Cornered

by Brandon Massey

  “No can do.” Leon tapped ashes into a paper tray. “I want to spend quality time with you, just you and me, I love having your undivided attention, Clair Huxtable, wanna build an effigy to you when we’re all through, yeah, uh-huh, all right.”

  Since Leon had called Corey and named his new, ludicrous ransom, the depressive phase of his possible bipolar disorder had proven short-lived. He’d cycled back to a manic state, talking rapidly again, using convoluted sentences, gesturing frantically and chain-smoking cigarettes. Whatever bond she had forged with him a few hours ago had crumbled.

  She could only pray that Corey understood the clue she had given him about their location. She estimated that it had been a few hours since they had spoken-it was maybe ten o’clock by now, maybe a bit later-and she wanted to believe that Corey was busy plotting a rescue. Although she reminded herself that she could not place all her hopes in Corey coming through for them, that she had to stay alert for an opportunity to take advantage of Leon.

  But when Leon was manic like this, he was thoroughly unpredictable, as difficult to pin down as a greased snake. And about as dangerous.

  She sat on the mattress. Leon abruptly rose off the chair and dropped beside her, smelling strongly of sour sweat and nicotine. He touched her leg.

  “No,” she said. She jerked away, and stood.

  He scowled. “Aw, why you wanna treat a brother so bad? We’ve been in here conversating for hours, getting to know each other well, I’m feeling our connection clicking, our rapport rising, you’re becoming the yin to my yang, the hot to my cold, the white to my black, the east to my west, and that means everything to me.” He pounded his chest with his fist. “All the confused little boy in me needs is some genuine love, Clair Huxtable.”

  She stared at him, barely able to disguise her disgust. “What is love to you, Leon?”

  “Love is patient and kind, it doesn’t boast, it isn’t proud, it isn’t easily pissed off, it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always keeps on doing the damn thing, love never lets you down.” He sucked on the cigarette, flashed a proud grin.

  He had just paraphrased the famous passage from the Bible book of Corinthians. She didn’t know why she had expected a more believable answer. In truth, like most psychopaths, he likely had no idea whatsoever of love. All he could do was recite phrases and platitudes he’d read somewhere and try to pass them off as his own original thoughts.

  “You feel a love that deep for C-Note?” he asked.

  “Corey and I share a special bond of love, yes,” she said, eager to deflect the questioning from herself. “When you say love is patient and kind, does someone in your own life come to mind?”

  He sneered. “All right, there you go now with your dime store psychobabble bullshit, trying to put me under an electron microscope.” He blew smoke at her. “Fuck that. Fuck you. That’s why your hubby’s a stone-cold killer.”

  She leaned against the wall, sighed wearily. She knew she shouldn’t let herself get drawn in to this, knew that every word that came out of this man’s mouth was highly suspect, but the bait was too tempting.

  “What’re you talking about?” she asked. “He’s no killer.”

  “No? I’ve been doing the electric slide around the issue and I’m not going to hold back any more, Corey and I used to rock ’n’ roll like Jimmy Hendrix back in the day, breaking and entering into domiciles all over Motown. That’s right, yeah, you heard me right, Mr. Security Company used to be a B amp;E man, deliciously ironic, huh?”

  From the phone conversations she’d overheard between Corey and Leon, she had suspected as much. She didn’t know what to think about it, mostly because she had more pressing issues to deal with, and partly because she would accept only Corey’s own admission of his past acts, not Leon’s spotty stories.

  “But you said he was a killer,” she said.

  “Patience, mademoiselle, I was getting to that, I wanted to paint the tableau. Anyway, so this one break-in we did on the east side, Conant Gardens. Picture a sunny spring afternoon in April. We busted into a brick bungalow on a quiet street, we were loading up on jewelry and cash, and the homeowner interrupted us before we finished. Corey was carrying the gun. He told me he wasn’t going to go down. He popped the man twice, one in the chest, one in the head.”

  Her stomach turned slow flips. “You’re lying.”

  Leon stared at her, half his face blacked out with shadow. “You want to know why he did it? The guy recognized Corey, he was one of his old high school English teachers. The dude said he’d let us walk if we didn’t hurt him, but Corey was worried that the guy would call the cops and ID him, so-bang, Corey smoked him like the Terminator, no pause, no hesitation. I couldn’t believe it, baby girl. . shit, I still can’t, first time I’d ever seen anyone murdered. . it’s stayed with me.” Eyes watery, he sniffed, looked away.

  “You’re lying,” Simone said again. “Corey. . couldn’t. . wouldn’t. . do. . that. .”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Leon’s gaze snapped back to her. “Why do you think he’s never told you about me? Huh? I remind him of a chapter of his life that he’d rather forget, sweep under the rug, but homicide doesn’t ever go away, there’s no statute of limitations on murder. Why do you think Corey hasn’t called the cops and told them you and the munchkin are here? Huh? Because he knows I can snitch on him, he knows he’d lose it all if I talk, and that’s my leverage, the only leverage I’ve got on him, ’cause if I tell the truth he loses everything, his business, you, the kid, all of it, flushed down the drain, and joins the sewage system and he’s serving a life sentence in a Michigan state pen. Rome has fallen.”

