Body Broker

by Daniel M Ford

  “I’m really only here to talk to Dr. Thalheim,” I said, pointing one finger at him. His body language didn’t make him seem any happier to be here than I was. Arms wrapped around his chest. Chin low. One ankle crossed over the other. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Instead you will talk to me.”

  “What do I call you? And what about?”

  “Call me Jarl Troy. And about the fact that you have interfered in Aesir business. I presume you think you have a good reason to have done so.”

  “Looking for a lost kid.”

  “So I hear. Not a kid, though, is he? Old enough to make legally binding decisions.”

  “Old enough and smart enough are two different things.”

  He smiled, very faintly. It was the kind of smile that did not make his eyes move. “This is true. You have some measure of wisdom, but how much? That you are here, and I have not heard from him, means that my Thrall failed.”

  “Well, his phone probably got fried when I kicked him into the river,” I said with a shrug.

  “How was he taken?”

  “Unawares,” I said. We stared at each other while I refused to elaborate. Something leather creaked. There was a lot of it in the room.

  “I suppose you see yourself as the hero of the piece. Is that so, Mr. Dixon?”

  “It’s not a piece. It’s a kid’s life. And it could still mean something. To him, his mom, his friends.”

  “What is it to you?”

  “I looked his mother in the eyes and told her I would do everything I could to find her son. I’m doing it.”

  “For pay, of course.”

  “Gotta eat,” I said with a shrug.

  “And if you locate the boy, what do you plan to do? Immediately involve the authorities?”

  “I just want Gabriel Kennelly. Free and clear.”

  Jarl Troy stared at me. I’d been stared at by drill instructors, angry master chiefs, hungry sailors, and disappointed wrestling coaches as long as I could remember. I stared back.

  “This particular part of our venture is perhaps as profitable as it was going to be,” Troy said. “We will arrange an exchange. Peter. Give Mr. Dixon pen and paper.”

  Thalheim produced a pen and a pad of paper from his shirt pocket and walked over, handing it to me. His eyes fixed mine.

  There was already writing on the first note, in very small handwriting.

  633 Harvest Ridge

  I took the pad and pen and looked at Troy as Thalheim stepped away. “Where’s the meet? Conditions?”

  He named a nearby shopping center. I wrote it down and snatched that first Post-it off the pad, stuck it in my pocket. On the fresh page, I wrote my cell number and handed the works back to Thalheim.

  It must’ve galled him, acting as some asshole’s errand boy inside his own house. But I could see a visible relief in his eyes when I’d swiped the top page.

  “Leave now. Wait for our call.” Then he looked to his two Huscarls, both of which tried the hard stare on me as we left. “See, Carls? That is how business can be done between plain-dealing men.”

  We headed back to the car. I resisted the urge to dig the Post-it out of my pocket immediately. I started up and drove out of the development, then immediately pulled over.

  “You drive,” I said as I pulled the paper out and plugged 633 Harvest Ridge into the GPS app.

  “Why? They haven’t even set up the meet yet.”

  “We’re not going to the meet, Brock. Drive like you fucking mean it.”

  The little four-cylinder engine roared as Brock put it into gear.

  Chapter 34

  As soon as Brock got us on the road I pulled out my phone and dialed Bob.

  I didn’t wait for a greeting when he picked up. “It’s your old friend P. Rob again. Meet me at — ”

  “I’m not on retainer, Jack.”

  “I think I’ve got it this time. Him. The kid.”

  “Well, I’m still tying up the first place you sent me to. Jesus, Jack, what was going on here?”

  “I think you get a first-hand look if you meet me where I just told you to meet me.” I felt myself slammed against the door of the car as Brock took a turn on what had to be two wheels. Three at the most. “But you need to do it silent. You come in wailing, or with a big caravan, and it’s all going to shit.”

  “You got any more preconditions?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Unless the kid is literally doing a felony the first time you clap eyes on him, you let me take him out of there. If I’m right, there’s a whole host of bigger shit for you to shovel, don’t worry.”

  “Fine. I’ll be on my way as soon as I can get someone to take over here.”

  We hung up. I began to worry about the possibility of encountering any of the state or county’s finest between here and the house, but either luck was with us, or Brock just drove too damned fast for any of them to spot. It was possible the car blurred out of sight as he drove.

  “Why’d you call a cop? Didn’t you just tell the biker you weren’t gonna?”

  Brock glanced at me as he drove. I slowly turned to fix him with an incredulous stare.

  “I lied to him, Brock.”

  “But if you get a reputation as a liar…”

  “I don’t give a shit what a bunch of biker criminals who’ve played too much Skyrim think about me, Brock. Who the fuck are they, anyway? You ever heard of the Aesir MC?”

  He shrugged. “Just didn’t think that was how…you know.”

  “You’ve read too many novels.”

  “I don’t really read much. Except Men’s Fitness.” I held up a hand to stop him. We’d gotten deeper into the forest primeval with every turn the GPS had sent us on, and now we were on Harvest Ridge Road. Every third house looked like it had fallen down, or was in the process of falling down.

