Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (44 page)

Project the illusion.
A droning sound hummed in Sabine’s head, as if freshly hatched wasps were trapped inside her eardrums. She visualized thousands of stinging insects, then projected this image at the men in the floral shirts.

“What the fuck,” one of the men said. The others scattered away from the vans, cursing and stamping the ground, their hands swatting the empty air.

Americans
. Sabine looked past their conscious thoughts, into their memories. It was like spinning a dial on a radio, a mishmash of static and music, but the same
words rose up. Paramilitary. Blackwater. Iraq. Afghanistan. Post-Katrina New Orleans.

The driver in the second van got out, his hand sliding inside the waistband of his shorts, as if he were reaching for a gun. He resembled the others: a navy, parrot-strewn Hawaiian shirt, nondescript eyes, buzz haircut, athletic physique. The breeze lifted the edge of his shirt, and Sabine saw a belt holster. He grabbed a man in a red floral shirt. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled. He didn’t get an answer and flung the man away. Muttering to himself, he strode past the Audi and glanced through the passenger window. His eyebrows slanted together and he stumbled back, his sunburn turning a deep purple-red. A pulse beat in his neck as he walked around the Audi’s blood-streaked hood, then his gaze passed over the bodies in the driveway. His eyes hardened as he looked at Sabine.

“What happened to these people?” he called. He reached into his belt holster and pulled out a gun.

Sabine hit him with an aggressive wallop. He dropped to his knees, and his mouth opened wide. His expression resembled the screaming man in Edvard Munch’s painting. He coughed. Blood dribbled over his lips, then he coughed again, and a bright red gash spurted into the air. Another burst came out of his mouth. He hit the ground, and a dark puddle spread out him.

Sabine caught her breath. She’d aimed for his lungs, but she’d struck the aorta. And she’d failed to keep projecting imaginary wasps. The other men in Hawaiian shirts were starting to calm down, muttering to each other. Their broad As and dropped Rs reminded Sabine of her old Harvard professor.

These were humans from Boston? What about that Turk? Who had hired this crew?

A man in a blue Hawaiian shirt let out a hoarse cry and pointed toward the vineyard. “There’s the girl!”

He vaulted over a low stone wall and charged into the darkness. A man in a yellow shirt followed him. They were gone before Sabine could collect her thoughts. She’d deal with them later.

She looked back at the Audi. Tatiana was still in the front seat, and her head was moving above the lap of the driver, whose mouth was wide open, showing the glint of silver fillings in his back teeth.

Sabine moved her gaze to the Peugeot vans. She projected more wasps at the men. They let out whoops and veered into the grass, their shirts filling with air.

A high, girlish scream came from the vineyard. Sabine turned toward the sound. She saw two small figures running down the rows, racing in and out of shadows. The Boston men were behind them.

Sabine pulled in a breath and grunted. The blow hit the men, but they were too far away to feel the full impact. They stumbled, then kept going. As she climbed down the hill, she stepped into a hole. She wrenched sideways, and pain twisted up her ankle.

As she pulled her foot out of the hole, she lost her balance and tumbled forward, over and over, dirt and grass filling her eyes and nose. She rolled over a ledge, arms wheeling, and then she was flying.

Vivi ran through the dark vineyard, angling in and out of the rows. She could hear Lena’s footsteps behind her. A shadow cut in from the side, and then a big hand snatched the back of Vivi’s shirt. Her collar pushed against her throat, crimping her airway.

“Let her go, you fat pig,” Lena yelled, then she bit the hand that was holding Vivi. A hoarse cry rang out. The hand released Vivi’s shirt, and she slid to the ground. She looked up. Lena was going after a man who wore a yellow Hawaiian shirt. She boxed his ears, then kicked his shins.

“I’ll whip your ass proper,” Lena said.

A man in a blue floral shirt rushed in from the other direction and aimed a red dot at her face.

“Run,” Lena said.

Vivi got to her feet.

A
pish-pish
noise slammed through the dark, and then Lena clutched the side of her face. She fell over backward and didn’t move.

“Lena!” A burning smell rushed up Vivi’s nose. She gulped air and held it deep in her lungs. Then she hurled a thought at the blue-shirted man.

DROP YOUR GUN.

His fingers sprang open, and the red dot danced over the vines like a bee. A dark line curved from his ear, and he clamped his hand over it.

“Ow, ow,” he said, then bent over double. The man in the yellow shirt grabbed Vivi from behind and tossed her over his shoulder.

BLEED, YOU ASSHOLE!

He kept running, his warm breath hitting her neck.
He’s not a vampire
, she thought. She tried to Induce him again, but she was hyperventilating. He carried her up a hill, over the low, stone wall, to the driveway. He set her on the ground but held on to her wrist.

“Let go,” she yelled. She tried to wrench away, but he jerked her back.

She looked over her shoulder. Bodies were sprawled on the gravel. A blond woman walked up, her face smeared with blood, her hands fisted at her sides. Her pants were dirty, as if she’d spilled wine in her lap.

“We’ve got her, Tatiana,” said the man in the yellow shirt.

Tatiana’s eyes narrowed as she pulled Vivi out of the man’s grasp. “You little bitch. You’ll pay for this.”

“Pay for what?” Vivi cried.

The blonde’s fist shot out. Vivi’s head whipped backward. Her eyes blinked open wide, a whoosh of air flew out of her mouth, and a burning pressure spread through her cheek. Never in her life had anyone hit her. She bent over and vomited on the blond woman’s shoes.

The woman drew back her fist again. The man in the yellow shirt caught it.

“Hey, leave her alone,” he said. “She’s just a kid.”

