Head Wounds

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Afternoon, Danny. I thought you could use a new screen-saver. Your old one sucks. Luckily, I take a nice picture.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “I looked all around the lot, but there was no sign of him.” I took the cold beer Barnes handed me. “Yet Maddox couldn’t have been that far away. He’d had time to get into my car and move my laptop to the front seat. I know it was in the back when I left the house.”

  “The bastard’s gaslighting you, Doc.” Barnes’ lean frame was propped against the refrigerator door. “Trying to mess with your head.”

  “I realize that, Lyle. Just as I know he probably tracked me using the laptop. I should have left it at home.”

  On a stool at the other end of the tiled kitchen island, Gloria shook her head, her ponytail bobbing behind it.

  “Maddox couldn’t track you that way, Danny. Not unless he installed a special app in your laptop. Or had its ID number and registered it with the manufacturer. And I doubt he’s had that kind of access to it. Besides, Danny, the idea is to make it easy for Maddox to contact us. So we know what he’s doing. With your cell in pieces, it’s the laptop or nothing.”

  I sipped my beer. “Unless he’s managed to hack into your cell by now. Or Lyle’s.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Barnes. “Before we vacated your place, I broke apart both Agent Reese’s cell and my own. Just to be on the safe side. Then I tossed them off your rear deck. We’re all using the throwaway phones now.”

  She gave him a bemused look. “Isn’t it about time for you to start calling me ‘Gloria’?”

  “Nope. But I’ll let you know when it is.”

  By the time I’d arrived at the former Bureau safe house, Lyle and Gloria were already there. The address Barnes had given us was of an abandoned movie theater off the main drag in Wilkinsburg. Most of the light bulbs arrayed on its weathered marquee had long since been shattered, either by thrown rocks or, I suspected, more than a few bullets. Target practice by gangsta wannabes. Old posters from the last film to play there—Rocky IV—hung in tatters next to the boarded-up entrance.

  I found my way in through the exit door at the rear, its rusting lock recently broken. By Barnes, obviously. Inside the darkened passageway behind the empty, dust-covered concession stand was another door, so embedded and flush with the wall, it was nearly invisible.

  Or would have been, had Barnes not also left it open, revealing the lights coming from within.

  Going through the door and down a flight of steps, I found myself in the first of a series of cinderblock rooms, just below ground level. Some were bedrooms, the rest merely windowless spaces with a few old upholstered couches as furniture.

  I heard Barnes’ voice echoing from a room somewhere to my left, and went through a surprisingly well-lit corridor to the safe house’s spare kitchen. There I found him talking with Gloria, both of them holding fresh beers.

  I also realized why Barnes had needed some time before letting us join him here. I’d heard the hum of the generator coming from one of the side rooms as I headed for the kitchen. He’d had to replace all the bulbs down here, bring in a portable generator, and stock the refrigerator with drinks and takeout. Given his precise nature, I was sure he’d also swept and tidied up a few of the rooms. Especially since a young lady would be among those in attendance.

  “Nice job,” was the first thing I’d said to him when I joined them. I pulled up a stool at the tiled island counter that smelled of ammonia and cleanser.

  Barnes waved his hand dismissively. “We might be here for a while. Place has to be livable. That said, I can’t guarantee how secure it is. So we can’t stay permanently. But we should be all right for the time being.”

  Gloria sat forward on her stool. “What about the rats?”

  “Cleared out for greener pastures, I guess. At least I haven’t seen any sign of them. But let’s not leave any crumbs around, okay? You never know.”

  l l l l l

  The two laptops were side by side on the conference table in one of the side rooms. Mine with the lid closed on Maddox’s photo we were unable to delete, Gloria’s open and facing out to where the three of us sat. It was after five, and though we could hear the rain coming down outside, we couldn’t see it. No windows here in the basement safe house.

