Two olive-green Humvees pulled up Kristin Ave. The neighborhood was asleep, still cloaked in darkness. Not darkness like the dead of night, but the last hour before the sun breaches the curvature of the eastern horizon.
“Toombs, in tight on the Honda.”
They rumbled into the driveway. Borda and Jones parked on the road, and the four men converged on the well-manicured front lawn.
“Borda, you and Jones take the house. We have the garage.”
Intel had come in that the so-called apartment was actually above the garage, and Folkstone wanted to see for himself the man who had fouled up what should have been a relatively simple execution.
Borda, Toombs, and Folkstone headed up the driveway to the back. Jones took the front. He could still smell the fresh paint, and connected the smell to the shine on the shutters.
There was a soft crack that would have passed unnoticed except to the trained ear, which would have recognized the sharp sound as an expert breaking a window. Borda tapped the butt of his Glock 17 just so, knocking out the glass pane and reaching in to unlock the deadbolt.
Toombs lifted his size 13 foot high, thigh tight to his chest, leaning back slightly for maximum power, his arms out to the side partly for balance, partly because of his upper body mass. The insulated steel door didn't stand a chance. The deadbolt held as did the heavy duty steel hinges, but the door was set into a wood frame.
Borda heard the destruction and wondered why the hell he was being stealthy if Toombs was going to pull his bull in a china shop routine.
What an animal, thought Folkstone as he surveyed the damage. The door and frame lay on its side still connected to the wall with a screw at the lower hinge.
“You missed one, shithead,” said the major, a sly smile on his face.
“Next time,” Toombs responded. He knew it was a good boot. He also knew Folkstone was impressed, which was what counted. They made their way through the hole in the wall.
The noise from the door being kicked in reverberated off the house next door. It belonged to Jake’s good friend and drinking buddy Derek Kelly.
He stirred from his slumber and curiosity dragged him to the window to see what woke him. There were lights on next door and shadowy figures moved in the windows behind drawn blinds. June, Jake and the kids left last night around dinner. He was puzzled at the sight of a Humvee in the driveway but then he remembered the story Jake had told him. What the fuck do those pricks think they’re doing?
Derek pulled his robe tight, grabbed his twelve-gauge from the hall closet and stepped into the crisp pre-dawn air, halting the symphony of crickets and chirping birds.
The old man moved quietly, sidling up to the garage. He crouched on one knee and strained to hear movement inside, but his heart pounded in his temples like a drum, and his breathe was labored. He had to concentrate to hear anything over his inner fears.
Another Humvee was parked on the road. It had been hidden from view by a big spruce when he first peered from his window. He knew the intruders were in the house and the garage. He decided to check the garage first.
He rounded the corner and saw the destroyed door and immediately had second thoughts. I should back away. But Jake and June are friends. What can they do? Can’t kill me for protecting my neighbor’s house.I should have called the police first.
Come on, nut up. Derek raised the barrel.
He approached cautiously, stepping through the opening where the door once stood. He felt a slight tug at his robe. His heart stopped pounding and he held his breathe. The door that had been standing on its side swung, dropping to the concrete with a loud bang.
Derek froze.
So did Folkstone and Toombs. The noise had been enough to alert Borda, who was on the main floor of the house. With the stealth and speed of a big cat, he was out the back door and on Derek Kelly, forcefully knocking him to the ground and disarming him.
The major walked down the steps from Jake's apartment, followed by Toombs.
“Who are you people?” asked Derek.
The major flashed his credentials.
“I apologize for the actions of my associate, but we can’t have someone sneaking up on us with a shotgun, can we?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Derek demanded as he struggled to his feet.
“Do you want to let your wife know you’re all right, sir?” Folkstone asked.
“Wife died ten years ago,” he answered, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
The three men shared a knowing look.
“Were you friends with Jake Miller and June Williams, Mister...?”
“Kelly. Derek Kelly.”
“Were you close, Mr. Kelly?”
“Why are you speaking in the past tense?” Derek asked.
Folkstone smiled but ignored the question, staring at the old man until he finally answered.
“We’re neighbors. You know. Hello. How are you? Don’t know ‘em much besides that.”
“So the framed pictures upstairs aren’t you and Jake hunting then?”
Derek’s heart sunk, but he tried not to show it.
“Most of those are from when Robert was alive, and the hunting trips just carried on.”
“So you’re pretty good friends?” Folkstone said. It didn’t sound like a question to Derek. More like an accusation.
“I guess.”
“So you lied to me.”
Derek didn’t respond. This whole thing didn't feel right to him. If these guys were military, why were they breaking down doors in the middle of the night?
“Tell me where they are, Mr. Kelly.”
“I don't know.”
Folkstone approached, all friendly pretense gone. His manner was now standard issue intimidating. Derek hated bullies, always had. He stepped backwards against the workbench. It was a heavy, hand-made bench made from spruce two-by-fours. It was twenty boards wide, supported by six four-by-four legs and two-by-four bracing. Derek had helped Robert build it years ago and just feeling it behind him provided Derek with a feeling of security.
