Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Travis scanned the area for their father. And how soon would Penniski’s goons arrive? Their presence could only add danger.

  Scarson trained the gun on Travis while he removed keys from the back pocket of Maggie’s jeans.

  “Where’s my father?” This time her voice cracked.

  Scarson nudged her shoulder blades with the shotgun. “Hands behind your back.” He threw a tie-wrap to Travis. “Cinch her up nice and tight.”

  “Look, I’m ready—”

  “I’ve wasted enough time on you, boy.” Scarson shoved the barrel into Maggie’s ribs. “You want your sister full of holes?”

  She gave her brother a nod. Scarson didn’t leave Travis any choice.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie.” The weapon pointed at her side while Travis secured the plastic band around her wrists. He tugged it tight enough to look convincing but not hurt her.

  Scarson handed him a white washcloth and a towel torn lengthwise. “Stuff the cloth in her mouth and gag her. We don’t need her chatter.”

  “Are you the one who kept calling the house for my father?” Travis let Maggie bite the washcloth and draw part of it inside her mouth.

  “I’d hoped your old man would answer. That it wouldn’t come to this.”

  He tied the gag as loosely as he dared.

  Scarson tested her bindings and seemed satisfied. He pushed Maggie in front and nudged Travis with the shotgun. “Keep your hands up and move.” Maggie led the way but glowered at Scarson from over her right shoulder.

  Fluorescent lights were on in patches, so the place had power, but the lighting was mostly dim. Along the western wall before the loading bays, they passed a bathroom and an office. Travis hoped his father was in the office, but both rooms were empty. Cardboard blocked the lone window. The office would have been a likely place to set up a computer. Instead, Scarson walked them the length of the dirty warehouse toward the northern wall.

  The rows of pallet racks started on the eastern wall and ran toward the loading bays. With the shelf decking gone, the place looked forlorn, like a building gutted by fire. Oil and grease stained the floors, and the air smelled of solvent. Travis saw Maggie peering down each aisle, no doubt, searching for their father, but there was no place to hide. Was Dad even here?

  The last aisle was against the northern wall. Some kind of partition covered a section of the racks. As Travis got closer, he saw a gray tarpaulin, or several, attached to the second shelf support about ten feet up from the ground.

  Maggie led the pack. She turned the corner at the last aisle.

  Travis heard her muffled cry, her mouth twisting in anguish as she dropped to the concrete.

  He forced his way toward Maggie, his heart booming. When he reached her side, he thought it would never beat again. From a rope tied to a crossbeam suspended between two supports hanged their father. “You son of a—”

  Scarson rammed the barrel into Travis’ clavicle. “Shut up.”

  Maggie’s tears streamed down her face.

  A noose strained against their father’s neck, forming an upside down V behind his left ear. Raspy breaths escaped his mouth. His skin was the shade of a pomegranate, and tie wraps bound his wrists. With a wooden stool barely within reach beneath him, he struggled to rest his weight and relieve the tension against his throat. His eyes bulged with panic.

  “Your old man is alive for now. When I get my money, I’ll cut him down and let you go. But I suggest we finish our business before he suffocates. Or I decide to move the stool.” Scarson motioned to Maggie. “You stay right here on the floor.”

  He left her near the rack that suspended their father. Her view of Dad was unfortunately clear. Beneath her tears, Travis sensed her mounting fury.

  He took note of another exterior door at the end of the aisle, in the northeastern corner of the building. Scarson must have entered from there. They walked past Dad toward the door. It wasn’t until Scarson motioned toward the wall that Travis noticed the makeshift office—a folding card table, a camp chair, backpack, and Scarson’s laptop.

  “Barbara Carter told me that my name came up in conversation at your house.” Scarson stood closest to the door. He moved to the side of the table and kept the muzzle pointing at Travis. “Sit down.”

  Travis pulled out the chair and settled into the fabric seat. “I didn’t make the connection until then. You and Brian Carter set me up.”

