Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

Katzka knew better than to approach the vehicle. His actions were being called into question, and he had to keep his distance from the evidence. He crossed the container yard to where his own car was parked, outside the fence, and slid inside. Groaning, he dropped his face in his hands. At 2 a.m. he'd gone home to

HARVEST

shower and catch a few hours of sleep. Shortly after sunrise, he'd been back on the pier. I'm too old for this, he thought, too old by at least a decade. All this running around and shooting in the dark was for the young lions, not for a middle-aged cop. And he was feeling very middle-aged.

Someone tapped on his window. He looked up and saw it was Lundquist. Katzka rolled down the glass.

"Hey, Slug. You OK?"

"I'm going home to get some sleep."

"Yeah, well before you do, I thought you'd want to hear about the driver."

"We have something back?"

"They ran the name Oleg Boravoy through the computer. Bingo, he's in there. Russian immigrant, came here in '89. Last known residence Newark, New Jersey. Three arrests, no convictions."

"What charges?"

"Kidnapping and extortion. The charges never stick because the witnesses keep disappearing." Lundquist leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You ran into some really bad shit last night.

The Newark cops say Boravoy's Russian mafia."

"How sure are they?"

"They ought to know. New Jersey's where Russian mafia has its home base. Slug, those guys make the Colombians look like the fucking Rotary Club. They don't just make a hit. They chop off your fingers and toes first, for the fun of it."

Katzka frowned, remembering the panic of last night. Treading water in the darkness as men ran on the pier above, shouting words in a language he didn't understand. He was having visions now of dismembered fingers and toes, of Boston streets littered with random body parts. Which made him think of scalpels. Operating rooms.

"What's Boravoy's connection to Bayside?" he asked.

"We don't know."

"He was driving their vehicle."

"And the van' s full of medical supplies," said Lundquist. "Couple thousand dollars' worth. Maybe we're talking black market. Boravoy could have partners at Bayside siphoning off drugs and supplies.

And you just caught him delivering the goods to their freighter."

"What about that freighter?You talk to the Harbourmaster?"

"The ship's owned by some New Jersey firm called the Sigayev Company. Panamanian registry. Her last known port of call was Riga."

"Where's that?"

"Latvia. I think it's some breakaway Russian republic."

The Russians again, thought Katzka. If this was indeed Russian mafia, then they were dealing with criminals known for pure and bloody viciousness. With every legitimate wave of immigrants rode a shadow wave of predators, criminal networks that followed their countrymen to the land of opportunity. The land of easy prey.

He thought of Abby DiMatteo, and his anxiety suddenly sharpened. He hadn't spoken to her since that 1 a.m. phone call. Just an hour ago, he'd been about to call her again. But as he was dialling her number, he realized that his pulse had quickened. And he'd recognized that sign for what it was. Anticipation. A joyful, aching, completely irrational eagerness to hear her voice. They were feelings he had not experienced in years, and he understood, only too painfully, what they meant.

He had quickly disconnected. And had spent the last hour in a deepening depression.

He gazed off towards the pier. By now the ship could be a hundred miles out to sea. Even if they located it, there would be a jurisdiction problem. He said to Lundquist, "I want everything there is on the Sigayev Company. I want any links toAmity and to Bayside Hospital."

"On my list, Slug."

Katzka started his car. He looked at Lundquist. "Your brother still in the Coast Guard?"

"No. But he's got buddies who're still in."

"Run this by them. See if they've boarded that freighter lately." "Doubt it. If she just sailed in from Riga." Lundquist paused, glancing up. Detective Carrier was crossing towards them, waving.

"Hey Slug," said Carrier. "Did you get the message about Dr. DiMatteo?"

Instantly Katzka turned off the engine. But he couldn't shut off the sudden roar of his own pulse. He stared at Carrier, expecting the worst.

"There's been an accident."

A lunch cart rattled down the hallway. Abby woke up with a start and found she was lying in sheets damp with sweat. Her heart was still pounding from the nightmare. She tried to turn in bed, but found she couldn't; her hands were tied down, her wrists sore from chafing. And she realized that she had not been dreaming at all.

This was the nightmare, and it was one from which she could not wake up.

With a sob of frustration she sank back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She heard the creak of a chair. She turned her head.

Katzka was sitting by the window. In the glare of midday, his unshaven face looked older and wearier than she had ever seen him before.

'! asked them to take off the restraints," he said. "But they told me you'd pulled out a few too many IV's." He rose and came to her bedside. There he stood gazing down at her. "Welcome back, Abby. You're a very lucky young lady."

"I don't remember what happened."

"You had an accident. Your car rolled over on the South Expressway."

"Was there anyone else…"

He shook his head. "No one else was hurt. But your car was pretty much totalled." There was a silence. She realized he was no longer looking at her. He was looking somewhere at her pillow instead.

"Katzka?" she asked softly. "Was it my fault?"

Reluctantly he nodded. "Based on the skid marks, it appears you were travelling at a high rate of speed. You must have braked to avoid a vehicle stalled in your lane. Your car veered into a highway barrier. And rolled over, across two lanes."

She closed her eyes. "Oh my God."

Again there was a pause. "I guess you haven't heard the rest," he said. "I spoke to the investigating officer. I'm afraid they found a shattered container of vodka in your car."

She opened her eyes and stared at him. "That's impossible."

"Abby, you can't remember what happened. Last night, on the pier, was a traumatic experience. Maybe you felt the need to unwind. To have a few drinks at home."

"I'd remember that! I'd remember if I'd been drinking-' "Look, what's important right now is-'

"This is important! Can't you see, Katzka?They're setting me up again!"

He rubbed his hand over his eyes, the unfocused gesture of a man struggling to stay awake. "I'm sorry, Abby," he murmured. "I know this can't be an easy thing for you to acknowledge. But Dr. Wettig just showed me your blood alcohol level. They drew it last night in the ER. It was point two one."

He wasn't facing her now, but was gazing blankly out the window, as though just the act of looking at her had taken too much out of him. She could not even turn her body to confront him face to face; the restraints wouldn't allow it. She gave a violent yank on her bonds, and the pain that stung her chafed wrists almost brought tears to her eyes. She was not going to cry. Damn it, she was not going to cry.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on channelling her rage. It was all she had left, the only weapon with which she could fight back. They had taken everything else away from her. They had taken even Katzka.

She said, slowly: "I was not drinking. You have to believe me. I was not drunk."

"Can you tell me where you were going at three in the morning?" '! was coming here, to Bayside. I remember that much. Mark called me, and I was coming to…" She stopped. "Has he been here? Why isn't he here?"

His silence was chilling. She turned her head to look at him, but could not see his face.