by Louis Barr
We played more poker while waiting for the new algorithm to do its thing. In the time it took me to call Hope to check that all was well, then win twenty bucks from Mars, the computer completed its search.
And again, nothing, nada, zero, zip, bupkis.
Mars pulled a bottle of single malt out of a desk drawer and poured each of us two fingers, neat. We discussed a couple of new notation ideas, then we debated and dismissed them. I would’ve tossed something across the office had Mars anything on his desk to pitch. I briefly considered the scotch tumbler I held in my hand, but it felt and looked a bit too expensive to willfully shatter against a wall. I settled for a string of curse words.
I leaned back in my chair, sipped my scotch, then helped myself to more. A thought struck me. What if Tucker operated a farm or ranch vocational training program for troubled teens or an agricultural training halfway house for newly paroled inmates? Either of the two could be established as a nonprofit organization.
I told Mars what I thought. He made a new notation for a Tucker serving on the board of directors of a nonprofit organization.
In minutes, Mars yelled, “Well, fuck me raw, we’ve found the sonofabitch!”
I read the monitor. A Cletus J. Tucker served as president and CEO of a nonprofit vocational training program for troubled teens and young adults. The tax-exempt corporation did business as “the Ranch.” And I now had the property’s legal description and location. I felt certain it was at this rural address that I’d find Shane Danning.
“I see why he goes by Jud. I mean, Cletus? His parents should’ve been locked up for child abuse,” Mars said.
Although it was a holdover from our years at the Point, we bumped fists.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Mars asked.
“I’ve several things I’d like you to do tomorrow at precisely 1145 hours.” I told Mars what I needed from him.
“That’s a big 10-4.” He winked and smiled. “We still make a helluva team.”
“We do,” I said.
And once again, he and I teamed up for the night.
Chapter Forty-Four
You Win
Clint, Wednesday, May 23
Arriving at the office about a minute behind Hope, I watched her unholster her S&W thirty-eight special and return the gun to her desk’s middle drawer, leaving it open about six inches.
“Everyone’s safe?” I asked.
Hope frowned. “Would I be here otherwise?”
“Update me, please.”
“Ian, Stella, and your pets are fine. Two retired cops are guarding them while I’m here. A bomb squad buddy of mine checked your Flats property and double-checked our office building. He neither found explosive nor incendiary devices here, nor on your house, nor in your lawn, nor in any of your gardens.”
“Thank you.”
“You are most certainly welcome.” Hope aimed her hazel eyes at me. “I don’t like this plan of yours. We don’t know enough about Jud Tucker even to guess his next move.”
“At 1145 hours, Tucker will be too busy stomping out brush fires to be coming after anyone.” I checked my watch. “Is the digital recorder ready?”
“Locked and loaded,” Hope said.
I went to my office and called Jud Tucker.
“Good morning, Clint,” Tucker said. “How’s the search going?”
“I’ve been searching nonstop since you called yesterday. It’s as if you vanished after you quit the L.A. Fire Department. Nothing about you or any of Mystic Canyon Casino’s employees is listed anywhere on the web. I can’t find your address.” I turned up the despondency. “I guess you’ve won.”
Jud Tucker chuckled. “Looks like I did.”
“You have your five-million-dollar ransom.” I paused. “What can I do to save Shane Danning’s life?”
Tucker said, “Meet me in my casino office at 1200 hours. If you’re late, your half brother is dead. If I even suspect you contacted the cops or feds, both you and Danning are dead. You got it?”
“I’ll come alone.”
Tucker ended the call.
I called Captain Flynn. He answered on the first ring.
“I’m heading out,” I said.
“Steele, I don’t like this plan of yours one fucking bit.”
“I’m still your deputy,” I said.
“And I can undeputize your ass fucking fast.”
“I emailed you my recordings of Tucker’s and my conversations. You have his admissions of the homicides and kidnappings he committed. If you find the right judge, you should have enough to get both a search and an arrest warrant. I want to find Danning before you come charging in with your posse.”
“I’ll have warrants, all right.” Flynn paused before saying, “I know you’re former Delta and can take care of yourself. I still don’t like this.”
