Cesspool

by Phil M. Williams

  The old man gave James the combination to the front gate and pointed to a map of the storage center on the wall, showing him his space in the back corner.

  “Number twenty-two, marked on the asphalt. You can’t miss it. Don’t be parkin’ in someone else’s space. It’s a pain in the ass when that happens.”

  James left the office, removed the burner phone from his pocket and dialed.

  “Hello,” Brittany said.

  “It’s ready,” James said. “Come right through the gate, and drive all the way to the back. Don’t park in front. I’ll be waiting in back.”

  James walked through the gate, toward his parking space. Brittany drove through a few minutes later. She stopped next to James and powered down her window.

  “Park in number twenty-two,” James said, pointing to the tight space.

  They left the car and hiked to James’s truck. He cranked the engine and looked at Brittany.

  “Get comfortable,” he said.

  * * *

  They drove a few hours southeast, into Maryland. The traffic was heavier, the cars more expensive. James parked in front of a three-story brick-and-glass office building.

  In the lobby, they read through the directory to locate Direct Data in Office 212. They took the stairs to the second floor. Inside, James told the receptionist that he had an appointment with Stephanie. An attractive thirtysomething emerged from a back office.

  “Mr. Miller,” she said to James.

  “Please call me Ray,” James replied.

  James paid the woman in cash, and she produced four boxes of Avery labels. James opened one of the boxes. Names and addresses were printed on every label as specified. He shut the box.

  “Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it.”

  “Next time, if you give us a week, we can mail the lists. Save you the trip.”

  On the way home they stopped for lunch at a deserted Subway. They sat at a corner table, eating their subs with the wax paper as makeshift plates. James bought them chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

  “The chocolate chips are always melty,” he said. “I don’t know how they do that.”

  After their sandwiches and cookies, James made a phone call with his burner phone.

  “North Schuylkill Township Police nonemergency line,” a female said.

  “Hi, my name is Ray Miller,” James said. “Could I speak to Dale Strickland, please?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not in at the moment.”

  “Do you know what time he’ll be in?”

  “He’ll be here tonight from four to twelve. Would you like to leave him a message?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll call back.”

  James put the phone in his pocket. “I figured it was four to twelve. I’d like to see what he does, where he goes.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to keep up appearances? Aren’t you gonna teach tonight?”

  “My class is six to nine. I’ll tail him for an hour and a half and then go to class. I’ll drop you off at work a little early in the truck, if that’s okay. I don’t want anyone at the diner to see the Hyundai.”

  “We still have a lot to do,” she said.

  “We do, but we need more information. We get one shot. I don’t want there to be any doubt.”

  “We need more time then.”

  “I figured we would. I’ll send the text in the morning, before they get worried.”

  * * *

  James dropped off Brittany at the diner an hour early for her shift. He drove to the storage center and parked in the lot. The chain-link gate was open. He hopped into the Hyundai and drove to the police station. He parked on a neighborhood street across from the one-story brick building. James sat and watched, his camera in the seat next to him.

  Officer Dale Strickland pulled up to the station in a black Yukon Denali. Dale entered the station wearing his uniform. Fifteen minutes later he departed in his cruiser. The officer sped down the road. James kept a safe distance behind. They drove on a two-lane road that was wooded on either side. Officer Strickland pulled off at a small clearing. James drove past, shielding his face with his arm. Shit.

  He’s probably setting up a speed trap. James pulled off the road six hundred yards away. The ground was frozen and dry. The last snowstorm of a few weeks ago had melted in a short stretch of above-freezing weather. He parked the car tight to the woods, out of plain view. He took out his camera and exited the Hyundai. With the zoom cranked up, he could see Dale with his radar gun. James watched Dale for an hour. The officer flagged down cars without moving from his spot. He nabbed four cars for speeding.

  After the fourth car drove away slowly, Dale drove in the opposite direction. James ran to his Hyundai and spun the front wheel as he gunned it back on the road. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, trying to gain ground. He saw the cruiser turn off the two-lane road into a rural trailer park.

