists, barely controlling his rage. "St. Sava has obtained evidence that the President's plane was sabotaged."