He wasn’t going to kowtow to these yahoos. This was still America, wasn’t it?
Folkstone stepped in with a hard right directly to the solar plexus and Derek dropped like a stone. The force of the blow knocked his wind out, and then his bad knees buckled and he crashed to the cold cement floor.
So much for America, he thought as he faded out of consciousness.
Out of his stupor he became cognizant of strong hands lifting him. Those same hands slammed him on top of the bench he’d been so proud of only a moment before. Toombs and Borda had picked him up as if he was no heavier than a bag of flour.
Jones entered the garage. He seemed to barely take notice of what was going on, but that was his training. He could probably close his eyes and describe the layout of the garage and everything in it. His face was hard, distinctive with a crooked nose and a nasty-looking scar on his forehead that descended right down through his eyebrow. He extended his equally scarred right hand. He was a brawler and looked the part. He looked rough but had not really lost any fights.
“House is clear.”
Jones handed Folkstone a small stack of rust colored, leather-bound books. “They're definitely running.”
He looked at the major, who nodded, and then Jones grabbed a roll of duct tape from a pegboard on the wall and tossed it to Toombs.
“Hey guys, that’s not necessary. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Derek pleaded.
His plea was ignored.
“We don't have time for your lies, Mr. Kelly.”
Jones and Borda pinned him flat on the workbench as Toombs taped his mouth, wrapping the duct tape around his head several times, sticking it to his beard and moustache. He struggled, but the men were too strong. They seemed to take a sick pleasure pounding him into submission.
Folkstone dumped the contents of a cloth grocery bag from the shelving unit out onto the floor and tossed the bag to Toombs, along with an exte
nsion cord.
“Tie him up.”
The major turned and walked back to the stairs, where he removed his coat and draped it over the handrail. It slid down coming to rest in the “V” where the bottom post and handrail met. The three men beat Derek again to assure his compliance, and Toombs covered his head with the bag as the others tied him down. His gray, blood-soaked beard protruded from the top of the bag.
The major rooted around the shelving unit. He reached into a paper bag with the logo for a local hardware store printed on the side. He juggled the contents in his hand as if he was weighing them, and then made his way to the pegboard. He palmed the black rubber grip of the twenty ounce straight claw hammer.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly, I believe you’re going to tell us exactly what we want.”
Folkstone lined up a three-inch framing nail against Derek’s right knee. He raised the hammer to head level and swung with brutal force, hitting the head of the spiral nail with the precision of a master carpenter.
Derek had once lost three front teeth to a line drive in Old Comiskey Park back in the 80’s, and passed a kidney stone in a snowed-in cabin in Canada without even a shot of whiskey, but the pain he felt at that moment was the most excruciating he imagined could exist outside of Hell itself.
He screamed through the tape.
The spike drove through his kneecap, ripped through ligament and into bone where the femur and tibia joined, but it was the follow-through that caused the real damage.
The heavy blow buried the nail and smashed the kneecap into shards. The fibula ripped through the muscle, breaking through the skin at the top of the calf.
The old man’s body stiffened and arched off the workbench, tightening the knots that held him there, and then his body’s coping mechanism took over.
He passed out.
Consciousness. Searing pain. He wanted to join his wife Marge. Neon lights hummed above, bathing the garage in an eerie blue tinge.
Cigar smoke. The smell was deep and rich. He could hear talking. They had no remorse. No outward signs of emotion, except maybe pleasure. What kind of man treats another like this? Derek thought.
“Good. You’re awake.” Folkstone said as he walked back to the bench. He smiled.
Why’s he fucking smiling?
The Major’s calm demeanor chilled Derek.
Folkstone could read the panic in Derek’s eyes which were puffy and caked with blood. His once white robe sponged up the blood from his knee.
“When did they leave?”
“After dinner last night, maybe eight.” His will to resist was gone.
“What were they driving?” Folkstone asked in a slightly sing-song voice, as if he was speaking to a child. My God, he really enjoys this. I can’t let this happen but what can I do?
“Jake's truck.”
“Just the two of them?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the children?”
“What children?” Derek asked.
“Leslie, Paul and their children. Boy and a girl.”
Derek felt a rising anger.
“If you know so much, what the hell are you asking me for?”
Folkstone leaned in. “Because I don’t know everything, Mr. Kelly. And I want to know everything. Your problem is you don’t know what I know.”
“You’re just gonna kill me anyway!”
“Derek?”
Derek hated the sound of his name in that man’s mouth. It sounded like an obscenity.
“However,” Folkstone continued, “there are a lot of ways to die.”
Twisted fuckin’ psychopath. He knew he would reach Margie much too slowly.
“What other vehicle did they take?”Folkstone shouted.
“Cadillac Escalade.”
“Where did they go?”
“Saint Louis. Saint Louis is what Jake said.”
“See Derek? Now you’re being a good boy.”
“Fuck you!” Derek screamed blood and spit flying from his mouth. He was furious and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to tell this asshole what he thought, pain or no pain.
Folkstone just laughed.
“He told me about Panama, you stupid fuck! What do you think of that?”