  Scarson shrunk at the mention of Brian Carter. Maybe the loss meant something to him. Blotchy crimson patches covered his skin. His shirt and jeans were rumpled and smelled of sour sweat. His eyes lolled in their hollows as if he’d binged on espresso and crack. Dorian Gray looked better in print.

  “Your old man. We had a deal.” He waved the shotgun at Travis.

  “Please, let me get him down.”

  “Not until I have my two million dollars. Now, move.”

  Travis needed to get the job done quickly, but first, he had to distract Jack. He went through the motions on the computer. “What exactly was the deal? I know my Dad was paying Brian Carter. I assume he was paying you too. But why?”

  “That was my money. We were partners. Your father didn’t even know Brian Carter. Brian pooled his money to invest with me.” Scarson rested a shoulder against the wall. “I just want my money.”

  “So setting me up was Carter’s idea?” Travis’ work from the night before was intact. Scarson didn’t suspect a thing.

  “Brian knew his company would prosecute any hackers.” He smoothed his shirt with his free hand. “The CEO has powerful friends. He figured if your Dad was faking, the trial would improve his memory.”

  “You helped him find me online.”

  Scarson nodded. “Even after you were convicted, Brian thought your Dad was faking. So he decided to pay him a visit.” The veins on his neck bulged. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this. I told Brian to be patient, but he had money problems, too. Barbara doesn’t know how bad it is. And now Brian’s dead.” Scarson raked a hand through his hair.

  “You said my father was your partner. In what?”

  “Front running O’Mara’s trades. Your dad was a genius.” Open admiration swept his face. “He tapped into O’Mara’s investment servers at work. When O’Mara sent a trade request, your Dad captured the data packet and sent our trade in first, and then he sent O’Mara’s. We made a killing.”

  Travis didn’t think Scarson noticed the unfortunate pun.

  But there weren’t any trades to front-run. O’Mara never invested the money. He never bought any stocks. Neither did Dad, for that matter. He just stole the money from O’Mara and packed what he could into precious metals. The rest, he kept as cash. Scarson didn’t know any of this. Travis stalled. “How did you get involved?”

  “I found your father’s server under the raised flooring. He promised to cut me in if I let him keep it there. He paid the earnings to me weekly. We didn’t want to attract attention by taking it all out at once. Hell, he even had it figured so we didn’t have to pay taxes on it. Then, one day, the server disappeared, and he stopped paying me.” Scarson breathed out loudly through his nose. “He’s got two million dollars, and I want it.”

  Two million dollars. Scarson didn’t understand the enormous wealth at stake. “Dad really does have Alzheimer’s.” Not that Travis believed the disease accounted for his father’s depravity.

  “I know.” Scarson leveled the shotgun at Travis. “And I don’t care.”

  “My father can’t breathe properly. Please let me get him down.”

  “After you transfer the money.”

  Travis returned to Scarson’s laptop. This was his father’s train wreck. Travis suffered public humiliation, a bum legal rap, and a year in hell. Maggie bore the weight of ten Grinches, plus two, and ends up bound and gagged on a filthy floor.

  Nice work, Dad.

  Mom would have been proud. Fortunately, she didn’t have to be a witness. But Maggie and Travis did.

  Dad’s behavior
came down to simple greed. Greed winnowed him from the real treasures of life. Family, love, fellowship, even his own character. Look where that got him. Jack Scarson, Brian Carter, his father—all ranked as chaff. In spite of the past year, his age, or the gun pointing at his belly, Travis was the only man standing.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Maggie had always liked Jack Scarson. Even on the drive over here, she hoped it wasn’t him. Not because he was special in any way. He was just another nice guy who used to work with Dad. But she’d judged him to be nice. While all along, under his kind veneer, his heart pumped pure poison. Maggie’s judgment was just another piece of collateral damage. Now her car keys dangled from his front pocket, and she sure as hell didn’t like Jack anymore.

  Her father’s neck chafed red and raw under the noose’s force. His skin brightened to scarlet. Blood trickled from his throat. The rubber toes of his shoes gripped the stool, trying to relieve his weight long enough to gulp a full breath. His eyes were wide in terror. Did Daddy even know they were here?

