Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series

by Gregory Lamberson

  The key . . .

  Abby had said, “The key will save your life.”

  With his eyelids twitching, Jake released the rifle with his right hand, which allowed the man to press the rifle against his throat with even greater power, and reached into his pants pocket. His fingers opened and closed in a spastic fashion beyond his control, but he managed to drag free the key to his rented SUV. He stroked the key’s shaft, two and a half inches long, then drove it straight into the man’s left ear until it would go no deeper, and turned the ignition.

  The man’s body shuddered, and he released the rifle as he sat erect, eyes wide. With a trembling hand, he pinched the inside of his ear and drew the key out of his ruptured canal, which spewed clumps of waxy blood.

  Jake gasped for air, his swollen throat throbbing. He threw the man off” him and onto the floor and crawled across the bed. He set one foot on the carpet and staggered forward into the desk. In the mirror’s reflection, he saw the man lurching after him, the hunting knife clutched in his hand once more. Jake swiped a complimentary pen from the desk, spun to face the man, seized the wrist of his opponent’s knife hand, and buried the pen in his left eye. The man screamed until Jake punched him in the throat, rendering him mute.

  The man sank to his knees. He tilted his head back, gazed at Jake with his remaining eye, and opened his mouth to speak. Then his eye rolled up, and he fell backwards on the floor. His body shook, farted, and stopped moving.

  Gasping, Jake massaged his throat.

  Dark light rose from the man’s corpse, seemed to congeal above it, and faded.

  Jake sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain which of his assaults had killed the man and not really caring. He had no intention of allowing an autopsy to solve the riddle.

  Self-defense, he thought.

  It didn’t matter. If he reported the man’s death to the police, his search for Marla would grind to a halt as he subjected himself to the slow turning wheels of justice. And he believed Reichard and Madigan could make sure he was found guilty of murder and did serious time. He was not going to let that happen without a fight. This corpse had to disappear.

  The telephone rang, causing him to jump.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Jake stared at the ringing telephone. No one knew he had checked into this hotel except Carrie, and she would have called his cell phone.

  The front desk?

  The dead man on the floor had screamed before expiring.

  Or maybe he isn’t a lone gunman and his partner’s checking to see if I answer . . .

  Allowing the phone to ring out, he took the plastic liner out of the wastebasket beside the desk, pulled it over the man’s head, and tied it to prevent the jellylike substance oozing from his eye and the blood from his nose and ear from pooling on the carpet. Blood had already collected on the fabric, so he ran to the bathroom, wet some tissue, and scrubbed the slick spots.

  Thank heaven for stain-free hotel carpeting.

  He ripped the comforter from the bed, ascertained that blood had not stained the sheets, and tossed the comforter into the bathtub. He had just grabbed the dead man’s ankles and was in the process of dragging the corpse into the bathroom when he heard a knock at the door.

  Damn it!

  Jake continued the heavy lifting. Inside the bathroom, he draped the man’s legs over the bathtub and ran the water. He closed the bathroom door as he opened the front door.

  A young woman with short dark hair and a pierced nose stood before him. The name tag pinned to the lapel of her blazer identified her as Beth. “Is everything all right? Another guest complained he heard screaming in here.”

  Jake recognized her voice. Beth was the young woman he had heard in the room behind the counter when he had returned from the reservation. “Everything’s fine. I didn’t realize I was so loud. I sat down in the desk chair, and it completely fell apart underneath me.”

  “Oh, my God, are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. I was just startled. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

  “I should call an ambulance.”

  “Please don’t. I just want to take a hot bath and get a good night’s sleep before checkout.”

  “Are you sure? I need to have you fill out an accident report.”

  “Really, that isn’t necessary. I’d rather keep this between us. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “My manager would want to comp your room at least.”

  “He doesn’t need to know about it. Just don’t bill me for the chair, okay?”

  Beth tried to get a better look inside. “I tried calling you but there was no answer.”

  Jake nodded at the bathroom door. “Sorry. I was running my bathwater.”

  “Okay. Promise me you’ll call the front desk if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  Beth walked away, and Jake closed the door and returned to the bathroom, where he shut off the water. He turned the dead man’s pockets inside out but found no wallet or ID, just keys and a remote for a rental car.

  Jake slipped out one of the hotel’s side exits. Circling the parking lot, he aimed the dead man’s remote control at every silver SUV he saw until one beeped and flashed its headlights. He walked to the vehicle, unlocked it, got in, and searched it. In the glove compartment he found a wallet. A New York driver’s license identified the man as Kiel Kove. A Virginia license named him as Ashley Martin. A Florida license identified David Willard. And a California license listed Henry Klepparek. Then Jake found a corporate security card.

  What have we here?

  The ID read, Ashby Morton, White River Security.

  Jake tapped the card in his hand. He had heard of White River Security. The company sent security contractors all over the world, from South America to the Middle East: highly paid corporate mercenaries. White River won no-bid contracts from the Pentagon and made a profit wherever war or instability wreaked havoc. He had no trouble imagining a connection between the outfit and Karlin Reichard.

