by Mark Gilleo
“And?”
“I almost shit myself. Tried to scream but nothing came out. Twisted my ankle on the landing. Never again. Told my son I would do it on my sixty-fifth birthday, if I lived that long. I did and I did. There is nothing else on my bucket list.”
“When was this?”
“May the fifth. My sixty-fifth birthday.”
“Cinco de Mayo. A good birthday. But I don’t understand why that story is relevant to Alex.”
“It was what occurred after the jump. The skydiving hangar is next to one of the private jet hangars. Quite by chance, on the day I celebrated my birth by risking death, I saw several Langley employees disembark from a private jet in front of one of these private jet terminals. I memorized the tail number of the jet, and that information Alex found very interesting.”
“I bet he did. What kind of airplane?”
“A small jet. Nothing too big flies out of Manassas. It probably was a twelve-seater. Not much bigger for sure. Twin jets. Beige stripe on the plane.”
“Anything else?”
“I got caught gawking a little.”
“How is that?”
“Saw some of the people leaving on the other side of the terminal as we left. Two of the people who got off the plane locked eyes with me in a way that gave me goose bumps. I wasn’t breaking any law or anything, so I wasn’t too worried, but the glance was noted and uncomfortable. I kept my feet moving. Walked to my son’s car. Got the hell out of there.”
“Was the guy in the sketch one of the people on the plane?”
“No.”
“You sure.”
“Pretty sure. Nothing wrong with my vision.”
“Do you remember the tail number on that plane?”
“Yes, I memorized it. And if you bring me ten thousand dollars I will give it to you.”
—
In the government-issue sedan parked in the Sears parking lot, Reed Temple lowered the small pair of binoculars. He turned to Major in the passenger seat. “Remind me again, why is this guy not in jail?”
“We can’t answer that,” Major replied, glancing at Ridge in the rear seat on the driver’s side. “We pinned evidence of two murders on him and he walked out of the DC correctional facility in a little over an hour.”
“He knows someone,” Temple said flatly.
“Who?”
“I’m looking into it. This is a person with virtually no background and the ability to extricate himself from custody in less time than it takes me to have a proper lunch. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he is in the intelligence field.”
“Suggestions?”
“Terminate him.”
“What about your superiors?” Major asked.
“I was considering a change of employer. Maybe joining the private sector. Do some consulting. I hear the money is good.”
“The money is very good,” Major agreed.
“Get it done. Set it up clean, run it clean.”
“Yes, sir. Any preferences on method?”
“No.”
“Freedom is good. Keeps the alternatives open.”
“How long will it take you?”
“We should be able to devise and execute an appropriate headcount reduction alternative in twenty-four hours. Thirty-six at the most. It is our specialty, after all.”
Reed Temple stroked his chin. “I think we could all use a haircut.”
—
Benny the barber swept the floor a final time, his nerves rattled from Dan’s visit. He finagled the large pile of hair into the dustpan with the bristles of the broom and emptied the contents into an open-top rubber trashcan.
Major knocked on the locked door and Benny replied, “Closed for the night,” through the unopened blinds in the trailer window. Benny turned his attention to the till and opened the cash register drawer to count the take for the evening. The thick stack of twenties was welcomed. He counted the pile twice, removed a few off the top and put them in his wallet. He placed his wallet on the old table top next to the register and did a quick calculation in his head. He nodded several times and smiled with the realization that this evening’s work was enough to cover a quarter of the monthly rent. The electric bill was an additional modest sum, covered mostly by tips. He would claim forty dollars on his income taxes. Cash only services had their advantage.
With more concentration, Benny ran his fingers across the tick marks on his small bookie notepad, each tick representing the wagers placed by customers. He tried to commit most of the bets to memory, translating his shorthand into meaningful information in his head. It was an exercise in prudence—keeping track of bets without recording explicit details that could lead to incarceration.
Engrossed by his favorite moment of the workday, Benny didn’t notice the door lock being expertly picked until Ridge’s shoulders cleared the door frame on his way into the trailer. Major pocketed his lock picking set as he followed Ridge across the threshold. Reed Temple brought up the rear, closing the door behind him with an authoritative thud and reconfirming the sealed exit with an additional tug on the knob.
Benny looked down at the doorknob, unsure of what had just occurred. He looked up at Ridge and over at Major as the ex-military professionals moved to opposite sides of the barber. Reed Temple stood in front of the closed door, his eyes meeting Benny’s.
“Sorry gentlemen, I am closed. You can come back tomorrow evening.”
“We are not here for haircuts,” Major replied.
“What can I help you with?”
Reed Temple commandeered the conversation. “Have a seat,” he replied, motioning for the barber to once again sit in his own chair. Benny complied, lowering himself slowly onto the old leather seat. “We want to know about the last customer who was here. The gentleman with the fresh wound above the left eyebrow.”
“He was a walk-in. I have never seen him before. I don’t know anything about him.”
“How did he like it cut?”
