Whirlwind

by Rick Mofina

  “You’re lucky I let you live, you useless piece of crap!”

  He stomped to the garage, opened the bay doors, hit the lights and resumed work restoring the chassis of the Model T. He fired up the grinder to remove rust when he saw a shadow and heard knocking out front.

  Now what?

  He went to the locked office door and saw an older man and a younger woman standing outside.

  “I’m closed!” Lamont shouted through the barred glass.

  “You’re Mr. Faulk, Lamont Faulk?” the man shouted back.

  Lamont hesitated.

  “We just need a moment of your time, sir.”

  Lamont looked beyond them for a car, or other people. Who are they? Becoming uneasy he weighed possibilities and options. Was this a surprise visit from the parole people? He hadn’t missed any meetings. But the guy had an accent. European? What’s up with that? Maybe they were religious nuts. But how would they know his name?

  “We just need your help—it won’t take long.”

  “What is it?”

  “May we come in?”

  If they were parole people, his reaction would be noted.

  Lamont unlocked the door and let them into what passed as a reception area. It had two sofas, with holes patched with duct tape, and two battered chairs.

  The man was in his sixties, wearing a polo shirt, jacket and jeans. He was about Lamont’s height and looked to be in good shape. The woman might’ve been in her late twenties. Kinda pretty but in a plain way.

  “Who are you? Are you from TDCJ?” Lamont asked.

  “No, no. We just need your help, only a moment of your time.”

  “Help with what?”

  The old man’s eyes scanned the office, the garage bays and work benches. “Are there others here? We’d like to keep this private.”

  “We’re all closed up... There’s just me. State your business.”

  “What about the trailer we saw in the back with the light on?”

  “That’s me. What do you want?”

  The man produced some folded pages from his jacket, and for the first time Lamont noticed he was wearing gloves. He unfolded pictures from Hightower prison.

  “I understand you know this man, Mason Varno, who’s been known to use various aliases?”

  Lamont shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  The older man’s eyes gleamed, and his skin crinkled around them as he smiled at Lamont.

  “Mr. Faulk. Please think again. I understand you know this man and I need to locate him.”

  Lamont’s face began to harden. “I answered your question.”

  The man’s gaze never left Lamont. “Mr. Faulk, I’ve been polite and it’s unfortunate that you would choose to lie to me.”

  “I don’t know you— I don’t need this shit. Get out!”

  “Forgive me, but I can’t leave without your help to locate this man. I have business with him.”

  “I don’t owe you squat. Where the hell’re you from anyway? You sound like those Russian Commies on TV. Are you a Commie? I hate Commies.”

  The man stepped into Lamont’s personal space. “And as much as you hate communists, I detest liars.”

  Who the hell did this prick think he was?

  Lamont’s jaw twitched, his blood was pumping hard, releasing his hair-trigger temper. He drew his right arm back, closed his hand into a fist, driving it at the bastard’s face, but he hit air. The old guy moved like a snake as he ducked, lowered himself then with blinding speed shot up, smashing the top of his skull into Lamont’s face, breaking his nose and three of his rotting teeth in a brain-numbing explosion of blood and bone. In a heartbeat the man’s huge right hand had seized Lamont’s crotch, introducing him to a new degree of pain.

  Still gripping Lamont’s groin, the old man used his other hand to grab Lamont’s mashed face and swiftly back-walk him to a bench, hoisting him so that Lamont was on the bench on his back writhing in pain. The old man drove his fist into Lamont’s groin, and he almost passed out.

  With the rapid precision of an expert, the old man opened the jaws of a steel bench vise, seized Lamont’s shoulders and positioned Lamont’s head between the jaws of the vise.

  Then he tightened it.

  * * *

  Before Pavel Gromov took the next step in extracting information from Lamont he turned to Yanna.

  Her eyes were still wide at what she’d witnessed. Breathing as though he’d just finished working out, Gromov spoke to her in rapid Russian.

  “Put your gloves on and search his trailer quickly for cell phones, small computers, anything that will help us. Move!”

  As Yanna headed through the junkyard to the trailer, Gromov rattled in the parts and tools piled in a corner, finding a big steel clamp. He screwed it down on Lamont’s right wrist, locking his hand to the bench. Gromov then found a hammer and held it to Lamont’s face so he could see.

  “Now, Mr. Faulk, are you listening to me?”

  The bleeding compressed mess of scrunched skin, beard, hair, blood, snot, saliva and teeth that was Lamont’s face indicated a nod within the pressure of the bench vise’s jaws.

  “Chyesssh,” Lamont said.

  “Good, this is how it will go. You will tell me what I want to know, and suffer no further pain. Or, I will very quickly ensure you will never have use of your right hand again. That will be step one. Understand?”

  “Chyesssh.”

  “You do know Mason Varno, correct?”

  “Chyesssh.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Chyesssh.”

  “Tell me where he is.”

  Lamont’s words were incomprehensible, so Gromov loosened the vise slightly but not enough for him to get free.

  “He’s at my uncle’s old house with his woman.” His words were slow, slurred and slobbery. “He came to me and said he needed to hide. I will give you the address.”

