Rising Phoenix

by Kyle Mills

  “What kind of improvements were you considering?”

  “Nothing special. A little paint, a new carpet, maybe an alarm system.”

  She shrugged. “I can’t imagine that would be a problem. What kind of business are you in, John?”

  “Wholesale antiques.”

  “Really? That’s interesting,” she said in a slightly bored tone. “Let me pop out to my car and call the owners. I want to make sure that I quoted you right on the apartments, and ask them about the improvements. If everything’s all right, we can go back to my office, fill out a little paperwork, and it’s yours.”

  “Fine.”

  It was almost five o’clock when Hobart left the realty office in Fells Point, an area known for good seafood and dive bars. The smell of steaming crabs hung in the air, inviting him into the restaurant directly across the street. He glanced at his watch. Dinner would have to wait.

  Hobart pulled his car into a narrow space about a block from his final destination. He fished a small scrap of paper out of his pocket and dialed the number written there on his cellular phone. It rang four times before being picked up by a machine.

  “Leave a message,” was the only greeting, followed by a loud beep. He didn’t. Instead he pulled a small black knapsack off the floor of the Jeep and walked across the street, straining to make out the numbers on the houses in the waning light. When he got to 619 he turned and walked into the narrow passageway between it and the house next door. The cracked cement under his feet was under two inches of sudsy water. It smelled like laundry detergent.

  The passageway eventually opened into a small backyard separated into two parcels by a short chain-link fence. Hobart entered the gate on the left. He looked around to confirm that no one was watching from the windows of the surrounding houses, and pulled out a large screwdriver. It turned out to be unnecessary. The door swung open when he grabbed the knob. Smiling, he entered the kitchen.

  Dishes were stacked everywhere, and judging from the smell, they’d been there for some time. Hobart’s gaze fell on a small pile of bones lying on the floor and he froze. He stood perfectly still for almost a minute listening for any sign of a dog. Hearing nothing, he padded quietly into the living room. No self-respecting canine could have missed his less-than-silent entrance.

  He made a quick walk through of the house, confirming that no one was home. The other rooms were in a condition similar to the kitchen. Plaster was falling from the ceiling in places and half the lights seemed to be burned out. The furniture—what little there was of it—looked like it had been retrieved from city dumpsters. The single bedroom didn’t actually have a bed, only a foul-smelling mattress lying on the floor.

  He moved quickly, placing listening devices in the phone, the living room, and bedroom. He was thankful for the surgical gloves covering his hands—he wasn’t anxious to touch anything with his bare skin. No telling what you could catch.

  When he was finished, he situated himself in a worn out La-Z-Boy next to the front door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. It didn’t recline and it looked like most of the foam had rotted and fallen out onto the carpet. Other than that, the chair was ideal. He couldn’t be immediately seen from the door, and it was more sanitary than sitting on the floor—though only marginally.

  Next to him was a large shelf overflowing with books. He leaned over and scanned the titles. No novels or fiction, just textbooks on subjects like physics and chemistry. Archaeology also had a place, but the thick dust on the covers suggested that the subject had fallen from grace. He was glad to see that his old friend was keeping his mind sharp.

  The friend he was waiting for was one Peter Manion. Hobart had flipped through a bootleg file on his ex-informant the day Blake had given him the go-ahead. He hadn’t seen Manion for years—not since his DEA days.

  Manion had been born on the east side of Baltimore to a working-class family in 1957. He’d shown an early aptitude for math and science and was encouraged by his mother, a particularly strong woman whose interest in education belied her lack of one. His father hadn’t shared her convictions and had constantly belittled his son for his shy, quiet demeanor. In the end his mother prevailed, and Manion won a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins. It was there that he became interested in the darker side of chemistry.

  One evening in the last half of his sophomore year, Manion had been befriended by a pretty psychology student. After a few weeks, his new friend brought up the possibility of Manion cooking up a batch of LSD. He’d resisted at first, but the promise of quick and easy money finally seduced him. When he finished that first batch, curiosity had overwhelmed him and he tested his handiwork.