“He asked for a little off the edges.”
“You took your time for just a trim.”
Benny the barber tried to wish away the sweat beads forming on his forehead. The moisture in his pits from the conversation with Dan had already started to spread, soaking a larger area of his shirt. He was feeling guilty and he understood where that emotion would lead if he couldn’t rein it in.
“I gave him a trim. He was a talker. It may have taken longer than usual, but he was the last cut of the night and a potential new client. I didn’t want to be rude. My livelihood depends on repeat customers.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing. Small talk. The history of the barber pole.”
“You said he was a talker, and yet you talked about nothing . . .”
“Nothing important.” Benny could feel the perspiration on his neck, dripping down the small of his back. Ridge and Major moved to the rear of the barber chair, pawing through the barber’s tools of the trade that littered the counter area near the sink.
“Do I know you?” Reed Temple asked, squinting at the barber.
“I don’t think so.”
“You look nervous. We don’t mean to make you nervous.”
“Three guys coming through a closed door when you are counting the day’s cash would make anyone nervous.”
Reed Temple nodded. “The hours of operation on the door claim you are here in the evening and weekends. You don’t work during the week?”
Reed Temple casually picked up Benny’s wallet off the table next to the register and started flipping through his credit cards and IDs.
Benny’s perspiration broke its remaining containment and a deluge of sweat poured out. The barber wiped at his forehead with his open palm and dried his hand on the leg of his pants. “I work at another location. It’s common for
barbers to work at multiple shops.”
Reed Temple held up an ID card identifying Benny the barber as a contract civilian employee for a well-known building in Langley. He flipped the card between his fingers like a magician and stopped with the ID photo facing Benny, the barber’s own picture reflecting in his pupils. Benny’s face turned ashen, adding to the sheen of sweat to combine for an unhealthy complexion.
“Ben Stenger.”
“My friends call me Benny.”
“Well, Benny. I’m going to give you one more opportunity to tell me about your last customer.”
Benny the barber stammered, regained composure, and then spoke, spittle gathering in the corner of his mouth, his throat becoming dry.
“He was interested in wagering on football games.”
“Are you a bookie, Benny?”
“I facilitate bets and get a cut.”
“What else did he want?”
“That was it.”
Reed Temple stepped forward and grabbed Benny’s wrist. Benny tried to stand and Ridge’s large hands came down on his shoulders with crushing strength, holding Benny firmly in his chair. Reed Temple closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“Your pulse is racing.”
“Wouldn’t yours?” Benny replied, glancing at the large paws digging into the flesh on his shoulders.
“Last chance, Benny. Last chance before something bad happens.”
Tears welled in Benny’s eyes. “OK. OK. He was looking for information on an airplane. An airplane at Manassas Airport. I told him to come back with ten thousand dollars and I would give him the tail number.”
Reed Temple stared into Benny’s eyes. The barber’s wet shirt was glued to his chest, sweat permeating every thread of the fabric.
“Don’t you feel better?” Reed Temple asked. “The relief of getting that off your chest.”
Benny didn’t respond.
Reed Temple nodded at Major, who was at the small sink to the rear of the barber’s chair. Major pulled the plunger to the closed position and slowly turned on an equal amount of warm and cold water. The water pooled in the bottom of the sink and began its slow rise upward.
“Benny, I can understand how three strange men entering your shop at closing time would cause you angst. To alleviate your anxiety, I am going to step out and leave you with my associates.”
Benny the barber turned just as Ridge’s massive forearm moved over his head and around his throat.
“I’ll be in the car,” Reed Temple said to Major as he exited the trailer, closing the door behind him. Ridge rotated the barber chair, using Benny’s neck as a lever. When the chair stopped spinning, he was looking up at Major, his face a partial reflection in the mirror. Major turned the handles on the faucets and the water stopped flowing, the water level an inch below the edge of the sink. Major picked up a pair of worn scissors and rapidly opened and shut them with his thumb and middle finger.
“Nice scissors.”
“Expensive, too,” the barber said. “You can have them.”
Major slipped them into his pocket and smiled. “I was planning on keeping them.” Major moved over to the far side of the counter and picked up a hair dryer. He slowly moved from the far end of the counter to the sink and plugged the hair dryer into the socket over the mirror.
“You really need to be careful at work,” Major said, turning the hair dryer on and then flicking it off. Sharp objects. Water. Electrical equipment.”
Moments later, the lights in the trailer flickered off and Ridge and Major walked out the front door of trailer, locking the door behind them and wiping the knob.
Chapter 28
—
Dan squinted at the light in the art studio and rang the buzzer on the front door. A heavy rain translated into light weeknight street traffic. The slickened cobbled brick sidewalk hosted a few fast-moving locals and a smattering of leisurely tourist on their way to no place in particular. The air had turned cooler and Dan saw his breath for the first time this season.
Dan pressed the door buzzer for a second time and Lucia finished adding an entry into her leather-bound accounting journal. She stood and stretched behind her massive stone desk and then walked to the front door of the gallery. Levi the dog raised his head as Lucia passed by.
