Body Parts (Rye & Claire 1)

by Crumb, Kit

  “I guess they wanted them a lot more then we did.”

  Phil turned a grim face on Paul. “Rye and Claire?”

  Paul shook his head. “The mine was sealed by the blast. Bobby, why don’t you drive down and get the local sheriff?”

  Bobby shook his head as he walked to join his brother. “Not a chance. The last time you sent me on an errand I got punched in the chest by a gorilla. I’ll just call,” he said, holding up his cell phone.

  Chapter Forty

  A stretch limo pulled into the gas station in Denton Beach. The windows weren’t tinted they were blacked out. When the attendant walked up to the driver’s window, all he could see of the lone figure inside was a silhouette.

  “Fill it up?”

  The window rolled down four inches, and the attendant noticed the driver never took his hands off the wheel.

  “I need directions to Pericolo Lane,” a voice said in a thick accent. The voice didn’t come from the driver.

  “Sure. Two blocks north, take a right at the Book Nook.”

  The window rolled up and the limo drove off.

  * * *

  “Mildred, would you get a look at that limo?” Sally Moore said to her sister.

  “Oh my God,” said Mildred. “I’ve never seen one so long. I wonder if it can make even half the turns on that road?”

  “Could you bring me that box of books, I need to start now if I’m going to get them entered by the end of the day,” Sally said.

  For the next twenty minutes, Mildred and Sally Moore worked independently, one entering books, the other shelving, occasionally interrupted by tourists and the few regulars who routinely visited the Book Nook.

  Mildred looked up from the computer as blaring sirens grew closer and closer.

  “Sally, do you have your little TV on again?”

  “No.”

  Sally deserted her shelving and walked to the picture window that looked out on North Main.

  “Something’s going on. Millie, come see.”

  Mildred joined her sister at the window.

  “My goodness, what in the world would take two police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck? And would you look at that black sedan.

  Sally laughed. “Probably the FBI.”

  The two women took turns speculating on what might be happening. As the sirens faded, the women went back to work.

  * * *

  The stretch limo slowed at the gate of 20415, then stopped. The first of four passenger side doors opened; a man climbed out, fastened the middle button of his sport coat. The distant wale of sirens filled the air. The man—dark complexion, hair slicked back—heard the sirens, but looking up and down the road saw nothing. Without taking a step, he turned his upper body only and spoke to someone inside.

  ”Claro.”

  The remaining limo doors opened and six nattily dressed men emerged.

  One, clearly the leader, paused and looked around. “Beautiful,” he said. He too heard the sirens, but they seemed so far away he thought nothing of it. He looked over at Paul Casey and the Panther brothers, then at the stone pillar with the address. He spoke in Spanish to his companions; all heads turned in an attempt to locate the direction of the sirens. The leader walked across the road.

  Paul walked to head the man off. As they met near the center of the road, the man stopped. “Excuse me. I see that this is 20415.” He spoke with a strong Spanish accent, then seeing Paul’s apparent confusion, added, “Please forgive me. I am Eduardo Santana, representative to the Columbia delegation. We have an appointment with Doctoro Simms and Señora Rehnquist.”

  Paul had made the first man out of the limo as a bodyguard the moment he stepped onto the road. He was puzzled by this other man, however, until the names Simms and Rehnquist were mentioned.

  “Perhaps you could direct me?” Santana said.

  The sirens were now clear enough that it was apparent that they came from several vehicles.

  Paul managed to produce his most cordial smile. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped back indicating the silver and black BMW. “You’ve arrived just in time.”

  The stranger shook Paul’s hand. “Bueno, señor. Thank you very much.” He turned and walked back toward the limo where he joined his companions. Paul walked back to join the Panther brothers as quickly as his hip would allow.

  “What did you tell the police?”

  Bobby was still rubbing his chest. “Everything I thought would get them up here in a hurry. Black market organ sales, murder…and I threw in the fire for good measure. Why?”

  “Judging from those sirens we should see half the county’s law enforcement come flying around the corner any minute.”

  Paul watched as the group of men from the limo—the Columbian contingent—walk across the street and converge on the BMW.

  Paul’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a step back. The highway patrol vehicle whizzed by, narrowly missing the men. It then suddenly turned into a skid, stopping crossways to the road. A second vehicle, a sheriff’s patrol, skidded to a halt parallel to the limo, blocking it from the delegation.

  Paul and the Panther brothers silently watched as an unmarked black sedan came to a skidding halt, blocking the road. It hadn’t come to a complete stop when its doors flew open and a half dozen men wearing orange vests with NSA on the back emerged. Several knelt into the three-point position, aiming their guns at the Columbians, who by now were looking for a quick exit. Three more NSA agents crabbed forward, guns drawn.

  Suddenly, the bodyguard reached into his coat, but a volley of bullets brought him down before he could pull his gun.

  “Shit, are you sure that’s all you told them?”

  An NSA agent, his gun still drawn, interrupted Bobby’s response. “One of you Paul Casey?” Paul looked to Bobby then back to the agent. “Yes sir, I’m Paul Casey.”

