Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  ***

  Katherine O’Connor entered the house through the side mudroom door. She walked into the kitchen. She called to Leo quietly from the kitchen, “Leo, get in the house.” Handly did not respond. “Leo, now!” Handly’s square shaped middle-aged body slowly turned and he walked rigidly into the kitchen. He stared at Katherine, his body filled with rage. “Leo, stay in the house. The boys are coming and they’ll get him out of here. Where’s Patty?” Handly pointed with his chrome plated pistol to the ornate archway with black marble columns on either side that led to the living room.

  Katherine walked to the living room. She found Patty shivering in her sheer negligee on French provincial chair with a puddle of urine underneath the chair. “Jesus Christ, Patty, I’m so sorry. Let’s get you upstairs and washed up.”

  “I had to pee, he told me not to move, or he’d kill me. I had to pee. He hit me, I had to pee, and he hit me. Have you seen Tommy, isn’t he beautiful? He was my mother’s favorite.”

  “He’s beautiful Patty. Yes he is just beautiful.” Katherine kept to herself that she actually thought he was an arrogant son of a bitch. She lifted Patty off her chair and began to walk her towards the curved foyer staircase.

  “Katherine, what has Leo gotten us into, what has he done? Why would they hurt my baby brother like that, why?”

  “Leo’s done nothing wrong, you’re going to take a pill and a long nap, everything will seem better when you wake.” What did Leo do? I’m the mastermind behind the millions that paid for this place, Leo’s screwed it up, and we both could end up dead.

  ***

  Moss sat in one of the surveillance vehicles stationed at the end of Handly’s street, Dear Run. A black cube van sped into the street and quickly backed into Handly’s driveway, up against the garage door. A man got out and directed the van closer to the garage. From Moss’s vantage point it looked like the van had hit the house. The van covered the entire door, but under the chassis, he could see the garage door quietly lifting then several sets of feet jumped out of the rear door of the van. Several minutes later the feet returned in unison as they moved to the back of the van and then stepped in. When the garage door shut, the van quickly sped away. The federal agent’s digital cameras snapped away like machine guns.

  ***

  Wearing just his black silk pajamas bottoms, Handly sat at his desk. His den’s coffered ceiling and dark cherry paneling was impressive. The window shade was drawn. The architectural details were wasted in the dark room. Behind his desk was a large bookshelf twelve feet high. The shelves had more model cars and trucks than books. The Handlys were not readers; their designer had told them the shelves made the den look like a library fit for intellectuals. The sun was setting. Handly’s lips wrapped around an unlit cigar in his mouth. His pistol lay on the desktop near his right hand, and in his left hand he held a large, silver lighter shaped like a hand-grenade. Every so often, Handly would ignite the flame by pulling the lever handle of the lighter, then release it. It was now the only light in the room. As the flame ignited Handly’s face glowed an evil red, revealing his grim expression. There was a green hue coming from the desktop and a vibration as his phone rattled on the glass top. Moments went by, nearly six rings, before Handly reached for the phone. The number was blocked. He answered. “What!”

  “The answers to your recent financial inconvenience will be forthcoming. The advisor’s fee is one million.” The voice was calm and controlled.

  “Who is this?”

  “Names are not important, information, our understanding of each other’s roles is what’s important.”

  “How did you get my number? I won’t pay a million, I’ll kill you for nothing.” Handly’s fist slammed down on the table, “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  The voice interrupted Handly before his range grew out of control, “Leo, Chicago is growing impatient. You are running out of relatives for the Marauder to kill. I’m a facilitator and advisor of sorts, you are my client. I’m well aware of your contacts and what you do to those who get in your way. If it makes you feel more comfortable, call me… Evan.”

  “Ok, Evan you piece of shit, I’ll play along with your game.” Handly’s impatience echoed in his voice; his aggravation could not be hidden.

  “Leo, have you noticed how proficient he is?”

  “He’s a myth, a joke, the phantoms fooled you just like the rest of them.”

