by Allen Wyler
“Give it to him.” Benson nodded toward Jim Day who had the laptop open now.
Day leaned toward Khan just enough to quickly grab the CD, then back up, as if wanting as much room between himself and Khan as possible. He slid the CD into the laptop tray.
Benson asked, “How much is Prophesy paying you?”
Khan shook his head slowly. “It is irrelevant.”
Tyler scanned the area looking for Benson’s thug and Ferguson but saw only blackness and an oasis of light below the low wattage bulb at the corner of the building. The wind was picking up, chilling the area and probably bringing a thunder shower.
“Hardly. I’m after damage control at this point, Yusef. Tell me, how much information have you given them?”
Khan pushed up off the cement floor and brushed off his pants. “That also is irrelevant.”
“Not if you want to live it’s not.”
Khan pointed at the gun in Benson’s hand. “You’re probably going to kill me anyway, so why should I give you any information? If I die without you finding out it will be my little victory, you see.”
Tyler rubbed his hands together for warmth and said to Benson, “Look, you have the disk. Let’s get going.”
Benson’s head snapped toward him. “Shut up Mathews. I’ll deal with you when I’m done here.”
Day said, “It’s all here, Mr. Benson. The CD’s full of patient information.” He snapped shut the laptop.
Benson smiled. “Good. Now hand it over to Mathews.”
Clearly puzzled, Day did as instructed.
“Now,” Benson told Day, “move over next to Khan.” He waved the gun barrel in the direction.
“What?” Day glanced nervously at Tyler, then back to Benson.
Benson pointed the gun at Day’s chest. “You’re a Judas. You sold me and Med-InDx out. But instead of thirty pieces of silver, you’ll get what you really deserve.”
Day licked his lips and blinked at Benson. “The hell you talking about, sold you out. I told you about him from the beginning,” with a nod toward Tyler. “I told you everything.”
“Ahhh yes, but you also gave Tyler access to Bernie’s office. You were playing both sides of this equation, to see which side won. You didn’t have any allegiance to me or the Med-InDx. I despise traitors like you.”
Day shook his head. “No, swear to God I didn’t.”
“Oh?” Benson’s voice carried a hard edge. “So you’re a liar and a cheat?” He glanced to his left, said, “Timothy?”
Tyler realized what was about to happen and started to yell a warning to Day but heard a thump, like a fist hitting a pillow.
Day jerked backwards as a hole suddenly appeared in his chest directly over his heart. Khan moved like a rabbit to his left, his right hand appearing with his gun. Tyler saw the muzzle flash before hearing the shot. When he looked again Benson was no longer standing.
Several lights suddenly flashed on. All at once three men approached, all wearing windbreakers with FBI in large yellow block letters on the front, their mouths moving but without words, an intense ringing deep inside both ears the only sound Tyler could hear. A moment later bits of their individual words began filtering through the noise. That’s when he recognized Ferguson as one of the men.
For a several seconds Tyler just stood and watched as Benson’s thug kneeled, then lay spread eagle on the black asphalt, an FBI agent training a Glock on him with one hand and a huge flashlight with the other. Then he realized Khan was down on the asphalt in a position too awkward to be intentional. Benson lay on his back gasping for air, rocking his head side to side. Ferguson kneeled next to him, looked him over then waved Tyler over. “Get over here Tyler, this man’s got a bad chest wound.”
Tyler moved over to them. “Not much I can do here. He needs a Medic One unit.” Then he looked more closely at the hole in Benson’s right upper chest. “Awww Jesus, it’s a sucking wound.”
“What’s that mean?”
Tyler reached down, grabbed a fistful of Benson’s hair and pulled his head up so they were looking eye to eye. “Where is she, asshole?”
Benson coughed, gasped for air and barely managed to say, “Fuck you, Mathews.”
Tyler let Benson’s head drop back onto the asphalt. “He kidnapped Nancy.”
Ferguson waved a palm downwards. “No need to shout. I can hear you.”
“What?” The ringing, he realized, was still there, just not as intense.
“You okay?”
