The Wonder Test

by Michelle Richmond

  Sunshine is behind the counter. “Hey, Mystery Lady! Didn’t expect to see you.” He notices George. “Hello, Mystery Lady’s large, intimidating friend.”

  “Good to see you, Sunshine. Two coffees, please.”

  “I can do better than that. He pours beans into the grinder, makes a show of frothing the cream, adding cinnamon and chocolate, a touch of vanilla, and slides two lattes across the counter.

  George pulls out his wallet.

  “Au contraire, mon frère. Mystery Lady and friend drink for free.”

  George thanks him and drops a twenty into the tip jar.

  “Righteous.” Sunshine leans across the counter. “Your friend came in yesterday, by the by. I talked him up. He implied he was leaving town in a few days. Strange dude, gave me the creeps, and I don’t creep out easily.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “Land Cruiser. Vintage.”

  “Good work. Text me if you see him today?”

  “Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Happy to see my taxpayer dollars at work, my friend.”

  Back on the road, I direct George past town. Using the aerial map from Google, I was able to find a network of unmarked roads leading up into the hills. We pull onto a gravel road that winds behind a burnt-out barn. Behind the barn is a rusted metal gate fastened with a padlock. “Looks like a job for you,” I say.

  George is notorious for his ability to pick any lock, a skill he picked up long before Quantico, back when he was a teenager causing minor trouble in the Pacific Northwest. He takes a kit from his glove compartment and makes quick work of the lock. Then he pulls the car through and I shut the gate behind us, refastening the lock.

  The sun is out, no sign of rain. We wind our way up to the abandoned fire road. George backs in, parking behind a stand of redwood trees. The car will be well hidden here, ready for a quick exit. George pops the hatch and we gear up. I tuck my gun into my waistband and grab my backpack, containing cuffs and two magazines. George grabs two guns and his pack—long mags, flashlight, water, knife, tool pouch.

  At the front gate of the compound, I point to the oversize video camera atop the fence. “Video cables,” George observes. “Let’s find the box first.”

  We move forward into the brush, following the video cable along the top of the fence. Whoever put in the security system did a half-assed job. At a turn in the fence, the cable angles down and out of sight. George scans the area and rolls a log over to the base of the fence. Using the log as a stool, he’s able to get a grip on the top of the fence and pull himself up. Then he reaches down and grasps my hand. With some effort I manage to get up and over, dropping down on the other side. George is right behind me.

  “I’m too old for this,” I pant.

  “Not too old, Connerly, definitely too short.”

  We follow the video cable about a hundred feet to where it enters a locked junction box. George pulls out two screwdrivers and uses the leverage to break open the flimsy lock. “Amateurs,” he mutters. He shines the flashlight into the box, examining the mess of wires before disconnecting a black one and sliding the recorder box out. He pops the back off, carefully disengages the drive, and slides it into his backpack.

  I lead him back along the fence, past the kennel to the row of miniature stables. I push away the image of Caroline, shivering and alone in that filthy shed. One by one, we approach tactically, clearing each stable before moving on to the next. Other than a real horse and three goats, they’re all empty. We reach the third one from the house, the one where I found the man last time. Empty. The place is pristine, the floor swept, the drinking trough empty, as if no one had ever been here. Only the branding iron hanging from a hook on the wall remains.

  I lead George up to the house. There are two cars in the driveway, an Audi TT and the Land Cruiser. We step onto the porch and peer through the windows. I listen for voices, a television, a shower running. Nothing. We cautiously make our way to the front door. I turn the knob.

  On the long dining room table, four identical sets of horse gear made of polished black leather are lined up in a row. Four new saddles, stiff and shiny, as if they have never been used. The saddles are too small: less horse-like, more human. Each set is labeled with a linen notecard. “Rachel and Pony David,” the first card reads. “Grant and Pony Jim,” says the second. And so on.

  We move through the house, slicing the pie at each doorway. Between the two of us, we keep an eye on the whole room, gesturing silently. We move past the dining room and kitchen, peering into every bedroom and closet. George watches doorways while I check under beds. We come to the third bedroom—all white, attached half bath, shutters fastened from the outside. This must be the room where Rusty kept Caroline. I use my camera phone to silently snap a few photos.

  The master bedroom is sparsely furnished, smelling of wood polish and leather. Twelve whips are mounted across the wall above the bed. A plaque on the dresser bears Rusty’s name and beneath it the words LEATHERMAN 2001.

  Beside the main bedroom is a home office with a computer. George keeps watch at the door while I snoop. The desk is covered with paperwork, mostly financial. I snap a few photos of bank statements and other papers, skimming the pages for anything that stands out. One transaction does: $150,000 cash deposited into a checking account ten days ago.

  The computer monitor is black, but a blue light pulses in the lower right corner. I touch a button to wake the computer. The monitor comes to life, a screensaver of rolling green hills and a sign that says: WELCOME TO WYOMING. I pull an SSD USB drive out of my pack and plug it into the computer. No password, one drive, one TB, nearly empty. I scan and tag all but the program and OS files and copy them to my drive. I slide the drive into my backpack, and we move on to the laundry room. The lid of the washing machine is open to reveal a pile of damp clothes. George points at the honey­comb shades pulled down to cover the window. The shades rattle lightly in the breeze, the cord tapping against the wall.

