Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  "Unless you have proof engraved on stone tablets from above, do not start questioning Sands, Olsen or Mayor Whitehead about this. It's a career killer. You won't even end up directing traffic, and Buddy Olsen will find a nasty but legal way to screw you."

  "Townsend is already riding me and making inane suggestions about the perpetrators in the case I'm working on. He's trying to say there's no connection between the two murders when they're obviously connected. I don't know why everyone thinks so highly of him."

  "Beware of the Lieutenant. Everything he touches lately seems to turn to crap. Now tell me about your case. It's all over the news."

  "It's an odd one. We haven't released all the details. We found a spy camera in the women's house. The techs have drawn a blank trying to find who was watching it. The fire was caused by a kind of incendiary device, not an electrical fault like the mayor told the press. These factors make it seem like a professional hit, but other evidence points to it being the work of an amateur. However, nothing leads me to believe it was a crazed sex killer like Townsend seems to think."

  "I read that the perp thoroughly searched the girls' place."

  "It's left us with almost zero physical evidence. We're testing the paternity of the Logan gal's fetus, but it's likely a dead end. The killings are not the work of an angry boyfriend like the Lieutenant's other theory would suggest. I'm hoping for recognizable DNA off the first victim, but these things take time."

  "And you say, Beth Gervais, the dead reporter, was looking into the Pascoe affair."

  "We only have it second hand from another reporter. The paper won't grant any access to her work, and her laptop is missing. The truth is we have no idea what she was working on or who she was investigating." I chugged down the rest of my beer. "Another one?"

  "I have chickens to feed."

  "I never took you for a farmer."

  "I'm not. My house was once a working farm, and I carry on the tradition. I have a few cattle which give my buddies and me some choice organic meat. But it's expensive and doesn't pay for itself." Mark drained his beer. "I'm off but do stay in touch. I like to keep tabs on what's happening. There's still a repository of knowledge in here." He tapped a bony finger against the side of his balding head.

  After he'd gone, I watched the sunset, and downed another beer, before heading back to my cottage. My phone sounded as I pulled out of the parking lot. I pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer.

  "Ms. Riley, it's Mrs. Fisher calling from your mother's nursing home."

  "Is she alright? Has she fallen?" I asked hesitatingly.

  "Your mother is well. Her attorney, Mr. Pilkin, visited her today. We think it's time for her to give you power of attorney—and you should do it soon. If you don't move forward while she's still capable of signing, you'll have to petition a court for guardianship, and all kinds of people will need to be involved."

  "Can't anyone at the nursing home do it?" I asked.

  "We're talking about your mother here, Megan. Are you saying you're content to leave her medical care and estate decisions in the hands of a stranger? You don't want to do that, trust me."

  "I promise to seriously consider it."

  "Perhaps you and I can meet Mr. Pilkin to discuss your concerns."

  "Mrs. Fisher, I don't have time right now, there have been significant developments in the case I'm working on. Why don't we revisit the question in a month?"

  "Your mother was asking for you again today."

  "Did she mention my name?"

  "She said she wants to see her daughter."

  "When I visit, she doesn't even know I am her daughter." I disconnected, feeling torn between my commitments.

  CHAPTER 17

  CHIEF OF SECURITY, Kent Brickman parked the van on an unlit road behind the ranch-style house. He had taken the precaution of obscuring the license plates with mud. Everyone, it seemed, had cameras pointing toward the street these days. If the police stopped him, the dirty plates gave him a plausible reason for them being obscured, while false or missing ones certainly would not.

  He sat on a garden bench facing the rear of Hospital Support Department Head, Patrick Whitehead's house and set his heavy pack on the ground. If the idiot had come to me as soon as he learned the hospital had been hacked, Brickman thought, the situation would be resolved by now.

  The drapes were drawn, and Brickman could only make out shapes moving inside, but it was enough to confirm Whitehead had overnight female company. This was a complicating factor, but Brickman had handled similar situations before. Patience was the key to success, he'd found.

