Deadly Additive

by Donn Taylor

  But this time there was no panic. Somehow, in a flash of relief beneath the terror, she realized Staab’s dominating her at close quarters had not brought back the panic. Her schoolgirl prayers had gone unanswered for so long that she’d eventually given them up in despair. But now something—perhaps Sledge’s tenderness, perhaps some power beyond her comprehension—had brought the deliverance she’d prayed for those many years ago. She might die in the next few minutes, but at least she would die released from that specter of the soul that had haunted her these many years.

  “It’s only a simple acid,” Williams said again as he held the bottle in front of her eyes, “but it will leave a permanent mark on that lovely hand of yours. Now, Miss Halvorsen, have you told us the complete truth?”

  “I have,” she gasped. “I swear it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Williams said. “For now we will give you a small souvenir to think on. Tomorrow we will talk again.”

  He removed the glass stopper from the acid bottle and rubbed it in a circular pattern on the back of Kristin’s hand. She screamed as the fiery liquid seared into her flesh. She remembered, as a child, when she had touched a hot frying pan. Reflex had jerked her hand away before she had time to think, but this pain burned as if she couldn’t let go of the frying pan. She screamed again, fervently wishing she could pass out. Better yet, just die. But she received no relief. The pain grew until her life shrank to nothing but pain and the screams it wrung from her.

  She must have fainted then, for her next consciousness was of Williams humming an off-key tune as he put the stopper back in the bottle.

  “That’s enough for now,” he said. Aided by Staab, he moved her hand under the tap and flooded it with water. “This isn’t proper handling of an acid. I shouldn’t let it go down that drain, even in dilute form, and even if it only goes into a septic tank. But in two more days I won’t need this place any more. Then someone else can worry about it.”

  Staab sucked in his breath. “Two days? We have to get out of here now. Someone’s onto us. They already killed Capozzi. And this broad called the FBI.”

  Williams turned off the water. “Capozzi had it coming. He and your brother Dietrich botched the job on that Colombian in New Orleans.”

  “But that note on Capozzi’s body. All it said was that he was impolite. That’s no reason to kill somebody. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No?” Williams laughed. “Since when have you and Dietrich needed a reason to kill? But forget about the FBI. Bureaucracies can’t react. They’ll take a day to decide if the woman’s call is genuine and another to come up with a plan. They’ll use a third for reconnaissance and a fourth to evaluate the results. No, we have three or four days at our disposal, and I require only two to complete my work. The new weapon will be twice as deadly as the present one.”

  “Let’s play it safe and get out now. We can go out the back way into Canada and disappear.” Staab’s tone was surprisingly pleading for a man with his history.

  Williams’s voice grew iron-hard. “It’s worth risking two days. If I stop now, I’ll have to do two months’ work all over again. My clients grow impatient.”

  Staab’s silence indicated acquiescence. Kristin moaned as pain overwhelmed her again.

  “Now, my dear,” Williams said, “we will render a bit of elementary first aid.” He turned off the water and poured baking soda onto Kristin’s hand. It fizzed and bubbled as it came in contact with the remaining acid.

  Her hand still flared in pain, and Kristin gritted her teeth, determined not to faint again. The fiery round spot on her hand showed angry red against the light-pink sunburned skin around it. Williams took another bottle from a shelf and used a cotton swab to paint the back of her hand with a brown liquid.

  “Now,” he said in a tone of feigned tenderness, “that will soothe the burning after a while. Meanwhile, you can think of all that you will tell us at our next meeting.” His voice again grew hard. “You will tell us everything, because you can imagine what this simple acid will do to your face.”

  “Let’s get it all now,” Staab said.

  Williams waggled a finger. “Patience, my impulsive friend. Her imagination will do more to loosen her tongue than all the beatings you can deliver.” His glance returned to Kristin. “You’ll be kept in a locked room inside a fenced enclosure manned by armed guards, so don’t think you can escape. Spend your time thinking how that acid will feel on your beautiful face, and think of all the things you will tell us to keep from feeling it.”

