Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “They’ll get her,” she sobbed. “Walczak will get her and kill her!”

  “No, he won’t,” Isaiah said. His voice was as hard as Chester’s battle-axe. He picked her up and said, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gravity

  The team had caught up with Sarah and Arthur on the fringe of the parking area where there were no lights and no people. A few well-placed zaps and a punch to Arthur’s solar plexus ended the brief struggle. The money was in their car, packed in two medical bags. They’d only spent forty or fifty grand.

  “That’s nothing,” Walczak said.

  “Oh yeah?” Hawkins said. “Well, you better write a check for nothing as soon as we get back.”

  The team headed to LA in the rented van, their captives tied up, duct tape over their mouths. Walczak flew back, saying for a million dollars he deserved it. Jimenez hunched down next to Sarah and ripped the tape off her mouth. She was conscious, panting, her head lolling around.

  “You stupid bitch,” he said. “Why would you do something like this? Didn’t you know what you were up against? You could have avoided the whole thing if you’d minded your own fucking business.” He was drinking one of Owens’s beers. He held the cold bottle to his head. “Okay, here’s the deal. You tell us what we want to know and you can walk.”

  “No we won’t,” Sarah rasped. “As soon as you’re done with us you’ll kill us.”

  “Yeah, but we can kill you fast or kill you slow. Slow is fucked up. It’ll take days for you to fucking die. From hunger, thirst, whippings, the cattle prod. We’ll hang you over a fire and lock you in a trunk with your own shit.”

  “He ain’t fucking around, girl,” Hawkins said. “I seen him do all that shit.”

  Sarah didn’t reply and Jimenez slapped her hard. She cried out and sobbed, Arthur straining to get loose, saying mmmff mmmff into the duct tape. Jimenez leaned in close to her, trying to sound earnest because he was. “Tell us what we want to know. I swear to God it’s for your own good.” Sarah kept her lips pinched together and said nothing. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Jimenez said. He put the duct tape back over her mouth and got up.

  “Did you tell her that if she don’t fess up we’ll kill Grace?” Hawkins said.

  “Oh yeah. We’ll kill Grace.”

  They underestimated Arthur, lots of people did. He was a paranoid hippie, a soap box liberal, another raving radical who had his picture taken with Michael Moore. Yes, he was all of those things, but he would not go quietly when the State came to get him. He would not go quietly when the right-wing militias came to get him. He had survival gear and freeze-dried food in his basement. He had an assault rifle he knew how to use. He had a tactical knife strapped to his calf.

  Arthur had always longed for a cause he’d be willing to die for, but government overreach, Fox News, and mortgage-backed securities never seemed like enough. But Sarah was. She was leaning against him, whimpering, tears dripping over the duct tape and falling into her lap. She was always thanking him for bringing her back to life, but it worked both ways. Arthur had watched his wife die in a hospice, all twigs and empty eye sockets. His brilliant son, a master carpenter, died of a heroin overdose. Arthur had found him sitting on the toilet, the needle still stuck in the blight of purple tracks on his arm.

  Arthur sincerely believed in his causes, but his grief made him rabid; fighting with cops, brawling with neo-Nazis, and sneering at death threats, glad he’d provoked them. Sarah had soothed his sorrow and filled his loss with love. She changed his diet, made him exercise and take his blood pressure medicine. They went to concerts and took long walks and cooked each other meals. They cuddled and laughed and made love. He was happy for the first time in years. Walczak was going to kill Sarah the minute he got the passwords but they’d have to climb over Arthur’s dead body to do so. He had to keep her alive as long as he could, and if he lost his life in the process so be it. He could feel the knife in its sheath and the sweat under the Velcro straps. Be patient, he said to himself. They’d take him for granted and let their guard down and when they did, they’d be sorry.

  Grace drove to the Reno airport while Isaiah used his phone to find a pay site and get Walczak’s address. Dodson was asleep in the backseat. Grace kept glancing at Isaiah, waiting for him to say something. He let the silence go on. He was resentful. Here he’d been risking his life and she was going to shut him out?