  “Could I see some identification?” the agent said, aiming his pistol squarely at Paul’s chest. “Nice and slow.”

  Paul used one hand to open his coat and the other to extract his private investigator’s license from the inside pocket, handing it over with two fingers.

  The agent holstered his pistol.

  “We started watching these guys last week when they first entered the country. Columbian secret service provided us with full profiles.”

  Paul was totally baffled. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “These men represent Columbia’s black market organ distribution, and actually I was hoping you could fill us in on who they were meeting.”

  Paul looked first to Bobby, then to Phil, then back to the agent. “Sorry to say that the only people who could answer that question were killed in a mine explosion less than an hour ago.”

  He had barely choked out the words and was looking down at his feet, when the agent touched him on the shoulder.

  “Who are they?”

  Paul whirled around and looked up the driveway, unable to believe his eyes. Phil and Bobby, smiling broadly, began jogging in the same direction.

  Rye was carrying Claire in his arms. Crystal had a hand on his shoulder and was stumbling along. All of their clothes were torn, their skin scraped and bleeding.

  Bobby spotted blood running down Rye’s leg and broke into a run. “Get one of the EMTs,” he yelled, over his shoulder.

  Paul turned and made a beeline for the ambulance. Bobby took the unconscious Claire from Rye’s arms, walked to the grass at the edge of the driveway and gently laid her down.

  Paul placed a hand behind Rye’s shoulders, helping him to lie down. “What happened?”

  Rye turned his head and watched as a pair of EMTs set down next to Claire and began palpating for broken bones.

  “We escaped from the mine through an air vent. We were half way up w
hen the blast hit. It blew us out like we were shot from a cannon.”

  Rye braced himself up on his arms and looked over at the EMTs as they loaded Claire on a gurney. Paul saw the concern on Rye’s face as he started to get up. He put his arm on Rye’s shoulder. “You stay put. I’ll find out how she’s doing.”

  Rye reluctantly settled back down and looked around for Bobby and Phil. He spotted them talking with one of the NSA agents. A deep voice from behind startled him.

  “Ryeland Anderson?”

  He rolled onto the opposite hip and came face to face with an NSA agent squatting down next to him.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions”

  Rye smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. What can I tell you?”

  “For starters, what was in that mine?”

  “The only thing I found was my wife and the woman she was rescuing. You can ask her, but you’ll have to wait until she regains consciousness.”

  The agent followed Rye’s gaze to the ambulance.

  “Sorry about your wife, is she going to be alright?”

  “I think so.” Rye watched Paul turn from the ambulance as it drove off. “I’ll know in a minute”

  The agent sat in silence as Paul described Claire’s condition as scrapes, a broken finger and possible concussion.

  He reached across Rye, extending his hand to Paul. “I’m agent Gray. I took the phone call from Bobby Panther.”

  Paul shook the agent’s hand. “He’s over there,” Paul indicated with a nod of his head, “if you need to talk to him.”

  “I think we have the Panthers covered. Everything else will come from Mr. Anderson here and his wife.”

  Rye watched the ambulance as it took Claire away. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  Paul and the agent looked at each other in surprise as Rye struggled to his feet.

  “I need your car.”

  Paul was on his feet, limping to catch up with him. “Don’t you think you should wait for the medics to give you the once over?”

  Rye never slowed his pace. “I need to be with Claire.”

  The NSA agent ran to the side of Paul’s car. “If you have no objections,” he said, “I’ll ride along.”

  “None here,” Paul said looking at Rye.

  During the four and a half hours back to Medford, he and Paul filled in agent Gray on Lewd and Lascivious and the black market organ sales. Rye was careful to let agent Gray know that the Panthers had no involvement in any of it.

  Paul pulled into the circle drive that passed in front of the hospital and let agent Gray and Rye out. “I’ll meet you inside,” Paul said.

  Rye was stiff from the ride and still limping as he passed through the sliding double doors into the foyer with agent Gray at his side. He didn’t recognize the woman at the information desk. But before he could speak, agent Gray leaned across the counter and flashed his identification. “We need the room number for Claire Anderson?”

  The desk clerk consulted a clipboard. “Oh, she just came in. No, wait, that’s Clarice Combs.” She looked up at Rye. “Same person?”

  “That’s her,” Rye said.

  “She was taken directly to the intensive care unit, go to the end of the hall, and then right, just follow the signs.”

  Claire was rocked a little from side to side as the orderly guided the gurney down the hall. The motion took her back to a small box plummeting down a mineshaft. Down the Starr Mine, the deepest shaft in North America—8,500 feet. Thirteen-year-old Clarice had escaped her young pursuers only to fall victim to their vicious prank.

  For thirty-five years, Claire had shuddered and grown pale with fear when confronted with small, tight, confining spaces. But why had she been running to the mine, what protection had she sought? For most of her adult life, some fact about the event had evaded her. Claire knew she needed to remember to be able to free herself of her phobia. Claustrophobia and selective memory, they’d told her. She’d stopped getting counseling in her thirties, convinced that she would suffer for the rest of her life.

