Personal Effects: Dark Art

17

The shakes terrorized me for the first half-hour of my drive south. Eventual destination: The Brink. I recalled Malcolm’s pep talk in the library yesterday, about learning to pitch and walking through earthquakes. As I eyed the scratch on my cheek from Daniel Drake’s attack, Malcolm’s optimistic sermon rang hollow.

I was running on four hours of sleep and adrenaline, wracked with an ever-present full-body tremor. Screw baseball and pitching. The earth beneath me was pitching; I couldn’t find the ball anymore.

I was ravenous for normalcy. As soon as Daniel Drake’s home vanished from the rearview, I called Rachael. The cell flashed a mocking “NO SIGNAL” message. I cursed and drove on, slick with fright and sweat.

I said nothing. I tried not to think.

As I neared Claytonville once more, my cell phone played its skeleton song. Reception, finally. I checked the screen, saw a new voice mail message and dialed in.

“Welcome up, bro,” Lucas’ recording said. I smiled at his upbeat voice, the youthful exuberance. It was rejuvenating.

“Me and your girl are catchin’ big fish on the ’net,” he continued. “Think we found something about that Alexandrov dude, you know, ‘Comrade Dog Tags.’ You’ll want to hear it. Call when you can, meep-meep.”

I dialed his number. Lucas picked up on the first ring, and put me on speakerphone.

“Goddamn, I’m happy to hear you guys,” I said. “My powwow with Daniel Drake went into ‘X-Files’ territory. I think I need a new pair of shorts.”

Rachael’s voice purred in my ear. “There’s a clean pair of panties in the glove box.”

“Really?”

She laughed. “No. You okay?”

“Getting there,” I said. “Everyone gets a 101 in the twisted history of the Drake clan when I get home tonight. What’s Alexandrov’s story?”

“You’re gonna love this,” Lucas said.

“Here’s the deal,” Rachael said. “Core information about Drake, we don’t have. Stuff like his DOB, real tax and property records, bio. But we do have lots of peripheral info: the dates on the lockbox CIA letters, the Soviet connection via the dog tags, the name ‘Alexandrov,’ that stuff. If wasn’t much, but it was enough to eventually get us to a website called ‘YoureNotMeantToKnowThis.com.’”

“Subtle,” I said.

“Actually, it’s fairly off the beaten path,” she replied. “Not a lot of people frequent it; it’s not mentioned in any of the conspiracy subculture websites I started with. That’s what we’re talking about here, Z. Tinfoil hat territory. It’s run by some anonymous guy. I tried tracking him down, but there was no useful registrant information on the website address. So this is fourth-hand information, understand.”

“Rumorville,” Lucas chimed in. “They’ve got a mill there.”

“You’re a dork,” Rachael said.

“I prefer ‘dweek.’”

I rolled my eyes, grinning. Grateful.

“So you’re at this site,” I said. “What happens next?”

“This place specializes in U.S. intelligence community coverups,” Rachael said, “or so they say. There’s a post about the sad, sad story of Piotyr Alexandrov—though the guy sounded like a Grade-A asshole.”

“Foolbiscuit.”

“Shut up, Luc,” she said. “According to this, Alexandrov was once a high-ranking Soviet Spetsnaz officer. These Spetsnaz guys were hardcore special forces, Z, bred to be bad. Anyways, it looks like our comrade got into the black market weapons business after the collapse of Communism. Remember the stories coming out of Russia ten, fifteen years ago?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “That was high school. Too busy reading comics and listening to Alanis Morissette to care.”

“Heh. So was I, but my dad’s gig gave me a nose for news. The nineties were awful for Russia. Power vacuums, chaos and corruption abounded. The mob ran the streets. Now according to this site—”

Lucas: “YoureNotMeantTo—”

“Goddamn it, hush. He’s been like this all morning, Z. Twitterpated about this spy stuff. Don’t make me pull over this car, Lucas.”

My brother cackled.