  “I know most of this county is in the middle of the damn woods,” I said, “but this feels particularly middle-y and woods-y.”

  “Always heard this wasn’t a great neighborhood. Used to make shine out here, they said. Then they said they were making meth.”

  He pulled up outside 633, which was a single story over a basement, clapboard walls, dilapidated tile roof, screens falling out of the windows sort of place.

  “Wait,” Brock said, as I spilled out of the car, checked my weapons, and started for the front door. “Shouldn’t we make a plan?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The plan is follow me.”

  I got up a head of steam and lowered my shoulder. I was too angry and too focused to think about how much it might hurt, but the shock of pain down my ribs reminded me.

  Whatever. I’d worry about that later. The door bowed inward and splintered when I hit it.

  The interior of the place smelled like piss. There were a few huddled shapes on the floor to my left. In a kitchen on the right, someone bulky in scrubs was busy sorting things on a Formica counter.

  Of more immediate concern was the man in the leather cut whirling around to face me, eyes wide. He was whipcord thin, and none too fast on his feet, with a long wispy beard bound in iron rings conveniently within reach. I grabbed it and yanked as hard as I could, introducing his face to my knee. He stumbled backwards, scrambling for his knife, but I was on him. I pinned his knife hand with my left, squeezing the wrist as hard as I could, and I hit him once, twice, three times in the side of the head. The first two were warm-ups. The third was as hard as I could, with form, twisting my hips into it despite my back screaming at me.

  His eyes went distant and he stumbled against the counter, dropping his knife from a hand that suddenly wouldn’t obey him. He would’ve crumpled if I hadn’t been helping him up. My back and my ribs shrieked in painful protest, but the adrenaline was beginning to drown them out.

  The heavy person in the scrubs in the kitchen start
ed shrieking. He was a man, I could tell that now. I let the biker drop to the floor. He hit it with a gurgle, then tried to reach for his knife. I stepped on the side of his knee, sharply, and he let out a groan and lay still. I bent down and picked up the knife.

  I pointed the knife at the guy in the scrubs, meaningfully. “Shut. Up.”

  He backed away, though there wasn’t far for him to go in the tiny kitchen, putting his hands up. I saw meds on the counter, carefully apportioned in three piles.

  “Gabriel. Kennelly,” I said. He pointed behind me.

  “Brock,” I said. “Watch them. If the biker or the nurse moves, do something terrible.” I unholstered the Taser and held it out to him. He took it, sweeping his hands to cover both his targets. He looked a little ridiculous, but he seemed focused on the task, at least.

  I went to the blanket-covered heaps on the ground. The way they lay made me think they’d been drugged. I pulled the blankets loose.

  The first thing I noticed was that all three had their hands zip-tied.

  The second was that the one in the middle was Gabriel.

  Chapter 35

  I used the knife I’d taken off the biker to cut them all loose, and chafed their arms and cheeks to get them awake. I managed to get them into chairs, at least. The tiny house had an old battered sofa and a couple of folding chairs. The other two looked Gabriel’s age, or younger. One girl and one boy.

  “Jack,” Brock said. “Our biker pal is waking up.”

  “Encourage him to stillness,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Kick him a couple of times.” Some thumps and a groan followed, indicating that my erstwhile partner had taken my advice.

  “Gabriel.” I knelt in front of the kid, having sat him on the couch. I gave some gentle slaps at his face. He woke up enough to look at me, his eyes fluttering.

  “You, in the scrubs,” I shouted. “Get your ass over here.”

  “If I move he’s gonna tase me!”

  I stood up and threw him a glare. “If you’re not walking over here by the time I finish this sentence, I will come get you. You do not want me to do that.”

  His shoes squeaked across the floor as he hurried to my side.

  “What are they on?”

  “Nothing much,” he said. “I just had to give ‘em a bigger dose than usual to get them moved. Mostly methadone.”

  “Mostly?” I grabbed a handful of the back of his scrub shirt and yanked, forcing him to look at me.

  “They’ll be fine,” he said, “I swear. Nobody’s gonna OD. See, look,” he said, pointing to where Gabriel had lifted his head and was speaking. “He’s coming around now.”

  It was true. Gabriel lifted his head and focused his eyes on us. He didn’t have pinned pupils or any other signs I knew of.

  “What…who’re you? Where are we?”

  “Gabriel,” I said. “My name is Jack. Your mom hired me to find you. I’m going to call her and tell her to come get you, okay?”

  He nodded, then let his head thump back on to the couch. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

  “Mr. Dixon?” She answered on the first ring, breathless, worried.

  “I’ve got your son here with me, Ms. Kennelly,” I said.

  “Where is here?”

  “I want to caution you that he’s alive, but he may need medical attention. Not in the vein of immediate intervention but on a more medium-term basis.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll deal with that as I have to. Where is he?”

  I gave her the address. She hung up.

  The guy in scrubs had started to edge away, so I grabbed him again, and I pointed to his three patients.

  “They all better be fine to walk out of here, you got me? Anything happens to them…”

  Meanwhile, a phone started buzzing in the biker’s pocket.