  James followed. Most of the trailers were well cared for, with small leafless trees and empty flowerpots. Maybe he’s here for the money. No, they said Kurt picks up the money. The cruiser stopped in front of a single-wide trailer with white vinyl siding. A young woman ran from the trailer to the cruiser and hopped in the front passenger seat. Dale made a three-point turn. Shit, he’s coming back this way. James backed into an empty driveway and ducked his head. He listened as the V-8 rumbled past. James lifted his head to see the cruiser driving back toward the main road. He followed.

  They drove farther away from town, fifteen miles maybe. The cruiser turned down an asphalt road into a wooded housing development. The community was sparsely populated with cabins and single-family homes. James allowed a healthy distance between him and Dale. The police car pulled into a gravel driveway of a small stone house. The front yard was mostly dormant grass. James edged a little closer to get a better angle on the cruiser. He rolled down the passenger window and turned on his camera.

  With the zoom, he had an excellent view of the back of the police car. The exhaust was still spewing smoke. They’re still in the car. He pointed the camera at the back window. He snapped photographs of Officer Dale Strickland kissing and groping the young lady. The officer cut the engine, and the couple exited the vehicle. The woman ran around the car and jumped on Dale. She straddled him. They kissed. James continued to snap photographs as she unclenched her thighs and let her feet drop to the ground. He snapped a nice shot of her face as Dale smacked her on the ass. I guess there really is no honor among thieves.

  * * *

  James and Brittany entered the cabin, looking like death. Brittany had dark circles under her eyes, and James didn’t look much better. They were running on fumes after two nights of little-to-no sleep.

  “You gonna show me the pictures now?” she asked.

  They sat at the kitchen table. James scrolled through the camera screen, showing Brittany the pictures he had taken.

  “Who’s the girlfriend?” Brittany asked.

  “It’s Heather Davenport,” he said, flipping to the shot with a good view of her face.

  Brittany leaned into the picture. “She looks familiar.”

  “It’s Kurt Strickland’s girlfriend.”

  She cackled.

  James nodded with a grin.

  * * *

  The phone rang. His eyes fluttered. He smelled bacon and eggs. He blinked in rapid-fire fashion. The cabin came into focus. He rolled out of the bottom bunk, stood, and stretched his arms high over his head. He grabbed his phone from the dresser and cut the alarm. Brittany glanced back from the stove. Her blue eyes were bright, the dark rings faint. She wore black sweats.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” she said.

  “Smells really good,” he replied. “I should send that text real quick.”

  He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the box and slipped them on. He pulled Harold’s phone from the plastic bag. He checked text messages and missed calls.

  “Nothing since those two calls from yesterday,” he said to Brittany.


  “But you said those were telemarketers,” she replied.

  “I’m pretty sure they were. One was from Minneapolis and the other Los Angeles. I have telemarketers calling me from Minneapolis all the time. And I doubt Harold knew anyone from L.A.”

  He double-checked the text he had prepared. He had researched Harold’s past text messages to make this one seem authentic. He showed the text to Brittany.

  I got the flu bad must be the wether. I wont be at the firehouse today or Friday.

  James pressed Send. “There it goes,” he said. “That should give us some breathing room.”

  “So what’s next?” she asked.

  “They said Kurt does the pickups on Wednesday. I want to see for myself and get some pictures.”

  “Where are you gonna follow him from?”

  “He takes a night class. I’ve seen him leaving campus in his jacked-up truck.”

  “How do you know he doesn’t do the pickups in the mornin’s? They didn’t say when exactly. They just said Wednesday.”

  “He doesn’t seem like a morning person. Besides, if he’s doing something shady, like I suspect, I think he would be more likely to do it at night.”

  “What else?”

