Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  “He said you’re an excellent investigator. I’m counting on it. In the oil business, we drill what we call tight-holes. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “We keep ’em secret. The information and what’s discovered, if anything. Bidding against the competition for adjacent properties or leases can cost millions, so we guard the information we obtain. We call such projects a ‘tight-hole.’ I’ll wager you didn’t find much about my personal life in your Internet search.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Wes nodded, which confirmed he’d found nothing and had done a search.

  “I like it that way. Tight-hole anyone asking questions.” Cole slid two business cards from his shirt pocket and placed one of them on the table. “I received that in the mail two weeks ago.”

  Wes picked up the white card. Printed in bold, large caps was the name or acronym MESHACH, evenly spaced over a bare eyeball. The eye was black with no lashes, lids or brows. On the back, printed in pencil, was You’ll pay. “One of the three guys in the fiery furnace.”

  Cole shook his head. “One of the four. The Lord joined the first three if you’ll remember.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, and it’s not a name I’ve ever heard in reference to anyone otherwise.”

  Cole tapped the second card on the table. “Look, since the Deepwater Horizon burned and sank in the Gulf of Mexico, I get a threat a week on average. Or I should say my company does. That card is the first threat I’ve received at my home.”

  “You’ve been to the police?”

  “So many times I’m like the boy who cried wolf. Most of the threats are rambling manifestos and don’t name me directly. No individuals or organizations take the credit, so there’s nowhere to look. The envelope the card came in bore a fictitious address and a few prints, but none matched previously booked individuals. Then there’s this one.” Cole slid the second card across the table.

  Wes examined a card identical to the first one, but with I’m watching you written on the back, again in pencil, in the same block letters. “By mail too?”

  Cole’s jaw set. His green eyes suddenly held a look Wes had seen many times in some very dangerous men. Call it determination, resolve, the will to inflict grievous bodily harm to another human being. “My daughter, Bethany,”—he paused then finished through clenched teeth—“found it in her purse.”

  Now that was personal.

  “She’s twenty-two, going to college at Texas Tech, in Lubbock. Her boyfriend, Matt, got worried about her when she didn’t answer his calls. He found her Friday morning bound and gagged on the kitchen floor of her house.” Cole sat back and took another long drink of water then continued, “The man got into her rental house somehow. No forced entry. No prints. No witnesses.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Fine, physically. Uninjured in every respect, including what goes through everyone’s mind when a reprobate assaults a woman. He used duct tape on her hands, feet, even her mouth and eyes. She’s missing a number of lashes and won’t need to pluck her brows for a while. She said he whispered. Never said a word out loud. He told her the boogieman had visited and she was lucky she heard him. He stole her car, but only drove it two blocks.” He took a deep breath and let it out in one strong puff. “Yesterday, Beth found that card in her purse. Now, she’s a wreck.”

  Wes had his ideas about the man whispering. Beth would recognize her assailant’s voice if she met him on the street, or in a lineup, and a voice in the night would humanize him. Obviously, the man wasn’t human, at the least, not humane. Who did stuff like that to other people?

  Leaving the card in her purse had an eerie twist. “The card is an aftershock. He knew she’d find it sooner or later, and his intrusion would become real again. If she’d found it next week, or the week after, she wouldn’t know how long it had been there, since the first assault or ten minutes. And every man she sees walking the street could be him.”

  “He opened and drank a wine cooler too.” Cole sat up in the chair and glanced around. The wish-I-could-get-my-hands-on-him look returned. “Lubbock P.D. is investigating. They’re checking for DNA on the bottle, but I don’t think he’s that dumb. I believe he’s long gone. It’s obvious he took her car to get back to his car. A man walking the streets after midnight would attract a cop.”

  “Yes, he would. That gets me to wondering how he entered the house. Anyway, I believe he’s after you,” Wes said.

  “You think?”

  Wes nodded. “There’s no easier way to upset a family man than by going after his family, his wife or his kids. He had your daughter but didn’t hurt her, at least not physically. He likes control. He feels he’s in control. He relishes the thought of your reaction and distress.”

