The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  ‘What you thinking, Jake?’

  ‘Everything and nothing. I’m trying to think like the killers. Trying to figure out how they plan to kill her.’

  ‘She’s Jewish, right?’ He slugs his coffee and pulls a face at the taste. ‘They’ll gas her.’

  ‘I got that far. The question is how?’

  ‘Simple. They’ll bind her hands and feet, toss her in a car and run a hose from the exhaust.’

  He’s giving voice to thoughts I’ve already had and dismissed. ‘I doubt it. Like you say, it’s too simple. It’s also not symbolic enough. Every death so far has been a statement. A direct affront to whichever racial or social group they’re targeting.’ I point to his laptop. ‘What does Google have to say about methods used to execute Jews?’

  His fingers dance across the keys. Where their usual pace would be a quick-step, exhaustion has slowed them to a waltz.

  ‘There’s stoning, burning, slaying and strangling on the first site.’

  ‘We’ve had stoning and burning. What does it say about the other two?’

  He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Slaying is what they call beheading, which is another we’ve had. The strangulation is done by burying a person shoulder deep in mud. Two handkerchiefs are tied together, wrapped around the victim’s throat and pulled in opposite directions.’

  Strangulation has a dramatic sound to it. The biggest flaw is the digging of a hole to put the victim in. Around here the ground is hard and unforgiving. Even a hole big enough to contain the diminutive Ms Rosenberg will entail a couple of hours hard work with a shovel.

  ‘What else you got?’

  ‘The burning is different to the way Darryl and the others were killed. It’s much the same as strangulation except the cloths are on fire and, when the victim’s mouth opens for air, molten metal is poured down their throat.’

  ‘This sounds more like something Brian would do. It’s not what you’d call synonymous with Jews though. We’ve had to do research to discover the method. Burning crosses, stoning and heads affixed to wild animals are things most people would know about. As is gassing.’ Unable to sit in one place, I pace around the room to help my muscles deal with the stiffness. ‘However accurate its historical connections may be, it’ll never carry the same association as gassing. I think that’s what they’ll do.’

  ‘Thought you said a hosepipe through the window wasn’t symbolic enough for them?’

  I go to pour myself some more coffee then remember its taste and don’t bother. ‘It’s not. But there is more than one way to skin a cat.’

  He scowls at the Scottish phrase. ‘What you on about?’

  ‘I’m saying, the method the Nazi’s used when they killed Jews, was to gas them when they thought they were taking a shower, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but how does that transfer into what we’re talking about?’ He slaps his forehead in a mock Eureka moment. ‘Of course. That’s it. You know of some gas chamber the Nazis built. Next you’ll be telling me it’s only a mile along the road.’

  My hand slamming down on the counter makes him jump. ‘You’re tired, I get that. But instead of ripping it, why don’t you listen for a moment? You remember the local make-out places – specifically that place down the forty-five, across the river?’

  His eyes widen. ‘You mean the former military place?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the one. We’ve got a Jewish person lined up as the next victim, an abandoned military bunker and some twisted killers. What do you think is going to happen?’

  ‘Dammit, you’re right.’

  I’m already calling the chief as he speaks.

  The chief listens, then puts Gaertner on the line again. He too listens to my theory.

  When I put the cell in my pocket I have very little respect left for the FBI man. It’s one thing him disagreeing with my theory – I could even stand a chuckle – but to be laughed at, and called a stupid fanciful idiot, takes the biscuit.

  ‘You still got that tracker in my phone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well if it stops moving for more than twenty minutes, send the police and the FBI to wherever I am. I’ll be in trouble.’ I’m moving towards the door so he can’t waste time trying to stop me. ‘Check wherever you need to check and get me the coordinates for every abandoned bunker or building around here. You’ve got ten minutes before I’m out of signal.’