  That had been the beginning of a drug problem that engulfed his life and ended in his addiction to heroin. He left JHU in 1978, the middle of his junior year, and had been in a drug-induced fog ever since.

  They had first met during Hobart’s tour as a Baltimore DEA agent in the early eighties. Manion’s intelligence, connections, and paranoia had made him an ideal resource for the young John Hobart. While he never actually informed on individuals, Manion had been a fount of information on the manufacture of designer drugs and the refinement of biological intoxicants.

  Hobart hadn’t seen him in almost ten years, but hadn’t had any difficulty in finding the addict. He lived only three blocks from the house that he’d occupied the last time they’d met, and his phone number had been in the book. Drug dealers could only afford so much anonymity.

  At six-thirty Hobart heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock on the front door. He pulled his .45 automatic from its place under his left arm and quietly stood. By the time the door finally swung open, he had flattened himself against the wall about a foot away from the doorjamb.

  The man who entered was taller than Hobart, but his body seemed to sag from some unseen weight, bringing his head to eye level. Hobart recognized him immediately, though the years of inactivity and drug use had taken their toll. He maneuvered himself behind the man and pressed the barrel of his gun snugly into the back of his neck.

  Peter Manion froze. “Darren, is that you? I told you I’d get you your money next week, man. I got some stuff cooking. I swear you’ll get every dime.” His voice was thin and Hobart had to strain to hear despite the fact that he was right behind him.

  “Have you not been paying your bills, Petey?”

  Manion’s body snapped straight, forcing Hobart to adjust the barrel of his pistol. Manion obviously recognized his voice.

  Hobart slowly circled around to face him, drawing the gun along the slack skin of his neck.

  Manion looked straight into Hobart’s eyes, ignoring his elaborate disguise. He began unconsciously rubbing the wrist that Hobart had broken so many years before.

  “How you doing, Peter? Long time no see.” Hobart grabbed the front of Manion’s filthy sweater and pushed him onto the La-Z-Boy that had been his home for the last hour.

  He sat down on an old army footlocker that passed for a coffee table. “You look like you’ve lost weight—been working out?” The haggard face across from him continued to stare blankly. Finally it spoke. “I heard they drummed you out of the DEA.”

  Hobart shook his head at the feeble attempt at bravado. “That’s what everybody thinks. Fact is, I just switched organizations.”

  “Who you working for now? FBI?”

  Hobart shook his head.

  Manion’s eyes widened. “CIA?”

  Hobart smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly. Peter Manion had always been a borderline paranoid schizophrenic. Hobart still remembered his fantasies involving the CIA and how they were behind everything from Kennedy’s assassination to the closing of the local Seven-Eleven. Manion saw the CIA as a faceless, all-powerful organization with operatives behind every corner. Hobart intended to put that paranoia to good use.

  Manion pulled his knees up against his chest and cradled them in his bony arms.

  “What do you want, man?”

 
“Just a little information. Should be right up your alley.”

  Manion remained silent. He looked like he needed a fix.

  “We’re getting a little operation together and I need your expertise in chemistry.” Manion perked up a bit at the word “chemistry.”

  “The Company’s getting fed up with all this narcotics money that’s running around. It’s keeping some governments afloat that we’d prefer to see sink. You understand what I mean?”

  Manion was looking desperately around the room as Hobart spoke. He seemed to not be paying attention.

  “We need to cut off their money—so we’re going to poison the U.S. narcotics supply.”

  Manion’s hands popped open and his feet fell to the carpet with a thud. “You’re crazy!” His eyes continued to dart around the room. Hobart wasn’t sure if he was looking for somewhere to run or for CIA agents hiding behind the furniture.

  “I have my orders. Well make it worth your while. Ten thousand dollars and a lifetime supply of top-quality heroin. Poison-free, of course.” He punctuated his words by pulling a wad of bills from the bag at his feet and slapping them down on the sofa next to him.

