The Last Witness boh-11

by W. E. B Griffin

  She sent it, and a minute later was about to sign out when a new bubble popped up:

  267-555-9100

  THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

  BUT I AM AFRAID THAT I DO REQUIRE PHYSICAL PROOF. PLEASE.

  THIS IS A GREAT DEAL OF MONEY INVOLVED.

  We are not meeting, she thought, even if it were physically possible.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Maggie, after attaching an image of the poker chips and cash, fired back:

  PROOF? THIS IS ALL THE DAMN PROOF YOU NEED.

  GET ME THE $200,000 AND YOU GET THE ACTUAL BOOKS.

  [FOUR]

  Kensington, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 3:30 P.M.

  Ricky followed Hector out the back door of the row house. As they walked toward a gate-the same razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing that surrounded the three backyards also separated them-he noticed that there was another heavy smell in the air, a different one, not quite as metallic as earlier.

  On the other side of the gate, Ricky saw the large-gauge electric power cables, more or less concealed, running to the center row house from the PECO meters of the houses on both sides of it. He followed Hector past the enormous air-conditioning unit, a new one that had been spray-painted in clouds of black and gray so it would not stand out, then onto the small wooden back porch.

  The industrial smell was getting stronger. Ricky turned toward it and saw where it was coming from. A sheet-metal hood, bowl-shaped and also spray-painted with gray-black clouds, was mounted outside a rectangular hole at the foot of the back wall. It covered what had been a small window to the basement. Ricky visualized the four-inch-diameter vent tube behind it. The tube went down to the heavy steel lid that was cinched tight to the top of a 110-gallon drum, a ring of flames from a gas burner flickering under it.

  Hector, approaching the back door, saw him looking at the vent.

  “Another day and then that’s done.” He shrugged. “Bigger ones take a little longer than usual.”

  Hector slipped a key in the door’s dead bolt, turned the knob, and swung it open. When they stepped inside, Ricky saw that there was another curtain of floor-to-ceiling clear plastic. Immediately beyond it, at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement, there were two cardboard boxes, their sides labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.” One bulged with women’s clothes. The other, half full, contained shoes and purses.

  “All that,” Hector said, “is to get incinerated.”

  Ricky nodded.

  Hector pulled the plastic curtain aside, and they entered.

  Hector grinned and made a sweeping gesture toward what was the main floor of the house. It held a giant tent made of the plastic sheeting-inside which was a small forest, two long rows of bushy green plants six feet tall-and what looked, at least by comparison to the old house, like a space-age array of hoses and wires and tubes supporting the tent.

  “My controlled growing environment,” Hector said, waving Ricky inside the tent. “This is much better than what I started with in Miami. And soon we start another one in the first house.”

  Hector had stripped the interior shell of the house bare. Then a framework of two-by-four studs had been added, and between the studs thick fiberglass insulation installed.

  The entire room was then outlined in the tent of heavy plastic sheeting. Industrial-sized sheet-metal vents brought in the air-conditioning while other sheet-metal boxes drew the air out of the tent, sending it to activated carbon charcoal filters that removed odors and contaminates, then routed the scrubbed air back to the air conditioner. The complete volume of air in the tent was refreshed once an hour. The recirculated air was augmented with carbon dioxide created by burning natural gas in what once had been the kitchen and in the basement.

  The forty plants were in two neat rows of twenty. They grew in plastic pots that sat on wooden racks built two feet high, allowing warm air to circulate around the roots. A web of black irrigation lines, on an automated pump system, regularly fed the plants a solution of nutrients from a sterilized stainless steel reservoir that resembled an oversized hot water heater.

  Hanging a few feet from the ceiling were two rows of fluorescent light fixtures, each with ten one-thousand-watt lamps. The ropes passed through pulleys mounted to the ceiling, allowing the lights to be raised as the plants grew. Wall-mounted fans, above and below the height of the lights, circulated the air, as did big box fans, some set up to push air through the thick plant leaves while others pulled the air.

