Acoustic Shadows

by Patrick Kendrick

  ‘Mostly staff,’ he answered, ‘Mostly women. One man was killed, but he was an old Army veteran. I believe he might have tried to stop the shooters, playing soldier one last time.’

  ‘God bless, but that’s just crazy.’

  Thiery looked at the ground. ‘Yeah. I know. But, something about this school shooting doesn’t make sense. These incidents are always tragic, but they seem to follow a pattern. A neglected, or bullied, teen isolates himself from society, then inundates his tiny world with violent video games and off-the-wall Internet exploration. They look for anarchists’ sites, people who have a beef with the government, and so on. Finds out where he can buy guns and how to make explosives. Accumulates his weaponry and puts together some sort of crazed manifesto. Then he snaps one day and acts out on it. Coody fits that bill, but Frank doesn’t.’

  ‘I just can’t understand why Frank would do something like this.’

  ‘Did he ever mention Coody to you?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘How about some of those made men you talked about; do you remember any of their names?’

  Gloria scrunched up her face as if trying to remember was a physically painful experience. ‘There was a family he worked for a couple times,’ she said. ‘They weren’t mafia, though. They were Mexicans. Big time drug kingpins that had interests in Chicago, as well as other places. Sometimes they sent him out of town. New York. Vegas, a couple times. Usually, he was a mule for them, you know, carrying dope. Sometimes, he would catch a flight to say, Houston, then drive back in a huge cargo truck, or a tractor trailer. Once, he came home in a camper. He’d usually drop it at a warehouse or leave it in a parking lot and walk away. It was easy money. Let’s see, what were their names? Es … Estero … Esquevero? No. Esperanza. That’s it: Esperanza.’

  Thiery jotted down the name. Then, he stood up. ‘Thanks, Gloria. You’ve been a big help.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If you say so.’ She lit another cigarette off the glowing butt of the last one.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get Frank’s, uh, remains, as soon as the coroner is done with his report.’

  An hour passed as he went over his notes. He was restless and his empty belly began to groan, so he grabbed his iPad and notes, along with the car keys, and started driving north. He wasn’t sure why he’d headed in that direction, but he’d felt some comfort when he’d passed through Lake Wales the day before. Maybe he could think more clearly there than in the small rustic motel with a killer’s amorous ex-wife and a TV reporter practically next door.

  He wondered if the Bok Tower still played carillon music at night. He’d heard of an unusual, quirky-but-Zagat-rated restaurant near there called Chalet Suzanne. It was only about twenty minutes away. The drive would do him good.

  Only five minutes later, he decided to call Jim Bullock.

  ‘I didn’t wake you, did I, boss?’ Thiery asked when the man answered.

  ‘Hey, Justin. Nah, you didn’t wake me. I’m glad you called. The governor’s been at me all day. Says he’s pretty pissed at you.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Jim, but he’s an asshole, and we just don’t mix.’

  ‘I should’ve known. I just thought I might be throwing you a bone. Maybe set you up to take my position.’

  ‘I know that, too, but I’ve been putting some thought into it. To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll stick around after you leave.’

  ‘C’mon man, you’re too young to retire.’

  ‘I’m sure I could find something else,’ he said, knowing full well he’d do no such thing. ‘But, hey, that’s not why I called.’

  ‘Oh, okay. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, I thought I might take advantage of you being in Washington and ask you a favour. Actually two favours.’

  ‘Sure, man. Go ahead.’

  ‘This woman, the one that shot the school intruders, got wounded, and has now disappeared— ’

  ‘I’ve been following it on TV as well as getting personal and snarky updates from Croll.’

  ‘I bet. Anyway, I’ve got an idea. It’s just a theory, but there is something definitely hinky going on here. First, I can find no reason why she’d want to run or hide out unless something, or someone, was chasing her. There’s a bunch of rednecks down here who want to put pressure on her for having a gun in school, but that’s just fodder for the media.’

  ‘So what do you think is up with her?’

  ‘You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but I think she might be in WITSEC, you know, the Witness Protection Programme.’

