Stenopolis had been to the property before. On the first occasion he had considered the heavy lock that secured a chain to a post cemented into the ground. From the rust he could tell that it had not been opened in years. On his second visit he had snapped the lock with a pair of bolt cutters and replaced it with an identical, though brand-new, lock and set it to his personal combination.
He now entered the four digits and pulled the heavy chain from the gate. After driving through he stopped just clear of the gate’s swing and resecured the lock.
The sagebrush continued to intrude upon the road, branches brushing against the car’s side mirrors and windows. Heavy rains had washed out the untended road, and snow and freezing temperatures left deep potholes that caused the tires to pitch and bounce. Stenopolis took his time, in no hurry and not wanting to get stuck, though he had rented a four-wheel-drive vehicle and had bought a winch with a fifty-foot steel cable. He couldn’t very well call AAA for roadside assistance.
A quarter of a mile up the unpaved road the headlights shone upon the weathered metal siding of one of the abandoned structures and reflected in windowpanes that had been cracked and broken. He drove into a dirt area that had, at one time, served as the mining company’s parking lot. The beams revealed a white, snowlike material that carpeted the soil and clung to the rusted metal piping and the equipment like Spanish moss hanging from the branches in a Louisiana bayou. In the foreground sat a large metal Quonset hut. Pipes and troughs pierced its sides, entering and exiting at odd angles. Rail spurs behind the building continued past mounds of dirt that nearly reached the roofline, and rusted metal drums, some cut in half, littered the ground. Stenopolis drove slowly up another slope and entered the facade of a metal building at the top of the ascent into the mine. Boxcars sat idly on tracks that led from the headlights’ beams into darkness. The cars had at one time carried the dirt out of the mine and dumped it into the Quonset hut for processing of the vermiculite from the stone.
Stenopolis turned off the headlights and the engine and enjoyed the utter darkness and silence. He could see nothing in front of him or behind; even the reflection of the moon stopped at the mine entrance, as if fearful to enter.
He grabbed the flashlight from the seat as he stepped out and used it to find the metal bar he had left on a prior visit. When he opened the trunk the man inside moaned, but the cloth in his mouth, secured with duct tape, prevented him from speaking or shouting for help. Not that it was needed any longer. Several additional strands of the tape wrapped around the man’s head prevented him from seeing. Stenopolis had read somewhere that enough duct tape was sold every year to circumnavigate Earth several times. He didn’t doubt it. He had found it to be a product he could put to any number of uses.
He pulled the six-inch serrated blade from its sheath and with a single flick cut through the cord that secured the man’s bound wrists to his ankles, grabbed his hostage under the arms, and pulled him from the trunk. The man continued to thrash but was more than manageable.
Stenopolis shoved the metal bar beneath the man’s left armpit and pushed it through the other side. Grabbing the pole on each extended end, he kicked the man’s legs out from underneath him, and he fell back. The man groaned in pain as the metal bar caught his body weight beneath his armpits. Stenopolis dragged him deeper into the mine, like pulling a wheelbarrow backward, the heels of the man’s shoes carving a path in the dirt that Stenopolis would erase when he had finished.
Twenty feet farther down the shaft he came to the snap hook that extended from the metal chain he had secured to a ceiling beam. He fastened the hook to the bar in the center of the man’s back, pulled the chain through the eye hook in the ceiling beam until taut, then hooked a link of the chain on one of the teeth of a gear train attached to a crank handle. He turned the handle until the chain lifted the man onto his toes and the teeth of the gear train caught, locking it in place and freeing Stenopolis to use his hands for other tasks.
The man swayed, as if pushed by a light breeze, the creaking chain against the wood beam and the wind whistling deep within the mine shaft the only sounds. The man turned his head, moaning, but this time it had less to do with the pain and more to do with his confusion as to his captor, and his fate.
Stenopolis stepped forward and used the knife to cut the tape across the man’s mouth, drawing a line of blood. He pulled the tape free and yanked the rag from the man’s mouth.
Gasping, the man desperately tried to lift his chest to suck oxygen into his lungs.
“You might not want to breathe too deeply,” Stenopolis said. “They say the stuff around here can kill you.”
“Who are you?” the man asked between gasps for air.