  Curled into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, little Clarice retreated to the darkest uncharted reaches of her mind, and waited for the sudden stop she was sure would mean certain death.

  The emergency room nurse joined the orderly in lifting Claire from the gurney to a bed in intensive care. The ICU nurse examined her scrapes, and attached sensors that would monitor her blood pressure and heart rate. Finally, they gave her an IV drip.

  Clarice shuddered as the little dumbwaiter slowed and opened her eyes to the darkness when it stopped. She couldn’t see the door open, but felt a tiny breeze. Then the strong hand she recognized as her father’s, touched her. That was it! Her father was in the mine. She knew that if she could just find him she’d be safe.

  Rye stood next to the ICU nurse watching Claire sleep.

  “Why are her eyes moving when her eyelids are closed?” Rye said. He knew the reason but wanted to hear it from the nurse.

  “She’s dreaming, what you’re seeing is called REM. Rapid eye movement.”

  Reaching down, Rye placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder and gave her a soft shake.

  Her eyes opened.

  “How are you, Claire?”

  “Fine, fine,” she said softly. Everything’s going to be alright now.”

  Claire closed her eyes and was Clarice once again, waiting for her father to help her out of the dumbwaiter just as she knew he would.

  ~ THE END ~

  Read the first chapter of

  RETRIBUTION

  Chapter One

  Kate Green jolted awake; a thud somewhere out in the hall drove her dreams away. She rolled over and glared at the clock numbers that glared back, 4:00 am. She was hoping for a lazy Saturday morning. She rolled onto her back shooting her arm out to give Richard a nudge. He could investigate. In the old house she knew every creak and squeak, but this hotel was filled with ghosts. Thud. Odd there it was again.

  Now she was really awake.

  When her hand found only warm sheets and an empty pillow, she smiled to herself, Richard was already up, he must have heard the noise too. She rolled back on her side and closed her eyes but her mind wouldn’t let her sleep. The noise was probably coming from the next room. She was awake for sure now. Maybe when Richard returned they’d make love again. Since he’d gotten the promotion everything had changed for the better. The move to this beautiful little town, this wonderful suite and Richard’s promise that today they would decide on a house. Most importantly, new hours and the fact that he could now work from home part time. Richard was a new man—so calm, and easy to be around, yes, definitely a new man.

  The third time she heard the thud it brought her to the edge of the bed, heart pounding. Something must be wrong. She couldn’t find her slippers and the oak floor was cold on her feet, the air was cool on her nude body. Leaning back she reached under the sheets, and fished around, until she found her nightshirt, still warm from being slept on. She thought she heard a scraping sound as she pulled it over her head, shooting her hands through the armholes. She stretched the end of the shirt across her knees rocking slightly as she listened.

  “Richard?” Why was she whispering?

  She wobbled when she stood, then steadied herself on the headboard, and paused before making her way to the door. She could feel her heart beat. What was she afraid of? They weren’t the only occupants of this old hotel. “Richard?” A little louder this time, Kate pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chin. “Richard!” Not quite a yell, surly he heard. Maybe he’d had a heart attack and was pounding on the wall to get her attention. His old position with the company had been so stressful, this promotion had been a lifesaver in many ways. She walked briskly down the short hall that lead to the living room and found it empty, turned and pushed the swinging
door to the kitchen. It hit something and she pushed harder.

  Suddenly her feet felt warm and when she looked down a black ooze was flowing around her toes. Without thinking Kate slammed her shoulder against the door not taking her eyes off her feet but it still wouldn’t budge, then she heard that thud again. “Richard!” This time it was a scream. An arm had fallen across the opposite side of the door, a glimpse as the door swung in and she saw a hand, it wore Richard’s class ring. Then she was pushing with all her strength, and as if someone on the opposite side suddenly let go, she was through the door, turning, stumbling, and kneeling. Richard was curled in a fetal position lying in an ever-growing silhouette of black.

  So much blood, she wanted to call someone who’d know what to do, she looked for the phone but remembered it was in the bedroom.

  She suddenly felt herself being urged to her feet by a pair of hands at her armpits. When Kate turned she heard herself gasp, this was no Good Samaritan, no individual bent on helping. The black clad figure stood directly in front of her and reached forward grabbing a handful of shirt raising it until her breasts were exposed. Her mind screamed rape. In that same moment she understood it might save her life, yes take my body. I don’t want to die, not now, not so soon. Not this way.

  She never saw the knife but felt a pain next to her navel, the way you might feel a slice to the finger while peeling an apple. The tip of the short knife entered just to the right of the diaphragm and was quickly retracted. Kate fell to her knees supporting herself with both arms. She forced herself to look up. Suddenly a wave of relief masked the pain. He was gone. Maybe he’d been scared off, or never intended to kill her. From the corner of her eye she saw his feet and her pain returned with a vengeance. She never got the chance to turn her head and look, but heard a whoosh. Thud. Kate’s look of surprise was captured forever as her severed head hit the floor.

  * * *

  Kit Crumb is a physical fitness coach, martial arts instructor, former physical therapist and EMT living in the Cascade mountains near Ashland Oregon. BodyParts is his first published novel.