Girl of Vengeance (26 page)

“Please excuse me,” she said. “I must find Julia.”

That night, she had confronted Richard in his office. All five of their daughters were home, which meant this was the safest time. He was unlikely to assault her with Julia and Carrie in earshot. He looked up at her puzzled when she walked in. She never entered his office.

“What is it,
darling?”
he asked, his tone nasty.

Her chest tightened up, pain curling like smoke across her sternum, and she found herself short of breath.

Richard’s chin set. “What is it, Adelina? You’ve interrupted me. Explain yourself.”

She closed her eyes. And then she said the words that she thought might end with her death. “I’m pregnant.”

He stood, his face suddenly red, eyes wide, mouth twisted in a rictus of rage. “Pregnant,” he said, his voice a curse. “I would think that would be biologically impossible.”

He stood and walked around his desk. Her eyes followed him, never wavering, because he held a brass letter opener in his hand. She began to shake as he reached her side of the table. Then she saw it.
He
was also shaking. But not with fear or rage. Almost with excitement.

Her eyes followed the letter opener. He held it toward her stomach then pressed it against her. Not hard. Just enough to slightly hurt.

“Is this an immaculate conception, Adelina? Did your God plant a baby in you to save us all?” His tongue lightly licked against his lower lip as he spoke. Anticipation. He was going to hurt her badly.

Then he leaned close, his lips right next to her ear. “Or did Senator Rainsley plant this baby in you too? Is that where you were running off to during the day lately instead of paying attention to our daughters? I wouldn’t have thought he was in China long enough to make you pregnant.”

He brought his forehead to hers, leaning against her. “What would you do with your poor Catholic morals if I order you to abort your fucking baby? If I tell you to have it
cut out of you?
What would you do if I told you that if you didn’t, I’d take Carrie and sell her to the highest bidder? I’m sure some of those perverts in the Yakuza would love a twelve-year-old white girl, huh? Would you kill this baby to save that one?”

Adelina shuddered. Involuntarily, tears began to run down her face. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t show weakness. He fed on fear. He fed on weakness. He was
evil.

“Answer me, you cheating whore,” he demanded. “Shall I cut the baby out of you right here?” He pressed the letter opener against her again, harder this time, hard enough to really hurt.

“No,” she gasped.

Abruptly he turned away. He strode away from her and stood behind the desk. “Have your baby,” he said. “Maybe I’ll smother it in its sleep. Maybe it’s time I paid a visit to Luis. Or maybe I’ll just torture you until you finally end your own worthless life. Get out of my office.”

She had done as he ordered. But that wasn’t the end of it. Because two days later, she woke up in her bedroom with a hand over her mouth. She struggled, but realized she was pinned down somehow. She couldn’t move her limbs at all.

Hot stinking breath blew on her face, smelling of rot and mud and tobacco. Then the intruder spoke. She recognized the voice, even all those years later. It was Oz.

He spoke in a guttural Irish accent. “I told you to stay away from the Prince. And you disobeyed.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.

“This is your last chance. I’m not going to kill you this time. But if you ever see him again, you
and
your daughters will die.”

The weight had lifted off of her. “Last chance, Adelina. Make the right decision.”

Then he had run out of the room. Moments later, she had stumbled out of bed, running to check on her daughters.

They were in their beds, and safe.

As she finished telling the story, Bear shook his head. “Did you ever find out who Oz was?”

“No,” she replied.

“Did you ever talk with George-Phillip about it?”

She closed her eyes. Then whispered, “I never spoke with him again. I had to protect my daughters.”

She heard the sympathy in Anthony’s voice as he asked her the next question. “Did Richard get his revenge, Adelina?”

She slowly nodded and tears ran down her face. “He did. I don’t want to talk about what he did. He made my life miserable for a long time. And the older Andrea got, the clearer it became that she wasn’t his daughter. I finally sent her away for her safety. I was afraid he’d lose his temper some day and kill her.”

She opened her eyes. Then she said, “It was at its worst when we lived in Bethesda after we got back from China. On a few occasions he physically hurt me. Especially when Maria Clawson began to write about him regularly. Write about
us.
Poor Julia had gotten mixed up with some very bad stuff in China, and a photo circulated amongst the students. She got her hands on it.”

She looked down at the floor. Unable to say it. Unable to forgive herself. She whispered, “He … tortured me. Every time she wrote a new column, it was more … more vitriol from him. More pain. More threats. I thought more than once about just throwing myself off the balcony.”

Anthony said, “Adelina. I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to get a legal judgment against him. But I want to bury Richard. I want him to be thrown down so low that he never gets back up again. I want to tell your story.”

Adelina shuddered. She didn’t speak, but an unexpected voice did. To her left, in a vicious tone, Jessica said, “Do it. Bury him. Don’t ever let him hurt her again.”

Anthony looked at his watch. “We’ve got about four hours before we have to leave. Bear, are you up for this?”

Bear shrugged. “Do what you gotta do. We aren’t getting an earlier flight.”

Anthony said, “First, you need to understand—I need people who can corroborate your story, or parts of it. Will George-Phillip admit the affair?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

Anthony nodded. “Your daughters will remember some things. What about Chuck Rainsley?”

Adelina swallowed. “Maybe Brianna Rainsley. She didn’t know the extent of it, though. But there is one person who did, if he’s still alive and you can find him.”

“Who?”

“Father Dennis from the Saint Jane Frances de Chantal church in Bethesda. I’m sure he’s moved on somewhere else by now.”

“Will he talk?”

“I’ll give you a letter from me, with written permission.”

“Okay. One other thing. Can you think of anyone who knows about what happened in Afghanistan?”

