by Graham Smith
He smiles. ‘You got two minutes, Mister, and then I’m going to close this door.’
For a little man he’s got plenty of arrogance. I may have to give him a focussing dig in the ribs if he gets too cocksure.
‘You tried to buy the Railroad Inn in Casperton a few years back. I bought it last year and can’t make a go of it. My lawyer told me you might be the man to take it off me and turn it around.’
His eyes narrow as I speak. He’ll be remembering his conduct at the time.
‘’Fraid you’ve had a wasted journey. Best thing that happened to me not gettin’ that place. I’m guessing your lawyer is the guy who kicked my ass in court. Didn’t know it at the time but that dude did me a big favour. When you see him, tell him I apologise for all the stuff I said back then.’
He goes to close the door. My boot gets in the way.
‘I’m curious, why is it the best thing that happened to you?’
He glares at me until I change my expression. All of a sudden his cockiness goes. Perhaps he’s realised I might just be pissed enough to lash out. He’d be right.
Problem is, it’d be like smacking a child. There’s no glory or satisfaction to be had from winning an unfair fight.
‘When I didn’t get that place, I bought a motel instead. Got four now and it’s easy money. Once you own all the places along a section of highway, you can charge whatcha like.’
I try another angle. Honesty. ‘I’m not really looking to sell the Railroad to you. I’m investigating the murder of the lawyer you threatened.’
‘I knew you was spinning me some line.’ He taps his nose. ‘Got me a damn fine bullshit detector. When was he killed?’
There’s no worry in his face. Curiosity, yes. Concern for his own implication, no.
‘Two nights back.’
‘Figured it might have been. You’re wastin’ your time again. Just had me a few days in Vegas. Only got back a couple of hours ago.’ He pulls out his phone. Shows me his Facebook feed. It’s filled with selfies in front of Sin City’s various landmarks.
It’s a dead end. It was always a long shot, but Jefferson’s alibi makes it feel like a wasted effort.
I point the nose of my Mustang towards the 191 and lean on the gas pedal.
It doesn’t take me long to start second-guessing myself.
Jefferson could have taken those pictures at any time and just uploaded them over the last few days. He could have been lying about owning four motels.
I make a mental note to get Alfonse to check out his story, for no other reason than to stop me doubting myself. Whichever way I look at it, I can’t see a black man setting up a murder scene in a way that suggests Klan activity.
What if it’s a deliberate set-up by members of the ethnic community who are trying to trigger a race war with the Klan?
The thought is so extreme it makes me question my own sanity.
I prod at this theory for a mile or two and then discard it as stupid. My brain has more important things to think about than ridiculous ideas. Today’s multicultural America is too advanced for a full hate war. Sure, there are pockets of idealists all over the country, but they lack the support of the general public and, as such, are only a threat in isolated areas. Most of these will be on the radar of at least one government agency and will receive close scrutiny.
25
Gazala’s arms pump as she hurtles her way through the brush. The rough branches of scrub tear her skin as her legs thrust her forwards, but she doesn’t feel anything except terror.
She can hear the panting of her captors and the heavy thuds of their boots as they chase after her. Their shouted curses fly past her ears, each one creating an extra prickle of urgency. And terror.
The ground is rough underfoot with a myriad of loose stones and small pebbles to slip on, yet the tape binding her shoes in place does its job and she’s able to run at three quarters of the pace she could manage on a racetrack.
Her eyes are fixed ten feet in front of her. They’re looking for the easiest path, the worst obstacles and hidden dangers like snakes and animal burrows.
A hundred yards from the van she finds a narrow animal track. It may be less than a foot wide and nothing like straight, but, compared to the terrain she’s already crossed, it’s a godsend.
She stretches her legs, further increasing her speed.
The shouts behind her are getting fainter.
She risks a look over her shoulder. Sees the youth fifty yards behind her. The bald man some twenty paces behind him.
Looking back is a mistake. When she returns her eyes forward she sees a twist in the trail later than is wise at the speed she’s running.
Her ankle bends as she makes a sudden change of direction to avoid the foot-high cactus. She misses the spiky plant but sprawls in a tangled heap; her grip on the makeshift weapons loosening as instinct opens her hands ready to break her fall.
She tries to rise. To resume her dash for safety.
Her ankle gives way as soon as she puts weight on it.
The scream which escapes her mouth is divided equally between pain, frustration and sheer unadulterated terror.
The younger of her captors catches up with her. Sees her clutching her ankle and starts to laugh around his gasps for air.
His panting adds greater insult than the laughter. It shows he is nowhere near as fit as she is. If she hadn’t injured herself, there is no way he would have caught her.
He leaves her half lying, half sitting, until his breathing settles. When his chest stops heaving, his fingers grasp her arms as he stands her upright.
She expects him to hit her. Or kick her ankle.
He does neither. His back bends and she feels his bony shoulder dig into her gut as he straightens with her over his shoulder.
