The Big Wheel
Page 28
“That’s it? You just slink away?”
“I’ve killed four men altogether, two in Sibyl’s apartment, and two last night. Most criminals don’t launch their careers so dramatically.”
She had another objection, her face pinched and hard. “You can’t leave Isobel and Zlata’s mother behind with LeFarge after them. They want to go home. LeFarge will tie up his loose ends. He’ll find them and kill them.”
“I know. I have to handle him too.”
She jerked to a stop at the bus station, sandwiched behind a cab and the trashcans.
He clambered out. He leaned back into the van and said to Angie, “We had a great partnership. I’ll miss working with you.”
“Stay then, Thomas. Ride it out. Deny everything.”
“They’re going to put the three crime scenes together. I left my prints all over Father Mirko’s office and Sibyl Boxwood’s condo. I’ll be on the hook for the homicides at the mansion—I’m the number one suspect, aren’t I?”
Tears broke into her eyes. She bit her lip. “You always did choose poorly for yourself. You’re doing it again.”
“No doubt. But at least I leave you in the clear. They’ll focus on the missing player.” He patted her on the shoulder.
She stared to the left, gripping the wheel hard, then glared at him. “How can such a smart guy end up so stupid?”
“Just lucky I guess.”
She grabbed him by the cuff. “Get back in the damn car. No more of this noble bullshit!”
He thought at that second he might cry, for himself, for Robko. It had all slipped out of his hands. But in the back of his mind, there arose a tease, a wiggle of a notion. “I’ve finally acquired my own multi-million dollar company. Only problem is that I’m my sole employee.” He straightened up and picked up his bag off the curb.
Angie leaned across the minivan so she could gaze up into his face. “Okay, okay. Have it your way. At least let me know how it goes for you out there. If you’re any good at this new life, maybe I’ll quit my job and work for you. Somebody needs to pick up after you.”
“If I’m any good, you’re rich. But if you can, clean up after me this one last time. Take care of our friends and our team.” He nodded, ducked his head, and shuffled towards the bus station. Glancing back, he caught sight of the minivan trundling away. One survivor.
***
Forty-four hours and a half-dozen transfers later, he climbed down off the bus in a Minnesota town in the Iron Range. Once long ago, his mother had brought him here to a lake for the summer. It was as good a way to choose a destination as any.
He had expected a bus station, but it turned out to be a diner named “River and Range.” Whether that could be translated to a good omen or bad, he couldn’t tell. The café showed him people with sheepskin-lined boots, ratty flannel shirts, stained jackets, and smiles on their faces. They held tight to each other, joked, and laughed in the warmth of a diner while blue snow plummeted down outside. It took a while to work up to anger, but that anger carried him through a tuna melt and chips and then coffee—who the hell did they think they were? What right did they have to happiness in the midst of poverty?
He checked into the motel next door, one of those that advertised its sun dome. The motel had been built around a large covered swimming pool with its own waterside village. A black man ran the front desk, a guy somehow familiar. Behind the counter, he wore a long coat and gloves—the moist air in the lobby was a degree or two warmer than outside. He handed Thomas a key. “Cheer up, sir. Spring will follow the hardest winter.”
Thomas climbed the stairs to his room and fell into bed. The TV flickered in the corner. He watched the concrete ceiling for ten hours, while he napped off and on.
Dragging on his clothes, he carried his burner phone down to the poolside. Perched on a bench in the big atrium, he deliberated over the next irreversible step. He felt like the bird on a wire, watching the world from a great height. In the end, he thought, it all comes down to whether you feel lucky or not, if you sense things will turn your way.
He blanked the video. He dialed. O’Brien’s rival picked up. “Carstairs here. I can’t see your caller I.D.”
“Some phones shouldn’t have fingerprints. My name is Jimmy Cabot.”
“Your name isn’t familiar. How did you get this number?”
“From Dennis Malley O’Brien’s security people.”
The man on the other end cleared his throat. “I’m listening.”
“I have something to sell, from one of O’Brien’s labs. It’s not patented, and it will end up big. The biggest consumer item of the next hundred years.” The concrete bench sucked the warmth out of his buttocks; the air cloaked him moist and dank. A bizarre, uncomfortable place. He grinned, enjoying himself.
“What exactly are you selling?”
Thomas felt his jaw clench—this was the moment. Time to deliver. “Not the idea. The actual prototype and laboratory records for the last six months on its manufacture, development and tested uses.”
“The prototype. Of what?”
“A device that can download and store an entire human mind.” Thomas let it sink in.
“Really?” Carstairs sounded tight, unconvinced. “Are you a crackpot?”
Thomas snorted. Carstairs turned out to be predictable. “Wrong question. Any answer I give has to be ‘No, I’m not a crackpot.’ You can ask a better question—was O’Brien crazy? You heard about the shootout on Long Island three days ago? It was all about this device. O’Brien traveled the full mile for this. He risked it all, and now he’ll pay the dime.”
