by Judy M. Kerr
“Heya, Arty!” Klein sidled up to Arty and slammed a meaty paw onto his shoulder.
Arty jumped and his phone squirted out from his sweaty grasp. “Jesus H. Christ, Len.” He grappled with the phone in midair and managed to cup it in both hands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A bit jumpy, aren’t we?” Klein said.
Arty’s heart plummeted. “No. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be somewhere.” He retrieved his briefcase and fled the building.
Arty paused at the glass doors and craned his head to make sure Klein wasn’t following. He observed Klein take out his cell phone. Arty felt sick. This whole mess was wreaking havoc with his immune system. He couldn’t wait for everything to be out in the open.
He tossed his briefcase onto the back seat and got in his car. A marching band blared inside his skull so he took a couple aspirin dry, and with shaking hands started the engine. The FBI was waiting for him, and while they’d be pleased with the info he’d recorded tonight, he was certain they’d not be pleased he didn’t have the thumb drive on him. Tomorrow he’d retrieve it and give it to his lawyer.
He shifted the gear stick into drive and eased out of his parking space and toward the exit. The blaze of headlights reflecting off his rearview mirror burned his retinas. A large vehicle pulled in behind him. Arty maneuvered to the side and flipped the overhead light on, pretending to search for something in the glove box, hoping whoever it was would get impatient and go around him.
No luck.
The monster patiently idled at his rear bumper. He couldn’t make out the driver in the rearview mirror because the light refracted like a sunburst. Arty found his phone and hit the app to start a new voice recording. He wasn’t taking any chances—he’d cover his ass.
He muttered, “Goddamn, Len, if you’re following me . . .” His throat burned with the acid taste of pain reliever and fear. He swallowed it down and put his foot on the accelerator and spoke in a clear even tone.
“It’s a few minutes after seven o’clock and I’m leaving the Stennard parking lot. An SUV or truck—I can’t see color or driver because of the glare of headlights—is behind me. I’m going to drive around and try to lose them. I can’t chance the scheduled rendezvous with the FBI. Damn.” He drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as the SUV remained about five feet from his rear bumper.
Arty drove aimlessly around Wayzata, passing strip malls and gas stations and restaurants. He kept his speed at the posted limits, making random turns. Still the SUV stuck with him.
“This town needs more street lights. I think the vehicle is dark, maybe black. Could be one of Stennard’s fleet. Might be Len Klein. We’ve been going ’round and ’round for thirty minutes. Time to end this game.”
At a stop sign on Main Street and Bay Avenue he considered his options: find a cop or return to work.
“I’m heading for the police station. Seems safest.” Arty navigated right, intent on taking a shortcut across town to the police. He signaled onto a dark frontage road that wound through an industrial area and would dump him close to his destination.
The SUV accelerated and tore around him on the unlit, curvy road. He swerved and hit the brakes as the vehicle planted itself in front of his BMW.
“Now you decide to pass?” His voice squeaked. The SUV brake lights painted the night in bloody hues and Arty made sure his foot was firm against the brake pedal. “Black SUV. Passenger door opening. Shit.” A shiver of foreboding scuttled down Arty’s spine. The SUV tore off leaving a villain dark as doom behind.
“The SUV left. Guy wearing a black knit mask. He’s also holding a . . . I think it’s a gun.” Arty’s voice trembled and his mouth went dry as a rain-starved farm field. “Person standing in front of car pointing a gun at me.” Arty slipped the phone into his coat pocket.
The gunman pounded on the passenger side window. “Unlock the fucking doors. Now.”
Arty hesitated. He considered taking off. Maybe he should just open his door and run for it.
The guy took a shot overhead. Arty’s foot slipped off the brake pedal. The car inched forward.
The gunman pointed the gun at Arty’s head. “My next shot goes right through the fucking window.”
Arty stomped on the brake and fumbled to comply. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Who is this? Why’s this happening?”