  Climbing into the backseat, Jake rifled through a rolling suitcase until he found round-trip tickets for Ashby Morton from West Virginia to Buffalo. The return ticket was for the next day, just like Jake’s. He also found a room key for a Best Western located on the same strip.

  In and out, wham, bam, you’re dead, man.

  He had a long night ahead of him, and he didn’t foresee sleeping on the plane.

  Jake drove his own rental vehicle along the strip until he located a twenty-four-hour home supplies superstore. He dropped two hundred dollars in cash on the materials he needed, then located a pay phone in the parking lot because he did not wish to use his cell phone unless necessary. God only knew if White River had the ability to listen in on his calls. Plying the phone with quarters, he called Carrie.

  “Hello?” a man’s low voice said over music in the background.

  Ripper, Jake thought. “Can I speak to Carrie? This is Jake.”

  Ripper did not answer him.

  A moment later, after some rustling on their end of the line, Carrie took over. “What is it, boss?”

  “I’m sorry to do this, but I need you to go into the office.”

  “Now? It’s Saturday night. We’re at a party on Long Island.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. Call me when you get there.”

  “Jake, Ripper isn’t going to be very happy about this. It’s his drummer’s birthday.”

  “Leave him there. I don’t want him in the office anyway.”

  “He’ll never let me travel alone.”

  “Then bring him along, but make him wait downstairs. Remember, I can access the security cameras from my laptop.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can tell you right now he isn’t going to leave right this minute just because you say so.”

  “Do what you can.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Always.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Returning to his room at the inn, Jake pulled on cle
ar plastic shoe covers, a jumpsuit with gloves and a hood secured by a drawstring, and a pair of goggles. Then he lined the bathtub and bathroom floor and walls with plastic drop cloths. He used scissors to cut away Morton’s clothing, rather than struggle to undress the corpse, and deposited the items in an industrial-sized garbage bag. Arranging the corpse in the bathtub, he took out the handsaw used for tree trimming. He would have preferred a power tool, but that would have created chaos with other hotel guests.

  Raising Morton’s left leg, he cocked the knee and placed the saw’s teeth against it. He had never disposed of a body before, and he wished he didn’t have to now. Life would have been so much easier if he could have just rolled Morton’s corpse out of the hotel on a luggage cart, but the chances of him being seen were too great. He thought about everything he could to take his mind off the grisly task at hand: Sheryl. Marla. Martin. Edgar. Joyce. What would any of them think if they saw him now?

  Sheryl could be watching me right now.

  He was glad he had rented an SUV.

  Jake drove along the highway through the darkness, tuning the radio until he came across a news station. He got off at the exit he wanted, and this road was even darker, with trees flanking each side of the road and no streetlights in sight. The headlights illuminated the wooden statue of the Indian at the trading post, but this time Jake turned right before he reached it and followed a road along the edge of the woods. There were no other vehicles or houses or other signs of civilization, and as Jake got out, he glanced at the sky and marveled at the visibility of the stars, which he rarely saw in the glare of New York City.

  Watch the stars, brother!

  He opened the SUV’s hatch, took out a flashlight, a shovel, and one of the bulging garbage bags and walked into the woods, snapping twigs beneath his feet and brushing branches away from his face with the flashlight. He located a small clearing dusted with pinecones. After dropping the shovel and the bag onto the ground, he positioned the flashlight in the crook of a tree so it served as a spotlight. Then he picked up the shovel, cleared away pinecones, and used his foot to drive the shovel’s blade into the ground. An owl hooted somewhere in the trees as he dug.

  After fifteen minutes, he stepped into the hole up to his thighs and piled fresh dirt along the edges. His goal was to dig a hole three feet deep and five feet wide, but his body ached, and he doubted his ability to see his task through to its conclusion. Climbing out of the hole, he threw the shovel into the dirt and rotated his shoulders.

  Jake returned to the SUV without the flashlight, which wasn’t too difficult since the clearing was just a hundred yards from the road. He opened the hatch, took out two more bags—leaving the one with Morton’s trunk for last because it was heaviest—and headed back for the woods. Before he reached the trees, he heard an engine and saw white light come around the bend. Operating on blind instinct, he charged into the woods and turned around.

  A pickup stopped next to the SUV. Several figures leapt out of the truck bed and circled the vehicle. Some of them carried rifles.

  Shit!

  Jake hurried to the clearing, easy to spot with his flashlight in the tree. He thought he had seen four men jump out of the truck bed, which meant two more men rode in the front. A six-man assassination squad. Throwing the heavy garbage bags into the hole, he snatched the flashlight from the tree and turned it off. Then he grabbed the shovel and jumped into the hole.

  Peering over the mound of dirt, he saw half a dozen flashlight beams swarming through the woods, some of them moving in his direction. He tightened his hands on the shovel’s handle, knowing he could take out one, possibly two of the men, but no more, not if they were trained like Morton. He had to run, but he also had to circle back to the SUV or he’d be trapped like a wild animal, hunted by the White River assassins.

  The killers fanned out, expanding their hunting area while closing in on Jake.

