by David Dun
"We're calling local garages on the off chance they worked on it after the stolen plates were put on it."
"That's thinking. Tell us if you turn anything up. Keep a list of who you call."
"Will do."
Gail rang him on the intercom line. ''Bingo. Second place. The guy said yes, then got flustered and hung up. Said somebody called Morgan had the work done. Apparently, they installed an electric motor to raise and lower the back window. Put tinted-glass windows in all the way around the van."
"That's the van," Dan said. "Where's the place?"
"Sak's garage at the corner of Fifth and D."
"I know it. Old masonry building. Looks defunct."
Dan called the sheriff with what they had.
"We'll send an officer," the sheriff said. "We know these people. Edwin Gilbert owns it. He's always in the gray zone. We think among other things he's a fence and he supplies a lot of pot growers with their equipment. Funny they made this dumb a mistake, telling you on the phone."
''Maybe they didn't. Somebody called Little Gilbert did.''
"That's Big Gilbert's brother. He's not real swift."
"How about you let me talk to Little Gilbert first and then send an officer."
There was a pause. "What are you going to do?"
"Give him a ration. A story, see what I can find out."
"You sure you want to do it this way?"
"Yup."
"We'll give you ten minutes with this guy, then we're taking him downtown."
"Fair enough."
"By the way, the red bandanna had cannabis resin in it. Probably worn by a pot smoker. Maybe a grower."
Dan drove straight to the bank, all the time keeping an eye on his watch for the time of the chopper's arrival. At the bank he removed $5,000 in cash. He got twenty-four $100 bills and the rest $1 bills. He made twenty-four piles in his briefcase, each stack topped by a $100 bill. Then, sprinting from the bank and leaving an openmouthed teller, he jumped in the car and went to Sak's.
"Here we go," Dan whispered to himself, jumping out of his car. Trotting down to the big shop building, he spotted a guy with manager stitched over the pocket of his blue work coat. "You must be Gilbert."
"That's me, unless you're lookin' for Big Gilbert." The man shouted over the whine of two departing diesel tractors that the mechanics were revving.
"No, I'm lookin' for you. I'm Jake," Dan said in a voice that said that name should mean a great deal to Little Gilbert.
"Well, so?" Little Gilbert said.
"Can we go inside?" Dan said.
They walked through the lube area behind the rows of workstations to a small office with a gray desk on a concrete floor. It was a cluttered mess, the desktop covered with junk-food wrappers, old receipts, an adding machine, and an old girlie calendar. Dan closed the door.
"Didn't Big Gilbert tell you?" Dan said, the surprise evident on his face.
"Tell me what?"
"Tell you that I'd be coming with the twenty grand. You're supposed to tell me how to find that blue van, the one you did the windows on."
"Did somebody call earlier?" Little Gilbert asked, stress and suspicion becoming apparent in his voice.
Dan exploded with a shout, grabbed the smaller man by the collar, and slammed him against the wall, letting all his anger and frustration escape. Literally, he wanted to hurt the man. "You hicks can't get anything right. This is what I'm talkin' about, you dumb greaseball."
He let the man sag to the floor. Setting the briefcase on the desk, he opened it a crack, then slammed it shut before Little Gilbert got more than a tiny peek at the money inside.
"He said I'd know where to find the pot grower who brought in the van?" Little Gilbert moaned.
"Absolutely. The one who always wears the red bandanna. Can't think of his name." Dan clicked his fingers like he was trying to think. "And if you can't find him, the whole deal's off, and Big Gilbert can do without his twenty thousand. My guess is that when I leave here with Big Gilbert's money, he's gonna kick what's left of your ass good."
"God," Little Gilbert groaned. "He never told me, I swear it. Let me make some calls."
"There's no time.'' Dan slammed the man back up against the wall. He put a knee into his testicles, then dropped him to the floor. Dan feigned hysterical violence, kicking the man in the ribs but making sure not to connect too hard. Finally he stopped.