  78

  The Mustang growls as I hurtle south along the forty-five. On the seat to my right, my cell is beeping as a series of emails come in. I guess they’re from Alfonse. If I know him, he’ll be sending each set of coordinates as he discovers them. I don’t like the number of beeps it’s making.

  I pass over the Green River at twice the speed limit, with no idea of what I’m going to do when I arrive at my destination.

  There are at least three killers, four if Young David is involved. Brian has a shotgun, I have fists and feet. The odds of me having a cell signal to call for help are slim to non-existent.

  None of these negatives are enough to make me turn back. The more I think about Ms Rosenberg becoming their next victim, the angrier I become.

  I round a corner and stamp on the gas once more. A Winnebago trundles along in front of me. As soon as we round the next corner, I drop two gears and rocket past the Winnebago. The driver flips me off as I pass.

  Now I’ve crossed the Green River, I have to slow down. Where the exact location of every make-out spot was once committed to memory, time has blurred things for me. My recollection is vague and I have to look for familiar markers.

  In-keeping with the base’s secretive nature, it was never sign-posted.

  I have to stand on the brakes when I do spot the right turning. A haul on the wheel steers me onto the new road where I feather the gas until the Mustang’s rear straightens out.

  A mile later, asphalt becomes gravel. Perhaps the military budget ran out when they got this far. More probable is that they hoped the lack of a decent roadway would prevent inquisitive visitors.

  Another mile on is a sweeping bend the width of an interstate. It’s here where all the parking takes place. If the number of used condoms littering the gravel are any indication– it’s still a popular spot.

  I push fond memories aside and fight to keep the balance between speed and control. A powerful rear-wheel drive Mustang is not designed for gravel roads. Every bend sees the rear step out in an effort to pass the front.

  If the reason for my journey wasn’t so important, I’d be enjoying the continuous sideways motion. Instead, the reduced traction is nothing more than an irritating delay.

  The gates of the former military installation hang from their hinges. Beyond them, gravel returns to asphalt as the road continues to the actual base.

  Two minutes after my tyres leave the gravel, they ease to a stop. I’m no special forces commando with years of training, but I know rescue attempts from armed captors are best conducted without announcing your arrival. The grumbling exhaust of the Mustang does a fine job of impressing pretty girls. It’s not so good at stealth.

  I get out and search the trunk for something I can use as a weapon. I’m looking under the spare for a tyre iron when I see the gun my mother gave me. If I was twenty years younger I’d facepalm. Instead I curse.

  Half-forgotten instructions on how to use the pistol flicker through my mind as I pull it from its hiding place, check it’s loaded, and stuff it into the back of my jeans.

  Three paces towards the first building and it’s in my hand.

  As I search the deserted buildings, every action thriller I’ve read, or seen at the movies, has me peeking round corners and holding the gun at my chest with the barrel pointing upwards. When I round the corners the gun is extended in a two-handed grip. I’m not convinced I’d get a commendation from a drill sergeant, but it makes me feel safer to know I’m ready to shoot when I could encounter shotgun-wielding killers at any moment.

  Every room, every corner or closet I e
xamine is empty of life. There’s plenty of human detritus left behind. Food packaging, soda cans and other litter abandoned by campers or partying youths decorates the floor in each room.

  Not once do I encounter a door that hasn’t been kicked in and left to hang on its hinges or lie where it landed.

  Fifteen minutes after searching the first building I’m scrolling through emails. The number of beeps I heard was worrying, but I’m happy to find that most of them are junk or unconnected.

  Alfonse has sent me two. I work out which of the abandoned bases is nearest and run back to my car.

  79

  Ms Rosenberg lifts her head when she hears scraping. Light pours into her prison, forcing her to look away as her retinas contract.

  Three men and a callow youth walk in.

  Using what she can by way of speed and surprise, she throws herself forward and tries to claw at the nearest face.

  She’s a foot away from the bald man’s face when he grabs her wrists. No matter how much she tries to wriggle, so her nails can collect that vital evidence, he thwarts her.