  “No way, man. There’s no way you can make me help you. I got rights.” The last part sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “Of course you do,” Hobart said soothingly. “This is a great deal, though, if you think about it. We’re going to do this with your help or not. So why not make it easy on yourself?”

  “No fucking way, man!” The spit that sprayed from his mouth mingled with the dust in the air.

  Hobart looked down at his feet, where a can of lighter fluid sat. His old informant didn’t seem like the barbecuing type. No doubt the stuff was used to manufacture some kind of high.

  He reached down and picked up the greasy can, studying it. Manion was hugging his knees again, rocking back and forth, mumbling as though in prayer.

  “You know, Peter, I was watching an interesting show on PBS last night. It was on those monks in Vietnam who set themselves on fire to protest the war. Remember them? I saw one of ’em do it when I was over there. Nasty.” He turned the can and began reading the back. “They said that burning is the most excruciating way to die. They also said that a person’s sense of smell is the last thing to go. Do you believe that?”

  Manion shook his head miserably, sweat dripping down his forehead. Hobart was starting to enjoy himself.

  “Awful smell, burning flesh—must be even worse when it’s your own.” Hobart picked up a steak knife from a half-empty plate on the floor and put it to Manion’s throat. With the other hand he squirted the lighter fluid on his head. Manion buried his face in his knees, protecting his eyes. The knife pressed to his neck kept him from rising.

  “Last chance,” Hobart advised, tossing the nearly empty can behind him and pulling a lighter out of his pocket. Manion’s face came out from behind his knees at the familiar sound of the sparking lighter. He looked like he was about to scream, and Hobart pushed harder with the knife, diminishing the cry into a pathetic whimper. He held the lighter a safe distance from Manion, whose eyes were locked on the quivering flame.

  Hobart fully intended to kill him if he didn’t agree. He’d be forced to pick a less dramatic method though. A screaming ball of flame running around the house was bound to attract attention.

  Manion closed his eyes and began sobbing quietly.

  Hobart was getting impatient. “C’mon, Petey, what’s it going to be?”

  5

  Near Cumberland, Maryland,

  November 1

  John Hobart set the cruise control at sixty-six and leaned his seat back into a more comfortable position. It was a beautiful night. Cool, but not cold, and crystal clear. The new Jeep rode as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce down the empty highway, allowing him to gaze through the glass sunroof at the stars. He occasionally glanced back at the road to confirm that he wasn’t straying over any important lines.

  He’d left Peter Manion’s house just before seven o’clock, maneuvering through the thickening city traffic and onto the highway out of Baltimore. City had turned to suburbs, and finally the suburbs had given way to the grassy hills of rural Maryland. The radio was beginning to fade, erupting in loud static every few minutes. He fed a classical CD into the dash.

  It was almost another hour before he saw his exit rushing to meet him. He tapped out the complex rhythm of the last concerto on the CD as he swung his car off the highway. It wasn’t an exit ramp in the true sense of the word, more of an ill-kept asphalt road breaking off from the main thoroughfare. The night closed in on the car as he sped away from the interstate. The faded gray asphalt climbed a steep grade into the darkness.

  Eventually the road turned to gravel and then to dirt. He switched on the four-wheel drive and struggled through deep ruts, slowing to under ten miles per hour. The road narrowed to the point that tree branches swished against both sides of the car. The air, moistened by the dense trees, had turned into a swirling fog. Hobart leaned closer to the windshield, resting his chin on the steering wheel.

  Finally the headlights illuminated a small break in the trees to the right. He turned carefully into it, hearing the bottom of the Jeep scrape as he maneuvered down a steep incline. When he leveled out, a small cedar cabin nestled in the trees became visible about twenty yards away. He cut the engine and coasted to a quiet stop next to its large redwood deck.

  His breath came out like steam, illuminated by the light still on in the interior of the car. His boots made a satisfying crunching sound as he walked around to the back of the car and pulled a large black suitcase out of the cargo space.