  While it had been chilly outside the tent, the air now felt very warm and, with the high humidity, almost steamy.

  And there was the strong, distinct smell of marijuana.

  Ricky remembered what Hector had told him when he first started the project. It sounded like another language.

  “When the plant terpenoids evaporate, there is produced a chemical. It has an odor that is organic and heady. It smells the same as pot when it burns. If that gets to the outside, word would spread and we will have a rip-off. Or what happened to me in Miami-the cops come. So I will create a sealed space.”

  “These plants are healthier than our first ones,” Hector now said. “With more air flow, their stalks grow bigger. And with bigger stalks, the nutrients can travel better. And with more nutrients, the yield is bigger and better.”

  Hector showed him the bank of monitors.

  “This is the perfect growing environment,” he said proudly.

  Ricky saw that the readouts showed:

  TEMPERATURE: 78 DEGREES F

  HUMIDITY: 50 PERCENT

  CO2 (PARTS PER MILLION): 1,500

  “And see these leaves?” Hector went on. “No webs of mites, no bugs, no nothing but perfect formation.”

  Ricky nodded. “How did you get rid of them?”

  “Same as we kill all pests, whether they have two legs or eight. We turn up the gas burners and create more carbon dioxide-the see-oh-two.” He pointed to the monitor. “If we crank that up to ten thousand parts per million for an hour or two, spider mites and everything else is wiped out.”

  Hector pulled from his pocket a jeweler’s loupe and handed it to Ricky.

  “Check the color inside the heads of the trichomes. Almost perfect. This crop is about ready to harvest.”

  Ricky nodded, made a cursory look with the magnifying glass, then handed back the loupe.

  He looked him in the eyes.

  “It is good, Hector. Really good. But I came for something else. I need your help again.”

  Ricky glanced at the cardboard boxes labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.”

  “Another?” Hector Ramirez said. “Just say who and when.”

  Ricky Ramirez looked back at him and began: “When is right now. Who is not as simple. That is why I need your help. That woman Krystal ran to? She is. .”

  Five minutes later, Ricky finished, “. . and we don’t know how to find her to get the books.”

  Hector began to laugh.

  “What?” Ricky snapped, thinking he was being mocked.

  “No, Ricky. But this also is simple. You have already called it.”

  “Called what?”

  “The halcones. You said they want to be assassins. Then we can make them assassins.”

  Ricky thought about that for a moment.

  “How can they shoot this woman if we don’t know where she is?”

  Hector shook his head.

  “You know where she works. .” he began.

  “But she might be there. She might not. There is no time to wait.”

  “So you repeat what happened with that Krystal. You do not wait. You draw the woman out with bait. Use the girls from the home. Kill one or two to make a point. Then leave a message: ‘Another dies every day until you bring my things.’”

  Ricky thought about that, then nodded. “Or every hour. That could-”

  He jerked his head at the distinct sound of gunshots coming from down the street, then exchanged g
lances with Hector.

  Wordlessly, both men hurried toward the rear door.

  As Ricky followed Hector back through the first row house, with Hector again holding his Kalashnikov, he saw the short Hispanic was leading the lookouts in through the front door.

  “What happened, Jaime?” Hector demanded.

  “Tell him,” the short Hispanic said to the teenaged lookouts.

  Hector looked at the heavier of the two.

  “Tito?”

  Ricky saw that Tito was grinning.

  “That scrawny-ass Jamaican bastard came up to Juan demanding weed,” Tito then said. “I told him to get him and his stinky ass homies off our street. Then he took a swing at me-and missed ’cause he’s fucked up and all-and then the other two started coming across the street at us, and Juan pulled his nine out.”

  “That didn’t stop the fuckers,” Juan picked up, holding his right arm straight out, his palm parallel to the floor with his finger and thumb mimicking a pistol. “So I squeezed off a pop at ’em.”