  ‘What? That’s crazy. What are the odds of that?’

  ‘Yeah, right? Here are some things that keep bringing me back to that idea: first, she just moved down here a few weeks ago. Hardly enough time to apply and get a job unless it was arranged for her. I’ve been going through her employment records from the school board, and it shows her date of hire, but no application or pre-employment physical, background check, or anything. So, I’m thinking it was arranged. I’d like to confirm with the principal, but she’s dead.

  ‘A few weeks after she arrives,’ he continued, ‘so does Frank Shadtz, one of the two shooters. He used to move dope for Mexican drug lords. I can’t believe that was coincidence. Also, her name, Erica Weisz, that’s a take-off on Eric Weisz, which was Harry Houdini’s real name. When I tried to find out where Weisz came from, I came up with an address in Washington, but the name associated with that address was Harriet Blackstone, another nod to a famous magician, and there’s no trace of her, either. Now, I know the US Marshals use various safe havens for their witnesses, and they set them up there until, and even after, they testify against whomever they’re testifying against. Are you following me?’

  ‘So far, yeah.’

  ‘Okay, it could also explain why she had a gun with her at the school. I think it’s still safe to say most school teachers do not carry guns to work. Maybe she has one because she has to have one to protect herself. It could also explain why she ran away from the hospital. If she is in the programme, at the very least she’d be worrying about the media attention exposing and compromising her. And, I think the Washington address was one of those safe havens when she was Harriet Blackstone. Something must have happened, and they had to move her down here.’

  ‘So you want me to try to find this Washington address and check it out?’

  ‘Yes. That’s number one. Number two, don’t you have a friend that works in the US Marshal’s Office?’

  ‘I sure do. A good friend named Ron Sales. He’s pretty high up on the food chain, now, but we still get together now and then. You do know they have a policy precluding them from discussing any case, especially if it’s active?’

  Thiery knew. He also knew this fact could only hamper his investigation if what he was thinking was true.

  His boss continued. ‘They won’t even talk to other law enforcement, state or federal, unless they need something from those agencies, and even then they are pretty cagey. We’ve dealt with this before. You remember the time that Cuban grocer down in Miami had his confidentiality compromised somehow? It was about seven or eight years ago. The marshals had us go in and pick up the guy, keep him in a hotel for a couple days until they could make other arrangements, but they never told us squat about the guy; where he went, what he’d done, or who was after him. I found out later but it cost me an expensive stone crab dinner at Joe’s.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Thiery, recalling how they’d been assigned to ‘shepherd’ an attractive federal judge from Tallahassee to Miami, who turned out to be the justice on a trial in which the Cuban grocer had been the primary witness against a human trafficking ring. The two of them had taken her to Joe’s in Miami and after an hour of listening to Bullock’s smooth humour and gobbling crustaceans and dirty martinis, the lady had given enough information for them to figure it all out. ‘But, I know how charming you can be, too, and I’m hoping you can ask a few questions and see if I’m on the right track. Maybe
he’ll at least tell you about this magician connection, or if I’m barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘All I can do is try,’ Bullock said, shades of doubt in his voice. ‘But, you do know their agency has never lost a witness? It operates that good. At least that’s their PR spiel.’

  ‘I hear you, but what if it’s crap? What if the programme was corrupted? Either someone got access to its confidential files, or worse?’

  ‘What would be worse than that?’

  ‘What if one of their marshals went bad? And don’t tell me that can’t happen. How many times have we seen some of the guys we’ve worked with go to the dark side? The temptation is always there.’

  Bullock thought about it for a moment, chewing the inside corner of his mouth like it was gum. ‘Why don’t you give me that address, and I’ll check it out. Then, I’ll call Ron and see if he can meet for lunch tomorrow. Will that make you happy?’

  ‘Make it a breakfast meeting,’ he negotiated, smiling. ‘And a big hug from you would make me happier.’

  ‘Settle down, white bread. See, I kept telling you to find another wife. Now, you’ve gone sweet on me.’

