Black Point

by Sam Cade

  Theo walked in the building in the middle of their laugh. “Oh, good. Teddy, you’ll find this interesting,” said Liz.

  Theo took the article from his aunt. He read it carefully, eyes slowly going through each line.

  Very, very, very good news, thought Theo. He’d bump a note about that up to the cloud for Lucky.

  JAKE’S COMPUTER RESTED IN HIS LAP. It was 10:05 a.m. and he just signed on to the Black Point public library WiFi. He sat in a plush leather armchair with a huge window at his back allowing soft natural light to wash over him. Two yellow legal pads sat on the lampstand scribbled with information about cryptocurrency, Bitcoin and Monero.

  First, he checked the bureau email account linked to Theo’s computers. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Yesterday at 3:42 p.m. he got a call from Marcia. “Fuller just left. He was here on the computer seventy-six minutes exactly.”

  Jake walked outside the library and dialed Marcia Allen. “Good morning, Jake.”

  “This is a very important question, Marcia. Yesterday, did Theo’s computer have a Mr. Robot sticker on it?”

  “What?”

  “A sticker that said Mr. Robot, like the TV show?’

  “No.” She didn’t hesitate.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I was eight feet away from him. I could clearly make out the Dell circular logo on the cover. There were no stickers at all on the computer.”

  “Dell? Not Apple?”

  “Dell. I’m positive.”

  Damn! The stickers were on Macs.

  BACK IN HIS SEAT, Jake glanced over some notes he took last night on Bitcoin while Bonnie binge watched three episodes of Ozark. Cryptocurrency was frustrating. Too scientific, too mathematical. He just didn’t get it. Bonnie had been mostly quiet while he worked. Two bowls of ice cream helped, but at 10:15, she said, “Jake, have you noticed how Jason Bateman hasn’t aged a day in the last twenty years? He’s cute, too. But what I really like is he can be funny, sly funny. I love that.” Jake closed shop on that note.

  This morning he’d focus on Monero. He punched ‘Monero’ into Google.

  After three hours, Jake gleaned one unfortunate pertinent thing. From Wikipedia.

  “Monero uses an obfuscated public ledger, meaning anybody can broadcast or send transactions, but no outside observer can tell the source, amount, or destination.”

  Dark. The money went dark. That’s what Simmons was talking about.

  His stomach rumbled when his cell vibrated. It was from Washington. “Hold on, Ross. I need to step outside.”

  A refreshing breeze hit his face as he stepped outside under the covered entrance. Fat, slow raindrops from an overcast sky started splatting across the sidewalk.

  “Okay, Ross, get anything?”

  “Interesting assignment, Jake. It makes me wonder if I know what I’m doing.”

  “Lay it out for me.”

  “Okay, Lucas Knight. The Department of Defense has two active Lucas Knights. One is an army surgeon at Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany. He’s fifty-three and is there now. He has no son with the same name. There’s a Lucas Knight in naval basic training in Chicago. He’s nineteen. The army had another Lucas Knight, a thirty-one-year old who holds a civil engineering degree from Arkansas State. He’s been out of the military five years. He’s currently a civil engineer employed by Walmart and has a home address in Bentonville.”

  Jake put his foot up on the arm rail of the bench as he stood there. The breeze felt good. “Not our guys,” said Jake. “But nothing is something.”

  “Saving this for last. I checked in with Homeland Security. They’re over the Coast Guard. A Captain Lucas Knight retired eighteen months ago. He grew up in Orange Park, Florida, basically Jacksonville. Last post San Francisco. He’s forty-six years old.”

  “Damn, Ross. Smart checking with the coasties. It could be the guy. Where does he live now?”

  “Not sure where he lives. His retirement check is direct-deposited into Atlantic Coast Bank in Orange Park. They have a P.O. box listed for him. And I checked. It’s paid a year at a time. Oh, I got a cell phone.”

  “Ross, how’d you get people to give you this info so fast? That’s private stuff.”

  “A phone line that says F.B.I. when I call, and threats. Go heavy on the threats. I’ll show you how to look up a number and dial sometime.”

  “Right, right, right. We need a picture of the good captain as well as recent height and weight.”

  “Working on it.” Ross gave Jake the cell number for Lucas Knight, formerly of the Coast Guard. Jake had no intention to call. He wanted deep background first.

