Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller

by J. C. Maçek III

  He went back inside to check his equipment and put it all out of his mind.

  Calderon never cried. He had his work. He had his money and what else was there?

  He listened in as Peterson’s phone went off again.

  And he still couldn’t help but think of retiring.

  19

  Bad Luck Tom: 8:31 AM

  Anthony Peterson was startled awake from visions of the bleached white skulls of children surfacing in filthy canals filled with blood. The phone rang and buzzed near his head again. He was not dreaming this time, but when he awoke, he idly hoped that the unnecessary dental extraction he remembered was only a nightmare.

  A quick, yet excruciating, check with his tongue proved that was not the case.

  He fought with the expensive makeshift gauze and worked it to the side so it could do its job while still allowing him to speak.

  “Yeah?” he answered, acutely aware that pain was dulling his voice.

  “Hey, hey, boss man!” came Tom’s voice, sounding far too genial. “It’s your very own right-hand man.”

  Peterson sighed. Tom may not have been in on this, but he was helping them snip away at Anthony Peterson, raggedy man.

  “Tom…” Peterson growled in frustration. “What do you want?”

  “Well, before I head out the door, I wanted to call to let you know you’re still about a million and change short of the ten mil.”

  Shocked, Peterson forgot his injured mouth for a moment and shouted “What? But you said–” and then winced at the pain his agitation caused to his wounded maw.

  “Yeah, I know what I said but here’s the deal, daddy-o. I was estimating based on the expected return. I just found out that some of your investments we sold off didn’t get nearly the returns we expected. Chalk it up to bad luck.”

  Peterson rolled his eyes. The nightmare never ended

  “Bad luck?” Peterson scoffed. “Then give back the interest you stole.”

  “Stole? Moi?” Tom chuckled. “Not a chance. If I do that, and this still fails, I get nothing.”

  “But the lives of two people–”

  “We’ve been through that! Now, I’m willing to keep helping you, Anthony, I am…but believe me when I tell you that my help is out of gratitude for the fact that you just made me a millionaire.”

  Peterson stood up and paced around the room for a moment. It was all he knew to do anymore. He hated Tom passionately for what he was doing, but still needed Tom for what he could do for him.

  And a piece of him, just a tiny little piece, realized that Anthony Peterson had taught Tom well. Tom was a remarkable protégé. This was Anthony Peterson’s own reflection shining back at him. His own greedy, guilty reflection.

  He thought hard and then twisted his face as a crazy idea came to him. It was as if the scant nourishment he had received had caused his brain to work in high gear again. His own blood had given him the blood sugar he needed to formulate a plan as insane a plan as it might have been.

  “Okay, bad luck, Tom. We’re going to try it this way. I own a small business.”

  “You own a few of them, but I already told you we can’t sell them off in enough time, even if they weren’t mortgaged to the balls.”

  “No, no, no, listen. This specific business is one I rarely visit. It’s over on Fairfax.”

  Tom raced through his memory.

  “The…sex boutique?”

  Peterson shook his head. “No, Tom. It’s the jeweler.”

  “Jewelry store? Oh, yeah. Yeah, you bought that place on the cheap, right?”

  “Yeah, you remember right. The owner got twenty-to-life for wholesaling fake stones, so his family had to unload all his assets.” For a second, Peterson forgot himself and just laughed with Tom.

  Naturally, Tom Pocase had to ruin the moment by saying “You mean kind of like you’re doing now?”

  Peterson’s bloody smile faded. “Yeah. Pleased you remember the place,” he said, regretfully. “Listen. I’m gonna need you to rob the jewelry store for me.”

  There was a very pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Tom was absorbing this in shock. Then, he burst into laughter.

  “Oh, maaaaaaan! You can’t be serious.”

  Peterson nodded. “Serious as a ripped-out tooth.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious, Tom, unless you’ve got some better idea of how to save my fucking life.”

  Tom scoffed. “But Anthony, that’s crazy. I know you’re under a hell of a lot of stress right now, but be reasonable. It’s broad daylight, and I’m no heist man.”

