by Douglas Hirt
The man found the revolver and moved it from my pocket to his own. I hated to lose it but I didn’t really expect it to go unnoticed. Jeff and Alexander had escorted us to the van while the man ducked beneath the back bumper of my truck and came up holding a small, black box that must have been outfitted with a magnet...
The van hit a pothole, jolting my thoughts back to the present. The .45 was still pointed at us, but Jeff seemed to be getting bored. Well, there really wasn’t much activity going on back here. Each of us was occupied with our own thoughts. Brian was dealing with a case of mild terror while Marcie, I’m pretty sure, was thinking murderous thoughts. Good ol’ bloodthirsty Marcie Rose.
I said, “Just out of curiosity, how long has my truck been wired?” The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. Alexander answered, not taking his view from the road. Probably studiously avoiding potholes, of which Colorado Springs seemed to have more than its fair share of.
“We tagged you at the restaurant. After you got away down that goat trail of a road back in the mountains, I couldn’t afford to lose you again. I got your numbers but it was an out of state plate and it would have taken too much time to run you down through regular channels.”
I said, “You could have taken us anytime? Why did you wait until now?”
“Almost anytime. There’re hundreds of dirt tracks in those mountains and you could have been on any one of them. We had the transmitter’s signal but it took time to narrow it down to a searchable area, and it was morning before we located the cabin. Because we didn’t know how well armed you were, and since bullets won’t penetrate a log structure, we elected to wait and take you coming out...but there were complications.”
I smiled. “A complication driving a cream-colored Mercedes.”
Landerfelt gasped and gave me a startled look that told me he hadn’t known Sherri’d been to the cabin. That meant she hadn’t driven back down the pass to the Springs or he would have seen her too. There was always the chance he’d missed her car since it was my truck he was looking for, but I’d call that a long shot.
I said, “You could have moved in after she left.”
Alexander confirmed my suspicion. “We decided to see to the young lady first. We didn’t know what she’d been told.” He cast an accusatory glance at Marcie who murdered him with her stare. “We’d have moved in on you sooner if your partner here hadn’t been covering the back door.”
Landerfelt gave a startled look. Well, it was an understandable mistake for Alexander to make from the evidence at hand.
Alexander continued, glancing over his shoulder at Landerfelt, “That was clever, keeping just enough distance between you and him that if one got hit the other could make his getaway.” He returned his attention to the road. “We considered making our move back there at STE but waited until we could get the three of you together.”
He had his neatly tied-up explanation that covered the facts as he imagined them. I couldn’t see any useful reason to correct him. At a stop light a car ahead of us wore the bumper sticker: Pray for me, I drive Academy.
I said, “What did you do with her?”
Marcie was watching me. Maybe she just wanted to see my reaction?
Pretty Boy said, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Alexander said, “She’s unharmed—so far. We’re all going to go someplace nice and private where we can talk about it.”
Marcie shivered. She’d been to one of their talks and it had left an impression.
Landerfelt’s lips trembled. He understood the implication. Well, he had nothing of value to talk about, and for that matter, neither did I. All I needed to do was convince Alexander of that or there was going to be a real mess to clean up, and I didn’t think either of us would be in any condition to be doing any cleaning. I could hold out a long time under heavy persuasion; I’d been worked on by experts in that field a time or two in the past. But when you have nothing to give there isn’t much point in keeping you around. I was pretty sure Alexander et al. had no intentions of allowing any of us to go free.
Thinking it over, trying to convince them that we did know something might be a helpful tactic. If only Marcie had told me something useful!
On the padded engine cover between Raymond and Alexander lay my Smith and Wesson, I noted wryly. Being all trussed up like a bulldogged calf, and with Jeff waiting for a chance to go bang-bang with that .45, the little revolver might as well have been back at the cabin locked in a drawer.