  The lights from the windows winked out one by one. He imagined the final one to be the bedroom light. After it extinguished, Brickman waited thirty minutes for the occupants to do whatever and fall asleep.

  He shouldn't be on such a mission tonight—the moon was bright enough for him to see his shadow, and he'd not had time to formulate much of a plan. But on the plus side, the neighboring houses didn't overlook Whitehead's property. After the recklessness, he'd seen on the video from the spy camera, Brickman had no alternative but to act tonight. He had to prevent the cowboy from interfering with his plans for Matt Baker and making a bad situation much worse.

  Showtime. He donned the ski mask and the night-vision goggles.

  The door lock yielded quickly to his picks. He slipped into the kitchen and paused to scan the room. Hearing only the hum of the refrigerator, and seeing nothing of interest, he moved on. His eyes took in the living room at the front of the house—a sofa and chairs surrounded a giant flat screen television atop a low cabinet. Game controllers trailed across the carpet to two La-Z-Boys. The coffee table between them was covered with empty wine glasses and bottles. Two pizza boxes littered the floor.

  Excellent. The targets should be sleeping soundly.

  He began by searching the drawers beneath the television before moving to the shelves on either side of the fireplace. A rosewood box on the top one caught his eye. Inside he found two boxes of ammunition and the Sig Sauer automatic he'd heard Whitehead speak about on the spy camera video.

  Tsk, tsk. You're supposed to keep your weapon in a locked safe—or under your pillow like me.

  He stuck the pistol in his waistband next to the one he'd brought and moved to the open door of Whitehead's bedroom where he could see the shapes of two people beneath the bed covers. The next room held a jumble of little-used items—suitcases, outdoor furniture, and sports apparel. A laptop sat on a desk under the window. He was about to start searching the drawers when he heard movement. Two silent paces took him to the hallway where a young woman, long blond hair, late teens, and wearing a T-shirt inscribed BEACH BABE, was shuffling her way into the bathroom.

  Brickman paused in the shadows of the moonlight outside the half-closed door, hearing her using the toilet. He coiled like a snake, waiting for her to finish. As she trudged back into the hallway, Brickman slipped silently behind her. In a single movement, he clasped a hand over her mouth and put his arm around her waist, lifting the woman off her feet. She kicked and wriggled fiercely as Brickman pulled her into the living room, but he had her forearms pinned. She tried to scream but could only manage guttural noises.

  Too late, her hand grabbed Brickman's crotch and squeezed. He threw her roughly face down onto the carpet knocking the wind out of her. By the time she regained consciousness, he'd taped the young woman's mouth and bound her wrists to her ankles behind her, stifling any ability to scream or move.

  When he rolled the woman over, he saw abject terror in her eyes, but it didn't register with him as cruel or even unkind. When he was young, his parents had noticed his inability to empathize with others. Although they secretly suspected he was abnormal in some way, they kept him away from anyone who might diagnose his condition. As an adult, Brickman was intelligent enough to understand his lack of remorse could indicate he had psychopathic tendencies. But Brickman saw it as an asset that enabled him to do his job more effectively than othe
rs could.

  As he lifted the young woman's limp body, he saw she had again lapsed into oblivion. He knew from experience that the sight of his ski mask and night-vision goggles helped to terrify his victims into submission. He checked her breathing—murder was not his intent. In fact, it would only complicate matters. Her T-shirt had ridden up in the struggle revealing her smooth belly and trimmed pubic hair, but a girl young enough to be his daughter didn't interest him. Instead, he admired the beauty in her facial features and long blond hair. He carried her to the hall closet and threw her in among the shoes and umbrellas. As he closed the door, he heard Whitehead call out:

  "Sophia, are you okay?"

  Before his next quarry could fully awaken, Brickman rushed into the bedroom and yanked the man out of bed, delivering a disabling blow to his belly. Whitehead was quicker off the mark than the woman and managed to land a punch on his assailant's shoulder before Brickman rendered him unconscious with a punishing blow to the chin. It took less than a minute to hogtie his latest victim like the woman. This time he used a rope for extra strength, though he liked tape's ability to bunch up and dig into the victim's skin as they struggled. Brickman picked up the trussed man as if he were a sack of garbage and deposited him in the bedroom closet.