She shook her head. “Leslie Collins, I’m sure. And Prince Roshan. If I had to guess, it was the three of them. They were thick in the eighties. They thought I was too stupid to understand they were up to something.”

“Anyone else?” Anthony asked.

“There was another name … Karat … Karak…”

“Karatygin? Vasily Karatygin?”

“Yes! I’m sure that’s it. You’ve heard of him?”

“I have,” he said. “He was a Russian special forces major, he converted to Islam and defected in the 1980s, then was the second-in-command of one of the Afghan militias for a long time. He’s still there … keeps a low profile, mostly involved in opium smuggling, I think now.”

She nodded. “I know I heard his name more than once. But I can’t guarantee it’s him. Nor do I know if he’d talk to you.”

“Well, we might have to find out. Do me one favor though.”

“Yes?”

“Prince George-Phillip I have to see. I’ve interviewed him before, but if I go through official channels, it will take weeks. Can you get me in to see him?”

She looked distressed. “We haven’t seen each other in seventeen years. I’m certain he hates me. I broke his heart and never explained why.”

Anthony shook his head. “All right. Maybe through your daughters. I believe Carrie met him yesterday.”

Adelina whispered, “Yes. She told me.”

“All right. I’ll start there. Can we get started with some questions?”

“Yes. But one thing first.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

She whispered, “When you talk to him … tell him … tell him I’m sorry.”

The phone ringing was harsh in Marky Lovecchio’s ear. Who the
fuck
was calling him at six o’clock in the morning?

He took his hand off the tits of the stripper he’d brought back from the bar the night before. He’d flashed several hundred-dollar bills at the club, enough to get the attention of several of the girls. Then he’d made his pick and brought her back to the cheap and nasty motel room.

She was hot, but a lousy lay. Fucking tease. He decided he was going to wake her up with a good fucking whether she liked it or not.

He untangled himself from her then picked up his phone.

“What?”

It was Oz. “Lovecchio. I trust you’re having a good time spending my money?”

“It’s my money now. I took care of him, didn’t I?”

“You did. And that was good work. But I have another job for you.”

Lovecchio muttered a curse. The girl was stirring; bleach blonde hair stringy along her back.

“I’m not in the market right now, Oz. I need a little time to relax.”

“You can relax after you’re finished, Lovecchio. The woman who Larsden let get away? She’s with her daughter at the hospital in Abbotsford.”

“Canada?” Lovecchio blurted.

The girl was definitely stirring now. She slid out of the bed and walked toward the bathroom.

“Yes, Lovecchio. Canada. The woman is in room 201. I don’t care what happens to the daughter, but kill the woman.”

Christ. He said, “How much?”

“We’ll call it half a million. That’s what I was going to pay your friend before he fucked it up.”

“Whatever. Fine. I’ll do it. How soon?”

“By tonight.”

He started to respond, but Oz hung up.

“Hey,” he called to the girl in the bathroom. “Come here!”

She muttered something incoherent. He looked around. Her skimpy dress was on the floor.

A second later she came out of the bathroom. He looked at her, his eyes grazing over her obvious implants, the curve of her hip. He didn’t care if she couldn’t fuck. He’d do the work. “Come here,” he said.

She shook her head, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She reached for her dress. Bitch. He stood and walked toward her. “You’re not finished yet.”

“You look exhausted.” Given that Carrie was pouring a fresh cup of coffee as she said the words, Anthony decided he could forgive her.

“We flew back on the red-eye,” he said. “I came straight here from the airport.”

She nodded. “Cream and sugar are over here. Meet you on the balcony, it’s beautiful today.”

“Okay,” he said.

He put too much sugar in his coffee then noticed the mug. It bore the logo of the United States Army, which reminded Anthony once again that Carrie was a widow, and a fairly recent one at that. The shelves and walls displayed a number of photos, including two from Carrie and Ray’s wedding. From the look on both of their faces, you could tell they were deeply in love. And he’d died only a few months later.

Anthony leaned a little to see out of the kitchen toward the balcony doors. Carrie and Julia were sitting together at a cast iron table. He walked down the hall to the restroom and slipped inside. Out of curiosity and little more he opened the medicine cabinet.

The top shelf had several prescription bottles, including a Xanax prescription for Carrie filled only a few days before. He closed the door to the cabinet. He needed to mind his own business. He was a reporter, but he was also human, and needed to treat people decently.

Two minutes later, he joined Julia, Carrie and Rachel outside. The women sat across from each other as they sipped their coffee. As he seated himself he couldn’t help but notice the contrast between them.

Their appearance, of course, was quite different. Julia was average height for a woman, about five feet four inches. He was used to seeing her brown curly hair tied in a businesslike bun, but here, in her family home, she had her hair down, draping both shoulders. She wore faded jeans and a
Trampled by Turtles
T-shirt. A rock band of some kind? He didn’t know. Her hair was relaxed, but she didn’t seem to be. Her back was straight, feet flat on the ground, and occasionally she drummed her fingers on the side of her mug.

Carrie, on the other hand, was slouched in her chair. The baby lay in a seat next to her chair, and Carrie’s knees were drawn up in front of her. Her dark hair, almost black, draped over her shoulders.

“So tell me about your trip. Did you learn anything?” Carrie lifted her coffee cup to her lips after she finished speaking. She closed her eyes and inhaled, taking in the rich smell of the coffee, then sipping it slowly, her slightly pink lips touching the mug.

Anthony tore his eyes away from her. “Well … we’ve got a name. But it’s almost certainly a pseudonym. Oz. Your mother’s encountered him twice before, once in the eighties, then again when you all were living in China. We’ve got good reason to believe the same man is responsible for hiring Nick Larsden to kill your mother. Unfortunately, we couldn’t question Larsden any more … he’s dead.”