“It was a remote-controlled incendiary device,” I said.
Zeke didn’t respond. He just quickened his step. I heard branches breaking. Big branches.
“I promise you, Zeke,” I said. “We’re going to take these sons o’ bitches down. Who will they send? Do you know?”
Zeke didn’t answer.
“Zeke!” I yelled. “Who will they send?”
“English,” he said, finally. “They’ll probably send English. She knows him. She’ll go with him. He’ll take her for a ride. And when she’s not looking, he’ll do something. She’ll never know what hit her.”
Suddenly I was running. Zeke was running, too.
41
We drove North on Interstate-77 headed for the North Carolina - Virginia border. Zeke had the wheel while I sat in the passenger seat holding a bag of ice against my head. The highway had four lanes and an open median that was sometimes grassy and sometimes lined with brush and small trees. Traffic was light. Mostly big trucks, doubles, doing eighty and better. Zeke was passing them.
I was wearing the same clothes I had put on over twenty-four hours ago, jeans, work boots, a black sweatshirt and a Dickie’s blanket-lined duck jacket. My gun was back in its holster on my right hip.
“Is this all because of Hollyoake?” I said. “Because he needed to rewrite his past to become President?”
“Don’t know.” Zeke said.
“Come on, Zeke. You know something.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about Hollyoake’s past. English hired me, put me on Bowers. I was in a high rise across from Bowers’ office for about a year. I had this big ol’ directional microphone in a closet, and a tape recorder and binoculars and a camera. I kept it all running during the day, slept on the couch at night. Ate take out. They later decided they wanted his house bugged. They set me up at a toy store in town. Had me get close to the kid. It took about three weeks. I’m a big guy, you know, kids find me interesting. I’m like a big toy.”
“The Iron Giant,” I said.
“The what?”
“French children’s book. Never mind.”
Zeke stared at me for a second, then he shook his head as if I had just recited the Iliad in Esperanto.
“It was me and the kid at the store once or twice a week,” he said. “We talked and played board games, did some puzzles. I got him into slot cars. That’s what it was, what the bug was supposed to be in. A slot car racing set.”
I took the ice pack off the back of my head and rested it between my ankles. Outside, daybreak poked its nose through swollen gray clouds that looked ready to burst at the slightest provocation. I gazed through the window at the shoulder of the road, and beyond, at the bare dirt under the trees. The dirt didn’t look as red here as it was in South Carolina. Probably didn’t taste the same either.
“Hey, Zeke, you from around here?”
“Macon, Georgia,” he said.
“You know what a blivit is?”
He turned toward me and shot me a quizzical look. “You listening to what I been saying, Angil?”
“I have,” I said. “We’ll get back to that. It’s just botherin’ me is all. A blivit. I just never heard of it.”
Zeke shook his head, disgusted. “A blivit is ten pounds o’ cow shit in a five pound bag. What does that have to do with anything?”
I shifted the ice so more of it covered my right foot, which hurt twice as much as the left. “Just one more reason to get even with Hadley, that’s all.”
Zeke fished his cell phone out of his pocket and held it up near his face. He held it that way for a good thirty-seconds.
“Can’t call her,” I said, finally.
“I know,” he said. “Gotta do something, though. Gotta have a plan. I ain’t thinking right.”
“No shit, big guy,” I said. “You’ve been working both sides, and that’s hard to do. Honest to God, Zeke, I don’t think you’ve been thinking right for years. When did you switch sides? When did you decided to be Jenny’s guardian angel?”
Zeke looked down at the sleeve of his leather jacket and noticed a spot of dried blood. He touched his right thumb to his tongue and used his moistened thumb to rub at the spot, then he dried his thumb on his slacks.
“I can play the dumb nigger good as any man,” he said. “You know, I almost lost it after the fire. I knew what they’d done. Makin’ me a part of it. It made me physically sick. Mr. Bowers and his little boy. Jenny. Aaron. I had to take stock of myself, take a stand. I mean, I’d done bad stuff before, for English and SafeOps. But everything I done. . .” He turned to make sure we were eye to eye. “Everything I done, I swear, I done to people that deserved what they got. You know what I’m saying?” He faced front again to pay attention to his driving.
