by Andrew Allan
I watched the woods whip by, and grew anxious wondering if we’d pass the man who shot the propane tank. Was he fast enough to shoot us off the ATV? It had to be driving close to forty miles per hour. That doesn’t sound like much, but when you have less than a foot of space on each side of your vehicle and the road keeps twisting and turning, it feels like too much speed.
A few moments later, I stood corrected. We hadn’t been on Black Path. We were just now entering it. The ATV rumbled down a rough log ramp that went into the earth and led towards a tunnel. So much foliage covered the opening. You’d have to fall into it before you’d know it was there.
The opening led into a dark underground pathway made from natural caves caused by the sinkholes. The same type of sinkholes you hear about on the news when they swallow a house hole. That happened a couple of years ago in the City of Mango, on the outskirts of Tampa. The sinkhole took the house and the owner down into the earth forever.
Bannon flipped on the ATV’s headlights, illuminating the way. Thick wood beams had been installed to fortify the chasm. It was wet, dirty, and the ATV’s engine echoed loud inside. Too loud to ask Bannon where we were going.
So, I did my best to think through the latest events. Cops arrest us and turn us over to the French speaking – yes, it had to be French - man along the side of the road. Thanks to DG’s police scanning, we get saved at the last minute. Bannon tries to chain whip information out of the Frenchman and gets nothing. That means Frenchy and his gang were some fearless motherfuckers. One of them was already dead back in Gainesville. Bannon might have killed Frenchy. I didn’t feel bad for hoping so.
Then, I remembered the one small possible clue Bannon found - the newspaper clipping announcing my fugitive status. But, that wasn’t the important part. What mattered was the flip side of the newspaper. The side with the advertisement for a men’s fashion store located in Lake Butler, Florida.
Lake Butler was the county seat of Union County. Frenchy and the boys all sat in cars outside Ilsa’s place with Union County plates. It’s one thing to steal a car from Union County as a way to throw people off your trail. Presuming word would get out about a murder at Ilsa’s. But, it seemed hard to believe these guys would clip a newspaper from the smallest county in the state and not actually be from around there. If I was right, I now had a fix on where they came from. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
But, that wasn’t even the most significant detail.
Ilsa’s flip comment about executions had reminded me that Union County was home to Florida’s Death Row. Ken had a Capital Punishment folder. I thought it was out of place and meant nothing important. But, maybe it did.
Had Ken been campaigning against Capital Punishment? Had he pissed off one of its supporters? Would anyone want capital punishment to exist so much they’d kill for it? Maybe. The prison industry was huge and growing. Prison privatization brought in mega money. It could all be connected. There was no way to get the file now. It was either destroyed or soaking in the rubble that had been DG’s house. And by now, that rubble was surrounded by cops and firemen.
I needed to get to a computer and research the names I’d written down from Ken’s files. Find out who they were, what they did, and figure out why they might have killed Ken. See if any of them connected to Union County, the prison system, or capitol punishment. I also needed to talk to Tom and learn the contents of the glass vial. That could give me another lead.
Bannon raced the ATV through the swerves and curves of Black Path. We passed several tunnels that forked off in other, undisclosed directions. My guess: the Black Path was like the Underground Railroad of illicit activities.
Daylight appeared up ahead. Bannon raced towards it. Moments later we exited the tunnel and roared into another wooded area.
A few turns later and Bannon had us driving down a hilly pass into a small, unremarkable town just to the south of Dunnellon. He pulled up and parked the ATV behind a barn just off the main drag. My ears were ringing after the engine shut off.
“Where are we?”
“Citrus Springs. East side,” said Bannon. “But, not for long. I gotta stash this shit and boogie over to DG’s other place, get it up and running.”
“What about me?”
“What about you,” he said as he unlatched the barn door.
“I need a computer. I need to get to Clearwater.”
He carried the banged up wooden box full of mysterious contents into the barn and set it down next to a car. Before exiting the barn, he pulled a ring of keys off a wall hook and tossed it to me.
“I need the buggy. You can take these wheels.”
I looked at the car. If the meanest, nastiest group of bikers you had ever seen decided to trade in their bikes for a car, this was what it would look like - Flat, deep charcoal grey paint job, polished chrome grill, and a blower erupting out of the hood. Silver detailing. Spikes on the tires. Attitude to spare.
“Thanks. A little flashy for someone trying to stay under the radar. But, I’ll take it,” I said.
“Well, if you attract too much attention, it’ll get you out of a jam quick. Just bring it back in one piece,” said Bannon.
We shook hands and I hopped in the car.
I ignited the engine, and it roared to life. It rumbled with such force I worried it would shake the old barn apart. I drove the mean machine out of the barn, waved to Bannon, and hit the road. Next stop, Clearwater.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MY ROUTE WAS I-75 through Tampa then the Courtney Campbell Causeway across Old Tampa Bay into Clearwater. I grew up there. It’s right on the Gulf of Mexico, most noted for it’s white, powder sugar beaches and Scientologists. It was a screwy combination to say the least, but somehow it all worked. It wasn’t backwoods like the northern part of Florida, it didn’t have the cocaine and Cuban flair of Miami, and it’s not the family fun wonderland of Orlando. Clearwater also doesn’t have the sleazy vibe of its better-known, lesser-dressed city across the bay, Tampa. But, both are part of the Tampa Bay area along with St. Petersburg.