  “Under a lot of stress, Tom? Tom!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Listen to me. That time we went to Vegas and I was in that high stakes poker game? I was under a hell of a lot of stress then. When we negotiated that deal to buy that chain of Buick dealerships, I was under a hell of a lot of stress. When my children were born, I was under a hell of a lot of stress. When Marie got sick, I was under a hell of a lot of stress! Right now, I am trapped in a goddam Rubik’s Cube about to die after listening to my wife get gang-raped and murdered. You know, the wife whose life you recently tried to convince me didn’t matter? So, no, Tom, no, you fucking asshole, right now I am far, far beyond being under a hell of a lot of stress. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “All right?”

  “All right. I’m sorry.” Tom sounded actually contrite and sincere, but Peterson didn’t let up.

  “So, I suggest that you be fucking reasonable and listen to me, Mr. Millionaire.”

  Tom paused for a moment, then said, “All ears.” Perhaps there was some loyalty left in Tom after all.

  “Good. Now, it’s going to be easy. I’m going to tell you where to get the keys, I’ll give you the alarm codes, I’ll talk you through the whole thing. You’ll be in and out in five minutes flat.”

  “Sounds like having sex.”

  Peterson smiled at last, knowing he was getting through to Tom. “Easier than that. We can do this. You can do this.” He paused, feeling the agony in his mouth and added, “You’ve got to do this.”

  Tom sighed and nervously said, “It’s just too crazy. I could go to jail.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know this could be the end for me if you get caught? That’s why I’m going to make absolutely goddamn sure you don’t get caught.”

  “Fifty thousand,” Tom said, without missing a beat.

  “What?”

  “Fifty thousand,” Tom repeated.

  “On top of the fucking…severance…you already took from me?” Peterson was incredulous. He resorted to trying to make another deal. “Look, put that severance you stole back in the pot, send it to the kidnappers, and save us this misery, and I’ll repay you every penny you took plus a hundred thousand.”

  Peterson could actually hear Tom shaking his head. “Hell no, buddy. What’s mine is mine now. You keep thinking about yourself, your own life, your wife’s life, and you know? I can’t blame you. I can’t. But I gotta think about me. If you die anyway, I lose everything. My job goes, my wife goes, my–”

  “Fine, Tom, fuck it, you’ve made your point. But then you’re going to have to keep helping me if you keep that. I need that money. I need to survive.” Peterson did his best to sound kind and giving as he said, “Tom? If you save our lives, then you not only keep the million plus you just…” he wanted to say extorted, but instead chose “…just earned, but you keep your job and, hey, bonuses and everything to come. Your boss will owe you.”

  Tom seemed to think about that for a moment, then said, “Make it a hundred thousand more this time, and we’ve got a deal. I’ll break into your store.”

  Peterson scoffed. “Don’t push your luck, Tom. You just said fifty.”

  “Hey, the clock is ticking, Anthony, isn’t it?”

  Peterson squeezed his eyes shut again. Every time he got close to not hating Tom today, he pulled another of these fucking stunts.

&nbs
p; “Done,” he muttered sadly. “Are you in your car?”

  “Negative.”

  “Well, where the hell are you?”

  “Actually, I’m still in the doctor’s house,” Tom explained at a pace just the wrong side of frustrating. “See, I had to work on these transactions and the rest of the sales and returns. And the clock is ticking, so I didn’t want to go home yet, right? The wife thinks I’m working with you, which is true, really, and the Doctor is still with the girl, but he kept checking on me.”

  “Tom? Tom?”

  “After a while, he said I might as well come in, so I’ve been charging my phone and the Bluetooth and the laptop, and you know what? This Doctor Ivy guy has some killer wi-fi!”

  “Tom, seriously–”

  “It’s fast! Have you been to his place? He’s got a water filter that–”

  “Goddammit, Tom, who gives a shit about Ivy’s house? I need your help, goddamn it!”

  “Right. Damn. You’re right, Anthony. Sorry. My car’s in the garage.”

  “Well then get in the damn thing, then, pronto. Like you said, twice, the clock is ticking!”

  Peterson listened while Tom exited the room, slammed the door and started his car.