‘You hit me just once, I’ll stand you up and drag you back by your hair.’
The pain receptors in Gazala’s ankle make the decision for her.
She knows there’s no way she can manage to walk back to the van. If the youth is true to his threat, she’d end up being hauled over the rough ground like a sack of garbage. Her skin would be flayed by a thousand sharp rocks and thorny bushes.
The youth hasn’t gone three paces before the other two men from the back of the van join him.
Every step the youth takes sends a jolt through Gazala as his shoulder echoes his footfall. She doesn’t know whether the nausea she feels is due to the bounced impacts of his shoulder on her stomach, or fear for what awaits her.
The youth drops her in a heap on the dusty track. Another scream forces its way out when her injured ankle bangs off a stone.
The van is on one side of her and to the other is the hut she glimpsed earlier. Her feet point to a forest but she doesn’t know which one. Doesn’t care. Whatever happens now, knowing the name of the forest isn’t going to make it any better.
Gazala can feel the adrenaline leave her body. In its wake are shaking hands, tiredness and the tears she’s held back since being abducted. The spasms of her stomach cause her to retch.
The pain in her ankle settles from white hot to a deep dull ache. It was better when it hurt more. She’d been able to fantasise about passing out and escaping this nightmare.
She watches as the bald man pulls a knife from his pocket and unfolds the blade. His familiarity with the weapon is almost as frightening as the blade itself.
‘Please. Please don’t kill me. Whatever you want, I’ll do.’
‘I know you will.’
It’s the driver who speaks to her. His tone is measured, calm, confident.
‘Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.’ A thought comes to Gazala. She’s disgusted she didn’t think of it sooner. It’s obvious why she’s been snatched. ‘My father is a wealthy man. He’ll pay your ransom. Don’t worry about that.’
‘We don’t want your filthy money. Do we?’
Three heads shake in answer to the driver’s question.
Gazala
swallows. If they don’t want money, the only other thing they can want is her body. ‘Is it me you want?’
‘You’ll serve a purpose. Nothing more, nothing less.’
His words are non-committal, neither confirming nor denying a desire for her.
The bald man tosses the knife, end over end, and catches it by the blade. If the gesture is meant to scare her it works.
She knows she’s powerless. That she can’t escape these men and save herself. Therefore she has to make a decision. When they start to rape her she can either fight back or lie still in acceptance of the inevitable.
It’s a terrible choice and not one she knows how to make. Fighting won’t change the end result and is certain to add to the number of injuries she has. Yet, it would be good to bury her good foot into one of their crotches. To gouge at eyes and scratch any exposed skin, or even grab that knife and bury it hilt deep into one of them.
The chances of it working are slim and there are enough of them to hold her down while turns get taken. The thought of letting them mount her unchallenged goes against every instinct she possesses.
Logic says otherwise. It’s telling her to go along with their wishes and give them what they want. To give them so much pleasure they’ll keep her alive. Logic tells her she’s seen their faces and that they plan to kill her. It whispers to her that she must give them a reason to keep her alive.
Gazala can’t decide which will be worse. Giving herself to them, or death.
She wants to fight, but knows she can’t.
When the bald man reaches down and uses his knife to cut away the rest of her skirt, Gazala’s survival instinct makes the decision for her.
She doesn’t offer resistance.
When the knife is pointed towards her blouse, her fingers get to the buttons first. They fumble but achieve their task. She pulls her blouse off and uses it to wipe her tear-stained face.
‘Well looky here boys. This here Muslim whore is gettin’ herself all pretty for us.’
The bald man’s words are full of glee, but they bounce off Gazala. Now a course of action has been decided upon, she has a focus. In the greater scheme of things, a little name calling is the least of her problems.
The driver is less impressed. ‘Just you watch her. She’s already tricked you once.’
Gazala focusses on the bald man and his knife. He points it at her chest and cocks his head. She understands his meaning and reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra and lowers it onto her blouse. Her mouth is kept closed, lest they see how hard she’s gritting her teeth.
She’s looking at her feet rather than him but she can feel his gaze locking onto her exposed breasts. It’s like the prickle of a thousand insects’ feet walking across her chest. Every last pore is being examined and lingered over. It takes all her self-control not to shudder in disgust and shield her breasts behind folded arms.
‘You ain’t finished yet.’
When she looks up the knife points at her crotch and then bounces twice.
She can’t prevent the frustrated sigh from escaping her lips, as she slips her thumbs into the sides of her panties.
Her attempts to remove them without aggravating the injury to her ankle fail, and a pained yelp passes her lips.
‘Now!’
The single word from the driver is a barked command.
Three pairs of hands grab at her. Pinion her.
The youth has her shoulders. The bald man and the guy with the battered face hold her feet.
She bucks and twists in their hands. It’s not what she planned to do; the suddenness of their attack has thrown her planned acquiescence.
A twist of her foot from the bald man stops her resisting him as he parts her legs.
The driver comes into view.
