by Jack Hardin
He walked to the heavy metal door on the back wall and pushed it open. Stepping out, he looked down an alley illuminated by weary incandescents and weak halogens. Virgil was struggling to advance in a wheelchair using only one arm. Deneford walked toward him in an unhurried manner. Virgil’s chair turned unexpectedly into the corner of a dumpster. Struggling, Virgil backed it up and into the center of the alley. But then, he just stopped. He took his hand off the wheel and set it on the armrest. Like he was giving in. Like he was okay with what would come next.
Deneford approached and stepped in front of him.
Virgil smiled faintly. “Took you long enough to find a guy in a wheelchair.”
“You know I have to make this look like you had an accident.”
“I know,” Virgil said. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
Deneford walked around to the back of the wheelchair. He grabbed the handle grips and shoved up and toward the right. The wheelchair dumped its occupant, and Virgil crashed into the asphalt, the side of his head making a hollow thump as it smacked down. Deneford squatted down and placed a strong hand on Virgil’s good arm, pinning him to the asphalt. He reached out and secured the palm of his hand over Virgil’s mouth, then pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When Deneford looked into Virgil’s eyes he saw a man who was not frightened. He didn’t look anxious. As his air supply ran down to its last, Virgil strained against Deneford’s hands, contorting his body to try and steal even the smallest pocket of air. But the effort was futile.
Just as Deneford saw him start to lose consciousness, he said, “You know, as fate would have it, Ellie O’Conner and I have some history.” Deneford leaned in, whispered. “You know I’m going to kill her, right? What was her name? Pascal?”
Virgil’s eyes reopened halfway and his right foot flopped over. But there was nothing left in the tank. His body relaxed and his chest lowered a final time. His right thumb jerked, and then he lay still. Deneford removed his hand from Virgil’s face and checked for a pulse. Not feeling one, he moved quickly.
The authorities already had Virgil down for the murder of an as yet unknown woman near Flagstaff. Deneford would add the pawn shop owner to that list.
There was a loose chunk of concrete near the dumpster. Deneford grabbed it up and set it a few feet behind the wheelchair—something that would have caused it to tip over. Then, for the second time today, he removed the bullets from his revolver. He untucked his shirt tail and rubbed each one down. Being careful not to touch them, he quickly rubbed them along Virgil’s thumb and forefinger and returned them one by one to the cylinder.
He did the same with the hammer.
He would come back to the wheelchair to put Virgil’s prints on the gun and leave it with him. Right after he returned to the pawn shop and took care of its owner.
Then he was off to sunny Florida.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott Reardon stepped to the corner of 13th Street and K Street NW and waited for the pedestrian light to turn green. Behind him rose the front entrance of the Franklin School, the very building upon whose roof Alexander Graham Bell had sent his first wireless communication over a hundred and fifty years ago.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixated on a white stripe in the road. Rita Simmons had called him an hour ago, informing him that the network was going live with the story tomorrow and offering him one last chance to meet with her. He politely declined.
He had nothing on Rita Simmons or her boss. He started to wonder how the leaker had been privy to that. Reardon had kept his plates spinning across the years because he understood a fundamental fact of human nature. Everyone had dirt in their past: a hidden addiction, a DUI, an affair or two or three. In the ordinary world of accountants, librarians, and network analysts, this kind of information was not career ending and so had little use. But within the Beltway, when a move up the golden ladder of influence and power could only be achieved on the back of public approval, it mattered very much.
The light turned and he stepped into the street and crossed into Franklin Park. It was dark, and delicate moonbeams cut across branches and leaves of tall oaks and dappled the ground with a soft light. He approached a bench where a man in dark slacks and a dark polo sat. Reardon did not sit. The man stood up.
“I have a problem,” Reardon said.
“So I hear.”
“Why do I have a problem?”
“I wouldn’t be privy to that. Everything on my end is secure.”
“I’ll be under scrutiny for a while. Lay low until this simmers down. I’ll reach out when I’m ready to pick up again.”
“You don’t think it’s retaliation for what happened in Croatia last month? It was bold what you did.”
“Croatia was necessary. Some had forgotten who they were dealing with.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to tell you the same thing.”
Reardon slid a hand into his pocket and produced a flash drive, handed it to his colleague. “What you requested is all there. Except for Lux. Until I know who created the leak I’m keeping that close to the chest.”
“Then you’d better find out where the leak is, and fast. I can’t do much without Lux.” He looked thoughtfully at Reardon. “What else is bothering you? It’s more than the leak.”
“Something unexpected went very wrong. Nothing I can’t handle.” With that, Reardon nodded, said, “Good evening,” and then turned and retraced his steps back toward 13th Street.
As he walked past the statue of Commodore John Barry, Frank O’Conner slipped the flash drive into the pocket of his slacks and dipped back into the shadows.
____________________
Ellie hadn’t been able to eat breakfast. She had taken the night before off from the warehouse and slept in till eight o’clock. She felt rested. Still, she thought she might throw up.