  “Good, Leo. Very good. Push me trying to make me convince you he is real, divulging my information for nothing. Oh, he is real and his legend is growing. Without my counseling, the Marauder is going to seize control of your little, although highly profitable, empire. I will call you back tomorrow to see if you’ve come to your senses.”

  Just then, a scream came from the second floor. Leo looked up. Patty was being calmed down by a private nurse; an associate who Katherine had called in. Patty had been heavily sedated since the early morning, but had awakened from her sleep every two hours screaming for her brother, and then berating Leo. A muffled voice quickly calmed Patty Handly as she swallowed more tranquilizers. They worked quickly, Patty Handly had eaten nothing all day, and although she had large breasts, she only weighed one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet.

  “The Marauder!” A sudden calm came over Handly. “Evan, the Marauder is bullshit. You could be the Marauder. He’s a fantasized hoax to throw my people off the real competitors. I don’t believe it.”

  The voice on the phone calmly replied, “I assure you Mr. Handly, the Marauder is no hoax. It is a title bestowed on him by others who have seen his work, his actions and reactions. I agree with you it is somewhat fantastical, but it fits the devastating trail of destruction he leaves behind.”

  Handly picked up a gold ornate framed picture of his wife Patty with her brother. “Evan, I want an answer, no charge gratis. Did this Marauder kill Tommy? You screw around with this answer and I will personally hunt you down and butcher you myself.” Handly snarled as he spoke, squeezing the small cell phone in his large hand.

  “Yes, and others employed by you and your associates in Chicago. Threats are not necessary. Mr. Handly, threats are a sign of desperation. Are you satisfied?”

  “Desperation! You leach, you parasite! Ok, I’ll grant you that. I will guarantee you there will be no more signs of weakness. I’m satisfied for now.” Handly studied the picture on his desk; his eyes looked up at the ceiling above his desk. “Let’s talk tomorrow; I think we’d like to know more about our pirate friend. My associates in Chicago may be willing to pay for part of your ridiculous fee.” The line went dead and the room returned to darkness. Handly lit his cigar, the flame extending three inches above the tip of the cigar. The cigar tip burned a deep, devilish red.

  CHAPTER 21

  Freed arrived at his office just after one o’clock. Fatigued from the night’s mission, he had slept in—something he rarely did. He was exhilarated over the covert operation, placing the dead body at Handly’s house. The seed had been planted and he was hoping Moss had information confirming Handly’s involvement. Freed had put his career in jeopardy staging a corpse at a suspect’s residence. The guilt over Mitchelli’s involvement, the safety of his children and nearly getting his head severed from his body at the grain elevator had affected his cavalier decision. His hopes were high Moss had significant information from the agents surveillance. The investigation must continue to progress. Time was running out, and Mitchelli was in danger.

  Freed settled into his chair, looked at the two foot by three foot picture of Jay Edger Hoover on the wall opposite his desk. Hoover was seated signing a document with a young agent standing behind him. Freed smiled and logged into his computer. He called his secretary on the intercom, “Maggie, find Pat and tell him to come to my office, it’s important.”

  “Certainly, I’ll be right in with your mail and the daily logs for your review.”

  Freed studied his computer screen, barely noticing Maggie entering his office. The fifty
-year-old secretary had worked with Freed for the last seven years. Maggie’s slender body, her grayish white hair, framed her role as a senior administrator in the FBI office. She left the mail in a tray on the left front corner of Freed’s desk and the daily logs in the tray on the right corner of the desk. Freed never looked up from his computer screen. He hurriedly read e-mails, scanning and deleting them to get through as many trivial messages as possible before Moss arrived in his office. Then suddenly he noticed an e-mail from the Secretary of Homeland Security, Reagan Stuart.

  “Wow, he’s never sent me an e-mail. That’s surprising. The old curmudgeon finally is advancing into the computer age,” he quietly mumbled to himself. He felt a lump in his throat.