  “No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Face it, you married an ice-cold killer, and he’s been lying to you ever since you’ve known him.”

  “Stop talking to me.”

  “Corey gunned down his old teacher like a dog in the street-”

  “Stop it.”

  “Made me swear I’d never snitch-”

  “No-”

  “His whole life ever since has been a lie, and yours, too-”

  “Stop it, goddamnit! Stop it! Stop it!”

  Silent, Leon watched her through a shifting screen of smoke.

  “Just. . just leave me alone,” she said, breathing shakily. “Please. Go away.”

  Shrugging, he stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed the chair, and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned.

  “Ask yourself what kind of man would lie to you like he has?” He tapped his temple. “Counselor, counsel thyself.”

  He left her alone in the room, the thunk of the closing door echoing in her heart.

  54

  As rain poured from the night sky, Corey sped away from the warehouse in Otis’s pickup, the heater blasting out hot air at the maximum setting, drying his clothes and cooking the last traces of coldness out of his body.

  Simone’s words revolved through his mind. Remember when Jada was stung by a bee? That’s how I am right now. That’s how Jada is, too. .

  Finally, he understood.

  Jada had been stung only once in her life. Last September, the three of them had been touring model homes in an upscale subdivision somewhere south of the city, and as they’d entered one of the decorated bedrooms, a yellow jacket had buzzed across the room and landed on Jada’s exposed shoulder, attracted, perhaps, by the fragrance of her lotion. Jada went nuts, slapping at the insect and screaming, and the damn thing stung her before Corey swatted it to the floor and smashed it under his heel. Jada got a red, dime-sized welt on her skin that didn’t go away for several days.

  The community also stuck out in his memory because railroad tracks curved along the border of the properties. He remembered that he and Simone had wondered aloud who would want to buy in to a neighborhood where a freight train might jostle you out of sleep in the middle of the night.

  But the clincher, the reason he was absolutely certain his interpretation was corr
ect, was that Gates-Webb Security had been in contract negotiations with the developer to provide burglar alarm systems in all of the residences, and the deal had fallen through because the builder’s own financing collapsed amid the nationwide mortgage crisis. The development was most likely unfinished, half-completed houses standing empty, lots bare and deserted; Corey had seen it happen numerous times in the past couple of years.

  Since he’d learned Leon and Todd were working as a team, he figured Todd could have told Leon the perfect place to keep Simone and Jada on lockdown, with no fear of neighbors interfering or noticing. He doubted Simone knew of Todd’s involvement-but she had known exactly where they were being held.

  God, I love you, babe, he thought, squeezing the steering wheel and pressing the gas pedal a little harder. Sorry it took me so damned long to figure out your clue.

  Although he knew he was right, he could not remember the subdivision’s address or name. He would have to check company records.

  To do that, he had to go to the office. Going there was about as risky as going home, but he saw no alternative.

  He took the entrance ramp onto I-20, heading west. At that late hour, and in the rainy weather, traffic on the interstate was light. But many of the drivers who were out rocketed past Corey at speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, heedless of the slick pavement, typical Atlanta drivers who left their common sense at home when they hit the roads.

  His BlackBerry vibrated. It was a text message from Todd:

  So U got out, Im impressed. But I still have U.

  Selling GWS is the only option. Lets make a deal.

  Call me.

  “Kiss my ass,” Corey muttered.

  He deleted the message.

  55

  As the windshield wipers swept back and forth, Corey passed by the office, checking out the building, parking lot, and the adjacent roads for possible surveillance vehicles or anything out of the ordinary.

  The office windows were dark, as they should have been at a quarter past eleven. He didn’t notice any suspicious cars in the parking lot or in the surrounding area.

  He made a U-turn at the next traffic light and returned to the office. He parked in the back, between the building and a thick row of hedges, concealing the truck from the road.

  He found an umbrella stashed in a storage space underneath the seat. Hail the good Rev. Otis Trice, always prepared.

  He doused the Chevy’s lights, but left the engine running. Warding off rain with the umbrella, he dashed to the side entrance. For an alarming moment, he thought he’d lost his keys, but then he located them buried deep in his front pocket.

  He took the staircase to the third floor. The GWS office suite was empty, air conditioner and computer servers humming softly. A faint glow filtered inside from the street lamps, but mostly, deep shadows lay everywhere.

  Avoiding switching on lights, he hurried to his private office, to fetch a flashlight that he kept in a drawer. As he rummaged inside, he tried to ignore the photos of Simone and Jada clustered on the desk. His nerves were already so frayed he felt capable of snapping with little provocation.

  Flashlight located, he lifted his hooded windbreaker off the coat hanger beside the door. He shrugged it on and went to the lounge.

  In a cabinet above the sinks, he found a bottle of Advil. He tossed four tablets into his mouth and chased them with a cup of cold water. The knot on his head hurt like hell, and he needed something to dull the pain for a while.

  Although they aimed to run a paperless work environment, as a backup they kept hard copies of all contracts, signed or not, in an administrative area next to the lounge. He approached the wide, three-drawer file cabinet that stood next to a laser printer and high-speed copier, and pulled out the bottom drawer.

