Cold Silence (A High Stakes Thriller) (28 page)

Jennifer lay awake in bed. She should have felt better than she had in months. Steve had found Megan and her son. He'd been kidnapped in the place of some tech guy's kid, and there was supposedly a website up with pictures.

Less than five minutes on the internet had gotten her the full scoop, and there was even a photo of Megan Riggs. She'd left all the information on Dmitri's voice mail, and she should have felt like a million bucks. Instead, she'd had a series of horrifying dreams.

In one, she was a wolf snared in a heavy metal trap. She was desperate to chew one limb off and gain her freedom, but she couldn't find the paw that was attached. With each turn, the thick metal jaw seemed to engulf more of her. Even increasing her dose of the anxiety medication wasn't helping.

She found herself wondering if Dmitri hadn't somehow switched the pills. Had he given her anxiety-causing medication instead? But they had worked before. On Friday, when he'd given her the beautiful Cartier rings, she'd felt fine.

Either way, she'd taken care of the pills that night. She had flushed them, and left a message begging the receptionist at her doctor's office to fit her in first thing Monday morning. Then she'd taken a long, hot shower. She'd even painted her nails, something Dmitri hated because of the smell. She'd tried to rest, but sleep just didn't come.

Lying in bed, she heard the door open and slam closed.

She sat up in bed, startled.

"Jenichka," Dmitri's voice called.

He was back. She heard his heavy feet in the foyer and jumped from bed and hurried down the stairs. The smell of nail polish was stronger in the bedroom, and somehow she felt more at ease closer to the front door.

"There you are," he said, entering the foyer. He wrapped his arms around her. "I'm so sorry about earlier."

She turned to face him, tucking her hands to her sides in hopes that he wouldn't notice the smell. She rested her head against his chest, relieved he was there. "I didn't realize you were coming tonight. I thought you'd be busy—with Megan Riggs."

He waved it off. "It's not my business anymore. He told me I'm out of it. He found the kid. I got the article you called about, but he'd already found him through someone he knows in Las Vegas."

"How?"

"They got the name of the kidnapper. He owes people money—people my father knows. He's been promising he'd pay them back, that he had a deal that would net him two million in cash. Someone pushed a little and he told them what the deal was. When the news hit, they contacted my father. Everyone knows."

Jennifer felt her throat tighten. "Where is he now?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Father talked him into a deal." He laughed but it was a raspy, bitter laugh, and Jennifer shuddered.

"All this time, Megan Riggs was out of our reach. And now they have her. They have the kid and she'll come." He clapped his hands in front of her face. "Just like that."

She jumped and he laughed again. "Six hundred thousand he spent on it," he added in Russian.

"Six hundred thousand?" she repeated. He wasn't making sense. His eyes were dull and distant and she knew he'd been drinking.

"Never mind. My father's only concern is Viktor." He paused and she watched his expression change.

"Let's sit down," she said, trying to distract him from thoughts of his father's affection for Viktor. It always made him angry.

But it was too late. He pulled away from her and sputtered a bunch of Russian obscenities, only a few of which Jennifer could translate. "He's wasted the rest of the money finding that kid."

"Ryan Riggs?"

"Six hundred thousand it cost him," he said, shaking his head as he pushed the door closed. He looked around. "I need to get my snow boots. He needs them."

"They're in the closet." She pointed and her hand neared his face.

He sniffed and frowned, and she felt the room cloud with the smoke of his anger.

She lifted her hands to show him. "I painted my nails. I know how the smell bothers you, but I didn't expect you to come back tonight." She stepped back.

He grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the door. "Go clean it off."

He didn't let go of her arm, and she felt the pressure of his grip biting into her wrist. Before Dmitri, she'd always considered herself physically strong. Now it was though each limb were a twig that she just waited for him to snap.

"Why don't I get dressed and we can go out?" she suggested. "We can talk over a drink or something."

He shook his head. "We will stay here."

Staying here meant trouble. She glanced across the room at the doorjamb, dented from a metal bowl Dmitri had thrown at her.

"Okay." Gently pulling her arm from his grip, she smiled at him. "Can I make you something? Some tea or coffee?"

"A drink."

She headed for a small bar she kept on the far end of the dining room. She pulled down two glasses, went into the kitchen to take the Absolut from the freezer, and splashed a little in one and filled the other halfway. She noticed the bottle was lower than she remembered it had been.

"What a waste," Dmitri said.

She knew he was talking about the money again, but she wasn't sure what it had been spent on. "Your father hired someone to kill Megan?"

He waved his hand and she refilled the drink. "Not her, the boy. The wrong kidnapped boy."

"Doesn't the kidnapper still have him?"

"He's about to get six hundred thousand dollars."

He swallowed the liquid without flinching. "And my father will finally get his revenge."

Jennifer tried to follow without probing.

"My father is the idiot. A kid, he wants. He's throwing away six hundred thousand on a kid. He's going to a standard camp in California for a kid."

"Standard camp?" she repeated.

He waved her off.

The words swam around her head. She never imagined it would be the boy. God, he was only eight. "I thought he was going to kill Megan," she said, swishing the drink back and letting it burn its way down her throat. Liquid courage, she thought. She would need it.

Dmitri swayed toward the table and then batted out at her. "Who cares?" He sniffed and frowned. "Go take that
dermo
off," he said, using the Russian word for "shit."

She showed him her nails. "But see how nice they look."

He downed his vodka in one swig, then set the glass in front of her to refill. "They smell."