  We’d just had Chinese takeout that Barnes had brought with him earlier and reheated in the microwave. Now, all evidence of the meal cleared away, Gloria and I gazed at her laptop screen as Lyle began showing us the data he’d assembled about Sebastian Maddox. Starting with photos and videos of an adolescent Maddox and his distressed-looking parents, from various occasions at the family’s home in Blackridge. The obviously forced frivolity of holidays and birthdays was almost painful to watch.

  Barnes tapped a few more keys and a complete listing of Maddox’s exemplary middle school grades and awards for science projects marched across the screen. Juxtaposed with it were truancy reports, a record of frequent disciplinary actions for anti-social behavior, and prescribed visits to various child psychologists. His diagnoses ranged from oppositional disorder to borderline personality to outright sociopathy, depending on the therapist. By his late teens, and after two arrests for drug possession, some petty theft, and a DUI, Sebastian was fairly well-known both to high school authorities and the police.

  Gloria chuckled without humor. “Shit. What did Maddox call himself? An excitable boy? There’s an understatement.”

  “It was only his parents’ money and position in their community that kept Maddox out of juvenile hall,” said Barnes. “Though even with his background, he was accepted at a number of colleges. Apparently, most counselors were willing to ascribe his past to ‘youthful indiscretions.’ In fact, I found a report from one university’s admissions officer stating that—here it is—‘we must accept the fact that the gifted are often unburdened by the dictates of conventional morality.’ Asshole.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But it’s a pretty common assessment of brilliant students like Maddox. Especially if the college underestimates the extent of the kid’s transgressions. A few drug busts or behavioral complaints aren’t that big a deal if your main goal is recruiting top candidates. Future alumni that will reflect well on your school. And donate to it.”

  Gloria pointed at a photo of Maddox’s parents, standing stiffly with their sullen son at his high school graduation.

  “What about his family?”

  “Sebastian was their only child. Father a noted research scientist, mother a fancy lawyer. The father’s family came from old money, which seems to have carried a lot of weight in Blackridge. Their kid must’ve been a helluva embarrassment.”

  I nodded. “That’s probably why the restraining order Barbara took out on Maddox led to his parents yanking him out of Pitt. It was the last straw. Their patience had run out.”

  “What happened to Mom and Dad?” Gloria said.

  “Dad died of a heart attack a year after Maddox had to leave college. Mom swallowed a bottle of pills a month later. Left a suicide note blaming their son for ruining her life.”

  “Jesus…”

  “The house in Blackridge was bought by some rich investor soon after and razed to the ground, replaced by a McMansion. Wouldn’t surprise me if they salted the earth first.”

  Barnes sipped from a cup of recently brewed coffee, his eyes burning as though flooded with caffeine. He’d drunk over half the carafe already.

  “Meanwhile, back to the benighted son…”

  Another quick tapping on the keyboard brought up a mug shot of Sebastian Maddox. Scowling insolently at the camera, he was wearing the familiar prison orange.

  “Remember what he told us? The day after he shot you and your wife, and before he could skip town, Maddox was busted for dealing. Court records show he had to cool his heels in county jail, awaiting trial.”

  “While I was in Pit
tsburgh Memorial,” I said, “recovering from my gunshot wound from that night.”

  “Right. Then, a couple months later, Maddox gets convicted and sent up to Buckville maximum security. The exact same day you’re finally released from the hospital.”

  I considered this. “Wait, I get it now. He goes in, I get out. There’s that goddam symmetry. Probably where the concept first lodged in his mind. If there’s a seeming order to events, an underlying pattern, then his mission of revenge against me is somehow sanctioned. Practically ordained. The perfect delusional rationale in support of his emotional self-regulation.”

  Barnes tried not to roll his eyes. “You don’t know when to quit, do ya, Doc? I don’t care what’s in this nut-case’s head. I just want to take the bastard down.”

  “So do I, Lyle. We just use different tools to do it.”

  “Uh-huh.” His catch-all retort when unconvinced.

