MacJames knew Stazi was right, although she hid her guilt, “Your daughter and I share a common objective, Peter’s health and his well being. I know now that I cannot control him, but hopefully with Suzanne’s help we can keep him healthy enough where he’ll make the right decisions, the choices that will keep him safe out of harm’s way.”
Dr. Stazi confronted MacJames, “Answer my question, what are the Mitchellis involved in?”
MacJames held her ground. “I told you I can’t answer that; it could put his family and many others lives in jeopardy.”
“Who would want to hurt children?” Stazi asked. “They’re so young. Why would the government put them at risk? Who are these savages that want to hurt children? What type of manipulative witch are you?”
Lillian pleaded, “They’re all I have left of my daughter.”
“My God they’re animals! Who are these pigs?” Stazi asked again.
Angela put her arm around Lillian. “I can’t tell you specifics. The Department of Homeland Security values Peter’s contributions and wants to ensure his safety.”
Lillian continued to plead with MacJames. “Please, the children need a father. Why the children? I don’t understand all this over a mugging. What does Peter have to do with the Department of Homeland Security? I don’t understand…”
Stazi began to chide MacJames. “What type of person are you, to destroy a good family? Use them and then throw them away. I’m a great doctor, what makes you think I can keep patching him up, plugging the holes before all his blood runs out? Government people in high places, using children as bait, just despicable. I’m going to the papers, I have contacts. I’ll expose your little wormy scheme before you get all the Mitchellis killed. I’ll go to Senator Ross, I wrote him a very large check; he’ll clip your puppet strings and Peter will be free of your control.”
“No you won’t, you lead them right to my children, they’d be murdered.” Mitchelli appeared at the opposite end of the hallway, his tone commanding, his body casting a large shadow down the hall. “It’s too late, the damage is done. I made a bad decision and don’t want my children to suffer for my poor judgment.” His words cut through MacJames’s heart.
“Peter, they’re killing you and your family; they need to be stopped. Let me help you! The government doesn’t have your best interest in mind.” Stazi turned towards Mitchelli, turning her back toward MacJames. “I can save you, let me help you. I have millions of dollars! It’s yours, let me use it to save you.”
“Suzanne, I don’t want to be saved.” Mitchelli looked at his mother-in-law. “Mom, do as Angela tells you. We have no choice; the government has promised to protect you and the children. Suzanne, help Angela come up with something to tell the children so they’re less frightened. You have a clear head, help them with the children, you’ll know what to tell them.”
“I’m not helping that manipulative government bitch, I won’t.” Stazi crossed her arms.
“Suzanne you’re helping my children and me.” Mitchelli walked down the hall and put his hands on Stazi shoulders. “You’ve always been rock solid, they need your strength; don’t crumble now. You saved my life; I need you to help save my children.”
Stazi pushed her body against his. “My love, they’re using you, just like the communists did to us in Poland. Listen to me, I love you, but I don’t trust her.”
“You must trust Angela, and you need to help her with the children.”
“I will do anything you ask, you know that.” She kissed Mitchelli’s hand. She continued speaking with a thick Polish accent, “She must not be able to cook, or make you eat. I can’t let her starve the children. My sister will bring a Polish feast over tonight and you are going to eat like an emperor.” A drop of sweat rolled down Mitchelli’s cheek; he was perspiring. “Peter, you’re burning up!” Stazi touched his forehead.
MacJames recognized his symptoms. Mitchelli was starting to get one of his debilitating headaches. “Suzanne, he’s going to pass out.”