  “I need to learn how to mix videos and set up a blog. There’s an Internet café type place about half an hour from here. I don’t want this stuff to point to my IP address. I was thinking I should also wear a disguise, just in case they have cameras there. Maybe at least a hat pulled low.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  James grinned. “You could start putting those labels on the envelopes.”

  She groaned. “There’s five thousand of ’em.”

  “Don’t touch anything without gloves.”

  Chapter 15

  If You Ain’t First, You’re Last

  “That’s it for class tonight,” James said.

  The students packed their bags and started for the door. James put on his jacket, knit cap, and gloves. He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. Leon and Jessica approached. Leon wanted to debate; Jessica wanted to talk about her project.

  “Next class, guys,” James said. “I have to go.”

  James hurried his students out the door. He locked the classroom and jogged to the parking lot, his computer bag bouncing on his shoulder. The lot was well lit by the street lamps. He spotted Kurt and Heather climbing into a red lifted Dodge pickup with vertical exhaust pipes. James broke into a sprint toward the back of the lot, where the Hyundai was stowed.

  He shoved his computer bag under the seat, cranked the engine, and headed for the exit. He searched for the red truck. Post-class traffic was clustering in front of him. Shit. He pulled the Hyundai onto the shoulder and zoomed past the traffic, eliciting a few honks. In the distance, he saw Kurt’s pickup turning left from the college.

  James ran out of shoulder, so he drove with one wheel on the frozen grass and one on the sidewalk. At the end of the sidewalk, he drove off the curb, the front end of the Hyundai scraping the asphalt. He made a left, cutting off a Toyota truck. The truck pitched forward as the driver slammed on his brakes and laid on the horn.

  James saw taillights shaped like a ram, stopped at a red light a few hundred yards ahead. The traffic light went green. James mashed on the accelerator. The four-cylinder engine whined, the speedometer rising despite the complaints. The quick light went yellow as he crossed the intersection. He was gaining ground on the truck. He eased off the gas pedal, careful not to get too close.

  Kurt turned into an industrial park. There was a single warehouse as big as a football field, with roll-up garage doors for the dozens of businesses contained therein. The front lot was mostly empty, except for a fleet of water delivery trucks. James stopped at the entrance, watching Kurt motor around back. James drove into the lot and parked tight to the side of the building.

  His camera and flashlight sat on the front passenger seat. He grabbed the camera, exited the Hyundai, and peeked around the corner. The rear of the building had docks high enough for tractor trailers to offload. The lot and the building were well lit. Each dock had a set of concrete steps that led to a metal door. Kurt’s truck was one hundred yards away. A black car was parked next to the pickup, visible under the Dodge’s lifted frame. James was partially shielded by the concrete steps in front of him.

  He turned on his camera and pointed it over the steps toward the truck. Kurt hopped down from his pickup and climbed the steps in front of him. He pressed a buzzer and waited. A few seconds later, he opened the door and entered the building. Heather, still in the Dodge, blew cigarette smoke out the passenger window.

  A few rigs and trailers were parked along the back of the lot. James ran across the asphalt to a big rig. He crouched next to a truck tire and pointed his camera at the loading dock and door. The metal door had vinyl lettering that read All-American Auto Parts. He snapped a few pictures. He had a better view of the black BMW M5 that was parked next to Kurt’s truck. He took pictures of both license plates.

  Kurt departed the building with a white envelope. He stopped just outside the door and flipped through the contents. James took rapid-fire pictures as Kurt took a few hundred dollar bills and shoved them in his front pocket.

  Chop shop maybe? James ran across the lot to the Hyundai as Kurt and Heather drove the opposite direction around the building.

  James followed the truck across town to an older development of homes built in the early 1900s. The single-family homes were mostly brick foursquares, two-and-a-half stories tall, with dormer windows and expansive front porches. The neighborhood was a mixed bag—some houses well maintained, while others were falling apart. Kurt pulled up to a well-cared-for brick foursquare, lit by porch lights and a streetlight. A small purple neon sign glowed in an upstairs window. In cursive it read Spa Appointment Only. James chuckled to himself and parked a few houses away.