The situation was taking on an uncomfortable deja vu. Another time, another place. Slant-eyed faces scowling at me. Arms lashed to a bamboo chair under a hot sun in a sweltering land. The faces never smiled. They just waited...waited patiently for the heat and humidity to draw out the answers to their questions. Now and then they’d prod me with the point of a bayonet, ask their questions again, and then let the roasting heat do its job. At least I’d been supplied a cover story and managed to give believable responses one after another as the questions had been asked in broken English. I pretended not to understand the words they spoke back and forth to each other.
The lies had worked well enough to buy me time, to eventually find myself alone one rainy night with a sleepy guard who’d made the mistake of becoming careless with his seemingly complacent charge. I’d covered his mouth and plunged the blade of his own knife hard and deep. I recalled the effort it took to yank it free from where it lodged between bone and tough heart muscle. The dark, the rain, the bamboo walls and a sleepy guard all worked in my favor.
I wasn’t going to kid myself that making my escape from Alexander and his crew was going to be as successful.
Chapter Thirteen
When the van turned off Academy onto Fountain Boulevard, I was pretty sure where we were going. I’d flown into Colorado Springs once, a few years ago, and my brother had come down from his cabin to pick me up. It was a couple miles to the airport, past large, industrial buildings, and down a narrow access road to a row of private hangars on the north end of the civilian side of the runways. The Colorado Springs Municipal Airport shares runways with the Air Force over on the Peterson Field side. Alexander parked between two corrugated steel hangars, behind Sherri’s Mercedes. Jeff slid the side door open and stepped down to the asphalt, brandishing the pistol for God and everyone to see, but we’d parked in a pretty secluded spot. Alexander came back with a pocketknife and sliced the ropes anchoring us to the seat frames.
I came out first squinting in the bright light, the severed end of the rope dangling from my still tied wrists and raised my hands against the glare off the shiny steel buildings. Jeff waved me toward an open door. I didn’t think much of Pretty Boy and the more I saw of him, the more I figured him for an insecure lightweight. Pistol or no, I was pretty sure I could take him even with my hands tied but this wasn’t the time to try it. The only real cover I had was the main terminal building on the other side of the wide runway, too far away to attempt a foot race against a bullet.
I glanced at Raymond, his hand in his pocket. I was pretty sure it gripped the little Colt pistol. I didn’t have much faith in the tiny .25’s usefulness. In a pinch it was marginally better than a clenched fist, I supposed. At the very least a pistol, any pistol, is a great psychological deterrent. No sensible person wanted to be perforated with a bunch of bleeding holes, even if they were little holes. As for stopping power, the diminutive caliber was several notches below what’s considered marginal, right down there with the venerable .22. Only a fool would carry one as serious protection, or someone who knows little about guns...apologies to Ian Fleming’s famous spy.
It was warm inside the dim hangar. After a few moments my eyes adjusted to the gloom. It wasn’t really all that dark here, it just seemed so at first. Overhead a bank of fluorescent tubes illuminated a low-winged twin engine aircraft with a rolling set of aluminum stair steps had been pushed up to the open door. A mechanic had one of the engine’s cowlings off and his head and arms poked inside the innards.
I’m not all that familiar with planes, but this one looked to be very expensive, very high class. Judging from the number of windows along the fuselage, I guessed it carried six to eight passengers in comfort.
Raymond shut the hangar door and locked it. Alexander cut the rope binding our wrists.
"Any theatrics and the ropes go back on." We weren’t going anywhere, and he knew it.
Marcie shed her coat and looked the place over. The old shirt I’d given her to wear was baggy but not so much so as to hide the fact that she was a woman. Involuntarily I recalled undressing her the night before when I’d put her to bed, and suddenly I wanted her. I was thinking about Sherri too. Physically speaking, Sherri had more to offer, but I had a feeling that when it came down to using what each had been endowed with, Marcie would be in the major leagues while Sherri would be still working her way up through the minors. Maybe that was unfair. I had, after all, no evidence to support the conclusion, and anyway, this was a hell of a time to be thinking about sex.
