Aftermath

by Michael Kerr

“Okay, sir, we don’t want to start nitpicking,” Charlie said. “Just tell us who he is and why he broke your arm and fingers.”

  Jerry thought fast. He had a quick brain: couldn’t have got from being a salesman in a rundown garage west of town to become the biggest and wealthiest car dealer in the county if he hadn’t been able to lie on cue and convince people that he was as honest as the day was long.

  “OK, Detective Garfield, I got a call from a guy who said his name was Johnson. I spoke with him because I thought it was Rafe Johnson, the CEO of Johnson Holdings in the city. He’s a regular customer. But it wasn’t Rafe; it was a total stranger to me. He said that he knew I’d put a contract out on my accountant, Richard Jennings, and also on Richard’s wife and daughter. Threatened to cut my throat and throw me in the river if I didn’t call it off.”

  Charlie knew all about the hit and run on Jennings. “So what did you say, sir?” he asked.

  “I told him that Richard had been my friend, and that he had no right to threaten me. He hung up.”

  Russ asked Jerry, “Did he mention Roy Naylor or Sal Mendez?”

  Jerry frowned. “Now you mention it, yeah. He said the names Roy and Sal. But I have no idea who he was talking about.”

  “Why didn’t you phone us, sir?” Charlie asked. “You’d just been accused of murder and had your life threatened.”

  “I thought it was some crank call. I decided to ignore it,” Jerry said.

  “Bad decision,” Russ said.

  “With hindsight I can’t argue with that,” Jerry said. He felt a surge of relief, because the cops were obviously buying his story.

  “That just leaves a statement we have from Mr Lester to run past you, sir,” Charlie said.

  Jerry felt a lance of apprehension hit him like a physical blow. What the fuck had Sammy said to them?

  Charlie saw the colour drain from Brandon’s cheeks, and noticed the almost imperceptible look of fear pass through his eyes like a shadow.

  “Sammy Lester?” Jerry said. “He works for me.”

  “I think that should be ‘used to work for you’, sir,” Charlie said. “At the moment he’s in custody, trying to deal his way out of some serious charges against him.”

  “What charges?”

  “The murder of Roy Naylor and his girlfriend,” Russ said. “He’s blaming it on the guy that paid you a visit, but Lester’s prints are all over the weapon, so he feels it his civic duty to cooperate with us.”

  “And exactly what has that got to do with me?” Jerry said. “I’ve had nothing to do with anyone being murdered.”

  Charlie smiled and said, “Sammy says that you wanted Richard Jennings hurt. And that he put you in touch with Roy Naylor and Sal Mendez to kill Rita and Sharon Jennings.”

  “That is wholly untrue,” Jerry said. “I had no reason to want Richard or his family harmed. I’m a highly respected businessman in Charleston, not a fuckin’ psycho that arranges for people to be killed.”

  “So why would Sammy want to lay the blame at your door?” Russ said.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Jerry said with all the conviction of Billy Graham mind-bending the masses at a rally. “Perhaps the maniac that attacked me told him to.”

  Charlie said nothing. Just replaced the pen in its sheath and closed his notepad. He conveyed his thoughts to Jerry with a practiced look that said, ‘you’re as guilty as hell, buddy, and we both know it’, before thanking the man and telling him that they would definitely be doing a follow up interview.

  “What do you think?” Russ asked Charlie as they rode the elevator down to the ground floor.

  “That Brandon is a sleaze ball,” Charlie said. “And that Sammy Lester is telling us the truth for the most part. Although he’s obviously the go-between and knew exactly what Naylor and Mendez were being paid to do.”

  Russ nodded his agreement. “Problem is we’ve only got his word. Not enough to put Brandon in a cell.”

  “Not yet, Russ, but we’ll get what we need. My main interest is finding Mendez, and this Logan guy, who appears to be protecting Rita and Sharon Jennings.”

  Charlie and Russ stopped off at Sam’s Uptown Café on Capitol Street for takeout wings and coffee. Ate in the car.