  “Now, Knight Force,” said Ross. “It’s a Wyoming LLC formed in early May. The listed registered agent is the lawyer that formed it. The likely reason it’s formed in Wyoming is that you do not have to list shareholders or company officers.”

  Early May? Four months ago. Around the time of the first murders. Jake’s antenna went up.

  “The office number on the website is a real landline. I called it asking to speak to Mr. Knight. A female said he was out of the country and would I care to leave my name and contact number? I said I’d get back. Then I called our San Diego office, asked them if they had any guy around Oceanside, where the office is located. I wanted somebody to run by the Knight Force location. Agent Stanley Kemp, they said. They gave me his number. I called him and told him if he could do us one single thing, I could get him an autographed Sports Illustrated cover photo of the legendary Jake Montoya spiking the ball in the Super Bowl. Know what he said?”

  “You’re a prick, Ross. What?”

  “Who the hell is Jake Montoya?”

  Jake pulled the phone away from his ear, Ross was laughing so loud.

  “Now that shit’s funny, Jake. Stanley’s a good dude. He went by yesterday. There’s a cheap sign on the door. The office was locked. He went next door and asked the neighbors when the office was open. They said they didn’t know. They’d never seen anyone there.”

  “Interesting. Priority number one. Bust your ass to get me a picture and status on Captain Lucas Knight.”

  “On it, man.”

  Has to be the coastie, Jake thought. When he got a picture, he’d show it to Liz.”

  Confirm it. But then what?

  98

  Cambridge, Maryland

  Friday, September 6, 2019

  LIBBY GRAMBLING’S POWERFUL BLACK MERCEDES AMG S 63 cabriolet zipped right past Lucky who was watching the home from fifty yards away. He was hidden in a small patch of woods with a pair of compact Leitz binoculars slung around his neck. The 650-horsepower car had a throaty rumble and a sleek look. It should, it cost $190 k. He didn’t get a good look at her, but he knew the Benz with the top down would transform a plain woman into a stunner.

  He lifted the glasses to his eyes as she pulled in the drive. Libby went to the front door of the cottage, fumbled with a code, unlocked the door. She skipped back to the car, retrieved a paper grocery sack and an overnight bag.

  Fifteen minutes later a cloud of white smoke began to swirl in the breeze from the bungalow’s chimney. Cozying up the place.

  A deepening gray filled the sky. Light mist hit him as he reached the van a half mile away. It was 4:30. Temps were dropping.

  A SEXY WOMAN, YEARS YOUNGER, fine wine, good groceries, and a crackling fire on a chilly night. Draper Sims could already smell her. His rental car was mired in a mob of Friday afternoon traffic racing out of D.C. as he drove across the Chesapeake. His mind was laser locked on the thought of Libby’s long legs. Plus, she had a little freak in her, something his wife lost twenty-four hours after they were married. It all had the promise of an exciting weekend.

  9:35 P.M. FIFTY-EIGHT DEGREES, HEAVY MIST. Lucky stood in a shadow outside the cottage window wearing a dark rain resistant parka and a black balaclava ski mask. His work boots were two sizes too large, bought at Walmart in Easton. Mud leaves footprints. He’d rather not leave his exact shoe size.
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br />   The window shades were drawn, but there were still areas of light shining through, small peek-a-boo holes.

  Sims’ rental was parked behind the Benz. No porch lights on. Lovers in the dark. No moonlight. Stars blocked by clouds. A truly dismal mid-Atlantic summer night. The van was parked next door at an empty, dark home with a VRBO sign in the yard.

  Lucky eased around the rear of Libby’s cottage. Through a beautiful span of four French doors, he spotted Draper and Libby having a romantic meal.

  Draper sat at the head of the long table, Libby to his right. Two candles flanked a small bouquet of flowers. Draper poured some more wine in Libby’s glass as Lucky got them in view. Their plates were pushed to the side. Libby took a sip, smiled, said something. Draper stood, went behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned over to kiss her neck. She turned to give him a long, slow kiss on the mouth. Draper took her hand and led her slowly to the bedroom.

  A quarter inch slit in skinny venetian blinds allowed a glimpse into the bedroom from the side of the cottage. Lit candles on the dresser and nightstand. A low height king-size bed.