  “Move, and I’ll cut your frickin’ head off!” The elderly female voice screeched at him.

  Freed’s eyes rolled back in his sockets. His body stiffened as a blade was pressed against his neck. The assailant’s fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle were pushing against his Adam’s apple, preventing him from speaking. The knife began to cut into his flesh, reopening the neck wounds from that night at the grain elevator. Maggie’s the mole! I can’t move, I have to get help, I can’t move. Maggie how could you?

  “Ah!!!” Freed screamed, paralyzed by his fear.

  Maggie’s voice was coldly sinister, “I’m going to cut your throat, you arrogant bastard. You’re all going to die, twenty-one missing is nothing. There’s more dead, hundreds more missing. FBI agents, you’re a joke. Mitchelli is the Marauder, you fool. It takes a crook to catch a thief. The Marauder has done more in a week than your office has done in two years.”

  She laughed wickedly, “Hoover’s protégé is going to have his head cut off by his secretary. Think of it Bobby, Robert Freed Killed By His Secretary! It will be in your file for all to read as long as there’s a Bureau. You recruited a killer, a contract killer, the Marauder.”

  The phone started ringing. Freed looked at the phone by his computer terminal and tried to move his arms to answer it, call for help. He could not move; his body was frozen. The more he attempted to move, the tighter the blade pushed against his throat. He could feel the edge of the blade parting his skin as the blood ran down his neck under his collar, soaking his shirt. The ringing grew louder, annoyingly load; the pain was unbearable; it went beyond what he had felt at the grain elevator. His shirt was soaked with blood. “Maggie why? Why Maggie, how could you do this, who is paying you?” The knife cut into Freed’s airway, the sudden leak of air from Freed’s throat blew blood from his wound, splattering across his computer terminal. I’m going to die, I’m dead, I’m dead my God, what have I done? Peter, I’m sorry I can’t even save my own life let alone yours and your children’s. Peter, are you the killer? Oh my god he’s the Marauder…

  Freed’s world went black. He gave in; he was dead... His body went limp, the ringing continued, louder and louder...

  His body jerked suddenly and his eyes opened, scanning his bedroom. Suddenly, he focused on his cell phone as it lay on his nightstand. Freed’s sweat soaked pillow lay across his neck. He pulled the pillow off his neck and rubbed his hands across his knife wound, which although red, had nearly healed.

  Lying on his back, Freed reached for his phone. A female voice began to speak, “Hello Agent--”

  Freed interrupted her, “Maggie’s the mole! Angela, Maggie’s the mole!” Freed suddenly realized he had been dreaming and had answered inappropriately, “Special Agent in Charge Freed.” He rubbed his throat with his left hand.

  A female responded, “Agent Freed this is Molly Richards… Secretary Stuart wanted me to inform you…”

  Freed interrupted her again, “Molly, this is Molly who? Damn it Dom, cut the shit!” Freed had never spoken to Molly, he was in disbelief. He thought Mitchelli had concocted the phone calls from the Secretary’s assistant Molly. He never believed the Secretary’s assistant called Mitchelli everyday to check on his well-being.

  Annoyed she responded, “Cut the shit! Agent Freed, are you having problems hearing me, are you sick?”

  Freed stuttered, “MMMolly, no I’m fine. I was deep in thought reviewing the daily logs. I beg your pardon, please continue.”

  “The Secretary is concerned over the safety of the Mitchelli family.”

  “Yes as am I,” Freed said, trying to recover. “We are taking all precautions, please tell the Secretary to rest assured we have taken care of everything.”

  Molly snapped, “The Secretary is far from assured, we called the Buffalo office this morning looking for you. In your absence, I spoke to Agent Coarseni, who according to your reports is in charge of electronic security for Mitchelli. Is that correct?”

  “Yes ma’am, I mean Molly, he has everything under control.”