I made two stops on the way to Tom’s lab. First, I swung by to check my "winter" house. It was a modest suburban home built in the late 60’s. My ex-and I bought it from a home flipper who bought it from a one-legged drug dealer who hosted thugs, crooks, and prostitutes, all while dealing in a bathrobe out under the large jacaranda tree. Unlike most dwellings in Florida, ours had some charming history.
I liked it enough to hang onto it after I bought the A-frame up at the river. Now, it was where I crashed when I returned to town for business. After all, this area was one of the capitals of infomercials ever since Home Shopping Club started here back in the late 70’s, first as a radio station, then as a local cable channel (where the TV hosts would personally deliver the products to your doorstep after they got off they air), then as a national cable cash cow that moos to this day.
There would be no stopping by the house. A recent model white pickup truck sat parked two houses down. It was facing away, but its side mirror was aimed at my driveway. I could see the shaded outline of a man inside, slumped down. The truck was too clean to be the killers’. I guessed cop. Best to not stick around. I turned down a side road then looped out of the neighborhood.
I left DG’s car in the parking lot of a Peruvian restaurant two blocks from Tom’s office. He and I ate there often. It was cheap and good.
As I walked to Tom’s, I realized just how beat to hell my body felt. My wrists were sore from the handcuffs that morning. My whole body ached from the explosion. My ass hurt and still buzzed from the vibrations of the ATV. And, my nerves were shot. But, I had no choice. I needed to keep going.
Tom’s office had front and rear entrances. I opted for the back door, presuming that the killers or police were staking out the place,
Tom answered my knock and startled at my appearance. “Walt.”
“Can I come in?”
“Is it true? I saw the news.”
“Invite
me in, offer me a drink, make me feel like a lady first. Then, I’ll give you the full scoop.”
He looked past me to see if anyone was watching, then let me in. He closed and locked the door fast.
“Man, what’s been going on?” he said, worry in his voice.
I brought him up to speed on current events the best I could.
“So, did you really kill that guy?”
I shrugged and felt a pang of guilt. He looked disappointed.
“It was self defense. I had no choice,” I said.
He blew out a big, slow breath under wide eyes as he grasped the weight of the situation.
“So, that glass vial you brought me is related to all of this.”
“Yes. Find out what was in it?”
He nodded, looking grave and puzzled. “It’s dangerous stuff, Walt. Really dangerous.”
“Like?” I said.
“Like I could get arrested for having it here dangerous,” he said. “Pure, liquid nicotine, VX, and Batrachotoxin.” Saying it made him look like he had just tasted something awful.
“Sounds like a chemical weapon,” I said.
“Essentially, yes,” said Tom.
Jesus. My heart sunk with this revelation. If these guys could get those chemicals, they could get anything they wanted. Anything they needed to stop me.
I looked down at my hand, worried I may have gotten splashed with toxins when I jabbed the glass vial into “Barry Wilson’s” neck. I wiped it on my pant leg.
“No wonder it works so fast,” I said.
“If Ken was hit with a dose of this, he didn’t have a chance. It’s a brutal cocktail.”
I wandered around the room, thinking.
“Any idea if these elements could be traced in the body?”
“What are you a detective now?”
“Survivalist, it seems.”
“Don’t know for certain, but I would presume they could.”
“So, they weren’t worried about hiding the murder.” I thought for a moment. “Because they don’t expect to get caught.”
“Why would they believe that?” said Tom.
“Because they’re connected and protected. By someone who can manipulate cops, who can plant bogus murder stories about me in the papers,” I said.
“So, they’re just the hired help.”
I nodded. “I need to figure out who hired them. And, approach them.”
He held up the glass vial. “I’m pretty sure the guys using this stuff are going to stay in your way. Unless you can get to their boss first.”
I paused and wondered how the hell I would pull that off. It was a fresh reminder of my complete inexperience in this realm, how unprepared I truly was. “Where would they get those chemicals?” I said.
Tom shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Pure liquid nicotine can be had with some ease. The other two not so much. I did some research...Batrachotoxin is a super potent non-peptide—the most potent, in fact. Comes from frog excretions and is used for poison darts. VX was developed for pesticides in the nineteen fifties, but...”
“What?” I said, drawn in.
He gave me a blank look. “It’s so dangerous the world’s stockpiles were supposed to have been destroyed.”
Tom continued, “The last place said to have it was a stockpile in Anniston, Alabama.”
I had no response and looked out the window, at the trees swaying in the breeze across the pond. I no longer had the time to appreciate the small, simple things.
“There was also a European company that had it, Velmont,” said Tom, surprising me with more information.
“Had?” I said.
“Went out of business eight years ago. They had a sales office in Rennes, France with manufacturing in Vitré, a village not too far away,” he said.
