The Sacrifice

by Sandy J Hartwick

  The sun was down and the pink and gold of the sunset was slowly fading from the horizon.

  “Why hasn’t he called yet?” Tom said abruptly.

  If she didn’t feel like she was made of lead, she might have jumped at his outburst. “I don’t know. But he will. I know he will.”

  Tom took another large swallow of wine and moved closer to her on the bench, putting his arm around her. They sat close, thigh to thigh. She rested her head on his chest and pulled him to her. They had sat here many times, but she had never before experienced the dread and foreboding that filled her stomach and her chest. There did not seem to be much to say—Tom was going to Vegas tomorrow and she was going into hiding in the canyon. It was surreal. How their boring but happy world was being turned inside out. She felt like a leaf in a stream, being pulled with a momentum and direction that she had no control over.

  The phone rang. Tom jumped and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom, it’s Father Bob.”

  “What happened to ‘not doing anything rash’?”

  “Now, I know you would have tried to talk me out of this, but let’s not argue. I think I’ve found a way into their executive offices.” Father Bob was standing in front of the Bellagio enjoying the tiny bit of breeze that raked across the surface of its fountains, giving him a bit of coolness. The strip was slowly filling up as the oven temperature of the street dropped to mere heat lamp.

  Tom could not believe what he was hearing. “What! What are you thinking about? Even if you can get in there, do you know what they’ll do to you if they catch you?”

  Father Bob was quiet for a moment. “You’ve got to have a little faith.”

  Tom smacked his fist on the counter and turned around, cordless mashed against his head. He began to pace. Cami watched him from the front door. He shook his head at her, his face angry, giving her the “what can a person do?” look. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do and I appreciate your faith, too, but can’t you wait for me? I’m planning on driving down tomorrow.”

  “No, I can’t wait for you. I think tomorrow during the memorial will be my best chance to snoop around a little. I already have the scoop on how to get in—it’s going to be easy. You forget that I have my priest’s collar. It’s like having a get out of jail free card.”

  “I could fly down tonight then—I could take a red eye and be there in the morning—”

  “Tom, you don’t travel much, do you? All the Friday night flights are booked early in the week—you’ll never get a flight.”

  He was right. And whether he flew or drove, he wanted to get Cami set up in the canyon before he left and he couldn’t do that in the dark. He was silent, thinking.

  “Tom, are you there?” The priest sounded as if he knew Tom was there and that he was stuck.

  “Yeah.”

  “I know you are worried, but we can take precautions. I’ll call you on the hour—noon—one—two—until I’m out of the place. You can call me if I don’t call, and if you don’t get a hold of me you can call the FBI.”

  “And tell them what? My priest is on a devil hunt and he hasn’t checked in?” Tom couldn’t believe Father Bob was going through with this.

  “You can tell them whatever you want. Terrorism or kidnapping are pretty good ones that they act on right away these days.”

  “Great.” Tom couldn’t help being sarcastic. “Don’t we need a code word in case I call and they’ve got you under their power?”

  Father Bob laughed. “Sure, how about a whole phrase like ‘It’s hotter than the blazes here’? Look, I know you’re pissed, but I’m good with this plan. I’ve fought what these people generate for years—here’s my chance to pull down one of the big boys. If I can pull this off do you realize how many lives I might save?” He paused, but Tom said nothing. “Tom, remember the way that baby cried and how you said it would haunt you for the rest of your life—the idea that you could do nothing to save it?” This time he waited quietly for a long time.

  At last, Tom said, “Yes.”

  “Well, I feel the same way. If I don’t act and this is our best chance, I’ll never forgive myself or forget that I hesitated.”

  “I understand, but this seems way too risky and too fast—it’s not planned out enough.”

  “You’ve got to remember that we’re the guys in the white hats—God will look out for us. Now, I’ve got your cell and I will call you as we discussed. If I don’t get your cell, I’ll call your home number. If I don’t call, you can call me and if I don’t answer … you know what to do.”

  Tom wanted to ask how this would work if he was on his way to Vegas and his phone wouldn’t work and how Cami could answer the house phone if she was up in the canyon, but he didn’t bother. They would figure something out—Father Bob’s mind was set. “Okay, Father.” Tom felt heavy and weary and it leached into his voice.

  “Don’t worry. Have some faith.”

  “Okay, we’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  Tom hung up the phone. He thought he might talk some sense into the priest, but it had been useless. Tom told Cami what Father Bob had said and her shoulders sagged.

  “Let’s put the kids to bed and get some sleep. I’ll set the alarm for three thirty and we can get up and talk while we are getting ready to go. We’ll feel better after some rest,” Tom said.

  Cami doubted that, but she put away dinner and cleaned up the kitchen, while Tom called the kids in and got them ready for bed.

  Chapter 41

  Once they had him out of the hole and on painkillers, Weasel slept. He slept through his helicopter ride to University Medical Center and woke up only after they prodded him cruelly to get him to answer some questions. He kept drifting off even then. He had escaped the giant gray rat, and Weasel knew it would not come after him here. Now he doubted that the rat had been real.