"Please, one call," the man choked out, rolling on the floor.
"One call, but then I really kick the shit out of you." Dan watched over Little Gilbert's shoulder as he called Big Gilbert's housekeeper and heard that she didn't know Big Gilbert's whereabouts.
Dan shook his head sadly. ''I'm gonna beat you to death."
Little Gilbert looked like he was going to cry. "I'll try his mobile." He punched the buttons so fast he misdialed twice.
"This cowboy with the twenty grand is here, and I need to know how to find Jack Morgan. Whaddya mean what guy? He's beating the shit out of me.'' Little Gilbert listened, then looked up at Dan.
"I won't say a thing," he said into the receiver.
"It's Jack Morgan. Now get the hell out of my shop. Big Gilbert's gonna tear me limb from limb."
"I doubt it, this time," Dan said, picking up his case. On his way out the door, Dan met a sheriff's deputy. "He's all yours," Dan said, dialing the sheriff. "We're looking for a pot grower. Jack Morgan."
27
"You like your face, bitch?" Corey whispered. "I've got a razor here that will do some funky things to it."
Maria tensed behind her blindfold but said nothing.
Corey took out her stiletto and popped the blade. Teasing the blade down Maria's cheek, barely touching it, she chuckled quietly. "What have you got to say?"
"Your video won't look like much if I have a Halloween face," Maria said in a strong voice.
Corey exploded with a backhanded slap, snapping Maria's head back and raising an ugly welt on her cheek.
Then, calm again, as though the outburst had been merely an affectation, Corey grabbed the heavy hood and put it over Maria's head.
"You're right. We gotta do it slow, and we can't make a mess. We'll just take some of that spray you liked so well earlier and drip it on the mask. Right over your nose and mouth. No permanent damage except mental. It'll feel like you drowned about once every sixty seconds. Only you never die. You just want to. Here goes the first drop."
The noxious fumes exploded in the tiny room, causing Corey to step back.
Maria began gagging.
Corey grabbed the hood off. She put her lips an inch from Maria's ear. "This ain't a war. They don't give medals for refusing to talk. All we want is a little information about cooperation between you and the mouthpiece. And McCafferty and her buddies in industry."
Corey waited, pacing back and forth while Maria continued choking. Finally Maria spoke. "Nothing happens until you loosen the pressure on the handcuffs. They're cutting off my circulation."
Corey thought for a moment. Given enough time, she was certain she could get Maria talking without loosening the handcuffs-but she had no time. Speeding the dialogue and making the woman look better on videotape was all important. And any chance of escape was nil-the door to the makeshift room was locked, her feet were tied, her waist was taped to the chair, and Jack was standing guard just outside. And if that wasn't enough, the German was watching in the next room.
She loosened the cuffs slightly.
Dropping the foot prop on the recliner chair, Hans sat bolt upright. He didn't like what he was seeing through the two-way mirror. He wasn't sure that Corey was experienced enough to be loosening those cuffs. Then again he sensed she was hurrying and that was good.
Hans went to the door and spoke softly. "Goddamn it, Jack, if you want two eyes tomorrow morning, you make sure that if Maria Fischer comes through that door she's a dead Maria Fischer." Then he carefully locked the door. Initially he had felt good about the setup. That was until he found out they di
dn't kill the kid. If that kid saw something, anything, there could be trouble and soon. He liked Corey's style, but he needed results.
Corey needed a little coaching.
***
Dan drove to the airport to meet Otran's helicopter and the two officers assigned to it. Like most things involving aviation, it was a little slower than anticipated. As he was turning into the road for the airport, his cell phone rang. It was Gail.
"The title guys and foresters found no property in the name of Jack Morgan. They have six people calling every outlying post office, as well as all the major branches. They say if someone by that name gets mail in this county, they'll figure it out."
The news hit Dan hard. If Morgan was a renter or squatter, it could take days to find him.