“How do I know any of this is real?”
“We could meet. You could bring one scientist or engineer with you and inspect the device and selected records.”
“Assuming all this turns out legit, why wouldn’t I just take the idea away and develop it myself?”
Thomas choked down on his laugh and inhaled. “Because it will be the biggest race for the most enormous market since vidi phones hit the shelves. You don’t have the years it would take to develop from scratch.” He could feel the adrenaline; it rocketed around in his blood. It made him feel tough, smart.
“I don’t follow.”
“Everything changes once this device hits the market. People will see it as a way to store their loved ones and archive their youth. Their whole lives, with instant recall. Their real family tree.”
“Why should I care about genealogy?”
“You’re not listening. Engineers will see it as a way to create androids for hostile environments. Companies will want it as a way to hold on to their intellectual property. Some people will use it as immortality. It will open up brand new professions in legal, advertising, peripheral manufacture, robotics. The market will move at the speed of light.”
“Maybe,” said Carstairs.
“You can’t keep this a secret now; O’Brien has lost control. Every lab rat that worked on the device will parley it into a career with another company. You’re already out of time.”
Carstairs hemmed. “Who are you? One of the lab rats? One of O’Brien’s inner circle?”
“I was O’Brien’s fixer.”
“Huh. What’s your price?”
Thomas felt his mouth quirk up in a lopsided grin. Halfway there. “Ten million wired offshore at the meeting, upon agreement. An additional fifty million on delivery. I have easy terms—anonymity for me. Also, we do the deal face to face.”
“This sounds a lot like industrial espionage.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll grant you your meeting, but I won’t be present,” said Carstairs.
Show him it’s serious, thought Thomas. “Sorry, no intermediaries.”
Carstairs grunted. There was a long pause. “Then you have to give me a strong reason to risk entrapment. Up front.”
“What if I provide correspondence from the VP of Research to O’Brien?”
Thomas could sense the distrust, the frown, the shake of the he
ad. “Could be faked.”
“Could be real.”
“Not enough.”
What a cowardly little man. “I have clandestine video of O’Brien talking to me about it.”
“Ah. Dennis with his pants down. Send it to me.” His voice had evened out, even loosened up.
“Coming to your phone now.” Carstairs was hooked.
“I’ll dig into this and consider it. Talk to a couple of my people. Then we’ll talk. Talk about meeting, about my engineers. A guarantee that this device works… talk about the money.”
So it wouldn’t be a meeting in a coffee shop, a quick look-see, and we’re off. Probably a shakeout in a lab. Would Carstairs have his own army? “Sure. If I were you, I’d want to do a detailed check of the thing too. But that will cost you more, not less. And I’ll need guarantees also.”
“How can I reach you?”
“I’ll call again in six hours.”
“One last thing,” Carstairs said, “just to speed up checking you out.”
“If you can.”
“Were you there when O’Brien was shot?”
“You mean, did I kill him for the device? No, you can’t leverage me that way.” Thomas tapped the screen to end the call.
Next, he called Thurgall. The conversation played through much the same way. How alike the two men ended up being. And he had priced the deal right—any less, and they wouldn’t have believed it.
Thomas perched on the bench in the sun dome for a long time. Eight thirty in the morning, Central time. He picked up his pre-paid vidi again and placed the call. Again he blanked the video. The line clicked, and he heard Chicago. “Yo. Hold a second.” Thomas could hear the man shout, “No, you idjit. That pallet is vodka—it goes next aisle over.” The voice boomed onto the line. “Kazimierz Liquors. What can you do for me?” Testosterone. Old school.
“Hello. I’m trying to reach Dag Kazimierz.”
“You got him.”
“I called because you’re Mirko Kazimierz’s brother.”
The man on the other end said nothing.
“I knew Mirko.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was there when he died.” Thomas stared out over the pool and watched small wisps of steam rise up into the chilled air. An image of a church office in Ithaca—the priest slumped on the floor—threaded up into his mind, followed the steam upward.
“Not on this line.”
“Sorry?”
Dag said, “We don’t talk on this line. Unblock your caller I.D., so I can see you. Don’t say your number; show me.”
Frowning, Thomas did so. “Now I have to trash this phone.”
“Tough shit. Hang onto it for a few minutes. I’ll call you when I’m someplace secure. Gimme five.”
Thomas waited by the pool. For five minutes, then another five. His throwaway rang.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jimmy Cabot.”
“That don’t mean nothin’ to me.”
“What does matter is my connection to your brother’s murder.”
“Did you do it?” The voice cut like a carbon steel knife.
“Kind of. Indirectly.” Thomas rested his forehead on his knuckles, elbow on his knee.
“You got balls calling me to say something like that, Jimmy.”
