A time for reckoning, p.32
A Time for Reckoning, page 32
I’m almost up when Donahue kicks my feet out from under me. I land hard on my tailbone. My legs go numb.
“Pig!” Grazyna hisses. Then the cell falls silent, save for the sound of Reuben unzipping his pants.
The sheriff starts to laugh but stops abruptly when a thunderous pounding begins from somewhere toward the back of the building. Now what? Mark Lewis himself?
Donahue somehow finds the strength to push past me and out of the cell. My Glock is out there. He starts to swing the cell door closed as I try to scramble out, slamming my hand in between the frame and door. I bellow in pain and jerk my hand back as the cell door crashes shut. Donahue spins the key in the lock. Then, with a gloating look of triumph for me, tosses the keys on the floor a few feet beyond my reach.
“FBI!” a voice I recognize as Calista Fontenot shouts. “Whoever is in there, come this way with your hands raised. Now!”
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs and rub my eyes. Donahue is frozen in place outside the cell with my Glock in hand. Reuben has eased to within a foot of Grazyna, with his pecker in his hand. No way. I launch a kick at his groin that lands with a satisfying thud. He doubles over and howls in pain.
“Get out here!” Fontenot hollers. She’s closer than she was a moment ago—I don’t know if she’s entered the cellblock yet, but when she does, Donahue won’t go peacefully.
My Glock in hand, he’s edging sideways toward the end of the hall, where I spy another exterior door. I hope the FBI has someone out back to shoot him as soon as he steps outside.
Reuben is still rolling on the floor.
“It’s Tony Valenti, Agent Fontenot,” I call out. “Sheriff Donahue is armed—”
The explosion of my Glock is deafening, but I still hear the sickening sound of bone shattering. I dive to the floor. Who did Donahue shoot? My eyes swing to Grazyna, but the scream she unleashes is one of horror, not pain. Then I look down at Reuben Hayes. A neat little circle in the middle of his forehead tells who the target was. The vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling telegraph the outcome. The sight of him transfixes me.
“What the hell is going on in there?” Fontenot shouts.
I’m about to reply when I sense movement behind me. I spin toward it in the same instant Donahue pulls the trigger. Pain explodes in the side of my head and then I’m falling, falling, falling as the explosion of more gunfire echoes on the edge of my consciousness.
Then, blackness.
54
The face of a paramedic hovers just above my own when I come around. I have the ridiculous thought that I need to stop meeting them this way, then long for a return to oblivion when searing pain explodes into my consciousness.
“Welcome back,” the paramedic murmurs as she peers into my eyes, turning this way and that to get a better look. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” I mutter as I look beyond her. I’m on the floor in the cell. My ears are ringing, my head is pounding, and I can feel every punch Donahue and Reuben landed. “Real shitty.”
She gives me a little smile, then looks away to announce, “This one’s okay.”
I lift a hand and clamp it on her arm. “Grazyna?”
“The girl?”
I nod.
Her expression signals compassion and outrage. “The FBI unshackled her and took her down. She claims she wasn’t raped, although it sure looked like someone was planning to do so. We’ll have to wait for a hospital examination to be sure. No other obvious physical injuries of consequence. Some chafing from the handcuffs seems to be the worst of it.”
“How did she, uh, seem?”
“Emotionally?”
I nod.
The paramedic’s eyes trail away before she lifts a shoulder in a resigned shrug and sighs. “Hard to say. Traumatized. Probably will be for some time.”
I turn my head sideways and find myself looking at the corpse of Reuben Hayes.
“Gone,” she says.
“Good riddance,” I mutter as I recall him pawing at Grazyna.
“Sheriff Donahue is dead, too,” the paramedic announces with no trace of remorse. “The FBI shot him.”
“After he shot you,” Agent Fontenot says as her face appears over the shoulder of the paramedic. “Sorry I was a split second late there.”
A chuckle somehow escapes me. “You waited to the last minute to save my butt, didn’t you?”