  The handsome man stands back while the others help the bald man chain her to a hook in the ceiling. He’s the obvious leader of the group.

  It’s him she addresses. ‘Why have you got me here? You won’t get away with this you know.’ Her every instinct is telling her not to antagonise these men but she can’t prevent herself. Deep inside, she knows they’re going to kill her. If she can’t stop them, the least she can do is harangue their worthless hides. ‘You claim you’re Christians. You’ll spend an eternity in hell for what you’ve done.’

  ‘I’d rather meet Beelzebub himself than live in a world where niggers, Jews and faggots infest every street. The United States of America was founded by brave men who followed the Lord’s word. Not the lowlifes who’re now usurping everything that once made this country great.’

  Something about the man is familiar to Ms Rosenberg. A former story comes back to her – along with the man’s name. ‘You’re Richard Anderson: your wife burned down your house.’

  The man delivers a heavy slap to her right cheek. ‘Leave her out of this. My name is Brian now.’

  ‘Call yourself what you want. Your wife had mental health issues, didn’t she?’ Ms Rosenberg draws herself up as high as her bindings will allow. Whatever happens, she’s determined not to show any fear. ‘Was she your first victim?’

  ‘I told you to leave her out of this.’ Brian’s hand wraps around Ms Rosenberg’s throat.

  She glares up at him. ‘Why, who are you afraid I’m going to tell?’

  He laughs and releases her. Takes a step back and brings himself back under control. She can see him working out whether he should continue talking to her.

  It’s an effort, but she manages to keep the fear from her voice. ‘You said to leave her out of this. Is that because you feel guilty for killing her?’

  ‘She’s not dead. At least, not what society considers dead.’ Ms Rosenberg detects sadness in his tone. ‘I didn’t kill Penelope. She’s alive, but she might as well not be. She lives in an institution over at Salt Lake.’

  ‘Is she ill, or was she hurt?’ Somehow she manages to achieve a gentle tone. It’s bad enough that she’s going to die. To die without getting answers to her questions would be unbearable.

  ‘Neither. Her mind went when that nigger bitch turned her down. Now she just sits there rocking.’ His eyes flash as ancient hurt is exhumed. ‘My beautiful, funny wife now spends her days either rocking in a corner or staring at her hands and crying. And it’s all because she was turned down by that nigger bitch.’

  Ms Rosenberg stays quiet for moment, then speaks in the softest tone she can manage. ‘I don’t understand. Why did the nigger bitch turn her down?’ The derogatory terms offend her, but it’s important that she connects with Brian on his wavelength.

  ‘Penelope applied for a bank loan. The nigger bitch refused. Said Penelope would never manage the repayments. That her business plan didn’t account for seasonal variations in prices.’ The explosion of anger Ms Rosenberg expects doesn’t come. Instead his voice falls to a whisper. ‘She didn’t have any faith in my Penelope.’

  Again Ms Rosenberg lets silence fill the room. It doesn’t take her long to recall that Sherrelle Fournier worked for a bank. After that, it’s just a question of joining the dots.

  ‘Why kill others and not just her? You’re not a stupid man, you know it’s not gays or Asians or Jews who turned down your wife. I guess you know the banks have criteria that potential loanees have to meet. The nigger bitch would have just been doing her job.’ She knows there’s little chance her words will affect his thinking, but she’s willing to try anything that may just save her life.

  Behind Brian she can see the two other men carrying in some kind of portable engine in a tubular metal frame. There are plug sockets on one side of it.

  When she recognises it as a portable generator, she begins to tremble as fear makes her muscles judder. Her imagination is depicting a hundred and one power tools being used against her body.

  Brian squints, then stoops to read what she’s written on the wall. When he straightens, there’s amusement on his face. ‘Very good. I always did like your columns. You have an excellent way with words. The one you wrote last night was quite possibly your best.’ He picks up a stone and scores out part of her writing. ‘You’ll understand how I’d rather your descriptions of my colleagues aren’t left for the police to find.’