  She wished she could dial back to last week when she still believed her father was a kind and just man. But she thought Travis was guilty then, and it wasn’t a fair trade-off. She had to face facts. Maybe she never really knew her father. Still, he didn’t deserve this suffering.

  From the effort to shuffle two million dollars cash, both Travis and Jack seemed to forget she was in the room. Maybe because she was immobile, Scarson didn’t consider her a threat. And while she couldn’t speak, she could still hear. Silent woman syndrome could be deadly.

  Any minute now, Penniski’s vipers were bound to show up and inject some fresh venom. That key on her ring must enable them to hear or do something. But they’d never make it across the empty warehouse floor without alerting Scarson. Maggie had to move.

  This warehouse was probably a strategic choice, something Lydia Scarson’s company had up for lease. It was one of a thousand empty in the area and unlikely to find a ready tenant. Against the tracks and in a bad neighborhood, their bodies could remain undiscovered for weeks. Between the gag and Maggie’s aching wrists, fear stepped aside for her swelling rage.

  Not out of sight but out of mind, she sat lotus-style on the floor. She pressed down on her right shoe with her left knee and moved her foot forward. Her loafer popped off at the heel. No sudden moves. As it dropped, Maggie cushioned the fall of the Swiss Army knife.

  Travis kept the conversation going as long as he could, but Scarson wanted his money. Probably a bath, too, from what Maggie smelled. She had to get moving or risk becoming another stain on this nasty floor.

  She maneuvered her shoe against the concrete and walked it back onto her foot. The knife now lay on the floor between her folded legs. The conversation continued without her.

  “There’s a little over two million dollars in this account.” Travis pushed back from the table.

  “Get it moving, son.”

  She saw her brother stiffen at Scarson’s use of that word.

  “Both banks are in the Caymans. How long before the money actually moves from one account to the other?”

  Scarson said, “Maybe immediately. Maybe hours. You two are staying until the money shows up in my account.”

  Maggie inched forward. She trapped the knife with her left bun. A couple of tiny scoots, she pushed the knife behind her toward her bound hands.

  The movement caught Scarson’s attention.

  Travis glanced at his sister. “Let’s get this over with, Jack.”

  Scarson refocused on the computer.

  Maggie felt for the knife on the floor behind her back. She wanted the conversation to get a little louder before she opened the blade.

  Travis clicked at the keyboard. Maybe he was selecting a still-viable option from his decision matrix. Whatever the hell that was.

  Scarson hovered over Travis’ movements like posies during the Great Plague, and he didn’t see Maggie pop open the knife.

  She slid the blade under the tie-wrap where it spanned her two wrists. The wrong way around, the knife’s first decisive movement slit her skin. The gag at least suppressed her scream.

  With the blade against the tie-wrap, this time, she sliced through the nylon. She tucked the tie-wrap in her back pocket. The knife stayed in her fist, blade open. Level breathing required sustained effort. Maggie was bleeding, furious, and ready for war.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Jack Scarson angled himself toward Maggie and aimed the gun at her chest. While Travis didn’t approve of muzzles pointing at his sister, Scarson’s distraction gave him some room to maneuver. Travis wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. He had to get this money showing in Scarson’s account fast. The way Dad looked, later might be too late.

  Scarson was on the edge, like a big-wave surfer after a thirty-foot wipeout. Ground and drowned.

  Dad told Travis in an email that a big one was coming for him.

  Catch a wave, son.

  Caught it, Dad. Riding it.

  It’s a pounder.

  While Scarson seemed a reluctant villain, the lure of easy money often dismantled a man’s integrity. Travis met plenty of those guys during his incarceration. When temptation drifted by, they didn’t carry enough iron in the core to keep them earthbound.

  Break a few heads. Grab it and go. What’s yours is now mine. To hell with the road less traveled.

  The screen Travis wanted finally loaded. “It’s ready. Type in your account number and hit enter. Then you can check your account to see when it shows up.”

  The expression on Scarson’s face flooded with relief, then panic, and finally, excitement. “Stand by your sister. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Travis rose from his chair and backed up to her side. Hair obscured her eyes, but her nostrils flared.

