[2017] The Extraction

by Steven F Freeman

  “Yeah,” I reply. “And hey, thanks for the hospitality.”

  I dash into the darkness. As I jump into the car’s back seat, the Hulk’s door swings open and his massive frame appears in silhouette. “Come back here!”

  Like hell.

  “Floor it!” I tell the Uber driver.

  He has the sense to punch it without asking for directions. Plenty of time for that once we put some distance between us and the gorilla back there.

  And then we’ll be good, ‘cause I know exactly what my next destination will be.

  CHAPTER 28

  Trin awakes. The room is shrouded in darkness. A rectangle of light shining from around the doorframe provides the only illumination.

  Her muscles ache. She’d like to stretch them out. But whoever tied her up knows what he’s doing. She can scarcely move at all.

  Her mouth feels arid, like it’s been swabbed out with cotton. No wonder. She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since she’s been here. Yet her bladder is sending urgent signals that it needs to empty. If her kidnapper plans to kill her, it seems unlikely he’ll accommodate a trip to the bathroom. And frankly, it’s not her biggest concern at the moment.

  Her mind focuses on the deadline. When is it? Tomorrow? Next week? She’d rather not find out. And when it does expire, will the kidnapper really kill her? If so, why bother to disguise his voice? None of this makes sense.

  She’s gotten out of tight spots before, but escaping this one has proved to be impossible. Arms rubbed raw at the wrist testify to hours of fruitless pulling and twisting of her restraints. The hopelessness of the situation would reduce her to more tears if not for the faith she placed in Decimus’ resourcefulness.

  Does her fiancé know she’s missing? The kidnapper said he notified Decimus, but could this statement be trusted? If Decimus does know, is he looking for her? Is it wishful thinking to suppose he might find her before her captor can execute his plan?

  So many questions…

  Trin’s eyes remain open to the blackness surrounding her as a tumult of emotions—anger, fear, desperation, determination—roil in her mind.

  She lies motionless, exhausted yet awake.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Where to?” asks the Uber driver, a thin white guy with super-curly hair, almost an afro—Bob Ross behind the wheel.

  “Out of here,” I reply. “Away from that guy back there.”

  “No shit. Where to after that?”

  “Do you know where Brookdale is?” I ask.

  Silence from the front seat. Mr. Ross strokes his chin. “Um…”

  “The broken-down subsidized housing in College Park,” I tell him. “It’s a high-rise.”

  “Sorry, Dude. You got an address?”

  I look up and read off the street number. “What’s the ETA?”

  He studies his phone. “Thirty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll pay you double if you get me there in twenty.”

  “Sure thing, Dude.”

  He hangs a left from the trailer park’s main road onto a surface street. Just my luck, the guy transforms into a Chatty Cathy. Perhaps the financial carrot I just waved has improved his mood. But I’ve no time for that now.

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  “You don’t have to be a jerk, Dude, I’m just—”

  I dial up my former partner in the middle of his retort.

  Sampson sounds a bit groggy. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. I’ve got a lead on the next box.”

  “Good. What’s the latest?”

  “The first clue pointed to the Michael Ballinger case. And its writing style was different—again. More like a rap song than a poem.”

  “You’re sure it’s referencing the Ballinger case? Wasn’t the arsonist you put away in Fulton County into that kind of music too?”

  “There was a dead pigeon in the box—with its eyes missing.”

  Her sigh reverberates over the phone. “Definitely the Ballinger case, then. So what’s our next step?”

  The driver accelerates through a yellow light, pushing me back into my seat.

  “I think my best bet is checking out Brookdale, Ballinger’s old place.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t figured out the second clue, so I don’t know exactly where to look when I get there.”

  “Are you sure it’s the right place to look?”

  “No, not positive. But my gut is telling me that’s the right place.”

  “Usually your gut is on point,” says Sampson. “But it’d be better to know exactly where to look. Want some help figuring out that second clue?”

  “Absolutely. Let me take a picture of the note and send it to you. Hopefully you can figure it out before I do.”

  “You’re not going to bring the note and the box here?”

  “Not unless I’m coming in for something else.” I check the time on my phone. Ten-thirty. “Trin only has fifteen and a half hours left. It doesn’t make sense to come all the way north just for that, especially when none of the other notes or boxes have given us a lead.”

  “Agreed. I’ll pull up the case files and cross check them with the verbiage on the note. Maybe something will pop out.”

  “I hope so. And oh…like I said, I’m not sure exactly where to look once I’m there. Unless you have a brainstorm, I may have to have to poke around for a while until I find the next box. So don’t panic if you don’t hear from me for a bit.”

  “Got it. And Grinder…”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve still got the magic touch. You thought about coming back?”

  “Back? To profiling?”

  “Yeah. You should. You’re still better after three years off than most active profilers I know.”

  “Not a chance. But thanks for the compliment.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “Sure, Grinder. Stay safe.”

  We end the call. I snap two photos of the note and text them to my former colleague. I pocket the phone and sit back, anxious to arrive at Ballinger’s former residence.

  Wide eyes stare at me via the rearview mirror. The Uber driver now understands enough of the picture to keep his pie hole shut.