He could feel every beat of his heart throbbing in his head. The pounding shot down the back of his head to his neck. The metallic taste in his mouth returned. He could barely keep his eyes open and his vision began to narrow. He could hear MacJames and Stazi moving closer to him and he felt them each take one of his arms…
***
The laptop computer screen came to life and the screen lit up with four consecutive pictures of a brown sedan entering Mitchelli’s street. The computer automatically highlighted the third picture as the best resolution. Below the photo, a pop-up window appeared with the license plate number of the vehicle. The operator had to verify the computer’s selection. He agreed with the computer’s identification of the plate. The computer was correct 99.9 percent of the time. The operator placed the cursor over “accept” and clicked the right mouse button. Another window opened after several seconds, indicating the vehicle was registered to a Deon Walt; female; African American; date of birth May 1, 1987; address 38 Buffum Street, Buffalo, New York; occupation bartender; employer, Runners, 10 Michigan Street: prior arrest prostitution, and possession of narcotics.
There were four more cameras on the street capturing images of the vehicle driving through Mitchelli’s neighborhood, a street a fifth of a mile in length. The pictures appeared on the screen rapidly, each camera taking four pictures a second. There was barely any significant change in the pictures because the car was driving slowly; the occupant in each picture was facing Mitchelli’s property. The last image taken showed the driver of the vehicle photographing the Mitchelli home.
The computer operator immediately forwarded the photographs, data, and a brief comment “person of interest” to the FBI Buffalo office via secure government e-mail. Coarseni was copied on all such correspondence.
***
Garez drove from Buffalo’s waterfront to Ridge Road in Lackawanna. He drove east, passing by the Father Baker Basilica. He entered the 219 expressway heading south towards the Town Orchard Park. In thirty minutes, he was driving through ski country’s town of Ellicottville. The CIA was in close pursuit, one mile behind Garez. Sixty-two minutes after leaving Ghetto Beach, Garez drove onto the Southern Tier Expressway, heading towards Jamestown and then Olean, New York. The expressway ran parallel to the New York state and Pennsylvania border. Garez had navigated the maroon Explorer deep into the southern tier.
This southern area of New York was hill country. During the era of Teddy Roosevelt, it was known as oil country. The crude oil had bubbled out of the ground, dotting the landscape like prehistoric tar pits. In the late eighteen hundreds, it was a nuisance to the farmers, an annoyance invading their farmland and grazing fields. The combustion engine and Rockefeller quickly changed the farmer’s opinion of the oil.
The computer operator was tracking Garez’s route on his screen. He nervously looked out his window at the gathering cloud cover.
“Hanson, keep your eyes on that plotter screen. We can’t afford to lose him,” Mores shouted at the young agent.
“Sir, did you check the weather forecast this morning?” Mores did not answer. “Did anyone check the forecast?” Hanson nervously repeated his question.
The driver answered, “I think the hot blonde on channel three said partly cloudy.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Hanson answered.
“Hanson, stop worrying about the weather for your drive-in movie date tonight and focus on tracking that SUV.” Mores was annoyed and losing his patience with the young agent.
Suddenly, the SUV drove into a downpour. The rain was falling hard; it pounded the SUV’s roof. The driver turned his wipers on high but could barely see out the front window. The driver slowed the SUV just as he passed a slower moving truck. Mores had his window open several inches and shut it as the drops of rain sprayed him in his face. Lightning streaked across the windshield. The plotter screen flashed and then went static.
“Did that frickin’ lightning hit us?”
Hanson answer
ed Mores, “No.”
“Why did your screen turn to snow?” Mores leaned towards Hanson.
Hanson’s hands were quickly pressing buttons as he attempted to reboot his machine. “No, Sir, we were not hit by lightning. It did not have to hit us to knockout our reception.”
“Reception! We lost reception, good God, how could we lose reception?”
“Sir, that’s why I asked about the weather. This is a model K799 satellite tracking system. See, the transponder in our suspect’s SUV sends a signal to a satellite orbiting above us, which in turn transmits a signal to us with a corresponding location on our plotter screen. The company that made the K799 satellite tracking system also makes satellite tracking systems for boats and motor homes so they can access satellite TV while their moving. They revolutionized recreational entertainment; you know home theaters, except in boats and motor homes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Mores’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth to the floor.
