Larry pointed at the house. “You mean only those three on the end at ground level?” Jessica nodded. “What do you recommend for exposure, Jess?”
“Take several shots with different exposures. We don’t care about quality, just the presence of infrared light.”
Larry did as Jessica advised, taking several pictures of the windows and changing the aperture settings after each shot to ensure at least one good picture. “I have a few exposures left on this roll of film, Jess. How would we go about shooting the actual laser beam?”
Jessica thought about it for a few seconds before walking over to the curb and scooping up a little dirt into her hands. “Let me throw this dirt up in the air to create reflections. You’ll have to time it just right.”
Neither of them had any idea whether Jessica’s idea worked, especially since Larry couldn’t see a thing through the viewfinder, but both were laughing at how silly they must have looked as they repeated the process five times until they reached the end of the roll of film.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of a Bethesda camera shop. Larry showed the owner his FBI badge and asked if his pictures could be next in the cue. The owner agreed and returned ten minutes later with the photos. “Infrared images of windows. I believe that’s a first,” he said as he placed the photos on the counter.
“We’re looking for something. Your magnifying glass, please.”
“I’ll do you one better. Place the negatives in that machine over there. You can blow them up as big as you like and print copies if need be. By the way, what’s with the infrared pictures of the woman throwing dirt in the air? It looks like you got a laser beam above her.”
Jessica whipped her head around to look at Larry. “We found him, Larry.”
CHAPTER 25
Nearly five hours of travel time gave me plenty of time to think about the twists and turns that comprised my life. John Lennon’s lyrics from “Beautiful Boy” came to mind. “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” Isn’t that the damn truth. Having a father who was a 16-year veteran in the NFL and a mother who was an elite prima ballerina provided me with an amazing athletic pedigree. Size and power from Dad. Speed and agility from Mom. Every coach, every scout who ever saw me play, felt I was bound for greatness in the NFL. Or maybe a chance to wrestle in the Olympics.
That was the plan. The reality was far different. A drunk driver killed my father during my junior year of high school on the same night I won the state sectionals in wrestling for the third year in a row. It was the last time I wrestled competitively. The depression caused by losing my father prevented me from playing football in my senior year. All my life, my physical prowess was something celebrated by my peers. I was popular in school. Well-liked. I was respected by most, feared by many. No longer the star football player, I soon realized many of my friends weren’t coming around anymore. Part of me expected that. What surprised me was the adults in my life. The coaches, the teachers, the mentors seemed to lose interest as well. I realized I was no longer useful to them. It was eye-opening.
My depression eventually morphed into anger, which could have ruined me. It should have ruined me. Martial arts saved me, or more directly, my favorite instructor, Brent Johnson, saved me. I was done wrestling but found martial arts to be a wonderful distraction, and I excelled at it. Partially because of my athleticism and partially due to the ferocity with which I approached the activity. Brent took an interest in me, realized I was the angriest kid he’d ever met, and taught me how to channel that anger into something positive. I still had a long way to go to finding joy in the world (that wouldn’t come until years later), but, at least, I was getting things done again.
A business degree from the University of Illinois. Three years as an officer in Naval Intelligence. Now, at 36 years old, I was a medical doctor. I didn’t even like biology in high school, how the hell did I end up a doctor? Yet, I couldn’t imagine myself as anything else. The job fit me, although I’m sure none of the kids I went to high school with would have ever voted me most likely to end up with a stethoscope around his neck.
And now, for the umpteenth time in my life, I was coming to the aid of someone who needed my help. Not the type of help you might expect from an ER doctor. I was helping someone in danger. Maybe that was my true destiny, and being a doctor was how I paid the bills. Maybe all those times I smashed the bully in the face for picking on the little guy when I was a kid was simply training and preparation for the big, important stuff to come later.