  “The Secretary had me instruct agent Coarseni to double the onsite personnel at the Mitchelli residence and each child is to have their own security detail while at school. Ten agents have been dispatched to the Buffalo field office and will arrive this afternoon. They are scheduled to link up with Agent Hoss who, per your reports, is in charge of the detail at the Mitchelli house.”

  Freed was not dreaming. He was quite awake he had a lump in his throat. Bob don’t tick this woman off, choose your words carefully. You don’t want to insult Stuart.

  “Molly, please thank Secretary Stuart for his continued support of our Buffalo operations. The additional agents will be assigned to their security details and put to good use.” Freed rubbed his forehead.

  “Affirmative, I will pass the message on to the Secretary. We have not been able to get in touch with Peter Mitchelli; do you know his current location? I can do satellite location verification, does he always carry his issued phone? We are quite concerned on our end; he has always made himself available.”

  “Um, he was, well he was on surveillance until early this morning. He probably is still resting; we don’t want to push our key man too—hard he is recovering from major injuries, as you know.”

  “Yes, the Secretary wanted me to make something very clear to you. I wrote it down and will read it to you now. The FBI Buffalo field office, specifically Special Agent in Charge Freed is to spare no reasonable expense in assuring the safeguard of Peter Mitchelli and his family, repeat spare no reasonable expense, Agent Freed. Agent Freed, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.” Freed knew he was the fall guy; the axe would fall on his neck if anything went awry with Peter Mitchelli and his family. He had to speak with his superior Assistant Deputy Director MacJames to review just how much leeway he had in expending funds on the new priority of Mitchelli’s security.

  “Our office is sending official confirmation for expenditures, personnel, equipment, and ordinance for the specific use in the protection of Peter Mitchelli and his family. It will go through the appropriate channels and should be at your office today.”

  Freed was relieved, his confidence renewed that the secretary had followed procedures for the expenditure of funds. He was not left in an impossible position of allocating funds and man-hours from his budget. Bottom line was: spend money, keep Mitchelli safe.

  ***

  MacJames spent the day at Mitchelli’s house. She looked through the family photo albums as Mitchelli slept. She studied each picture, specifically the pictures with Mitchelli and his wife Ann. Their love began as high school sophomores. Parties, dates, dances, proms, weddings, dinners, vacations, children, and holidays; there were hundreds of pictures. MacJames was fascinated with how much older Mitchelli looked in each picture. Ann had meticulously placed dates at the bottom of every picture. When Mitchelli was sixteen, he looked like he was twenty. When he graduated from college at twenty-one he looked thirty. Now at forty-five he looked like he was in his early fifties.

  At twelve noon, she went in Mitchelli’s bedroom. She sat at the edge of his bed. The sheet covered his lower body. He wore no bed shirt his bare torso was exposed as he slept. MacJames ran her hands slowly over his body. She was amazed at th
e weight he had lost in the weeks they had known each other. His body had transformed from a forty-five year-old out of shape contractor, to a somewhat fit moderately chiseled man who had done hard work all his life. His middle-aged physique was that of a contractor ex-football player, or professional wrestler. Over the span of the past few weeks during MacJames’s relationship with Mitchelli, the stress and lack of eating had led to the evolution of Mitchelli’s physique to what it once was.

  Two small bandages, one on his hip, the other on left shoulder, could not hide the large muscles they had temporarily disturbed. MacJames ran her hands down his neck along his shoulders, pausing at the ever-decreasing black and blue bruise on his shoulder. Should could feel and see his ribs just below his chest, his stomach had flattened, no longer pushing his belt down below his waist. She briefly touched his chest hair, the right side grey, the left side black. She lied next to him in the bed, snuggling up against him. She heard a quiet clicking noise. She realized it was Mitchelli grinding his teeth. She looked at his hands, his fingers clenched ready to fight, his left hand laid across his hip, the right across his chest. Like a boxer, he led with his left, low to draw his opponent in close for the punch thrown by his powerhouse right. Her father had taught her boxing when she was a little girl. They had watched the heavyweight’s fights on Friday nights.