  The cracked and faded exterior of the cabin, illuminated briefly by the Jeep’s headlights, didn’t fit with the interior. While the furniture had a hand-me-down look common to weekend retreats, the cabin was immaculately maintained inside. Floors were swept and oiled, and the kitchen was well stocked. Flashlight in hand, Hobart weaved his way through the dark living room and lit a propane lamp on the wall. The flame came to life, bathing the inside of the cabin in a soft blue-white glow.

  After unpacking his suitcase in one of the cabin’s two bedrooms, he went back out to the car and pulled a large cooler out of the back. It was full of perishables that couldn’t be kept at the cabin during his long absences. He switched on the refrigerator and loaded in the food, keeping a cold beer on the counter for himself. He started a fire in the wood stove and settled onto the sofa. The sound of the wind blowing through the tall pines that surrounded the cabin lulled him to sleep.

  Hobart jerked as the hot grease spattered on his arm. He quickly threw a lid on the pan, hiding the cooking bacon within. Last night’s fog was only a memory, and the sun was beginning to filter through the skylights high above him. In the light, the house took on a colder feel. The cabin had the same unlived-in look as his home in Baltimore. The motion in the kitchen and the smell of bacon and eggs seemed out of place in the sterile atmosphere.

  He was halfway through eating his breakfast when he heard the unmistakable sound of tires rolling down the steep hill to the cabin. He looked at his watch as he pushed the chair back and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Fifteen minutes early.

  Hobart waved as he walked out the front door and onto the deck. Robert Swenson returned his greeting by sticking an arm out of the window of his beat-up Cadillac. Pulling to a stop next to the Jeep, he jumped out and slammed the door behind him.

  “What the hell’s going on, John? A week ago the Reverend comes into my office and tells me he fired you. You don’t return any of my calls, then I get that cloak and dagger message from you on my voice mail.”

  Hobart ignored his question. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here did you?”

  “Hell, no, your message was pretty clear on that subject. So what’s going on?”

  “Come on in,” Hobart said, turning and starting back into the house. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Once inside, Hobart repositioned
himself in front of his breakfast and started in on it again. “Can I get you something?” he asked, watching Swenson drag a chair in from the living room.

  “Nah, I grabbed an Egg McMuffin on the way. So what happened?”

  “Nothing all that interesting, Bob. Just got sick of that prima donna, you know? We had it out and he fired me.”

  Swenson shook his head knowingly.

  Hobart had first met Robert Swenson in Vietnam when their Special Forces units had been temporarily combined. After the war was over, their lives had continued on similar paths. Hobart had joined the DEA, and Swenson, the L.A. Police Department’s narcotics division. Later, when Hobart had taken the security chief post at the church, he’d brought his old friend in as his right-hand man.

  “Shit, John, he’ll probably change his mind next week.”

  “Not that big an issue, really. There’s some stuff I’ve been wanting to do and this’ll give me a chance to do it.”

  Swenson snatched an untouched piece of bacon from Hobart’s plate. “What do you have going? Starting a private contracting business?”

  “In a way. Actually, I asked you to come here ’cause I want you to come and work for me. I think I’ve got something for you that you’ll find more fulfilling than chasing Simon Blake around.”

  Swenson looked interested, as Hobart knew he would be.

  Swenson had been married for almost six years when his wife had been killed in a car accident. They seemed to have had a perfect marriage—she was one of the few women able to adjust to the life of a cop’s wife. Between that and Swenson’s rare talent for separating his personal life from the job, it looked like a relationship that was going to last. Hobart couldn’t remember exactly when she had died, but it was sometime in the mid-eighties—maybe ’84.

  As he recalled the story, it had been a clear night in Chicago and Helen had been returning from a college where she was taking classes. The stretch of road where she died was perfectly straight. Inexplicably, a car coming in the other direction ran off the road, through a grass median, and head-on into her Volkswagen Rabbit. The other driver survived, protected by his one-ton pickup. Helen had been decapitated. Later it was discovered that the driver had been hopped up on some drug or another.