This time the problem was not only important; it was personal. It looked like my mother was being stalked by members of organized crime because she had the misfortune of marrying the wrong guy years ago after my father, the love of her life, died prematurely. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand their motive for coming after my mother. It made no sense. She didn’t put two men in the hospital last year. I did that. She didn’t steal from them. She wasn’t a threat to their livelihood. Which meant Mom’s ex-husband, Scott Beyers, must be putting them up to it. But why? Mom wasn’t particularly hard on Beyers with the divorce. She left him the house in Chicago, which was more than the prenuptial agreement guaranteed him. The Outfit’s interest in my mother was a mystery to me.
Mystery or not, I was prepared to take them down. Make them hurt. Worse if I had to. No one was coming after my mother without facing the consequences of an extremely protective, very dangerous son. And Scott Beyer, well, I hadn’t decided what to do about him yet. Whatever I decided, the problems he had created were coming to an end, even if I had to tear through the Windy City like the Great Chicago Fire to find him and stop him.
A little over six hours after Mom called me, I arrived at the Ozark resort where Mom was staying. The resort looked nice, more upscale than I pictured for the middle of nowhere in Missouri. An eager, friendly valet greeted me as soon as I stopped.
“Could you park this close as possible and bring me back the key?” I asked. “And back the car the car in as well, please.”
The valet gave me a strange look as if he didn’t understand my request.
I stepped out of the vehicle, pulled a 20-dollar bill from my pocket, and handed it to him. “I might need to leave at a moment’s notice.” His smile told me he was willing to humor my strange request. I watched where he parked the vehicle and waited for him to return with the key. “Thank you.”
I entered the resort, found a lobby phone, and called Mom’s room. She was excited to hear from me. “Thank God, Legend. I’m going nuts. Where are you?”
“In the lobby, Mom.”
“Why are you in the lobby? Come to my room.”
“Not yet. I want to look around to get an idea of how to get you out of here. Maybe see if I can spot the guys watching you.”
“Since you’re in the lobby, look around. That’s where I first spotted them. Both guys are thick. One in his thirties, the other in his forties. Average height. They dress like detectives on TV. You know the look.”
“Yeah, cheap,” I said. “How did you spot them? You know what, never mind, I trust you. You stay put.”
“Okay, when should I expect you?”
“Give me ten minutes or so, Mom.”
During the six hours of travel, I kept second-guessing my decision to travel to the Ozarks, partially because I wasn’t sure if Mom was right about being followed, partially because it might have been easier to get the local police involved. The thing that finally clinched it for me was that I knew I had to...just in case. Just in case she was right. Just in case the police wouldn’t help. Just in case the Outfit sent the men to do something more than scare Mom. I would never forgive myself if I made the wrong decision.
I knew my decision was the right one when I spotted one of the men Mom said was following her. I didn’t pick him out because of her description. I picked him out because I had seen him before. Last year, November 11, Veteran’s Day, in fact. I even knew his name — Tony Mancini. Mancini
was one of two members of the Outfit who attacked me, the one who ended up with a broken jaw and a concussion. I wondered if he still partnered with Tony Genovese. The last time I saw the other Tony, I hit him so hard I knocked one of his eyeballs out of his head.
Mancini was sitting on a couch in the reception area alone. He hadn’t spotted me, and I planned on keeping it that way. I slipped out the front door of the hotel unnoticed and started walking toward Mom’s cabin, looking for Genovese, or whomever Mancini might be partnered with. My vigilance was rewarded when I spotted Genovese sitting in a late model full-sized Lincoln with a good view of Mom’s cabin.
Now that I knew who I was dealing with, calling the police crossed my mind. Report a guy in a Lincoln with a gun, and the problem would be fixed in the short-term. But I didn’t spend hundreds of dollars on airfare and travel six hours for a short-term solution. It was time the Outfit learned that the cost of coming after me, of coming after my mother, was too damn steep, although I would have thought a broken jaw and a dangling eyeball would have already convinced them. Obviously, I was wrong. It was time to up the ante.