  Hector exchanged a look with Ricky.

  Told you, Ricky thought.

  “One?” Hector challenged. “We heard more.”

  Juan shrugged. “Maybe three, four. That got ’em turned around.”

  Chubby Tito started laughing.

  “What?” Hector snapped.

  “You shoulda seen that Jamaican dude then. I never thought he could get that scrawny ass runnin’ that fast!”

  Juan said, “Sure did. Ran right past the others. Left ’em.”

  “Did they see you come here?” Hector said.

  “Never looked back,” Juan said.

  “Assholes and elbows, that’s all we saw,” Tito added.

  Hector looked between them, then turned to Jaime.

  “Go get the motorcycle. Take it around back.” He pointed at the Kawasaki motorcycle by the door. “Then take that one out back. And call in more lookouts.”

  Jaime nodded and started for the door.

  “You two,” Hector said to the teenagers. “Come with me.”

  [FIVE]

  Forty minutes later, Tito and Juan, in different winter coats than earlier and now wearing helmets, sat on the idling Kawasaki in South Philly. They waited on the sidewalk that edged Girard Park, Juan with his gloved hands on the handlebar grips, chubby Tito on the higher seat behind him, holding a small cardboard box with UNCLE OOGIE’S PIZZERIA printed on the lid.

  Tito was getting parts of his face, helmet, and gloves greasy while more or less successfully stuffing a steaming slice of Italian sausage and peppers in his mouth.

  They had been there not quite five minutes, looking at the well-kept duplexes lining the opposite side of the street, when Juan nodded in the direction of an overweight girl walking down the sidewalk. She was maybe fourteen or fifteen.

  “Think she’s one?” Juan said.

  “Shit,” Tito mumbled, trying to finish the chewy slice.

  She approached the duplex with the address that Hector had written on the outside of the folded notepaper. Juan had it in his coat pocket.

  “She is,” Juan said. “Get ready.”

  “Shit,” Tito said again, then swallowed hard.

  He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out the folded paper. He tossed it in the pizza box, then with some effort got the lid finally closed with the flaps tucked in.

  The overweight girl took a shortcut across the front yard of the duplex.

  “Here we go,” Juan said, quickly checking for traffic, then revving the engine with a twist of the right grip and dumping the clutch.

  Tito quickly squeezed his knees and thighs against the seat as the big bike jerked into motion. He switched the pizza box to his left hand and put his right on the nine-millimeter semiautomatic in his coat pocket.

  The motorcycle roared across the street, then bumped up onto the opposite sidewalk.

  They closed fast on the girl. About the time she heard them approaching and started to turn her head back, Tito threw the pizza box onto the walkway ahead of her. He pulled out the pistol and tried to aim as Juan almost ran over her with the front tire.

  Tito began squeezing the trigger repeatedly, the pistol bucking as the plastic grips slipped in the greasy glove.

  The overweight girl went down.

  Tito slapped Juan on the back.

  “Got her!” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Go! Go!”

  Juan saw the door of the duplex open. A heavyset dark-skinned adult woman came out, then screamed as she ran down the steps to the girl lying facedown in the snow.

  IX

  [ONE]

  Little Bight Bay

  Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

  Monday, November 17, 5:04 P.M.

  Maggie McCain looked out the mouth of the bay and saw on the big water the crisscrossing sailboats, ones she knew were headed to find a mooring buoy or marina to tie up for the night. She was glad to be anchored in her protected cove, with the option of staying there the night or making the run back to the resort after dusk. Her boat, her choice.

  As was her ritual, she had uncorked one of the bottles of nice merlot and poured her traditional sunset glass of wine. She had done it countless times in more anchorages than she could recall, and while the wine and the scenery were as sublime as ever, it now felt somewhat mechanical.