  He took photos as Kurt entered without knocking. A few minutes later Kurt exited with another envelope. This one yellow and shaped like a greeting card. Again he took a few bills and shoved them in his pocket.

  Kurt and Heather were on the move again. James followed them out of town to a familiar trailer park. Kurt kissed Heather, dropped her at her trailer, and drove back to the main road. He continued farther away from town. Kurt turned down a gravel road not far from James’s cabin. The road was potholed. The suspension of the old Hyundai squeaked and groaned and banged as James tried to avoid the hazards. The lifted truck rolled over the holes like they weren’t there.

  After a few miles, Kurt turned onto a dirt and gravel driveway. He parked in front of a vinyl-sided double-wide trailer that looked new. Security spotlights shone from each corner of the trailer. A Ford F-350 dually pickup truck and a Ford Expedition SUV were parked in front. An enormous covered trailer, almost as large as the house, was parked at the end of the driveway. On the side of the trailer was a vinyl cartoon version of a sprint car with a huge boxy wing on top. Underneath was the slogan If You Ain’t First, You’re Last.

  James pulled off the gravel road and parked, the drive wheel slipping into a ditch caused by erosion. He crept closer on foot. He took photos of Kurt entering the trailer and exiting with another envelope. James hurried back to his car and tried to get back on the road. The car engine whined, and the front tire whizzed, spinning in the ditch. He was stuck. Kurt was coming his way. James ducked in his seat.

  The red truck motored past. James sat up and watched the truck moving away from him. The pickup stopped. It sat still for ten seconds, … then it reversed. Shit. James ducked down again. Kurt hopped out of his truck and shone a flashlight in James’s passenger side window. Kurt tapped on the window with the flashlight. James looked up. Kurt had a smirk on his pudgy face. James powered down the window one-quarter of the way.

  Kurt pointed the flashlight in James’s face. “Mr. Fisher, what the hell are you doin’ out here? I was wonderin’ who’d be parked out here at this time a night.” He wore a black puffy North Fac
e jacket and a backward-facing baseball hat.

  “I have a friend who lives down here,” James replied. “I guess I was tired and veered off the road.”

  Kurt narrowed his eyes and grinned. “Oh, yeah? Who you know over here?”

  “Paul Richards.”

  Kurt cackled. “Paul Dicks, huh? Sounds made up, like a porn name or somethin’.”

  James laughed. “I never thought of it that way. I’ll have to tell him that.”

  Kurt shook his head, reached behind, and pulled a Glock 9 mm from his lower back. He tapped on the glass with the boxy muzzle, still shining the flashlight at James. “Now why don’t you tell me the real reason why you’re here, hidin’ like a little bitch.”

  James nodded, his mouth flat. “I’m here for meth. I heard I could score some down here. I got scared when I saw your truck. I could get fired.”

  He pursed his lips. “How’d you know it was my truck?”

  “I’ve seen you leaving campus. It’s hard to miss.”

  He chuckled. “That is true.”

  “Do you think maybe we could keep this a secret, between you and me?”

  “I could do that, but what’re you gonna do for me?”

  “What would you like me to do?” James replied.

  “How much cash you got?”

  James exhaled and opened his wallet. He leaned over and handed Kurt a couple hundred dollars through the passenger window. “Are we straight now?”

  Kurt took the money, peering into the Hyundai.

  “Gimme your phone,” he said.

  “Seriously?” James replied.

  “Did I fuckin’ stutter? I know you got one. Everyone does.”

  James handed over his Droid.

  Kurt took the phone and shook his head. “You ain’t got an iPhone? Cheap bastard.” He shoved the Droid in his pocket.

  “That’s enough, Kurt. I have to go.”

  He cackled. “I don’t know where the fuck you gonna go. This piece of shit’s stuck.” He peered in the Hyundai, his eyes searching. “And I’d like that camera right there. That shit is tight.”