She sighed. “Okay, so the site says the American government approved of some of this Russian mob activity—even supported it, in back-door dealings. Factions that were willing to push U.S.-friendly agendas were left alone, even assisted.”

“What kind of agendas?” I asked.

“Doesn’t say,” she replied. “But our benevolent Uncle Sam frowned greatly upon other factions, like arms dealers. There was a network of these jerks called ‘the cowboys.’ They were ex-military—had access to guns, bullets, bombs and worse. They paid off corrupt officials, stole the weapons and sold them to anyone who had the money.”

“That’s bad news for a fledgling democracy,” I said.

“It’s bad news for everybody, Z. They were international exporters. These guys had air fleets. Armed every African civil war in the ’90s, kept Columbian drug cartels well-stocked…”

Lucas’ voice came on the line. “So here’s where we think your blind guy enters frame. Site says CIA spooks were sent to Russia to track ‘the cowboys’ and find out who was the end-level boss running the operation.”

“Alexandrov,” I said.

“Bzzzzzt, nope,” he said. “Lemme finish. The CIA team was lead by a small group of spooks specializing in, ah, ‘infiltration and interrogation.’ The operation was code-named ‘Red Show.’”

My mind snagged on this. Dominos fell, puzzle pieces clicked.

“Holy shit,” I said. “That’s what Drake said yesterday. ‘I run the red show, the hellshow.’ And today, Daniel called him a ‘mind-bender,’ something about prisoners.”

“We just jumped from lukewarm to hot,” Lucas said. “Katabatic. So Alexandrov’s apparently a ‘trusted lieutenant’ in the cowboys’ operation, the right-hand man. Mini-boss. Now this is where our tinfoil types bust out their violins. ‘Did he deserve such inhumane treatment?’ they say.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Put it together, bro. Drake and his boys apparently nabbed the dude and interrogated him. Site says that a few days after Alexandrov disappeared, U.S.-friendly Russian mobsters wiped out a cowboy safe house. Ka-boom, Bruckheimer style. They were gunning for the leader.”

“And?”

“Fee-ass-co. There weren’t any cowboys to smear. They blew up a house where Alexandrov’s wife and daughter were staying. And our Spetsnaz dude? Fade to black. Never seen again.”

I remembered the letter from Drake’s lawyer.

“Because Drake killed him,” I muttered.

Rachael, now: “Likely, from what we suspect. Now it’s brass tacks time, Z. The sources for this report are very sketchy: innuendo, supposed off-the-record conversations with former collaborators and low-level U.S. intel officers, alleged ‘translated Russian documents.’ There’s not a named source or cited doc in the entire thing. It stinks. But.”

“But,” I said.

Lucas made a farting sound.

“What are you, two?” she said. “Yeah, but. We’ve got enough in the lockbox to put Drake in the CIA, in Russia during the late nineties, and there’s that damning connection to Alexandrov. If what his son said was true—”

“He hated the guy,” I said. “I don’t think he was lying.”

“Then the story checks out, as much as it ever will.”

I nodded. So. This was the information I needed to get past Drake’s smug-faced defense. That day back in Russia, ten years ago—the day he made a terrible wrong turn, a decision that somehow killed Alexandrov and his family—that had sparked his eventual journey to The Brink. This was the pry bar.

Henry’s voice echoed in my mind.

He did something unspeakable, unfathomable. Someone wants your blind man to suffer.

“The Dark Man,” I whispered.

“What’s that?”

“I said I’ll be back when I can.” I glanced at a road sign ahead. Twenty miles to the exit that would lead me to Brinkvale, and Drake. I finally began to feel good about this day, confident again. “Today’s the day, I think. Thanks for the data dump; I’ll be home right after work.”

“Later gator,” Lucas called.

“Be careful, and cool,” Rachael said. “So long, hottie artist.”

“Bye, geek goddess.”

They disconnected. I stuffed the phone into my jeans pocket and drove on. For the first time, I felt truly ready to face Richard Drake. I could now help him confront his past. I could help him forgive himself.

I could help him see.