  The driver brakes into a corner, then punches the gas halfway through, sending me leaning against the door. He hits top speed along a straightaway.

  Streetlights flash by like a metronome.

  What must Trin be thinking? Does she even know I’m looking for her? A sick feeling creeps into my chest, weighing me down—the thought of returning to the life I knew before her. Can it be only two years ago that we met in person? During my first year with the insurance company, we often chatted over the phone to discuss the potential fraud cases I’d asked her to investigate. In those conversations, she always had a direct style—self-assured and kindly. And smart as hell.

  And then we met in person. I’d finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, sort of—a cup of joe, an evening in my place watching an old “Thin Man” movie on Netflix, and a peck on the cheek at the end of the night. Nothing spectacular in itself, yet even then I knew something special had begun. Until that day, I’d never dreamed that behind her voice lay the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen…obsidian pools as deep as the lady herself.

  With Trin, I have a new, infinitely better yin and yang, a melding of both mind and body. For us, our individual quirks aren’t turn-offs. They’re the inevitable result of the experiences to which we’ve been exposed, part of what makes us us. So when I catch myself staring into space, lost in the memories of a particularly traumatic case from my past, she smiles and squeezes my hand; in her P.I. role, she’s brushed up against enough of my former world that she gets it. And I understand the long nights she must often put in to finish off an investigation.

  Trin tells me no one has treated her like I do. And I suppose I do go out of my way to spoil her. But with someone whose love overflows like hers, you can’t help yourself. With her, it’s not work, n
ot really, to take care of her. And no matter what I do, I still come out ahead in the love input/output equation. I never knew a relationship could be like that. It’s been the best thing in my life. I can’t let it end—not like this.

  Damnit! I’m doing it again. Daydreaming about Trin rather than focusing on how to actually help her.

  Of course, the best way to help her would be to track down the mastermind behind this plot, not following a scavenger hunt all over the city. Only now that Ballinger’s people are somehow mixed up in this, that goal becomes foggier than ever. There are now three groups of people from whom the organizer of Trin’s kidnapping could have sprung. All the more reason to put my rusty profiling skills to use.

  I start with the only new piece of hard evidence: the note itself. Is there anything to be gleaned from it? The style of prose is radically different, but the physical evidence is identical to the other notes—typed words on stock printer paper.

  Once again, this suggests a single person is coordinating this whole enterprise. From what I recall, none of the small circle of Ballinger’s friends or family had the wherewithal to pull off this kind of stunt. That leaves Oswald Pritchard as the most likely suspect.

  Or is he?

  Despite their radically different backgrounds, Oswald Pritchard and Ballinger bore quite a few similarities: patience, organization, unquenchable rage. We could never rule out the possibility of Ballinger having an accomplice in his crimes, someone who gloried in the violence as much as he did. Was Ballinger the brawn to someone else’s brains, someone who had escaped justice and was now masterminding Trin’s kidnapping?

  This scenario strikes me as possible but not probable. We looked for a co-conspirator but failed to find any firm evidence of one. But certainly someone from Ballinger’s crew is participating in this scheme. The clue’s lyrics prove it. They include details that were never released to the public, such as the dead birds.

  Perhaps Trin’s kidnapping project represents a melding of talents, with the associates of Edna Haas and Michael Ballinger providing bad poetry and perhaps some muscle, while Oswald Pritchard serves as the puppet master behind it all, bringing the project together.

  Lacking a clear leader of this plot, my only choice is to continue my search for Trin by deciphering each clue. I remove the typed note from its box, unfold it, and read its verses once more.

  u know who I be

  b4 u see

  this note from me

  dis bird ain’t gon fly

  in da sky

  an u know why

  it jus a fuckin toy

  4 dis boy

  2 destroy

  des birds they went on back

  2 the sack

  then i attacked

  i killed dem bitches 2

  n raised the roof

  til i was thru

  but then I went n died

  n now I lie

  til pigs will fly

  I rub my chin. This is a puzzler. The entire poem describes the case itself—the killer’s identity and MO, even Ballinger’s death in prison. But where’s the second clue, the one directing me to the next box? “Til pigs will fly” isn’t merely the quotation of an old proverb. In Ballinger’s world, it’s a clear reference to cops. But how does that help me?

  “We’re ‘bout there,” says the driver.

  He’s right. Seedy buildings and nighttime drifters wander the streets under the dim glow of streetlamps. Normally, I’d never head to this part of town alone, but it’s not like I have a choice.

  We pull into Brookdale’s cracked and overgrown parking lot. And in good time—nineteen minutes. That means Trin has just over fifteen hours left, assuming the kidnapper keeps his word.

  An enormous “Condemned” sign has been mounted across the main entrance. I didn’t think it would’ve been possible for this place to be in more disrepair than it was before, but I stand corrected. Cracks jag through the brick exterior, and virtually every window lacks glass.

  Eyebrows knotted, the driver scans the parking lot. “Look, can you hurry up and pay? I really don’t want to idle here any longer than I have to.”

  “Look, how much would it take to get you to wait for me while I run my errand inside?”

  “Sorry, Pal. Money ain’t good if you’re not here to spend it.”