  Thiery laughed, ‘I’ve always been sweet on you, man.’ He and Bullock had become good friends in spite of the supervisor/subordinate relationship between them and they could always cheer each other up. Even on the bleakest days. ‘Okay, boss. I’m going to text you the address. Let me know if Sales shares anything with you.’

  ‘You got it. Be safe, pal, and let me know if you find that teacher.’

  By the time he hung up, Thiery was crossing into Lake Wales. He could see the silhouette of the musical tower on top of the small mountain on which it was perched. It was silent, and Thiery was a little disappointed. But, the air was fresh and cool, and he felt a hunger developing. He punched in Chalet Suzanne on his tablet and got directions to the restaurant.

  As he drove, he wondered where Erica Weisz might be at that moment and how she was doing. He also wondered what could scare someone so much that she would elect to run away from the hospital, the media, and the cops with a shotgun wound in her side.

  In the Lakeland Regional Hospital, David Edward Coody opened his eyes for the first time since he’d been shot. It was dark inside his room, but he could hear the quiet click-whoosh, click-whoosh of the ventilator, and he could feel the air being pushed into his lungs, in time with the cadence of the machine. He felt the plastic tube sitting dryly in his trachea and wanted to take it out. Surely, he could breathe on his own. But, when he tried to reach up to pull it out, he couldn’t feel his hand. He couldn’t feel the other one either. He tried to move his feet, and that’s when he came to the realization that he couldn’t move anything below his neck. A panic seized him like nothing he’d experienced before. Vaguely, it occurred to him that this must be what the children at the school felt when they heard him and Frank start to shoot up the school and the teachers. That karmic thought brought him no peace, or reassurance, but intense terror.

  That’s when he began to scream.

  SIXTEEN

  Esperanza and his entourage sat in the smoky lounge at Rachel’s ‘gentlemen’s’ club, off of Orange Avenue in downtown Orlando. Most of the mismatched gang were in good spirits, fuelled by drinks and the thought of living on someone else’s dime until their target was found. Not all were happy, though. Julio was frustrated. He thought all they would have to do was find the woman in the hospital and silence her. He’d brought in the contract killers in case they needed to bully their way in, or take out some local cops guarding her. Now that she was on the run, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do. He didn’t dare reach out to his father for advice.

  A girl with aftermarket boobs and a butterfly tattoo on her belly she’d tried to hide with some concealer make up – per the club’s no tattoo policy – bent over their table as Julio was cutting into his very rare steak. The dancer’s long blonde curls dipped into the bloody au jus on his plate.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ she asked rubbing her breasts against his shoulder, her breath reeking of garlic.

  Julio gripped the knife he was using on his meat so tight his knuckles turned white.

  ‘No. I want you to get your fucking hair out of my fucking food,’ he barked.

  The dancer didn’t seem offended in the least, and never missed a beat as she drifted over the Lopez brothers and made the same enquiry, where she was eagerly invited to sit on their laps and rub their crotches with her butt. Eduardo nuzzled into her cleavage like an unweaned baby and began to nibble at the flesh-coloured pasties that covered her nipples per Orlando’s stripper ordinances. You could be an ‘exotic’ dancer in the Mecca of Mickey Mouse but, like one of Disney’s animated characters, you better not show your aureoles.

  Julio had called his source several times, but the man wasn’t answering. The tool had fulfilled his obligation by letting them know where to find the woman and lining up the gun cache purchase from the Kentucky State Police, but since the hit had gone sour and the woman was gone, who else might know where she’d disappeared to? They needed the asshole one more time.

  As Julio gave up on the steak, watching Eduardo repeatedly try to slip his hand into the girl’s thong, a thought came to him. He nudged his way over to Davies, whose shaved head reflected the club’s multi-coloured strobe lights. Noticing Anichka sitting close to the giant – very close, with a necklace of hickeys on her throat – he wondered what was up.

  ‘De De,’ Julio yelled over the music into the big man’s ear. ‘You tapping that?’

  The huge assassin stared at Julio with his crossed eye. It was as black and cold as onyx. He said nothing.