  “Could you tell me what you’re thinking?” she said. “What we’re going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he said, though he’d already sketched out a plan.

  They left her car in the long-term lot and took a flight back to LA. Every seat was taken. Isaiah and Grace sat together, Dodson a few rows away. The seats in coach were built for legless anorexic people. Every once in a while, their elbows touched and were quickly withdrawn. The filtered air, the chemical smell of ballistic nylon, and the closeness of the cabin made Isaiah feel trapped, the whine of the engines heightening the tension like a drum roll. For the first time since they’d slept together, she looked directly at him. “Thank you for doing this,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

  “Where do you think they are?”

  He hesitated, like he was tired of the whole thing. “Walczak and his people probably got here on the company jet, but they wouldn’t take Sarah and her friend back the same way. They’d have to get past airport security. They’re driving. Walczak probably flew.”

  “Our flight takes an hour or so,” Grace said, “and it’s what? An eleven- or twelve-hour drive back to LA? We’ll get there ahead of them.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have some lead time.” She waited for him to go on but he didn’t.

  “How will we know where they are?” she said.

  He tried to look indifferent. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re being deliberately mean.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, raising his voice a little. “If I don’t know I don’t know.” She fumed, he sulked. They hit some turbulence. The cabin was too hot and he was getting motion sickness and starting to sweat. He knew he was being an asshole but couldn’t help himself.

  “Look,” she said carefully. “I can’t handle everything right now, okay? It’s too much for me. Could we just put the rest of it on hold until we’re done with this?”

  “Sure,” he said, like it didn’t matter one way or the other. She looked like she was about to hit him.

  “Then could I please know what’s going on?”

  “There’s only one way to find out where they’re taking Sarah and her friend,” he said. “Walczak has to tell us.”

  They took an Uber back to Isaiah’s house and picked up the Audi. Predictably, Walczak lived in an exclusive community in Newport Beach where nobody parked on the street and private security cars prowled like predators. They cruised past his mansion, a massive brick fortress surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The driveway was gated and ran alongside a pasture of lawn before it reached the front door. The grounds were lit, lights were on in the house, the silver BMW parked in front of the garage. That the property was protected by state-of-the-art technology went without saying. Isaiah was wracked with misgivings. This was the only way he could think of to find Sarah, but it was more than dangerous. He could tell Grace he was calling it off but she’d be furious and do something rash on her own. They pulled over to the curb. “You don’t have to do this,” Isaiah said.

  “I’d think twice about it myself,” Dodson said.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said.

  “Well, don’t make it sound like we not gonna see each other again,” Dodson said. “We’ll catch you on the upside.”

  “If something happens to me? It’s not your fault.” Isaiah had too much to say so he didn’t say anything. Grace was looking at him, “Isaiah…” She wavered, something of consequence teetering. “I’ll see you later.” Isaiah and Dodson got out of the car and she drove away
.

  Walczak was at his desk, talking on the phone with Jimenez. The team was still a couple of hours away.

  “What’s taking you so long?”

  “The van is a piece of shit and the cruise control is set on eighty. What else can I do?”

  “Any problems?”

  “None so far. I’ll call you when we’re closer.”

  The call ended. The buzzer from the front gate sounded. Walczak looked at the security monitors and saw a car waiting at the front gate, the driver in shadow. He got on the intercom. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “It’s Grace.” Walczak stood up from the desk. What the hell is she doing here? Didn’t she know this was suicide? She was up to something.

  “Is Isaiah with you?”

  “No, I’m alone. I want to make a deal for my mother.”

  He smiled. She’d seen them at Burning Man. She knew they had Sarah. This was perfect. Whatever Grace said could be cross-checked with what Sarah told them and between the two they’d get the truth. Still, he was suspicious. There had to be a catch to this. “Leave the car there and walk up the driveway.”

