by Glenn Trust
Picking up the cell phone, he punched the speed dial for Rince and Jake. Jake answered, but the call broke up, and he lost the signal. Calling George and Sharon was even less productive. Their phone went directly to voice mail, a sign that they had no signal. Shit. Bad timing and bad luck.
Pressing harder on the accelerator, he rounded a curve in time to see the Escalade’s brake lights burn bright red in the tree shrouded twilight. Slowing, he saw them make a right turn, the vehicle bouncing onto what must be a dirt road.
He pulled to the shoulder of the road and watched, listening with the windows down. A quarter mile from the point where they had turned off the road, there was no way of knowing if they had turned off, waiting for him to approach, or if the dirt road led into the swamp and their camp. Shit.
Putting the pickup in gear, Andy pulled forward slowly, ready to jam the accelerator down and get the hell away if there was some sort of ambush. There was none.
Coming even with the turnoff onto the dirt road, he scanned looking for the Escalade or the men, some sign of movement. There was nothing. About a quarter mile in, the dirt road made a bend to the left. He had no idea what lay beyond that. For the hundredth time, he thought, shit.
Gingerly he turned onto the dirt road, half expecting to see Boss Stimes or Budroe step out of the woods, but they did not. He crept along, looking for signs that someone might be watching from the dark growth of vegetation on either side. The afternoon sun broke through the trees in spots and reflected off the inky black surface of the waterways and creeks that flowed through the country. Flying low across the road in front of the pickup, a large pileated woodpecker fastened itself to the side of a black gum tree, startling Andy in the process. The bird rapped so loudly with its beak that it sounded like hammers hitting a two by four. It reminded him of cartoons he watched as a child sitting on the living room floor. This was alien country, far from the streets and suburban yards of Atlanta.
He stopped the pickup, watching the bird, thinking. Caution screamed at him to reverse and go back and wait for the others. Urgency reminded him that the girls may be about to be moved, if so, he had to see at least where and how. How would they be transported? What type of vehicle? How many captives? How many of Budroe’s men? There were too many unanswered questions. He nudged the pickup forward, pressing lightly on the accelerator.
Making the turn around the bend, he lost sight of the turnoff from the main road in his rearview mirror and fought down the tingling sense of isolation that crawled up his spine. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound of Rince in the Cessna overhead, or the engine roar of George’s truck bouncing along the road.
The old pickup crept forward so slowly that he could see and hear the small animals in the brush along the road. Armadillos, possums, raccoons lifted their heads and stared curiously at him, or rustled away cautiously into the undergrowth. He knew how they felt. It would have been a relief to scurry away into the woods and creep along there. On the road, he felt exposed, and even more isolated. He figured it was the way a bull’s-eye felt at the center of a target. Everyone had to take a shot at it, and there was no place to hide. It was a lonely feeling.
On a long narrow section of white sandy road, Andy increased speed, slowing again as he came to the next turn, a sharp right. Making the turn, he stopped the pickup abruptly, sliding in the dirt and gravel. Shit.
The Escalade sat in the road, diagonally across it. There was no way around the car. His hand moved to the gearshift to put it in reverse.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Startled by the question, Andy turned his head and stared into the muzzle of a .45 caliber Colt 1911. The bore, barely three inches from his left eye seemed impossibly huge. Raising his eyes, he looked into the cold gaze of Boss Stimes.
“I said, who the fuck are you?” Stimes pushed the pistol forward roughly so that it jabbed Andy in the face, crunching against the cheekbone, just under the eye socket.
“M-my name’s Sam…Sam Martin,” Andy stuttered trying to sound like the frightened floor sweeper and shelf stocker instead of the terrified OSI undercover investigator that he was. The thought crossed his mind to make a reach for his own pistol, under the driver’s seat, but the forty-five buried in the flesh of his face urged patience. If the chance came he would take it, but he didn’t figure on committing suicide, and reaching for his gun now would be suicide.
