NO TIME TO HIDE
A Legal Thriller
Featuring Michael Collins
J.D. TRAFFORD
Books By J.D. Trafford
No Time To Run
No Time To Die
No Time To Hide
J.D. TRAFFORD IS THE WINNER OF
THE NATIONAL LEGAL FICTION WRITING AWARD FOR LAWYERS
Amazon Edition Copyright Notes and License Notes
Copyright © 2014 by J.D. Trafford
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook cannot be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
To my readers. Thank you for your patience and support.
—J.D.
PART ONE: THE HIDDEN
“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”
― Andre Malraux
CHAPTER ONE
He sat in his car across the street from the church and watched, holding a cell phone to his ear.
He wasn’t talking to anyone. The phone, in fact, wasn’t even on.
Nervous, he tried to look normal. If a late-night dog walker or a curious neighbor saw him, there needed to be a reason why he was there. The phone offered a logical explanation.
He looked down at his watch. It wasn’t much later than the last time he had checked. Scanning the street, he felt a knot of nerves. Adrenaline tightened inside of him. It was a little after 1:30 am. He shouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The subway station was about four blocks away. That’s where Father Stiles should get off, and then start his last, lonely walk back to the rectory.
Two months earlier, Father Stiles had gotten a regular Thursday night gig at The Coney.
Burlesque shows were now popular amongst the Park Slope hipster crowd, especially if they featured a few overweight dancers as well as specials on Pabst Blue Ribbon. The hipsters came in their skinny jeans, received odd titillation for an hour, and then the ultimate irony: an Elvis impersonator who had taken a vow of celibacy.
He had heard Father Stiles preach about his new Elvis act in a Saturday mass.
“Jesus often hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes,” the priest had said, “so spending one evening a week in an Elvis costume with a smutty mime and a few unemployed actresses practicing for the next revival of Gypsy couldn’t be all too bad in the eyes of the Lord.”
###
He lifted the blue sweatshirt in the passenger seat, wondering if he should give up for the night. He didn’t have to kill the priest. But the crowd wanted him to do it. They talked about it all the time. They shouted at him, even when he was tired and needed sleep. The crowd wanted to strip Michael Collins of everything that the lawyer loved. It was revenge. What goes around comes around.
He looked underneath the sweatshirt. There was a seven-inch straightedge knife. It was old, but still good. He had found it in a Hoboken antiques shop amidst a table filled with WWII memorabilia and supplies.
Initially he was going to buy a gun. That just seemed like the right thing to do, but then he was asked to fill out the forms. The sales clerk had started to ask questions. The crowd didn’t like that. Too complicated. The crowd told him to keep it simple, don’t trust anyone. They liked the knife. They told him that the knife was good, but he had his doubts. The gun had advantages. Perhaps he’d revisit the matter later.
He took a moment and ran the tips of his fingers along the blade. The edge didn’t cut, but he could tell the blade was sharp. Then he covered the knife back up with his sweatshirt and waited.
Ten more minutes passed.
He saw a flicker in the streetlight and shadows. The crowd became excited. They chattered.
Sliding lower in his seat, his heart pounded. He scolded the voices. He told the crowd to be quiet. He needed to think, but it was hard. The cackle was constant.
His hand slipped under the sweatshirt and his fingers wrapped around the worn leather grip.
The plan was to wait until Father Stiles unlocked the side door. Then he’d get out of the car and cross the street as fast as possible.
It needed to happen.
After years of delay, the foreign banks had finally complied with the government’s subpoenas. He’d been told by Agent Vatch that Michael Collins would soon be arrested.
This information created urgency. The crowd didn’t want Collins to go to jail. The crowd wanted Collins dead along with everybody else.
###
But Father Stiles wasn’t alone. Two women and another man were with him, wandering down the sidewalk in a group.
He swore under his breath. The crowd grumbled. The voices disagreed. He wasn’t sure what he should do. The additional people created a complication. It was the first time the priest had come home with others. There was indecision.
A few voices began to jeer, heckling him to go forward. They called him a coward and a fool.
He fidgeted. His anxiety rose. He flicked the blade, back and forth; nervous.
The knife’s tip made tiny cuts in the passenger seat as he thought through his choices.
His eyes widened as he watched Father Stiles and his friends stumble toward the church. They were all intoxicated, although Father Stiles handled the liquor better than the others.
He contemplated killing all four of them. Why not? The voices in his head didn’t give a clear answer. He looked down at the knife in his hand, and he wished that he had bought the gun.
###
He watched Father Stiles and the others stop in front of the church’s side door. He inched up in his seat, ready to charge. Then he heard one of the women giggle good-night.
They were leaving, he thought. The priest would be alone. He just needed to be patient, wait a few more seconds.
