by R. J. Jagger
Good.
Song could breathe without being detected. She needed to clear her throat but didn’t. The more she concentrated on not doing it the more she wanted to.
The man jerked his head up and down to the beat and sang when an evil chorus came up. His voice was rough and mean and filled with hate.
He might be on drugs.
They drove a long ways.
Forty-five minutes or an hour passed.
The driver kept going.
Song had to relieve herself and would have, right there in her own pants, except for the fear he’d smell her.
Then the van stopped.
The radio died.
The squeaking of an overhead door rising came from ahead. The man pulled forward into an enclosure. The rain stopped hammering the roof. The overhead door squeaked down behind them. He drove for a ways—too far to be in a simple garage, then stopped and killed the engine.
He got out and pissed on the ground.
Then he slammed the door shut and walked around back.
Song scampered into the front and curled up on the passenger side floor.
If he walked over, she was dead.
It was that simple.
He briefly inspected the boxes then walked off.
SONG STUCK HER HEAD UP and looked around. The van was inside a large empty metal building with a dirt floor. Only a few overhead lights were on. The man was walking to the corner which had a separate enclosure with a door.
“Lucy, I’m home,” he shouted.
Song waited until he disappeared through the door then headed over.
Shaden was in there.
She could feel it.
Her foot twisted on something half buried in the dirt. She looked down and saw the end of an old, rusty tire iron punching through the surface. A few kicks got it loose enough to pull out. It was cold to the touch.
She gripped it with a tight fist.
Then walked briskly towards the door.
She got to it, took a deep breath, then pushed it open slowly. Shaden was bound tightly to an old steel chair, gagged, fear etched on her face and water in her eyes. The man stood over her, holding a knife with the blade pointed at her eye, not more than an inch away. He wore an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His hair was long and greasy.
His back was to the door.
HE MOVED his face close to Shaden’s, twisted the knife in his fingers and said, “This is actually one of the most humane ways to do it, through the eye. That’s because there’s no skull behind the eye. The blade goes straight into the brain without hitting something and slowing down. Once it’s in, I twist it to the right. The whole thing takes less than a second.”
Shaden pulled against her bonds, frantic.
Muffled screams came from behind her gag.
Suddenly the man turned.
Song went to swing the tire iron but froze.
Her hands shook.
Her whole body shook.
The man’s mouth broke into a grin.
“Looks like we have a party,” he said.
Song closed her eyes and swung.
117
Day 6—September 26
Saturday Night
THE MAN’S SKULL CRACKED with a terrible sound. He collapsed to the floor where he gurgled and twitched for a few seconds. Then he got coffin quiet and his eyes stayed open. Song got Shaden loose. They ran to the van and got the hell out of there with Shaden behind the wheel.
Black rain pounded against the windshield.
They hardly talked.
Song called Nuwa, found out where she was and had Shaden swing over to get her.
“Now what?” Song asked.
“We need to get the treasure into a different vehicle and then Nuwa needs to get out of town with it,” Shaden said. Then to Nuwa, “The man after you is a New York lawyer named Lloyd Taylor. He’s the one who attacked you in your office yesterday.”
Silence.
“How do you know that?”
Shaden sighed.
“Let me back up,” she said. “You have the right to know some things. Some bad things. You were hired by a man named Park Ching to cozy up to Jack Poon and steal his treasure. What you don’t know is who hired Ching. Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Poon confided to one of his lawyers, Nathan Rock, about the treasure,” Shaden said. “Rock’s a partner in Rapport, Wolfe & Lake here in San Francisco. Rock is tight with another lawyer in the New York branch of the firm, a man named Lloyd Taylor. Rock and Taylor together came up with the idea to hire Park Ching.”
“How do you know?”
“Hold on, I’m getting there,” Shaden said. “When you got to San Francisco with the treasure, that’s who it was supposed to be delivered to—the two lawyers. You kept half, though.”
“Right,” Nuwa said. “I deserved it.”
“No argument,” Shaden said. “It was half in volume, but your half had the mask and the jewels. You actually kept 80 to 90 percent of the overall value. Rock and Taylor split up what you gave them, then set out to get the rest. Eventually they tracked you to Song’s place. Rock broke in to the office and the apartment, looking for the treasure or evidence as to where it was. He didn’t find anything.”
“Wow.”
To Song, “Sorry about that.”
Back to Nuwa, “To their credit, they weren’t violent men, at least at that point in time. They came up with a plan. That’s when I got involved. Until then, I had no idea that any of this was going on.”
“What plan?”
“Their plan was for me to cozy up to you—get on the inside, if you will—and find out where you had the treasure stashed. They came up with a case that would give me an opportunity to hire Song and then, by extension, get to you. They knew you were living with Song and that her apartment was right above her office. They knew that if I became a client I’d get an opportunity to meet you in a trusted way and get on the inside. So they came up with a fake case and flew me out here to San Francisco to play my part.”