  He turned to Staab. “You know which room.”

  Staab yanked Kristin from the sink. She staggered, all combativeness drowned in the sea of pain from her seared hand. The great brute led her to a bare, unfurnished room just past the office where she’d first met Williams. Without comment, Staab slapped her twice across the face and threw her onto the floor. Half-conscious, she lay motionless, her head buried in her arms. Behind her, the door closed and a key turned in the lock.

  The pain in her hand burned until she thought she could bear it no more. But worse than that was the thought of acid on her face. Despair came quickly, for she had no more strength to call upon. She had fallen among men more ruthless and cruel than Diego Contreras. She knew too much, and they could not afford to let her live.

  The question was how much torture they would inflict before they killed her.

  32

  Spokane, Washington

  The lights of Spokane sparkled invitingly as the executive jet carrying Sledge descended for landing. At any other time, he would have savored their beauty, but tonight he concentrated on his mission and Kristin’s safety. Throughout the flight his apprehension had grown on both counts. He hadn’t been told what Brinkman wanted him to do, and he’d had no further word about Kristin.

  The jet parked near the terminal. Sledge carried his light traveling bag some fifty yards to the nearest door, where a man wearing a dark overcoat stood waiting. He was a dark-complexioned man, less than six feet tall but sturdily built.

  “Call me Rich,” the man said as they shook hands. “I’m a PI working for Brinkman. Our car is waiting.”

  He handed Sledge a heavy jacket for the evening chill that already raised goose bumps on his skin.

  Sledge’s anxiety came to the fore. “First, tell me what you know about Kristin Halvorsen.”

  Rich shook his head. “She and two friends of mine haven’t been heard from since this morning. They were tailing the guy she followed from the Caribbean and were supposed to find out where the target went to ground. She called in early today from a place called Mineral Creek, up in Idaho near the Canadian border. That’s the last we’ve heard. You and I are going up there to find out what happened.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  Sledge held his impatience in check as they processed through airport security. No other way to the car, Rich explained. Afterward, though, they passed quickly through the main terminal to Rich’s Ford Taurus.

  Neither spoke until they were eastbound on I-90. Rich then handed Sledge a police .38 special and a cell phone. “Brinkman wants you to call him.”

  Sledge started to use his own phone, but saw that Rich’s was connected to a speaker so that both of them could hear. Surprisingly, Brinkman himself answered. That meant this job was really important. Sledge reported his situation and asked for instructions.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Brinkman said. “A farmer looking for a lost cow found Mike and Sam dead in their car in a gully near Bonner’s Ferry, about twenty miles from Mineral Creek. We heard the bulletin on the radio and called the sheriff’s office for more information. Both men were shot repeatedly in the chest at close range.”

  “What about Kristin?”

  “Nothing since she phoned in early this morning. Sheriff’s deputies found a woman’s toque in the car with the bodies, but no sign of a woman.”

  Sledge’s emotions surged with a mixture of fear for Kristin and blazing anger at the murder of the t
wo detectives. It took all his self-discipline to suppress the emotions and consider the overall situation. The weapons used at Chozadolor posed a threat to national security. Smashing that threat was more important than his own life or even Kristin’s.

  “What do you want us to do?” he asked.

  “Reconnaissance,” Brinkman said. “The base has to be somewhere near Mineral Creek, probably backed up against the Canadian border for a quick international exit. We think the kingpin is a South African renegade named Wevers Koenraad. He’s supposed to have died years ago, but a witness says he saw Koenraad in Miami with one of the blond bruisers you and Kristin saw at the Colombian factory. The two thugs are Erich and Dietrich Staab. Interpol says they’re ‘persons of interest’ connected with a German terrorist group. You’ll remember that our friend Raúl had a narrow squeak with Dietrich in New Orleans. Speaking of Raúl, he called in and said he had evidence the dark-haired guy had a base in Idaho near the Canadian border. We take that as confirmation. Raúl himself left New Orleans several days ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”

  Sledge paused to think the matter through. He wasn’t worried about Raúl because the Colombian seemed able to take care of himself. “All right,” he said to Brinkman. “We report what we can find out about the base. How about the follow-up?”