“No I’m not okay. Benson has Nancy. He’s hiding her somewhere … a houseboat maybe … on Lake Union. They’ll kill her.”
Ferguson shook his head. “Benson’s in no shape to kill anybody.”
“Not him. Guys like the one over there. They have orders to kill her if anything happens to him,” pointing at Benson who was now losing color. “There was another one of his men back at the car. Did you get him too?”
“What car? We came from over there.” Ferguson pointed to the opposite direction he’d led Benson into the area.
“We need to find Nancy.”
Ferguson jutted his chin toward Benson. “Right now I got my hands full here. Just hang in there. SPD has a response team on the way. They’ll be able to help you.”
Tyler glanced over his shoulder at the dense shadows where the police would be likely to come from and saw no one. A bolt of urgency stabbed his chest. He was losing time. “I don’t have that much time. Besides, you know my situation. They don’t. It’ll take too long to explain. You have to help me.” The sense of urgency invaded the pain in his gut. “Now!”
Ferguson placed a hand on his shoulder. “Heard you the first time. Fact is I can’t leave right now. Actually, neither can you. You’re a material witness, which means we’re going to have to get a statement from you, and this situation needs to be stabilized.” Ferguson looked at the agent wrapping a plastic tie around the prone thug’s crossed wrists. “Besides, where are they holding her?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it may be a houseboat on Lake Union.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“No!” Frustrated anxiety exploded in Tyler’s chest. “But it’s my only shot. They’ve got her hostage and they’re going to kill her.”
“Fact is, unless you know for certain she’s been kidnapped and where she’s being held, I can’t do anything. And I sure as shit can’t go busting into someone’s house looking for her without an order from a federal judge. So your best shot is to cool your heels until the metro boys get here.”
Unable to ignore Benson any longer, Tyler reached down and tore a large piece of Benson’s shirt off. He wadded it into a ball, muttered, “Shit,” and stuffed it over the hole in Benson’s chest. “Only thing to do for this kind of chest wound is plug it. Here, hold pressure on this until the medics get here.” He pushed Ferguson’s hand over the wad.
“Where the hell you think you’re going?”
“Don’t let up on the pressure or you’ll kill him.”
“Mathews, get the hell back here.”
Tyler knew he couldn’t wait for the Seattle Police. And if he did, what would they do? Probably nothing. At least not in enough time… . He stepped back into darkness, then began to run, picking up momentum as the distance increased from the small oasis of light.
Seconds later he crouched and peered through chain-link fence at Benson’s Mercedes. It remained exactly where they’d parked it but the other car was gone. Tyler sucked a deep breath and started running for the Benz. He threw open the door, and slipped in, pulling it shut behind him and locking it as soon as it slammed. He reached down. Luckily the key was still in the ignition. He revved the powerful engine and backed out of the lot, his right hand fumbling for his cell phone to call Information.
39
BENSON’S MERCEDES CRUNCHED gravel as Tyler drove slowly onto the shoulder of Fairview Avenue. He braked to a stop in the small parking lot of neighborhood grocery store, the glow from the red brake lights r
eflecting off a window advertising a special on Washington Hill wines. Tyler cut the engine and set the parking brake. He scanned the otherwise empty lot for cars or people, then did the same for the curving asphalt road. He took in a funky waterfront community bathed in cold, violet-tinged, mercury-vapor streetlamps. Across the road, nestled within trees and shrubs, a mini-park hugged thirty feet of shore.
Tyler slipped out and darted into shadows beside the market wall. If Benson was hiding Nancy here, where would guards be posted? At the house or up here near the street? He watched the park for movement. Satisfied, he crossed the street and crouched between cars.