The masked gunman jumped into the passenger seat, still brandishing the gun in his black-gloved hand. The weapon was stubby and chunky and aimed at Arty’s head. “Drive and don’t do anything stupid.”
Arty’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white in the dash lights. “Where?”
“Fucking drive!” Cold metal pushed against Arty’s ear. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
He didn’t recognize the guy’s voice. At this point he was ready to hand the car and his wallet over to his captor.
Arty hit the accelerator, and the BMW jumped forward. “What do you want? My wallet’s in my back pocket. I’ve got some cash—”
“Shut the fuck up and drive.” The man kept the gun at Arty’s head until they got onto a street with lights, then he dropped it to hip level and kept it firmly against Arty’s side. “Turn right two blocks up.”
Arty followed directions until he pulled into a hard-packed gravel service road parallel to a boat and RV storage business. He didn’t recognize the place. His fear intensified as he realized the road was a dead end, and the only lights were those inside the fenced area where behemoth boats and RVs sat covered for their long winter’s rest.
“Get out. Leave the car running,” the man said.
Arty did as instructed. He stood next to the open door. The gunman joined him. Arty had no clue who the guy was, but a sense of dread dropped over him. The dude stood several inches taller than Arty and appeared bulky beneath his winter jacket. Had someone discovered he had turned whistleblower?
He again tossed out the offer of his wallet, hoping to entice the guy into taking it and leaving him.
The man said, “Move it.” He motioned to the impenetrable blackness where dense shrubs lined one side and chain-link the other. The end of the road. “No place to run, so don’t even think about it.”
Arty shuffled to the designated spot, his mind spinning. Leaves covered the ground behind him in a pre-winter blanket. His fucked-up life was a slideshow in his mind. “Why are you doing this? Tell me what you want.”
“Shut the fuck up, asswipe. Down on your knees. And while you’re at it, I’ll take your wallet. Drop it on the ground.” The guy waved the gun at Arty.
Arty pulled his wallet from his back pocket and tossed it on the ground. “Is that a friend of yours in the vehicle pulling in?”
The gunman whipped around peering back down the road.
Arty took the phone from his coat pocket and tossed it behind him into the leaf covered shrub-filled area. He coughed loudly.
“Shut up.” The gunman glanced back and forth between Arty and the approaching car. “Fuck.”
The driver pulled in behind Arty’s car. The mystery SUV only had running lights on. Was this the same vehicle from earlier? Arty watched the driver’s side door open, and the driver hurried toward them.
Arty sucked in a breath. “You.”
The driver grabbed the snub-nosed weapon from the masked guy and aimed it at Arty. “You couldn’t keep your yap shut. Loyalty, Arty, is all I asked.”
Arty said, “But—”
The loud click of a hammer echoed, followed by an incredibly loud explosion. The alarm bells screeching in Arty’s head abruptly stopped.
The shooter tossed the weapon back to the gunman. “Needed to be done.” He kicked gravel at Arty’s sprawled body.
The gunman said, “Shit, man. What’d you need me for if you were gonna do it yourself?”
“Clean this up and take care of his car,” he said. He slapped his black leather-gloved hands together. “Remember, I reward loyalty. You’ll get the rest of your money after you finish the job.” He sa
untered back to the giant vehicle and reversed down the road.
The gunman picked up the wallet, killed the engine on Arty’s car and doused the lights. The night was blustery enough he doubted anyone would be out wandering around, but better safe than sorry. He strode to the fenced area, climbed over, and jumped onto the nearest stored boat. The vessel was the size of the SS Minnow from the old-time show, Gilligan’s Island.
He lifted a corner of the canvas cover on the back of the boat. Beneath it, blue plastic tarps were stacked up, along with a bolt cutter and some rope attached to an anchor. Fuckin’-A. This is better than if I’d planned it, he thought.
The bolt cutter went through the chain link like butter. He dragged Arty’s dead ass through the hole, thankful he wasn’t heavy. He rolled Arty in one of the blue tarps and tied the bundle tight with the rope then hoisted him into the vessel. The canvas cover was easy to resituate over the rear of the boat, and he was ready to go, but then he noticed the bolt cutter lying on the ground next to the fence.