  Brinkman’s “Hmm” indicated he had to decide how much he could say over the phone. “Uh…It’s a complicated problem due to the location.”

  OK, Sledge thought. Close to the Canadian border means international coordination is required.

  “Otherwise,” Brinkman continued, “the proper people should arrive for your briefing about nineteen hours from now.”

  That has to mean the FBI. They’ll make a raid based on my information. “Got it,” Sledge said. “I’ll try to get what they need. You’ll call me if you hear anything more about Kristin?”

  “Of course.” Brinkman’s voice sounded old and tired.

  Sledge rang off and glanced at Rich, whose grim visage showed he understood the instructions. “I’m sorry about your friends,” Sledge said. “Has anyone told you what this is about?”

  “Not much. I know we’re supposed to maintain surveillance until the FBI arrives. I gather they’re after some kind of smuggling operation.”

  Sledge took a moment to decide how much he should confide. Rich’s loss of friends tipped the balance in favor of disclosure. “It’s what they’re smuggling that’s important. You’ve read about the U.S. raid on that weapons factory in Colombia? We’re trying to find the brains behind it. Kristin was following the only lead anyone has found. You and I are looking for a hidden base of operations.”

  Rich rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, perhaps for a tear unseen in the darkened car. “That helps. At least Mike and Sam died for something more important than a gang of hoodlums.”

  “That’s for sure,” Sledge said. “Now, let’s make certain you and I don’t follow them.”

  They spent the time on I-90 and US 95 learning each other’s qualifications. Rich had completed a career as an Army criminal investigator and moved naturally into a post-retirement job as a PI. He seemed impressed by Sledge’s participation in the Colombian raid.

  Rich produced a map of the area around Mineral Creek, and Sledge studied it by penlight. The town was located in a valley between two mountain ranges, nestled closely against the eastern range. The culprits’ base would be too easily discovered in the valley, but the wooded mountain ranges offered concealment. The location of Mineral Creek argued for the more easterly range. One never knew how accurate maps were, so in the morning he’d have to confirm his theory with the actual terrain.

  He and Rich stopped well short of their destination and took turns sleeping. That minimized their risks and fortified them for a full day’s work. According to plan, they arrived in Mineral Creek soon after dawn.

  They quickly recognized the town’s depopulated state, and an attempt to use cell phones proved they were in a no-service area. As Kristin had done, Sledge used the payphone by the general store to report their arrival. Brinkman thanked him but had no new information. Soon afterward, the store’s front door opened. An elderly man shuffled out and began sweeping the sidewalk.

  At Sledge’s “Good morning,” the man threw an apprehensive glance at the eastern mountains and scuttled back into the store. Sledge followed, with Rich close behind.

  “What’s the matter?” Sledge asked.

  The man’s eyes evaded his. They were sharp gray eyes in a weathered face. “Matter? Nothin’. It don’t take long to get me tired o’ sweepin’.” He retreated behind a counter.

  Rich took a wallet from his coat and flashed it in the man’s face. Sledge saw the glint on a metal badge fastened to the wallet. It was an old PI trick—show someone a toy badge too briefly for him to see it wasn’t real.

  “We’re working on a case,” Rich said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I don’t know no answers. It ain’t healthy around these parts.”

  Rich persevered, his tone of voice relaxed. “I expect the sheriff in later today. They tell me he has his own ways of getting answers.”

  Uncertainty clouded the man’s face. “You ain’t from that place up on the hill, are you?” He nodded toward the eastern mountains, then threw a glance at Sledge. “This fellow looks tough enough to be one of ’em.”

  Rich laughed. “We’re both on the side of the law.”

  Sledge admired his partner’s skill in skirting the truth without telling a lie. He made a point of showing a softer countenance to the old man.