  There was a copy of Logan’s military and police service records waiting for Charlie when they got back to headquarters. What hadn’t been black-lined in Logan’s file made for interesting reading. He had picked up a purple heart in Gulf 1, and had subsequently been a first-rate cop and homicide detective. Reading between the lines he was a maverick and had sailed close to the wind on several occasions, but had picked up four commendations along the way. Logan seemed to have been a guy who did whatever was needed to get the job done and close a case.

  The problem was, Logan’s present whereabouts was not known, as he had no fixed abode and was not in any gainful employment.

  The overall picture that Charlie formed in his mind was that Logan had abilities and qualities that made him extremely efficient and obviously dangerous if provoked. Whether he was a murderer or not was yet to be determined. Charlie arranged for a state-wide BOLO to be put out on Logan, Sal Mendez and Rita and Sharon Jennings. With every officer in possession of a ‘be on the lookout’ for them, he was sure that one or all of them would soon be located.

  When Sal woke up on the narrow bunk in the living room of the cabin it was 10.30 a.m. His side and leg hurt as he slowly, carefully sat up, so he dry-swallowed four Tylenol before getting dressed in the clothes that Donny had laid out on a wicker chair next to the bunk.

  The forest outside the cabin was not the quiet place that Sal imagined it would be. He could hear a loud and repetitive tapping sound, but was unaware that it emanated from a woodpecker drilling its beak into a tree trunk in search of insect grubs. There was a lot of birdsong, and a strange chattering noise and clicking, scurrying sounds from above him. Had he gone out and looked up he would have seen a pair of squirrels chasing each other back and forth across the shingled roof.

  Sal found the coffee pot on the stove, and a note pinned down under a lone mug on the counter nearby. He read the note twice before picking the mug up and throwing it at the rendered wall, where it shattered and fell in a dozen pieces to the paved floor.

  The note read: Maybe you’re who and what you say, and the trouble you said that you’d got yourself into is factual, Tony…or whatever your real name is. But I got to feeling that you were pretty desperate and might just try to take more than free chow, clothes and painkillers with you when you left.

  I’ve taken my hunting rifle and gone for a drive. I’d like to find that you’ve gone when I get back.

  Happy trails,

  Donny.

  Sal found another mug in a cabinet and poured himself coffee. The old soldier was no dummy. He’d seen through Sal’s lies and decided to play it safe and avoid any confrontation. And one-armed or not, Sal believed that the man would be no slouch with his rifle. Maybe he’d stashed the Jeep nearby and was watching the cabin at that moment, just hunkered down in thick foliage beyond the clearing, waiting to see what he would do.

  You win some, you lose some, Sal thought. He drank the coffee, then on a whim cleared up the pieces of the broken mug and tipped the shards into a trashcan, before penning a note to Donny on a yellow Post-it. He wrote: I appreciate your assistance, and can understand your anxiety, Donny. Thank you, and stay well, my friend. He signed it, Tony. It didn’t harm to be civilized on occasion. And strange as it seemed to him, he was actually quite happy to let the man live to enjoy his reclusive existence. He doubted that Donny would even mention the visit of a wounded man to his cabin. He just wanted his privacy, and also had the intelligence to take heed of the ‘stay well’ comment he had written, which Donny would no doubt translate rightly as a veiled threat. Sal was positive that Donny would not want to always be wondering if he might receive a second visit.

  Donny watched as the swarthy man dressed in the shirt and pants he had left out for him, and
carrying a plastic garbage sack, which he hoped contained nothing more than a soiled and bullet-holed suit, limped out of his cabin, got into his car and drove off along the trail to the highway. Sometimes you had to take instinct very seriously. Donny had got the feeling that ‘Tony’ was on the run, had been shot while committing a crime, and may feel safer leaving the cabin with no witness left alive to give his description. Maybe he was totally wrong, but his gut feeling was that it was always better to be safe, rather than sorry.

  After an hour had passed, Donny went back to collect his car from where he had parked it on an old logging trail, and drove back to the cabin. He read the note and smiled. He would stay well, by always being on guard against the likes of his uninvited and thankfully now departed caller.

