The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

Back to the home of Ethan Allen, of course, and I don’t mean the furniture stores.

  The drive had been a grueling one before I made it back to Bellows Falls, Vermont, a community that I was getting very familiar with. I had to stop twice on the way over to the Connecticut River and beyond, once to gas up the Ford, and the other to gently pull over, go into the woods, and throw up from coming down from the high I had felt when the van had started rolling around.

  With each mile that passed, my pain and discomfort increased. My head ached, my right shoulder made an obscene crunching noise every time I lifted up my arm, and there was a wet spot at the base of my skull. I had pushed a couple of paper napkins up there and they had come back sodden with blood. It also hurt to breathe.

  Other than that, things were going great.

  Nearly three hours after leaving Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin—and I was definitely not going out the way I came in—I crossed over the Connecticut River, and I thought I’d feel better.

  But I was wrong.

  I parked in a condo parking lot and waited and waited. My mind bounced around, thinking things through, running through perceptions, options, and chances of success.

  I took my last paper napkin out of my glove compartment, used it to sop up the blood at the rear of my head. I took the napkin away. Not as much as before. Maybe things were healing back there.

  It was getting late, later than I wanted, but I didn’t think I had many options, and besides, I was hurting.

  A familiar-looking light green Volvo station wagon rolled in and parked in its numbered spot. Tracy Zahn stepped out and with leather carrying case in hand, strolled confidently to her unit. I got out and walked as fast as I could across the lot and caught up with Tracy just as she was getting ready to shut the door.

  “Hey,” I said. “Feeling lonely tonight?”

  She turned and for the briefest of moments, there was fear on her face. Then there was pleased surprise, and then concern.

  “My God, what happened to you?”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.” She stepped in and said, “C’mon, let’s see what we can do.”

  She sat me down on a straight-back chair in the living room and went upstairs, and then came back down carrying various bandages, creams, and ointments. She had on dark khaki slacks and a buttoned blue-striped blouse. “Get that jacket and shirt off before you get them even dirtier.”

  I got my jacket off with a minimum of fuss, but the shirt … damn, did that hurt. First off was the Bianchi holster with my Beretta nestled inside, and I lowered that to the floor. Tracy made to pick it up and I said, “No, leave it be.”

  I unbuttoned my shirt and winced, and Tracy helped me take it off. “What happened to you?”

  “Car accident.”

  “Damn. Where?”

  “In Massachusetts.”

  “Massachusetts … You didn’t go to a hospital? You drove all the way here?”

  “Since I’m here, that’s pretty apparent,” I said.

  “No hospital?”

  “I thought I’d get a better level of treatment here.”

  “Ha.”

  She worked on me for a few minutes, and I drank some ice cold water as she did. She mopped up the remaining blood at the base of my skull and then put on two butterfly bandages, and a larger gauze strip. “How did the accident happen? Was there more than one car?”

  “No,” I said. “I was in a van that ran off the road, rolled over a couple of times.”

  “You were driving?”

  “Nope,” I said, as she took a warm washcloth and started wiping down my torso. She seemed to enjoy her work, and I was glad. “I was just a passenger.”

  “And the other people? What happened to them?”

  “You really want to know?”

  She wrung out the washcloth, went to the kitchen, re-wet it again, and came back. “Sure.”

  “There were three of them. Something went wrong. I was … seized.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “No, I don’t like that word. It implies I was taken in exchange for some sort of ransom. No, I was taken to go on that proverbial one-way trip.”

  “Oh. Then what happened?” Tracy resumed her washing.

  “I didn’t want to be seized. I fought back. The van crashed. I managed to get out.”

  “God,” she said, working on my back this time. “What happened to the men in the van?”

  “Boys,” I said. “Teen boys. The three of them were hired to grab me and take me someplace. Only one walked away.”

  Her hand stopped. “The other two?”

  “One died from the crash. The other one threatened me with a gun. He wouldn’t drop it.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  She kissed the top of my head. “Good.”

  Tracy assisted me in taking off the rest of my clothes, and I limped upstairs, carrying my Beretta and nothing else. I left the Beretta on a vanity in her bathroom, and I locked the bathroom door and showered with the curtain open. I winced a few more times and managed to at least get refreshed.

  When I was done and dried myself off, Tracy knocked on the door and said, “Are you decent?”

  “Not even close,” I said as I unlocked the door and let her in, all the while keeping my Beretta in my hand. She gave me a good steady look and then handed over a light blue cotton robe.

  “Something to wear while I do some laundry.” I took the robe from her and she said, “You must be hurting.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve some old Percocet that my OB-GYN gave me last winter, when my periods were really ripping me apart.”

  I put the robe on. “No,” I said. “That’s got Oxycodone in it. That’ll slow me down, and I can’t afford to slow down.”

  “Really? You’ve got enough bruises and scrapes to outfit an NFL team, and you plan to be moving fast anytime soon?”