I pulled my thoughts back to the situation at hand. The hangar held only the six of us, and the mechanic who’d glanced over his shoulder when we’d entered and then had gone back to his engine. A dark movement through one of the small windows caught my eye.
“You’re worried about her,” Marcie said quietly as Alexander strolled to the plane and spoke to the mechanic. Her face held an intense look and I wondered how long she’d been studying me like that. Had she sensed my earlier thoughts? I almost felt guilty—but not so much knowing that I’d probably take her up on her offer of the night before should it be made again.
Marcie nodded toward the airplane. “She’s in there.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry she got involved, Granger.” Marcie winced. “It’s becoming...complicated.” I had a feeling she was sincere this time. “It’s all my fault,” she continued.
I said, “Forget it. This isn’t the time or place for sentiments.” The last thing I needed was for Marcie to go soft on me, not that I thought there was much chance of that happening.
She gave a grin, but her eyes were still frowning. “Mr. Tall Guy with a heart of flint. I only hope you’re as tough as you pretend to be when they put the thumb screws to you.”
I did too and tried not to let my thoughts go there. And then Landerfelt crashed into us sending us staggering. I grabbed for Marcie but she was already heading for the concrete floor. Pretty Boy jabbed Landerfelt in the stomach with the automatic and kicked Marcie out of his way with a pointy-toe boot. Landerfelt cowed, covering his face with his hands while trying to protect his middle with his elbows. Pretty Boy Jeff laughed at Landerfelt’s clumsy attempt to protect himself and poked him again with the pistol.
“When I tell you to move, I mean MOVE!" Pretty Boy said in his best James Cagney voice, glowering like a street-corner bully who’d just corralled the neighborhood sissy, a real man with a big gun in his hand. "Hey, look at me, fatso!” He poked Landerfelt again just for the fun of it, a curl on his lips that would have made Mephistopheles look downright saintly. I didn’t like what I was seeing.
“I said look at me!” Pretty Boy snarled.
But Brian Landerfelt was busy hiding behind his arms, too frozen from fright by the sudden attack to be comply. That only made Pretty Boy angrier. The kid had a temper problem. His eyes glared savagely, and his voice rose, accusing Landerfelt of having an incestuous relationship with his mother although not exactly in those words. Without any warning at all, Pretty Boy hammered the pistol into Landerfelt’s mouth. Landerfelt cried out and stumbled back, blood running through his fingers. Pretty Boy went after him like a hungry shark. Landerfelt stumbled over a toolbox and hit the floor hard.
Raymond stood nearby scowling. Alexander and the mechanic had looked over from the plane. They didn’t appear pleased with the performance, but no one had made an effort to break it up. Pretty Boy struck with those pointy boots again, aiming for a groin shot but missing, his face a crimson glow, the snarl on his lips pure hate. As if it could get much worse, the scene turned ugly. Pretty Boy racked the slide of the pistol back, ejecting a perfectly good shell and feeding in a fresh one. Maybe he did it on purpose to further terrify Landerfelt, but I suspected rage had overcome rational thinking and he didn’t realize the gun already had a bullet in the chamber.
And still no one did anything to try and stop it. I didn’t owe Landerfelt anything, but the kid with the stiletto boots had racked up a list of offenses that I had intended to settle up on sometime soon. It’s funny how a notion comes from seemingly out of nowhere and takes hold. It may be a dumb-ass idea, the kind that ends up getting you killed, but it sets its teeth and there’s no letting go.
I moved in with a low, quick fist to the kid’s stomach. Air exploded from his lungs and the pistol skittered away someplace. I didn’t care where. It wasn’t on my radar. I came up with a short jab to his chin. Pretty Boy’s head snapped back and then suddenly I had it in a particular hold I hadn’t used in over twenty years, hadn’t even thought about it, but there it was. Reflexes took over; pressure to the neck vertebrae, a twist to his chin, and the sharp snap that told me I’d properly executed the maneuver. The kid went limp...and then the hangar went psychedelic. I glimpsed a warped, hall-of-mirrors image of Alexander standing with something long and black raising up over his head. The black thing swung downward and the grotesque image winked out, and all went black.