“I’ll tell you a little secret,” he continued. “You know why we go down to South Carolina? Because they got no medical examiners there. They got coroners do all their forensic stuff. Coroners with no medical training, no experience and, more important, no money. They a bunch of carpenters and car salesmen. That’s why we go. You dump a body in North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, you stand the chance of a full-on investigation. Remember Michael Jordan’s father? What happened to him? Happened right down there across the border in South Carolina.”
“Zeke,” I said. “Did you kill Tanner?”
“No.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Why is me saying I didn’t kill somebody suddenly a bad thing?”
“Maybe I’m not thinking right, either,” I said, “I figured Tanner’s death as a twofer. Perfect for the guy playing both sides. You kill him for SafeOps because he’s a greedy extortionist, but also, with Tanner gone, maybe Jenny goes home and forgets the investigation. It’s’ over.”
“I thought about it,” Zeke said. “Tanner ain’t what you would call a key contributor to the human race. But he is — was — our only link to Aaron.”
“You think Aaron’s alive?”
“I hope so, for Jenny’s sake.”
Zeke pulled off the road to get gas and grub from a truck stop in Pine Ridge, North Carolina. It was nine thirty in the morning. While he filled-up I went into the Deli and grabbed four ham and Swiss sandwiches, four bottles of water, a handful of Snickers bars and two extra large coffees. There was a pay phone in the corner and I used it to call George. He answered on the second ring.
“Where the hell have you been?” he said, angrily. “I’ve been calling since early last night.”
“My phone’s out of action,” I said.
“What’s going on, Cap?” He sounded genuinely worried.
“No time to explain. Listen, I want you to do me a favor. Take Scara back out to Hammond Ledge and sift through the crushed shell and sand bottom between the boulders. See if you can find some evidence of the plane’s cargo. With the tides and seas that run through there, it’s possible eddies and down-currents buried some of it.”
“I thought you said going to the boat would be dangerous. Not that it bothers me but—”
“I think you’re safe up there,” I interrupted. “The action’s down here.”
“But—”
“Wait. I’m not done. I want you to do a full background check on Hadley. James Hadley, Special Advisor to Maryland’s Department of Homeland Security. I want to know where he was born, who his friends are, military service, job history, family, residences, summer homes, you name it, bank accounts, everything.”
George sensed the urgency in my voice and responded in kind. “Ten four,” he said. “I’m on it. I’ll take the boat today. I’ll do the research when I get back tonight. How can I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t. And George?
“What?
“Be careful. Take precautions. Don’t go alone.”
“I thought you said—”
I hung up, grabbed the bag of food and water, the coffee tray and candy bars, and hustled to the rental, which was at the far end of the parking area, fully gassed and re
ady to roll, its nose pointed toward the I-85 ramp. Soon as my ass grazed the seat Zeke snatched the sandwich bag out of my hand and hit the accelerator. It was all one quick motion. My door practically shut itself. A minute later we were on the highway doing eighty, wolfing down breakfast and slurping coffee.
“Help me out here, Zeke,” I said between mouthfuls. “You’re watching Bowers, and he never mentions Hollyoake?”
Zeke turned to face me. He had mustard on his chin. Mustard on anyone’s chin looks fairly comical. On a hit-man the size of Zeke it looked absolutely hysterical. I stifled an almost overwhelming urge to laugh and continued my train of thought. “They’re partners in the same firm, Zeke. How does his name not come up?”
“I never said he didn’t mention Hollyoake’s name. Shoot, he and Senator Hollyoake talked all the time. The man was Bowers’ best friend. They were war buddies. Tighter’n a tick on a hound dog.”
That cut it.
“Are you sure?” I said. “Then who the hell was Bowers investigating?”
