Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  Five minutes later, a waiter with a large golf umbrella walked the Wilkes to their car.

  Thirty seconds later, the car had not yet moved. It was time. Bic drove up the cab next to the Town Car and rolled the passenger side window down. Raindrops flooded in, slapping against the plastic interior of the door.

  Mr. Wilkes tried to open his window but couldn’t, so he cracked his door open and shouted, “Our car won’t start.”

  “Sorry to hear that!” Bic yelled. “Tell you what. I’m just about off my shift, but I’ll be happy to give you a ride.”

  Sam Wilkes leaned over and said something to his wife, then swung his door open, got out of his vehicle and came into the back seat of the cab. He was pretty quick for an older man.

  Mr. Wilkes’ shirt was drenched from being in the rain, despite being outside only briefly. His comb-over looked like a bad science project.

  Bic pulled to the other side of the Town Car. He got out of the vehicle, using his newspaper to shield himself from the rain the best he could. He swung open the door on the Lincoln and extended his hand to help Mrs. Wilkes out of her vehicle and into the cab, shielding her from the worst of the rain with his newspaper.

  Bic returned to the driver’s seat. He looked at the couple through the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  “416 Gilbert Drive.”

  “No problem,” said Bic, pulling out of the parking spot.

  The rain was pouring down harder than before, and the poor visibility caused Bic to drive extra cautiously. A car accident, even a small fender bender, could derail everything.

  He faked a double-take at the old couple in rearview mirror and said hesitantly, “Say, haven’t I seen your picture somewhere?”

  Mrs. Wilkes smiled. Bic could tell how proud she was of her husband, “He’s Sam Wilkes.”

  Bic nodded, wide-eyed. “Hey, I thought so. I tell you, I can’t wait to tell all my buddies I gave Sam Wilkes a ride in my cab.” Grinning, he went back to peering at the road.

  He exited the Gerald Ford Freeway onto the ramp to head south on I-29.

  “I think you’ve just made a wrong turn,” Mr. Wilkes said dryly. “We’re heading south.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. The visibility is terrible. I’ll turn around as soon as I can.”

  “Maybe you should take the sunglasses off,” said Mr. Wilkes.

  “I’m afraid they’re prescription, sir, for an eye condition.”

  “How long have you been driving around here?” Bic could sense the irritation and suspicion in Mr. Wilkes’s voice.

  “A couple of months.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Bic didn’t answer him. With the weather, and with Gracie possibly being in trouble, he was in no mood to play games.

  “Well?” Wilkes said in a louder voice.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkes, but we’re going to take a slight detour.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Wilkes asked, her voice quivering slightly.

  “I’m taking you both to Arkansas to visit an old friend.”

  Sam Wilkes leaned forward and thrust his face into Bic’s until they were nose to nose. The old guy had balls, Bic had to give him that much. “I demand you take us to our home!” he shouted, the veins showing through the paper-thin skin of his neck.

  “Sam, don’t. He’s going to hurt us,” Mrs. Wilkes said fearfully.

  You’re right there, Bic thought regretfully, but I’ll try to be as gentle as I can. He reached over and pulled a stun gun out of the central console. In one swift motion, he turned and jabbed the stun gun into Sam’s neck.

  Mrs. Wilkes screamed as she watched her husband’s body spasm violently. He sank, unmoving, back into his seat. Bic wasn’t sure if the old man had survived the shock or not.

  Penny Wilkes clutched her husband’s hand, still screaming. Bic zapped her in her upper chest. Her body shook as the voltage flowed through her. Her teeth clacked together like castanets.

  Once again, the rage began in Bic Green.

  85

  Brooks Balter, Mack’s dad’s best friend from NYU, was that analyst. Brooks was once part of his family—he was like an uncle to Mack, until that day the young boy caught him nailing his mother.

  From there, the wheels fell off, and she eventually left Mack and his dad to move to New York with Brooks.

