by Bo Luellen
She paused, and looked down in disgust, “You’d pay five million? In advance?”
Richard stepped forward anxiously, “Yes, in advance.”
Shoshannah sighed, “I would need a place to work with adequate power and secrecy. No one could watch me work. No surveillance cameras!”
Samuel flourished his hands out dramatically, “My dear, I’ll have that door fixed and you can use this chamber. I can arrange for anything you need.”
She peered into the ghost’s deep blue eyes. “I have another condition. Good men like Silvio are rare, so if one goes missing, it’s noticed. No snatching people off the street! With Christian Crusaders, police and FBI looking for the Brotherhood, it would risk drawing attention. I want to be in and out before AEGIS realizes I’m here. Besides, there’s plenty of fresh dead in the graves for me to use.”
Samuel nodded, “A sensible precaution.”
She put her hands on her hips and caught her breath, “It can’t be just anyone. You’ll have to pick someone who had a strong spirit in life. Someone noble and brave. Those are the ones with the strongest soul light that can make the transition the easiest. Maybe one of those dead cops that raided your Preserve. They were pretty noble when they ate a bullet.”
The ghost grinned with satisfaction, “All acceptable. Then we have an accord.”
She walked through the dirt remains of Marcus towards Richard, “It has to be done fast. I’m not hanging around any longer than I have to.”
Richard remembered Ankh-es-en-amon’s warning and had an epiphany, “You’ll have your corpse by morning.”
Chapter 10: John VII
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Monday, November 12th, 2018 – 9:43 a.m. CST
John Utterson hated checking out cold leads when he was on the force. Still, the two hundred and ten thousand dollar salary he was pulling in from the UCC made it a lot easier. He sat on a stool wearing a pair of headphones as he watched the monitors. The repurposed UPS van jerked and shifted as they traveled down the Riverside Drive. The front portion of the interior was filled with surveillance equipment and only gave him a little room to move around. The back half had four armed Crusaders in blue tactical gear and wearing helmets and vests. The technician on his left cycled through the body camera feed until he found the one worn by the fake UPS driver who was steering the truck.
The technician spoke into his headset, “Give us a mic check.”
The driver radioed back, “When you absolutely, positively have to kill the Crimson Brotherhood, accept no substitute.”
Utterson couldn’t help but smile, “Nice, but that’s FedEx. Oh, and a reminder; there will be no killing. Our goal is to find them, capture them, and hold them. We let the police do their jobs to show the public we are doing our part to still cooperate with the Department.”
One of the Crusaders lowered his ski mask, “No disrespect General Utterson, but I think we’re better at it than them.”
A round of mutters of agreement came from the small squad. John ignored them, as the technician handed him the report on their next target. He rubbed his weary eyes, put on his glasses, and opened the cream-colored folder with the new UCC logo on the front.
As he scanned the photos and documents, the technician gave him the briefing, “General, our next stop is in the Garden District. A report came in from a Chestnut Street resident. The informant saw two thuggish looking men going in and out of a neighbor’s house after midnight. According to the email, they were taking several sizeable black trash bags and white barrels out from the back of a large U-Haul truck and carrying them into the house.”
He flipped through the pages of the report, “What do we know about the owner of the home?”
The tech punched a few keys to bring up a map of the area, “The homeowner is one Laura Powell, a sixty-five-year-old divorcee. She has one daughter named Hillary, who lives in Paris, Texas. Ms. Powell has no work history and lives alone. She was a stay-at-home wife to a wealthy oil trustee. When they divorced, she took half and the house. She has been a member of the Eastland congregation for over ten years and is a key donor who helped build The Gathering Place park downtown. A model Christian in all respects.”
John folded a paper over and looked at a photo of the dark-haired older woman, then repeated, “A model Christian.”
