Near the foot of the upward ramp to P-4, a large vehicle was pulling out of a spot. Ben honked and aimed to pass in the narrowing space between the vehicle and a concrete column, but the driver didn’t stop, continuing to reverse until the rear bumper reached within a hair of the concrete column. Ben stopped abruptly, and as the bike was leaning into a turn, he had to struggle to keep it from tipping over, which was the reason he didn’t notice at first that the vehicle was a white Suburban.
The lack of reverse gear on the GS had never put him in a worse disadvantage than now. His way blocked by the white Suburban, cars parked on his left and right, all he could do was push backward with his boots and try to turn. But it was a slow process, much slower than the person who appeared from behind and shoved something against Ben’s neck.
A horrible jolt hit him.
Taser!
Completely limp, he was fully conscious as a cloth hood was pulled down over his helmet, blocking the view through the face shield. In semi-darkness, he was pulled off the bike, dragged into the Suburban, and pushed facedown on the floor in front of the middle row of seats. The vehicle moved forward briefly, the rear doors were opened, and a heavy object was loaded into the trunk—probably his GS, which they must have lifted and shoved in on its side. Ben heard the rear doors slammed shut, several people got in, and more doors were shut. The Suburban sped up the ramp.
The whole operation took seconds. They were professionals, executing an ambush that left him no chance to resist. The initial shock of pain and paralysis was fading. He felt the vehicle make left turns, go up the ramps between floors, stop briefly at the automated cashier, go over the bump at the curb, and join the stop-and-go traffic. A few minutes later, they were on an open road, rattling over frequent potholes and lane markers.
Ben tried to rise, his muscles barely responding to his will.
One of them placed a boot on his back and pressed down. His arms were pulled backward and cuffs locked on his wrists.
Hands went through his pockets, pulling out his iPhone and wallet. He heard the ping of the iPhone being turned off. After that, there was nothing—no talking, no radio, no music, only the sounds of the engine, the wheels, and the howling air around the moving vehicle.
Lying in this position, with yesterday’s bruises still fresh, became increasingly uncomfortable. It was hard to breathe inside the helmet and hood. Anger built up inside him—not only at his captors, but at himself for falling so easily into their trap. But the boot on his back sent a clear message that any further attempt to resist would be met with a harsh response. Getting another Taser jolt would not help his chances. He stayed down and slowly flexed his limbs in small increments to prevent cramping and maintain alertness. They had not killed him yet, but after the boot in the forehead at the overlook, he had no illusion about their intentions. Still, if they made a mistake, he must be ready to take advantage and try to save himself.
After at least an hour on a highway, they travelled on country roads that meandered through hills and valleys. He lost track of time. Eventually the Suburban turned onto an unpaved road. It was rough, and the hard floor bumped him mercilessly. A staccato of wood beams told him that they were crossing an old bridge.
One of his captors—a man—was overtaken by a coughing attack. Ben hoped the others would say something, provide a hint about their identities or intentions. If they pulled over to give the guy some fresh air, it could provide an opportunity to attempt an escape.
But no one said a word, and the man’s coughing subsided.
The Suburban stopped, and one of them stepped out, leaving a door open. Rusty hinges screeched as a gate opened. The vehicle inched forward, more screeching sounded, followed by the bang of the gate closing.
They were moving again down the unpaved path.
A few minutes later, they stopped again.
Doors opened, everyone was getting out.
Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him.
As he was getting out of the Suburban, Ben angled his head in a way that rubbed against the back of the seats and the doorjamb, causing the hood to fall off.
The Taser appeared in front of the face shield.
Ben recoiled. “Don’t!”
They shoved him forward.
With the helmet still on, Ben managed only a brief look at the surrounding farmland and a white Ducati near a rotting wooden bench. The hood was pulled back on.
They led him into a house with creaking wooden floors, made him sit in a chair, and used a second pair of handcuffs to lock his ankles to the legs of the chair. He tried to move, but the chair was bolted to the floor.
Chapter 43
At first, Keera was angry. She had a brief window of time between getting home from the hospital, changing and putting on makeup, and getting to the club on time. On the rare occasions that Ben was running late, he always called ahead of time to let her know. She would then take a cab and leave the Mustang at home so that he could switch vehicles and pick her up when the club closed. But tonight he wasn’t at home when she arrived, didn’t call, and when she tried his phone, it went straight to voice mail.
But by the time she had to leave, Keera’s anger had changed into worry. She had waited too long and had no time to call a cab. Driving her Mustang, she tried Ben again, reaching his voice mail. She hung up and called Mrs. Teller.
Ben’s mom picked up after four rings.
“I wanted to thank you,” Keera said, “for a lovely dinner.”
“My pleasure, sweetheart. And thank you for coming. How are you two doing?”
Keera sighed, her hopes dashed. Clearly Mrs. Teller didn’t know Ben’s whereabouts. “Everything is fine.” Before the conversation could go any further, she said, “Next time you’ll come to us.”
