“Where you want to do him?” baritone asked.
“Over that-a-way, off the road, in those high weeds,” gravelly said. “Let’s get to it. It’s getting dark.”
“I got trash bags in the RV,” baritone said.
“I’ll go get the car. Meet me here in five,” gravelly said.
Frank started a desperate crawl in a direction he believed was away from the voices. He slithered for what he judged was about forty yards, then sensed salvation in the air. It was coming by way of his grandmother Emily.
He smelled cat pee.
Chapter 38
Frank felt his head bump the wooden steps and realized he’d made it to the front porch of the abandoned house, but he knew better than to try to hide inside. It would be the first place the killers would look. The smell of the box hedges reminded him how densely they grew. He scrabbled his way in between the thick bushes and the latticed crawlspace under the house. There were only a few inches of space, and forcing his body in tight behind the prickly hedge row gouged his face and hands. He pulled his body farther inward and upward until he was suspended off the ground between the thick wiry branches of the hedges and the lower front of the porch. Exhausted, he stopped moving and hoped it was concealment enough. He concentrated on controlling his heavy panting down to shallow puffs and waited. Perspiration flowed from his scalp and stung his scratched face.
Minutes later Frank heard the men again. They were hollering at each other.
“Why didn’t you watch the guy?” gravelly said.
“I had to get the bags, moron,” baritone said. “So don’t give me the red ass.”
“I had to go get the car,” gravelly said. “Where were the bags at? New Mexico?”
“Kiss my Alabama ass,” baritone said. “Let’s find this muvva.”
Frank could hear rustling through the dry grass. The men’s voices got louder, closer.
“Shit, he couldn’t have gone far,” baritone said. “The sonofabitch was loaded with drugs, and his cop car’s still here.”
“Yeah, but by the time we got back he could’ve hauled ass anywhere,” gravelly said. “Maybe he caught a cab.”
Both men laughed.
“What the hell, let’s look in the house and around back,” baritone said. “If he ain’t there, fuck it, we go. If ole Chernac wanted him dead, he woulda done ‘im hisself. He ain’t payin’ us extra to babysit his leftovers.”
“Good enough,” gravelly said.
The men clomped up the porch steps and later slammed doors inside the house. A minute later their voices were barely audible, maybe around the back of the house, Frank figured. A moment later the voices seemed to be coming from the left side of the house, moving toward the front.
“You look in the hedge?” gravelly said.
“Man, them bushes stink like panther piss,” baritone said. “I ain’t going in there.”
The nearby weeds whisked under their passing steps. Frank held his breath until their sounds moved away and faded out completely.
Fifteen long minutes passed and Frank heard a car’s engine start and drive away down the rutted road. When he no longer could hear the car, he clawed his way out from behind the pungent shrubs that had saved his life.
Vision was returning, not perfect, but enough to see where he was walking without ramming into objects. Now he had to find his cruiser, if he still had one.
* * * * *
The radio in Frank’s cruiser was spitting static and confusing phrases as Frank came to. His tongue felt like a cat had been grafted to it, but his vision was returning in longer flashes of sharpness with only an occasional blur. The involuntary nap had helped.
On the seat next to him were his cell phone and his Browning 9mm.
“Frank, answer your damn radio,” the voice of Roland Brand demanded.
Frank fumbled with the microphone and pressed it against his mouth. “I’m here, Chief.”
“You don’t sound good. You okay? We locate you somewhere five miles west of Jensen Beach.”
“I’m okay. I’m in a woods. Lots of pine trees. Pretty place.”
“A bunch of pine trees are pretty. You okay to drive? Sounds like you tied one on.”
“I’m not drunk, damnit. Where’s Burnett?”
“He’s not here. Thought he was with you.”
“He’s not, but I’m okay. I’ll be there. Give me a few minutes. I’ll be there.”
Frank started the car and followed the road. He traveled for more than a mile and came out on a road announcing he was in St. Lucie County. He headed southeast, crossed the Martin County boundary, picked up U. S. 1 and rolled toward Stuart, shoulder gravel stinging the undercarriage regularly as he struggled to stay alert and pilot the car between the lines.
He spotted a convenience store off the highway, pulled into a parking spot in front of the entrance, and banged his car hard into a guard post. He called in his location to the station and clambered out of the cruiser. He was desperate for water as he galumphed into the store in a fog, but awake enough to realize that back on the road he’d be no better than the worst drunk he’d ever pulled over.
He’d get water and some coffee and soon feel like his old self. Cops were on the way.
My guys are coming to get me. I’ll be okay. I’ll be oh-kay.
Frank collapsed on top of the ice cream box and slid down its stainless steel side. He never felt the floor that rose to accept him.
* * * * *
Roland was talking on the phone when he saw Frank stumble into his office, followed by the two deputies. Frank caromed off the wall and bumbled his way toward Roland’s desk.
The deputies rushed to Frank and steadied him.
“I’ll call you back,” Roland said and hung up.
Frank swayed in front of Roland’s desk.
“I send you out on a domestic and you stroll back nine hours later,” Roland said. “You look like shit. You get laid? I hope so. In nine hours you could’ve knocked off a piece in Key West.”