  Sal was feeling vulnerable. The car felt like a target taped to him. He needed fresh wheels. After driving through the small towns of Davis and Thomas, he came to a sign that advertised a picnic area one mile ahead. It was elevated, back from the road but fronted by a screen of trees and dense thorny bushes dotted with yellow flowers.

  Perfect. There was only one vehicle; a navy-blue Dodge Neon, maybe five or six years old: the type of car that didn’t get noticed. An elderly couple were sitting at a picnic bench looking out at the river that ran past, gurgling over rocks.

  Sal put his hand under the seat and located the Glock he’d put there. He had fitted the suppressor to it before reaching Donny’s cabin, so was ready to go. He climbed out of the car as casually as his body would allow him to and pushed the pistol in the waistband of his pants, at the back, and pulled the tail of his shirt down over the protruding butt before strolling over to the silver-haired couple, who had a vacuum flask and steaming beakers between them on the top of the bench.

  “Can I help you?” Marvin Phelps asked Sal.

  Sal smiled. “I could sure use a mouthful of coffee, friend,” he said.

  Marvin hesitated. It was a strange request. In his experience, strangers did not walk up to you and ask to drink from your coffee cup.

  “On second thoughts, hold the coffee,” Sal said, checking the area before pulling the gun and pointing it at Marvin’s face. “I want both of you to walk over to my car. Do it now.”

  Barbara Phelps fisted her liver-spotted hands and put them to her mouth. Her rheumy, lackluster eyes looked like organ stops as she began to tremble with fear at the sight of the gun.

  Sal lowered the gun a little. It was now pointing at Marvin’s left shin. “I have no intention of hurtin’ either of you,” he said. “But I need to borrow your car, so please, give me the keys, then get the fuck up and walk over to my vehicle.”

  Jesus H Christ! They were both limping worse than he was. The old bitch had a walking cane, and the guy was shuffling along like a geisha in five-inch stiletto heels. Old age looked like something Sal didn’t want any part of.

  He opened the trunk and helped them in. Felt the sutures pull and rip a little on his side with the effort.

  Another careful scan of the picnic area. No one. He put a round through the old man’s head first, and then shot the woman through her hands, that she had put up to shield her face. That made him grin. A few of his marks had done the same. Did their brains turn to chicken soup in the last couple of seconds, when they knew beyond any doubt that they were going to die? Did some defensive mechanism switch on to cause their hands to try to repel a 9mm slug travelling at about 1400 feet per second?

  Sal had shot Barbara through the back of her left hand, and the bullet entered her right eye and went through her brain like a hot knife through butter, to exit and take a large portion of her skull and contents with it.

  “Amen,” Sal said as he searched both bodies and removed everything that could identify them, before closing the lid on the trunk and walking to the Dodge.

  Half an hour later he was in the small town of Parsons, sitting in a diner on 1st Street with a view of the Tucker County Courthouse through the window. The old guy and girl back at the picnic area had been in possession of three hundred bucks between them, so lunch was on them, and a lot more besides.

  The food was good, the coffee fine, and the phone call Sal got as he was making ready to pay the check and leave, was icing on the cake.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Logan went for a walk to the main road. He needed a little space from women’s small talk and the confines of the trailer. It was mid-morning, warm, and the light was good. He was in his element, alone and in an area that he had not been to until recently. West Virginia seemed a fine place. He had grown tired of cities, though was sometimes drawn to them to savor the choices of food, and to ride on the subway systems, and enjoy the sense of being anonymous amid the smells, rush and noise, and the sheer mass of human glue that bound it all together. And he didn’t stand out so much in places like New York City or Chicago or LA. There was an overload of kooks and freaks and strangeness in the concrete and glass warrens that were home to millions. A big guy like him became invisible and didn’t merit a second look.

  At the end of the track, he looked both ways to be met with the sight of the narrow highway, which bisected a forest that appeared to be made up of a hundred shades of green. He turned left and walked the half mile into Old Creek, and entered the Crippled Horse Bar and Grill. Sat at the same corner table he’d eaten at on the evening that Troy Atkins had briefly and violently re-entered his life. There was no sign of Troy today. Maybe his leg was in a splint and he was staying home and watching soaps on TV while he healed up.