“Then get her the fuck out of my sight,” the blonde said.

Vivi gulped in a lungful of air and held it. She focused on the blonde’s face, squeezing her stomach muscles as hard as she could. A bright ribbon curled out of the woman’s ear, her eyelids flickered, and then she plopped down on her butt.

“Where are the other bitches?” asked a man in a black floral shirt.

The blonde woman stared at the ground and didn’t answer.

Another man in an orange shirt walked up, brushing his hands erratically through his cropped hair, as if bugs were crawling on his scalp. “Micky shot one of the dames,” he said. “He can’t find the other. She ran off.”

Run, Sabine. Run as fast as you can.
Vivi felt tears run down her cheeks.
Lena, don’t you die.

The man in the yellow shirt touched Vivi’s shoulder. His face was sunburned. “Come on, kid.”

She put her hand on her aching cheek. A sour bubble pushed up in her throat, and she thought she might vomit again. If she got into that van, she would never see her mom.

“I’m gonna be sick,” she said.

The man backed off. She pretended to make a gagging noise, then sprinted off into the dark, racing down the hill, curving toward the vineyard.

“Hey! Get your ass back here,” a deep voice yelled.

She ran down a grassy row, pumping her arms, her chest tight. She felt a man’s thick arms close around her legs, and then she slammed to the ground. Her lungs flattened.

“Stupid kid,” the man said. He cuffed her hands behind her back. She heard deep voices above her. A beefy guy in a pink flowery shirt squatted beside her, holding a hypodermic needle. She felt a stabbing pain in her arm.

STOP, LET GO, STOP.

Her vision blurred. She tried to hold her breath, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have one drop of air in her lungs. The vineyard seemed to melt, rushing down the hill, flowing into a broad purple river. It swept her off her feet and pulled her beneath the surface.

VILLA PRIMAVERINA, ISLA CARBONARA

VENICE, ITALY

I stood on the terrace, watching the lights in St. Mark’s Square. It was a warm August night, and the inverna, the south wind, caught my hair. I wore a long blue dress, the color of Jude’s eyes. He’d been on my mind. I could see the distinct
M
of his upper lip, and the brown specks in his left iris. I remembered how he would walk up behind me and slide his hand under my blouse, his fingers cool and firm.

Are you still my girl?
he’d say.
For now
, I’d answer.

The terrace doors stood open, and I heard Raphael talking to his chief security guard. I turned.

“What did you find out?” Raphael said, pacing in front of the French doors.

Signore Dolfini sat in a chair, looking down at a
clipboard, yellow Post-it notes jutting from the notepad. He was in his early forties, lean and small-boned, his face flushed from the sun. He wore boating shoes, white shorts, and a T-shirt printed with I
TALIA
S
OCCER
. At his feet was a box crammed with manila folders.

“Tatiana Kaskov was born in 1956,” Dolfini said, peering down at the clipboard. “Studied ballet. Kicked out of three boarding schools, including one in Paris.”

“Do you know why she was expelled?” Raphael said.

“She slept with an instructor at one school. There was talk of grade inflation. I’m still waiting to hear about the other schools.” Signore Dolfini flipped a page. “Her father was a St. Petersburg physician. Worked at City Hospital No. 40. Deceased. Shot in the head. A robbery. Tatiana was sent to a boarding school in Amsterdam. The ballet lessons ended. Two years later, the mother was murdered.”

Raphael stopped pacing. “How?”

“Her throat was cut. To the bone.” Dolfini flipped another page. “Tatiana gave part of her inheritance to the state. Attended Moscow State Linguistic University. Worked at the Soviet consulates in Washington D.C. and East Berlin. Slept around. A lot.”

“
Pompinos?
” Raphael said, using an unflattering word for fellatio.

“Si, si.”
Dolfini lowered the clipboard and pulled a thick file from the box. “It gets worse. She was involved in smuggling—guns and black diamonds. Her name is still on an Interpol watch list. She disappeared in the post-Soviet era.”

“And she’s still off the grid,” Raphael said. “We need to find her.”

From the hallway came the pounding of footsteps. Signore Dolfini’s two daughters ran into the room, their long, pink organza dresses churning around their ankles, ribbons streaming from their light brown hair. The littler girl bumped into a gilt settee, and it toppled.

“Nicci, stop chasing your sister,” Signore Dolfini called, clapping his hands. “Viola, apologize to Signore Della Rocca.”

“
Mi scusi
,” the younger girl said, then giggled.

“
Signorina Nicci, non preoccuparti, sii felice
,” Raphael said as he caught the taller girl.
Don’t worry
, he’d told her.
Be happy.

She giggled as he lifted her into the air. He set her down, and the little sister stretched out her arms.

“
Tocca a me!
” she cried.

Raphael picked her up. “Ah, Signorina Viola, you are getting so big.”

Dolfini’s cheeks turned scarlet as he apologized for the disruption, but Raphael smiled. “
Un bimbo che non gioca, felicita ne ha poce
,” he said. A child who doesn’t play has little happiness.

The girls hugged Raphael. “We love you, Signore,” they said.

“Who wants cake?” he asked.

“We do,” they said, hopping up and down in a pink organdy swirl.

“Maria?” Raphael called, turning toward the kitchen. “Two lovely ladies need cake.”

I turned back to the water and spread my hands on the railing. I remembered what Walpole had said about Tatiana. And Parnell had slept with her. She’d been on that
expedition, and chased my husband. Had she stolen his wedding ring? Or had he taken it off? I did not want to brood on something that had happened a decade ago, and I pushed those unhappy thoughts out of my head.