  The wheels fell off Mack as well, and his will to solve the case suddenly went out the window. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, trying to not relive all the pain he and his dad had experienced after she had left. First guilt, then blame. If only I hadn’t seen them, maybe it would have passed. How could she have done that to us? We were such a great family until she messed things up. She broke our hearts.

  And then the inevitable: It’s all my fault.

  He felt the walls of his cubicle close. Guilt seemed to clog the air around him. He texted Mrs. Lawrence, his father’s neighbor, if she would head on over and make sure his dad took his medication. He hadn’t seen or talked to his father since that blowup. Guilt on top of guilt. His mind was an anxious mess. He needed to get out, get some air. He made for the nearest exit.

  “Mack,” Caroline called happily as she approached him. “So, that girl? K-six’s sister, Sydney? I got my dad’s firm to agree to some pro bono work. He’ll have the felony off her record in a month.”

  “I have to get out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?” she said, reaching out to him.

  “I have to get out.”

  “Hey, partner, talk to me?”

  In that instant, anger suffused Mack’s expression. “Talk to you, who’s never here? Who’s always letting me down, going off every afternoon with this new guy, getting pampered or getting—no… I’m not doing it. I’m not falling like my dad—”

  Then, before Mack surrendered to an emotion he couldn’t come back from, he walked out of the office down the nearest stairwell.

  86

  Gabriel hugged the wall with his back, pointing his 9mm Beretta with a 3” suppressor toward the open door, waiting to pump lead into anything foolish enough to charge through. When the FedEx truck rumbled off, he closed the door with his foot.

  Safe in the dark hotel room, he grabbed his package and retreated to the small, windowless bathroom. He turned on the light and opened the package.

  There had to be safer ways to receive his contracts, he thought. Any deliveryman could be intercepted and replaced by a federal agent. He thought for a moment if an iPhone or something electronic would work. But then he realized, no, the FBI and CIA could track the things with their satellites.

  Gabriel pulled a single piece of paper and an eight-by-ten photo out of the envelope. The paper outlined his new instructions:

  Your #1 target has changed to FBI agent Mack Maddox. THE FEE IS $50,000 US. IF BUSINESS CONCLUDED WITHIN 24 HOURS, FEE INCREASES TO $200,000 US.

  Call 1-800-446-6464 anytime for target’s location.

  Gabriel looked at the picture and immediately recognized the face of the man he thought he had killed a couple of days ago. He never forgot a target’s face, especially the eyes. What a person’s eyes told him when they realized they were going to die was euphoric to him. He felt as if he were God, standing in front of them with cold steel in his hand as an inner fear erupted from the depths of their soul, pleading for his mercy, begging him to decide not to move his index finger. Some doctors have God complexes because they can save lives. And then there were men like Gabriel.

  Gabriel looked at Maddox’s photo. He remembered the strong eyes. The look in his eyes had been very different than most when Gabriel had shot him. At the moment he realized that he had been shot, his eyes didn’t beg for mercy. They showed only hostility and a confused embarrassment.

  Gabriel had been gypped. He had shot the guy twice. He’d certainly looked dead lying there on the concrete. He had put two bullets in the guy’s heart, or so he’d thought. He usually used supe
rsonic armor-piercing rounds, but on that day, he had chosen subsonic ammunition. He had been planning to sneak up behind Utah, tap the bastard twice in the back of the head from point-blank range and walk away from his falling body without drawing any attention to himself. He mentally shredded himself over the choice.

  He cursed, long and fluidly, in two languages. He stared intensely at the photo, vowing that the next time they met, he would open the bastard up like a balloon full of blood.

  87

  “Give me another,” Mack said even before the shot glass landed on the scarred hardwood bar. Nine others had preceded it.

  He grimaced as the aftertaste of cheap tequila burned his throat and nasal passages. He didn’t even bother to use the lime—all ten sat in a sad little pile on the napkin.