“Sir, that’s why I asked about the weather report. Remember I asked earlier? You yelled at me for looking out the window.” Hanson pushed his round horn-rimmed glasses up as they drifted down the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t see nothing. Please tell me you can track him, you can get rid of that snowstorm on your screen so we can track him right?” Mores did not wish to tell his superiors he had lost their only living subject. My God, what would Mitchelli do?
“I don’t see anything.”
“What?”
“I was correcting your grammar, it’s not I see nothing, it is I don’t see anything.” He looked back at his computer screen, “I’m writing a book I was an English major.” There was another lightning flash. Just as the static cleared from the plotter screen, it went back to static.
“Hanson, son, I have less than two years until I retire. In that time, please don’t ever correct my grammar because I don’t want to tarnish my service record by killing you.” Mores looked as if he was going to throw up.
“Sir, I’m sorry back on topic. When I was helping Coarseni install the alarm system on Mitchelli’s boat, as you directed me, I noticed Mitchelli had a satellite tracking system for his entertainment center on the boat. Coarseni said he watched a movie with the kids and it worked great, better than home. However, Mitchelli told him even when docked in his slip, he lost the satellite signal during heavy cloud cover, rain, and lightning. The severe weather along Lake Erie interfered with the satellite signal. I confirmed the same weather related warning in the K799 manual last night; that’s why I made sure to watch the weather this morning.”
“Son, do you have any idea how long it took to secure a suspect of interest in this case?” Mores was starting to turn green.
Hanson looked up as if to answer Mores’s question. “Strike that son,” Mores said. “The lives of Mitchelli and his family are at stake, do you know that?” Hanson opened his mouth. “Good God! Don’t answer that! Stay focused on that damn screen and get it up and running.” Nervously, almost in a panic, Hanson began pushing buttons to reestablish communications with the satellite.
***
Garez exited the expressway minutes after the rain had begun; he was in the town of Olean. He felt nauseated and he broke out into a cold sweat. He parked his SUV on Main Street, opened his door, and threw up on the sidewalk. His pain was severe. He limped into a diner, walking directly to the payphone in the back. The fifteen or so patrons could not help but notice the sickly man walking to the back of the diner. He quickly dialed a number. “Dutch, it’s me, we need to meet.”
“Garez is that you?” The voice on the other end of the line raised his twanging country voice in astonishment.
“Yes, it’s me. In a matter of minutes they’re going to kill me!” Garez was beginning to panic as the intensity of the pain increased.
“Who’s they and where have you been?”
“They are the SOBs who have held me for the last week, they have our goods and want to make a deal. Jesus, I have to meet you, I’m going to drive up!”
“No way, they could be following you. Meet me at Stoker’s Bridge we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Ok, you paranoid shit, I got it.” Garez limped back through the diner, stopping halfway to the door where he began to cough violently by the seats at the counter. He began to dry hack, almost throwing up again.
“Mr., are yous alright?” The waitress behind the counter asked.
Garez looked at the woman without replying and walked out into the heavy rain. As he exited the door, he walked in the opposite direction of his vehicle. His clothes were soaking wet from the rainstorm. Blood from his wounds began to pool at his feet and spread on the sidewalk, running down the curb to the street and into the storm sewer. The waitress and four patrons stared out the diner window at Garez as he began to wobble, almost falling. His eyes were transfixed on the traffic light several hundred feet away. As it changed from yellow to red, a lightning bolt shot diagonally across the sky behind the light.
He turned and walked back towards his vehicle. He drove slowly out of town, making several turns down country roads. Realizing he had made several wrong turns, he cleared his head reversed course.
Stoker’s Bridge was a steel trestle single lane bridge forty feet over a rock bottom creek. During the summer, the creek had a foot of water, which barely covered the rocky bottom. At high water during the spring or during a torrential rainfall, the creek and the small gorge could raise twenty feet to just under the trestle.
Garez drove through the woods on the single lane road until the steel trestle appeared. His tires hummed as he drove across the bridge, parking on the stone gravel just off the shoulder of the road. He shifted the transmission into park and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He lost consciousness.