Dealing with Genovese was my first priority. I remembered Anthony Genovese from last year. Nicknamed Tony the Boxer. Middle age had not been kind to Tony the Boxer. He was thick and stout and looked intimidating enough. He was also old and slow, someone who relied too much on his own belief that he was still hard. And as I slithered up behind his vehicle, I realized he wasn’t the most observant fellow either.
My eyes were glued to his side mirror, wondering how close I could get before I was spotted. Wondering what his reaction might be if he did spot me. I never found out because he never spotted me. I grabbed the driver’s side door handle and ripped the door open to unearth a completely surprised former tough guy sitting in his front seat without a clue in the world about what was getting ready to hit him.
Hesitation can get you hurt. Or worse. I wasted no time, punching Genovese hard in the face. Before his head finished its recoil, I grabbed his legs pulling him out of the car. His head hit the asphalt hard causing him to howl in pain. The hapless gangster’s eyes locked onto mine for a split second before glancing down, drawing my attention to his right hand sliding toward his belt and the gun tucked in his waistband.
“You mother f-f-f,” I yelled, nearly incoherent with rage.
I straddled Genovese’s supine body bringing my knee down on his arm. He was pinned and defenseless and unable to reach his gun. I hit him again. Hard with my right hand. Followed by a left, then another right. His nose made a satisfying crunching sound, and his eyes glazed over on the second right, but his beating wasn’t over. Several elbow strikes came next, even though he was unconscious after the second blow.
I grabbed the revolver tucked into Genovese’s waistband and stood up to look at my handiwork. Blood oozed from his face. One eye was already swelling shut. At least it was still in the socket this time. His lip was cut. Rage filled me to my very soul as I stood defiantly over the unconscious man. The son of a bitch lying in front of me was waiting outside my mother’s room with a gun. My rage was further fueled by the idea that Scott Beyers, my mother’s ex-husband and someone who I’d hated for years, was the reason the man was sitting outside my mother’s room in the first place.
An unconscious, bleeding Genovese wasn’t good enough. I don’t like to fight the same guy twice. I like to remove my opponent’s ability to come after me a second time, either by breaking his will or by breaking parts of his body. Yet, there was Genovese outside my mother’s cabin less than a year after knocking his eyeball out of his head.
I bent over, grabbed the man’s right upper extremity, and forcibly hyperextended the elbow, grinning as the tendons and ligaments surrounding the elbow were torn to shreds. Genovese’s eyes opened as the pain ripped through him. Good. I wanted him to feel every bit of the pain intended for him.
It wasn’t enough to dislocate the elbow. His days as a Mafia enforcer needed to come to an end. I forced the elbow backward twice more, smiling as I heard the strangely satisfying sound of bone breaking.
Genovese was going to scream. My left hand went across his mouth to muffle that scream. My right hand grabbed his revolver. As he gasped for breath, I quickly removed my left hand and replaced it with the revolver, placing the barrel inside his mouth far enough that the metal clanked off his teeth and initiated his gag reflex.
“Scream, you son of a bitch, I dare you,” I whispered menacingly as I glared into his pain-stricken eyes.
He didn’t scream.
“I’m thinking about killing you.”
His eyes opened even wider.
“You are an idiot for coming after me a second time.”
He looked like he wanted to speak.
“If you scream, I’ll end you. I only need one of you to live long enough to travel back to Chicago to tell your bosses I’ve had enough, so killing you will not bother me one little bit. You understand, or should I let Mancini deliver the message?” I was bluffing, or at least, that’s what I was telling myself.
Genovese stared at me, eyes wide with fear, as he teared up from the pain. But he didn’t say a word. It was obvious he didn’t think I was bluffing. He was probably right.
“You’ve decided not to answer my last question; I respect that you’re not willing to sell your partner down the river. For now, I’ll let you live, but you’re going in the trunk. If you scream or fight me on this, I’ll do to your right knee what I did to your arm. With 12 muscles crossing the knee and four major ligaments, it will hurt. Much more than the elbow. And you’ll never walk on your right knee ever again without pain. Do we have an understanding?”