“Bullshit.” The pistol pressed harder into his cheek. “Why you following us?”
“I didn’t mean nothin’, mister. Just thought you had a hunt or fish camp set up.” He smiled an innocent smile. There was no sense lying about following the Escalade. “I like to fish. Thought you might have a good spot you could show me.”
Turning his head briefly to look in the bed of the pickup, Stimes asked, “Where’s your fishing gear? Rod? Tackle? Bait? Don’t see none of that.”
Andy shrugged. He smiled his simple floor sweeper smile. “I guess I forgot it. Got in a hurry, I reckon. Didn’t want to lose sight of you.”
“So you, just left the store, climbed in your piece of shit truck and followed us. Just like that.”
Andy nodded, solemnly.
“Bullshit.” Stimes jerked the door open. “Get out.”
Stepping out with the forty-five in his face, Andy felt the distance from the nine-millimeter Glock under the seat become a vast empty gulf. It might as well have been on the moon.
“Turn around. Hands on the truck.” Stimes spun Andy with one of his big hands while the other kept the Colt pointed at him. Holding him by the belt, Stimes pulled him back so that Andy had to lean forward and rest his hands on the pickup. Stimes kicked his legs far apart and searched under his shirt, around his waist up and down his legs, the Colt’s muzzle resting in the small of Andy’s back all the while. “Put your right hand behind your back.”
Andy did and felt the cold steel of the handcuff ratchet tight around his wrist.
“Put your head on the truck and put your other hand behind your back.” Stimes thumped him in the back of the head so that his face banged into the truck.
Andy knew the drill. It was standard search and handcuff procedure taught at the police academy. Stimes must have gotten high marks. Leaning against the pickup, his weight on his face, Andy extended his left arm back. Stimes grabbed it roughly, twisting, and closed the other cuff on the left wrist, and then jerked Andy up straight, spinning him around to face him.
“Don’t know who you are, but I’m pretty fucking sure you’re not Sam Martin, whoever the fuck that is.” He peered close into Andy’s face. “I promise you, I’m gonna find out, though.” He jabbed the Colt into Andy’s stomach. “Get in, slide across to the other side.
Climbing awkwardly into the pickup, hands cuffed behind, he slid his ass across to the passenger side of the bench seat. There was no way to reach for the Glock under the seat.
“You lead the way.” Stimes called out to a man standing by the Escalade.
Andy became aware of Roy Budroe’s presence for the first time. He must have waited in the woods, concealed, while Stimes handled things.
Budroe nodded, climbed in the Cadillac, straightened it out and led the way down the dirt road. Stimes drove the pickup at a much higher rate of speed than Andy had. There was no creeping along wondering what was around the next turn. Stimes and Budroe knew exactly where they were going.
Shit. It was becoming his favorite word.
62. Into the Twilight
Sliding the wheels in the gravel, Sharon brought the SUV to a stop alongside the front door to Banks’ Store. George popped out, leaving the passenger door open. A puzzled Jerome Banks stood behind the counter.
“Have you seen Sam Martin?” George said without any preliminaries.
“No, I haven’t.” Banks placed a stack of mail he was sorting on the counter. “I got back and the place was closed up tight. But no Sam, or whatever his real name is.” He gave George a knowing look. “I know he’s law, of some kind. You
too I reckon.”
Letting out a long sigh, George nodded. “Right.” He returned Banks’ gaze and asked seriously, “Does anyone else know he is with us?”
“No, no one.” Banks shook his head, emphatically. “Not even my mother. I kind of figured it out. The way he paid attention to everything, and all. You and the lady outside in the car comin’ in and out all week, always finding something to say to Sam, some kind of signals I guess. Then there was the man who wanted to turn his daughter into a prostitute. That sorta settled it for me.” Placing his hands on the counter, he leaned towards George. “Tell me what ya’ll are up to. Maybe I can help. Sam, or whoever he is, is a friend. I don’t want nothin’ to happen to him.”