“Aw, fuck me,” he mumbled. He hopped down from the boat.
As he grabbed the tool, his burner phone bleated in his jacket pocket. He took stock of the area, and seeing no one around he tossed the bolt cutter under another boat and pulled the chain-link back into place.
“What?” he barked into the cheap plastic device and hustled to the car.
“Do not use that tone with me. You don’t want to piss me off. Have you finished?”
The smooth voice on the other end made his blood run cold. “Sorry. Didn’t know it was you. It’s done. But I need to get outta here like right now. Geez, you barely gave me time to get it done. I did what the boss said and cleaned up really good.”
“Boss? What are you talking about? Never mind. I’ll call later. Be thorough.”
The call ended and he stuck the small phone in his pocket. He started the BMW, then remembered he needed to check for footprints. He ran back and tried to scrape away what he thought might be imprints in the hardscrabble ground. Blood and brain matter were harder to get rid of. He tried scuffing it with his shoes.
“Good enough,” he muttered. Back in the car he kept the lights off until he was on Main Street in Wayzata. He dug the phone out of his pocket and hit the speed-dial for a buddy in Minneapolis. “Meet me at the park in twenty. I’m in a light blue Beemer.”
“Man, you rolling high these days.”
“Fuck you. Be there. Tell no one, not even Quentin.”
“I know. Chill out.”
He jammed the phone back in his jacket. “Chill out. He tells me to fucking chill out.” He hit the seat with his fist. Killing didn’t bother him, but damn, the business man was eerily calm, and the gunman knew enough to follow orders and not mess around.
And then the boss showed up and took the shot. He’d almost shit his pants right then and there. Not like when he worked with Klein. No. This guy was serious evil and paid mega coinage for the dirty work. He pulled the mask off and stuck it in his jacket. He drove cautiously. God, he needed a fix.
The Command Center crew was excited by the outcome of the evening’s meeting at the Stennard offices. Along with what Arty had already recorded on the USB drive, they were almost sure to have enough to request the search warrants.
An hour and a half had passed with no word from the team in the surveillance van assigned to debrief Arty and retrieve the USB from him.
MC tapped a pen against her notebook and glanced impatiently at her watch for the forty-fifth time. Her Spidey senses pinged. Something felt off.
The buzz of a cellphone fractured the heavy silence.
Oldfield picked up the phone from a table and answered, listening for a moment. “Dammit! Check his house. All the usual places. Find him. And when you do, bring him here.” He paused. “I’m aware this is a secure site, thank you. I don’t care. Bring. Him. Here.” He threw the phone on the table.
Agent Braun asked, “Bad news?”
Another agent next to Braun said, “Did we lose him?”
Oldfield pivoted to face the team. “Musselman was a no-show for debrief. What’s with this guy?”
MC asked, “Has anyone gone back to the Stennard complex to see if he’s there? Called his office?”
“All of those things,” Oldfield said. “He’s not answering his cell nor office phone. No car in the parking lot. The guy Harry Houdini-ed us.”
MC glanced at Cam who said, “I don’t get it. Arty was solid. The guy was primed to flip.”
“I agree,” MC said. “His not showing now doesn’t make sense. Something’s wrong. We need to find him.” A trickle of foreboding ran down her spine. She shoved her notebook and pen into her messenger bag. “Cam and I could search for Arty.”
Oldfield ran a hand over his face, his fingers scraping stubble. “All right. Go ahead. Keep me posted.” He wandered away cursing under his breath.
They fled before Oldfield blew a gasket.
In the twilit evening outside, Cam yanked the keys from his pocket. Smoke signals of frosted air rose when he spoke. “Where to first?”
MC tossed her bag onto the front passenger side floorboard. “Stennard building. Maybe we’ll find someone who noticed Arty leave.” She wondered about security cameras. And if Stennard security would share.