  I let go of my grip on the would-be nurse, and took the phone from the other biker’s pocket. It wasn’t an area code I recognized. I shrugged and answered it with a simple “Hello.”

  “That is not the proper greeting for your Jarl, Anthony.”

  “Anthony’s unable to answer his phone right now.”

  “Mr. Dixon.” The voice was somehow muffled and amplified. Bluetooth inside a helmet as he rode? It seemed likely. “You disappoint me.”

  “You sound just like my dad.”

  “We had a deal, Mr. Dixon.”

  “No. I had a job, and I did it.”

  “Have you gone so far as to involve the authorities?”

  I looked to the front door. No sign of Bob. “Nope.”

  “Well. Then you may yet be allowed to live. But there will be repercussions. We were planning to abandon this particular venture regardless. But perhaps not as quickly as this.”

  “You like hearin’ yourself talk, huh?”

  “Do not involve the police in our affairs, Mr. Dixon. That would be a grievous error on your part.”

  The door swung open, and was suddenly full of a somewhat angry-looking sheriff’s deputy.

  “Go catch an arrow in the knee,” I said before ending the call. I dropped the phone on the biker’s back and went to Bob.

  “Tell him to put that weapon down,” Bob said, pointing at Brock. I waved at him and he lowered the Taser. “Now. Explain.”

  “I will,” I said, “as soon as I get Gabriel to his mother.”

  Bob looked over at the three patients. He pointed at the guy in scrubs. “Are you their nurse?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’m the nurse. I take good care…”

  “This can’t possibly be up to any kind of…code or standard or whatever facilities are supposed to have. You’re under arrest.” He lifted the back of his polo shirt and pulled a pair of cuffs free. I raised a hand.

  “You might want to save those for him,” I said, pointing to the still unmoving biker.

  Bob looked at him, went over and grabbed his wrists, cuffing them quick. He ran through the usual stuff, though I wasn’t sure the biker could hear him.

  The nurse looked at the door hungrily.

  “I wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m not a sprinter, but I’m sure I can catch you. And I’ll be angry when I do.”

  Bob yanked the biker on to his feet with an assist from Brock. “I’m taking this guy to the truck. Coming back with zip ties.”

  Chapter 36

  By the time Bob had the nurse — whose name was Nick — zip-tied, arrested, and stored in the back of his truck, I managed to get Gabriel moving around. The other two had also woken up but didn’t show too many signs of being talkative. I’d gotten names: Lisa and Hayden, but not a whole lot else, and that had taken some real work.

  I figured I still had a few minutes, so I got out my phone and made a call.

  “Jack,” Dani said, “if this is about anything other than scheduling a training session — which you badly need, by the way — or coming over to our house to make the Beef Wellington you owe us — I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Good to talk to you, too, oldest and closest of friends.”

  “Fine. What?”

  “I just need a referral. Not necessarily an official one, just…if I’ve got some people who might be dopesick, need treatment, real treatment, not the ER, not a fly by night rehab place, do you know where?”

  “Take them to the ER if you have to, for a night or two, because no addiction treatment doc is gonna see them on a Sunday afternoon. But I can have some names for you by tomorrow. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “When do we get our steak doughnuts?”

  “You wound the grand tradition of English cookery with that glib reduction, madam.”

  “You’re Scots and Irish, Jack, and you’ve never before said ‘grand tradition of English cookery’ with a straight face.”

 
“Wednesday. Provided I don’t get arrested.” I glanced at Bob as I said that. He waved me toward the door with an annoyed face. I gave him a thumbs up.

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “Eh, so long as I keep my mouth shut I’m fine. See you Wednesday. Four?”

  “I want to eat before eight.”

  “Better make it three, then.” I hung up, gathered Gabriel, and went outside to wait for his mother.

  “These all the clothes you’ve got?” He blinked against the sudden glare of bright September afternoon daylight. He was wearing a sweat-stained white t-shirt, too-large green sweats, and stretched-out gym socks.

  “I guess,” he said, his words slow and thick, clearly through a dry mouth.

  “How much do you remember of the last week?”

  “Not…all that much,” he admitted.

  It was about then that his mom pulled up.

  She didn’t even turn off the engine of her car. Just ran to him and threw her arms around him. Despite the five or six inches in height he had on her, she just about lifted him off the ground.

  “Ms. Kennelly,” I said, coming close and speaking just to her. “You may need to get Gabriel some medical attention. You may need to dance around how he got into the state he is in. Do you need help with that?”

  “My sister’s a nurse,” she said. “Can I take him to her first?”

  “Well, she’d know better than I would. Long drive?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go,” I said. “Do what you’ve got to do.”

  “When will we, you know, settle?”

  I waved a hand. “This week sometime, if you can manage it. Don’t worry about it right now.”

  She gave me a wave and bundled her son into the car and pulled away.

  Bob walked up next to me. “Aesir MC? Guy’s cut just calls him…Huss-carl,” he said.

  “Huscarl.” I corrected the pronunciation. “And…some kinda Nordic racial purity thing going on with them. Ever heard of him?”

  “Can’t say I have. But I can do some digging around, if you think they’re gonna be a problem.”