He watched as they hugged each other farewell. Father Stiles turned away from them and toward the side door. The priest took a step, but then stopped. More words were exchanged, and after some back and forth, they all apparently decided to go inside the church for a nightcap.
Another complication, and the crowd went crazy.
###
When the church’s side door closed, the street went quiet. He sat in the darkness for a minute, then he decided to move. He couldn’t wait. If he had to kill all of them, he would. He didn’t care.
“Do it,” the crowd said. “Kill them all.”
He jumped out of the car and sprinted toward the door with the knife in hand. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could.
Falling into the doorway’s shadow, he looked for a place to hide and wait. When Father Stiles and his friends had finished for the night, he wanted to be there. He wanted to be in a position to catch them from behind.
There was a mid-sized hedge that lined the outside of the church. He decided that would be a good place to hide.
The crowd agreed, and the crowd was content for the moment.
His heart pumped as he took a breath. He tried to slow down his system. He needed to be in control. He knew the chatter would come back, louder. He had to resist the crowd. They needed to stop shouting at him. The crowd needed to stop torturing him.
He made a small cut on the back of his hand. Blood rolled down his fingers. He felt a wave of relief. His system cooled and he closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath. He enjoyed the release and the moment of silence.
The crowd would be happy soon, he thought. They just needed to wait, just like him.
He opened his eyes and took a step further beh
ind the hedge, then stopped himself.
A smile crept over his face. It was a strange idea, and it was certainly possible. There was little harm in trying. Why not?
“See what happens when you let me think?” he scolded the crowd. “See what happens when you give me space?”
He wiped the blood off of his hand and onto his pants, and then walked up to the heavy church door. He reached out, gripped the knob, and gave it a turn. The hundred-year-old mechanicals squeaked. The knob and latch moved, and the door swung open. He was now inside.
The drunk priest had forgotten to lock it.
###
Another hour passed before the two women and the man came down the stairs. From a dark corner in the unlit hallway, he watched them leave. The crowd screamed at him to jump. When he resisted, the crowd let loose a string of expletives. He ignored them, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.
Father Stiles opened the side door to the street. He and his guests exchanged their good-byes, and then Father Stiles came back inside. The priest paused, looking around as though he sensed that something was not right, and then he locked the door.
From the dark corner, he watched the priest. He listened to the priest’s footsteps as the priest walked up the steps to the rectory. He decided to wait a little longer. It’d be easier if the priest was asleep, although it would be a less exciting kill.
The crowd didn’t like that decision at all.
###
It was still night, but morning was coming. He needed to move.
He unfolded his body, standing. His back was sore from sitting for so long, he forced one foot forward and then he started to climb the steps.
He stayed on his toes. He took one step at a time, pausing every third step and listening. He didn’t hear anything, so he continued.
At the top of the steps, he opened the rectory door that led into the priest’s study. Father Stiles had left a small desk lamp on, which provided just enough light to navigate the cluttered space. He walked around the piles of books to another door.
He turned the knob, hoping it wasn’t locked, and it wasn’t. The door opened and he walked into the priest’s main living area.
A few in the crowd started to chant, and then the others picked up on it. In unison, the voices drove him forward.
They chanted for revenge to the steady beat of his heart, a beat that kept getting faster the further he went inside the house.
He had never been in the space before, but all homes had a certain logical design. He figured that a bedroom was nearby. He walked down the hallway and the crowd’s chant continued.
He looked into one doorway and discovered the bathroom. He looked into another small room. There was a single bed, but it was empty. The crowd pushed him on.
“Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.”
Then he went to the last room on the corridor.
This had to be it, he thought.
He opened the door. It was pitch black, but felt right. This was the master bedroom. Father Stiles had to be inside.
The chant broke, and the individual voices in the crowd started screaming, disjointed high-pitched screams. “Do it.”
A bolt of energy shot through his body. He turned on the light and jumped toward the bed with the knife held high, yelling.
It took just a second to get there. He brought the knife down, and it sliced through the sheets into the lump underneath. But, there wasn’t enough resistance. It was too soft. The bed was empty. The lump was just a pillow.
He swore, again, as he looked around. “Find him,” said a voice in the crowd, and then others joined.
Panic.
The lights were on. He was exposed.
He turned around, scanning the empty room. He decided that Father Stiles must sleep someplace else, maybe on the main level.
He moved away from the bed, leaving. He wondered if Father Stiles had escaped. He wondered if the police were on their way.
“Find him,” the crowd shouted. “Hunt.”
He got to the door, and he reached for the light switch.
About to turn the lights off, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a bare foot on the floor. The foot was in a small space between the bed and the room’s outside wall.
He walked back. The foot wasn’t moving.
He crouched down, examining the body. It was Father Stiles.