Folkstone’s eyes narrowed and he jammed his thumb into Derek’s knee. Toombs saw the play too late, stuffed the cloth bag over the old man’s mouth, too late to stifle his screams.
Toombs looked at the major with a bit of a smirk and shrugged.
When the major removed his thumb it was like uncorking a bottle of champagne.
“I wonder if Jake is keeping in touch with old Derek, here?” Folkstone asked to no one in particular.
“Borda, call the shop and get a trace on incoming calls to both houses. And get vehicle information on the SUV.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And back one of the Humvees in.” He turned to his other men. “Get this piece of shit ready for transport.”
Chapter 19
The Humvees pulled to a stop along the tree line at Edward Mentor Park. By the time Folkstone climbed out of the passenger side Derek Kelly was being held up between Jones and Borda. His head was covered by the cloth grocery bag which Folkstone tore off. The loose duct tape ripped at the old man’s face.
The grass was crisp under foot and a brilliant orange ribbon rose across the horizon. Derek Kelly lifted his head to feel its warmth and take in his last sunrise. He knew where he was and he knew where he was going. His eyes glossed over with emotion. He was sure the sun rose for him. “It’s going to be a glorious day,” he mumbled through busted and blooded lips.
“Not for you, fuckhead,” Jones said.
Folkstone nodded and his men started to drag him towards the woods.
“A sunrise like that should tell you men there is a God, someone to answer to!” Derek shouted.
Folkstone took a split second and looked up.
Jones struck Derek knee on knee. A reminder of his pain which had numbed or been masked.
“Shut up and concentrate on walking you fat fuck,” Jones said laughing.
“Fuck you.”
Borda and Jones stopped and spun Derek around. Folkstone simply strode up, lifted his gun that was ready at his side and put two quick bullets in his face.
“Closed casket, mother fucker,” the major said.
Derek dropped face down into the afterlife. Rotting leaves, mud and a cold forest floor was his final undignified resting place, clad as he was in his blood soaked robe, boxers and an undershirt. His hands were bound behind his back by his robe’s cinch. No friends or family were there to see him off, just cold men in an equally cold place.
Folkstone spit on Derek’s body, turned and walked towards the Humvees without a word.
The look in the old man’s eyes in those final moments was not one of defeat or fear but acceptance, his last breath, defiant. Folkstone’s eye was caught in the orange ribbon as he climbed in the Humvee.
*
The phone rang at the front desk of the Fayetteville Police Station. It was just after nine on Saturday morning.
“Fayetteville Police Department, Campbellton Dispatch, Sergeant Stark speaking.”
Fayetteville had two patrol divisions. Campbellton Division to the east and Cross Creek divided by the All American Expressway.
“Morrine, it’s Pat Michaels at District Eight.”
“How's everything at Troop B?”Morrine Stark asked.
“Busy as hell. You know how it is.”
“Gonna get busier if this mouse pox heads our way.”
“Heard that. Unfortunately I don't think it’s a matter of if.”
“I know. Scary shit.”
“Yes it is,” Pat Micheals agreed.
“You looking for the Chief?” Morrine Stark asked.
“Is he in?”
“I'll put you through.”
Michaels waited for a moment before the chief came on.
“Pat Michaels. How the hell are you?”
“Fine. Been a while since Joyce and I seen you and Helen. How are the kids?”
“Good. Matt’s moving up in hockey this year.”Pat answered.
“Pee-wee?”
“Yeah.Travel team.”
“Good for him. And Brandy?”Tom asked.
“Still in dance,” Pat replied, “Can’t remember how many recitals I’ve sat through.”
Tom chuckled on the other end.
“What about Joseph? Has he called since this mouse pox thing showed up on the West Coast?”
“His mom’s fit to be tied. It hit New York overnight. Boston’s too close. We’re bringing him home by train. The big cities are out of control.”
“Get him back with family. If they quarantine cities like they’ve done in Europe and China, you could wind up separated.”
“I just hope this mass vaccination works, and fast. What can I do for you, Pat?”
“I’ve had something fall in my lap that I could use a hand with.”
“Tell me.”
Pat paused as he gathered his thoughts.
“Last night we had a 10-50 F outside of Lillington on Loop Rd. When we arrived on scene there were three DBs.”
“Jesus. Three dead? Why didn't we hear anything?”
“Two of the vics were NSA.”
Chief Mederack sat up in his chair. “In Lillington? Holy shit.” Mederack couldn’t imagine what business the NSA would have around there. “Run me through, Pat.”
Pat flipped through his notes to get things straight before he began.
“Seemed to start with a PI by the name of John Rolston. Rented a big Navigator from Hertz out at RDU. He was being chased by NSA agents in a black Marauder.”
“That’s a fast car.”
“That's why we think the PI took action. We have brake marks from the Navigator just before impact.”
“He slammed on the brakes?”
“Looks like it. Marauder tried to avoid contact but caught the right rear, rolling several times before landing upside down against a tree. The driver appears to have died in the crash, but the passenger survived.”
Playing God Page 11