  He thumbed on the flashlight and scanned the beam across the file labels.

  “Ah, here we are,” he said.

  He found the manila folder he wanted in the “Canceled Contracts” section. The file included the subdivision name and the sales office address.

  Archer Lake Homes

  478 Archer Way

  Fairburn, GA 30213

  The contract had been canceled four months ago, with a note in his own neat handwriting describing the reason: “builder financing problems.”

  He tore out the page that listed the address, folded it into his pocket, and rushed out of the room.

  As he was striding down the corridor to the exit, lights streaked across the hallway wall. Vehicle head lamps?

  He ran to the nearest window and looked out into the rain.

  Three stories below, a silver Crown Victoria roared across the parking lot. His stomach plummeted.

  The FBI had found him.

  56

  Corey had come too close to finding his family to be hauled into FBI custody, questioned, charged, or otherwise delayed. He had endured too much struggle and pain in the past twenty-four hours to have the patience to deal with any more pointless roadblocks.

  He would speak to the Feds later, but on his terms. All that mattered right then was getting Simone and Jada back.

  Footsteps ringing through the stairwell, he took the stairs to the ground floor and whammed the exit door open with his shoulder. Rain snapped against his face. He lifted the umbrella.

  The government sedan had swung behind the Silverado. Copying the license tag. Running it through the state’s motor vehicles database, pulling up Otis’s name and address, now going to get him involved in this fiasco, too.

  Anger rippled through Corey, but it was mostly anger at himself. His own flaws had created this situation, had brought about these circumstances that jeopardized his family and friends. He had to deal with it now, head on.

  He sprinted to the truck.

  One of the agents climbed out of the sedan: a slender, dark-haired Asian guy so fresh faced he might have graduated from the academy that afternoon.

  Squinting against the rain, the agent held up a badge and shouted, “FBI! Halt, sir!”

  Without slowing, Corey went to the driver’s door. The agent ran toward him.

  “Mr. Webb, halt! That’s an order!”

  Corey opened the door. The agent lunged at him.

  Corey thrust the umbrella like a sword toward the man. The pointy tip stabbed into the agent’s abdomen. He grunted in pain, staggered backward.

  Corey scrambled behind the wheel as another agent got out of the sedan. He was grateful that he had left the engine running, because every second was precious.

  Outside the truck, both agents barked orders at him, drawing pistols.

  Corey slammed the gears into Reverse. The tires screeched against the wet pavement, found traction, and rocketed backward. The truck’s tailgate crashed into the side of the sedan, knocked the vehicle back.

  Corey winced, worried fleetingly about how he’d explain the damage to Otis.

  The agents had their guns out. Corey spun the wheel and slammed the gears into Drive, and the pickup leaped forward like a kicked mule. The men fled out of the way.

  Standing on the accelerator, he thundered across the parking lot. He clipped a small dogwood, a flurry of blossoms raking across the windshield. He flipped on the wipers.

  Gunfire shattered the night.

  He cursed and ducked low in the seat, trying to keep the truck on course. Rounds ricocheted off the bumper, and then a tire burst with a boom.

  The truck slewed hard to the right. Popping up in the seat, Corey wrestled the wheel.

  In the rearview mirror, he saw the agents getting in their car, red taillights flaring.

  They wouldn’t have been working alone. They had been dispatched by Falco to keep a stakeout on his office, and would be on the horn with her that second to report the incident. She would loop in local cops, and they would issue an all points bulletin, throw down a net, and reel him in like a hapless fish.

  No. To hell with that.

  Rubber flapping from the ruined tire, he careened out of the parking lot a
nd onto the street. The truck fishtailed, and he narrowly avoided hitting a Mustang speeding past. The driver honked furiously.

  He risked a look behind him, saw the sedan stalled in the parking lot. The collision with the truck might have disabled the vehicle.

  But more would be coming soon, and to have any chance of getting away, he had to find a new car.

  57

  The door Jada discovered in the closet when the piece of wood fell to the floor behind her was a small door, not a big one, but tall enough for her to go through if she crouched or crawled. When she pulled it open, it led to a dark tunnel full of thick, warm, musty air. It was much too dark inside for her to see where it went.

  But she guessed: attic.

  They had an attic in their house, too. Daddy was the only one who ever went into it, though she had gone with him once. He would pull a ladder out of the ceiling in the hallway outside her bedroom and climb up there to change the what-ever-you-called-it, something that he said kept the air in their house clean. The one time she had gone into the attic with him, a piece of the fluffy pink stuff that covered the wood beams up there got stuck under her collar, and it itched terribly.

  But she had never seen an attic like this one. How big was it? How far did it go?

  She only wanted to go home. If the attic tunnel could only help her get out of this house, she would be happy with that. Then she could find her parents or get help, and go home.

  But as she stared into the passage, she held back, brow furrowed in thought.

  What if she got outside the house and didn’t know where she was? What if she got lost in the woods? There was a forest around the house. She knew that for sure from what she’d seen outside the window.

  To be prepared for anything that might happen, she needed a phone.

  Although she didn’t have her speech processor on, she could still talk and make someone understand her. She could call Daddy.