  Realizing he had made a mistake by hiding in the hole with Morton’s body parts, Jake turned his back on the men and climbed out the other side. Still clutching the shovel, he hid behind the pile of dirt, which prevented him from seeing his pursuers. Now he wished he had called Gudgino and taken the heat for killing Morton. He had a terrible feeling that he and Morton were going to spend a lot of time together in the hole he had dug.

  A circle of light illuminated the pinecones on the ground twenty feet from his head. He scanned the trees in the opposite direction. He would have to run as fast as possible to stand a chance of escaping, but the faster he moved, the more noise he would make, creating an audible target for the shooters.

  A bird called out from the trees. A similar bird responded.

  I don’t like that.

  Gathering a deep breath, Jake leapt to his feet and spun on one foot, his other leg reaching for the ground. The butt of a rifle stock slammed into his face, and he flailed his arms and fell into the hole. Lying on his back with both knees raised, he batted his eye at the sky above but saw only spots of pulsing light. He massaged the aching left side of his face.

  “Over here, I got him!”

  Jake heard running footsteps above, and as the spots of light in his vision vanished and he saw the sky through the treetops, one figure after another appeared atop the dirt surrounding the hole. Six men aimed flashlights and rifles down at him, making it impossible for him to see them.

  “Get up,” a deep voice said.

  Forgetting about the shovel, Jake got to his feet.

  “Don’t you know how this works? Raise your hands.”

  Jake squinted at the speaker. “Don’t you mean fold them behind my head?”

  “Raise your hands or you’re losing a kneecap.”

  Jake raised his hands.

  “What’s your name, Joe?”

  “If I tell you it’s Frank, will you let me go?”

  The speaker dropped his flashlight on the ground and held out one hand and snapped his fingers. “Gimme your wallet.”

  The discarded flashlight lit one of the other men from below. Out of his peripheral vision, Jake glimpsed gold jewelry and a Mohawk haircut.

  This isn’t what I thought. He took out his wallet, and as the speaker leaned forward to take it, Jake saw the man was an Indian.

  Another man, standing on the speaker’s right-hand side, aimed his flashlight at the wallet. Spilled light illuminated other faces from underneath, causing them to glow like jack-o’-lanterns. Jake guessed the Indians were all in their midtwenties, which didn’t make them any less dangerous.

  The leader thumbed through Jake’s cash before looking at his ID. “What’s a Jake Helman?”

  “This one is a private eye. My PI license is in there.”

  The man studied Jake’s documentation. “This guy’s from the twenty-four-dollar city.”

  Jake heard chuckling all around him. “What are you doing on our land?”

  How do I explain this? “I was driving back to my hotel and I got lost.”

  “Oh yeah?” the man said. “Looks like you got lost in a hole. Good thing you found a shovel to dig your way out. What’s in that bag? You dumping your garbage on our land? We don’t need your garbage. We have our own.”

  Jake stayed quiet, sweating in the cool night air. Think, think, think.

  “Usually people don’t bury their garbage unless they’re taking a shit. Are you taking a shit?”

  Jake swallowed. “Not yet.”

  “Show us what you brought us.”

  Jake saw there was no talking his way out of this situation. Getting down on one knee, he grabbed the industrial liner in both hands, tore it open, and pushed it over. Morton’s head rolled out.

  “Oh, shit!” one of the Indians said, laughing.

  Closing Jake’s wallet, the leader aimed his rifle, which lay across his forearm, at Jake. “Stand up.”

  Jake obeyed, several rifle barrels following his progress.

  “I bet you think we’re scared now. We aren’t scared. We’ve all seen bodies before. There are bod
ies all over this reservation. Someone wants to hide a corpse, they bury it here on protected land. No police or feds can come looking. The Mafia in Niagara Falls does it all the time. It’s the perfect spot—unless you get caught.”

  “There’s five hundred dollars in that wallet. What do you say you just take it and let me go?”

  “You gonna take your garbage with you?”

  He knew the man was playing with him. “Sure, whatever you say.”

  “We could take your money and leave you cold in this hole. Buy some firewater and go gambling and shit, you know?” He tossed the wallet at Jake’s feet. “We don’t want your money.”

  Jake’s cell phone rang, causing him to flinch.

  The Indians laughed.

  “You expecting a call?”

  Carrie. The ring tone continued. “Yes, actually. It’s kind of important. Do you mind?”

  The speaker raised his rifle, aiming it straight at Jake’s face. “Go ahead.”

  Jake answered the call. “Go ahead, Carrie.”

  “I’m in the office. Sorry it took me so long. Ripper didn’t want to leave the party. He’s downstairs now.”

  Jake stared at the barrel aimed between his eyes. “I want you to go to the safe in my office.”

  “Okay, I’m walking now. I’m opening the door. Now I’m turning on the light. I’m standing at the safe.”

  “I’m going to give you the combinations for all three locks. Then I want you to open the safe door.” He read her the combinations one by one. “Now throw the lever. You’ll probably need to use both hands.”

  “Jeez, you aren’t kidding,” Carrie said, grunting.

  “There’s a laptop on the shelf in there. Take it to my desk and turn it on. Do not hook it up to the Internet.”