The picture was as large as a sheet of notebook paper. Ellie set it face-up on the table and pushed it over to her sister, who had just finished a plate of sausage and eggs. Katie set her fork down on her plate, and her smile retreated as she assessed the image. “Ellie. What is this?”
Ellie swallowed hard. “It’s Dad.”
“I can see that.” Her voice was drawn. “Why does...why does the timestamp say this was taken three months ago?” When Katie looked across the table into her sister’s face, Ellie’s hands went cold.
“Because he’s not dead, Katie.”
Katie huffed like it all might be a joke, opened her mouth to speak, and then stalled. She looked back on the picture and shook her head. “What?”
“Someone at the CIA gave this to me. Someone I trust.”
Katie put a hand over her mouth and softly repeated herself. “What?” Ellie recalled the first few moments after she saw the photo herself. How it felt like the world had tilted at the edges, how she couldn’t breathe, and the sudden disharmony of horror and hope that had tumbled through her. “I don’t understand,” Katie said. “He...he died. He’s dead.”
“I think he staged it all,” Ellie said quietly.
Katie came to her feet, her chair nearly tumbling backward. She shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that.” She looked down on the grainy image. “Would he?”
“I don’t know.”
Katie rubbed at her eyebrows with her fingertips. “This can’t be...Ellie, I don’t understand. He...the accident. How long have you known?”
“A few days after this was taken.”
“You’ve known for a few months?” There was no accusation in her voice. Only shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Katie, I don’t understand what’s happening or why. The man who gave me this—he wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t offer any answers at the time.”
Katie stared wide-eyed out the window in her back door. “When will we get some?”
“That’s the thing. The man who gave me this was killed a couple weeks ago.”
“Killed?”<
br />
“That’s all I know. I don’t know why, or by whom. But that means that I still don’t know anything more about this photo than you do.”
Katie blinked and shook her head, stared at her empty plate. “Ellie, he’s really alive?”
“I think he is.”
“Why did this...guy give you the photo in the first place?”
“He was a good man. He thought I needed to know. I just don’t know why. I’ve reached out to someone at Langley, but so far he hasn’t been able to find anything.” Ellie watched her sister, waiting for her to be upset with her. “What are you thinking right now?”
“If...if he wasn’t kidnapped, then...then that means he faked his own death.”
Ellie nodded.
“And that means he’s let us live beneath his lie for the last two years.”
“I know.”
“Oh God.” Katie looked back on the photo. She ran the tips of her fingers over his face. “He looks tired. Older.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he might come—” Katie didn’t finish. She just looked into vacant space.
“I’ve wondered that a million times,” Ellie said. “To be honest, I think he was probably working with the CIA, not the DOJ. Even so, I’m not sure what to think. I don’t even know whose side he might be on.”
“Really? How can you not know, Ellie? It’s Dad we’re talking about here.” She rubbed at her cheeks. “I guess we don’t know, do we?”
“People can change. Even good people like Dad.”
Katie stood up and went to the cupboard. She pulled out a bottle of wine and and set it on the table, then she slid a wine glass from the cabinet. It was only nine in the morning. Ellie lifted a finger. “Me too,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
This time they gave out eleven spots at the warehouse. Dozens of large boxes stood in the receiving bay at the far end of the floor. Nearly a dozen empty crates were spread across the floor behind them. Everyone was told that the boxes contained smaller ones that held a product, about the size of a tissue box. He instructed everyone to stack the small boxes in an orderly fashion on a pallet, twelve high. From there, they were to wrap the stack in clear stretch wrap and then start another pallet. The tape on the large boxes had already cut so, he said, they could get to it.
When she was done with her first pallet, an old man with no teeth was working next to her and held the roll of stretch film while she wrapped it. When Ellie was three-and-a-half pallets in, the man that had watched her working the other night walked across the floor and approached. “Take a break and follow me.”
She left her work and he led her across the warehouse floor to an exit door. He opened it and she followed him down a series of metal steps that echoed against their footfalls. They walked across the dirt toward the ancillary building. The light was on inside. He opened the door and she followed him in.
They were in a small storage room. Shelving that ran along all four walls was filled with tools, file boxes, and three ring binders. A large work table sat in the middle of the room and a single light bulb hung from an exposed wire over its center.
Two other men were already there. Anyone else in Ellie’s position might have felt alarmed. But Ellie detected nothing in the room’s energy or the men’s dispositions that told her she had reason for concern.
The man she followed inside motioned toward a chair in the corner. “Have a seat.” He remained standing, as did the others.
“I’ll stand,” she said.
“I’m Javier.” He gestured to the other two. “That there is Luis. And Ollie.”
She nodded toward them. “What do you need?” she asked.
“Do you like the work you’re doing for us?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that I’m in a position to complain.”
“The other night you said you would rather make money on other people's habits than spend it on your own. What did you mean by that?”
Ellie looked at each man in turn. Coming back to Javier, she said, “Was that not clear?”
Javier rubbed his chin, said, “If it was clear I wouldn’t have asked you.”