  They cleaned him up and sent him to x-ray. He didn’t care as long as he got to sleep. He wasn’t thirsty or in pain and he was safe; he slept hard. He heard snatches of conversation around him, but none of it seemed to matter as much as his blessed sleep.

  “Badly dehydrated.” “Broken most of his left side.” “There are some FBI guys that want to talk to him.” “We need to get him stabilized.” “They want to post a guard and they want to double-check IDs on everyone who comes near him.” “So this is the guy linked to that double murder? It has to be something bigger than that.”

  Weasel didn’t care about any of it and could not piece it together in his drugged brain anyway. An operating room and a private room in ICU were set up for Weasel with two FBI agents and two cops. Two other plainclothes FBI agents were on surveillance around the medical center.

  Richard Taylor’s phone rang at two thirteen a.m. He answered on the second ring, instantly awake. It had been a long time since his phone rang in the middle of the night—this couldn’t be good.

  “Sir?” It was Jake, his gruff voice soft, as if he was afraid of waking him up.

  “Yes, Jake?”

  “I think they’ve got Weasel.”

  He sat up straight and tense. “What do you mean ‘think’?”

  “There’s a huge commotion over at University Med—cops, FBI, reporters—I heard they are waking judges up to try and get search warrants. They haven’t said any names, boss, all I heard is that they pulled this little guy—pretty busted up—out of a mine shaft and that he is linked to that double murder up north and to some casino in town.”

  “Fuck!” Susan’s plot for victory was turning into an enormous shit pile that was sucking him and his empire into its vortex like a black hole.

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Pretty bad I guess. I heard they are trying to stabilize him and that they are fixing a special spot for him in ICU.”

  “Hold tight for now, Jake. See if you can find out anything else. We might get lucky and he’ll die anyway.�
� It sounded wrong, but it was true. And it would even be true for Weasel. He liked to believe his people would never testify against him, but it would be much better if it never got to that point.

  “Yes sir, anything else?”

  “No. I’ll see you and Billy at eight, as we planned.” He hung up and flopped back on the bed. How much more screwed up could things get? If they had Weasel, they probably had the car: the one registered to the corporation. Steve must be dead, but how Weasel ended up in the bottom of a mine shaft … maybe he had been dumping Steve? He had been trying to do the right thing then.

  A little vein ticked in his brow. This was all Susan’s fault and where was she? Sleeping or pouting in her apartment. She wasn’t worrying about search warrants and FBI people sniffing around—her whole world wasn’t teetering on edge. Well, he supposed it was, but she was pulling him and all he had built towards ruin. All of the records for the group were hidden in a secret room in the casino and only he, his secretary, Susan, and Ash knew about it. It would probably take the authorities weeks to find it and the FBI wouldn’t have that long. He felt confident they wouldn’t find it, but just the idea that they were going to be snooping around infuriated him. He felt certain that his employees wouldn’t talk, and if Weasel died there was a good chance his attorney could argue that Steve and Weasel went nutball and decided to go out into the country and start killing people. But if Weasel lived—he had seen and done a lot of dirty deeds, and if they could convince him of his safety and a new life in a witness protection program, he might talk.

  He got up; it was two thirty a.m. now and there was no point in lying in bed. The best he could do would be to focus on acting normally, getting through Ash’s memorials and keeping tabs on Weasel. That was more than enough for today. He thought about calling Susan and telling her about Weasel, but decided that he couldn’t stand talking to her. It would just raise his blood pressure. He wished he could wash his hands of her, but she might still be useful to him, and as much as she had cost him this week, he would like some return on his investment.

  He shook his head and headed to the kitchen to make some coffee. He needed some time to think.

  He could have called Susan and it would not have awakened her. She had risen at about two, ravenous again, and had padded out to the fridge to eat the rest of the raw hamburger. She had then set to work cleaning and polishing herself. She prepared as if she was going in for a normal day at the office, styling her hair and applying makeup. She checked out the window and saw that Uncle must have called off his troll. Just as she thought, he needed the man for security at the memorial today. Finally dressed, she sat down at the table and went over her maps and flight times again. She was ready and she felt the excitement surge in her stomach. Today would be her chance for redemption and it was going to happen, because she was running the whole operation.

  Father Bob was all alone and he was in the water and there were sharks. He had seen enough of them in his sailing days to identify species; these were not giants. They reminded him of the ones he had seen near a port in Nicaragua; someone told him they could swim up rivers and live in fresh water. That had creeped him out. What were they? Bulls? He had also heard that Jaws had been based on a true story of a bull shark that swam up a Jersey river and ate people. “Black. Dolls’ eyes,” he could hear the shark hunter from Jaws whisper in his ear. It was true and one swam by close enough to touch—lolling over on its side to take him in with its deep, hungry eyes. He suddenly realized there was a ladder next to him and he could climb out of the water and that was the worst, having to turn his back on the monsters and try to get to the ladder and climb to safety. He turned at the last second and the giant mouth was there, open, rows of jagged teeth glistening; its throat like a portal to hell. He screamed and sat bolt upright in bed, the desert and the Las Vegas strip assuring him that he had never been so far from sharks in his life.