“Make certain your FBI buddies are at Mystic Canyon Casino at 1145 hours. You bring the state and local cops to Tucker’s ranch at 1300 hours. Shane Danning and I will be waiting for you.”
Always on top of everything, Hope handed me my backpack. “Be safe, Clint.” She hugged me.
I ran to my car.
Chapter Forty-Five
Inexorable Force
Clint, The Ranch, Wednesday, May 23
I love Los Angeles—L.A. traffic, not so much. There are occasional exceptions, but in general, driving here is a frigging nightmare. And I had no time to spare.
I inched along Sunset, made a right on Sepulveda Way, and finally merged onto the 405. Fifteen miles later, I got onto the 5N. Eventually, traffic thinned slightly. Everyone began behaving like Angeleno motorists, speeding and driving like assholes. In about thirty minutes, I passed Valencia. About twenty miles north of Magic Mountain, the landscape changed to farmhouses and fields.
I followed a two-lane highway until the GPS lady told me to turn at the next right. Minutes later, I stopped outside a high gate posted with “The Ranch—No Trespassing.”
The bolt cutters I kept hidden in my car got me past the chained and padlocked gate, which I stopped to close. Even when breaking and entering, private investigators can be courteous.
I drove past truck gardens of lettuce, sweet corn, tomatoes, green beans, and squash. Fields of stubble told me the winter wheat had been harvested. A beef herd grazed in a meadow. I rounded a sharp curve, and a white Western Reserve–style house came into view.
Parked and concealed in a stand of pines, I got out of my car, pulled binoculars from my pack, and did a thorough reconnaissance of the area. I neither saw nor heard anyone in or around the house, barn, or outbuildings. I did not spot ranch hands working anywhere.
I pulled my Glock, chambered a round, then checked my pack. I smiled to myself. As if seventy-year-old Hope Whitman could ever forget anything I needed for a job.
I followed a line of conifers to the garage and kept myself concealed as I worked my way to the east side of the two-story house. Glancing around a corner, I saw no one. I crept along the back side of the building.
I stopped beside a window and peeked into a sparsely furnished barracks. The two rows of bunk beds, all tightly made, could’ve each bounced a dime. I saw no one.
Squatting beneath the windows, I listened. No birds chirping and no dogs barking. A stench in the air confirmed that Tucker raised a few pigs.
The breeze shifted. From the direction of the barn came an unforgettable, unmistakable battlefield odor—a distinct, repulsive stench that would remain in my nose, mouth, and throat for hours. I considered checking it out but thought better of it. Without a doubt, the barn was a crime scene, which Captain Flynn and his posse would handle. I had only one job: find Shane Danning.
Continuing along the house’s rear wall, I peeked in the window of an unoccupied kitchen. Staying low, I ran to the jalousied all-season porch, opened the screen door, and stepped inside.
Shoes and boots in differing sizes, all scuffed, many with holes or split seams had been placed in matching pairs along the por
ch’s baseboards. Tucker’s trophies, I inferred.
A six-panel solid oak door led into the kitchen. I pressed an ear against the wood. I heard nothing. Turning the doorknob, I softly growled, “Fucking locked.” I reached into my pack for my burglar tools.
I shot graphite into the keyhole. Armed with a torsion wrench and pick gun, I unlocked the door on the first try. If anyone had been standing near the kitchen, I’d lost the element of surprise.
A hallway led to the kitchen. Staying low and moving fast, I swept my Glock from left to right.
Behind me, a pantry door opened on oiled hinges.
“Dude, your ass belongs to me,” a vaguely familiar voice said, laughing.
I turned and saw Blaine Vogel, one of the two university students who’d witnessed Danning’s abduction.
Vogel pointed a revolver at my chest. His eyes narrowed. “Is that a semiautomatic?”
“Yes, it is.” I knew I’d soon get the opportunity to take that gun away from Vogel.
“I’ll be taking that off your hands. Put down the gun and kick it out of reach. Fuck with me, and you’ll get a round in your guts.” He smiled. “A wound like that gives you plenty of time to feel some serious hurt before you die.”