As they rounded the corner to Washington Avenue, he looked at the monitor that showed an exterior view of the van. The streets were filled with magnificent three-story homes and lavishly manicured lawns. Tulsa’s old oil money was in full display, and its inheritors took pride in their ancestral homes. The driver pounded on the roof of the cab, indicating they had arrived.
The brakes squealed the vehicle to a halt as the driver whispered into his mic, “Here goes.”
The four Crusaders pulled their ski masks up over their faces and buckled their helmets. They wore all blue and had the symbol of Eastland on the front of their flack jackets, and on the back was “UCC” in bold type print. The men checked their AR-15’s and shifted around, ready to take action.
John spoke into the microphone to the driver, “Remember, try to pan your chest around. I want to see the interior of the house if possible.”
His leg was starting to ache again, and he was fresh out of pain pills. John had been a full day without a drink, which was causing him no end of anxiety. He was still dehydrated and tired from last night’s vomiting and withdrawal pains. He saw the technician looking at his foot as it tapped nervously on the floor. John forced it to stop and shot a hard glance at the man, who immediately returned his attention to the monitors. John wanted something to take the edge off not only the aching in his ankle but from the agony of drying out.
The driver power-walked towards the front door to a two-story brown and red brick house, with an empty box under his arm. John noticed the place was massive, with a two-car garage and a full acre of lawn. He leaned in and noticed that the grass had been neglected. There was a collection of dried leaves scattered about.
The technician reported, “Bodycam functioning and audio is clean, Brother Utterson.”
His skin crawled at the title of Brother. He kept up a smile and pretense when in public as the UCC General. He enjoyed having access to equipment, personnel, and resources Richard Enfield and Eastland College provided, but it came at a price. The public image Greyson Dunn demanded of his Generals was taxing, but John enjoyed being finally recognized for his contributions.
He forced a, “Thank you, Brother.”
The driver knocked on the door and then rang the bell. The van was silent as they waited for Ms. Powell to answer. This was always the most nerve-wracking for him, and he could feel the tension in his team. The armed Crusaders he had selected were all military veterans and tested in wartime theaters. Where others might hesitate if a tactical engagement was needed, these handpicked Marines lived for the adrenaline of combat. It made them effective, but John had to be damn sure when to let them off their leash.
The front door opened halfway, and he saw the face of the elderly Ms. Powell peek her head outside. She was wearing a blue dress and had a big smile on her face. Her hair was the image of her sleeve, and the weathered wrinkles on her face showed her age.
The driver looked at his digital clipboard, “Good Morning. I have a package here for Powell, I’ll just need you to sign please.”
The woman took the notepad, “Oh, I don’t recall ordering anything.”
The man panned his body camera to the left of the owner and gave John a good look at the interior of the house. The walls were lined with bronze statues he recognized as reproductions of the western sculptures by Frederic Remington. The floors were carpeted but soiled from dirty boot prints. She had track lighting on the ceiling that highlighted various pieces of art.
As the woman finished signing the pad, the driver whistled then asked, “Wow, someone forgot to wipe their feet.”
She kept her eyes on him, “Oh, yes. My gardener has that bad habit. He has been tracking it in
all day from the back yard, and, well, I don’t speak a lick of Spanish. All I can do is point at the rug and shake my head no.”
The driver gave a diplomatic laugh, and she handed him back the pad. She smiled and reached out for the box. She placed it under her arm and grabbed the door. The sleeve of her dress caught John’s eye, and he started fumbling with the keyboard controls.
As the driver walked back to the truck, John ordered, “How do you roll the damn tape back. Rewind it!”
After the technician hit a few keys, the image of her sleeve was frozen and enhanced. John put on his reading glasses and nearly pressed his nose up to the monitor. There was a bruised line around her wrist he had seen before.
The driver hopped back inside the cab, looked back at them, and said, “Well, that seemed like a dead end. Where to next?”
John pointed at the image, “Can you enhance that?”
The tech shook his head, “It’s too pixilated. These body cams can only give us so much detail. Why? What do you see?”