“Fake case?” Song asked.
Shaden looked at her and sighed.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” she said. “You were going to be paid well.”
“Are you telling me that the whole story about you coming to San Francisco to investigate Rekker and ended up shooting a woman—all that was fake?”
Shaden nodded.
“It was,” she said.
Song shook her head in disbelief.
“Why Rekker?”
“I don’t know why they chose Rekker,” Shaden said. “Obviously, they needed to name someone high-up in the firm. The feeling I got was that Rock didn’t like Rekker for whatever reason. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that everything got messed up when Rock got killed. It was apparent at that point that someone else was after the treasure, probably Poon or one of his drones. Now only me and Taylor were left and we needed to act fast. That’s when we came up with the next plan.”
“What was that?” Nuwa asked.
“The plan was to pretend that I’d been abducted and would be killed unless you did what they told you to,” Shaden said. “Lloyd Taylor hired a man named Bart Sinclair to pretend to be the abductor. He’s the one who called you on the phone. When they let you speak to me to verify I’d been taken, I was sitting in a chair next to him, perfectly fine. I was just pretending.”
Nuwa’s eyes narrowed.
She said nothing.
“You did what they told you to,” Shaden said. “Before Sinclair took off to pick up the van behind the bar, he assaulted me and tied me to the chair. I’d been double-crossed. If it wasn’t for Song, I’d be dead right now and Sinclair would be hooking up with Taylor somewhere to hand off the treasure.” She paused. “I’m not asking either of you to forgive me.”
Song said nothing.
Nuwa said nothing.
Then Shaden said to Nuwa, “You need to get out of town with the treasure. I’m going to take care
of Lloyd Taylor.”
“How?”
“He tried to kill me,” she said. “What’s fair is fair. It may take me some time to do it, but it’s going to happen, you can count on it.”
THEY DROVE IN SILENCE.
Then Nuwa exhaled and said, “Even if you kill Taylor, I still have Poon to worry about. He’ll hunt me forever. I was okay with that at the beginning but to be honest it’s taking a toll. I’ve come to a decision.”
Really?
What?
“I’m going to give Poon back what I took from him,” she said. “I’ll tell him about Lloyd Taylor. He’ll take care of the man. You won’t have to kill him. After he’s dead, you can go back to your law job as if nothing ever happened.”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled and added, “Don’t make me think too hard about it. I might change my mind.”
SHADEN REACHED OVER and held Song’s hand.
“I’m sorry for what I did.”
Silence.
Then Song squeezed and said, “I’m glad you told me in the end.”
“You’re a hell of a lawyer,” Shaden said.
Song grunted.
“Right,” she said. “Delicate is more like it.”
“You’re the only lawyer I know who actually saved her client’s life,” Shaden said. “I’d hardly call that delicate.”
118
Day 6—September 26
Saturday Night
RAYLA WHITE RACED down Hunter’s Point Boulevard, closer and closer to the bay, and hydroplaned to a stop when she got to the Indian Basin docks. “That boat, there,” she said, pointing. “That’s where Greyson’s been going.”
Teffinger opened the door.
The storm immediately pounded the interior.
“Stay here! Call 911 for backup.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
Teffinger reached into his pocket.
It was empty.
Shit.
“Just stay here.”
He ran towards the boat without shutting the door. It was a large steel vessel in an obvious state of decommission. No lights came from it.
The gangplank was up.
The deck was too high and far.
He jumped for the stern line, dangled over the water as he almost lost his grip, then walked his hands overhead until he got close enough to swing onto the boat.
He opened a steel door and went inside.
He heard nothing.
He saw nothing.
It was blacker than black.
He was halfway back out when a light flickered inside, twenty steps away. It was coming up a stairway from somewhere down in the guts of the boat. It got lighter and lighter as he made his way towards it. At the stairs he slowed and went down quietly.
He didn’t have a gun.
He looked around for a weapon but the space was clean.
Suddenly he heard the muffled sound of a woman’s voice.
Below, he could hardly believe what he saw. There were two tables in the middle of a room. On each one was a naked woman, hogtied and gagged in the SJK position, struggling to keep their legs bent and not choke to death.
One was Chase.
The other was a black woman.
There were two men sitting in chairs, drinking beer and watching the show.
Teffinger let out a war cry and charged with every ounce of strength in his body.
119
One Month Later
Late October
THE EGYPTIAN AIR WAS HOT, even at this time of year and even as the sun went down. Jonk brought the Jeep to a stop and killed the engine. He wiped sweat from his forehead, took a long swallow from a canteen and passed it to Tag, who took a long noisy slurp and then passed it to Winter. A lot had happened since that fateful night a month ago on I-101 when Tag jerked the wheel into Amaury’s car as he fired at them.
Amaury crashed and died.
That was a good thing.
Jonk and Tag lost sight of the van.
That was a bad thing.