This side of the street was pocketed with shadowy clusters of right-angled parked cars. On the other side vehicles were sandwiched between driveways and NO PARKING signs, or in any available patch of dead dirt. The street remained devoid of traffic, the warm air thick with the humidity of the coming summer thunder storm. Staying on the shoulder, Tyler headed toward the moorage, past a large, blue recycling bin reeking of beer and wine, then a dented green dumpster wafting rotting garbage. Next, a two-car garage. Up ahead, on a patch of shoulder, a darkened BMW 7-series hugged an Alder tree. He moved closer and looked. Couldn’t be positive, but it looked suspiciously like the one he’d spotted outside his apartment. No one inside. He checked the driver’s door. Locked. He palmed the hood. Still warm. He tried to remember the car the thugs drove to the storage area but realized he’d never really gotten a look at it. Overhead came the rumble of distant thunder.
Twenty feet farther, a clump of unruly laurel bushes marked the crest of the blacktop drive curving down into the moorage parking lot. He peered over a dumpster into the shadowy cluster of parked cars, but overgrown shrubs obscured much of the view. From an eight-foot trellis, a 60-watt bulb swarming with gnats cast anemic light on a rusted metal ramp to the narrow pier, the rest of the area in shadows. He’d have to pass through the light to reach the dock. “Shit!” he muttered.
The waxing and waning hum of I-5 traffic gave a background to the occasional lazy waves slapping pilings. Stagnant lake water, creosote, and dust from bone-dry August asphalt hung in the air. A distant siren dopplered and faded. His heart thumped both ears.
A guard would position himself to watch the dock entrance without being seen, he decided. On the other hand, maybe no one was posted at all. Had to chance it.
A final glance toward the street, then Tyler slipped between a Cypress hedge and a weathered wood fence and duck-walked down the drive, each step exposing more of the small shadowy parking lot. The hedge gave out at the edge of the lot. He slipped behind a faded blue Volvo station wagon and waited, eyes adjusting to the lack of streetlights. Ahead, inside the wisteria-entwined trellis, was a set of mailboxes. Cautiously, he approached. Eight mailboxes; hence eight houseboats, maybe four on each side of the dock. Benson’s, it appeared, was number eight. That put it on the right hand side at the end.
Silently, he stepped across the metal ramp onto a poorly illuminated narrow concrete dock. That’s when he noticed a glowing ember at the end of the dock.
The fine hairs between his shoulder blades stood on end. His senses suddenly became more acute, just like in surgery during those awful moments when a complication unravels in your face and every second becomes brutally eternal.
Frightened, yet strangely fascinated, Tyler watched, focusing on the glowing red spot. Now he could make out the shape of a crouching man.
Heart pounding harder, he backed up several steps, never taking his eyes off the ember. It brightened again as the person took a drag. Silently, he retraced his path between the shrubs and fence until he was back up the driveway, then headed back toward the park.
In the park, Tyler crouched beside a cluster of Mugo Pines to catch his breath and calm his nerves. After a moment, he started down a short path to the water. His face broke a spider’s web. He brushed at it only to ball the sticky strand on his fingertip. It wouldn’t shake loose. He wiped it on his leg. He listened for footsteps behind him, but heard only waves slapping the shore and followed this sound to a wooden platform above the water.
Three railroad ties served as steps down to a small wood deck a couple feet above the lake. He stepped onto it, the air thickly scented with algae and duck droppings. Across a hundred feet of black water floated Benson’s houseboat. He studied it, wondering if Nancy was inside. Was she already dead?
He quickly returned to the car, locked his wallet and cellphone in the glove box, then used the electronic key to lock up.
Back on the wooden platform he slipped off his shirt, shoes, and socks. Another glance at the houseboat floating out in the black water. In the distance came a clap of thunder. Just a quick look, he decided, to see if he could find tangible evidence to back up his suspicions before going to the police.
Sitting on rough-hewn timbers, he carefully dangled both legs into darkness blindly searching for water. His right toes touched cold slime. He recognized the feel. A log. Probably a small breakwater to keep waves from eroding the shore. Stretching out, barely on the edge of the dock now, his toes coaxed it closer, until he could plant both soles squarely across the slippery surface. He pushed off, sending himself upright into a crouch on the log while allowing momentum to rotate him forward, throwing him into a shallow dive. A second later, he slipped noiselessly into the warm upper surface of water.
Careful to not splash, he breast-stroked toward the houseboat while his eyes searched for any activity in the lighted windows.