Dan waved through the glass as Lucia smiled and pulled the left half of the double door open. She was dressed in a white painter’s smock, the colors from the day’s trial-and-error with cubism dried to her sleeve. She looked at Dan’s face and immediately winced at the wound hiding in his eyebrow.
“Come on in. You look like hell.”
“I feel better than I look.”
“What happened?”
“I had a run-in with some criminals. Or criminals-to-be.”
Lucia stood on her toes and touched the skin just above Dan’s eyebrow. “You probably need stitches, if you want it to heal properly.”
“I don’t care enough.”
“You might later, and by then it will be too late.”
“I think it makes me look tougher.”
“I think it shows you are slow.”
“Ouch.”
“Call it like I see it.”
Dan looked over Lucia’s shoulder at the large new painting on the wall. Streaks of colors rained across the canvas diagonally, as if the brilliance of autumn leaves had been smudged across the wall.
“Foliage?”
“Shooting stars.”
Wrong again.
“You are starting to hurt my feelings. You haven’t guessed one right yet,” Lucia added.
“You still arranging things in the gallery?”
“Just a little. Moving some of the smaller pieces to the back of the shop so that customers will be forced to pass the more expensive, larger pieces.”
“Thinking like a businesswoman.”
“Read it in a magazine.”
Dan pointed to a smaller painting on a corner table. “I think I have a shot at deciphering that one. It is clearly a dock of some sort.”
“A fishing dock. I was experimenting with realism.”
“I have been experimenting with that my whole life.”
“We have an art show this weekend down the street at the Torpedo Factory. You should stop by.”
“I may just do that.”
“Oh, you got a package. It’s on the other side of the door. Someone dropped it off late this afternoon. That front door of yours confuses more people.”
“A little confusion is good,” Dan added. “Where is Levi?”
“I don’t know. He was here.”
“Levi,” Dan yelled. Three sharp barks in succession brought the hair on Dan’s neck to attention.
Dan peered around the corner and found Levi sitting at attention. Levi looked up at Dan, raised his paw, and put it on the package that had been delivered to the shop. He barked three more times in succession. Dan’s bowels loosened and then time stood still.
Somewhere between hurling his body at Lucia and crashing onto the floor on the other side of the mammoth stone desk, the front of the gallery disappeared into a million shards of flying glass. Shrapnel ricocheted off the walls and smoke filled the room, drifting out the newly opened front entrance. Dan looked down at Lucia’s crumpled body. Her chest heaved. Blood trickled from her left ear. Dan tried to stand, stumbled, and then succumbed to the darkness.
Chapter 29
—
Dan turned his head away from the bright ceiling lights as the neurons in his brain relearned their connections as part of the healing process. A deafening ring persisted in his ear, intermittent with a skull-thumping pulse that was threatening his sanity. The nicks and scrapes on his exposed flesh had been bandaged, the blood coagulated. Dan cranked his neck the other direction and found the dangling remote control to the ho
spital bed. He raised himself to a seated position and squinted at the wall-mounted TV.
Gradually, he moved his feet over the edge of the mattress and pulled back the curtain dividing the double-occupancy room. The next bed was empty. He tugged the curtain room divider to the wall, exposing the bathroom on the far side of the room. A streak of pain emanated from behind his right eye and Dan fumbled for the call button on the remote. Moments later a nurse appeared.
“I need more pain reliever.”
“You are already at full dose. 800 mg of Ibuprofen. You refused stronger medication earlier, though I doubt you would remember.”
“I usually take 800 mg of Advil after the gym.”
“Well you shouldn’t,” the nurse replied. “It’s rough on the kidneys.” She grabbed the penlight and moved to Dan’s bedside. “Turn this way. Look straight ahead.”
Dan stared forward as the penlight flashed back and forth in front of his eyes like blinding windshield wipers.
“You have a concussion. You took quite a blow to the back of the head. You will have a lump and some discomfort for a while. But all things being equal, you are lucky. It could have turned out a lot worse.”
“What time is it?”
“Early. Just after four in the morning.”
“How was the woman who was brought in with me?”
“She will be fine.”
Dan let out a sigh of relief.
“The police and fire chief want to speak with you. They have been waiting.”
“I am sure they have.”
“You want to talk to them now? I think they headed to the cafeteria, but I can have them paged. Or I can hold them off for a few hours. My medical prerogative.”
“I’ll take a couple hours of rest. Hold them off with a whip and a chair if you have to.”
As the door shut behind the nurse, Dan pulled his butt off the mattress and stood. The loose-fitting hospital gown clung to his neck in a square knot. He looked under the hospital bed and removed the plastic bag from the shelf rack beneath the mattress. He poured the contents onto the wrinkled white sheets, fishing out his cell phone, keys, wallet, and pants. A mix of burnt wood, dust, and fire extinguisher spray wafted out of the bag.