  “Well, he knew where to kick me, and he holds all the cards because I haven’t got the first clue as to whom or why or where to even begin looking. Disgruntled ex-employee,” Cole scanned the ceiling, “or I don’t know. I’m lost.”

  “Or someone who doesn’t like what you do for a living.”

  Cole nodded and fingered his empty glass. Wes waved at Kevin who refilled the glass and took his leave.

  “There’s something else.” Cole tapped the tabletop with his index finger. “He’s been stalking Bethany for a while. He tried to engage her, friend her, on a social media site a month ago. It’s not like you can forget the name Meshach. Not if you’re a Christian and have heard his story.”

  “Did she accept, remember a profile, see a picture, or notice anything we can use?”

  “Nope. Not that I’m aware of. I’ve warned her about the social media stuff. I have to say she’s been good about what she shares with her friends. I still don’t like it.”

  “That’s a place to start. I have a guy who’ll be all over it.” Wes pulled out his cellphone, took pictures of the front and back of both cards and returned them to Cole. “I’ll get you a proposal together today.”

  Cole shook his head and thumbed a third card from his shirt pocket. “I don’t need a proposal. Get on him. Get him. Do what you need to do. I don’t care what it costs. Take this.” He handed over his business card—Cole Blackwell Jr., Deepwater Energy. “I have two aircraft. My personal pilot and plane are at your disposal. His cell number is on the back. Brooks, Jordan Brooks. He’s in Salt Lake City, and he’s expecting your call. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Cole, I don’t think—”

  “Wes, a man always wonders if he would be able to pull the trigger on another human being to protect his family. I’m in a situation I’ve never been in. Now, I know I could hunt this guy down and shoot him on sight.”

  “Yes, sir, and they call that murder, not self-defense.”

  Cole took the saltshaker and shook out a portion onto the table. Then, he slowly, methodically, used the bottom of the shaker to grind the salt into a fine powder, one white crystal at a time.

  Wes knew the feeling, the helplessness and frustration of not being able to put a face or name to an enemy. Every grain of salt had Meshach written all over it.

  Cole’s nostrils flared as he thumped down the shaker and swept away the salt with his balled fist. “Exactly! Right now, I’d take the Lord’s vengeance and make it mine. Find him.” Cole grabbed his cap and slapped it on his head. “OK, I have to fly to Texas and pick up a dog.”

  He finished what he had to say as abruptly as he’d started. “A dog?” Wes said.

  “Yeah. Matt said the thing was sitting on the porch when he arrived to check on Bethany. He had on a collar with a leash attached, but no ID. He’s the ugliest creature walking on four legs I’ve ever seen. So homely he’s cute. His tail wags him, not the other way around. I told my daughter she has to advertise. Someone lost him. She knows I’m right, but she’s latched on to him anyway.”

  So a witness to Meshach’s entry into Bethany’s house existed. Too bad dogs couldn’t talk. He didn’t want to say it, but he’d just acquired his first lead. He had a good feeling sh
e’d be able to keep the dog. No use in telling Cole his thoughts. Might ruin his daughter’s relationship with her new pet if she discovered who the previous owner had been.

  3

  Sunday evening

  Wes didn’t want to appear anxious, but by the time he shook Cole’s hand and left the hotel lobby, he’d caught his client’s fever. Whoever this character was, by whatever name he used, he had to be found and locked up.

  Just the type of job Wes could sink his teeth into.

  As he walked to his pickup, he slid the unlock bar across his iPhone, went to favorites, and tapped Tony’s name. His only employee, a consultant he used when the technology got too deep, was never out of pocket. Junkies didn’t stray far from the source of their addiction, and Tony’s was a Mac. He answered before the ring-back tone sounded in Wes’s ear. “Hey, Wes. How’s your pulse?”

  “Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. How’s the weather in Flagstaff? Any snow in your forecast?”

  “I hope not. Winter is supposed to be over. We’ve had enough hard water for one year.”

  “Hard water?”