  The lovemaking started slowly with sensual foreplay. Clothes came off. Draper’s hands explored every inch of her body. Kisses followed his hands. Things escalated quickly after that.

  Draper maneuvered Libby onto her knees and elbows and eased her to the foot of the bed. With the bed low enough, Draper stood on the floor, lined himself up, and began thrusting into her from the rear. Then he started smacking her rear like he was a porn star. Whether it hurt or not, she squawked with every pop. Draper talked throughout the experience, likely voicing expressions of his male jungle dominance.

  Lucky knew he didn’t understand women. Libby was smart, tall, slim, attractive, and outlandishly wealthy. What does she see in this aging married lout?

  Everything ended abruptly when Lucky heard Draper bellow like a moose then crash to the bed like his heart stopped.

  Is this it? Sacked out for the night? If so, Lucky would give plenty of time for them to get to sleep. The street was dead. Not a single car passed since he’d been at the house.

  He wrestled with how to handle Libby. He knew he didn’t want to kill her. He’d watch the dynamics of the scene over the next hour.

  Ten minutes later Draper got out of bed. He went to his suitcase and grabbed a pair of pajamas. He looked like a man losing the battle with time. Flabby chick breasts, loose fat around the midsection, legs going skinny.

  Draper padded barefoot into the great room, turned a table lamp on, took his wine glass from the table, and refilled it. He threw another log on the fire, sat down and popped up his iPad. Libby came into the room wearing a robe, stood in front of him, leaned down and gave him a kiss, whispered something, and smiled. She stood up, slipped off the robe, tossed it on the couch, all the while smiling. Totally naked, she put her arms behind her head for him to take a long look. Nice, a real glamour puss. She spoke to him. Lucky imagined something like, “so how do you like Cambridge so far?” Then she walked to the bedroom.

  Lucky went back to the side of the house. He placed his ear to the window. He heard powerful shower water.

  His decision was quick.

  Lucky raced back to the front stoop. The porch light was off. He wore blue nitrile gloves. Draper sat on a couch, fifteen feet away facing the rear of the house, answering an email from his second chair that was sent three hours ago. Lucky put his hand on the doorknob, slowly twisted.

  Unlocked.

  The door opened silently. Lucky took five quick lunges to the rear of the couch and slid his right arm quickly around and under Draper’s jaw. He pulled up hard into the rear blood choke hold. Sims could only get out a low moan that would be impossible to hear from the shower. With his right arm snaking tightly around both carotids, Lucky pushed the lawyer’s head forward from the rear with his left hand. He then hunched backward with his shoulders, the last step. The blood flow to his brain slammed shut.

  Ten seconds. Draper Sims was out.

  Lucky pulled tape from the pocket of his parka and spooled a loop around the mouth. Next, he zip-tied Draper’s wrists and ankles. He picked the iPad off the floor and placed it on the table next to the wine glass.

  Lucky placed both hands under Draper’s armpits and dragged him through the still-open front door to the grass. He went back inside and listened. Heard shower water. He locked the front door from the inside, went back to Draper and dragged him to the van.

  Libby, covered with a peach and white jasmine body wash, sang a Cold Play song in a steamy hot shower while the two-minute action scene took place in the great room.

  She thought the evening could not be going any better.

  99

  THE MIST BROKE TO THE POINT THAT LUCKY DIDN’T NEED to use the wipers on the van. He drove cautiously, five miles per hour below the speed limit. Damn sure hoped he didn’t pass the ranger’s pickup. Draper Sims was now conscious, thrashing with a hope that would never come.

  It took twenty-five minutes to reach the target spot at the refuge. The narrow off-shoot firebreak road was more of a wide path, covered with wet pine straw and strewn with damp hardwood leaves.

  At fifty feet in, total blackness started to swallow the van headlights. What it looks like from the inside when the coffin lid closes. Lucky drove another hundred feet, stopped the van, and left the headlights on.

  Lucky dragged two tires out of the van and stacked them on top of each other. He took a five-gallon plastic canister with an oil-gasoline mixture and sloshed some over the tires. He brought two more tires over and placed them on the ground.

  Back at the van, Lucky pulled Draper out of the van by his feet and let him slam to the ground. Sims was bucking like a bull in a summer rodeo, moaning nonstop.