The door opened, and George turned his head. The look on his face told Sharon something had happened.
“What?” She walked to the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, it seems that Mr. Banks has figured out that Sam and we are some kind of law. He wants to help.”
Sharon’s head jerked sharply towards Banks, eyes fierce. “How do you know that? Andy was too careful. What did you do?”
Fearing that she was going to jump the counter and beat the shit out of Banks, George put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “He didn’t do anything. Andy is Andy. You know that. Mr. Banks figured it out paying attention to things.” He turned her towards him and looked in her eyes. “Things like you and me coming in and out of the store. The man pimping his daughter. The way Andy reacted. Things like that.”
“Andy huh. So that’s his name.” Banks nodded, and said it again liking the sound of it. “Andy. Good name.” He smiled. “You can call me Jerome. Pretty much no one calls me Mr. Banks.”
Eyes locked together, George nodded to Sharon. We should trust him. We have to trust him. Her nod in return indicated her agreement.
George turned back to Jerome. “Andy spotted the two people we’ve been hunting for. They came in here.”
“Yeah, I figured someone was in. They took a dump in the restroom and didn’t bother to flush. Pretty nasty,” Jerome said wrinkling his nose in disgust.
“No one was here, so he locked up and followed. We have a plane in the area up high as a spotter. He called them and told them what he was doing, but they had to refuel. We were cruising south of here with no cell service, checking on back roads. When the plane got up again and we got back in range Andy was gone. We can’t raise him.”
“Followed? Who did he follow?”
“You wouldn’t know them. Two big men. One very large and muscular. The other big, and heavyset. Driving a black Cadillac Escalade.”
“Don’t know about no Cadillac but the one man, the big muscular one, he’s been in here a lot.” Concern showed in Jerome’s eyes. “He’s a bad man. Mean.”
George nodded. “He is for a fact.” He looked Jerome in the eyes. “We need to find Andy. He could be in danger.”
“All right then, let’s do it.”
“Mr. Banks…Jerome,” Sharon said leaning towards him over the counter. “These are very bad men. If you help us, and they find out, you will be in danger. You might be in danger anyway. They are the kind of people that won’t take any chances about leaving witnesses.”
“Well, I ain’t no hero, and tell the truth, you got me scared.” Banks took his hands off the counter and stood up straight. He had made his decision. “I don’t want anything to happen to Andy. What can I do?”
“Wait here.” Sharon turned and walked to the SUV. A minute later she spread the map out on the counter.
Jerome leaned over, peering closely at the lines marked in red. His finger traced one or two and then he looked up.
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“The men we’re after, the ones Andy followed, have set up an operation around here somewhere. Some kind of camp or base. We’re guessing in the backcountry, maybe out in the swamp. We were waiting until we knew which one for sure before moving in. Now…” Sharon’s voice wavered slightly. “Now we have to find Andy. Make sure he’s safe. We can’t wait.”
Jerome nodded. “Lots of places like that around here.”
“We know,” Sharon said and smiled. “We’ve been driving this county and the ones around for the last three days. Lot of ground to cover and lot of hiding places that no one would ever find.”
“That’s true, that’s true” Jerome leaned over the map again, his finger moving along the lines. “But some of these just aren’t right for that sort of thing.”
George looked over Sharon’s shoulder. “How do you know?”
Banks looked up from the map. “Amount of groceries and sundries they been buying, they must be feedin’ ten, maybe a dozen folks.” He pointed at one of the lines on the map. “Some of these back roads you marked go to country where you couldn’t set up that kind of camp. A lot of em’ you couldn’t pitch a pup tent.” He thumped the map with his finger. “You shoulda asked me sooner.”
“Couldn’t do that, Jerome. Things have to be confidential in this kind of work. One word gets out, and someone’s life could be in danger.”
“You mean like Andy, now?”
“Yeah, like Andy, now,” George said acknowledging Banks’ irony and nodding his agreement.