  He pressed the button that opened the gate and watched the security monitor. Grace walked slowly along the cobblestones. She looked utterly defeated, like every step brought her closer to the grave. She was carrying her handbag. He’d have to watch that. He went to the door with a gun in his hand. He opened it. She was forty feet away. He aimed the gun. “Stop right there and don’t move.” There was nobody behind her and the motion sensors would have picked up anyone else on the property. “Lift up your shirt and turn around slowly—stop there.” He looked her over. “Put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers together. All right. Back toward me.”

  As soon as she entered the foyer, he said, “Drop the bag.” He closed the door with his foot, grabbed her by the collar, and shoved her into the wall. “Hands on the wall, feet spread.” He kept the gun ready with one hand and frisked her with the other, squeezing her tits for good measure and letting his hand linger on her crotch. She was clean. “Turn around.” She did and he backhanded her with everything he had. She cried out and fell to the floor. “Sic that goddamn dog on me, you fucking cunt? You’re lucky I don’t kill you right now.” He dumped out her bag. The usual stuff. No weapon and nothing that could be used as one. Maybe this was legit. Maybe not. He stomped on her cell phone and hauled her to her feet. He pushed her down the hall and into the study. “Sit.” She sat in an armchair. She was quaking and sniveling, her head down, arms folded across her chest. “Start talking,” he commanded.

  “You’ll make my mom tell you everything and I will too. You’ll know where all the copies are, so you can let us go. We won’t say anything because there’s no proof you did anything.”

  He thought about that. “Have you seen the pictures?”

  “No, and it wouldn’t matter even if I did. I just want this to be over.”

  “You know I can kill you both anyway.”

  “Yes, I know that, but why commit two murders if you don’t have to?”

  She was making sense, he thought, but he would kill them anyway. He wanted to punish them for all the shit they’d put him through. Isaiah and his friend were goners, of course. Jimenez, Hawkins, Owens, and Richter would have to go too. Any of them could withhold copies. One by one, they would be dealt with. A suicide, a car crash, a house fire, a robbery gone bad. Walczak knew people who did that kind of thing for a living.

  “Could I please go to the bathroom?” she said.

  He thought a moment. He didn’t want to watch her piss and there was nothing in there she could weaponize unless she was going to stab him with an electric toothbrush. Besides, she was a trembling mess, holding herself and rocking back and forth like she was retarded. He nodded at his private bathroom. “Leave the door open. You come back here with so much as a bar of soap and I’ll kneecap you.” Grace got up and stumbled into the bathroom. He heard her pee, flush, and wash her hands. Stupid, he thought. Like being sanitary was important before you died.

  Grace took a deep breath and came out of the bathroom, holding herself tightly, head bowed, trying to make herself look small and helpless. She was beyond scared, in some other state of paralyzing emotions. Walczak sneered at her, restraining his murderous urges. She waited for permission to sit down. He nodded. She took the same chair, keeping her arms around herself and rocking back and forth. Walczak put the gun in his belt. He found a legal pad and a pen, came over, and tossed them in her lap.

  “The copies. Where they are and the passwords. Your mother’s doing the same thing right now. If they don’t match you’re fucked.”

  “And then you’ll let us go?”

  “And then I’ll let you go.”

  She nodded submissively, unfolded her arms, and pointed the small can of bear-strength pepper spray at him and pushed the button. He howled and grabbed his eyes. He staggered around, coughing and choking. He drew the gun, fired once, but the pain was so great he dropped the weapon on the floor. Grace shot another long spray in his face. He screamed and stumbled wildly toward the bathroom. He ran into an end table and crashed to the floor. She took the gun and aimed it at him. “Stay on the floor or I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you and make you beg for your life.”

  “Please, please let me wash my eyes! I’m going blind!”

  “I’m glad, asshole. You don’t deserve to see.” She sprayed him again at close range until the can was empty. He was dripping, screaming, twisting around. She found the button that opened the front gate and then ran to the foyer to let Isaiah and Dodson in.

