Randy White - Dead of Night

“Shob tebe deti? sup srali.” I hope that your children shit in your soup.

They were both laughing.

“Ti menia dostal, Brat.” I’ve had enough of you, brother.

“Ya tebia dostal, Sestra!” I’ve had enough of you, sister!

Sestra and Brat: pet names used fondly among members of secret Chechen guerrilla cells.

But Dasha had noticed that, lately, Aleski was treating her less like a sister and more like her keeper. Something in his manner.

Instinct.

They found a storage facility off Route 441 near Yeehaw Junction. Called the number, drove to the village, and paid the off-site attendant cash. Returned and made sure the key worked. As they were pulling away, Dasha’s phone began to ring. She looked at the caller ID: the stooge from Tropicane. She listened for a moment before telling Aleski to get ready to write directions.

They had a road map. Frieda Matthews was less than twenty kilometers away.

Dasha put up her window, driving faster, as Aleski said, “Our luck has been so good, it may be possible to fly back to the island tonight.”

Idiot. The woman slapped the wheel. “Don’t do that! Why have you put your mouth on it? Now our luck is certain to change.”

Aleski’s face colored. Sick of her criticism, but not ready to show it. “I’m sorry. I was only hoping the best for you. I know you don’t like spending nights at the ranch.”

Tropicane maintained a housing complex for staff and guests, miles from anything, pasture all around. Mr. Earl had his own minimansion there. A man who controlled enough proxies to be majority stockholder.

“It’s not that I dislike the ranch. I don’t like being away from the island. You know that. So don’t risk screwing our luck by being so stupid.”

Aleski was eager to change the subject. “You love those islands so much, I feel you should own them one day. When the rich man dies.” His tone insinuated that it could happen. All she had to do was ask.

Dasha said severely, “Don’t speak of our employer in such a way. Dr. Stokes is very good to us.”

There were so many ways of recording conversations, it was the smart thing to say.

“Besides, his assistant would then be in control. He’s in charge of all the doctor’s personal property.”

Aleski said, “Mr. Earl? I like Mr. Earl. Sometimes, we drink vodka at night and talk.”

Dasha was aware of that, too. But was thinking, My islands. Yes, it could happen. Even before Mr. Sweet dies…

Dr. Frieda Matthews was sitting in her green SUV, waiting for them, the small dents in the fender, the cracked tail-light, and DISNEY WORLD bumper sticker telling Dasha the woman wasn’t rich. That she had at least one child, but still worked for a living. She found her at the end of a dirt service road that ran beneath power lines and dead-ended at a canal, not far from State Route 60 and Canoe Creek Road.

Right where the Tropicane VP said she’d be.

Dasha wondered what the stooge would think when he read about this in the papers. Not that he’d call the cops. If Mr. Sweet had something on the guy, which he always did with his top people, there wasn’t a chance. But would he feel guilty?

Dasha hoped so.

As they got out of the car, Aleski said to her in Russian, “Wonderful. She’s even more beautiful than her photograph.”

The woman was attractive in a handsome sort of way. Short maple-colored hair parted at the side, cargo shorts, plaid blouse. She had a sociable smile on her face, teeth very white. Also a cell phone clipped to her belt-that could cause trouble.

“She’s bigger than I thought she’d be. I like that.” Aleski was walking faster, bouncing along. It meant she wouldn’t be as easily broken. The man couldn’t wait.

“Don’t do anything stupid until we get the computer. Make sure it’s the right one.”

“Of course. But then leave her to me. This woman, she will be fun. I can tell.”

Matthews had her hand extended-nice to meet you-her smile broadening as Dasha got to the green SUV. Looked in the side window and there it was: a silver PowerBook computer.

“Mr. Hartman called from Tropicane, vice president in charge of environmental oversight? Said you worked for him, and knew my late brother? I’d love to hear anything you have to tell me.”

Fifteen minutes later, driving fast down the dirt road, all Dasha could hear was Aleski in the back of the Mitsubishi, breathing heavily and swearing because Matthews refused to cooperate. She screamed out for help only once before settling herself into endurance mode, another middle-aged woman who could be hurt but not bullied.

Dasha thought, Interesting, wondering if maybe she should stop and watch. She might get aroused as she had when she’d watched the beautiful woman who was in her fifties ruin it for Aleski by not showing fear.

“Get your hand off that door handle, pizda!”

Dasha glanced around automatically when she heard the tailgate open-they’d just bounced onto a narrow asphalt road-her hands still gripping the wheel, causing the vehicle to fishtail twice before she regained control.

“You bitch! Stop scratching me!”

In the rearview mirror, Dasha saw Matthews clawing at Aleski’s face, everything happening very fast: the woman screaming; Aleski swearing, trying to subdue her. Then Aleski coughed and bellowed-a scream of pain-and Dasha watched the woman sit briefly, pounding at Aleski with her fists.

In Russian, she yelled, “Pull the door closed, you idiot, before she-”

Too late. Frieda Matthews had somehow managed to fight her way from beneath Aleski. In that moment of freedom, the woman didn’t hesitate. As if lunging into a swimming pool, she rolled out of the SUV, the mirror showing it as if on a screen. Dasha saw her body drop behind the car as if in slow motion, then become instantly animated when flesh hit asphalt, a fast-forward effect, bouncing behind the vehicle like a rag doll, arms and legs flapping wildly. Watched the woman’s body tumble grotesquely, gradually slowing in a boneless heap, shrinking rapidly behind them because Matthews had jumped when the vehicle was doing sixty.

Idiot. Dasha screamed at Aleski, “I knew you’d ruined our luck!”

She braked to a controlled stop, still looking at the rearview mirror.

“She’s alive, Dasha. See there? She’s moving.” The man was on all fours, naked, hairy as a bear, looking out. “See? She’s trying to stand up.”

Dasha had the vehicle in reverse, accelerating. “Get your pants on, you fool. We need to find a better place. Get her up on her feet. Then we change places. You get behind the wheel. I’ll take care of her, or you’ll somehow manage to fuck it up again.”

Rona Graves looked toward the shoreline, avoiding eye contact, no longer energized because we’d freed the shark. “Mrs. Matthews’s husband asked me to break the news. He’s a wreck, but he thought it was important for you to know.”

I waited.

“She’s dead.”

“Dead?” Whispered the question.

For several moments, my brain refused to process the information. Rona had to be mistaken. It was Jobe Applebee who was dead, not his vibrant, brilliant sister. Rona had accidentally transposed the names.

But no. The woman confirmed it with a single nod of her head: My friend was dead.

Frieda’s body had been found late yesterday evening, Rona told me, on a deserted road south of Kissimmee, the victim of a hit-and-run driver. Her car was discovered a mile or so away on a dirt service trail that dead-ended at an engineered drainage canal off what had once been the Kissimmee River. The car’s hood was up, battery dead.

The fatality was still under investigation, but sheriff’s investigators were theorizing that Frieda couldn’t get her car started, so decided to hike four or five miles to the main road to get help. Some drunk or crazy driver had struck her from behind.