She refilled the glass quickly. "You're right. I'll go clean them off." She handed him his glass, poured herself another dollop, and swigged it before heading up the stairs to the bedroom. "I'll be right back."

In her room, she moved fast. She shed her pajamas in favor of a pair of jeans, a fleece top with deep pockets, and her running shoes. She headed back out with her wallet and keys in her pocket. Her Bureau gun was in the hall closet, and there was no way to get to it without his seeing her. She had another one put away in the office, but that, too, was impossible to reach without arousing suspicion.

Just get out, she told herself. Get out.

When she came back down, Dmitri was still standing by the bar, finishing another drink. By the look of the bottle, this was easily his fifth since she'd been home. He lifted the bottle again and she watched the clear liquid slosh over the edge of his glass as he poured.

She knew this mood. She crossed the entryway as quietly as she could, and reached the door before speaking. "I'm out of polish remover," she lied, opening the door. "I'm running to that all-night corner store to get some. I'll be right back."

She was at the top of the outside stairs when the door flew back open. Fear rushing over her, she took the first few steps fast and slipped. She fell to her butt, and tried to recover, but Dmitri was on her before she could get anywhere.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back up the stairs. "Inside."

She tried to reach for her wallet, but he only pulled harder. She let out a shriek as he wrenched her back toward the door.

He turned her toward him, his left fist tight in her hair. Then, holding her head at a distance, he punched her squarely in the mouth with his right hand. "Shut up," he said.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered, pleading. She couldn't let him get inside. She had to get away.

He cupped his huge hand across her chest and under her arm, then pulled her toward the door. She tried to loosen his grip, to break free, but he was too strong.

She saw the floor of her apartment and shot her hands out to claw at the doorjamb. Terrified, she kicked at him, used her nails to scratch, even tried to bite. She heard the click of the door shut as though it were a guillotine blade dropping.

Dmitri threw her on the floor of the apartment and she landed facedown, hitting her forehead.

"You can't leave, Jenichka," he said. "We're not done here."

Tears blurred her vision and she rolled onto her back and pushed herself upright. As she wiped her face, she caught the sight of her hands and had the ridiculous thought that he'd broken one of her nails. It made her sob. She wasn't free. She would never be free. "I found Megan Riggs. I came up with the article. I found her." She gasped, sobbing. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"This isn't about me," he said. "It's about what my father wants." He went back to the dining room and poured himself another drink. "His dying wish, Jenichka. You have to understand."

She looked at the door, but just as she did, he glanced back at her.

"Don't make this hard on me, Jenichka." He swallowed his drink and wiped his hairy hand over his mouth. He gave her an eerie smile, baring his teeth.

She shook her head, crying harder. "Don't."

He frowned. "You do not understand. This isn't about you. It's about family, about loyalty."

"Seven years we've been together, Dmitri. Aren't I family, too?" she whispered.

His expression settled, and for an instant Jennifer thought things were going to be all right. Then he lifted his hand.

Jennifer covered her head just as Dmitri threw his glass at her.

He rushed over to her before she could get up. "You, my family? You cunt, you whore."

She trembled, covering her face.

"You killed my brother," he screamed, pounding his chest.

She moved away, trying to distance herself from his fury. Bits of splintered glass cut into her palms and knees as she crawled backward. She lifted her hands, looking at the spots of red on her skin. She started to wipe away the pieces, feeling a deep one catch on her flesh. She shuddered and dug it out, studying Dmitri from the corner of her eye.

Dmitri paced like a lion, moving in a slow semicircle around her, still roaring.

She got the big pieces out and wiped her hands on her jeans. She waited, not wanting to move, unsure whether Dmitri's anger was defusing or still building.

He stopped when her attention was back on him. His eyes narrowed and he moved toward her, hunched over, his hands raised outward. "You're just a whore, Jenichka. A cheap, stupid whore."

He lunged and she rolled back, narrowly missing his attack. He slipped and caught the knee of his pants on a piece of glass. "God damn you!"

Jennifer leaped up and ran across the room for the door.

She fumbled with the old brass knob, her fingers shaky and hot as she tried to get them to mold around the cool metal. She turned it in her palm but she got the door open only a few inches before Dmitri slammed it shut. He took her hair in one fist and wrenched her around so her back was pressed to the door.

She watched the anger narrow his eyes. "No," she whispered. "You love me. We belong together. Your father is sick. He doesn't know. Only we know."

He leaned the forearm of his free arm across her neck until she could feel her air cut off. She grabbed his arm with both hands, struggling to release her neck. The room began to swim. She tried to scream. Tears streamed down her face, but soon all she could do was shake her head and plead with her eyes. Please, no.

"You did this. If you hadn't found that damn Riggs woman, he would have forgotten about avenging Viktor's death. Eventually he would have forgotten."

There were bright spots in her vision, and she closed her eyes. The pressure was too much. She was going to faint. Instead she let her body go limp.

"Zhopa,"
he swore in Russian as he let her fall to the floor.

She lay facedown, wanting to pant, adrenaline still coursing through her, and she felt somewhere between death and catharsis. Clenching her stomach tight, she moved as little as possible. Her lungs burned for air. Dmitri was still for a moment, and she had no idea if he was watching her for signs of life or simply wondering how to finish her off and where to hide the body. He'd never come that close. She had to get away.

She moved her tongue between her teeth and pressed it into them, trying to distract the panic.

Dmitri's shoes scuffed along the floor as he retreated to the dining room. She heard another glass, the bottle. He was still drinking. She waited until she heard the bottle again and then dragged herself up.