  Ms Rosenberg finds his urbane nature unsettling. He’s praising her writing while preparing to kill her. ‘Then why have you brought me here?’ She licks her lips and asks the question she most dreads the answer to. ‘You are planning to kill me, aren’t you?’

  He smiles as he checks her bindings. ‘You’re here because you’re the most high-profile Jew in the area. It’s nothing personal. Only the nigger bitch’s death was personal. Like you, the others were only chosen because they made the best victims.’

  An abstract part of Ms Rosenberg’s brain can follow his logic. The Asian girl with a pretty face, the well-known and respected ex-cop, the Mexican whose death could be made to contribute to their publicity campaign, and now her – a local journalist. Every one of their deaths would speak to a different section of the community.

  Another question pops into her head. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I’ve been following you for the last two days. I knew you were staying at the hotel because I saw you put a case into the trunk of your car. I also knew you’d have to come outside for a smoke at some point during the night.’

  Ms Rosenberg’s head droops forward. She’d been chosen before writing the column; before it hit the newsstands.

  The bald man approaches Brian. ‘That’s everything ready.’

  Brian moves across to the generator. He bends over and gives the starter cord a strong pull. The engine fires first time, rumbles and then settles into a gentle putter.

  From her position against the wall, Ms Rosenberg can see its controls. There are a pair of levers she guesses will control the throttle and possibly the fuel mixture. A red knob provides the on/off switch.

  Ms Rosenberg’s shakes worsen as she tries to keep the fear from her voice. ‘What, no last cigarette?’

  Brian laughs as he walks to the door. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  The door whispers as he pushes it to. As the light fades, it dawns on Ms Rosenberg how she’ll be killed.

  The fumes from the generator’s exhaust are pulling at her eyes within a minute. She can taste them when she breathes. Her stomach heaves as the room starts to spin.

  Not that it’s in any way reassuring to her, but she knows carbon monoxide poisoning isn’t the worst way to die. If it was, a lot fewer people would run a hose from their tailpipe.

  As her chest tightens, silent tears run down her cheeks as she prepares for nothingness. Her last conscious thoughts are of Halvard. His smile. The way his arms woul
d encircle her body. His laugh.

  80

  The Red Wash Road isn’t much of a road. The one thing it does have going for it is its destination.

  It comes out at Jensen which means it’s going pretty much where I want it to. The nearest former military base is along the forty. According to Alfonse’s email, it’s backed up against the Stuntz Ridge.

  A heavily loaded semi chugs along in front of me, its driver creeping over the road just far enough to stop me passing. I flash my lights and give him a blast on the horn.

  He moves over two feet. To his left. Any chance I have of passing him is cut off.

  I bob right and try undertaking but he sees me coming. His blocking manoeuvre causes me to stand on the brakes.

  He’s treading a fine line. If I didn’t have such an urgent mission, I’d follow him until he stopped and spend a moment or two shortening his nose.

  I drop a gear, feint left, then duck right when he moves to block me. As soon as I’ve gone right, I weave left again and stamp on the gas. By the time he’s realised his error I’m alongside his cab and travelling too fast for him to risk blocking me.

  With him out of the way I can open the taps on the Mustang and get into three-figure territory.

  Either side of the narrow road the scrub dissolves into a continuous green sludge as the bushes flash past my windows.

  I get to Jensen and swing right onto the Forty.

  While it’s in much better condition, and wider than the Red Wash Road, it’s also a lot busier.

  Even while driving along, I’m thinking about why there are so many military bases in the middle of nowhere. I can understand them being near borders, or veritable targets such as Fort Knox, but why there would be three within an hour’s drive of Casperton, is beyond me. For all I can imagine there would be a need for cold war monitoring stations and training centres, I still don’t see the need for so many in such an empty area.