  The small, lonely joint had room for only a couple of round high-top tables and a bar that seated twelve. At 1:00 PM, a handful of diehard drunks had already assumed their positions for the rest of the day. They sat staring at the mirror behind the bar while drinking at a pace fast enough to make their problems go away. These were his soul brothers.

  Mack found himself blurry-eyed. The tequila was catching up.

  “Give me another,” Mack said again, anticipating a black out.

  “You sure?” the female bartender asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll have another.”

  “I’ll join you for this one,” she said. She poured two shots.

  Mack cupped the small glass. “Here’s to oblivion,” he slurred, and flipped the ounce of liquor down.

  The bartender took Mack’s hand, turned it palm-up, then licked and salted his wrist. She licked it again and poured down, then grabbed a lime off the sad pile and bit into it.

  Mack leaned forward. “When’s your shift over?”

  She closed the gap between them. He could feel the moist heat as she whispered into his ear, “I’ll meet you in the bathroom in ten minutes.”

  Mack nodded.

  Ten minutes later, the bartender winked at Mack then headed toward the back.

  Mack stood—and the world spun, just for him. He reached for a bar stool to regain his balance. As he watched the bartender strut toward the back area of the bar, the excitement sobered him up enough to take a step forward without falling.

  “Mack!” a female voice called out from the entrance of the bar. It was Caroline’s, and it rattled him even more toward sobriety.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you suck at timing? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Just let me be.” He turned his back to her.

  But before he could take a step, she grabbed his arm and spun him around. It felt like a drop from a rollercoaster.

  “What is your problem?” she hissed.

  “Are you kidding? Where do I start?”

  Caroline didn’t reply. She just stood there, waiting.

  “Okay, fine,” he slurred. “First,” he started, then stumbled over to the right, bumping into one of the other patrons. “Sorry. First, you have abandoned me as a partner. I can’t even count on you to answer my calls, let alone have my back.”

  “I’m sorry, Mack. It all just happened.”

  “Yeah right. Just like my dad’s best friend just happened to wind up beneath my mother.”

  “You’re drunk, Mack.”

  “Very observant. And you are unpredictable with your emotions, little lady.”

  “You want to know about Freddie?” she began. “I owe you zero explanations for my actions. They’re mine. You understand? The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll find yourself maturing. But whatever, Mack. You’re drunk as hell and you’ll forget all this anyway.”

  “You sure fell for him fast.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “What’s so special about him that you’d fall so fast?”

  “We didn’t just meet, first of all. We met when I was at Stanford.”

  “You and the rich guys.”

  “Screw you, Mack. He was my first love—I thought I was going to marry. The other day, he just called to catch up, I asked for his help with April and…” She shrugged. “That’s just that.”

  Mack blinked his eyes and realized he had nothing, so he reached for something. “I got shot twice last week while you were getting filled out by some old fling who already broke your heart once.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been doing.”

  Mack turned and stumbled his way toward the bathroom.

  Struggling to enter the bathroom, Mack couldn’t stop thinking about Caroline. He mumbled to himself, “It’s better this way. She’ll break your heart.”

  Mack entered the bathroom.

  “Hey stranger,” said the bartender. “I thought you forgot about me.”

  Mack took a step toward her, trying to zero in on the ample cleavage her low-cut shirt left exposed. With the room spinning, he fought to control the buzz as he wrapped his hands around the small of her back and pulled her to him. He began kissing her neck and chest heavily. Her hands quickly undid his pants

  Mack closed his eyes as something erupted inside of him. In an erratic motion, he pushed himself away from her, then turned to his left and barfed profusely at the toilet.

  He struggled to hold himself up with a hand on either side of the toilet. He wasn’t sure if he was going to pass out, so he looked to the bartender for help.

  “Ugh,” she said. “Break’s over, chum.” Then walked out of the bathroom.

  Mack fell to his knees and rested his forearms on the dirty, puke-covered toilet rim, then barfed again.

  The bathroom door swung open. And a soft hand went under his chin and gave him the support to stop his face from dipping down into the toilet water.