He’s holding something in his hand. It’s a long bar with a pointed end. Not sharp like a spear, but kind of tapered to a blunt point. He lays it between her legs. She feels the point against her thigh. It’s cool, even in the morning sun.
When Gazala sees the driver lift a large hammer with his free hand, she realises the bar being cold is the least of her worries.
26
None of life’s daily irritants matter to Noelle today. The computer crashing five times in a row, her boss acting like a fool in front of a new client, the customer who spent twenty-five minutes bitching about something which turned out to be his own mistake; every one of them are irrelevant.
Oscar had been delighted when she’d told him her news. He’d beamed with joy, kissed her stomach and dropped to one knee.
She’d said yes before he was even finished asking the question.
Dinner had to be thrown in the bin. By the time they came back downstairs it was ruined. Neither had cared. They’d ordered a pizza and set about calling their families.
Whenever she can grab five minutes without her boss hanging around she is researching wedding venues on Google.
Oscar was insistent that they must be married before the baby arrives. The time frame is a double-edged sword; she wants to be married to Oscar as soon as possible, and agrees with his sentiments that their baby shouldn’t be born out of wedlock, but there is no way she wants to waddle down the aisle eight months pregnant.
Together they’ve decided to marry in two or three months’ time. Their wedding is to be a small affair. Close family and one or two friends will make the guest list. Neither want a grand affair with hundreds of guests; they just want a simple ceremony, observed by those closest to them.
She knows that the biggest problem she’s facing, is finding a decent venue which has a free date. Horrible as it is, Noelle is aware that her best chance of finding somewhere may lie with the cancellation of someone else’s dream.
So far she’s managed to find three venues she likes, and she plans to call them in her lunch break to check availability.
Her sister and best friend have agreed to join her on a trip to Salt Lake City to look for a wedding dress on Saturday.
Noelle leaves the office and heads towards a sandwich bar. Ten minutes later she’s on a bench in the park wiping traces of mayo from the side of her mouth.
She’s too involved with mentally planning her wedding to notice the man watching her. He’s just another piece of background in a world which has a new focus; a minor detail of little consequence.
If she was paying attention she’d notice his dead eyes, the way he’s pretending not to observe her every move, and the way everyone else is keeping out of his way.
The man thinks of her as a canuck and Oscar as a beaner. She can be tolerated. Her fiancée can’t.
27
I let myself into Alfonse’s apartment; there’s coffee brewing so I help myself after using the bathroom. Alfonse is in his office. I can hear his fingers rattling across a keyboard.
He’ll be using his PC rather than the laptop. Whenever he does a big hacking job he always uses the PC as he ends up pounding the keys in such a frantic manner he breaks them.
Two keyboards tossed into a corner tell their own story.
Various sheets of paper are pinned to the wall. He flicks glances at them as he types.
A look at his computer doesn’t educate me as to his progress. He’s got several different windows open and he’s jumping between them, firing in commands or printing results.
I make him a coffee and drink mine as I watch him work. As usual, he has total focus on what he’s doing. The serious expression on his face is a mixture of concentration and revulsion at the things he’s looking into. It can’t be easy for him to read the propaganda and hate on the various Klan websites he’s investigating. From time to time his face wrinkles with disgust.
His first acknowledgement of my presence is a sheet of paper thrust my way. I whip it from his hand before he drops it at my feet. His racing mind accelerates everything he does and he expects others to match his pace.
I read with hope, rather than expectation. He’s given me the intimate details on the Fourniers.
A look at their respective browsing histories shows nothing untoward. The sites they visited were entertainment, retail or informational. Tyrone had managed to get round the parental lock on his iPad, and looked at a few websites with wet T-shirt videos. If I didn’t know his morals so well, I’d suspect Alfonse’s hand in the hacking.
Alfonse’s report also covers the family’s social media feeds, email and cell communications. Or rather it doesn’t. A single line states, no hate mail, no bullying, no issues.
The line is typical of Alfonse’s dryness. He’s detached himself from the personal element and is treating the case like any other. Or at least that’s what he’s trying to appear to do. I’ve been his friend too long to be fooled by words on a page.
The printer kicks into action with a whir and a snap as the paper is grabbed by the mechanism.
‘Yours.’
Alfonse doesn’t even look at me as I take the pages.
I leave him to his task and look at the spreadsheets he’s generated. There’s only a handful of people in the country who can get into the places he can. Without his skills, we’d be chasing our tails – three steps behind the idiots who comprise Casperton’s detective squad.
The spreadsheets are filled with the details of Klan, Neo Nazi and various other hate groups. He’s got their websites, basic propaganda, contact details and many other points listed. One of the key things he’s done is dig into the people who created, maintain, or are the listed contact for the websites. In most cases it’s the same person.
The printer’s next whir is accompanied by a command from Alfonse. ‘Read that and tell me what you think.’
I lift the paper from the tray and scan the page. It’s a draft copy of a letter. Not just any letter. An email which purports to be from the FBI.