Roland grabbed his Stetson and jammed it on his head.
“And you two,” Roland said glaring at his officers. “Why the hell wouldn’t you take him directly to the hospital? You bring him here to give him a sobriety test?”
Frank grinned and his eyelids blinked like slow caution lights. A second later, he crumbled into the arms of the two deputies.
Chapter 39
Roland and Greg stared at Frank’s unconscious body on the hospital bed.
“He’s been drugged,” the young doctor at Martin County General said. “He’s resting now. His vitals are good.”
“Drugged?” Roland said. “With what?”
“Lab results will tell us for sure,” the doctor said, “but it looks like a strong sedative or even an anesthetic. His eyes looked like they may have been dosed with a mydriatic.”
“What the hell’s that?” Roland said.
“Dilating drops the ophthalmologists used to put in patients’ eyes to check for glaucoma. They use a puff of air now.”
“They kidnap him and then give him an eye exam?”
“Probably used it to impair his vision. Marijuana can create a similar symptom. Even Viagra, but then you get a very different side effect. He take any drugs to your knowledge?”
“Only drugs Frank takes is scotch with a beer back.”
“They probably used it so he couldn’t give chase when they left,” Greg said.
“You’re awfully goddamned smart. You pushing for detective, Martinez?” Roland said.
Greg smiled.
“Look at his face,” Roland said. “ Looks like something on MapQuest.”
“A few scratches and bruises, nothing serious. His body seems to be in good shape. We’ll keep him here tonight for observation. I think he’ll be okay to go home tomorrow. You can come back later to talk to him, if you like.”
“Much obliged, doc,” Roland said.
The doctor left and Roland and Greg moved into the corridor outside F
rank’s private room on the second floor.
“You stay here and keep an eye on him,” Roland said. “If you see anyone suspicious snooping around, haul ‘em in. If you can’t hook ‘em up, shoot ‘em.”
“Right, sheriff,” Greg said and took a seat on a bench in the hall near Frank’s door.
“You need anything to eat, send out for it and tell them to bill the sheriff’s office. They give you any shit, tell ‘em we may be a mite slow responding to their next emergency.”
“I should tell them that?”
“Hell, no. I’m just shooting off my mouth ‘cause I’m pissed.”
“Go on home, sheriff. I’ll be here for him.”
“I’ll be back around eight.”
Roland walked to his cruiser in the parking lot and sat behind the wheel. He moved the car where he could spot anyone entering the lot from the street, as well as anyone going into the main entrance of the hospital. He rolled down the windows and slid down on the seat and pulled his Stetson down low on his eyes.
Hours later, the thick perfume of the night blooming jasmines enveloped the car. It was going to be a long wait. He studied the hospital doors and the lighted windows and tightened his lips. An occasional nurse or orderly passed by the glass. If anyone entered that hospital intent on harming Frank, Roland Brand would make sure he left in a body bag.
* * * * *
At 9 o’clock the next morning Frank protested being wheel-chaired out of Martin County General, but gave in to hospital policy and let Greg Martinez roll him to the department SUV. Frank felt tired as he climbed in, half-dressed with wild hair. Greg wheeled out onto Ocean Boulevard and drove east toward Frank’s house on Stafford Drive, while Frank rummaged through the bag containing his jacket, shoulder rig, and other items he’d opted not to wear home.
“I wonder who took my clothes off when they brought me in?” Frank said.
“The nurses,” Greg said.
“God, I hope I hadn’t crapped myself.”
“If you had, wouldn’t your dirty shorts be on you now?”
“Good point. Nope, I did not crap myself.”
“I’ll turn the A/C up a little, just in case.”
“What happened after I left Skyline Drive with Chernac?” Frank asked.
“One of the jackoffs in Burnett’s car took his cruiser keys and threw them into a neighbor’s back yard, across from the Perkin’s house. The neighbor said he got a fair look at him, for what it’s worth.”
“You won’t ever see those men again. Protected by the government, anyway.”
“The government authorizes kidnapping?” Greg said. “Our government?”
“Yeah, our government’s perfect, all right,” Frank said.
“How about murder?”
“What do you mean, murder?”
“Roland didn’t want to tell you this at the hospital, but Burnett’s dead.”
“The new kid?”
“They shot him. We found his body in his cruiser.”
“Good God almighty.”
They spent the rest of the ride in silence until the SUV came to a stop in front of Frank’s driveway.
“Roland wants me to stick around and keep an eye on you,” Greg said.
“I’ll clean up and we can get to the office,” Frank said and stepped out of the SUV. “By the way, where’s my car?”
“The boys found it in the hibiscus bushes behind the department parking lot.”
“I gotta have those brakes checked at the motor pool.”
“You were out of it, Frank. Your car only needs a couple of headlights. And we’ll plant new bushes,” Greg said as he adjusted his rear view mirrors and checked the street behind him.
“Rats,” Frank said.
“Your cruiser’s fine,” Greg said. “I’m just messin’ with you. Trying to cheer you up. The deputies drove your cruiser back. They weren’t going to let you near a steering wheel last night.”
