EQMM, June 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The old man, I could handle. I didn't like the look of Junior. He had a telltale case of acne unusual in someone in his late twenties. He shouted twice at his father and he never stopped fidgeting the whole time they worked.

  * * * *

  After two days of observation, I was ready. Naomi's notes told me I was too late to save the girls, who were shipped out last week, just as the rest of the workers left for the next orchard. I could, however, prevent these guys from ever doing something like this again.

  My plan had to unfold inside one day. Even if I made the hits look like accidents, the men I was going after were probably paranoid enough to go to ground if they became suspicious. I certainly didn't want them bringing in reinforcements.

  I took out a map, studied the roads. The timing was all-important—when is it not?—especially since I couldn't afford to be recognized. Especially since I was about to kill at least three men, including a lawman.

  That decided me: the uncivil police chief first. Grafton was most likely the leader, the one to divert inquiry and fix complaints. In any case, I didn't want him warning the others or involving outside law enforcement. I wanted things as confused as possible when I went after the others.

  Next the Brodys; the remoteness of their property would help. Then the gas-station owner, Hadlock, on my way out of town, with the Feds on the way.

  I considered, for a moment, leaving the government out of it. I would have removed the players; why involve anyone else? If they investigated, they might make it harder for the next guys who tried this—and there would always be next guys. But if they clamped down here, maybe the next guys would get smarter, like a bug developing resistance to antibiotics?

  Finally, I decided I wanted an official exploration of Naomi Deagan's death. That seemed only right. She deserved recognition on a grander scale than an old woman falling, even if they didn't know the true reason for her involvement.

  I'd shape the job to look like it was the guys who bought the girls. If the FBI found them and took them down, so much the better. I'd need a different vehicle, and a gun that was not my preferred SIG.

  I worked out the timing and sat back, looking for holes. I liked the rhythm I'd come up with: fast, slow, fast, gone.

  * * * *

  The next day, I waited until dinnertime, about six-thirty, when the shadows lengthened. Things were in a state of flux, people were tired and less likely to notice anything that didn't impede their trek home. I ditched the tourist look and wore dark clothing. I left my truck at the airport and rented a big SUV. I'd ditch that, get my car, and get out at the end of the job.

  Chief Grafton lived in a modest, quiet neighborhood, but his house was set farthest from the road. Something struck me as wrong now, the way nothing had during my reconnaissance. It wasn't cameras or surveillance, and I could see at least three ways to get out of here. Something else was wrong. I didn't know why, but I couldn't dismiss it. I also couldn't wait.

  I walked up, rang the bell. Grafton answered, looking tired and annoyed, as I pretended to be rummaging in my messenger bag.

  “Yeah?” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “Yeah.” I pulled a Glock with a suppressor from behind the flap of my messenger bag. Two shots, one in the throat, the second in the head.

  He fell back, inside the house. I pulled the door shut, got into the car, and drove away. All quick and clean, taking less than two minutes.

  I was still unable to scratch the itch of concern I had.

  * * * *

  At the Brody farm, I parked on the fire road, which didn't seem to see much use. I crept up to the edge of the yard, my bad feeling worsening with every step.

  I had so wanted to find them both in the lab, where it would be easy to start an awful fire. They weren't cooperating by working on a truck behind the house.

  The bad feeling in the pit of my stomach continued to plague me and suddenly, in a cold sweat, I realized what it was.

  So far, I'd seen nothing that suggested any of them was responsible for Naomi's death. Was it possible she was wrong? More catastrophically, was the lawyer setting me up? Impossible. Even if she'd found my contact information, she couldn't know who I am—or who I was.

  I had to confirm everything now.

  Junior went into the house, so I ran to the far side of my cover, then scuttled out. By the time Ben looked up, I'd spun him around, lost his socket wrench, and put the Glock to his chin.

  “Tell me how Naomi Deagan died,” I said.

  “What the hell are you—?” Confusion mingled with fear.

  “Naomi Deagan, the old lady in the wheelchair. Talk!”

  “I don't know wha—” His eyes went wide, then flicked past me.

  I glanced back, tightening my hold on Ben. Junior was standing at the edge of the yard, a shotgun in his hands. He was beet red, which did nothing to help his skin problem. He didn't say a word.

  A silent tweaker is a paranoid tweaker. A paranoid tweaker is a dangerous thing.

  He raised the gun.

  Ben shoved hard, and broke free. His hand dipped to his boot, and he pulled out a knife with a blade like a scythe.

  Ben was closer, the more immediate danger.

  I shot him, knowing that I wouldn't get the answers now. He went down, but not out, screaming his head off and clutching his chest.

  I dove behind the truck and aimed, firing three shots at Junior before he could get any closer.

  Even using an unfamiliar weapon, I was faster and a better shot. The shotgun went off, but my bullets found their way to his chest.

  He tagged me too, I realized. Searing pain radiated through my left shoulder. Blood welled and soaked my shirt.

  No time for that. I looked under the car, past the wheel well.

  Ben was gone.

  A lurch and a creak. He had opened the truck's door and was reaching into the glove compartment.

  No time to think. I raised the Glock and put two more bullets into Ben.