  A note of music strikes up outside.

  George and I exchange glances. The music is old-school country. I stand by the laundry room door while George moves to the window and peers through the shades. He raises a finger to let me know there’s only one person. “He’s alone,” he whispers.

  “Our man?”

  “Looks like.”

  We move back through the house. As we ease toward the porch, George slides his gun out of the holster. We work our way around the porch, stop at the corner, and watch for a minute to confirm that Rusty is alone. He’s sitting in the hot-tub part of the kidney-shaped pool reading a paperback, The Empty Space. A glass of iced tea rests on the deck beside him. I scan the area. No visible weapons. No people. Rusty’s cell phone sits on a table in the shade ten yards from the hot tub.

  George and I emerge together from the cover of the house, guns raised. As we close in, Rusty glances up, his gaze falling first on George’s gun, then on mine, then George’s face, then mine. His eyes zigzag, realization dawning on his face.

  I have to hand it to him: he doesn’t even flinch. We’re not the only professionals here. “Well, I’ll be a big fat pig in shit. It’s the lady from my CCTV. And, how cute, she brought her big brother.”

  I step closer and peer beneath the water. He’s wearing swimming trunks, thank heavens for small favors. “Rusty, I presume?”

  “The one and only.”

  I flash my creds.

  “What do you know,” he drawls. “Mr. Rusty’s been called up to the major leagues.”

  60

  Churchill wrote, “For my part, I consider that it will be found much better by all parties to leave the past to history, especially as I propose to write that history myself.” Can history be trusted? Discuss.

  Rusty looks me up and down. If he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve been looking forward to this, to tell you the truth. Man, I watched you and those two colts
on the CCTV like a dozen times.”

  My skin crawls.

  “Figured it wouldn’t be long before you were back. Been dreaming about it.” He licks his lips and sets his book down beside the hot tub. “Real sweet dreams. Do you want me to tell you how my fantasy goes? It’s quite vivid, darling.” He reaches for his iced tea, sliding his gaze up and down George’s body. “Now this I did not expect. I like it, though. Nicely done. You are one big fella. Six four, two twenty, am I right?”

  Looking back at me, Rusty adds, “Lady, you have outdone yourself. Thirty more pounds and some hair under the hood, and he would be one nice, fine bear. I’m gonna call him the near bear. Near Bear, I like that. I really hope he’s not shaved. I hate the way the boys are doing that these days. ‘Keep it natural, wall to wall,’ I always say.”

  As Rusty closes his eyes to take a long sip of his drink, I point to the workbench across the lawn. George nods.

  Rusty turns his attention to me. “I will say this, darling. You have got some sweet qualities!” His voice is big and animated. Each word is loud enough to reach the back row of some imaginary playhouse. “You remind me of my ex-wife, the way you move, that ass. Shit, I do miss my ex’s fine ass.” He pauses, thinking, and grins. “The rest of her, I do not miss at all.”

  George is at the workbench now, rifling through the tools. Rusty looks over at him and smiles beatifically. Maybe he’s on something, something light and floaty, possibly ecstasy. “So, you never said, lady, do you want to know how I fantasized this going down? I mean, I worked it out both ways, to be honest. I kind of thought I might be the top here. That’s normally how I roll.” He glances over at George, eyes widening. “But this, this is cool too.”

  Then he says, more to himself than to me: “The lady’s definitely playing chess; damn Rusty been shuffling the checkers. Should’ve seen it coming. Never should’ve climbed into the hot tub. I guess I figured you for a local GPD type, with your kid in that fancy public school and all, but you’re not GPD, are you? No, sir, this fine lady is not from the suburbs.”

  He tips his glass toward me. “No excuses, but the hot tub has a siren’s call. Things get sore after a long ride. Am I right?”

  He’s staring at me now, waiting for a response.

  “It is hard to resist a nice soak,” I agree. “Pity about your timing, though.”

  “Heehaw! The lady done got a personality!”

  He downs the rest of his iced tea and slams the glass on the deck. It shatters, cutting his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “So, let’s get to it!” His voice takes on an angry edge. “How we gonna do this? You wanna prone me out first?”

  “Not my style. Why don’t you soak a little longer, answer a few questions.”

  “Okay, but I must warn you, I prune in this hot tub pretty quickly.” He looks at his hand, noticing the blood. “Shee-it.” He plunges his hand into the water. The water turns pink, bubbling all around him.

  I take a few steps closer, my gun still trained on Rusty. “Tell me why you had the girl.”

  “No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “That is not how this goes.” He lifts his bleeding hand out of the water, pouting at the gash stretching across his palm.

  “The game has changed, Rusty. We’re on a tight schedule.”

  He holds his hand above the water, dripping blood. “Fair enough. As a sign of good faith, I’ll spot you the first move.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Rusty motions with his hands in the air, spattering blood onto the concrete, but he doesn’t elaborate. His anger has turned to giddiness. He’s a more extreme version of the person Travis described, more animated, less predictable. He probably has manic tendencies, even in his most sober state. “Okay, you made me say it! Here it is: I have a dungeon. First-rate. Big league. The entrance is hidden under the rug in the living room. People pay a lot to visit said dungeon. It is known far and wide.”