Chapter Fourteen
Somewhere in the vicinity of my forehead an inferno blazed.
A low, far away murmuring faintly seeped into my consciousness. Much closer a persistent vibration pushed waves of motion up my spine, crashing into fire raging behind my eyes. The sensation was quite unpleasant and I felt I might retch if it continued too much longer.
I’d begun the long stead crawl to consciousness whether I wanted too or not. Frankly, I wasn’t too thrilled with the prospect of facing the pain straight on with eyes wide open. The climb came in stages, and with each advance my peripheral awareness improved and the fire in my head burned hotter. My hands, I discovered, had been tied again. Well, I couldn’t blame them. I had acted rather unsociable once they’d been untied, and Alexander had warned me of the consequences. Beneath me was a rough texture, which I recognized as cloth upholstery as one might find in a car or truck...or an airplane. Something cold and damp pressed against my forehead. Something soft and gentle stroked my temple. Something like the scent of lilacs reached my nose.
Consciousness arrived with a tremendous stabbing of pain between my eyes, which I kept screwed shut against the light—natural light not artificial. How did I know that?
“I think he’s coming around.” That was Alexander.
“Too bad,” An unfamiliar voice replied.
“Paul? Paul, can you hear me?”
I forced open an eye. Her pale, washed-out features were out of focus. “Sherri,” I murmured.
“I’m here, Paul.” Sudden relief eased some of the tension in her face. The corners of her lips hitched up in an effort to smile. “Oh, Paul, we’ve been so worried about you.” Her words sounded strained.
“Speak for yourself, lady?” Came that same voice from the front of the plane.
Sherri scowled at the man behind the controls.
I tried to sit up. A hot iron struck me between the eyes driving me back against the reclined seat. Sherri said, “Don’t move, darling. Rest a little while longer.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard Marcie’s voice, and I didn’t know if what I was feeling was curiosity or worry. “Help me sit up. How do you work this damned thing?” I said groping double-handed for the button or lever that normally resides somewhere on an airplane armrest.
Sherri disapproved, but her hand left my shoulder and a moment later the seat back rose, Sherri restraining it so that it didn’t lift too quickly. “How’s that, Paul? Do you need a pillow?”
“You’re treating him like a baby,” Marcie said harshly. The sound
of her voice lifted a small amount of the worry I felt. She came from behind me, took my wrist to check my pulse and then peered into my face, lifting an eyelid with a thumb, first the left and then the right, coming to the conclusion that I didn’t have a concussion and all I really needed were a couple aspirins. “Well, where are they?” Marcie demanded, louder this time because no one had paid any attention to her. “I know you’ve got a first aid kit aboard.”
Alexander, seated in front of us, facing us, pointed to the rear of the plane with Pretty Boy’s pistol. I glanced down the center aisle. Landerfelt was in the row behind us, but Pretty Boy was not aboard. Marcie made her way aft. I said to Alexander, “Where’s the kid?”
“You did him good, Granger.”
“Dead?”
“No, but he’ll wish he was. He won’t be walking again. He can breathe on his own, but not much more.”
“Where is he?”
“Hospital,” Alexander said.
“How’d you explain it?”
He shrugged. “Accidents happen when you work around machinery. The officials bought it okay." His voice hardened. "I don’t like having to explain bodies, Granger. I’ll be sure we won’t have that problem with yours.”
I said, “Then you’ll have to do a better job of packaging it up than you did with Carl.” It was a shot in the dark but it must have hit something.
Alexander stiffened slightly, his view narrowing. “What do you know about that?”
The thing is, I knew nothing but what little Marcie had said, and I’d wager maybe ninety percent of that had been lies, but if I was going to convince them I had information worth keeping alive a little while longer, now was as good a time as any to begin talking.