Durbin was almost forty miles from the county seat along curvy two-lane roads. The state highway department was busy, and that delayed us, and we got stuck behind several logging trucks that we had to follow for miles before we found places to pass. The drive took over an hour.
The river road out of Durbin was well marked. After I had gone a couple of miles along it, I began slowing at every mailbox, reading the names. It’s been my experience that most folks aren’t very good with distance estimations. Four-point-two miles south of Durbin, there it was. Basil Jarrett. I drove up the driveway, turned the car, and parked it pointing toward the exit.
“Same story?” Kelly asked.
“More or less. Let me do the talking.”
A woman opened the door before I had a chance to knock. “I heard you drive up,” she said.
“We’re looking for my girlfriend’s Russian uncle. The sheriff said he might be here.”
“Oh, my God! I’m so glad you came! I’m Linda Fiocchi. Please come in, please! I think he’s here.” She held out a hand to Kelly, who took it. “You must have been so worried!”
“We’ve been frantic. He walked away from our camper on Tuesday, and we didn’t know where he left us.”
“We haven’t been able to talk to him.”
“He speaks only Russian.”
“He’s only spoken once, just a few words that we didn’t understand. He seems… ill.”
Kelly nodded knowingly, released Fiocchi’s hand and used a finger to swab a tear.
I was surprised. Kelly Erlanger was an excellent actress. It was something to think about.
This sob scene would go on for quite a while if I didn’t move things along, so I gestured toward the overhead loft and asked, “Is Unc taking a nap?”
“Oh, no. He and Basil are fishing.”
“Ahh…”
“He loves to fish. He took a rod and went out at first light.”
“He always loved it,” Kelly said, nodding.
“We came downriver from Durbin and didn’t see them,” I said. “Are they farther down the river?”
“I don’t know which way they went.”
“I’ll go look for them,” I said. Kelly took a step toward the door, but Fiocchi wanted to talk about her houseguest. “He’s such a nice man, but he’s having severe nightmares. I thought he might have amnesia.”
I left Kelly to keep Fiocchi occupied and took the car. The road ran right along the river, so the car should be quicker than walking. For some reason that I couldn’t put my finger on, I had this nagging suspicion that time was running out.
I found the two men several miles down the river. They were wearing hip boots and working the shallows with fly rods. From Erlanger’s description of Goncharov, I recognized him immediately. The other man, Basil Jarrett, was about forty, and he, too, knew how to fish. I watched them from the bank for several minutes before Jarrett looked in my direction. I waved for him to come over to the bank. He continued to cast while he worked his way toward me.
When he was twenty feet or so away, I said, loudly enough to be heard over the gurgle of the river, “Having any luck?”
“Did pretty well this morning. We released them all, of course. Slow right now. They’ll start biting again when the sun goes behind the mountain.”
“My name is Winston,” I said. “I’m here to talk to your guest.”
Jarrett began cranking in his line. “Do you know him?” he asked, glancing at me.
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t seem to speak English.”
“He’s Russian.”
“How did you know where to find him?”
“The sheriff told us. I brought his niece. She speaks Russian.”
Jarrett waded ashore. He shook my hand, sized me up. “You’re not Russian.”
“I’m as American as Freedom Fries. His niece is my girlfriend.”
He handed me his rod, then waded out to where Goncharov was standing. He pointed at me, made gestures that Goncharov should come in. Goncharov reeled in his line, then waded over and climbed the bank. He was agile enough and surefooted. However, his face reflected little curiosity.
“Do you speak Russian?” Jarrett asked.
“Not a word. Jump in the car and we’ll run up to your place.”
After I turned the car around, I gave Jarrett the spiel I gave the sheriff, about losing the uncle from a camper last week. Jarrett listened in silence, asked no questions. “We were certainly worried,” I said, summing up. “The sheriff said we owed you and Ms. Fiocchi a real debt for taking him in.”
“Forget it. He’s obviously a sick man. Least we could do.”
As we drove he asked me where I lived, what I did, etc. I was chattering along, all lies, of course, when we rounded the curve just below the entrance to his cabin. There was a car turning into the driveway. I applied the brakes, stopped the car.
“Who is that?” Jarrett asked. “Someone with you?”
“No.” Even as I said it, the car stopped, backed out onto the road, and started toward us. Then it stopped.
Oh, shit. I had been lucky as hell against these guys up to now, but there is a limit.
A man got out of the passenger’s side, then reached back into the car. He pulled out a weapon, then began walking toward us. He was about fifty yards or so away, but even at that range I recognized the gun. MP-5. He kept walking, apparently trying to make up his mind.
The weapon held me mesmerized. If he lifted it, though, we were out of options.
“Get down,” I shouted at Jarrett, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. As I did I reached over, grabbed his head, and pulled him down toward me.
The dude with the submachine gun leveled it, then hesitated as he faced the car rocketing toward him, faster and faster.
He squeezed off a burst that shattered the windshield — the glass just exploded — then he tried to jump out of the way. Too late.
I hit him a hell of a lick; he flew backward through the air and landed in the road.
I felt two thumps as I ran over him. I jammed on the brakes. The car slid toward the other car, coming to rest parallel to it, with the right front fenders almost touching. I slammed the transmission into park and bailed as I jerked Grafton’s Colt from behind my back.
The other car shot backward, its tires screaming. The driver opened his door, stuck his head out, and spun the rear end into Jarrett’s drive. I squeezed one off and missed him. The car ripped forward before I could get off another shot. It accelerated away toward Durbin, its engine howling.
I glanced behind me at the guy I had run over. He wasn’t moving.
But was that the only car? Or had another vehicle preceded it up the driveway?
I ran to the driveway and looked. Couldn’t see the cabin. Ran up the road fifty yards until I could. No other cars.
I lowered the hammer on the Colt and put it back behind my belt, then walked down the drive to my car. Jarrett was kneeling beside the man on the road.
He looked up at me as I approached, his face drained of color. “He’s dead,” he said.
“I hope so,” I replied curtly. I didn’t have any juice to waste on one of those sons of bitches. I looked in the car. Goncharov was sitting in the back seat, carefully picking pebbles of glass from his clothes.
I walked around to the dead man. He was a mess. The car had rolled across his abdomen, bursting it. I intended to search him, but when I saw the corpse I lost interest.
Jarrett turned his back to the corpse. He retched once but nothing came up. With his hands on his knees, he took some deep breaths. He looked at me. “Your face is bleeding,” he said.
My cheek and forehead were burning. I explored them with my hand. Yep. I extracted several glass shards.
“Lucky that glass didn’t hit your eyes,” Jarrett said.
My eyes? The bastard was shooting at my head! I picked up the MP-5. It didn’t appear damaged. I could see the gleam of spent brass lying in the road. “I’m fucking shot with luck,” I muttered. “Just hope to Christ I haven’t used it all up.”