  Father Bob cursed when he saw the time—two thirty. He could really use some sleep. He reached for the Wild Turkey on the nightstand and took a long medicinal pull. He lay back down trying not to think of his horrible dream and what it could mean. He hadn’t thought or dreamt of sharks in a long time. To dream of them now in the desert seemed bizarre; his wakeup call was for six, although if he could go to sleep again, he was sure he would wake at his usual five. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, his favorite, St. Michael the Archangel, then launched into the rosary. The meditation quieted his mind and the prayer cleared the air; sleep came to him again, free from sharks and other monsters.

  Chapter 42

  When Tom and Cami’s alarm went off at three thirty both were in an exhausted, dead sleep. Tom hit the off button and they cuddled together in the dark. “Can we sleep a little longer?” Cami mumbled.

  “Yeah, we’ll get up in a while,” Tom said. They released themselves back into the arms of delicious sleep, their tired minds and bodies seeking renewal and a hideaway from their present awful truth. They were back in deep sleep in minutes, the urgency of getting up so early forgotten.

  It wasn’t until the sun peeked over the mountains and into their room that Tom remembered his plans to meet Father Bob in Vegas. He was awake instantly. “Shit!”

  He hopped out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. He would get Cami and the kids up to the canyon and then head to Vegas—if he plugged in the radar detector and broke the speed limit, he could be there in six hours.

  Cami didn’t stir. “Cami.” She moaned a bit, but didn’t answer.

  “Cami!” Tom rarely yelled at her, but he needed her up and getting the kids dressed and ready.

  She sat up suddenly. “Oh shit!” She moved fast, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she walked out of the room. She was already calling the girls before Tom finished buttoning his shirt.

  Tom couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s ability to multitask. “I’m going to go out and hook up the trailer,” he called.

  When he came back in Cami met him at the door. “How about you go ahead and get the trailer set up and I’ll stay here, get the kids some breakfast and pack you a bag for Vegas?”

  He looked at her, frowning. “I’d rather leave you at the canyon myself—if I drove up without you I wouldn’t have time to take you back up to the trailer.”

  “I know,” Cami said, “but I’ve driven up there a million times—it’s no problem, besides I still need to pack the ice chest too.”

  What she said made sense and though he didn’t like it, he didn’t feel like arguing; he needed to get on the road. “Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He kissed her lightly on the mouth and went out the door.

  He and Farley jumped in the truck and headed towards the canyon, pulling the camp trailer.

  Susan was dressed in a white tank top, khaki cargo pants and tennis shoes. She had pulled her long hair back into a braid, as she always did when she was flying. She checked her gear bag once more and then put on her shoulder holster. She secured her Beretta in it, checking the ammo yet again. She then pulled on a light windbreaker even though the temperature outside had only lowered to seventy-four. She probably wouldn’t see anyone at the casino this morning, but it wouldn’t do to tromp around with her weapon showing.

  She grabbed her gear bag, her garment bag that had her outfit for the memorial, and a backpack that had her purse and other weapons in it and headed out of the condo, turning off lights on her way out. She was locking her door just as her watch read four thirty; she was right on schedule. The round trip flight would be about four and a half hours. She had budgeted time for a fuel stop, driving to the casino, swiping her victims, and included an extra half hour for securing her victims and changing clothes for Ash’s memorial upon her return. It would be simple. She didn’t believe the cowboy or his family would hop right on board with her, but the children would make them much easier to deal with. If she got a hold of one of the kids, the rest would be straightforward. It was amazing what you could get a person to do when you were holding a
sharp blade to their child’s throat. She smiled at this as she loaded the gear into the passenger side of her BMW. She felt happy and powerful. Today she was going to turn things around—redeem herself and avenge Ash, and she was going to do it in front of the whole group.

  She allowed herself these thoughts of how her victory was going to be until she arrived at valet. Then she stopped and focused on her plan; she was approaching the point of no return.

  Susan nodded at the valet; he recognized her and seemed puzzled at the hour, but he knew better than to talk to her—to even say “Good morning.” He held the doors for her and then went to park her car. She headed to the executive offices elevator. The helicopter had its own landing pad on top of the parking garage, but Susan wanted a shotgun from the secret room. It was a twenty- by thirty-foot space that was tacked onto the back of the furnace/HVAC room. What records the group had were kept there, along with paraphernalia and weapons. There was no hidden staircase or special security for the room; a set of shelves slid back to reveal the door. Uncle believed the room was so small and in such an unexpected place that it would defy detection. Being in such an open area, it necessitated access only during off hours or on weekends when everyone was out. Even so, all the weapons in the room would break apart enough to be packed in a suitcase to avoid suspicion. She found the gun she wanted and added it to her case along with some ammo and made her way to the helicopter.