  The three of them had discussed the plan on the drive back from the airport. “We want him to let his guard down,” Isaiah said. He had envisioned every move Walczak would make and how she should respond. When she went inside the house she’d take her bag with her. Anything that could be used as a weapon would have been removed. Pen, nail file, anything. Walczak would immediately make her assume the position, then he’d empty the bag, find nothing, and feel as if he’d eliminated a threat. A search would come next. Isaiah had watched the cops frisk dozens of suspects. The cop would run his hands over the neck, shoulders, armpits, waist, legs, and inside the thighs but routinely skipped the forearms because they were up in the air or against the wall. That was why he’d taped a small can of bear-strength pepper spray just beneath Grace’s wrist, the can hidden under her long sleeve. The spray produced 5.3 million Scoville heat units. A habanero pepper contained a paltry 100,000. Isaiah instructed her to keep her arms wrapped around herself so Walczak would get used to seeing her that way and not wonder what was in the hand she had clenched under her armpit when she came out of the bathroom. And if she was pitiful enough and submissive enough and could convince Walczak that she was too helpless to pose even the slightest threat, he might put the gun down when he got her something to write on. “Pick your moment,” Isaiah said, “and spray him until you run out of spray.”

  “And don’t hesitate,” Dodson added. “Commit. All or nothing.”

  Walczak was still blubbering about washing his eyes out. Grace found a wooden chair in the hallway and brought it into the study. She and Dodson bound him to the chair from shoulders to waist with the roll of duct tape Isaiah had brought in from the car.

  “Where are they taking Sarah?” Isaiah asked.

  Walczak’s eyes were swollen. His face was red and slimed with tears and snot. “Really? You think I’m going to answer that?”

  “One more time. Where are they taking Sarah?”

  “I’m not telling you shit.”

  Isaiah looked at Grace as if to say We tried, didn’t we? They tipped the chair over on its back. Walczak was looking up now, his legs in an L.

  “What are you doing?” he said. When he saw Grace and Dodson bring in a mop pail and a soup pot full of water, the realization slapped him as hard as he’d slapped Grace. “Wait a minute! Hold on a second!”

  “Get ready, son,” Dodson said. “’
Cause karma’s about to kick your ass.”

  Isaiah had seen video of people being waterboarded, but he didn’t realize how violent it was until Grace was pouring the water into the towel Dodson had stretched tight over Walczak’s face. In seconds, he was wriggling and squirming and bucking like a mummy trying to bust out of its wrappings, crying out between sputtering gurgles.

  “Damn,” Dodson said. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

  Grace was seething, demonic. Unleashed. She dumped more water on him. “You killed my father, you fuck! YOU KILLED MY DAD!” Isaiah was afraid Walczak would dry-drown and stopped her.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, just please, no more,” Walczak sobbed. He told them the team was taking Sarah and Arthur to the company airplane hangar at the Santa Monica airport. “I swear it’s the truth! I swear!” He broke down and blubbered.

  “How do we know he ain’t lying?” Dodson said.

  Isaiah pondered that a moment. “I should have thought of this before.” He went to the desk and found Walczak’s phone. “What’s the passcode?” he asked. Walczak didn’t answer. They were out of water but Grace started kicking him and screaming Murderer and Piece of shit and I’m going to kill you. Dodson looked at Isaiah but he said nothing and watched. He’d have done the same thing to Seb.

  “Okay, okay!” Walczak bleated. He was hysterical and sobbing and drooling and bleeding. He gave up the passcode. His texts revealed the crew’s real destination was WSSI’s training facility in El Segundo.

  They drove away from Walczak’s house, Grace still apoplectic with fury, her fists and face splashed with blood. “I want to kill him. I want to go back and kill him.”

  “I know.” Isaiah thought about killing Seb every day. That the wretch was still walking around on the earth was an outrage he could barely stomach.