  “As soon as I can,” I said. “How about some Ibuprofen? And a big glass of water?”

  “On its way. See you back downstairs.”

  I fastened the robe and with Beretta in hand, I walked back downstairs, keeping my eyes open. Tracy was in her kitchen and passed over the glass of water and a generic brand of Ibuprofin. I opened the bottle, shook out three tablets, and chased them down with three big swallows. I put the glass down and said, “How was your day, dear?”

  She smiled, eyes twinkling. “Dull, boring. One possible sale fell through, and another appointment never showed up. Going to be a bad month.”

  “Sorry.”

  Tracy removed the glass, put it in the sink. “The life I chose. When I was young, I was really young and dumb. Drank, smoked dope, and couldn’t wait to get out of high school. Wanted to get out and see the world, married a guy who wanted to see the world as well … so long as we never left Vermont, as it turned out.”

  “Sorry again,” I said. “Didn’t end well, did it.”

  “Nope.” And there was a lot of weight in that voice. “He wanted to support me. I was lazy. Sounded like fun. Pop out a baby or two … stay home, have fun. But no babies arrived, he blamed me, words and fists flew, and then I left him. And what was there for a single woman who barely made it through high school?” A shrug. “Not much. Which is how I ended up in real estate.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, good for me, not so good for my bank account.”

  I stretched my arms and rotated them, tried to see what range of motion I had. Answer: not as much as I wanted.

  “I’d like to use your real estate knowledge, if you’re amiable.”

  Tracy leaned over the kitchen counter. “Not sure if I can spell amiable, but sure, I can help. What are you looking for? A hide-out? A fortress of solitude? A bunker?”

  “A place to make a sensitive exchange,
” I said.

  “Sensitive? Like a prostate exam?”

  “No,” I said. “Sensitive, like if it doesn’t go well, there’ll be blood on the ground and gunpowder in the air.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Someplace open, remote, with easy access in and out.”

  “If you’re making an exchange, why not make it a public one? Like downtown Bellows Falls or Springfield?”

  “Too much chance of something going wrong, either by cops or curious civilians coming by. Besides, remote gives one opportunities.”

  “I see,” Tracy said. “What’s being exchanged?”

  I made a point of raising an eyebrow. “Valuables, and that’s all you need to know.”

  If she felt like I had insulted her, she didn’t seem to make a fuss about it. “So you’re looking for an open space, like a field, rural, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I know the place.”

  “Nearby?”

  “Less than two miles. It’s where a charter school had been set up in an old nursery school building. Lasted a couple of years before it went out of business. Still for sale, and its grounds are being maintained. There’s a large field behind the building. It’s adjacent to Yukon Road.”

  “Yukon’s in Canada.”

  “The selectmen who named the roads that year were a funny lot. But it’s easy to get to.”

  “What’s the name of the school?”

  “The Cornerstone School for Exceptional Children.”

  “Sounds like a school where you learned a lot about weaving ponchos and the mating habits of Galapagos Island terns.”

  “Maybe so. What do you need now?”

  I moved around a bit, didn’t feel like crying out. Improvement, perhaps?

  “Please don’t be offended,” I said, “but I need to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “Privacy?”

  “The same.”

  She got up, brushed her hands together. “I’ll get some laundry going, check in with you a bit later. And I’m not offended, honest.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Tracy came around the kitchen counter and gave me a very thorough and lengthy kiss. “I get the feeling you want privacy to protect me.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I want to give you plausible deniability if anything goes bad.”

  “You expect things to go bad?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “But I plan to be the one making them go bad.”

  I gave her a few minutes and listened to the water being run upstairs for her washer. Bad design. It’s convenient to have your washer next to the second-floor bedroom, but if a water pump or hose were to fail … ouch. A mini waterfall would be tearing through the house in no time, and if you’re away for a couple of days, disaster would be eagerly waiting for you when you get back.

  I took out my latest cellphone and made a phone call to the Bellows Falls Police Department, and when I got ahold of Detective Shaye, he said, “No,” and hung up.

  I hung up as well.

  I waited and listened to Tracy move around upstairs. I had a brief temptation to go up there and ask her if she needed her unmentionables sorted, but I bravely resisted, and was glad I did.

  My cellphone rang and I picked it up.

  “You there?” Detective Shaye asked.

  “I am.”

  “Good,” he said. “I wanted to get out of the building so I could talk without any fuss.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Any success?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But not much depth. This is the phone number that called you this morning”—and he rattled off twelve digits for me, which I scrambled to write down on the back of a Hannaford’s supermarket flyer—“but I tried to dig deep, find out who the phone belonged to, its billing and travel history, and no joy. That’s one black phone, and I don’t mean that in a racist manner.”

  “I see,” I said. “Using your experience and excellent deduction skills, what does this tell you?”

  “This guy’s a Big, and I’d be careful about pissing him off.”