A rapping on the driver’s window awakened him. The rain had stopped. “Open your window, we don’t have much time! Don’t you remember?” Dutch was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Garez slowly raised his head from the steering wheel. He had a red mark with the impression of the steering wheel on his forehead. He turned slowly and looked at the man pounding on his driver’s window. I’m dying, no I’m drugged. Dutch! It’s Dutch. Garez opened the window, “Dutch, you have to call right now you have to make a deal, they’ll tell you where the antidote is to save my life!”
“Hey man, you led them right to us. What the hell is wrong with you? If I make the phone call they’re going to locate the transmission. They probably have a GPS on the phone, you dumb shit.” Dutch reached in the window and slapped the back of Garez’s head. “The boss wants to know where the merchandise is, what the hell did you do with it?”
“I don’t have it; he shot everyone, including me. We had them, three of them at gunpoint. The big…” Garez’s eyes widened. “The big dago, you know him, shot the hell out of us, dumb prick, his little gun shot us all up.”
“Come on man, don’t give me that crap. The boss will flip when he hears it, so will your guys in Chicago. Where’s the junk? Give it to me straight.”
“He’s possessed, I swore he was shot—two, three times—yet he shot me in the shoulder and leg. BELIEVE ME! I was the only one who lived, they told me while they had me locked up in some basement. Make the call!” He gave Dutch the brick of heroin with the phone number written on it, “The numbers on the back make the damn call!”
“I’m not calling; I’ll take the number and call them later. Get out of the truck, you’re coming with me. Tell me where the stuff is. This time give me the truth. Did the guys in Chicago put you up to this?” Dutch reached over the top of the window, unlocked the door, and opened it. “Come on Mitchell, everything’s going to be fine.” He pulled Garez from his seat and held him up. Garez looked over his shoulder to see two other men sitting on black ATVs, each holding a shotgun.
“No, you have to make the call; you’re not going to gut me. I know you Dutch, I’m not going out that way. I’m NOT GOING OUT THAT
WAY. NO! THAT’S BAD! NO!” Garez’s body straightened as he pushed Dutch away. Dutch slipped on the wet muddy stones and Garez ran to the edge of the fifty-foot gorge. He stumbled and then slipped on the steel grating. His head struck the steel beam, the top of the trestle as it angled downward to the steel deck. His skull cracked open and his blood and brains oozed out.
Dutch looked at Garez; his eyes bulged wide open and rolled back in their sockets. Garez was dead. Dutch quickly searched his body and then walked back to the ATVs. “The poor bastard, freaked out, slipped, split his head open, and broke his neck. The boss is going to freak. I’ll let him call this special number. The freak wouldn’t stop rambling; he was begging me to make a call. Poor dumb bastard, aw hell, we would have cut him up anyways.”
The men each pressed a switch on the handlebars and the electric starter motors wined as the engines caught and the machines rumbled to life. The riders shifted the levers next to the gas tanks forward. The tires spin on the gravel, men and machines disappearing as they rode into the woods, their green and brown camouflage blending with the forest.
***
“I’ve got him! Just like I told you sir, once the downpour stopped, there was no interference with the satellite.” Hanson focused on the screen, he widened the field of view. With each click of the button, the area scanned grew a quarter mile larger. He tilted his head in confusion. “Sir, he’s seven miles behind us.”
“Behind us!” Mores’s rear-end rose off the seat.
Hanson swallowed. “Sir, we have to get off the thruway at the next exit and take the back roads. He’s headed out of Olean, southeast to be exact, if we get off at the next exit, he’ll be heading towards us.”
Mores screamed, “DROP THE HAMMER ON THIS THING, MOVE!” The SUV quickly began passing and weaving through the traffic. Mores dialed FBI headquarters who contacted the New York State Police to give them an order: do not stop the black SUV. It would be obeyed no questions asked.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 39