“You watch way too many crime shows.”
“Don’t piss me off. Do what I said.”
I bent at the waist, set my Glock on the floor, stood, abruptly turned, and kicked Vogel’s weapon out of his hand. I spun Vogel face first into the wall.
“You should always cock a revolver before pointing it at someone,” I said while twisting his right arm behind his back, lifting it to about an inch from dislocating his shoulder. He started bawling like a little boy, but I kept him pinned to the wall. “Don’t fucking move.” I cuffed his wrists behind his back and grabbed my Glock off the floor. I slid Vogel’s revolver into an evidence bag and dropped it into my pack.
“Sonofabitch, I think you broke my wrist. It fuckin’ hurts.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Vogel tried not to cry, but tears kept lining his tanned cheeks. “Dude…I was only fucking around. I never would’ve shot you.”
I considered knocking out Vogel’s front teeth for lying, but held back. “Where’s your playmate?”
“At home.”
I exhaled a laugh, grabbed a fistful of hair, and pounded Vogel’s head against the plastered wall a couple, three times. Or maybe four. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
“Blake’s asleep on the living room sofa,” Vogel whimpered.
I frog-marched Vogel to a six-panel envelope door, slid it open about a foot, and saw Vogel’s fuck buddy asleep on the couch.
I wrapped my left arm around Vogel’s throat and held my Glock to the side of his chest. “Tell your sleeping princess to come to the kitchen.”
“Blake, come here and see what I got,” Vogel called in a phlegmy voice.
Blake Walsh entered the kitchen in less than a minute, rubbing sleep from his eyes with both hands. He had a gun in the left front pocket of his baggy shorts. “Woo-hoo! Detective Mouthwatering! No fuckin’ way we’re giving this one to Tucker.”
Blake Walsh froze, seeing my gun pointed at his chest.
“With your thumb and forefinger, set your gun on the floor.” I watched Walsh’s eyes and hands. “I’ll put a hollow point in your eye before you can lift that revolver out of your pocket and above your balls. With your thumb and forefinger on the stock, pull the gun out of your pocket and drop it.”
Blake Walsh dropped the revolver. I kicked it out of reach and holstered my gun. I spun Walsh around and cuffed his hands behind his back.
I pushed Vogel and Walsh to the floor and propped their backs against the kitchen cabinets. I shook my head in disgust. “Tucker shouldn’t let you little boys play with matches, let alone firearms.” I retrieved and bagged Walsh’s revolver, pulled out one of the kitchen table’s chairs, and straddled it backward. The wall phone rang. Their eyes wet, Vogel and Walsh turned their heads toward the sound.
Apparently, voice mail answered the call after four rings. I glowered at Walsh and Vogel. “Quit crying and start talking.”
“We’re not telling you jack shit,” Vogel said, his face and voice jagged with defiance.
I let out a tired sigh, pulled my gun, and fired a single round into the strip of kitchen cabinetry between their heads. Walsh screamed. Vogel pissed his pants.
“I’ll begin shooting off ears until someone’s lips start moving.” I waited a beat before pointing my gun at Blake Walsh.
“No!” Blake screamed as if I’d slammed a kitchen drawer shut on his dick. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” With my phone on video, I pointed my gun at Blaine Vogel’s forehead.
“Tuck likes them fifteen to twenty-nine, male or female, athletic and fit.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Blaine and I cruised the streets, bars, bus, and train depots…you know, any place we can find runaway teens or down-and-out young men and women who haven’t gotten the look and stink of the streets on them yet.”
“Any of these people happen to be friends or classmates of yours?”
Vogel snorted. “Fuck, dude, do we look like retards?”
I looked into Vogel’s face and saw the cold, black eyes of something reptilian. Human life meant nothing to him.
Walsh spoke up. “We especially like cruising bus depots. Blaine and I can spot hungry runaways who don’t have a dollar to their names and no one to meet them in the City of Angels…except us.”