  Definitely no answers from him now.

  Cursing, I did what I could to minimize the exposure. I dragged both bodies into the house. The chickens scattered and squawked as I pulled the bodies past, but returned to peck at the bloody path I left. Let them help cover my tracks, I thought, as I scuffed out the worst of it.

  I was sweating, cold, and shaking by the time I left, taking the SUV down the fire road past the abandoned orchard. Ben hadn't heard of Naomi, or he was a much better actor than I thought. Either I'd just killed an honest lawman and two not-so-upstanding citizens for no good reason, or I had to trust Naomi and finish the job. I thought while I patched up my shoulder as best I could.

  I felt like my ass was swinging out over a canyon, my hands slipping from a breaking branch. I'd had second thoughts on the job before, and had always been able to figure out why—my instincts had led me the right way every time. This felt random, and I'm allergic to random. Getting shot didn't help.

  Visit the gas station? Or hit the road south and try to find a shrink who could fix a reforming covert operative with a bad case of the shakes?

  I finally decided there was too much going on here to be a setup, too many disconnected connections no one else could make. I knew Naomi had done things in her life, taken chances, gone off the reservation, to help people. I had to assume that's what I was doing here now. I didn't believe her death was an accident, and neither did Alison Spector. Leaving her last wish unfulfilled was unacceptable, so I drove to the gas station.

  I wasn't a hundred percent convinced, but any plan was better than nothing.

  I parked the car on the road past the gas station, and walked back. It had been full dark for some time now, and the place was lit but deserted.

  I watched, waiting for Hadlock. A moment later, he limped over to the soda machine outside, the cast on his leg a little grimier after another day's work. You had to be pretty bad off, these days, to get the full plaster cast and not one of the Velcro models. It hurt, watching him take each step.
/>   I waited until he waved a credit card—stolen?—and heard the rattle and thunk as a soda can fell.

  The cast was still new, and the young guy who'd helped him during the day was gone. I knew what was coming and I waited for my moment.

  After realizing he couldn't just bend over, he struggled to stick his bad leg out and gradually lowered himself down until he could reach the soda.

  I took three quick steps, planted it, and slammed my boot up and into his crotch.

  Before he could fall, I grabbed him by the back of the pants and the collar and slammed his head into the machine.

  I went through his pockets, checked his phone.

  Nothing.

  I pocketed the phone and dragged him inside. I shut off the outside lights, and all but a desk light inside. I took the soda, shook it up, and sprayed it on his face. He came to, sputtering, clutching himself.

  “Tell me about Naomi Deagan.”

  He moaned. “Go screw yourself. Who sent you?”

  “She did.”

  “Bullshit. When Santoro catches hold of you, you'll wish he threw you into the river—”

  Interesting, Santoro being the name of an up-and-coming mobster in New Jersey. More interesting, he was telling me I was on the right path. The knot in my stomach loosened.

  He never stopped the threats, winding up with “—do yourself a favor and run now, bitch.”

  “How did she find out? Who killed her?”

  “You can suck my—”

  I've had broken bones before. They're incredibly painful. I stepped on the foot of his broken leg, bending the ankle inward.

  He screamed.

  I waited until he could breathe again, then raised my foot again. He started talking.

  “She heard, from someone, I don't know. Maybe down at the health clinic. Then she was nosing around down the Brody farm—nobody in their right mind would try to buy eggs from them! Ben Junior and I went to her house to find out what she knew, and she started in with that damned stick of hers.”

  I knew where the story was going next. He saw the look on my face, so he shut up.

  “I got a call to make,” I said.

  I went to his land line, called the number for the FBI in Portland. As I waited for the connection, I went through his desk, just out of habit. I had to decide whether to let him spend the rest of his life in prison or kill him now. As my gut eased, I realized my mistake was in thinking Chief Grafton was the leader. It was Hadlock, the guy who saw everything—including opportunity—from his desk at the gas station. With the chief in his pocket, he didn't have anything to fear, except an old lady who'd had the guts and strength to fight back, to break his leg with her cane.

  I gave the special agent who answered the address of the farm and said, “It's about the kidnapped migrant workers. Get someone—anyone—up there now. Hurry!” I hung up. The last thing on the desk was a pile of receipts and a desk calendar. Nothing interesting in the receipts; they all looked legit.

  I put them back down. “When the cops find you, they'll think it was a holdup gone waaay wrong. Or a serial killer on the loose—which I may be, though I like to think I'm on the right side. Or maybe Santoro and his boys returned after last week because something didn't—”

  It was the calendar that stopped me.

  There was a circle around today's date. Just a circle, with an arrow from last Friday, and a time: nine o'clock.

  Last Friday was when the girls were supposed to have been moved.

  I knelt down on his bad leg. “They didn't come for the girls last week, did they? Where are they?”

  “They'll be gone in an hour,” was all he said, blood oozing around his teeth. It was eight forty-five now. “You can't get to them before Santoro does.”

  I didn't care if he was lying or not. “I won't bother. I assumed they were gone when I got here. In my mind, they're already dead.”