  “Did the woman have a baby?”

  Lamont took huge gurgling breaths. “I don’t know. I only saw Mason when he came to see me.” He groaned. “I need a doctor.”

  “Did he say his woman’s name was Remy?”

  “No, but it’s the woman who came to Hightower to see him— Please!”

  “Why did they have to hide?”

  “He didn’t say, but in Hightower we knew that Mason ripped off a drug guy named DOA. I need a doctor—please—I figured Mason was hiding because word was DOA was looking for Mason now that he was released.”

  “Do you have an address for DOA?”

  “No. Oh God, my head!”

  “What else should I know about Mason?”

  “I heard he was buying into a big deal with Garza, a big player.”

  “Do you have an address for this Garza?”

  “In my computer, ohhhh....”

  * * *

  The trailer smelled of body odor and held the appeal of a restroom in a bus terminal.

  As Yanna searched the kitchen and living room she held a gloved hand to her mouth. Was this real? Was she dreaming? Would she wake up and be at her desk in Moscow reading a manuscript? It was as if she was Alice and had fallen down the rabbit hole into a violent underworld.

  Unwashed dishes, take-out food bags and empty beer bottles covered the counters and tables. She found a cell phone amid scores of sickening pornography magazines.

  Under one of them she found a laptop. The light indicated it was on. She hit Enter and a space bar and the screen lit, coming alive to a video that began to play. Bile erupted in the back of her throat and she steadied herself. The images—My God, children—were revolting. Yanna gagged several times, spit in the sink then closed the laptop, collected it with the phone and turned to leave.
r />   She froze at the door.

  A big dog, blood dripping from its snout and teeth, stood at the door, growling as if waiting to settle a score.

  Yanna hurried to the fridge, found packaged cold cuts, went to the door, cracked it open so the dog could smell the meat. She tossed a slice over its head. The dog chased it. She tossed another toward the kennel, and the dog trotted to it and devoured it. She continued until she’d lured the hungry dog into his kennel.

  She locked the gate.

  * * *

  Lamont was still lying on the bench with his head locked in the vise when Yanna returned with the computer and cell phone.

  Gromov examined Lamont’s personal information; his email accounts, bank account and bills for his uncle’s property.

  Unable to reach the vise with his free hand, Lamont moaned and begged for an ambulance.

  Ignoring him, Gromov studied Lamont’s situation.

  Before they left, Gromov came to the obscene images on Lamont’s laptop. Disgusted, the Russian tightened the vise until he heard Lamont’s skull crack.

  49

  Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

  It was a neglected bungalow that sat back from the street.

  A gravel drive cut through a stand of twisted cottonwoods, patches of grass and dirt. A vehicle enshrouded with a tarp sat between the dilapidated carport and wall of shrubbery that bordered the property.

  Stones crunched under Mason’s pickup truck as he and Remy eased up to the house. Both of them needed to shower. They were grimy and sore after spending a fitful night sleeping in the truck at a roadside rest area where Mason had pulled deep into the woods.

  Mercifully, Lamont gave him directions when he called the other night.

  “There’s heat, water, electricity, a fridge, an oven and a washer and dryer. No cable. The satellite dish malfunctions, and oh, you’ll be sharing the place with two other people,” Lamont had said. “You’ll have to deal with them. I’ll be out tomorrow to get what you owe me.”

  It pissed Mason off that they were not alone, but they had no other choice. They had to get off the grid. Once they unloaded the truck, Mason would back it into the carport and cover it with something.

  Remy unbuckled the baby, grabbed her bag and got out. Mason carried some of their things, and before they got to the door, a man in his late twenties with unruly hair came out to greet them.

  “I’m Brice.” He offered a gap-toothed smile, displaying teeth that were in need of brushing.

  “I’m Misty,” Remy said. “This is my husband, John, and our baby.”

  “I can help you bring your stuff in.” Brice smiled.

  “No, thank you,” Mason said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The interior of the house was menacing. The walls were cracked and had holes in them. The hardwood floors were warped and worn. Cigarette smoke and the odors of a locker room and stale beer permeated the house. A huge plastic trash bag, overflowing with pizza boxes, suggested someone had attempted to clean the kitchen.

  In the living room, a man in his early thirties sat on a sofa chair that bled stuffing. He had a beer bottle between his legs, a cigarette in his hand and was watching men kick and punch each other on TV.

  He turned and sneered.

  “Hello, Mason.”

  Mason was motionless.

  The man had tattoos along his hands, his arm and collared around his neck, and a scowl creased his face.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise, Arlen?”

  “Lamont told me to expect you.”

  “He never said a word to me about you, or your friend.”

  “Be careful, Mason. Young Brice there’s my little brother.”

  Brice nodded, happily smiling his gap-toothed smile.

  “Don’t mind him smiling all the time. It’s all he does. He fell off a roof when he was six. He’s what you call a savant. He’s an expert at computers and shit like that, and he’s got an incredible memory.”

  “I like your baby.” Brice smiled at Remy. “Can I hold him?”

  “No.” Remy turned protectively with the baby.