Her eyes widen in surprise before a smile curls her lips. “Had to figure out who the good guys were first, didn’t I?”
“Glad I passed the test,” I mutter.
The paramedic looks at us uncertainly, perhaps unsure whether to chuckle along with us or be outraged that we’re cracking wise in the face of death.
I meet her gaze. “You saw what they were doing to Grazyna. I’m glad the filthy bastards are dead.”
Fontenot is too professional to agree, but I see no remorse in her eyes.
I start to lever myself up on an elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
The paramedic places a finger against my lips to shush me and gently pushes me back down. “Your eye is a mess, and we need to look at that ear, sir. Your pupils aren’t dilating properly, which makes me worry that you might have a concussion, as well.”
“Someone punched you in the eye?” Fontenot asks.
My eyes stray back to Hayes. “He jumped me,” I reply defensively.
Fontenot fights to restrain a smile as she gently shakes her head. “Men. Always an excuse for why they got beat up.”
“You see the other guys?”
She stifles a snort. “Point taken.”
“And there were two of them,” I add.
“That’s true,” she says. When she continues, her face is contorted in disgust. “So, I guess we know what Reuben’s enticement was to keep quiet.”
I nod. Sick bastards, both of them.
Fontenot bends lower to give my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Grazyna’s lucky she had a guardian angel looking out for her—especially given how badly the fabled FBI missed the boat on this case. You did well, Mr. Valenti. Be proud of yourself.”
My eyes meet hers. “Thanks.”
Fontenot winks before she straightens and walks away. When my eyes again find the paramedic’s, she lays a hand on my cheek and says, “Thanks for risking your life to save that poor girl. We need more like you.”
“Is Grazyna still here?” I ask.
The paramedic shakes her head gently. “No, she’s on the way to the hospital. We took her out of here as quickly as possible.”
“And just left me lying on the floor, huh?”
“I’ve been here with you from the start. We didn’t want to move you until we took a good look at your head wound. Turns out it’s just the ear.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Do I still have an ear?”
“Could be worse,” she says drolly. “You’ve got one whole ear and part of another.”
Ah, she’s finally getting into the spirit of my and Fontenot’s black humor. I suppose she’s as good as it gets when a guy needs a paramedic. I change my mind when a syringe appears in her hand. It looks big enough to knock out a horse, but that might be because the sight of the bloody things has always horrified me.
“Just a little something for the pain,” she says.
The lights go out again within seconds.
55
On the occasion of Dirk and Janine paying a visit to Chicago, I’ve decided to hold a winter solstice party at my home for everyone involved in the Grazyna saga. Brittany has spent the day cooking—ably assisted by Pat O’Toole, who has been nursing me over the past three months. Grazyna is in town to spend Christmas with Peter and his family, so she’ll be coming, as well. This will be my first time seeing her since a short visit in the Casper hospital in the days after she was freed from the old Douglas jail. She’s spent the intervening months working to get healthy, physically and emotionally, starting with two months at home with her mother in Poland. Now she’s come back to finish her studies and is staying with Janine and Dirk in Casper. Peter tells me she’s making amazing progress. “Such a resilient girl!” he marveled when I called to invite them to this afternoon’s festivities.
I’ve been away from work since returning from my Western adventure. My reconstructed ear looks pretty much as it did before Sheriff Donahue shredded it with a bullet. Brittany tells everyone that my ear grew back, likening it to worms growing back body parts. I explained that it’s amphibians that regenerate body parts. She prefers to insinuate that I’m a worm. For the most part, the physical stuff hasn’t been too hard to get over, although the concussion recovery gets tougher with every bonk on the head. I really do need to stop doing that.