  Tom then said, “Shit,” got back out, hit the button to open the garage door, and promptly began burning rubber down the road.

  “Where to?”

  “You got your Bluetooth on?”

  “Yeah. Wait…” After two beeps, Tom repeated, “Yeah.”

  “Okay, good. Now, first, you go to my place. You’re going to need the jewelry keys.”

  “Yeah, golden. I’m not far away. Luckily, you and the doc live close to each other. You got a gate code or entry key?”

  “Yeah, Tom, it’s six, six, six.”

  “Six, six, six? Subtle.”

  “Don’t be a critic.”

  “Hey, it suits you.” Tom chuckled. “It’s not very secure, but it does suit you.”

  Peterson listened to the car skid to a halt and heard Tom running. Then, a loud crash. “Uh, I tripped over the garbage cans,” he said, offhandedly and embarrassed. “You didn’t tell me it was garbage day.”

  “Well, you know? I’ve had a lot on my mind, Tom!”

  “Right. Back up and running. Heading around back to be safe.”

  “Around back?” Peterson started with unpleasant surprise. “No, no, no, the front. It’s not safe.”

  Peterson heard Tom’s running feet stop, and the growling of a large dog filled the phone’s speaker. Peterson cringed, knowing what was coming.

  “Uh, Anthony?” Tom muttered, sounding scared but trying to remain calm. “When did you get a mean-looking dog?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you. He was a gift from Susan.”

  “Wuh-what’s his name?”

  “Satan.”

  “Well, of course it is! Why do I ask these questions?” he scoffed, in spite of himself. “Is…is he friendly?”

  “He’s an attack dog named after the motherfucking Prince of Darkness. Does he sound friendly to you?”

  “Then, I’d better make a run for it.”

  “Tom…” Peterson called warningly.

  Rabid, insane barking followed as Satan lunged after Tom.

  Peterson could only hear what was happening, but it was enough to give him some very terrifying mental pictures. If Tom died, Anthony was as good as dead.

  “Oh shit!” Tom screamed as he ran away.

  Peterson could only hear running footsteps and the sound of Satan’s collar jingling. Then, Peterson heard the terrible sound of teeth on meat.

  Tom screamed in pain. “Oh, shit! He’s got my fucking leg!”

  A scuffle erupted through the phone, and Peterson insanely almost warned Tom to be careful with his dog. The thought of Satan trying to rob a jewelry store gave Tom an awful lot of leeway.

  Finally, Peterson heard the dog crying out in pain.

  “I got him off me. Kicked him in the face. I think he’s done.”

  “Tom? He’s not done!”

  “Shit!”

  Barking followed footfalls and Tom’s frantic breathing.

  “If you can run, run to the house, we keep a key in the planter there.”

  “Not much of a choice, man!” Tom hustled, and Peterson heard the pain in his voice as he ran. He fumbled with the backdoor lock, fighting to get the key in the hole in time. “Come on, come on!” he grunted.

  At last, the back door clicked open as the growling increased and the door slammed. Lastly, Peterson heard his dog’s face running smack dab into the glass of the door and after a pause more growling and barking to be let in.

  Tom panted and caught his breath, trying to calm down.

  “You better hit that alarm code fast, Tom,” he said and heard Tom scrambling to the panel.

  “Yeah, yeah, number of the beast,” Tom said, and Peterson heard the beeps, followed by a tone signaling disarmament. “It’s done,” he whispered above his heavy breathing. “I’m in.”

  “Can you walk?” Peterson asked.

  “Well, I just ran all that way, so I guess so!” he panted. “Where to?”

  Peterson closed his eyes tightly and imagined his home. “Upstairs, master bedroom. Try not to kill yourself on the stairs.”

  “You got a bathroom up there?”

  “You have to piss at a time like this?”

  “No, asshole, but I could use some Bactine. Your dog almost took my leg off, you know?”

  “Yeah, right off the master bedroom. Keep time in mind.”

  “Roger wilco.” Tom said and ran up the stairs. “Whereabouts? What am I looking for?”

  “It’s in the medicine cabinet, genius.”