Sharon brought them back to the map. “Jerome, which of these back roads could lead to a place where a big camp could be set up? Sheriff Beery said it could be any of them.”
“Jake Beery’s a good man,” Jerome said leaning over the map again. “But he’s been gone to the Navy half his life. Me, I been huntin’ and fishin’ this country all my life, and that is a lot more years than old Jake’s been on the earth.” Adjusting his glasses, Jerome leaned over so that his nose was an inch off the map. “Just give me a minute…just a minute and let’s see if I can narrow it down.”
Taking a yellow marker from a cup of pens by the cash register, Jerome moved it rapidly over the map. Looking at his work for a moment, he stood up and turned it for Sharon and George to see.
“Lookit here.” Using the marker, he pointed at back roads they had marked on the map. “Here and here would be ideal, if you weren’t trying to hide. I figure they’re too near the main road traffic for these boys. But over here." He moved the marker, pointing to a spot on the map, ten miles or so from the store. “Here, these two roads. See how they wind into the backcountry?”
George and Sharon leaned over peering closely at the map.
“The map don’t show it, but they have a whole tangle of dirt roads and trails leading off them. Like a maze almost. You get turned around in there it could take you a while to find your way out. And right about here…” The marker thumped heavily on the map. “Right here, there’s a clearing. And in that clearing is a shed.”
“You know there’s a shed…still standing in this country?” George looked at Jerome, his eyes serious. There was no time for mistakes.
“I know it for certain. Back in the day, my people were slaves around here. We been here ever since. They used to come into the swamp and cut the cypress. Farmland all around the edges of the swamp used to be plantations. My people spent a lot of time in them backwaters when they weren’t chopping cotton or cutting sorghum. That shed today ain’t that old, but there’s been a shed of some kind there for probably two hundred years. Gum and bay trees, pines and some live oak, took over where the cypress used to be, but there’s a shed there. I know it. Camped out in it myself, huntin’.” He looked up at George. “You could put a bunch of people in it if you wanted to. You could hide them there.”
Pulling the map off the counter, Sharon rushed out to the SUV. George could see her on the cell phone calling Rince and Jake in the Cessna, giving them the map coordinates. Orange light from the setting sun was casting shadows through the trees across the road. He turned back to Jerome.
“Can’t thank you enough, Jerome.” He put his hand out, and Banks took it. “Now listen and believe me. You could be in serious danger until we get things settled.”
“I he
ard you the first time,” Jerome said with a grin. “Mama likes the gulf this time of year. Think I’ll close up and take her down to Destin for a week or two. Ain’t had a vacation in a while.”
George nodded and turned to the door.
“You find Andy,” Jerome called after him.
Lifting his hand in acknowledgment, George got into the SUV. A minute later Sharon had it roaring down the road into the twilight.
63. We’re Gonna Talk
Rolling into the clearing, Budroe drove the Escalade up to the big trailer and went inside. Stimes stopped the old pickup at the shed.
Stepping from the truck, Boss Stimes scanned the clearing. Paco stood guard by the shed door. No one else was in sight. Mike Anson’s pickup was gone. A big SUV was parked next to the smaller trailer.
“Your people here?” Stimes nodded at the SUV.
“Yes. Mr. Rivera and Mr. Guzman have arrived. They are in the trailer.”
“Where the hell is everybody else?” Stimes walked around the pickup to stand in front of Paco, who stood casually leaning against the shed, the shotgun resting under his shoulder, pointed at the ground.
“Emilio is guarding the back of the shed.” Paco shrugged. “The Americans…your men? They left. Said they were going over to Nicks Cove, to…check on things they said.” He smiled. “I think they must have been distracted.”
“Goddamned sonsabitches.” Turning, disgusted, towards the pickup he went to the passenger side. “They pick now to knock off a piece of ass. Goddamned stupid sonsabitches.” He jerked the passenger door open. “Be hell to pay for that when they get back.”
“Who is that?” Paco stepped forward craning his neck around Stimes’ big frame to see the black man in the passenger seat.