Slogging my way to emotional recovery, however, is proving to be a much steeper climb. A therapist recommended by Jake Plummer has become my best buddy. She’s helping me work through a mountain of troubles: guilt over neither protecting nor saving Trish; beating myself up for shooting my brother; a tsunami of remorse for depriving Marty Thorne-Dalyrimple’s family of a cherished husband and father; self-reproach for having let Grazyna get into trouble by venturing to Wyoming to collect her car and cash. Yeah, I’ve got plenty to work through. But today is a day to celebrate new beginnings, as well as old and new friendships, so I set aside such thoughts.
The first arrivals are Penelope and her partner, Becky Seguin.
“Ah, yes, the party girls arrive before everyone else,” I crack after bussing each of them on the cheek.
They’re into the wine almost before they shed their coats. Deano dutifully fusses over our guests, especially after they toss him a few cashews. They settle on the sofa.
I plunk myself into what had been my father’s La-Z-Boy recliner before he decamped for Italy.
Penelope eyes me critically, maybe even with a hint of suspicion. “You sure about coming back to work right after the holidays?”
“I’m doing better, partner. Don’t worry.”
“I do worry,” she says. “You’ve had a tough go of it over the past couple of years. How many concussions?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. One or two.”
“Three,” she fires back. “The fact that you don’t even remember clinches my argument.”
I’ve never stood a chance against my partner in a battle of wits—even before I started repeatedly banging my head on hard object after hard object.
Dirk and Janine arrive next, looking all lovey-dovey as they squeeze onto a single sofa cushion beside Penelope and Becky. When I comment, Janine blushes before retorting, “We’re just trying to make room for the rest of your guests.”
Uh-huh. Dirk winks and pulls Janine closer. I smile back, thinking that they make a great couple. Deano checks them out, ascertains that they haven’t yet gotten into the snacks, and wanders back to sit patiently at the feet of Penelope and Becky.
The Zaluskis arrive minutes later: Peter, his wife, Milly, and Grazyna, who looks vibrant and has somehow recaptured her apparently irrepressible effervescence. It’s all I can do to hold back a river of tears at seeing her doing so well.
Grazyna makes a beeline for me and wraps her arms around my neck as I greet them in the entryway. “Thank you so much, Tony.” I’ve apparently graduated from Mr. Valenti.
We chat while Pat and Brittany circulate with drinks and snacks: beer; wine; soda; potato chips; peanuts; Christmas cookies; plus the pièce de résistance, an appetizer tray from the grocery store—hors d’oeuvres, in Brittany’s telling. My, my, haven’t we gone uptown here on Liberty Street?
Grazyna spends a few minutes chatting with Janine and Dirk, frequently looking across the room to catch my eye with a smile. Ten minutes later, she slides onto the arm of my chair and leans close with a note of worry in her voice. “Dirk says you have had a hard time recovering from everything you went through this summer, Tony. Is there any way I can help?”
She’s a sweet woman. Imagine that, her offering to comfort me after the horror she went through. I slip an arm around her waist and pull her face down to give her a little peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Grazyna. I appreciate the offer very much.”
She lifts a hand and touches my newly rebuilt ear, then gives it a little kiss and smiles at me. “They did a good job. One can hardly tell this is not the ear you were born with.”
I smile back. “Could have been worse.”
“We should have coffee or lunch sometime.”
The doorbell rings. I look around the room to confirm that everyone who was invited is already here. I’m about to get up to shoo away whatever yuletide solicitor is interrupting when Brittany shoots past me to greet our caller. I can hear their voices at the front door but can’t make out what they’re saying. Our visitor is a woman, and it’s a voice I know. I last heard it in Wyoming three months ago. My eyes slide to Dirk. He’s grinning at me with an insider’s smirk.
Calista Fontenot walks into the living room, nods at Dirk, and then walks straight to me to shake hands. “Good to see you, Mr. Valenti. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Agent Fontenot, and welcome to our home.”
“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I was surprised to be invited, but appreciate it. It’s Calista when I’m off duty, by the way.”
I return her smile as I take her coat. “They call me Tony around here.”
“And a lot of other things,” my daughter interjects with a laugh.
“Only some of which are suitable for family hour,” Pat adds helpfully.