  Julio backed off pursuing that line. ‘Uh, if I give you a phone number, can you trace it?’

  The big man looked back at him, his face like stone, as if the question was so simple, it didn’t deserve being asked. ‘Oui’ he grunted.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Davies smirked. ‘It’s child’s play, boss,’ he explained. ‘But, I’ll need my laptop.’

  ‘Then, let’s go,’ said Julio.

  He threw a couple of hundred dollars on the table and stood up. The rest of his group followed as if on command, the Lopez brothers unceremoniously dumping the tattooed dancer on the floor. Davies held out his hand to Anichka, who took it as elegantly as a debutante. They began pushing their way out of the crowd and back to the hotel, but not before Eduardo slipped in one more grope as he helped the dancer up and stuffed a twenty into her panties.

  Moral started off great. On a lark, on his way to the blackjack tables, he’d hit the five dollar slots and pulled twelve hundred dollars out of the first machine after only two turns of the wheels. Three golden bells in a row. It was like cocaine: elation followed by the need for more.

  The race tracks were closed on the east coast, but he found some televised races from California. He liked playing the ponies, but you had to bet big to win big. He laid down his slot machine take on a horse named ‘Money Marshal’. It won and paid five-to-one. He made six grand, lost a couple of hundred on a few more bets, then decided he better go for the gusto if he was going to double or triple his money. He was feeling like a winner when he strode over to the tables, searched the floor for the best looking dealer with the biggest boobs, and pulled up a chair. Her platinum locks and crimson red lips would distract the other players, but not him. He was focused, bent on making that money, assured it would resurrect his soul.

  On his first hand, he was dealt two aces. He doubled down and stayed at nineteen-on-one and got a face card on top of the other. He won both hands when the dealer took a hit on a fourteen and busted, pulling a nine. It was pretty unusual for a dealer to bust. Moral saw it as a sign, as gamblers tend to do, so he stayed put and picked up another forty-two hundred, playing two and three hands at a time over the next hour. When his luck started to go south – he lost about five hundred – at that table, he moved to another. But, he wasn’t getting to where he needed to be, so he took a run at
craps. This went on for hours, his confidence increasing, his heart pumping adrenalized blood into his head so that, in spite of downing at least eight highballs, he was as clear and focused as a rattler zeroing in on a field mouse. By 10:00 p.m., he had almost forty-five thousand dollars. He considered stopping, taking what he had, leaving on a semblance of success, going away with confidence. With the cash in his pocket he could face Esperanza. At least he had a bargaining chip.

  He decided to take a break and think about it. He went to Velvet, a club with a live jazz band playing in the casino, and sat at the bar. He struck up a conversation with a guy in a loud jacket who said he was a local. Moral asked him if he knew where any real action was. He sure did. Some high rollers were holed up in one of the hotel’s penthouse suites. ‘Knock on the door,’ he’d instructed, ‘give ’em the password, “Horseshoe”, and you got a seat at the table: five card stud, with a minimum five K buy-in.’

  They rode up the elevator together, and the local man introduced him to some of the players: a bunch of out-of-towners, older fellas with sharp blazers, expensive cigars, overpriced watches, and lots of bling. There were a couple of hookers mulling about the table, too, giving neck massages. When you took a break, you could go to one of the three bedrooms in the suite and get a blow job. Nice. Booze flowed freely. Moral felt a warm glow envelope him like a soft, wet mouth. For now, he was the man, the player, the winner.

  Moral had never been to Orlando. For a place that marketed itself as the premiere family destination in the world, he was amazed to discover how much of that action was clearly not family oriented.

  Within ninety minutes, he’d lost everything. The guy with the loud jacket loaned him cash to get his car from valet. He hadn’t even got a blow job. As he drove away from the casino, he felt lost, literally and geographically. Sweat soaked his armpits and seeped through to his plaid jacket. He could smell the sharp scent of his own body. His tie was loose, like a hangman’s knot just before the trap door opens. His shirt collar was ringed with oil and dirt. Boozy bile ran up his throat and burned his mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t go on, his phone rang. It was them. To his surprise, he answered.