Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense (21 page)

Alma opened the door to his knock. She was wearing a big, white apron and had something that looked like flour on the end of her nose.

“You really did run over here, didn’t you?” she said.

He produced the flowers, and while she made appreciative noises, he looked over the little apartment. It was spotless, the table in the postage-stamp-sized eating area set for two.

They made small talk while Alma fussed with the flowers, emerging from the kitchen with the blooms arranged in a glass vase that she set in the center of the table. She told Kane to sit, returned to the kitchen, and came back with plates full of a fancy dinner: chicken cordon bleu, rice pilaf, baby asparagus, dinner rolls. They sat and ate, Alma talking almost nonstop about the situation in the Capitol.

“There’s a rumor that the oil tax increase will come to the floor soon,” she said, “although nobody knows why Potter would let it out of his committee.”

“What about the civil unions bill?” Kane asked around a mouthful of chicken.

“The word on that hasn’t changed,” she said. “Still stuck in Potter’s committee. And even if Senator Hope could pry it loose somehow, he’d still have to get it to the floor, get enough votes for passage, and shepherd it through the House. And even if he did all that, the governor would veto it. I’m afraid there just isn’t much chance.”

“If that’s true,” Kane said, “why are people trying to keep Hope away from the Capitol?”

Alma shrugged.

“It could be anything,” she said. “There are something like eight hundred bills, including some big spending bills, that are in play at the moment. But let’s not talk about business. It’s so depressing.”

Then she launched into a funny story about a fight that had erupted between two women at the legislative bowling league the week before, “over a man, of course.”

Kane found her liveliness refreshing. You’re spending way too much time in your head, he thought, and right now that’s a gloomy place to be.

They finished eating and he helped with the dishes. When they were done, she hung the towel neatly, turned, and put her arms around his neck. For a moment, Kane wasn’t sure what to do. Then he decided the hell with it and kissed her. The kiss led to another, and that led to other things. An hour later, they lay naked and pleasantly spent. Alma was pressed against him, one leg thrown over his body.

“That was great,” she said.

Kane felt a rush of satisfaction, then chuckled. Oh, vanity, thy name is man, he thought.

“You can cook dinner for me anytime,” he said.

They lay there for a while, then Alma stirred, got up, and went into the bathroom. When she returned, she said, “Can you stay?”

Kane smiled at her and said, “I can’t think of any reason I’d want to leave.”

So they dozed, awoke, and made love again, Kane marveling at how his aging body responded to her. Despite sharing a strange bed with a woman he didn’t know very well, he slept like a log. He awoke early to Alma’s touch and they spent a long time renewing their acquaintance with each other’s body before they lay still again.

“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Alma said after a while, “but I’ve got a busy day today and I’ve got to get going.”

Kane looked at the bedside clock. It read 6 a.m. Odd for her to be in such a rush on a Saturday, but he didn’t object. He wanted to get some distance, too, to examine his feelings. So he arose, put on his clothes, and brushed his teeth with the toothbrush she’d advised him to bring along. As he was putting on his shoes, Alma emerged wearing a flannel bathrobe. Without makeup, she looked her years and maybe a few more.

I’m a fine one to be making judgments, Kane thought. I probably look like Methuselah’s dad.

When he stood up, Alma walked over and kissed him.

“I had a wonderful time,” she said.

“Me, too,” Kane said.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“You can count on it,” he said.

Alma laughed.

“Then you won’t mind if I ask you to take out the garbage,” she said. She went into the kitchen, rustled the bag around, and handed it to Kane.

“The garbage cans are at the end of the driveway, around the other side of the house,” she said.

“Will do,” Kane said.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” Alma asked.

“You’re a cab,” they said in unison, then laughed more than the old joke warranted.

“No, thanks,” Kane said. “I’m going to walk for a while, then I’ll call one on my cell.”

They kissed again and Kane left, carrying the garbage bag in his hand. A crunching noise came from the bag, so he felt the outside. Some of the contents seemed to be take-out boxes.

I guess she’s not a gourmet cook after all, Kane thought.

He found the garbage cans sitting next to a wooden shed. A screen of bushes hid them from the road. He deposited the bag and turned to walk away.

The blond man stepped out from behind the shed, put a stun gun against Kane’s neck, and sent 300,000 volts rampaging through his body.

K
ane’s muscles spasmed and he began to fall. The blond man grabbed one arm and his dark-haired companion stepped out to grab the other. They dragged him to a delivery van and dumped him onto the floor. The dark-haired man jumped into the back with him. The blond closed the doors, looked around, got into the van on the driver’s side, started it, and drove away.

Kane’s muscles felt like pudding. He tried to throw a punch at the dark-haired man and his arm barely twitched. By the time some semblance of control returned, the dark-haired man had taken off Kane’s coat, handcuffed him, and sealed his lips with a piece of duct tape. He pulled up Kane’s sleeve and tied a piece of rubber tubing around his biceps. When the veins in his arm popped out, the dark-haired man took the covering off the tip of a syringe and, ignoring Kane’s attempts to struggle, knelt on his chest and shoved the needle into his arm. In a matter of moments, the world was a tiny place at the wrong end of a long, long telescope. Then it was nothing at all.