Thomas imagined a hard, hard man, bent over a burner phone in a safe room somewhere, on the lookout for someone to murder. “I didn’t intend it to happen. I followed Robko Zlata’s trail, and it led to your brother. I fed the Zlata info back to my organization, and your brother’s killer followed me to Father Mirko.”
“Zlata? Mirko said he was on the run. Why you telling me this?”
“I want you to know the shooter’s name. He’s Egan LeFarge.”
“Can you spell that?”
“I’ll type it in for you.” Busy with the thumbs.
“Bullcrap name. Frickin’ Frenchman.” There was a sneer in the voice, under the anger.
“He’s ex-military, a mercenary living in New York City; works special security.”
“That’s not a problem. We got reach there.” Dag sounded confident.
“He has a crew.”
“That’s no problem either.”
Thomas thought, Don’t go in cold—pay attention to me. “Listen, this is a bad-assed crew. They killed Robko Zlata also.”
“Mercs, like this LeFarge?”
“Yes.”
The man on the other end laughed, an ugly sound. “Mercs is wussies. They get used to automatic weapons, and all they know is spray and pray. They don’t know how to work in close.”
“Right.”
Dag said, “How do I know you’re feeding me the straight stuff?”
“He’s after me, too.”
“Got you scared?”
“Definitely. I can give you the background file on this if you want, and there’s details you can check out. It would also include surveillance material that I have—make him more accessible.”
“Send them now.”
Thomas said, “Give me a second.” He tapped the screen and made the drop. “Do you see it?”
“Wait. Checking now. So here’s a file on this guy. Big deal, Jimmy.”
“Now that you have the file, you have time to read it; check it out.” Thomas thought, Harder to sell than Carstairs.
“I don’t know you. I don’t trust this info.”
“This is the best chance you have. You don’t seem to care much.”
Dag’s voice barked back down the line. “I want the man who killed my brother—killed a priest for Christ’s sake!”
“Your brother forgave LeFarge.”
“My brother took the Holy Orders. I didn’t.”
Good… that was what he wanted to hear. “We understand each other.” He pictured Dag scowling, gripping the mobile like it could give him back a lost brother.
Dag’s voice dropped a pitch, got soft… more threatening. “From here on out, don’t try to help me. If your dope checks out, you done all you need to do. If it don’t, you got a serious problem.”
“One other thing. An old lady lives in LeFarge’s house. She didn’t have anything to do with it, so don’t harm her.”
“What? You think we’re the frickin’ Chechnyans? Thanks for the call. I’ll keep your name and number in case you’re screwing me. If you’re straight, I’ll lose it. Don’t call again, Jimmy.”
Jimmy pitched the phone into the pool.
About the Author
Scott Archer Jones is currently living and working on his sixth novel in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland, and Norway plus less exotic locations. He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery. Now he’s on the masthead of the Prague Revue, and launched a novel last year with Southern Yellow Pine, Jupiter and Gilgamesh, a Novel of Sumeria and Texas. The book was a finalist in four categories in the New Mexico – Arizona Book Awards
Scott cuts all his own firewood, lives a mile from his nearest neighbor and writes grant applications for the community. He is the Treasurer of Shuter Library of Angel Fire, a private 501.C3, and he desperately needs your money to keep the doors open.
https://www.facebook.com/ScottArcherJones
Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication
Praise for the Author
Fortunes Come and Go
Chapter One: The Wrong Rack
Chapter Two: Slave to Fortune’s Service
Chapter Three: Cracks
Chapter Four: Poverty and Power Melt Like Ice
Chapter Five: Hide in Plain Sight
Chapter Six: Love Turned on The Wheel of Torture
Chapter Seven: Too Clever by Half
Chapter Eight: Weep Over Luck’s Change
In The Summer of My Life
Chapter Nine: Leaves in the Strong Wind
Chapter Ten: A Mark of Devotion in the Heart
Chapter Twelve: Ashes of the Earth
Chapter Thirteen: End and Beginning
Chapter Fourteen: Bitterness Speaks to My Soul
Chapter Fifteen: End of the Idyll
Down in the Bars
Chapter Sixteen: Send a Message, Send a Message
Chapter Seventeen: Yo, Bartender
Chapter Eighteen: Naked after Vespers
Chapter Nineteen: The Known Devil
Chapter Twenty: Come and Make Me Well
Chapter Twenty-One: Guns on the Ground
Love and Pain
Chapter Twenty-Two: Locked Into the Depth of Night
Chapter Twenty-Three: Fall from Grace
Chapter Twenty-Four: You Are My Constant Pride
Chapter Twenty-Five: Lab Rats
Chapter Twenty-Six: A Ship without a Sailor
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Club Gonos
Fortune Turned
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ephemeral Nature of Light
Chapter Twenty-Nine: I Shall Reign
About the Author