  The storekeeper shuffled back around the counter and out the front door. After looking both ways, he returned to Sledge and Rich and stood where he could watch the door. “Whatcha wanta know?”

  “Tell us about that place on the hill,” Sledge said.

  “Don’t know much about it.” Fear showed in the man’s face. “Used to be a hunting lodge before these fellows came. They fenced it in—big fence with barb wire on top, I hear. Put guards on it with guns. Scared off the few people that went up to look. I don’t know what they’re doing up there, but they sure mean to keep it private.”

  Sledge tried again. “How many men hang out there?”

  “I’ve seen maybe a dozen. They come down one or two at a time for groceries. Always act like I’m cheating ’em. They all look pretty mean, ’specially them two Nazis.”

  “Nazis?” Rich looked surprised. “There haven’t been many of those for more than sixty years.”

  The man shuffled his feet. “I call ’em that. They’re bigger’n this fellow here.” He pointed to Sledge. “They got blond hair and look like Nazis I used to see in the movies.”

  Sledge exchanged a glance of recognition with Rich. “Anything different happen lately?”

  The man looked fearfully at the door. “For one thing, they used to send one man for groceries, but now they send two. And lately they keep looking around like they’re scared of something. It happened after that Mexican-looking fellow started hanging around town. Haven’t seen him for several days now. Never did see much of him.”

  Sledge couldn’t make much out of that. “Anything else new?”

  The man sighed. “I guess you mean them fellows the sheriff found down by Bonner’s Ferry. I heard it on the radio. Yep, they was here—least I think they was. Heard a noise outside, so I peeked out the window. Saw one of the Nazis and two other guys from up on the hill. There was two guys slumped over in a car. Then the Nazi pulled a woman out of the phone booth and pushed her into a Jeep. Drove it away up the hill. Another guy drove the other car back toward the highway.”

  “What did the woman look like?”

  The man recoiled from Sledge’s voice. “Not...not sure,” he stammered. “All I saw was a head full of blonde hair.”

  That had to be Kristin. Blood throbbed in Sledge’s temples, but he forced himself to show an outward calm. “One other thing: Is there a road to that place on t
he hill?”

  “More like a trail.” The storekeeper pointed north. “Go one block that-a-way and turn right. Trail begins where the pavement ends. But be careful. No use gettin’ yourself shot.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Sledge beamed his approval. “You’ve been a big help.”

  The old man grinned. “You going to get rid of that gang up there? I’d ’preciate it. This ain’t much of a town, but it’d be nice to have it back to normal.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” Sledge said. “Keep your mouth shut and your head down for a couple of days and see what happens.”

  Outside, he and Rich disagreed on what to do next. Rich favored reporting in from the phone booth, then waiting for the FBI in a place where they could stake out the road to the main highway and use their cell phones. Sledge knew discretion recommended that, but heaven only knew what the Staabs might be doing to Kristin while they waited. Or what might happen to her when the FBI made its raid.

  “You report in,” he said. “I’m going to that place up the hill. I’ve got to find a way to protect Kristin.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Rich said. “You heard the man say they have a dozen toughs up there. You can’t handle those odds.”

  “I’ve got to try.”

  “You’ll get yourself shot.”

  Sledge handed Rich the cell phone and pistol. “There’s one card I can play.”

  “It had better be good.” Rich tucked both items in his pockets. “Otherwise, it was nice knowing you.”

  Sledge grinned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Without further words, he set off in the direction the storekeeper had indicated.

  The directions proved accurate. At the end of the pavement, a deeply rutted trail navigable only by off-road vehicles climbed steeply up the mountainside. A proliferation of tire marks showed recent usage. Sledge couldn’t afford to arrive at the fence line out of breath, so he held his anxiety for Kristin in check and ascended at a vigorous walk. A quarter mile of climbing had him sweating and breathing hard. At half a mile he paused to catch his breath, then proceeded carefully, as if on patrol.