“I don’t know nothing about no investigation or what kinda guy the Senator is, but I do know two things. One: Hollyoake wouldn’t kill his best friend in the whole world? No way. No how.”
I waited for number two and when it didn’t come fast enough I said: “And two?”
Zeke looked at me.
“You probably the best captain ever sailed the seven seas.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “You suddenly a maritime expert?”
“Nope. But I know everybody got sumpin they can do real good,” he said, “and so far, you ain’t no good at being a private dick.”
I glanced over at the mass of muscle and deadly efficiency sitting next to me, three-hundred-plus pounds of black on black chauffeur crammed into a fairly substantial SUV driver’s seat that now looked like a toadstool. Zeke’s giant head sported a wide smile and a set of perfectly aligned white teeth. He was snickering.
“You know what?” I said.
“What’s that, Cap?” He was still grinning from ear to ear.
“You got mustard all over your fucking chin.”
42
The Grienbriar Clinic was a part of the Grienbrier Hotel Complex in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. According to Zeke it was “The Place” for personalized health care, rehabilitation and quality diagnostics. It was private, discreet and luxurious. They even had an underground bunker, which tells you something about their clientele.
On arrival, the first thing we did was tour the parking lots. Zeke knew what vehicles SafeOps would use and we were both sure to identify English or Hadley. Of course, it wouldn’t prove anything. They might have come and gone. Maybe they hadn’t yet arrived. In any case, the surveillance was precautionary. If we saw something recognizable, or something stood out as odd, we would know to adapt and improvise, which is why we took a little time to study the cars and license plates. Unfortunately, there were too many cars and license plates.
We scanned what we could, then drove into the Amtrak parking lot off West Main Street. With no obvious threats to deal with there we idled over to the front of the South lot and parked with the SUV’s nose pointing toward the entrance of the resort. Zeke shut off the engine, swiveled around and reached into the back seat for a pair of binoculars. He handed them to me.
“I’m going to use those superior investigative skills you spoke of earlier and make a suggestion,” I said.
Zeke raised an eyebrow.
“First let me ask you something,” I continued. “Do you think English knows you’ve gone rogue?”
“Good question,” Zeke said. “Depends what you told him or that Maryland cop.”
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach and tried to recall my exact phone conversation with Hadley the previous day. I remembered I had hung-up on him before saying much, but then in his car, just before he’d sprayed me in the face, there was another conversation.
“Yeah, well, about that,” I said, “I believe I told Hadley you looked good for killing Tanner, and then I told him Jenny was secreted somewhere, but I never suggested you were the one who heisted her.”
Zeke snatched the binoculars out of my hands. “Boy,” he said. “You just the King o’ all Screw-ups. We might of had an edge you’da kept your mouth shut.”
“Bold words coming from Suspect Magazine’s Man of the Year,” I said.
Zeke thought about it.
“You got a point,” he admitted. “Maybe I shoulda been more upfront with you.”
I grabbed the binoculars back with one quick motion, proving I still had a few reflexes left. Tired, washed-up old captain my ass. “Of course, if you think about it,” I added, “me saying you killed Tanner and him figuring you were the only one who could hide Jenny doesn’t necessarily make you a weasel.”
“Look, he knows I didn’t kill Tanner, ‘cause he probably did it.” Zeke frowned, shook his head. “Nah, he ain’t no light weight. He got it figured out.”
“OK,” I said. “So thanks to me, they know you’re a traitor, and by now they’ve tried to get in touch with the two scupper plugs who took me. They have to assume I’m on the loose.”
“Right,” he said.
“And they know where Jenny is,” I said.
“Also thanks to you,” he said.
I shrugged. “True.”
“They got no choice,” Zeke said. “They got to kill you, me, Jenny and Aaron, if Aaron’s not already dead.” He said it matter of fact. No emotion.