  I don’t blame him. No one in their right mind would stay here a moment longer than necessary.

  He hands me the credit card reader. As promised, I double up his fare via the tip. I grab the pine box and exit the sedan. The moment the door is shut, my transport roars out of the lot and disappears into the gloomy shadows of the autumn night.

  I approach the shaky edifice. Mold grows in patches on the crumbling sidewalk. In what was once landscaping, a fresh sign proclaims, “Future Site of Suffolk Brothers Mixed-Use Development.”

  That explains why the place wasn’t kept in repair. They’re going to tear it down and build a condo/shopping complex in its place. Good riddance.

  I duck underneath the “Condemned” sign spanning the main door, careful to avoid shards of glass protruding from its edges. My cellphone serves as a flashlight, illuminating my path.

  But a path to where, exactly? My instinct tells me to check out Ballinger’s old apartment, although the apartment of Sal Busby, the deli delivery guy, is also a possibility.

  My train of thought pulls to a halt as a powerful smells hits me. My first impression is that of animal urine, not surprising in an abandoned building like this. But the smell is…different, somehow. Ammonia mixed with a cocktail of other, acrid odors.

  Rounding a hallway corner into the main lobby, the source of the odors becomes apparent. Clear plastic bottles and a variety of tubes and decanters spread in disarray across the lobby’s main desk. A series of pops and electrical humming from the pieces of apparatus echo throughout the empty chamber. This is a meth lab in full production.

  And in the midst of it all labors a scraggly fellow whose baggy jeans and black tee shirt look a size too large for his frame. Beside him is another hood rat leaning over a tank of propane gas.

  Best to make my way past them unseen. In the expanse of lobby before me, the stairs lie to the left, while the desk housing the impromptu manufacturing operation lies on the right. If I’m quiet enough, I might slip through the shadowy lobby unseen.

  Before I’ve taken five steps, Scraggles shouts from across the space. “Who the fuck are you?”

  He and the other meth head lock me in a cold stare.

  “Look, man,” I call back, slowing my pace but not stopping. “I don’t care what you’re doing here. My girlfriend’s been kidnapped and the guy who did it said I have to pick up a box—like the one I have here—from this building to get her back. I just want to get it and leave.”

  “A box, huh? Where is it?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. I think maybe—”

  “You hear this fool, cuz?” says Scraggles to his partner. “He be tryin’ to play us. Like we don’t know why he’s really here.”

  I continue my slow progress towards the stairs. “I know it sounds crazy. It does to me, too, but—”

  There’s no chance to finish my sentence before my world shatters into darkness.

  CHAPTER 30

  I’m lying on the floor with my eyes closed. I leave them that way as I struggle to orient myself.

  My head pulses with pain. Who hammered nails through my skull?

  Something’s not right.

  I open my eyes. Shafts of morning sunlight steam through the lobby windows’ broken glass and fill the space with an eerie luminescence.

  Sunlight? That means it’s morning!

  Christ. Oh, Christ.

  I struggle to sit up. The movement produces a stab of exquisite pain, radiating from my head downwards. I wobble, then push myself upright. I feel the back of my head. A knot just above my scalp line is wet…sticky. Drawing my hand back reveals a smear of blood on my fingers.

  Taking a deep breath, I s
tand. A wave of nausea washes through me. Odds are I have a concussion from the ass wipe who ambushed me last night, but there’s no time to worry about that now.

  What time is it? A glance at my watch reveals it to be just after nine o’clock. Jesus, only five hours left!

  I reach for my cellphone to call Sampson, only to discover it’s gone. And my wallet, of course. After they slugged me from behind, those fuckers took everything I owned. Wait…not everything. They didn’t discover the Glock tucked into the rear waistband of my jeans, not with my untucked shirt covering it up. And my last pine box, now open, lies sideways on the floor beside me. Guess they didn’t want a dead bird any more than Trailer Bob did last night.

  I study the lobby. There’s no trace of the meth lab or its proprietors. Works for me.

  I exhale and take a step forward. Maybe I don’t have much time left, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit now.

  Even injured, my brain must have continued to ponder the second clue throughout the night, for the answer to the second clue, the one revealing the next box’s location, appears unbidden in my mind.

  n raised the roof…

  til pigs will fly…

  The first line isn’t talking about raising hell, something Ballinger certainly did in the most diabolical way. It’s referring to the roof itself. And “pigs will fly.” In his eyes cops are pigs, so scaling the heights of this building is the closest I can get to flying without boarding a plane.

  Of course the box would be hidden on the roof of a sketchy building. Why wouldn’t it be?

  I steel myself. You thought this was going to stop me? I don’t think so. Game on, motherfucker.

  Climbing twenty-one flights of stairs is never an easy task. It’s even harder when you’ve just woken up with a concussion. But adrenaline and desperation can push you past limits you wouldn’t have thought possible.

  After an arduous climb, I reach the top of the main stairwell and move onto the twenty-first floor.

  Hard to believe it’s been years since I was here. It feels so recent. Of course, so does nine eleven. Traumatic moments have a way of burning themselves into your memory, staying fresh for years, even decades.