He stabbed a finger at the screen, “Maybe nothing, but those look like marks from handcuffs.”
The man squinted at the screen, “The image is too blurry. That could be anything. It could be a shadow of the light, or it could be a bruise she picked up helping the gardener in the back. She is elderly. They tend to bruise over just about anything.”
John leaned back in his metal chair, “You know what I find odd? A woman owns a fantastic looking house, keeps the finest art decor copied from the Gilcrease Museum, and then lets her landscaper track up her floor, her grass overgrow, and doesn’t rake her leaves. In a neighborhood where taking care of our property is not just expected, it’s required by the homeowners association, it leaves some interesting open-ended questions.”
The van was quiet for several seconds before the tech asked, “General, would you like to move to confirmation? Should I phone the police?”
He shook his head, “Pull up her social media accounts and get this truck moving. We’re looking suspicious just hanging out in the street.”
Within a few minutes, the UPS van parked on 7th and Camp Street, “General, there’s no active social media presence for Powell, and her Facebook had been deactivated.”
John rubbed his scruffy beard and repeated, “A model Christian.”
The driver popped his head around the corner to the back, “What are we doing, guys?”
The technician cleared his throat, then asked, “General?”
John grabbed his cane, “Drive me to my car and then continue making the rounds without me.”
The technician gave him a bewildered look, “Sir?”
He tapped his walking stick on the floorboard, “I’m not convinced the gardener even exists.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Monday, November 12th, 2018 – 10:10 a.m. CST
He had been given a black Lexus when he accepted the job, which was perfect for a stakeout in a high-end neighborhood such as the one Ms. Powell resided in. He piled in the front seat and pushed away a dozen empty Monster Energy Drink cans and take out bags. They made a horrible racket, as they quickly littered the floorboard and spilled their remaining contents on the designer mats. He lifted his broken ankle in the door and threw his cane into the back.
When he shut his door, the UPS van that dropped him off sped away to their next location. He waited for the sounds of their engine to fade away before popping open the glove box and pulled out a collection of pill bottles. He cursed to himself as he threw each empty container on the floorboard. He slapped the steering wheel when the last one pinged off the passenger side window and dashed all his hopes of gaining some relief for the pain.
Resigned to his fate, he drove back towards the Powell residence. He stopped by a QuikTrip and got some coffee and a few snacks for the stakeout. John had done these hundreds of times in his career and knew how to prepare.
He had parked his car far enough away to be inconspicuous and still have a clear view of the home. John set his video camera on the dashboard and faced it towards the house. He opened the pop out screen and plugged its charger into the cigarette lighter. After zooming in on the property, John reclined his chair to give some relief to his ribs. He lit up a cigarette and began the long wait.
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Monday, November 12th, 2018 – 10:25 p.m. CST
After twelve hours of fruitless surveillance, the fatigue was finally starting to wear on him. He was in misery from the withdrawals but refused to leave. His car was full of freshly discarded food wrappers, and he had filled several Pepsi bottles with his urine. Stakeouts were always the toughest part of the job for him when he was still on the force. Sitting in a vehicle alone watching someone’s front door had no appeal to him, but it did get results.
He pulled out the last Marlboro from the pack and remembered his old partner, I miss the times when David and I would sleep in shifts. One of us would give Moss a call, then smoke some weed and make it a party. Now my partner is this damn shooting pain in my ribs and a throbbing ankle.
The Crusader’s physician had given John a once over and recommended he stay in bed for the next two weeks. The doctor had given him a small number of pain pills, but John had gone through them in two days. Looking down, he saw his hands still trembling from the withdrawals, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to prove to the city that he was going to be the person to close in on the Crimson Brotherhood, not the Department. Suddenly an enticing thought crossed his mind and he felt a rush of excitement. He quickly pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
Moss Vicker’s stuttering voice answered, “H-h-hey J-J-John.”