"I'm sorry," Gail said.
Dan got a call-waiting beep.
"This is Dan Young."
"This is Murray, the title man. The Geary Creek Post Office holds mail for a Jack Morgan and family. They're a bit reclusive-actually, the whole bunch up there is a bit that way."
"I know the general area. People grow pot up there," Dan said.
"You said it, I didn't. Anyway, the house is only four miles up Geary Creek Road from the post office. You turn right a quarter mile past the sign that says 'Geary Creek Dump.' The road to the dump is on the left, and the road to Morgan's is on the right. The gravel road to Morgan's is a half mile long. There are two other houses on it, and you bear right consistently to get to Morgan's. The Morgans have a two-story yellow house with a big red barn out back. There's some pasture off to the north. I swore to the postal guy that we wouldn't ever divulge how we got the info."
"Great work. Conference me into the sheriff."
Corey turned when she heard Jack's voice.
"Boss wants to see you."
Corey nodded, frustrated at the setup. She was never going to get near the German, who stayed behind the two-way mirror. He was in complete control and she knew it. That had to change.
"He wants you out here now," Jack repeated.
Corey nodded and went back to Maria, still speaking in a perfectly controlled whisper. "The blindfold stays on. You touch it and the negotiations are over. Watch her," she told Jack.
On her exit from the interrogation room, Corey was confronted by the German. For some reason the Spaniard had stepped out of the barn.
"We do not have time for any more preliminaries. Cut her face now. Get her talking."
"What about the video? I thought we agreed we were making a video to show the grassroots people."
"Just find out what she knows, and make it fast. We need to close this place down. You should have killed the boy."
It was about what Corey had expected. Typical German efficiency. Make sure all the witnesses are dead, including Corey.
Corey fingered her stiletto, trying to make the move look natural, staying calm. She still didn't see the Spaniard. The German's eyes were nervous.
"How will we prove it to the grass-"
With incredible speed the German grabbed her knife and put her in a stranglehold. In the instant she felt the stranglehold on her throat, her years of training took over. Rather than grabbing the strangling hand, she kicked straight for his kneecap. But she was being lifted, and the balance required for a well-executed kick was gone. Although the boot struck its target, it did not have the force necessary to maim.
The German raised her still higher in the air, moving her toward the wall. It took her two seconds longer than normal to kick again, this time the groin. For a split second his grip on her knife hand weakened. It was enough. She had practiced the move so often she could execute it with her dying breath-which right now was still seconds away. She lacked full power in the upward stroke, but the blade nevertheless split the man's forearm like an overripe tomato.
The German bellowed, and Corey slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground and raising her knife. But she was unprepared for the pistol that came up in his left hand, now aimed straight at her chest.
"Drop the knife, Corey."
For the first time since her father died, Corey Schneider had allowed herself to get into a situation where a man's treachery might defeat her. She dropped the knife.
The moment she let it go, the German spoke to Jack without turning to him. He seemed not to notice his own wounded arm, which he tended by transferring the gun to his right and using his left hand to clamp a handkerchief over the gaping laceration. "I want this woman hanging from the rafter. Tie a noose and put it on her."
When he turned to look at Jack, his jaw dropped. Jack trained a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun on the German's center mass, ten feet separating the scattergun's barrel from his heart.
"I'm getting out of here. We were just going to video the mouthpiece, that was it," Jack said. "Drop the gun or I blow you in two."
The German's eyes met Jack's. His pistol-a fine German Heckler amp; Koch, Corey now noted with satisfaction-was pointed at the floor, his other hand still clamped on the wound.
"I swear to God I'll kill you," Jack said, now shaking so bad Corey wasn't positive he could hit the German square.
"You shoot me and I shoot Corey," the German countered.
"I don't give a shit what you do. I'll blow you to kingdom come."
Finally the German let the pistol slip and clatter to the floor. Corey stepped to Jack.