At the Stennard complex Cam cased both front and rear lots. Arty’s parking spot was glaringly empty. Only ice crystals sparkled on the frozen asphalt where his car would have been. Cam steered into an empty slot at the end of the row facing the front corner of the building. He left the Explorer idling but shut off the lights.
“SHIT,” MC said. “Do we even want to bother entering the building?” She checked the clock on the dashboard. “Eight-thirty. Not many lights on. The cars in this front lot may be cleaning crew, or maybe some workers left their cars with the intention to pick them up later.”
“True. You catch the black SUV in the slot marked Head of Security?”
MC shook her head.
“In the back lot, the first spot near that side door. Someone from security must still be on site.”
“Slimy Len, probably.”
“Guess the guy made an impression on you.”
“He did.” MC replayed her encounter with Len. “At some point it might be a good idea to have a sit-down with his ass.”
Cam sat up in his seat. “Lights coming.” He pointed toward the side of the building.
A black Escalade tore around the corner from the back lot into the front lot where they were parked, tires squealing.
“Someone’s in a big hurry.” MC leaned toward the windshield to get a glimpse of the driver. “Too dark to see who’s behind the wheel.”
The SUV barreled out the parking lot exit without so much as a tap on the brakes.
Cam quickly followed. “Whoever it was couldn’t have noticed us or they’d have slowed down. Let’s see what we can see.”
“Turned left up ahead.”
“Roger that.”
They trailed the Escalade through Wayzata and into Spring Park. Traffic was fairly heavy for a Monday evening, which provided good cover for them. Cam dropped back when the driver turned into an industrial area.
MC visually tracked the car and indicated a gravel road to their left. “Down the hill. Did you see him go down the hill?”
“Yep. Got him.” Cam killed the headlights.
“Johnson’s Boat and RV Storage.” MC read a giant sign outside a huge cyclone-fence surrounding a white cement-block building on the left side of the road. A yellow sign posted at the mouth of the gravel road running parallel to the fence proclaimed it a dead end. Shrubs and trees lined the right side of the hard-packed rocky lane.
“Odd area to go at this time,” Cam said. “Maybe there’s a spot to park nearby.
They drove past the dead end and down a hill. Only one way to turn at the bottom of the hill so they took a left. A couple of derelict structures, maybe abandoned, lined the otherwise quiet street. A weed-choked hill led back u
p to the boat storage site.
Cam parked in front of a building with a faded “For Sale” sign on the door.
MC said, “He can’t get out any other way than the way he went in.”
“Let’s hang back here and see what happens.”
“I hope we’re not out here waiting around the whole damn night.”
“I bet not,” Cam said. The wind had kicked up, dusting the windshield with spent leaves.
“They’re predicting a huge storm on Thanksgiving night into Friday.” MC shivered. “I used to be able to handle the winter, but I swear the older I get, the more Barb and I talk about moving south.”
“What, and give up your North Shore haven?”
“Hell, no. We’d go south for the really brutal months, come back for the rest of the year. We’ve had the cabin renovated for year-round living, so we’re all set.”
“I’m so jealous. Jane and I will never be able to afford a second home, what with two kids to put through college and all.”
“You wouldn’t trade those kids for anything. You and Jane have the perfect life.”
“We do. But I can still live vicariously through you and Barb.”
MC peeked at her watch. “That SUV’s been gone a while. You think we ought to check things out on foot?”
“Maybe. I guess you’re right.”
They quietly exited the vehicle. MC had a love/hate relationship with the wind—it provided some sound cover, but froze her ass.
Careful to tread lightly, she crept, with Cam at her back, along dense, nearly leafless shrubbery lining the gravel road above the side street where they’d parked.
When they reached the end of the shrub line they darted behind a huge elm.
Cam tugged on MC’s coat sleeve and whispered, “How about I go toward where the road begins and you climb up closer to the shrubs and see what you can see?” He pointed straight up from where they huddled against the tree.