Utterson rubbed his eyes and impatiently waited for the man to finish a sentence, “Did you find out anything new on the Brotherhood?”
The drug dealer seemed to get more anxious, “Uhhhh, you kn-kn-know I wou-wou-would tell you, J-j-john.”
He felt like his insides were on fire from going cold turkey, “Moss, I want you to grab me a Monster Energy Drink from the store and bring it to me.”
The man quickly replied, “S-S-Sure, John. T-t-text me your address.”
Thirty minutes later, a red Volvo pulled up behind him, and the sandy blond-haired Moss got out. He was wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt and some blue jeans that looked like they had paint on them. As he opened the car door, John scooped the empty sacks out of the passenger seat. The man plopped down, and the odor of pot hit him in the face.
Moss gave him a brown bag, “Here’s your Monster.”
He opened the sack and saw several baggies filled with pills, cocaine, vodka, and marijuana. Reaching inside, John pulled out a few Oxy’s, then used the alcohol to wash it down. He poured the rest into an iron flask he had hidden under his seat.
Moss was both high and relaxed, “You know now that you aren’t with the police force, we need to make a new arrangement. It isn’t like you can get me off if I get arrested, or help my people stay clear of any undercover cops, anymore.”
John offered the flask to Moss, “Just keep our arrangement as it is. The UCC is one-hundred times larger than the police and has more technical resources than the Feds. Besides, they are too busy right now to worry about you.”
The man pushed the liquor back at him, “I don’t drink anymore. I’m trying to lose weight. I’m engaged now. She wants me to get under two hundred pounds before the wedding. She says I need to stop eating so much pizza and work out.”
John’s forehead wrinkled, “You’re engaged? When did that happen?”
Moss chuckled and started rolling a joint, “I sent you a text about it. You were invited to the wedding in February.”
The pain made him bitterly frustrated, as he waited for the drugs to take effect, “What is this, your fourth? Jesus, Moss.”
Moss had learned how to take John’s barbs when he was like this, “No, it’s my fifth. I got no trouble getting them, but keeping them seems to be my problem. Maybe I should …”
John quickly angled the monitor towards him and growled, “
Shut up.”
The garage door to the Powell house slowly opened up, as light poured out from the interior. John zoomed the camera in and waited. A few minutes later, a white U-Haul van drove past his driver’s side window and sped towards the Powell house. The red brake lights of the vehicle shined in the night, as it turned into the old woman’s garage. As the automated door closed, John saw a sizeable Hispanic man wearing a black leather vest walking around to the back of the vehicle. With a few presses on the screen, he took a few photos before it closed. He grabbed the camcorder and cycled back through the pictures until he found a clear image of the short man’s face.
Moss pointed at the tiny screen, “Hey, I know that guy.”
He looked up in surprise, “You know that guy? How?”
His friend put his joint in his pocket and replied, “Wicked is what they call him on the streets. His real name is Victor Abasto. He is a mid-level gun runner for the Mexican cartels. I sold to him once. He seemed nice enough to me, but I heard he beat some guy to death last year. He vanished after that. I guess he’s back.”
John opened his glove box, “It seems Victor has found his way into a rich house with “a model Christian.” Out of place for a guy named “Wicked.”
John pulled out his silver-plated 9-mm Smith and Wesson that the UCC had issued him. The pistol had the symbol of the modified Eastland’s Lion on the side of its pearl handle. It had become the logo of the Crusaders and was worn on all the blue jackets of their members. He grabbed a box of ammunition from under his seat and turned it upside down, spilling its contents. A dog barked in the distance, as John clicked in each round into the magazine.
As he slammed the clip into the gun, Moss pleaded, “John, call the cops. This isn’t your job anymore, remember. You’re the leader of the UCC. Let one of them do this. You’re crippled up and alone. Think this through, man! Wicked runs with the cartel. That means there could be lots more than just him in there.”