  “It’s funny,” Gloria said quietly. “Crazy or not, Maddox has been completely honest about his past. His obsession with Barbara. His reasons for wanting Danny dead. Even his decade in prison. But why? Unless he gets off on trying to make us see how much he’s suffered for love.”

  I glanced at her. “That’s a good point, Gloria. In fact, it might be something we can use.”

  Barnes grunted. “Well, not to break up this little clinical conference, but our Mr. Maddox hasn’t been totally honest. Check this out.”

  The ex-agent gestured toward a series of files popping up on-screen. Prison records, police reports, newspaper articles.

  “About halfway through his ten-year-stretch, prison officials found out about something Maddox had been doing. I mean, besides building hard-time muscle in the rec yard and playing nice with the Aryan Brotherhood.”

  Gloria and I peered at the screen.

  “Given his college studies,” Barnes continued, “Maddox was assigned work duty in the prison electronics shop. Turns out there were a lot of discarded computer parts laying around. So guess what the boy genius did?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “He designed and built an elaborate computer system that he hid in the shop room ceiling. A system he used to hack into the prison’s servers and program them to access systems out here in the civilian world.”

  “Are you kidding?” Gloria stared.

  “Nope. This enabled him to stay on top of all the latest IT developments. Probably when he first started keeping track of the Doc’s life, too. By the time he was found out, he’d built his own elaborate, sophisticated network. The authorities couldn’t prove it, but they suspected he’d used it to steal funds from hundreds of bank accounts and credit cards. Money that they were never able to trace.”

  “Which Maddox could retrieve once he was released from prison,” I said. “Money that’s funding everything he’s doing now. But why didn’t he get more jail time for what he did?”

  Barnes laughed. “His attorney cut a deal with the local DA. No additional hard time in exchange for Maddox showing the authorities how he did it. From what I could read between the lines, the prison warden just wanted to put the whole thing behind him. Maddox had made them look like fools.”

  I thought this was all that Barnes had to show us, but he pulled up one more image. A colorful, beautifully rendered painting whose subject I recognized immediately.

  “That’s like the tattoo Maddox has on his back. I saw it on the video he showed me of Joy’s assault. A snake with wings.”

  “To be more accurate, it’s described in the primary source literature as a ‘feathered serpent.’ This old painting is one of the many depictions of Quetzalcoatl, the patron god of the Aztec priesthood. Representing learning and knowledge.”

  Gloria frowned. “Figures. Ego much, this guy?”

  “It looks like a prison tat,” Barnes went on, “but no way an Aryan brother did it for him. Maddox must’ve done a favor for some talented Chicano up in Buckville, too. Got him drugs or cash. Isn’t much you can’t get hold of in—”

  Suddenly, Barnes was interrupted by a burst of static coming from Gloria’s laptop. The painting vanished, replaced by a live-streaming image of Sebastian Maddox. Shirtless, hands clasped behind his shaved head, he was sitting comfortably in a big leather chair. The harsh lighting accentuating the sharp planes of his face, the rock-like contours of his biceps. And the vivid tattoo of the Grail on his bare chest.

  We three sat, stunned once again into silence. Maddox seemed pleased by our surprise.

  “I know your laptop is Bureau issue, Agent Reese, but how long did you think it would take for me to hack into it? By the way, I also took a cyber-tour of your personal computer at home. Really, Gloria? Match.com? I figured a babe like you would have no trouble hooking up with one of your fellow G-Men. Or should I say, G-Persons?”

  Gloria glared at Maddox’s image on-screen, her voice steady.

  “Fuck you, Maddox. Twice.”

  “It’s a date, hon. Meanwhile, Danny, it’s time for you and me to go for a little ride.”

  I got my face close to the screen. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m gonna let you see the next victim die right in front of your eyes. Up close and personal, as they say.”

  My hands involuntarily closed into fists.