The priest wore only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Father Stiles had obviously been about to go to bed, but had never made it. He watched the priest for a minute, waiting for Father Stiles’ chest to rise, but there were no breaths taken.
He crouched lower, reached out, and felt the priest’s forehead. It was cold.
He felt for a pulse, waited, and then took his hand away. There was nothing.
He stood up and walked out the door.
The crowd was disappointed. The crowd voiced its displeasure with him for waiting so long. They taunted him, but there was nothing he could do. There was no revenge to be taken.
The priest was already dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Too many people were in his bed. Michael Collins felt it, even before he had opened his eyes.
Michael was in the middle. On one side, Andie Larone was still asleep. On the other side, Kermit Guillardo stared at him.
“Dude.” Kermit’s eyes bugged out a little wider. “You gotta wake up, man.”
Michael didn’t move.
“Seriously?” Michael’s head was cloudy.
Kermit had never respected the personal boundaries of others, but this was the first time Kermit had snuck into Michael’s bed while he was with a woman.
“I have no choice, mi amigo.” Kermit kept his voice to a whisper. “This is important, yo, like, crazy important.”
Michael turned to him.
“If you tell me we’re out of limes again, and you need some petty cash for the market, then I’m going to have to hurt you.”
Kermit shook his head. He remained focused as his gray dreadlocks bounced.
“No, man. I’m sans humor at the momento.” Kermit rubbed his ratted beard. “This is like, related to the you-know-what, which happened way back you-know-when and got you-know-who all up in your business.”
Kermit waited, but Michael didn’t respond. It wasn’t the first time Michael did not get as excited as Kermit about a new revelation.
Kermit cocked his head to the side.
“So you gonna like hit me or listen to me?” Kermit leaned back. “Looks like you could go either way.”
“I’m listening.” Michael glanced over at Andie. “But keep your voice down.” She was still asleep, having drunk well past her limit the night before.
Kermit nodded and moved back into Michael’s personal space, sincere. “Big brother has landed.”
“What?” Michael was confused, so Kermit moved even closer.
Inches away, Kermit whispered. “They invaded the beach, my man. They are here.”
“Who?”
“Government agents, mi amigo.” Kermit’s voice rose, as if it was obvious, and Michael felt his stomach turn.
Michael had known they were getting closer. One of his bankers had tipped him off about a new subpoena. Agent Vatch wasn’t letting the investigation drop and Michael’s residence at the Sunset Resort’s Hut No. 7 was quite possibly the worst kept secret in the history of white-collar crime. A few months ago he had even been quoted in the cover article of “High Times” magazine as the manager of one of Mexico’s top ten resorts to get “sun baked.”
While Michael thought about the end, Kermit filled the silence with a chant of synonyms.
“The federales, the men in black, the gestapo,” he said. “The po-po, the man, the pigs, the spooks, the fuzz, the 5-oh.” Kermit paused for a breath. “The forces of darkness ‘tis upon our humble encampment, sayeth your majesty’s humble servant.”
Kermit nodded, satisfied with his superb communication skills, then concluded, “In summary and as stated earlie
r, they … are … here … dude-e-o.”
Kermit’s eyes opened wider. “Like now.”
Michael looked at the door. “How do you know this?”
“Not too many tourists come in a helicopter, land on the beach, and then get out wearing dark suits and sunglasses, muchacho.” Kermit rolled over, got out of the bed, and stood up.
“You want me to light your hut on fire to distract them?”
Michael shook his head. “No.” He closed his eyes trying to figure out his options, but his mind worked too slowly in the morning. It was tarred by alcohol and whatever other abuse he had inflicted upon himself the night before.
Kermit became impatient. His feet began to tap. “I think I got a little flame thrower in here.” He fished around for a lighter in the pockets of his ripped cargo shorts.
“Please don’t set any fires.” Michael sat up.
This wasn’t how Michael had imagined it. Someday he was probably going to get caught, he figured, but he had gotten away so many times in the past. He had almost allowed himself to believe it was never going to happen.
Michael looked at the door, and then back to Kermit. “When did they get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” Kermit walked over to the window and peeked outside. “I figure you can probably sneak out the back, run to the road, and then I can get the ol’ El Camino and we can make a run to Brazil, maybe Colombia. That wouldn’t be too bad. I could come back here in a few months when the buzz dies down and fetch Andie.”
Kermit clapped his hands, excited. “Then start the whole thing over. Start fresh with a new name on a new beach.” Kermit nodded, agreeing with his plan. “I could call you Roger Smiles. That’s a cool name —Roger Smiles — and I know a doctor who could give you a nose like Barbra Streisand and ears like Dumbo. Nobody would recognize you, bro-ha, like nobody.”
Michael started to respond, but there was a knock at the door.
J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide Page 1