  “Ice, dude. Hard water spelled with three letters. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve got a project I need to get on, pronto. Can I enlist your fulltime attention and persuade you to meet me in Denver tomorrow morning, at the Embassy Suites by the airport?”

  An I’m-thinking-on-it-hum traveled the connection. “At my full rate?”

  Sometimes, doing what was right didn’t pay well. Soldiers, police officers, and firefighters had a sense of servitude, and their pay didn’t fit the risks or the effort they gave their jobs. Tony had helped Wes when the task was more important than the pay. Like last year when they spent two weeks looking for a runaway teen for a single mom who lived paycheck-to-paycheck. This time, Wes would make sure Tony received his due. “Plus twenty percent.”

  “Must be important.”

  “It is. I’ll explain more when I see you. For now, I’m going to send you pictures of the front and back of two business cards. See what you can find out about the name on them.”

  “What name?”

  “Meshach.”

  Paper rustled on the other end of the connection. “Like Meshach Taylor?”

  “Who? No, like Shadrach, Meshach. Who’s Meshach Taylor?”

  “He’s an actor.”

  Wes opened the door and climbed into his white Silverado pickup. “Huh, never heard of him. Anyway. This spelling might be an acronym because the name is printed in large caps, but no periods were used, so who knows.”

  “It’s a long acronym if that’s what it is.”

  “I think it’s a man’s name or his alias. You might start with social media sites.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll get a flight.”

  Wes tapped End and sent the pictures of the cards in a text message.

  He didn’t like to use hacker, a term normally associated with illegal activities, but for lack of a better word, Tony was a hacker. The best Wes could find outside of prison walls. If information existed about Meshach, Tony would chase it down.

  Before he could start his pickup, the techie called back. “I only found him on a new site called Chirp. The eyeball is his avatar. He Chirps some weird stuff. Got a couple of followers.”

  “Avatar? Chirp? You’re kidding me. What’s Chirp?”

  A quick sigh traveled the connection. “Avatar is a photo or image a person uses or identifies with. His profile. It’s the same eye as pictured on the card. A dead, creepy-looking thing that gives you the elusion it’s following you when you move. Chirp is like texting, but with the potential for a global audience, and users aren’t limited by character count.”

  Wes started the diesel pickup and pulled out of the parking space. “You’re quick.”

  “You could’ve discovered the same info on your cell phone.”

  “There’s a reason I call you when a computer is involved. Anything else?”

  “Not for now. Just thought I’d let you know before I booked a flight.”

  “Wait on the flight. I’ll call you back.” He signed off and pulled Cole’s business card from his shirt pocket. He’d had fighter planes and helicopters at his disposal before. They’d dropped ordnance on enemy targets he and his spotter identified in the Iraqi desert. He steered the Chevy into the next available parking spot and tapped the numbers for Jordan Brooks on his phone. Maybe he’d actually get to meet a pilot this time.

  Tomorrow, during regular business hours, he’d have Tony scour the Lubbock-area animal shelters to see if he could get a line on a man who liked ugly dogs.

  ~*~

  Monday, April 8

  Midnight tolled before Wes got Cole’s pilot and Tony together and checked into the hotel. He was spent and wanted to sleep, but tossing in the king-size bed, two o’clock strolled to three then crawled to four. Meshach had the same effect on him as a hit of caffeine. What kind of mind thought like that?

  He’d asked for a spacious suite when he checked in. The hotel didn’t disappoint. A large oak desk in one corner flanked a television cabinet centered at the foot of the bed. Toward the door, between the bed and the kitchenette, two orange-cushioned chairs and a matching couch surrounded a marble-topped coffee table. He and Tony wouldn’t step on each other’s toes trying to work.

  By five o’clock, he had coffee brewed, a cup poured, and his computer booted. He was never one for the social media stuff. He’d thought about it, hoping to keep better tabs on his daughter. He’d searched for her, but without success.

  A broad search for Meshach turned up a music band and dozens of individuals.

  His cell phone vibrated, a text from Tony —should b there by 8.

  Jordan was in Salt Lake City, so from north central Utah to Flagstaff for Tony, then to Denver by eight. Some serious flying on short notice. They’d been at it all night.