Then they make their introductions among themselves.
“My two favorite gals,” I tell Calista.
She pops an eyebrow up, grins, and says, “What’s that old saying? With friends like that…”
“Oh, I know,” I reply in my best put upon, woe-is-me tone.
“Hey, Calista,” Dirk says as he ambles over to shake her hand. “Glad you could make it.”
So, that explains the invitation.
“How are you liking life in Chicago?” he asks her.
“Life in Chicago?” I ask her in surprise.
“The FBI declared me the hero of our Converse County episode and promoted me out of the backwaters of Wyoming to the bright lights of the big city. I’ve been transferred to our Chicago field office.”
I’m not sure I agree that she performed all that well in Douglas, but she did save my other ear and who knows what all by shooting Sheriff Donahue, so I’m happy to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Congratulations,” I say.
She shrugs, perhaps mirroring my thoughts. “Thank you.”
“Now that the indictments have been handed down, you can tell us how you brought the Lewis family to grief,” Dirk suggests.
“I can tell you most of the Grazyna story, but we can’t get into the ongoing investigations into the Lewis family,” Calista says after she thinks on it for a moment. Then she pauses to look around. “Is she here?”
I nod. “She just went down to the basement with Britts.”
“Okay,” she says. “She’s been through enough, and probably doesn’t need to hear some of this. Anyway, we found some unsigned paperwork concerning a civil forfeiture claiming Grazyna was stopped on a drug bust. The idea was that she’d sign the car over to avoid prosecution, and it would wind up back with Mark Lewis. I suspect Lewis and Donahue expected her to sign the papers without much fuss and then disappear. When she wouldn’t sign, Donahue kept her in jail.”
“Why didn’t they just forge her signature?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I know, right? Maybe Lewis was concerned that a forgery might be discovered, and then he’d lose the car again. The whole charade seems to have been orchestrated so he could get the stupid car back. I don’t think the three hundred fifty grand much mattered to him. Seems kinda dumb, but criminals are dumb, right?”
“So they say,” I reply.
Calista’s eyes go cold as she continues. “Thankfully, Grazyna never signed the forfeiture paperwork. I think they would have killed her if she had. Anyway, when Grazyna dug in her heels and refused to sign, Sheriff Donahue started threatening her with gang rape, but Lewis wouldn’t let them touch her for the first few days.”
“Almost decent of the bastard,” I mutter.
She shakes her head. “I doubt it. Probably some manly crap, such as ‘She was mine and you can’t have her’ or something along those lines. I don’t know. Anyway, according to Grazyna, Lewis eventually relented and gave Donahue and the rest of them the green light the very morning you found her. You got there in time, hero, but it was too close for comfort. The upside is that the sheriff was thinking with his little head, and it got him killed.”
“Serves him right,” I mutter.
She nods. “Indeed. We went hunting for the car, of course. Lewis swore that he didn’t know anything about what happened to it, but we eventually found shipping records for it after a month of searching. He sent it from Houston to Italy. The Lewis family has a home in the south of France and another in Italy. Surprise, surprise, we found the car at their place in France. Mark had registered it there in his name so he could tool around Europe in style.”
“I tracked down airline tickets Lewis bought to see the car off in Houston and pick it up again in Marseille,” Dirk says with a chuckle.
Calista smiles at the memory. “The tickets were a godsend. That focused our search on Houston, which is where we picked up the trail of the car. We’re lucky that you had a copy of the divorce paperwork showing the transfer of title to Grazyna, because the original never made it to DMV. So far as the state of Wyoming knew, Lewis was still the legal owner, so they issued a new title when he reported the original lost. Then he applied for an export license. Once we worked out what had happened, we went straight to Lewis’s lawyer—a little weasel named Smith, if I remember correctly. He folded like a wet piece of toilet paper when we confronted him—confirmed that they gave Grazyna a duffel bag stuffed with three hundred fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and that she still had it when he last saw her.”