"Let me have it, Jack. As soon as we take care of the Spaniard, you can get out of here." Jack nodded dumbly and let Corey take the shotgun. Backing up, Corey reached into a feed room and pulled out a six-foot pole with a fine wire loop on the end. Recognition flickered in the German's eyes.
"You know what this is, don't you, Kraut?"
Corey fit the piano-wire loop over Groiter's head as she stood behind him with the shotgun. Running up the hollowed-out center of the heavy dowel, the wire could be pulled tight with a handle from Corey's end. It could cut through the arteries in seconds. With a little less pressure, slow strangulation was possible. Yanking off his hood, she paused for a second at the sight of his freckled face-somehow older than she had imagined-then pulled the wire tight enough to turn him blue while Jack taped his hands. All the time she watched for the Spaniard.
"Hold this," she whispered to Jack, giving him the end of the wire loop. "If he does anything, you choke him to death. Understand?"
"He's choking to death now," Jack whispered.
"No, he's not. He just looks it."
Outside, Corey saw a light on in the house. So the Spaniard was in there. Quickly she made her way to the back door and noticed it was ajar. From inside she heard moans and a woman crying. Looking a little farther, she saw the Spaniard hunched over the kitchen table on top of a young woman. He held a knife to her throat. So intent was he on raping the girl that Corey was beside him before he noticed.
As soon as her captor left the room, Maria went to work on the handcuffs. As a child, she had learned to slide out of play cuffs by stretching her thumb and using her double-jointed socket. Like Houdini, she needed only the slightest loosening. When she folded her thumb into the palm of her hand and pulled, pain from the chafing skin made her grunt. She tried to force her hand through, not caring about the ripping skin.
From outside, there were sounds of a struggle and threats. They were fighting each other. Hope invigorated her.
Slick with blood, her right hand popped free of the cuff, then her left. She ripped off the blindfold and began working on the tape at her waist, using her fingernails to pull up an edge. Free of the tape, she grabbed the plastic tie-wraps at her feet, ignoring the free-flowing blood from her hands that dripped onto the carpet. As she worked, it became apparent she was in a windowless room with a large mirror on one wall. She pulled frantically on the plastic tie-wraps that held her ankles together and fastened them to the chair. Finally she was able to stretch the plastic until she got enough slack to twist it. On the floor she found a screwdriver and moved the chair enough to grab it, then used it to fu
rther twist the plastic. She broke the plastic tie-wrap on her right leg. The left went faster.
When she moved to the door, she could only make out hazy figures across the barn. The chemical would not leave her eyes no matter how many tears she shed. She forced herself to wait, watching as best she could, knowing that they would probably see her the minute she went out the door. Through the blur it looked like a man had something pointed at the back of another man's head, probably a gun. Then someone else came with a gun pointed at a second man. A woman's voice. She sounded in a rage and she was tying up one of the others. In minutes he started yelling in a foreign language. Then the yelling turned to incredible, agonized screams. If ever they would be distracted, it was now.
Crouched down, she ran out the door and down the wall of the barn. At any moment, she expected to be discovered by the lunatics behind her. And then she saw it. A broken board in the side of the barn next to several bales of hay. Approaching it, she discovered a hole that looked like it might be big enough to crawl through. She lowered her head and scrunched her shoulders, barely squeezing into the opening. God, it hurt, first pinching her shoulders, then her hips. At last, she popped free. Ahead, she saw the forest.
Freedom.
She began to run, the eerie screams driving her first up a small path, and then off the trail, through a patch of ferns, trying to put as much distance between herself and the barn as possible.
When Corey was through with the Spaniard, he was moaning in shock. The girl, a young woman really, was still crying, and Jack looked haggard. The German showed no emotion.
"She's your daughter?" she asked Jack.
Jack only nodded.
"I thought you said they all went to Mexico."
"I lied. She wouldn't go. I wanted to protect her. Now this."
"What's your name?" she asked the girl, gently touching her head.