Vogel sneered. “Besides all those runaway teens, there’s an ass-ton of twentysomething vets from Bumfuck-ganistan all messed up with PTSD. Then there are all the young people from East Shitztown Indiana and other Deep Hole America spots who think Hollywood’s never seen a face as handsome, or an actor as talented, or a musician as gifted, or a porn star with a cock as big.”
Walsh smirked, shaking his head. “We might tell a young male or female runaway that we work for a talent agency, and we like his or her looks.”
“We buy them something to eat,” Vogel said. “Shit, they’re all starving, and we listen to their sob stories. We get them drunk and bring them here.” He shrugged. “It’s that easy.”
“Tucker gives them three meals a day, a place to sleep, and in return, they work the fields. Those needing medical care get that from Tucker. Blaine and I get to fuck and torture those who slack off in the fields or somehow turn difficult. Then we process them, as Tucker calls it.” He smiled. “Eventually, they all get processed off the Ranch.”
I stared into Walsh’s eyes. “When you say processed, you’re telling me that Tucker and you Bobbsey Twins from hell kill them, harvest their organs, and sell them on the transplant black market.”
“Yeeeesss,” Vogel said, stretching the word. “Hearts, kidneys, lungs, livers, corneas, tendons, intestines, large blood vessels, skin—they’re all big sellers. Parts that don’t have much of a market value get fed to Tucker’s pigs.”
“We wait until we have the chest freezer full of bones, then use Tuck’s backhoe to bury those remains in a mass grave.”
My blood ran cold. Among other mental issues, Vogel, Walsh, and Tucker sounded like pathological sadists. “Where’s Shane Danning?”
Vogel smirked. “Danning’s in lockup.”
“Here in the house?”
“Shit no,” Walsh said. “He’s locked up in what we call Tuck’s private prison for wayward boys and girls.”
“Where is this prison?”
Walsh shrugged. “It’s a short walk away.”
“How many people are in there?”
“Three,” Walsh said.
“The dorm’s empty right now. Blake and I will begin recruiting the throwaway children and veterans who aren’t too fucked up to work in time to harvest the soybeans and plant next summer’s wheat.”
“Is Shane Danning all right?”
“Dude, he’s a hurting motherfucker, that’s for sure,” Walsh said, “but he was st
ill alive when I checked on him last night.”
“Danning won’t be going shirtless to the beach anymore,” Vogel said.
I lifted Vogel and Walsh by the fronts of their shirts. “Who has the keys to the prison?”
“In my left front pocket,” Walsh said.
“What else do you have in that pocket?”
“Nothing,” Walsh said.
I held my Glock against his head. “I know where to put a bullet in your brain that will make you a living, breathing vegetable.” I slid my left hand into the pocket of Blake’s baggy shorts and pulled out a ring of keys. I flipped through them, one larger, five slightly smaller. “One to the prison’s main door, the other five to cells,” I said.
Walsh nodded.
Vogel grinned. “If you liked the feel of my partner’s junk, maybe you’d like to get your hands on the deluxe package.”
I gave Vogel my crooked grin. “And maybe you’d like to swallow some of your teeth.”
The kitchen’s wall phone rang again. Walsh and Vogel glanced at each other.
Again, I let the call go to voice mail, then cuffed their left and right arms together. I pushed them to the door. “Take me to Danning.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Going Home
Clint, The Ranch, Wednesday, May 23
I followed Vogel and Walsh along a path edged with wild fennel, coarse grasses, and eucalyptus bushes. The two young men had not shut their goddammed mouths since leaving the farmhouse, dropping dime after dime on Jud Tucker. I still had my phone on video.
According to Vogel and Walsh, they assisted Tucker in most areas of the Ranch’s operations. But their primary duty involved recruiting and kidnapping the slave laborers. Calling and reporting to the cops that they may have witnessed an abduction had been their role in snatching Danning.
Disgusted, I shook my head. “What about Tom Andrews?”
“Tuck did that abduction on his own.” Vogel shrugged. “Andrews, the dumb fuck, electrocuted himself while trying to escape with Danning.” He grinned. “You’ve no idea how dangerous the Ranch can be.”