  I don’t respond. When someone’s talking, there’s no logical reason to interrupt.

  “A dungeon!” he repeats, more loudly, as if I hadn’t heard. “A complete, underground, blacked-out dungeon. Fully stocked with top-of-the-line accoutrements. I possess a talent for finding affluent clients willing to pay top dollar for an authentic experience. Not a single corner cut.” Several beats of silence.

  “And you’re telling us this because . . . ?”

  “Are you not catching my drift at all, darling? Seriously.” He looks at George, who has finished rifling through the tools and is now holding a power saw.

  “Near Bear, enlighten her, please. Something tells me you understand. I tell you about my dungeon so that you can prone me out, cuff me, take me downstairs, and then only the Lord knows what might happen.” He grins, showing all his teeth.

  “I don’t care about your dungeon, Rusty. Not even curious. I only need to know one thing: your connection to the girl.”

  “Darling,” Rusty says plaintively. “That just will not do.”

  George places the power saw beside the pool, runs the electrical cord back to the outlet near the work bench, the orange cord snaking across the green lawn.

  “A saw? Near Bear is making me nervous, and trust me, darling, that isn’t easy to do. Not sure what he’s got in mind, but he’s definitely not following the script. It seems to me he just wants to skip to the third act. I need foreplay, honey. Foreplay. Everyone these days wants to skip ahead. I am an old soul.” He reaches for the drink, a nervous habit, but his bloody hand finds only air and broken shards of glass.

  I smile. “I never skip ahead. Ruins the whole play. From your reading material there, I sense you’re a man who understands the theater.”

  “I do, darling,” he replies with complete earnestness. “Studied it, actually. Rodeo got in the way, but that’s another story. Don’t want to date myself here, but I was Claude in Hair, off Broadway.”

  I don’t respond.

  He lets out a long, disappointed sigh. “There was the thing with the girl. Dramatically speaking, that would have been act one.”

  Anger flares in my gut, but I refuse to show it. “In that case, this would only be act two.”

  “Correct,” he says, a little calmer.

  “And you do know what Chekhov said.”

  “Everyone knows what Chekhov said.”

  “So, we can save the fun stuff for later.”

  George scans the estate, watching, listening. He moves toward Rusty with the chainsaw.

  “Well, this is what we call a leap instead of a twist. Very inelegant of you, Near Bear. I’m surprised.”

  Usually, George is slower, more calculated, escalating only in small measures, and only when necessary. But he’s concerned, as I am, about someone else showing up. Considering the four sets of horse gear we saw on the dining room table, it could happen at any moment. A party is afoot. I don’t think there is anything good that Grant and Pony Jim could add to this situation.

  “Tell you what, Rusty,” I say. “How about we end this act on a good note, leave a little suspense for the next time?”

  “And how might we do that, darling?”

  “Simple. Tell me how you came to have the girl in your shed. Enough details and I can leave you for another day.”

  “That’s it?” He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

  “For today.”

  He narrows his eyes. “If you’re so worked up about the girl in the shed, why, pray tell, didn’t you call in the cavalry?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Rusty. Once you call in the cavalry, you can’t hide the body.”

  He looks down at his pruning flesh. “This old thing?”

  “Also, once the cavalry gets involved, there’s a lot of paperwork. I hate paperwork.”

  He guffaws, a big, hearty laugh. “And what if I don’t have any information for you?”

  “Well,
” I say brightly, “my imagination may not be as well developed as yours, but I do see my good friend, Mr. Near Bear, standing over you with a power saw.” George shoots a disapproving glance my way; he doesn’t like the nickname. “I can imagine two scenarios. Neither leaves much room for your character to make any appearances in the sequel.”

  “Intrigued, I am,” Rusty says. “What might these two scenarios be?”

  “Have you ever seen a body electrocuted and waterlogged?”

  Rusty smiles. “I have. But that’s another story.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  George lifts the saw over the hot tub and puts his finger on the power button. “Five seconds,” George says.

  “Your Near Bear is no fun at all.”

  “Four.”

  “You must understand, I—”

  The saw switches on, its high whine cutting through the air, and Rusty sits up straighter, panic spreading across his face.

  “I have a site on the dark web.” His voice has dropped an octave.

  “The pony play or the K and R?”

  “No, no, those two things are just retail for the rich and curious. I mean a third business.”

  George turns the power saw to a low hum.

  “Sometimes people contact me. I handle things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Problems that others cannot.”

  “Who led you to the girl? What were your instructions?”

  “Someone asked me pick her up on her way home from school, give her a place to stay for a little while, deliver her to somewhere else. This fellow liked to delegate. Strictly amateur hour. Nonetheless, the money was good, and darling, you know what they say about money.”

  “This wasn’t the first time this fellow asked you to handle something, correct?”

  Rusty regards me for a moment. George moves closer. “I might have handled a couple of other things.”

  “When?”

  His eyes shift up and to the right. “The first time, two years ago, the second time, a little over a year ago.”