  “Stop fighting so we can negotiate your ransom.” Lucky bent with the idea of throwing Sims over his shoulder. Sims kept bucking.

  The taser came out. “I asked nicely.” Lucky blew a shot into Sims’ chest. Sims rolled on his side and moaned. After thirty seconds Lucky removed the darts, grabbed Sims under his arms and dragged him to the tires. Lucky tossed off his parka. Sims was tall but skinny, maybe 170 pounds.

  Lucky bent down, grabbed Sims and attempted to throw him over his shoulder. Sims bucked and Lucky dropped him. He grabbed the pistol from the parka. The barrel was three feet from Sims’ left knee when the bullet was fired.

  “I’ve got more ammo if I need it.”

  Sims tried to go into the fetal position, but it was agonizing trying to bend his left knee.

  “Let’s try it again.” Lucky placed Sims in a sitting position, squatted down and pulled Sims onto his shoulder. Lucky groaned as he lifted the dead weight. He placed the man’s tied ankles into the tires and stood Sims up straight into a standing position.

  “Stay still and we’ll work this out like gentlemen. Don’t move if you want to live.”

  Sims had never felt pain like this in his life, but he’d try to follow directions.

  Lucky took his hand off Sims, grabbed another tire, bulky, heavy, and unwieldy, and managed to get it in the air above Sims’ head. He dropped it on Sims’ shoulders and roughly pulled it down over the man’s chest.

  Sims hollered as the tire struck him.

  The tire came to rest on the other two tires. Lucky bent over with his hands on his knees, huffing. Damn tires are heavy.

  At this point Draper was locked in. The tires reached his waist, his arms were handcuffed in high-tensile nylon.

  Lucky glanced down at the last tire. Let’s do it. He exhaled as he lifted the tire up. The fourth tire slammed Sims’ neck. Lucky pulled it down until it met the other tires.

  Draper Sims had tires encircling him up to the top of his chest. He was in his PJs shaking like a paint mixer, making his knee hurt even more. Tears poured from his eyes. His face contorted into stark raving fear. He would have done anything to get the tape off his mouth so he could plead.

  Van headlights blinded the atto
rney.

  “In case you’re wondering counselor, it’s about the money. It was a simple but direct invitation to contribute. But you ignored it. Only a pittance of your massive net worth. Bet you’d like to have that decision to make again.”

  Lucky reached up and ripped the tape off of Sims. “Okay, just to be lawyerly fair, your turn to interrogate.”

  “Burn in hell cocksucker.”

  “I’ll be in the suite right next to you, counselor. Gonna give you a preview right now.”

  Lucky hoisted the heavy fuel container and began to pour. Gasoline and oil sloshed over Draper Sims’ head, down into his eyes and mouth, and soaked his pajamas to his feet. His eyes burned like they were scorched with acid. He started spitting, trying to get the godawful fuel out of his mouth.

  Lucky placed the Canon on the tripod into position to capture what would happen next. Then he soaked a rag with the fuel. Draper could only see a silhouette of Lucky with the truck headlights in his eyes.

  “Draper, I think I’ll get George Clooney to play you in the movie. We’ll get Jennifer Lawrence to play your little squeeze in the cottage. The Draper Sims Story is gonna be a blockbuster.”

  Draper hollered prayers to Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Muhammed, the Holy Ghost and any god in any heaven in any universe.

  Then he negotiated.

  “Anything. You can have anything. Ohhhh, goddamn, I SAID ANYTHING!” His words broke up between coughs caused by fuel oil seeping down his throat.

  Lucky picked up a four-foot long thin pine limb and skewered the soaked rag onto the end of it. He pulled a Bic lighter from his pocket, flicked out a flame and touched the rag. Lucky stood as far away from Sims as he could get. The flaming rag inched through the air until...

  WHOOOMPFFFFF! The fire started at Draper’s feet and raced towards his head. The flames sucked the oxygen from the air.

  Immense heat rushed over Lucky as Draper glowed like a biblical sacrifice.

  The lawyer’s screams of agony did not stop until his face and ears melted off his skull. Fire raced into his eyes and ears burning straight into his brain. Drops of fuel had drained south into his stomach and lungs. Fire chased it all the way down into his intestines. Draper’s ribs began to burn like fatwood kindling.