  “Not that. The…the fucking keys and shit!”

  Peterson started pacing again. “Top dresser drawer.”

  “Well there are two dressers!”

  “Tom…” Peterson patiently explained, “…the one with the Jake Slater novel on top of it is mine, the one with all the pink shit on top is obviously Susan’s!”

  “Right, right, I’ll go to yours.”

  “Top drawer…under the porno mags…there should be a…ring of keys and a pocket notebook. Get both!”

  Tom rustled around until Peterson heard keys shaking. “Got ’em. I’m out!”

  “No, no, wait. Go into the closet. You’ll find a bag with my ski trip gear in there. You’re going to need a ski mask and gloves, unless you’ve already got some in the car.”

  “Not something I just keep with me.”

  “Then grab them and come out of the closet, boy.”

  Peterson listened to Tom running, then a strange whooshing sound caused Peterson to ask, “Tom, did you just slide down the banister?”

  “Yep! Sidesaddle. Old school!” he said, pleased with himself, as if on an adrenaline rush. Peterson rolled his eyes, but they shot wide open when he heard the front door open with a crash. “Anyway, back outside now. All good and…oh what the FUCK?”

  “What, Tom, what?” Peterson asked as he heard Satan’s growls and barks.

  “Your fucking dog must have jumped the fence.”

  “Well, get the fuck out of there, right now!”

  “Shit!” Tom yelled and ran as Satan chased him, snarling.

  Peterson listened to the car door open and slam shut as Satan scratched and bit at the glass to be let in.

  “Tom? You all right?”

  “Yeah! I’m in the car now.”

  “Well, boy, drive, dammit, drive!”

  “Yeah!” Tom panted, agreeing. He turned the key and gunned the engine, and Peterson smiled painfully as he heard the tires screech to a start. “You know, you really got your money’s worth for that dog!”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “He’s out now. Your neighbors are going to hate you.”

  “They aaaaaaaaaaaaalready do, Tommy-boy.”

  “Yeah, well, I hate that dog. My leg is bleeding like fuck. I feel like going back and
running him over.”

  “You get me and Susan out of this alive, and we just might let you do that, but we ain’t got time right now!”

  20

  The Cavalry: 8:51 AM

  Anthony Peterson. Those were the words scrawled across the lined notebook paper Detective Gilley dropped in front of the desk sergeant.

  “What about him?” Sergeant Burns asked.

  “That’s the name you gave me?” Gilley asked with some annoyance.

  “That’s the name the kid said over the phone. It mean something to you?”

  “Yeah. Businessman. Real estate mostly. Investments. Really rich guy. Snake in the grass, too. I’m surprised he hasn’t run for office yet.”

  “So?” Burns asked without laughing.

  “So, how do you know this isn’t a prank?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing, except that his kid, Evan, called and said he was missing,” Burns reminded him. “Also, it’s not my damn job to know if it’s a prank: it’s your job to find that out after an investigation.”

  “Oh, right, right, right, that’s my job. But you didn’t say he was just missing. Read that back to me.”

  Burns sighed and looked up at the Detective. He was a fit man in his thirties, prone to wearing jeans with his badge on the belt with cowboy boots and checkered, western style shirts to go with the getup. He also wore his hair in a tightly curled, bushy afro which he matched with a firm mustache and a pair of sideburns reaching down toward it. Burns often wondered why Gilley bothered being a plainclothes detective, if he was going to look like someone who just woke up from the mid-1970s. Wasn’t the point, supposedly, to blend in?

  Still, Burns generally liked the man, and he had little better to do, so he indulged Gilley. “Uh, kidnapped, kept in a metal cargo container or something, and he didn’t know where he was, but if they didn’t get ten million bucks to some offshore account, they were going to kill the guy and his wife.”

  Burns half-expected his detective pal to respond with something anachronistic like, “Dy-No-MITE!!” or “Far out!” to match his look, but instead, Gilley leaned in and asked, “And that didn’t sound odd to you?”

  “Well, of course it sounded fucking odd, that’s why I gave it to you dicks, instead of just sending a car out there.”