  He opened Chirp. Great. He had to join to enter the domain. Lack of an account stymied him. In order to search the site, he’d bite the bullet. After typing in his name, he erased it and sat back. Did he want to be himself? Maybe a female name would work better, someone off the wall, looking for love, or selling a product. Monica, Monica Carson. Monique Crayon. Mysterious. He typed the name in the space, picked an easy password and hit submit. He noted both the fictitious name and the password on his legal pad. Once inside, he set up his new account and then sat back again. What to post? Sex? Sales? Sex sold, but for now, inconspicuous might be the better approach. Posting could wait.

  The same double name took him to Meshach’s account. The eye greeted him. Meshach had followers—a Mr. R. Lamech and J. Sullivan. His only post, in joan, was time-stamped about the time he and Cole wrapped up their meeting. Wes clicked on Lamech. Again, only one post—anjali to see joan for oleos jordan with hemmingway.

  Wes reread the post four times. He didn’t get it. Tony had mentioned some weird stuff. More like off-the-wall.

  Lamech and Meshach had ties in their posts. Sullivan followed Lamech, but not the other way around. Sullivan followed Meshach, but again, Meshach did not return the favor.

  Wes opted for Monique to follow Meshach and clicked on the button. He went back to Monique’s profile page and picked Omaha, Nebraska, for her hometown.

  What next? Profession? Agenda?

  He typed Help save the planet from ourselves. Global warming is real. Join me at the Whitehouse. If we speak as one, they will listen. One voice! Before the ice is gone and polar bears are extinct!

  He reread the rambling and posted it. Tony would be proud of him.

  The Avalanche Journal came up in a search for Lubbock newspapers. He opened the site and checked the archives for Bethany Blackwell. Tech student accosted in her home. Crime Stoppers offering reward for information leading to the arrest…No useful info.

  Criminals left signs of their passing, just like animals left tracks in the dirt or in the snow. Meshach had already made one mistake by leaving the dog. Bet he never dreamed his cover would en
d up with the victim—if the dog had served the purpose Wes believed.

  A knock at the door shook his attention from the computer. He gave his watch a quick glance: 8:35. He’d lost track of the time.

  When he opened the door, Tony was standing in the hall with a red backpack on his shoulder. Wes had forgotten about the man’s taste in clothes. Pants and shoes he would alternate. One day red shoes and yellow pants, one day yellow shoes and lime green pants, or like today, green-and-white checkered shoes and orange pants, but he never wore anything other than a black hoodie. Never. Tony had the physique of a desk-jockey. He wasn’t overly heavy, but he was pudgy and soft. The hoodie fit his round, five-nine build like a plastic trash bag.

  Wes grabbed Tony’s hand and shook hard. “Come in. Long time no see. How was your flight?”

  “First class. Nice aircraft.”

  Wes walked back into the room. “I’ll bet. Did you check in?”

  Tony plopped the backpack computer bag onto the bed. “I did, and I stood at the counter long enough to smell bacon cooking. Though I know I don’t look like it, I’m starved. Let’s eat. You’re buying.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m hungry too. I’ve been waiting for you. Then, we’ll get to work.”

  Tony followed him into the hallway and stepped up beside him as the door click closed. “I don’t know what we’re going to accomplish.”

  Wes had to think about the comment a second. Tony’s job didn’t include physical labor, unless packing a laptop around fit the description, but he was far from lazy.

  “Wes, there’s nothing out there. I mean nothing. We’re going to need something else. You might as well start ghost busting. Looking for this guy is the same thing.”

  “I agree, but we can’t sit and do nothing. We have to look. That’s what we do. It’s what I do. For your first task after breakfast, I’d like you to call the animal shelters and pet stores in and around Lubbock and obtain a list of all the dogs sold the past week.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s it? All the dogs, pups, and old dogs, males and females alike? No description of the canine suspect? Is the dog’s name Meshach too? Why are we looking for this Meshach person anyway? And for whom, if I may ask, are we working? Obviously, a wealthy someone.”