  All he needed was a couple of days to give him time to tie up Matt Baker and erase the hacked data.

  His search of the desk in the spare bedroom yielded nothing useful, but no thief would leave the laptop, he reasoned and slipped it into his equipment bag. Now that noise wasn't an issue, he ransacked every room to not give the cops any reason to doubt this was a home-invasion robbery. Before leaving the house, he went to check that both victims could breathe adequately. A murder would only bring more police and forensics to bear on the investigation. Whitehead's eyes radiated anger and defeat, and although his mouth was taped, he motioned a spitting gesture at Brickman. The woman shrank away from him, her eyes ablaze with panic. He surprised himself by saying he wasn't going to harm her, and help would arrive in time.

  Brickman stepped outside and relocked the door. Should anyone come looking, they'd think no one was home. He slipped into the shadows of the moonlight and checked his silenced phone. Six calls from Lewis in the last hour. He listened to the most recent message and heard a panicked voice demanding his immediate presence at the house. It wasn't uncommon for Lewis to lose it, but not this late at night and not in a voicemail. He hurried back along the path to the van.

  CHAPTER 18

  LESS THAN FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Kent Brickman was walking the path to the front door of his boss, Hospital CEO Bill Lewis, pleased with his success in subduing Whitehead and the girl. He paused on the flagstone steps and looked up.

  This place is even more hideous than the man himself, he thought—the Romanesque columns reaching up to the fake portal, the marble reclining lions beside the 8-foot double doors. Lewis' mansion could comfortably house a dozen ordinary families. And what could he want calling me over here at this late hour? Brickman asked himself. The man is feeble, and I'm sick of his never-ending problems.

  Lewis appeared at the door wearing a paisley gown over pale blue silk pajamas and holding an empty martini glass. "Thank God you're here. Come through."

  Brickman followed him into a library. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with carefully matched volumes, no doubt bought by the yard. An oversized Persian rug covered the center of the solid oak floor. Lewis took a seat behind a leather-topped mahogany desk and waved his guest to an ornate chair.

  "Bill, it's one in the morning. What's this about?" Brickman was in no mood for pleasantries as he eyed Lewis's flabby body with disgust.

  "I've been hacked," Lewis spat. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead.

  "Yeah, the hospital hack. We need to discuss what happened, but rest assured I have it all in hand. That's where I was earlier this evening." Where was he getting his information? Brickman wondered. I only just found out a few hours ago.

  "No, not the hospital. It's the computer over there." Lewis stepped to an oversize laptop on an oak table, which didn't seem to fit the rest of the room. Brickman guessed it had been brought there for his benefit.

  "It's connected to the hospital network, right?" Computers often featured in the security chief's investigations, and he'd devoted time to understanding the basic principles.

  "No—that network tomfoolery is foreign to me. It's connected to broadband. I think that's what they call it." Lewis's breath reeked of alcohol.

  Brickman tapped one of the keys to wake the computer, and an image of a skull, dripping bright red blood appeared in the center of the screen. Beneath it was the message:

  YOU HAVE BEEN HACKED, AND WE KNOW ALL YOUR SECRETS. IF YOU DON'T OBEY US THE WORLD WILL HEAR ABOUT THEM. IT WILL COST YOU FIVE MILLION DOLLARS TO BUY THEM BACK. WATCH THIS MESSAGE. WE WILL TELL YOU WHERE TO DROP THE MONEY. NO POLICE. LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT IS OVER IF YOU DON'T OBEY US. WE ARE WATCHING YOU.

  To Brickman, the message implied they had something more than patient records. It looked very different from the hospital hack, though the perpetrator must be the same. Matt Baker now knew one or more of the many skeletons in Lewis's closet, he supposed. "What have you been up to? Is there tax fraud or child porn on here?"