Afterward, he had no idea of how much time had passed. His memories were a jumble of voices and dimly seen faces, movements, and noises. He had the impression of an argument, a loud voice barking orders, and under it all, country music. All of his senses were blunted by something, like he was experiencing life from the bottom of a pond. Every time he was about to reach the surface, he’d feel a pain in his arm and start sinking again.

Kane came around to the sound of voices.

“We’ve got to stop giving him this stuff,” one voice said. “He almost stopped breathing the last time.”

“I gave him the dose we were given,” the other voice replied. “He’s a big guy. He’ll be all right.”

“He’d better be,” the first voice said. “I’m not sure I want murder on top of everything else.”

“Aw, fuck him,” the second voice said, “and that faggot lover he’s working for.”

Kane lay on something soft, his hands cuffed to something over his head. The duct tape was still in place over his mouth. His head ached like he’d been hit by Muhammad Ali, every single muscle was sore, and he felt like he was going to throw up.

Better not, he thought. Not a good idea to barf while gagged.

He heard footsteps approaching and fought to keep his breathing even and his muscles relaxed. Even through closed eyelids, he could sense someone looming over him. Fingers touched his neck, lay there, then withdrew. Then they grabbed his ear and twisted. Kane ignored the pain. The fingers let go of his ear and the footsteps led away.

“He’s still out,” the first voice said. “What are we going to do? I’m getting hungry.”

“If it was me, I’d cap his ass,” the second voice said, “but that’s not what we’re getting paid for. So let’s just throw a blanket over him and go get something to eat. He isn’t going anywhere cuffed to that cot. Besides, I’ll give him another shot and we’ll be back before he wakes up.”

“He doesn’t need another shot,” the first voice said. “He’s way under. And the way the stuff seems to be building up in his system, another one might kill him. Our employer wouldn’t like that.”

“Yeah,” the second voice said, “well, fuck him, too. He’s got to make a decision about what to do with this guy, and he’s waffling around like a teenaged girl trying to pick a prom dress.”

“Maybe he’s got to check with somebody else,” the first voice said.

“Maybe,” the second voice said, “but who cares? I say we zork this guy so he can’t tell the cops about us, no matter what the big bad boss says. Sooner or later he’ll figure out that Mr. Nik Kane can ID us, and that we can ID him. So he’ll want the dude dead, anyway.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll find out soon enough,” the first voice said. “One thing I know for sure is that we’re not doing anything more until we get our money. Let me make sure this guy’s secure and then we can go get some dinner.”

Kane heard footsteps approaching and felt a blanket being spread over him. A hand shook his handcuffs. The footsteps left him, were joined by a second set, and trailed off into silence. Kane lay there until he heard the faint sound of a vehicle starting up, then opened his eyes.

It was hardly worth the effort. In the dim light, Kane could see only rock: rock walls that glistened with water, a ceiling hewn by hand out of rock, a rock floor. He tried to lean up to get a better view and pain shot through both shoulders. He swore softly and, gritting his teeth, swung his legs off the cot and walked his feet sideways until he could sit up. The room swam around and his stomach jumped into his throat. He leaned over, got a grip on the edge of the duct tape, and ripped it off. He spent the next couple of minutes retching but didn’t have much to bring up.

I must have been out for some time, he thought. I wonder what became of that big dinner I had.

Kane looked around his prison. It seemed to be a cave. He was off to one side. Several feet away, he could see a table and what seemed to be several wooden storage lockers. The faint light was coming from a source he couldn’t see. He slid his hands along until the cuffs were at the top of the bunk’s metal frame, then stood. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, retching. The cuffs scraped the skin from his wrists as he went down, and he could feel blood seeping down his left arm. He knelt there for several minutes, waiting for his stomach to stabilize.

Gotta do better than this, he thought. Gotta get out of here before they get back. He climbed slowly to his feet and stood, swaying and drawing deep breaths. When the room quit moving, he tried to drag the cot toward the table. The metal legs squawked across the rock floor a few inches and he stopped, panting. In his condition, even the cot was too heavy to move. He thought about that for what seemed to be a week, got down on his knees, gripped the edge of the cot, and strained. The legs nearest to him left the ground. As the cot rose, Kane twisted and dumped the cot onto its side. Then he dragged it free of the bedding and across the floor. The metal squealed along the rock floor and sparks shot in all directions.

Hope there’s no old dynamite in here, Kane thought.

He was tired and sweating by the time he reached the table and sat on one of the metal folding chairs. A couple of water bottles, a big, battery-powered light, and a crank radio sat on the tabletop.

That explains the country music, Kane thought.