  “You’re okay,” said Caroline. “Just get the rest out, and I’ll take you home.”

  Mack tried to look at her to apologize, but the sudden movement was more than he could take, and the room faded to black.

  88

  “I don’t wanna have to shoot your wife in front of you,” said Bic, holding the gun to Penny Wilkes’s ear.

  After a couple of hours, they were awake and alert. He’d purposely used a low voltage on the couple. He couldn’t risk either one of them even bearing a tiny scar from the thing—or worse, dying of heart failure right there.

  Sam Wilkes sat nervously in the back seat of the cab, the cell phone clamped to his ear.

  “Hello, Louise, this is Sam,” he said as steadily as he could, squinting at the index card that Bic held for him to read. “I’m good. No, everything is fine, Louise.” He squinted at the card. “I’ve… decided to take the wife on a little trip… we needed a break. We’ll be gone for the week… yes, very sudden, I know. I’ll call you if I need anything… alright… you take care now.”

  As instructed, Wilkes disconnected.

  “Good,” Bic said and lowered his weapon.

  “What do you want with us?” Mr. Wilkes demanded.

  “I just need your help for this week, and then we’ll part ways.” Bic took the phone from Sam Wilkes and handed it to Penny. “Your turn.”

  Mrs. Wilkes’s hand trembled so much she could barely hold the phone. Bic scowled at her and said, “It’s real simple. All I need you to do is call Mrs. Peppercorn and invite her out for lunch.” He pulled out a second index card and held it up.

  She started to cry. “I can’t help you kidnap my friend!”

  “You’re not kidnapping anyone.” Bic raised his slick black 9mm and pointed it at her husband. “But if you don’t get that lady to come to lunch with us today, you’ll be responsible for your husband’s death.

  Penny sobbed softly, trembling. Bic lowered his weapon.

  “Listen, you’ll be fine. You hear me? Just insist she come to lunch with you, no matter what.”

  “But what if she’s busy?”

  He tapped the index card. “Read this as written and she won’t be. Understand?”

  She nodd
ed in agreement, her face streaked with tears.

  Bic handed her the phone and she dialed, then put the little black phone to her ear. “May I speak to Virginia?” she asked after a moment. “Tell her Penny Wilkes is calling.”

  Bic looked steadily at Mrs. Wilkes, watching her every move, he tried not to be too intimidating. He wanted her to sound calm on the phone.

  “Virginia! How are you? Oh, that’s good to hear… no, I’m not so good. Actually I’m in town, and I wanted to come… get you for lunch… so we can talk.” Mrs. Wilkes anxiously nodded through Peppercorn’s reply. “My goodness, Virginia, it sounds like you have a full day.” Before she could say another word, Bic raised the silenced 9mm and pointed the weapon at Mr. Wilkes.

  Seeing this, Mrs. Wilkes became emotional. “It’s Sam. I didn’t know what to do . . . who to turn to, so I found myself in a cab… all the way out here. I’m not but ten minutes from your house, and I really need to talk to you, even if we just go for coffee…”

  She paused, listening, nodding.

  “Okay… I’ll pick you up soon… thank you.”

  She handed the phone back to Bic, who disconnected the call.

  “You did good, ma’am.”

  “Now what?” she said.

  Bic turned to face the road. “We drive.” After a moment, he caught their eyes in the rear view and said, “You’re gonna sit back there and behave, right Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes?”

  “We will,” came the reply.

  “Good,” said Bic. “How ‘bout a little music then?”

  He flicked on the radio. Bad Moon Risin’ came on.

  Bic smiled.

  89

  The cab idled outside the enormous wrought iron gate of Virginia Peppercorn’s estate. Penny Wilkes was alone in the back seat of the cab, because Sam was gagged and hogtied with plastic zips in the trunk.

  The gates swung open. Bic drove down the brick-paved driveway, glancing at the numerous white Greek-style statues that lined the way. The house seemed better suited to the Hollywood Hills, or else the deep South—something straight out of Gone with the Wind.