  The young Dolly Parton lookalike came over and smiled at him. The tag pinned on her blouse identified her as Cindy.

  “We still ain’t got no English mustard or horseradish, sir,” Cindy said with a mischievous sparkle in her large eyes.

  “So I’ll just settle for a pot of coffee,” Logan said.

  “You livin’ round these parts?” Cindy asked.

  Logan shook his head. “No, just passing through. I’m still looking for a place that I want to wake up to every morning, and this isn’t it.”

  Cindy looked thoughtful. “Maybe the place you’re looking for doesn’t exist,” she said.

  “Maybe you’re right, Cindy,” Logan replied. “But I get a kick out of getting to visit places like this while I search for it.”

  “I’d leave the Creek tomorrow if I could.”

  “Nothing stopping you but yourself,” Logan said. “Sometimes what you know is what you need.”

  A half hour later he set off back to the trailer park. When he got there, Sharon was sitting outside in the shade of a tree, talking to Tom and fussing an old Labrador that belonged to a Canadian couple staying in the Airstream.

  Logan returned a smile from Sharon and went on board the trailer to find Rita sitting at the dinette table with one of the phones open.

  “What are you doing, Rita?” he asked.

  She looked up from the screen. “Just looking through the contact list on the phone you took from that killer in Charleston.”

  Logan strode over to her, took the cell from her hand and switched it off.

  “I haven’t used it to call anyone, Logan,” Rita said. “No need to panic.”

  Logan said nothing.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Rita asked.

  “I heard,” he replied. “And believe me, I don’t panic. But you could’ve just let someone know exactly where we are.”

  “I only switched it on maybe thirty seconds before you appeared, and like I just said, I didn’t use it.”

  “If it’s on, then it’s giving off a signal,” Logan said.

  “Who would be able to find it or trace it?” Rita asked.

  “Anyone that has the number and the knowledge. Brandon has money and connections. Some geek could have flagged the number, so that if it is switched on he can locate it.”

  “Do you think that has happened?”

  “I don’t know, so have to assume it has. We can’t stay here. If Brandon is on the ball he’ll have some goon leavi
ng Charleston within the hour, so we have to be on our way. We need to pack, eat, and then move out.”

  “And go where?”

  “Anywhere that isn’t here.”

  Logan decided to use the phone, now that their location may have been determined. When something turned to shit, he always looked for a way to convert it into a useful commodity that might give him an advantage. He switched the cell back on, scrolled to the name Sal and hit the speed dial for it.

  “Hi, Johnson, Sal said.”

  “My name’s Logan. Just thought I’d check in to see if you were still breathing air you don’t deserve.”

  “Your concern is appreciated, Logan. Fortunately your girlfriend is a poor shot. I just got a flesh wound, that I’ve had treated.”

  “That’s a crying shame, Mendez. I’ve got to be honest, I was hoping that you’d crawled off somewhere and bled out.”

  “In your dreams, big guy. I’m gonna find you and the two sluts you’ve shacked up with, and kill all three of you.”

  “That won’t happen, Mendez. Maybe Brandon or you have got some whiz kid picking up this signal as we speak. But where will it lead you to, now that I know it?”

  Sal felt his elation evaporate. He knew now that if Ritchie had successfully pinpointed the signal, it would only lead him on a wild goose chase. “Maybe you get to roll the dice again, Logan,” he said. “But I’ll find you.”

  “If you don’t, you can be sure that I’ll find you,” Logan said. “I’ve already met Roy, and had a chat with Sammy Lester and Jerry Brandon. You’re next, and I guarantee you won’t see me coming.”

  “You’re all talk, you―”

  The call was terminated. Sal sat and looked at the phone for several seconds. This was supposed to have been a simple, straightforward job, but it had gone badly wrong, and now he was out on his own with a one-man army by the name of Logan turning to hunter from prey. Not good. Not good at all.

  As Sal slid carefully on to the seat of his newly acquired Dodge Neon, his phone rang again with the opening notes of the Godfather theme.