“I would love that.”
“Wonderful. Talk soon. Bye.”
Next she called Ray, who didn’t answer, but called back a moment later.
“Ben is missing,” Keera said. “He’s always at home to take me to the club, or he calls to let me know he’s late. But he hasn’t called, and his phone is off. Do you know anything?”
Ray hesitated. “When did you see him last?”
“This morning. He was still in bed when I left. He didn’t look like he was up to going anywhere, considering how both he and the bike looked.”
“Do you know what happened yesterday?”
“I assumed he slipped in the rain,” Keera said. “We had argued about the motorcycle only a day earlier. All I want is for him to get rid of the damn thing and buy a car, so when I saw that he had an accident and didn’t break any bones, I was almost—”
“Happy?”
“Right.”
“It wasn’t exactly an accident,” Ray said. “It seemed like someone messed around with his brakes.”
“I knew it!” Keera pulled in front of Wisteria’s Secret and beckoned the bouncer, who came around to take the car. “I told him to drop the Mormon investigation!”
“Same here. It’s not worth it. They tried to intimidate him, but you know how he is. Everything is like football to him.”
Keera hurried to the door of the club, the phone pressed to her ear. “What are we going to do?”
“Ben is resourceful. He probably got delayed in a meeting with a source, or he’s watching a target, waiting for the perfect photo opportunity. Give him a few hours. He’ll show up.”
Chapter 44
Ben heard hushed words in the other room, but otherwise nothing happened for an hour or two. He sat with his helmet and riding suit on, sweating and on the verge of peeing on himself.
Sounds of footsteps approached him, and the hood was pulled off. He saw a woman and two men. They were older than he expected—late fifties or sixties. The woman fiddled with the strap under his chin and removed his helmet.
He was in a room that be
longed in an earlier century. The floor was rough-hewn planks, the low ceiling pitched with exposed beams, and the small windows covered with flowery drapes. The walls were whitewashed, now darker with age, except for a few squares of the original white where pictures must have hung until recently. The air was musty, with a smoky tang from an open fireplace, where embers still crackled.
Noise from the other room told Ben there was at least one more person to deal with.
A black gentleman with gold-rimmed glasses and a crisp manner reminiscent of Colin Powell checked the inside of Ben’s helmet.
“I need a bathroom,” Ben said.
“Go ahead, wet your pants.” The woman aimed a gun at Ben. Her voice was thin but devoid of weakness. She looked like Meryl Streep, but with longer legs and straight, silver hair.
Powell removed the handcuffs and stepped back. “Strip down to your undergarments.”
The word choice was odd. Did Mormons use the word “undergarments” for every kind of underwear? Ben said nothing as he stood up on wobbly legs.
“One false move,” Streep said, “and your stomach will be digesting lead.”
They watched him take off his riding boots, pants, and the two-layered jacket.
Standing in his boxer shorts and t-shirt, he shivered. “Can I go now?”
They watched him for a long moment.
Powell asked, “Where’s your undergarments?”
“You don’t like my boxer shorts?”
“It means nothing,” Streep said. “He’s undercover.”
Ben pressed his knees together. “I need to go!”
Streep pointed at a door.
The bathroom window was too small for an escape, and the door remained open. He urinated and returned to the chair. He wanted to put his clothes back on, but Streep made him sit down and cuffed him. He was really cold now—and out of ideas. They had not made a single mistake yet, and time was running out. He had to provoke them further, but not far enough to make them hurt him.
How?
One of them, a man with gray hair and reading glasses, pulled a chair over and sat down, facing Ben. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
He smiled, showing tidy, small teeth. His blue eyes remained cold. “We can do it the easy way or the painful way.”
“Richard Dreyfuss,” Ben said. “That’s who you remind me of. Tin Men. Great movie. Remember it?”
“No.”
“How about The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz?”
“Yes. I especially remember Virgil. Do you?”
“The loyal friend?”
“Too loyal, which is why he ended up a cripple. I bet he missed being able to pee standing up.” Dreyfuss gestured toward the bathroom. “Do you want this one to have been your last?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t really care,” Dreyfuss said, removing his glasses. “But if you do care about living longer in a functioning body, then you must tell us everything.”
“The way you talk,” Ben said, “you sound like a professor, not a killer. Try to sprinkle a few grammatical errors. For authenticity, you know?”
Dreyfuss sighed, and Streep, still holding the gun, stepped forward and, with her free hand, slapped Ben across the face. She was going to slap him again on the return, but Ben turned his head to face the coming hand, opened his mouth while tilting his head just right, and caught the side of her hand between his teeth, clamping down.
She released a shrill scream, but he had already let go. She staggered back, pressing her injured hand to her chest, and the gun fell.
Dreyfuss picked it up and aimed at Ben.
“No!” Powell raised his hand. “Not yet!”
Streep ran out of the room.
“There’s a locator on my motorcycle,” Ben said. “Men with bigger guns are on their way. You better run off while you can.”