  Brice smiled and went to his room. When he opened the door across the hall from the living room, Remy saw that he had two laptops, a tablet and heaps of equipment with wires and cables on his desk. He likely played video games all day long while Arlen dealt drugs or stolen property, or some crap like that, she thought.

  “Before you move in here,” Arlen said, “there’s the matter of paying me for agreeing to share. My fee is one large.”

  “To hell with that,” Mason said. “I paid Lamont.”

  “If I were you, I’d reconsider your situation, son, seein’ what we both know about you.”

  Mason felt the heat of Remy’s what the hell did you get us into glare.

  “All right,” Mason said. “We’ll take care of it after we settle in.”

  Arlen stood. He was two inches taller and about twenty-five pounds heavier than Mason.

  “We’ll take care of it now.”

  Mason assessed the option of going into battle against Arlen. Under the circumstances the benefits were few. Still, Mason needed to be prepared.

  “All right, Arlen, let me go to my truck and get it.”

  “You do that.”

  While Mason was gone, Arlen’s ice-cold eyes walked all over Remy as he dragged hard on his cigarette.

  “I hardly recognized you at first. You changed your hair. I like it. And I see you got your figure back after having that baby.”

  Remy said nothing.

  “You know, I kept my eye on you whenever you came to Hightower to visit Mason. And later when I was lying in my cot at night I could never understand what a fine woman like you saw in that loser. It hurt me because I thought about how right you’d be for me. Now fate has brought us together. You gotta love that.”

  Remy said nothing. Caleb began fussing and she rocked him.

  “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke in front of the baby.”

  Arlen took a long pull from his beer, keeping his eyes on Remy until Mason returned and gave him one thousand dollars in cash.

  “Lamont said you’d be out of here in a week,” Arlen said.

  “I’ll do all I can to make it sooner than that.”

  Arlen downed the last of his beer, dragged on his cigarette and dropped the butt into the empty bottle.

  “We’ll give you the big bedroom. It’s got its own bathroom,” he said before removing his shirt, revealing a stunningly powerful build laced with prison artwork. “I’m going to take a shower. Just keep your baby quiet, respect our privacy and we’ll all get along fine, like we did inside.”

  Arlen closed his door. Upon hearing it, Brice got up and closed his. When they were alone, Remy stepped outside with Mason as he unloaded the truck of their groceries and bags.

  “I don’t like them,” she said. “Why did you bring us here, Mason?”

  “We don’t have a lot of options right now. We have to do all we can to stay off the grid, even if it means getting help from people I don’t particularly like, or trust.”

  “We can’t stay here long.”

  “That’s the plan, believe me.”

  After they’d settled into their room and Remy fixed a place for the baby, she bathed and fed him. Afterward she and Mason showered. Then she made them a spaghetti dinner and gave the baby a bottle. When she was finished she washed the linen, pillowcases, and all the towels she’d stolen from the motel. They went outside to the backyard and, keeping their voices low, discussed calling the agency and arranging delivery.

  “It’s time. We have to do this, Remy. We have to call and give him up.”

  “I know, but it’s hard for me.” She gazed at the baby in her
arms.

  “And it’ll get harder the longer we wait.”

  “Okay, okay.” Tears rolled down her face and she turned to the house.

  At that moment she heard an explosion of laughter coming from the living room where Arlen and Brice were playing a violent video game.

  I pray to God that we’re safe here.

  50

  Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

  The street was deserted as an eerie quiet fell over the neighborhood.

  FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan scanned the front door of a ramshackle one-story house through high-powered binoculars.

  The Dallas PD had established an outer perimeter, closing off the street, clearing the way for the Dallas FBI’s SWAT team. The SWAT team was part of the Dallas Critical Incident Response Team—an FBI squad that also included crisis negotiators, bomb techs and evidence response agents.

  Grogan saw movement as SWAT members clad in military armor quietly took cover points behind shrubs, parked vehicles and against corners of the house. Within moments, FBI sharpshooters settled into concealed, close-range locations and took aim at the doors and windows of the house.

  From a secure vantage point behind the hood of a command post truck, among a clutch of other police vehicles down the street, Grogan and his partner, Nicole Quinn, watched the final stages of the setup.

  This was the bureau’s strongest investigative lead to date.

  A lot of people had moved fast on it.

  According to records based on a fingerprint collected at Unit 21 of the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel, the prime subject was a convicted offender paroled from the Texas prison system. After serving time in the Ellis Unit he was transferred to the Hightower Unit and finally the Clemens Unit before his release.

  But Grogan and Quinn had been frustrated by the fact that their subject’s parole records were not up to date due to two factors: his parole officer had recently passed away from a heart attack, and a fire in the regional office had destroyed some records. An emergency retrieval operation for all of the destroyed records was ongoing.

  At the same time, Grogan and Quinn had run down the only other clear fingerprints obtained from the motel unit—those belonging to Arb and Ella Winston of San Antonio. The FBI in Arizona, working with the Tucson PD, confirmed that the Winstons, who’d recently retired to Tucson, had not left the city for the past four weeks. They volunteered credit card records showing they’d been in the Dallas motel three months earlier while in the city to visit friends.