A small speedboat and Jet Ski were moored to a small side deck. He grabbed the boat’s coarse bowline and hung there, listening, but heard only small waves slap the white fiberglass hull and the occasional clink as halyards tapped an aluminum mast somewhere off to his left.
Satisfied he hadn’t been seen, he worked, hand over hand, along the rope to a cold metal cleat. He released the rope, grasped the porch, and hoisted his body up to where the deck scraped his belly. He leaned forward, chest resting on dry wood and listened some more. Pilings creaked.
He swung a leg over the edge and rolled prone onto the deck and remained on his stomach, perfectly still, his heartbeat competing with the rhythmic creaks and grinds of pilings against the dock.
He crept to the nearest window and saw only an empty kitchen and a slice of an adjacent room. There was no way to see further into the house so he tried the kitchen door. Locked. From somewhere inside came muffled sounds of a television.
And just what in hell would you have done if it had opened, pal? He didn’t have an answer for himself.
An outside stairway led to the second floor. Why not see what was upstairs before swimming back to the car? He climbed silently, reaching a small landing surrounded by a white tubular rail. Across the small deck was a sliding glass door into what appeared to be a combination bedroom/office. Someone sat in a desk chair, but it was turned so that the back faced him. He crept forward then froze. Nancy.
Heart pounding, head about to explode. He tapped a knuckle on the plate glass.
She didn’t respond. She alive?
He tried again, harder.
The chair swiveled. Arms duck taped to the arm rest, ankles duck taped together, a gag across her mouth, Nancy’s eyes searched for the source of the noise. Her gaze seemed to sweep over him, then snap back, eyes growing wide.
Tyler almost cried out in joy. Instead, he drew in a deep, calming breath and cautioned himself. Just like surgery, be careful, methodical, make no mistakes.
He pointed at the sliding door handle and mimed pulling it open.
She shrugged.
He mouthed, “Where’s the guard?”
She either didn’t seem to catch his meaning or didn’t know. She wrinkled her brow and tilted her head.
Gently he tugged the handle. The door shrieked a metallic screech. He froze, but heard only a television from another room. He crept in.
He rushed to her, whispered, “Stay quiet,” and tore off her gag. Next he ripped away the tape binding her arms an
d legs.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
She gave an adamant head shake. “Tyler, I can’t, there’s water down there.”
He gave he arm a gentle tug. “Sure you can. You’ve got to. Now.”
“No, I can’t. I’ve already tried.”
“Just close your eyes and let me lead you. There’s a set of stairs out there.”
“I know. I can’t go there, Tyler.”
“You have to, Nancy.” He held out his hand to her. “C’mon, we don’t have much time.”
Reluctantly, she held her hand out to him, eyes closed. He grasped it and pulled her gently toward the door. Without a sound they crossed the carpeted floor and through the opened door and started slowly, step by step, down the stairs until they reached the landing.
With both hands on her shoulders, he whispered, “Stand here a moment, just keep your eyes closed.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring pat before moving to the wall next to the kitchen door. Two keys hung there, each dangling from a small red and white plastic float. Had to be for the Jet Ski and speedboat, but which was which? More to the point, which vessel to take? He looked at the speedboat, at the foreign controls and knew he didn’t know how to drive it well enough. The Jet Ski was another matter. He’d driven one before. He pulled it parallel to the dock, climbed on, and tried to slip the first key into the ignition. It didn’t fit. The second one did. Leaving the second key in the ignition, he threw the first one out into the lake then climbed back onto the dock. The wind was picking up, waves now bouncing the small craft against the dock.
He wrapped an arm around Nancy’s shoulders. “Open your eyes,” he whispered, “but don’t say a word.”
“You’re going to have to climb on that Jet Ski.” He felt her body go rigid. “Just take it slow and easy. I’ll get on first, then you climb onto that little seat right behind me.”
“I can’t, Tyler. I just can’t do it,” she pleaded.
“They’ll kill you if you don’t. That’s what they’re planning to do. That’s why we have to get out of here.”