  “I’m not a particularly careful guy sometimes,” I said. “And I think the pissing off train has already left the station and this time zone.”

  “I get that feeling from you, for sure. Plus … there’s one more thing.”

  “The location?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Usually we can do a trace and do a cellphone triangulation, locate your caller down to a few meters. But not this one. All I can tell is that it’s within a ten-mile area, here and over in New Hampshire.”

  “The man’s got heft.”

  The detective agreed. “Lots of heft. Which tells me he’s law enforcement, a member of the so-called intelligence community, or someone connected with both deep pockets and lots of drive.”

  “A Big, indeed. Thanks, Detective.”

  He didn’t hang up, and I didn’t push him. He cleared his throat. “You know how I feel about Bigs.”

  “I do.”

  “Just, well, just wanted to let you know.”

  I said, “I think you’ve just opened the favor bank.”

  “If I have, it’s for a very limited time only.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “Are you familiar with Rudyard Kipling?”

  A brief snort. “I served in Iraq and Afghanistan, and on down time, I read a lot of fucking books. So yeah, I know Kipling.”

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Reread his poem, ‘The Ballad of East and West,’ and maybe we’ll talk.”

  Then I hung up on him, but I hoped I did it in a cheerful and polite manner.

  The washing machine upstairs was rumbling along, and I looked down at the supermarket flyer. The twelve digits stared right up at me, as if they were mocking me. Well, they seemed to be asking, are you going to call? Or are you going to wimp out?

  “No wimps here,” I announced to the empty kitchen, and I picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number.

  It was answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

  “Good evening,” I said. “Is George there?”

  A grunt. “There’s no George here, bud.”

  “All right,” I said. “Maybe George isn’t his real name, or maybe you’re under orders to screen his calls. Let’s try this. I’m looking for an older guy, pleasant-looking fellow, white hair, looks like a Santa Claus who enjoys fondling little girls and boys when they sit on his lap. That strike a bell?”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” I said. “One more time. I’m looking for the guy who’s seeking something in the control of Clarence Briggs. Get him on the phone right now, or I’m hanging up and then booking a trip to Aruba.”

  “Hold on.”

  A few seconds passed and there was a familiar voice. “Yes?”

  “Hey, George, how’s it hanging?” I said. “You still on the hunt over there?”

  “You stupid fuck, nobody hangs up on me.”

  “Well, that’s a statement that fails its logic test right from the start, because I hung up on you the last time we talked. You want me to do that again, so there’s no confusion?”

  “You do that and I’ll cut off a finger from that Carla bitch.”

  “Maybe you will, George, but you’re operating on a fact that hasn’t been put into evidence.”

  “What?”

  “You’re assuming Carla Pope’s safety is of interest to me. It’s not. So let’s get that out of the way.”

  I was sure I could hear his breathing increase, but maybe it was my overactive imagination. “All right, that’s put away. For now.”

  “You believe I have something that was under the control of Clarence Briggs.”

  “That’s what I said the first time, you fool.
And then you denied it.”

  “My apologies,” I said. “As a negotiator, I should have been open to additional information, no matter how off-the-wall it sounded. If you’re amiable, I’m up to negotiating a deal.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “You turn it over, and I’ll let you live. And if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let the FBI bitch live as well.”

  “Not much wiggle room there, George, is there.”

  “Not my problem.”

  I sighed loudly, hoping he could hear it on the other side of the phone. “George, you’ve presented your case, and you’ve been quite clear. Still, I’d love to meet you face-to-face, so we can conclude these negotiations.”

  “I’d love a face-to-face,” he said, and I could sense his wolfish smile out there, wherever he was sitting. “But I’ll tell you this, if anything goes wrong, someone’s gonna get hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. Here, talk.”

  A brief sound of noise, and then Carla was on the phone. Her voice was low, shaking. “Is this … is this … ”

  “If you’re looking for your white knight to come save you, forget it,” I said.

  “Please … ”

  “Not happening,” I said.

  She sobbed. “You … you saw me then … right? Me meeting George at the inn … ”

  “Very observant, Carla. It looked like the two of you were pals. So what are you running?”

  Another sob. “Nothing … except showing you how stupid I am … ”

  “No argument here.”

  “Please … help me … they’ve already hurt me … ”

  “Your friends? Really? They seemed so chummy when they took you out of your room this morning. Nothing overturned, disturbed … I didn’t even hear a thing.”

  “I … I was stupid … I wanted to do this on my own … I wanted to see if George … who he was working for … so I could … so I could … ”

  Laughter in the background, and George’s voice, faint: “How did that work out for you, bitch?”

  “He … he was my brother … and if … and if … there was going to be revenge, it was going to be mine … not yours.”

  “What were you saying to George?”

  Carla coughed. “I … I was using the same FBI agent scam … telling him if he’d cooperate … give up the rest of the crew … I’d protect him … ”