An hour later they had a realistic chat over coffee and decided to cut their losses and get out of town with what they had, namely one-fourth of the gold coins.
A WEEK LATER Jonk spotted numbers written on the inside flap of Amaury’s spiral notebook. They didn’t mean anything for a day and another and another. Then, while he wasn’t even thinking about it, it popped into his brain that they might be GPS coordinates. When he checked to see where they would be if in fact they were coordinates, he discovered something interesting.
They fell in Egypt.
Even more interesting, they fell in the exact area where the expedition had initially searched for the treasure.
“MORE?” Winter asked, offering the canteen.
Jonk shook his head.
Tag said, “I’ll take a little more.”
She took a swallow then screwed the cap on.
Jonk checked the GPS one more time and said, “If this thing’s working right, we’re right on top of it.”
120
Two Months Later
Late November
Saturday Evening
TEFFINGER POPPED BERTHA’S HOOD, opened his toolbox and started disconnecting the old ignition wires. New ones sat on the ground, still in the packaging, ready to go in.
No more jiggling.
At least that was the plan.
If Bertha wanted to torment him, she’d need to find a new way to do it.
His mind wandered as he worked.
IT WAS A GOOD THING Rayla White was such a fast driver. If Teffinger had gotten to the ship two minutes later, the result might have been different. As it happened, he was able to get both women loose before either died.
One of them was Chase.
The other one—the black woman—was London Fogg.
Teffinger beat Kyle Greyson to death with his bare fists. That was ruled justifiable and no charges were brought. The other man escaped while Teffinger was fighting Greyson. He turned out to be Dirk Rekker, Greyson’s attorney. What he was doing there was still a mystery. What wasn’t a mystery is that he stabbed Rayla White and made off in her car.
Luckily the knife missed her heart by an inch.
She didn’t die.
THE DAY AFTER that fateful night in the ship, the chief showed up unexpectedly at Teffinger’s boat and said, “Let me buy you a beer.”
Teffinger pushed hair out of his face.
“Okay.”
They went to a dive bar and drank Anchor Steams until the bartender turned the lights off and put them in a cab.
The next morning, Teffinger showed up to work.
At 6:00 a.m.
The beer that had gone down so smoothly last night now pounded inside his skull with little hammers.
He didn’t care.
He was back where he belonged.
Neva spotted him first and walked over.
“Are you really back?”
“Yes.”
She sniffed the air, said “You smell like beer,” and handed him a mint. “Better not let the chief find out.”
He nodded.
“Right.”
CONDOR WAS ARRESTED for the murder of Chase’s sister, Jacqueline St. John, whose last moments of life were memorialized in one of the three clear-case DVDs found in Troy Trent’s dresser.
She was the one killed in SJK style.
TEFFINGER’S PHONE RANG just as he got the positive cable disconnected. It was Chase.
“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked.
“Who is this?”
She laughed and said, “Not funny. I’m going to wear a short white dress and a black thong.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
TEN MINUTES LATER his phone rang again and a man’s voice came through, one he didn’t recognize. It sounded far away.
“Do you know who this is?” the man asked.
“No.”
“This is your good
friend, Dirk Rekker.”
Teffinger’s heart raced.
“You have a lot of nerve calling me,” he said. “Half the world’s hunting you right now.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, where are you?”
“Mexico.”
“Really?”
“Don’t get your panties all bunched up,” Rekker said. “You’ll never find me.”
“We have an extradition treaty with Mexico,” Teffinger said. “Did you know that?”
“I’m a lawyer. What do you think?”
“Were a lawyer,” Teffinger said. “Past tense.”
Rekker chuckled.
“Were,” he said. “Good catch. Enough chitchat, here’s a few things you’ll be interested to know. First off, all my lawyer files that point to Kyle Greyson and Troy Trent being the SJK killers, they’re partly true but not completely true. Part of them I fabricated.”
“You’re playing games.”
“Hear me out,” Rekker said. “I wanted to win Greyson’s trial. He came up with the idea of having a second murder take place during his trial. He knew a man who would do it, Troy Trent. He wanted me to set it up and had five million dollars transferred to an offshore account in my name. I paid Trent a million and kept four.”
“So you have enough money to stay hidden? Is that what you’re telling me.”
“No,” Rekker said. “Trent got hung up and couldn’t do the job when he was supposed to. I stepped in and did it. I killed Jamie van de Haven, not Trent. Then I doctored my files to make it look like Trent, just in case.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why would I lie?” Rekker said. “Trent killed the third victim, though, Pamela Zoom. Me and Greyson wanted him to do it so he’d be fully vested. We had him do it when we were both in London with iron-clad alibis.” He laughed. “All this time you’ve been thinking there were two SJK killers. There were really three.”
Teffinger paced.
“This last one was going to be a double,” Rekker said. “Greyson took London Fogg and I took Chase.”
“Why Chase?”
“Why Chase?” Rekker repeated. “Because she’s a bitch.”