Find Virgil (A Novel of Revenge)

by Frank Freudberg

  “Pratt,” Muntor whispered, “if I ever find out that you’ve somehow stopped the funds transfer, I’m going to track you down in hell.”

  Pratt’s cries revealed to the others that he was still alive.

  Muntor struggled to his feet and turned to face all those present. His hand that had held the dead-man switch was thrust deep in his pocket.

  “Rhoads, over here,” Muntor tried to shout in the direction of Rhoads. His voice came out crackling and breaking. “And hurry up.” He clutched the cigarette between his teeth. Pratt, on the floor behind Muntor, whimpered.

  Mary fought to hold Rhoads down, but he threw her off, got up, and stumbled as fast as he could across the ballroom to where Muntor had cornered Pratt.

  Muntor shouted to the cameraman over his shoulder. “How much time?”

  “Twenty-one seconds,” a teary voice said.

  When Rhoads got within two paces of Muntor, Muntor held out the trigger nozzle to stop him.

  “Close enough, friend,” Muntor said. “Ladies and gentlemen and law enforcement authorities.” Muntor struggled to speak loud enough for everyone to hear. He moved a half-pace to his right, making sure Rhoads was not blocking him from the camera’s view of the scene. “In accordance with the terms of a binding agreement between me and Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc. of Asheville, North Carolina, I hereby surrender myself to Thomas Rhoads.”

  Muntor still held the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He held up his hand for silence. “And may God see fit to have mercy upon my soul.”

  Rhoads did not move a muscle.

  No one in the room said a word.

  Without warning, Martin Muntor’s right hand came swiftly out of his pocket. He held a disposable lighter. He flicked it and raised the flame in a swift arc toward the cigarette he held between his teeth.

  The crowd shuddered. Rhoads heard the rustle of what had to be security people leaping out of their seats, launching themselves toward Muntor.

  Rhoads lunged forward and grabbed the frail man’s wrist with one hand and pressed the palm of his other hand against Muntor’s forehead. Rhoads kept him from leaning forward and bringing the flame to the cigarette. It was no contest. Rhoads stopped the flame an inch from the cigarette.

  Muntor invoked all his strength and pulled hard, bringing his wrist toward his face, the lighter’s flame now half an inch from the end of the cigarette. Rhoads tightened his grip and braced himself against Muntor’s forehead. He held the position. Muntor kept his thumb on the lighter to keep the flame alive.

  Muntor’s and Rhoads’s eyes met, and all the world fell away.

  With the last of his strength, Muntor tried again to pull the lighter to the cigarette. “Please,” he said so quietly only Rhoads heard him. “Let me go.” He peered into Rhoads’s eyes, searching for charity.

  Rhoads stared back. He needed a glimpse of the lost soul behind Muntor’s drawn, wild face.

  “It’s all right, Rhoads,” wheezed Muntor.

  Rhoads turned away for an instant, his hand firmly holding Muntor’s frail wrist. Then he looked back, straight into Muntor’s eyes, and swallowed.

  Muntor knew this was it. He acknowledged Rhoads’s gift with a tiny nod. He almost smiled. He had come a long way, and now it was over. Muntor exhaled thoroughly, so he could take in a deeper, fuller puff of smoke.

  He closed his eyes.

  Rhoads relaxed his grip imperceptibly, and the gap between the cigarette and the flame ceased to be.

  With a sharp gasp, Muntor drew his last breath.

  126

  Ten days later

  Off the coast of Barnegat Light, New Jersey

  Rhoads set down his red-stained paintbrush and leaned on the side of the gently bobbing Second Chance. A dirty rag hung from his jeans pocket. He looked up to where Teddy stood, painting the roof of the boat’s pilothouse. The sun shone high and hot.

  “Teddy,” said Rhoads. “Time for a drink?”

  Teddy’s throat was dry. A cold beer would be perfect. Teddy looked down at his brother and pressed his sleeve against his forehead to absorb the sweat.

  “I’ve been ready for hours,” Teddy said. “I’m parched. Never thought you’d ask.”

  “So come on down,” said Rhoads. “If we can’t have a drink on our own damned boat, then what’s the point?”

  Teddy dropped his brush in the nearly empty paint can and jumped onto the deck.

  From below, where Rhoads and Mary had been making their temporary home, Mary climbed the wooden rungs of the ladder and, once on deck, positioned herself carefully on the slippery boards. She squinted into the sun and inhaled the salty air. She carried a tray with sandwiches, empty glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea.

  “How about some lunch, sailor boys?”

  “You’re a mind-reader,” Rhoads said, moving toward her. He gripped her shoulders and saw the sea reflected in her eyes. He beamed.

  “Go wash up,” she said to both men. “I think you’ve accomplished enough for now.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Frank Freudberg is a Philadelphia-based journalist and ghost-writer. His work has been published by the Associated Press, United Press International, USA Today, the Los Angeles Times and others. His upcoming novel Change in Circumstance will be published in 2014.

  A NOTE TO YOU FROM AUTHOR FRANK FREUDBERG

  You may not realize it, but book reviews are vital to the success of a novel. If you’ve enjoyed Find Virgil, please consider rating it and reviewing it on Amazon. It will only take you a few minutes, and I genuinely appreciate your time.

  Also, if you’d like advance notice of my next novel – and a free sample chapter – please drop me a note at ff@freudberg.com and I’ll be glad to add you to the list. Thank you!