  But I must have looked pretty stupid trying to figure out what to do, because he said, “The old lady caught me a couple times with that frigging stick of hers. But I knocked her silly, once I got it away from her. Couldn't even close her mouth, couldn't make a noise.”

  I ended the conversation then, with a bullet in his left eye. Then I put another in his right, just because he made me so mad. So much for emotional detachment.

  Enough of infant displays. I had a choice. Leave the girls to short lives of violence and abuse, and get out of Dodge. Or go back and try to get them out, risking exposure both to the Feds and to the guys from New Jersey.

  It was no choice; I hadn't lied to Hadlock. I got in the car and drove, finding the main road. Those girls were already dead.

  I believed that right up until I got to the next exit. I cursed, and pulled off, heading back for the farm. This time, I opened up and drove like fury. The odds were much more likely I'd end up dead, but Naomi wouldn't have left them behind so I couldn't either.

  At least I'd already repaid her for what she'd done for me.

  This was extra credit, bonus points. Points for style.

  * * * *

  I did the math as I drove. My anonymous tip meant the Feds would arrive, in who knew what numbers, soon. Santoro's men would be here even sooner. Fifteen minutes to get back to the farm, if I didn't bust an axle going down the dirt fire road. Thirty minutes to search the house, the barn, and the meth shed. Ten minutes to free the prisoners and scatter them into the woods. Ten minutes to get well clear.

  Which left me five minutes short. And now, not only were the women at stake, I had ensured the Feds would be there at the same time as the NJ OC. I hoped the Feds came loaded for bear. Lots of cranked-up, well-armed bear.

  It was the clinical definition of a goat rodeo. I couldn't decide if Naomi Deagan was watching, and whether she'd be laughing or scowling. Didn't matter, so long as she put in a good word for me now, trusting that I was doing my best.

  I thought about the women and put my foot down.

  I pulled up to the back of the farmhouse in twelve minutes, parking on the fire road. Inside the house, I stepped over Bob and Junior, both where I'd left them.

  Nothing but spiders in the attic, rats in the basement, and the filth of a long closed-up house inhabited by two drug manufacturers.

  I went to the shed where Farmer Brody and his tweaked-out son had the lab. I hadn't seen any trace of the women inside, earlier. There was no foundation and therefore no basement here.

  I was two minutes behind my self-imposed schedule when I checked the barn. It was huge, and had at least one floor and a hayloft. I found a switch inside the door, and dull yellow light revealed chaos. A mass of rusted-out antique equipment—including most of a 1940s tractor—on both sides. I could barely get through to the stairs to the loft, so it was a safe bet no one else could either. I looked around frantically; most of the loft was partitioned, and I needed to see what was in those spaces.

  I was raised on a farm, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Naomi Deagan's death and my obligation to her memory were crowding my mind. I forced myself to slow down, and almost immediately saw a ladder leading to the loft. I clambered up and found more equipment, dead pigeons, and several bales of weed, probably from one of Ben's own fields.

  The Feds would love it, but now I was living on borrowed time. There had to be someplace else.

  I glanced out the window. The night sky was not yet so dark that I couldn't make out the tops of trees parallel with my line of sight, fifty yards from—

  Oh, you idiot.

  I turned and slid down the ladder, then stomped on the floor. Nothing. I moved over ten feet, and stomped again. This time, there was definitely a hollow sound. I grabbed an ax from the pile of equipment on my way outside and ran down and around to the back. The trash inside was blocking the trap door to the basement: The barn was built into a hill, the lowest area accessible from the opposite side of the main door.

  Bingo. A fresh padlock was on the back door at the lowest level.

  No time for finesse
and lock-picks in the dark. I raised the ax up and worked on the wood around the lock. The door was in worse repair than the rest of the building, and with a dozen good strokes I managed to remove the wood around the hasp. I pulled the door open, pretty sure my left arm was about to fall off.

  Whimpers and whispers; scuttling in the back. I felt for a light switch, then saw three dark-haired women huddled in the back of one of the stalls, their hands up, shielding themselves from the light. A cable ran along the wall, fastened at two ends with more padlocks. The girls were handcuffed to it—police-issue cuffs, same make as the police chief had.

  “Move to the right,” I said, gesturing. "A la derecha!"

  “Portuguese—we're from Brazil,” one of them said, as they squeezed to the far end of their tether. “I speak English.”

  “Good. I'm going to try to—” I brought the ax down on the cable. I was halfway through. I raised it up again. “—get you out of here.” Almost through; my arms were getting tired, my shoulder blazed with pain, and the light sucked. “Anyone hurt?”

  Third time was the charm. The cable snapped, and the women were able to unthread themselves.

  “No. Tired, and hungry. We can run all night if—”

  “Shh!” There were engines outside. I doused the light now. “You get out, run into the woods if you can.” I handed her the phone I'd taken off Hadlock, and then Spector's card. “You call this number. Hide until you see someone else you know you can trust. Anyone else, you run like hell and keep hidden.”

  She nodded and pocketed the card, the loose end of her cuff dangling from her wrist. “Where are you going? Come with us!”

  I shook my head. “I was never here. Go!”

  I made sure they were heading in the right direction before I went around front to buy them some time.