  “Damn you, Maddox! Who? Who is it?”

  His eyes narrowed, all mirth gone. “Just make sure you come alone. Or there’ll be consequences. For a lot of people.”

  “Come where?”

  “Clock’s ticking, Danny boy. It’s not a long drive, but you better get started. See you there.”

  He disappeared from the screen.

  “Where?” I shouted at the empty gray window. “Maddox! Where am I supposed to—?”

  Barnes gripped my shoulder.

  “He said it’s a drive. That means you need to get in your car. Now. He’ll let you know where to go.”

  I gaped at him, anxiety squeezing my throat like a vice.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t. But you got a better idea?”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Though it was still early evening, the sky was a patchwork of purplish-gray clouds that cloaked the setting sun. The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, but I barely noticed the moisture beading on the back of my neck. Running to where I’d parked my Mustang a block down from the entrance to the movie theater, I was behind the wheel in less than a minute. Engine revved, wipers on, I pulled away from the curb.

  But to go where? Before I even had time to ponder the question, my dashboard GPS came on. A detailed street map of the surrounding area was accompanied by the device’s familiar female voice. Cool, unhurried, definitive.

  “Go straight along Wilkins Avenue until you arrive at the intersection…”

  My eyes flitting back and forth from the GPS screen to the mist-shrouded road, I followed the directions toward downtown and the Point with no idea where I was going.

  At least now I knew what was happening. Sebastian Maddox was controlling the GPS signal remotely, so while the directions were voiced by the instrument’s built-in software, the data was being input by Maddox, determinedly leading me to my unknown destination.

  As I drove alongside the Ohio River, as directed, I remembered having read somewhere that government security experts were concerned about the possible hacking of GPS equipment. A terrorist or some other of our country’s enemies remotely sending directions to planes, trains, or cars, which was what Maddox was doing with me.

  By now, the measured female voice had guided me along the main road leading to McKees Rocks, about five miles east of downtown. My eyes straining to see through the dampened fog beyond my windshield, I was soon past the main thoroughfare and heading toward one of Pittsburgh’s shipping ports on the Ohio.

  The throwaway cell I’d brought with me vibrated on the passenger seat beside me. I sco
oped it up. Gloria.

  “What’s going on, Danny? Where are you?”

  “Just outside McKees Rocks. Looks like Maddox is steering me toward the river port.”

  The digital GPS voice spoke again, and I turned as directed onto a long dockside stretch of old wooden warehouses, raindrops dripping from roofs and gutters. Dozens of sodium lamps on regularly spaced poles glowed against the drizzle, the sizzling lights mere blurs in the growing darkness. Beyond, a row of cargo ships flanked the dock, their weathered hulls ghostly in the unending mist. Beside them stood towering heavy-duty cranes with huge metal container pods suspended beneath them.

  Despite the inclement weather, man and machine were hard at work doing the dock’s business. Flatbed trucks, headlights blazing, laden with sheet rock. Forklifts piled high with large sacks of grain or gravel. Men and women in rain gear and hard hats scurrying to assist in the busy port’s ceaseless rounds of loading and unloading.

  “Put me on speaker.” Gloria’s voice was brisk. “Lyle and I want to stay connected with you.”

  I did as asked, slipping the cell into my jacket pocket.

  Following the GPS instructions, I wound my way past the main dock and through a maze of smaller buildings till I came upon a second group of cranes. As I slowed my car, peering through the wet gloom, I realized that the area seemed deserted.

  No workers moving about. No rolling trucks. The loading cranes were still, and no container pods hung by chains below them. Silent and unmoving, they were like tall sentinels long since frozen at their posts.

  Just then, my invisible female companion spoke for the last time. “You have reached your destination.”

  The GPS map flickered for a moment, then went black.

  At first, I stayed in the car, hands gripping the wheel.

  Though the drizzle had finally stopped, the night beyond my windshield was dark and draped in misty, diaphanous folds.