I hopped off my stool, excited. “These guys were French! They had French accents. They could have gotten it there.” I started pacing around the room.
Tom nodded, conceding agreement. “Makes sense. So, what can you do with that information?”
“I have no fucking idea.” My excitement fizzled.
“I could find out who worked there, maybe. Match that with travel logs, passport records,” I said.
“And you have access to all that sort of information?” Tom looked at me skeptical.
“No.”
“And, you’re in good enough standing to work with the authorities to make those types of queries?”
“Definitely not. Shit. I could look for French people in Union County. How many could there be? It’s Hickville.”
“Probably not many, if you’re ready to find and confront them.”
“I’m ready to get them off my back.”
Anger flared in my voice and Tom looked surprised to hear it.
“Didn’t mean to aim that frustration at you, friend,” I said.
“You get cranky when you’re hungry. When was the last time you ate?”
“Too long.”
He reached for his keys and a jacket. “I’ll walk over and get us some chow. You sit tight.” Tom walked over to the front door.
“Mind if use your computer?”
“Go for it. Password is ProfessorPowertron, one word. ”
“God, I knew you were a nerd.”
He smiled and out he went.
I fired up Tom’s laptop, punched in the password and checked my email. My inbox was bursting and the majority of emails appeared to be from clients losing their patience. They wanted to know what was up with their particular script.
The majority of my clients were based outside of Florida, so only one inquired about me being a wanted man...and was that going to prevent me from delivering work on time? Classic client behavior. Always thinking about themselves. I told them not to worry. Something as trivial as murder wasn’t going to jeopardize my ability to make deadline. Sure, it was probably a lie. But, why scare paying clients off?
I reminded myself that emails and business weren’t the reason I’d hopped on the computer. I needed answers, so I pulled out the scribble-scratch list of names I’d taken from Ken’s files and started to Google them.
I spent a good thirty minutes punching in names, all corporate titans with a penchant for thumbing their noses at Florida and its citizens. It was amazing to see how those guys, who always complained about the poor and taxes and so on, were the biggest welfare queens around; always wanting exceptions from the state, a break from the rules, money from the government till.
An article popped up about Phoscore Industries, one of the state’s largest sand dredging companies. They’ve pock marked the state for years, buying up land, digging up sand, and selling to the highest bidder. The article quoted Ken and his informed opinion about Phoscore’s detrimental business practices. It also quoted Phoscore’s CEO, Jert Maynard and his position on Ken Kerenz. He wasn’t a fan. And, he went so far as to say, “if Ken Kerenz is going to continue trying to undermine Phoscore’s business, we have no choice but to go after his business.”
That sounded like a threat. But, would they go so far as to kill Ken? Would they kill him after letting a quote like that get in the paper for all to read? The article was just a few months old. If I were a detective, I’d be very interested in speaking to Mr. Maynard in light of Ken’s death. In truth, I was a detective now.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I PICKED UP the office phone as I tried to recall Kathy Kerenz’s cell phone number. I took a guess and stabbed the phone buttons. As it rang I started feeling overwhelmed by it all. I thought about Ilsa, missing her, wanting to be with her. If we both wanted to be together, why weren’t we? I didn’t even know where she was. I should have listened and gone with her.
Kathy answered.
“Kathy, it’s Walt. Asher,” I said.
“Oh, Walt. What’s going on? I saw your name in the papers. And, Nadine Evers. Ken knew her!”
She’d started to cry. “It’s all just too much.”
“It’s all right, Kathy. I’m fine.
You have enough to worry about without worrying about me.”
“But, what happened?” she said.
“Look...” I took a beat to think of the best way to phrase what I had to say to a woman grieving the extra fresh death of her husband. “I'm pretty certain Ken didn’t die of natural causes. I started looking into it—“
“You think he was killed?” she said. A heavy silence followed.
“It’s looking that way. And, I’ve had a few close calls myself. From the same people.”
“And, Nadine? The paper said she had a heart attack.”
“I don’t buy it,” I said.
“But...why would someone do that to Ken? He was such a good man.”
“Kathy, I only have a moment. I don’t have the answers you need, but I will try to get them for you. And, I can do that if you'll help me.”
All I heard on the other end of the line was a sniff then a long sigh. When she came back on, her voice was pinched, throat constrained, trying to hold back an avalanche of emotions.
“Kathy, I had a chance to go through Ken’s files, to look for any information that would tip me off about who might have been after him. I didn’t find much. I also ran into Nadine after the funeral. She said Ken had discovered something massive. Something that would make heads roll. Did he tell you what that was?”
“He said he had something that could expose a lot of people. Government people. And, corporate people,” she said.
“Did he say who?”
“No. Just that he could kill about twelve birds with one stone. And, there’d be, um, what he called aftershocks.”
“Sounds big. Nothing in his files pointed towards that. These were files out of the river house. Did he keep files anywhere else? In another room? A safe deposit box, maybe?”
“Not that I know of,” she said.
“If I can find out what he knew I’m certain it will help us track his killers down,” I said.
A moment passed with no response. Then...