Ellie crossed her arms. “Look, I don’t know if you guys knew a Jose Perez.” When their surprised expressions told her that they did, she continued. “I ran a curb for him. Up near Burnt Store.” Luis and Ollie looked at each other. “When Nunez was killed and Jose got arrested, my source dried up. I can’t sell the blanks that are out there now. I’ve got a connection in Orlando who can get me on a curb again, pushing the sort of quality I was getting from Jose.” She looked back at Javier. “Is that clear enough for you?”
“If we can get you a better job, do you still need to make it to Orlando?”
“Depends. What will I be doing?”
“That I can’t say. But before we go any further you would need a ride. You have a car? It’s ten miles from here.”
“That’s not a problem,” she said. “I can figure it out.”
“This new gig pays very well and might get you back to what you were doing before.” He quoted her a figure. “You interested?”
“I guess so.”
There was a notepad on the table top. Javier grabbed a pen and scratched something down. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to her. “It’s a plant farm a couple miles from here. You’ll work up to six hours starting at 7 pm. Start the night after next.”
She looked down at the paper. “A plant farm?”
“Yeah. You know, like a commercial nursery? They’re short a couple hands. If you’re interested, you have to be there night after next. If not, don’t bother.”
“I’ll be there.”
“One more thing. If you’ve got a phone, don’t bring it. Don’t even leave it in your car.” Then Javier dismissed her, and Ellie walked back to the warehouse with a smile on her lips.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The address Quinton had been given led him to an office park in Punta Gorda. He parked his truck in an open spot near the front door and went inside, clutching a stainless steel travel mug in his hand. The interior was old, but not dirty, showing its age by the outdated bricked walls of the lobby, gold-chromed lighting, and dark, thinning carpet. A set of stairs rode up the wall to his right, and he took them to the second floor.
A minute later he was escorted to the back of the suite and into Stacey Blume’s office. Today she wore black jeans and a white blouse that, while still revealing her navel, covered most of her stomach. The lady who had walked into his bait shop a few days ago was nowhere to be seen. Stacey’s disposition was all business. Apparently, her sultry little show had been intended as some kind of test. Quinton had passed, but her finger was still sore.
They spent the first few minutes discussing their legitimate businesses. As it turned out, Stacey Blume owned several businesses throughout Lee and Charlotte counties. Businesses that included a small chain of hair salons, a food processing plant, and a lighting manufacturer that specialized in commercial LEDs.
Quinton set his travel mug on her desk and pushed it toward her. “Here’s the coffee you asked for. Let me know what you think.”
Stacey picked up the mug. “You can speak freely in here.” She removed the lid, peered in, then set it aside. “Very good. I’ll have it tested and get back with you. I take it you were familiar with Mateo Nunez?”
“Of course.”
“He was my coke supplier. Since he was taken down I’ve been trying to find a local supplier who can get me something purer than forty percent. Right now, I’m getting garbage and I’d rather not have to source as far out as Miami or Tampa.”
Quinton dipped his head toward the mug. “Ours is eighty percent. Minimum.”
Stacey broke into a sudden laugh, nearly a giggle. “Come on. No one gets over sixty percent. Certainly not eighty. Not unless you have people in the actual production cycle.”
When all she got back was a blank stare, her smiled dried up. “If you’re not BS’in
g me then I think you and I will have a very long relationship.”
“Tell me about fentanyl,” he said. “How do you get it?”
“I was getting it from China, but we recently learned how to source the required chemicals ourselves. Once you have that, making it is like mixing up a batch of cookies.”
“Beak was saying that you’re lacing the coke with it?”
“Oh. Yes. I’m telling you, it’s the future. Once the street dealers have their semi-annual customers becoming semi-weekly customers, they find that they can’t move their supply fast enough. That’s all because of the additive. I don’t know what all Beak told you about the process, but fentanyl is sixty to eighty times more potent than heroin. Than heroin,” she repeated. “We’ll literally add in only three to four grains of fentanyl—and I mean like the size of a grain of salt—to every gram of coke.” She snapped her painted fingers. “And then we have a new customer for life.”
Before Quinton left Stacey Blume’s office a half hour later, he discovered that sitting there, talking with her, he was beginning to feel something he hadn’t felt his entire ten years working at this business. It was a newfound kind of energy—excitement maybe. The way you feel just before you get in that small plane that will take you skydiving or when your toes are hugging the edge of a cliff as you contemplate the forty foot drop into the hot springs below. It was that anticipation, that thrill that hovered just below the skin.
It was indeed the dawn of a new era.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Late that morning Ellie had walked down to The Salty Mangrove and helped her sister serve customers through the lunch hour. Tyler had come down and spent an hour working on the repairs to the indoor seating area. He had the exterior all framed in but was still short on lumber for the ceiling joists. All of the lumber yards and home supply stores were running out of supplies as soon as they got them in. Once the lunch crowd died down, Ellie and Tyler left the bar together to go shooting at Reticle, something they hadn’t been able to squeeze in between hurricanes and drug dealers and kidnappers over these last few weeks.