I hit the brakes when my lights shine on a person standing in the middle of the road. He fits in perfectly with the overall setting of the night. He’s wearing an old, black rain slicker and a wharf hat, also in faded black. All he lacks is a hook for a hand. Or an army of the dead. Either way…
I stop and wait to see what he’s going to do. He waves one hand, which is thankfully a hand and not a shiny piece of curved metal, and motions me forward. I follow him. Behind me, I see the single headlight of the motorcycle. Nash is following closely.
Smart.
The cloaked figure leads us to a small shack-like structure. Maybe a place where someone would sit and communicate with crane operators or something like that. The guy turns to me and waves his hand for me to come inside. I put the car in park and cut the engine. I climb out from behind the wheel, my muscles bunched and ready to kick some ass if need be.
Nash comes up to my left. I glance at him. He looks serious and deadly. If I didn’t know him, I might think he’s intimidating. Well, no I wouldn’t. It takes a lot to intimidate me. But I can see where other people might find him disconcerting. It makes me wonder what’s happened to him that’s made him this way. He’s so different from the kid I used to know.
I guess we both are.
We approach the shack’s door. The guy walks inside and sits in the chair behind a console covered in buttons and levers. He pulls off his hat and looks right at Nash.
I recognize him instantly—ruddy complexion, puffy face, bushy brown hair and flat blue eyes. I saw him earlier today.
Like the strike of a snake, Nash has a gun in this guy’s face. And I don’t blame him one bit for putting it there. But I have to know what the hell is going on before I let Nash put a bullet in this man’s skull. I have to know why Dad would bring Duffy into this as someone to help.
I hear the soft click of the safety and realize Nash is close to losing it. “Nash, no! We need to talk to him first.”
“We don’t need anything from this guy but blood. Lots and lots of blood.” His voice is eerily calm.
“We need to know what he has that Dad thinks we need, that he thinks we can use.”
For the first time, Duffy, who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the gun in his face, speaks. “I was a friend of your father’s.” His Russian accent is so light, it’s barely discernible. But still, I can tell it’s there. He must’ve been in the States for quite a while now.
“Then you should die for being a traitor as well as a murderer.”
“Maybe for being a murderer, but never for being a traitor. I was a friend to both your parents. A loyal friend. I knew how much Greg wanted to get out. And not for his sake. For yours. And Lizzie’s.”
Hearing him speak my mother’s name sets my teeth on edge. It’s like hearing the devil himself whisper it.
“Well, you certainly proved that when you rigged the boat with explosives and then pulled the trigger, didn’t you?”
“You weren’t supposed to be there with the supplies that early. I had no way of knowing she’d be on that boat.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have blown it up to begin with. I think that’s something more in line with what a friend would do,” Nash growls.
“Your father knew I had to do it, to keep up appearances. He knew they’d be suspicious of everyone after the books disappeared.”
“The books? It was you that got him the books?”
Duffy nods and I feel a little sick to my stomach. The more I learn about my family, about my father and his dealings, the more I want out of it all, away from it all. Away from him. And probably Nash, too.
“Ask yourself this: if your father didn’t really trust me, would he have called me, of all people, to help you?”
He has a good point, but I still don’t trust a word he says. To be honest, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around all this shit. There are too few people to trust and far too many criminals. There are too few answers and far too many lies. Far, far, far too many lies.
“Honestly, I really don’t know. The only person I trust right now is me. So I think what you’d better do is tell us how you can help and get the hell out of here. Because I can guarantee you, the next time either of us sees you, we’ll be seeing your brains, too. All over the ground.”
Duffy nods. “Fair enough.” His docile manner actually does seem like the actions of someone who’s had to live with guilt for a lot of years. Just like Nash’s irrational, half-cocked behavior seems like the actions of someone who’s had to live with criminals for a lot of years. Criminals and an insatiable lust for revenge.
“Well then, why are you here?”
“I’m going to blackmail Anatoli, Slava’s right hand man, into getting me the books back. He’s the only one Slava really trusts.”
“And you think whatever you have on him is enough to get him to do this?”
“Yes, I do. It’s enough to get me killed, too. But I owe your father. He could’ve pointed the guilty finger at me, could’ve told them that I’m the one who took the books, but he didn’t. And, to repay him, I killed his wife. I owe him this, to take this chance.”
“I’d say you do, you lousy bastard,” Nash spits.
“But once I get you the books, you have to be prepared to move quickly. I can give you a little more help with that by providing you with some important lists that will help tie your case together, but the rest is up to you. If you blow this chance, there’s nothing I can do to help you but attend your funeral.”
“You have to know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that we’d take your word for it, right?”
Duffy nods once. “Go see your father. Just be careful what you say. They have people everywhere. As you’ve been finding out.”
He’s right. I have. The hard way.
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll be in touch when I have the books and the lists. After that, you’ll never hear from me again.”
“I can only hope that means what I think it means,” Nash sneers.
“It means I’ll be disappearing one way or the other. This country won’t be safe for me anymore. My family…”