Frank dug out his keys, opened the door and entered the house. Thirty minutes later he came out dressed in khaki slacks, a white golf shirt, and Nike cross-training shoes. His gun and phone were clipped to his belt.
“Remember that stage play my grandfather challenged me to find?” Frank said as he climbed into the SUV. “The one with Les Miserables in it?”
“Oh, yeah?” Greg said. “Don’t tell me you found it.”
“Not exactly. It’s in a movie I saw on TV. Watch on the Rhine, based on the play by Lillian Hellman.”
“So who says anything about Les Miserables in the movie?”
“Paul Lukas, the actor. Won an Academy Award in 1944 for his performance as the Kurt Muller, the father of the kids he says goodnight to. You have to watch it yourself. The scene is a piece of pure art, poetry.”
“I will. I’ll search it on Netflix.”
“By the way,” Frank said, “the Stuart Playhouse is putting on Hellman’s play next month. I plan to go see the stage version.”
“You are a theatre buff?”
“I’ll have you know I was one of the better actors in my class at USC. Played lead in a bunch of plays. Should’ve stayed at it. Gone to Hollywood.”
“Roland is always saying you’re a hell of an actor. Um … or was that bad actor?”
“Maybe a little of both. Now, fire this mother up,” Frank said as he shut the car door and locked on his seat belt. “I need to find me a whole cast of bad actors.”
* * * * *
Roland Brand waited for the phone to ring on the other end of his call then hit the speaker button. He tilted back in his leather desk chair.
“Hollenbeck,” said a business-like male voice.
“Mark? It’s Roland.”
“Roland who?”
“Roland Brand. How many damn Rolands do you know, boy?”
“Roland. How the hell are you, brother?”
“Here’s the deal. We got us an a-hole from NSA thinks he’s God Almighty and can ride rough-shod over one of my detectives.”
“Would that be Detective Dugan?” Mark asked.
“Yeah, you met him. The guy we want is up to his hairline for kidnapping, among other charges. Claims the name Chernac, Colonel Anton Chernac. But we both know the real Chernac is dead. This guy says he’s in an upper echelon with NSA. Maybe a covert operative. I personally don’t care who the hell he says he is, but I know he can’t pull the crap he’s been pulling. False imprisonment, harassment, battery, torture, illegal drug use, on top of the kidnapping. So would you kindly dig me up some intel on this dingleberry so I can formally charge him and put him away?”
“We’ll get you what we can. Got a picture of him?”
“No. Black hair, dark eyes, black mustache, tall, athletic, mean as a cross-eyed badger. Works with a huge sonofabitch about six-eight, 350. May be a free rover, off the grid.”
“Not a lot to go on, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Sorry to blow off this way without so much as a howdy-do, but the bastard’s come into my house and is messin’ with my family. Let’s have us a nicer chat soon.”
“Look forward to it.”
Roland hung up the phone and looked out his open door and into the outer office. Everyone in sight was staring back at him in total silence.
Chapter 40
Frank scrolled through data from the National Crime Information Center as Roland walked up to his desk and leaned in close.
“FYI, Oliver Smoot gets his ticket punched tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? He hasn’t been scheduled,” Frank said.
“Yeah, well, he passed on any further appeals and wants to get on with it.”
“Damn. I need to talk to him. I thought I could see him next week.”
“Well, you’d better update your plans if you want to see him while he’s above room temperature.”
“I’ll call Union Correctional today. Maybe I can get to see him today.”
“What’s with wanting to see that murdering sonofabitch?” Roland said.
“He was a
lso a college professor. A bright teacher, but he had another talent.”
“Like what? Mayhem?”
“Forgery.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I need him to do a piece of creative writing for me,” Frank said as Roland pulled out a department business card from his wallet.
“Use this. Ask for Walt Peddicord,” Roland said and flipped the card on Frank’s desk. “Tell him you work for me. He’s the new warden,”
* * * * *
Frank wasn’t looking forward to the nearly five-hour drive north to the Florida State Prison, a sprawling complex, which covered over fifty acres across Union and Bradford Counties. The former FSP-East Unit was originally part of the state prison in Raiford, now known as Union Correctional Institution. Regardless of what they called it, Frank knew it was no Grand Hotel.
Frank wanted to talk to Oliver Smoot ever since his second encounter with Chernac, and figured he could stop see him on his next trip to Maryland. In about 24 hours that would be way too late.
Smoot had been a college drama teacher, in fact, a professional stage director with a PhD from Carnegie Mellon, who enjoyed wielding power over people. He rose to chairman of the drama department at the University of Florida in Gainesville, but he soon tired of telling actors what to do on stage and evolved his talents into a second occupation. He opened a private office away from the college and offered discreet counseling to people who wanted to learn to be more assertive and more in control of their lives. In truth, he was only interested in killing his clients to observe their mental condition as he administered his custom brands of death.
While he was extremely careful about covering up his connections with his victims, when several people disappeared in Martin County, he drew the attention of the local police. Frank was assigned to investigate the suspicions about Dr. Smoot held by the sheriff’s department.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 18