He lifted the cot until he could get his hands on a water bottle, twisted off the cap, and lowered his head to drink. When the bottle was empty, he lifted the cot again, arms trembling, picked up the light, and clicked it on. Its brightness dazzled his eyes and he looked away, spots dancing in his vision. As they faded, he looked around. The wooden storage lockers looked to have been handmade, stout and secured with locks and metal hasps. He wasn’t getting into them bare-handed. He got up and dragged the cot along the rock floor toward the light, which was coming in around a thick, wooden door that didn’t quite fit its opening. The door gave a little when he leaned on it, but then held firm. Locked from the outside.

“This is another fine mess, Ollie,” he said aloud.

As he dragged the cot back toward the table, it clinked against something. Kane stopped, dragged the cot around, and saw an old, rusty pick mattock lying against the wall. He got to his knees and dragged it away from the wall with his fingertips. The head still seemed securely fastened to the handle. He fumbled with it until he got it onto the cot springs. Then he got to his feet, stuffed the mattock end between the bed frame and headboard, and heaved.

The mattock jumped out of the opening and the handle fetched him a sharp blow on the right kneecap.

“Jesus,” he yelled as he hopped around, only to be brought up short by the handcuffs.

When the feeling returned to his knee, he crouched, grimacing, slid his hands down the frame, and picked up a rock. He used it to tap the mattock firmly into the opening. Then he leaned against the handle, steadily increasing the pressure. The bolts holding the frame together parted, a piece of metal zinging across the cave like a bullet to ricochet from the rock wall, and the frame sagged to the side.

Success, he thought. At this rate, I’ll be free in a week or so.

He pushed his way between the frame and headboard, tapped the mattock into the opening, and wrenched. More metal shot across the cave and the frame separated from the headboard, falling to smack Kane’s right foot.

As the pain subsided, he thought, Thank God nobody’s here to see this. I must look like all three of the Stooges.

Free of the bed frame, Kane picked up the headboard and the mattock and walked over to the storage lockers. He used the mattock to wrench the hasp free from the wood and open the locker door. Inside was dust, cobwebs, and more rusty tools. One of the tools was a hacksaw. Kane thought about trying to cut himself loose from the headboard but decided he didn’t have time. He wrenched open a second locker, which held the same things as the first.

Maybe I’d better just try to get the door open and get out of here before my pals come back, he thought. Then he noticed a new lock on the next locker.

Okay, one more, he thought, and wrenched the door open.

His automatic sat on a shelf next to his wallet and his cell phone. Someone had taken the money out of the wallet, but everything else seemed to be there. He checked the automatic, ejecting the clip to be sure it was loaded. He thought about trying to shoot his way out of the cuffs but knew that, in the condition he was in, he couldn’t trust his aim.

He dropped the cell phone into his shirt pocket, stuffed the gun into his pants, picked up the pick mattock, and attacked the door.

Chewing through the door with the pick end of the tool was slow going, especially since he had to stop every few minutes to rest. With every chop, the headboard banged him somewhere, and it got in the way of any full swing. Kane was convinced that his captors would return long before he finished. He concentrated on cutting away the wood around the hasp and, when he could see it he dropped the mattock, pulled out the automatic, pointed it at the hasp, and pulled the trigger.

The noise pounded his ears closed. The hasp sagged. Kane hit the door with his shoulder, but all he got for his trouble was another bruise. He put the automatic’s barrel back in place and fired a second shot. The hasp parted. He pushed the door open.

Kane stepped out and looked around. He was in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a narrow, brushy road. He had no idea how far he was from the city. He might be on an island somewhere, for that matter. Southeast was lousy with uninhabited islands. He flipped open his cell phone, turned it on, and was relieved to see that he had a signal. He punched in Cocoa’s number.

“Cocoa?” Pause. “I don’t care what you were doing, pal. Some goons snatched me up, and now I’m standing in the tules handcuffed to the headboard of a metal cot.” Pause. “Okay, here’s what I can see.” He described his surroundings. Pause. “Okay, then get out here as fast as you can. These guys are coming back, and I’m in no shape to receive them. I’ll start walking now.”

He closed the cell phone and dropped it into his pocket, got a good grip on the automatic, hoisted the headboard onto his shoulder, and set off. A chill wind cut through his shirt and the headboard tried to snag itself on every branch and bush. He fell once and lay there, willing himself to get up. As he looked into the woods, he thought he could see all of his family looking at him and shaking their heads: his parents, his brothers and sisters, Laurie and the kids. All of them filled with pity and disappointment.

“This isn’t my fault,” he yelled. The figures faded from his vision, replaced by the awful emptiness of the Alaska landscape.

Too much to do before I die, he thought, just as he had thought in the jungles of Southeast Asia and on the streets of Anchorage. He pushed himself to his feet and set off again. I just hope I have a chance to make things right, he thought as he staggered along. Make peace with Laurie and the kids, try to be the father Dylan should have had instead of some bad Xerox of my own father.

Make things right, he thought. Make things right.

His foot hit a tree root and he fell hard. He didn’t have the strength to get up again, so he lay there mumbling to himself. The noise of tires crunching along the old snow and ice of the road reached him and grew louder. He tried to get the automatic around to where he could shoot, but the effort was too much. The last thing he saw was his father, shaking his head.