  She had sipped at the wine, hoping it might loosen the knot that had formed in her stomach after she had gone back to read Philly News Now. She wondered if she should have asked Matt Payne if her not being considered a “person of interest” meant anything more than the obvious. And then there was the update to the article that mentioned the missing case workers from the Sanctuary.

  She had closed down that window and gone to the text message page, read over the exchanges, then, shaking her head, signed out of it.

  She was about to do the same with her e-mail account when a new e-mail appeared in her queue. Like the majority of the recent-and unread-e-mails sent to her in-box, this one was color-coded in bright red, indicating the sender had assigned it Highest Priority.

  It was another message from one of her assistants at Mary’s House.

  Maggie was about to ignore it, too, but then read the subject line-and her heart skipped a beat.

  Attempted murder?

  She clicked on it and read:

  From: Charlotte Davies ‹c.d@maryshouse.org›

  Date: 17NOV 0501

  To: Maggie McCain work ‹m.mcm@maryshouse.org›

  CC: Maggie McCain home ‹magpie417@libertymail.com›

  Subject: PLEASE REPLY!!! Attempted Murder at Work

  Attachment: 1

  Dear Maggie,

  I pray to God that you are safe and that you get this e-mail fast.

  Someone just tried to kill Chantal as she walked up to the home!

  I saw them — two teen boys on a motorcycle. The one on the back had a pistol. I heard the shots, looked out, and saw Chantal fall face-first to the ground.

  She is alive! Somehow all those bullets missed. But the next girl may not be that lucky.

  PLEASE READ THE ATTACHED NOTE NOW!

  If whoever it is carries out this threat to kill another girl, THERE ARE ONLY 45 MINUTES LEFT in the next hour!

  The police are here. So they say the next one won’t be here.

  We have text-messaged all our residents who are not on the premises that there is an emergency and to call in. Six have yet to do so. We are following up with calls.

  Maggie, I don’t know if you’ll get this — I have been calling and e-mailing since Krystal was killed in your home — but I don’t know how else to try to reach you.

  I will do anything you want me to. I just don’t know what else to do.

  In the Service of the Lord and His Children,

  Charlotte

  Maggie clicked on the attached file. It was a photograph of a handwritten note in a pizza box. The lined page that had been torn from a spiral notebook-not unlike the ledgers she had-was
on top of a half-eaten pizza.

  And then she gasped.

  While the paper had soaked up grease from the pizza, causing the ink to run and blur a few words, the message was clear:

  The blood of this girl is on your hands

  Just like those two women and Krystal

  One of your girls dies EVERY HOUR until I hear from you

  And I get back what Krystal took

  Call me now! 215-555-3452

  This is not the same person as the man I’ve been texting. We have already basically reached an agreement.

  So, it’s Ricky, then? It’s not the same handwriting that’s in the ledgers.

  But who else but Ricky would know about the connection between Mary’s House and Krystal and “what Krystal took”?

  And he killed her. After raping and badly beating her.

  She saw the clock in the top right corner of her screen. It had just ticked off another minute. It showed: MON 5:09 PM.

  She glanced back at Charlotte’s e-mail. The time stamp showed it had been sent a minute after five. And Charlotte had said in it that only forty-five minutes were left.

  Oh my God!

  So he could kill another girl after five forty-five.

  And she said six girls are unaccounted for?

  She hit REPLY:

  From: Maggie McCain home ‹magpie417@libertymail.com›

  Date: 17NOV 0511

  To: Charlotte Davies ‹c.d@maryshouse.org›

  Subject: RE: Attempted Murder at work

  Charlotte:

  Got it. I’m heartbroken over the news, and soooo very sorry.

  Please tell Chantal that I’m praying for her and everyone else there.

  This is all so crazy. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.

  First, however, know that I AM RIGHT NOW contacting him so that he does not try anything else.

  Maggie

  She sent that. Then she launched the video and telephone call program and clicked on the icon that mimicked the ten-digit keypad, entering the telephone number from the image of the greasy note and clicking CALL.