  Scarson aimed the shotgun at them while he typed awkwardly at the laptop. His index finger pecked the keys one-by-one until he entered the account number.

  “Did it go?” Travis asked.

  “Yeah.” Scarson’s entry concluded the money transfer. He motioned with the gun. “Get me to the website for my bank. Once I verify the money is there, we can all go home.”

  Travis tried not to look for Maggie’s knife. He couldn’t telegraph that news to Scarson. The guy was jumpy. One blast from that shotgun would leave them shredded.

  Travis went to the computer and stood. He located the page needed and turned the computer toward Scarson. “It’s all yours.”

  The man didn’t seem to hear Travis. Maybe the idea of two million dollars popping up as his bank balance finally sounded possible. Scarson held a lottery ticket with five matching numbers, and he was watching for the sixth. As he pecked each required key, his latex-gloved hand trembled.

  Travis stayed near the table, but his presence didn’t rattle Scarson this time. Travis considered trying to take the shotgun, but the muzzle pointed directly at Maggie, and Scarson looked hair-trigger jumpy. His hopes, dreams, and faith condensed to the numbers on a fifteen-inch LCD panel.

  Suddenly, the bank balance page loaded. Scarson’s weary eyes sparkled as he scanned for his savior. He raised his face to heaven and briefly closed his eyes. A smile burst over his lips and into a laugh like Dr. Frankenstein’s after juicing the monster. Jack Scarson landed his sixth number.

  He lowered the laptop lid and gestured to Travis with the gun. “Get on the floor in front of your sister.”

  “We have to get my father down. You said you’d let us leave.”

  Scarson’s smile played on his lips. “Get on the floor.” He pulled another tie-wrap from his back pocket. “Move.” He prodded Travis with the gun.

  Travis stopped close to Maggie. “You’ve got to let my father down,” he said. “You can’t let him die.”

  “I’ve got two million dollars. I can do whatever the hell I want.” Scarson jabbed Travis’ side with the gun. The muzzle caught a sensitive spot between the ribs. His elbow jerked, snapping outward and hitting the gun.
The barrel veered toward the racks.

  Maggie lunged, jamming the knife into Scarson’s left calf. His scream chattering in pain. He cracked the barrel over her shoulder, sending Maggie into a sprawl. She tried to push herself up again but collapsed with the weapon still in her fist.

  Travis rushed. His arms went wide around Scarson. Scarson’s arms spread to keep the gun away from Travis. They crashed against the concrete. As they hit, Scarson’s fist opened. The shotgun bounced onto the floor and skittered down the aisle. Each of them scrambled to reach it before the other. Scarson grabbed it first, but Travis held onto the barrel. They wrestled on the ground, the gun between them. Travis couldn’t pry it out of Scarson’s rubbery grip, but his arms were longer. Travis yanked the gun upward. As soon as the gun was out from between their bodies, Scarson reared back, slamming his forehead into Travis’ solar plexus. The wind sailed from Travis’ lungs. He felt like a deep-sea diver sucking on a dry tank, desperate for a fresh breath.

  Scarson stood on his good leg, examining his wound, but couldn’t keep his balance. He limped to the other side of the table and stuffed the laptop in a backpack. He slung it over a shoulder, turned, and leveled the gun at Travis’ head.

  Travis struggled to inflate his stinging lungs while Maggie stirred behind Scarson. Being eye-to-eye with the barrel, it was tough not to look at Maggie as she crawled toward Scarson with an open knife. Then Scarson squeezed the trigger.

  She thrust the blade forward, ripping the back of Scarson’s heel. The room exploded with concrete and smoke and panic. Heat seared Travis’ upper right arm. Buckshot peppered the wall beside him and mangled the folding card table. The violent blast reverberated his eardrums until he could no longer hear his own screams.

  Scarson whipped around to face Maggie. Blood vessels pulsed at the back of his neck in anger. Travis rose to help her. But Scarson pumped a new round into the chamber and lowered the gun to her face. When he tried to steady his stance, the muzzle wobbled.