I brought the binoculars to my face and focused the lenses until I had a clear view of the entrance and main gate of the resort. They were good binoculars. Zeiss. Stabilized. Probably thousand dollars from a top shelf optical supply company. I couldn’t see the front of the resort from where we were parked, but I could count the tail feathers on a bluejay standing on a limb about five-hundred yards away.
“For the record,” I said, lowering the binoculars to my lap. “I’m very much opposed to being killed. Where’s the clinic?”
“Through the parking lot of the church, opposite side of the street at the South end of the resort. You can just see the corner of it from here. There’s a ramp goes from the street all the way up the embankment.”
“Is she in there under her own name?” I said.
“No.”
“Would they know the name she’s using?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that should make it more difficult for them to get in and find her.”
“Slow ‘em down some,” he said.
“What name?” I said.
“Sarah Washburn.”
I looked through the binoculars again, focusing on the church and beyond. The side we were on had a newer addition, more modern, for classrooms or a dormitory, but the chapel at the other end was built out of large, rough-cut granite blocks. A simple, classic structure. Understated elegance.
“Any security?”
“Toy soldiers,” Zeke said. “Nothing for English to worry about. He can get in anywhere he wants. Might take him some time, but he’ll get in. He won’t need her name, neither. He’ll have a picture. He’ll have a fake I.D., come off as a Federal Agent and tell them she’s a hideaway wanted on a Federal warrant.”
“All right,” I said. “We can’t waste any more time. We have to go in.”
“You better pray she’s in there, Angil,” he said. “Wait here.” He opened his door and stepped out and headed for the train station behind us. He was doing his damnedest to stay out of plain sight, not an easy task for a six-foot seven-inch man weighing three-hundred or more pounds and dressed in solid black from head to toe.
I watched him until he disappeared in the cover of some trees. Strange individual. If I had to guess, I’d say he was forced into self-reliance at a young age, and self-educated and probably trained in the military. Most of the time he pretended to be an ordinary, bull-nosed, thick-necked, point and shoot thug. But only a complex man of highly evolved motives and intelligence could fool a guy like E
nglish for thirteen years. Drifting in and out of street-speak at will and acting like the country bumpkin, it was all a ruse, to put his enemies off guard. Maybe his friends, too. Anyone underestimating Zeke would be in for a rude awakening. He possessed a scary kind of power, and I had little doubt he could outsmart, outmuscle and outmatch just about any other man I knew, which made me wonder: What made him tick? Did he have a conscience, a code? Could I trust him? And . . . was he looking for solace before, empathy, or was the last thing he said meant as a threat?
Concern about Jenny’s safety had cramped Zeke’s natural instincts. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He rushed to get here from South Carolina to make sure he would arrive before SafeOps, but when he got here, he procrastinated, using the reconnaissance of the parking areas as an excuse. He had us both pull the batteries from our phones, worried English would trace us. There was only one way any of this made sense: The scariest, toughest man I had ever met in my life was afraid.
Without realizing I was doing it, I reached into my holster and pulled the forty-five Warthog. I thumbed the slide a hair to make sure I had a round in the pipe, cocked the hammer all the way back and set the safety. As I slid the pistol into my holster I saw Zeke’s phone and battery lying in the center console. I picked it up, plugged in the battery and turned it on. Zeke’s fear was weakening our position and I couldn’t let that happen.
There were over nine hundred contacts in the phone. Most of them were for florists, clothing stores, pharmacies, gas stations, truck stops, hotels, doctors and clinics. Some contacts were listed only by initials. I found nothing of interest in the Es, which meant I had to scroll down from the As. Under the Ds I found a D.E. I dialed it.
English answered on the third ring.
“Zeke?” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Zeke’s dead,” I said into the phone.
“Who this?” English said. “Where’s Zeke?”
“Let’s not waste time, English. You know who this is,” I said. “Trust me. Zeke’s dead.” I almost said Zeke’s dead,baby, Zeke’s dead, thinking of Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction. “He caught a ricochet in South Carolina. Bad luck, I guess.”
Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries) Page 19