“It’s clean,” a man yelled from the other room. “I scanned his bike for electronic signals. There’s nothing.”
Ben recognized the voice—Zachariah’s riding buddy! What was he doing here?
Rex appeared in the door. He was wearing a light-colored riding suit—not quite white, but close—and was pushing a dolly loaded with a large black box. It had knobs, a couple of gauges, and colored wires. He emptied a bucket of water on Ben.
“Hey!” Ben shook off the water as much as he could without hurting his wrists and ankles. His wet hair fell onto his face and he twisted his head to get it away. “What the hell—”
“There we go.” Rex attached a wire to Ben’s left earlobe with a clamp, another to the right earlobe.
Ben tried to bite his hand. “Stay away from me!”
“Don’t move too much,” Rex said calmly, “or I’ll shock you just for discipline.”
“Tell us what you know,” Dreyfuss said.
“I know,” Ben said, “that your prophet, Joseph Smith, was a con artist and a pedophile, and you’re no saints but scum.”
They stared at him. He expected Rex to flip a switch and send searing current through his head, but instead he smiled and said, “Clever. Very clever.”
Ben’s teeth began to rattle while the icy water dripped to the floor around him. “Thanks for baptizing me, but don’t you prefer doing it to dead people who can’t tell you how ridiculous your True Church really is?”
“Enough with the show.” Dreyfuss moved his chair farther back from Ben. “Last warning, wiseass.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who told you to go after Zachariah Hinckley?”
“Now you’re being specific,” Ben said.
“Start at the beginning.”
“First time I ever saw Zachariah was on Sunday. He passed me during the Marine Corps Veterans’ Ride.”
Rex said, “You’re lying.”
“Am not.”
“Why were you there? You’re not a veteran.”
“My dad served. And I’m a reporter. It seemed like a worthy event to report on.”
“Who sent you there?” Rex put his hand on the electrical switch. “Who ordered you to eliminate Zachariah?”
“Eliminate Zachariah?” Ben looked at them. “Are you nuts? Watching him die was the first time I had ever seen his face.”
Streep reappeared and pointed with her bandaged hand. “Give him a jolt so he knows the price of lying.”
“Hold on,” Dreyfuss said. “How did you even know his name in the first place?”
“After they brought up the body, I peeked at the medic’s report. The victim’s name was Zachariah Hinckley.”
“You lie well.” Rex held forward a photo. It was taken from a distance at the Camp David Scenic Overlook, showing Ben with Palmyra and the psychiatrist. “Can you explain this?”
“Zachariah’s wife agreed to meet with me, but all I heard was how mentally ill he’d been. It made me ever more suspicious.”
“Do you want us to believe that a grieving widow invited you to meet her at the very place her husband died?”
“She wanted to see the place and convince me—and maybe herself too—that he had committed suicide. I think that’s why she brought Dr. Neibauer.”
“Your boss?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“You met them at the isolated site of the accident to gloat about your achievement and receive new instructions from your Mormon masters, correct?”
“My Mormon masters?” The conversation was making less and less sense. “Wait a minute, who the hell are you people?”
“Let me show you who we are!” Streep reached over and flipped the switch on the batteries.
Cringing in terror, Ben opened his mouth to shout at the coming explosion of pain between his ears.
After three hours of work, going through the dance motions mechani
cally while thinking of Ben, Keera was done for the night. Ben’s phone was still off. She asked the bouncer to bring her Mustang to the front and drove home expecting—against reason—to see the GS in the garage. When she arrived, the garage was open, but the GS wasn’t there. She parked and entered the house.
It wasn’t messy. In fact, everything that had been removed from the shelves and cupboards was placed on the floors and counters in an orderly manner. Even the framed artwork, mostly cheap posters, was lined up nicely after it had been taken down from the walls and separated to check if anything was hidden under the backings.
She turned on all the lights and called Fran to tell her what happened.
“Hang up and call nine-one-one,” Fran said. “I’m coming over.”
“I can’t report it,” Keera said. “Ben will be very upset if I let anyone in here without his permission, even the police.”
“You’ve just been burglarized!”
“It’s his home too, and this has to do with his investigation.”
“The dead Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know? Could be a regular break-in. Happens all the time.”
“If you saw the way they left the place, you’d know. This wasn’t done by a druggy or a housebreaker. They didn’t take any valuables or electronics, there’s no damage whatsoever, and the place is more tidy than it had been before they broke in. Come and see for yourself!”
When Fran and Lilly arrived, Keera was ready with a suitcase. She gave them a tour of the two-story townhouse.
“Neat,” Fran said. “Never seen anything like this.”
“What has he gotten himself into?” Keera glanced at her iPhone. The screen saver was a photo of Ben, smiling while pointing back at her. “I wish he’d call already!”
“I called in,” Fran said, “and had one of my officers run a data search through all the emergency services—cities, counties, hospitals. There’s nothing with Ben’s name and no accidents involving a BMW motorcycle.”
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