He nodded.
I reached inside his vehicle and pushed the trunk release before grabbing Genovese by his belt and jerking him to his feet. Walked him back to the trunk and violently shoved him inside. He yelped in pain as he landed.
“Anthony Genovese,” I said. His eyes widened as he realized I knew his name. “From this point forward in time, if I ever see you again, at all, for any reason, for all eternity, I will assume you’ve come for me. Next time you die. I’ll bury your body somewhere no one will ever find it, and I’ll cover you with enough toxic chemicals that nothing will be left to find just in case. If you’re lucky, I will have killed you before I put you in the ground.”
I suddenly realized I wasn’t bluffing. I slammed the trunk shut on Genovese without waiting for a response and walked away.
***
Unadulterated rage filled me as I shut the trunk on Genovese. To the point that I badly wanted to open the trunk and break his knee anyway. He was sitting outside my mother’s cabin with a gun. Maybe I should end him. That thought was still at the forefront of my mind as I glanced around the parking lot hoping no one had witnessed my violent assault on the Chicago gangster. The parking lot was empty, and I didn’t see any security cameras, meaning for the second time in the last couple of weeks, I had successfully stashed a member of organized crime in a trunk. Too bad there was no 20 grand this time.
Now, what to do about Mancini? Should I make an example out of him as well?
It was a good question. But getting Mom out of the resort unharmed was my first priority, and if Mancini remained in the lobby, then he wasn’t a current threat. I found myself secretly hoping he’d come out of the lobby looking for his partner, forcing me to deal with him. Maybe I could ruin his elbow, too. Make a matching set out of them. Oh, that would be fun. Help me burn off more of the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream. Maybe help with the nausea from the adrenaline rush.
Did I say that would be fun?
I finally took a long look at the revolver I lifted off Genovese. A large-framed Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. Nice gun. Good stopping power. Dependable. It fit well in my large hand. I tucked it into my waistband and untucked my shirt to cover the revolver, shaking my head in mild amusement as I recalled I had lifted a gun off these two on our last meeting as well.
To say Mom
was happy to see me was an understatement. She pulled me into the room, shut the door behind me, and kissed me on the cheek. Even at 62, my mother made getting up on pointe look effortless as she strained to reach my cheek. “I’m sorry, Legend.”
“Not that again, Mom. It’s behind us.”
“I thought you were being overly cautious. I should have listened.”
“Truth be told, Mom, I thought I was overly cautious, too. Now that I know their level of commitment, I can better judge my level of response.”
“What exactly is their level of commitment, Legend? I mean, they drove all the way from Chicago to find me. It can’t be to say hello.”
I pulled the .357 out of my waistband and showed it to Mom. “I pulled this from one of the guys watching your room.”
“What?” she said wide-eyed. “Just now? My God. How...I mean...crap, I don’t know what I mean.” She paused to process the information for several seconds before speaking again. “That’s why you’re all red-faced and clammy.” She eyed me cautiously. “Legend, what was your level of response?”
“Mom, I should warn you that you may see a side of me that frightens you.”
“I lived through the war years in Norway, Legend. I’ve met and talked with Nazis. I lost the man of my life. Not much frightens me now, except the thought of losing you or Jessica. Which means I want you to do what you need to do, and don’t worry about how it will affect me.”
“Mom, I’m not holding back. I plan to use these guys to send a message.”
“You’re going to talk to them? I hadn’t expected that.”
“No, Mom, they are the message. I’ve already started with the one parked outside your room.”
“Oh,” she said solemnly.
“Yeah, Mom, it got real. Now, let’s get you out of here. Get packed while I get your car.”
Mom started packing her luggage, talking while she scurried around the room. “The man outside...what...I mean, is he...what are you going to do about him?”
Deadly Promise Page 30