  "Not so loud. Barbara is sleeping, and she knows nothing of this," Lewis whimpered. "There are no tax documents or pornographic pictures on the computer. Well, nothing . . . ah, unusual or illegal."

  "What then?"

  "Just emails, a few chatroom discussions, and documents."

  "Lewis, I haven't come to your home at this late hour to beat about the bush. What could the hacker have on you?"

  "I have male friends online with whom I discuss my needs. I have certain appetites, you understand. Nothing the police would be interested in."

  "They have pictures of you?"

  "Not of my face. No one will be able to connect the photographs with me."

  "Is that all?" Pictures of Lewis' naked body was not something Brickman wanted to spend any time thinking about.

  "I saved some of the documents from the land deal. There's no smoking gun saying what we did back then. But an intelligent person, you know . . ." His voice trailed off, but the conclusion was inescapable.

  So that's the reason I'm here, Brickman thought. The Devil's Pasture land deal. Something we both have a personal stake in keeping secret, is out in the wild.

  "What the fuck were you thinking, you fool?"

  "The emails show I didn't know about the problem until after the fact. A year later, to be precise." Lewis was speaking in a hoarse whisper, now.

  "Outstanding! It will get you a few months off your life sentence."

  "I could fire your ass, you know."

  "You think the land deal is the only thing I have on you?"

  "It would be mutually assured destruction if you ever used it."

  "I have a parachute out of it, so think carefully before you start threatening me."

  "This isn't getting us anywhere," the CEO muttered, half to himself. A look of despair spread across his face.

  "I have something to tell you which may relate to what's going on here. I've learned the hospital's computers have been hacked, and patient data was stolen."

  "What? How long have you known?" Lewis' face had turned two shades paler.

  "I just found out today, but the hack happened over two weeks ago. Whitehead was bullshitting us when we asked why his department was working overtime. He knew about it from the start. His people were searching for the source of the hack, so they could cover it up and save their asses."

  "Good God. Do you think both the hacks are connected?"

  "They were absolutely done by the same person, one Matt Baker. First thing tomorrow, after I've had some rest, I'm going to find him and take care of the situation. I'll persuade him it's in his best interest to delete everything. He may not fully understand what he's stolen from you, but I promise you that for the rest of his l
ife, he'll regret ever crossing paths with us. You know how persuasive I can be. I'll give him a little something permanent to remember us by."

  "You have to fix this—I'm too old to go to prison, or to run anywhere else." Lewis fixed his eyes on his head of security. "If even the hospital hack gets out, there'll be lawsuits, federal investigations. I'll lose my job and the stock options I'm due later in the year. Barbara is counting on them to renovate her bedroom."

  "If what you did all those years ago is in danger of getting out, we ought to warn our friend. I believe he has contingency plans to go and live in some unwashed country or other." And I might just have to join him, Brickman thought. The Maldives might fit the bill.

  CHAPTER 19

  "SOMEONE IS WATCHING ME." Reporter Kayla Ellis could hear the dread in Matt Baker's voice as he unconsciously swirled the ice cubes in his latte. She was seated across from him under a red umbrella at the Bluebird Cafe on Broad Street. He'd picked the remotest table and sat with his back against the high brick wall dividing the outdoor seating area from The Old Firehouse Museum.

  Only one other table was occupied—a middle-aged man was intently studying his phone. The laptop crowd, who spent the morning using the Wi-Fi for the price of a cup of coffee, were inside due to the bright sunshine. Kayla liked to sit closer to the street so she could people-watch when Matt's conversation became too technical. Or when it became too oddball for her, as it often did. She was never as close to Matt as were Beth and Ashley, but now, in the aftermath of their deaths, she was intently focused on what he was saying and genuinely concerned about his welfare.

  "What makes you think that?" she asked.

  "I did some intelligence gathering for Beth's articles. Maybe someone found out about it, and it's what got her killed. I may be next."

  "I knew you were both into some heavy stuff. But I didn't tell the police anything about it when they interviewed me. I had to mention Beth's article about the mayor. She was always big on corruption."