Stenopolis had once watched a special on the Discovery Channel about the ancient practice of crucifixions and was fascinated to learn that the victims usually did not die from their wounds or beatings. They suffocated. Their bound or pierced arms weakened until they were no longer strong enough to lift their bodies to allow their chest to expand and bring oxygen into their lungs.
“Who are you?” his guest asked again. “What do you want?”
Stenopolis flicked the knife again and pulled free the tape across the man’s eyes as he placed the stream of light beneath his chin. “Boo.”
The man jerked away. “What the . . . ?”
“Good evening, Mr. Wade.”
“Who are you?”
“I believe you already know my name, which is why we’re here.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Oh, but you do. You pulled my file just the other day.”
Curley Wade’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What file?”
“Mr. Wade, I assure you that this will go a lot more efficiently if you don’t play games with me. I’m not a patient man. It’s late and I would still like to get a few hours of sleep tonight.”
“Maybe there was a mistake. I work in Human Resources. Maybe your file was pulled by someone else.”
Stenopolis cranked the handle half a turn. The chain raised Wade another inch, enough so that his toes no longer reached the ground and the muscles of his shoulders and chest now bore his full weight. Wade grimaced.
“For an Agency man, you are not a convincing liar, but then I always did think your training lacking. I never felt you pushed your candidates far enough to find out if they would break. I’m betting you will. Now, tell me why you pulled my file.”
“Go to hell.”
Stenopolis stepped forward and put the beam of light back beneath his chin. “I’m about to show you why you can be very certain of that.”
THE RENAISSANCE MAYFLOWER HOTEL
DUPONT CIRCLE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE MAN SPUN. “What the hell? Who are you?”
Charles Jenkins emerged from the bathroom holding the small portable video camera that, as the salesclerk had promised, had no problem filming in the room’s limited lighting.
“Who I am is irrelevant. Who you are, Mr. Secretary of Labor, is very, very relevant.” He nodded to the woman. “You can go.”
She grabbed her jacket and small purse from the bed, along with the hundred-dollar bills.
The man stepped forward, but Jenkins stepped between them. “Hey, that’s my money.”
Amazing, Jenkins thought, but then, like many politicians, it was Hotchkin’s arrogance that had got him in trouble in the first place.
“Here’s the problem, Ed. I promised the young lady fifteen hundred dollars and I’m about a thousand short.”
Hotchkin fumed as the woman retrieved the money and continued to the door, looking back over her shoulder with a smile before stepping out.
“Who do you work for?” Hotchkin asked.
“Again, not relevant. Who you work for, very relevant. You work for the people of the United States of America. That makes you a public figure. I’m not sure the new administration needs this embarrassment, do you?”
Hotchkin sighed. “What is
it you want? Money? I can get you some.”
“If I had wanted any more of your wife’s money, Ed, I would have taken the grand off the bed. Does she know how you spend her inheritance? I guess the fact that you managed to get your current appointment, despite your past indiscretions, makes that doubtful.”
Hotchkin stewed but did not respond.
Jenkins sat in the chair by the window. “Now, I’m not looking to break up a happy home or even to embarrass you, so neither your wife nor anybody else needs to know anything about what happened tonight.”
Hotchkin continued to sound skeptical. “Then what do you want?”
“I want to know how I can get in touch with Anthony Stenopolis.”
“Who?”
Jenkins took out the photograph taken by the security camera at Kyle Horgan’s apartment building and showed it to Hotchkin. In the dim light it took Hotchkin a moment for his eyes to adjust.
“I don’t know him,” he said.
Jenkins smiled. “Then tell me how you got in touch with him.”
“Are you with the FBI?”
“I’m an independent contractor with independent business with Mr. Stenopolis.”
“I don’t know how to get in touch with him.”
“About a year ago he took care of a messy problem for you. I believe you were caught in similar circumstances but the individuals involved that night weren’t as reasonable as I am. You got in touch with Stenopolis and the problem disappeared, along with the prostitute and lowlife trying to blackmail you. So did someone arrange a meeting? How did it happen?”
Hotchkin didn’t immediately answer.
“Once I get the information, you’re out of this, Ed. I’m trying to be reasonable here. Don’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.”
Hotchkin sat on the edge of the bed looking defeated. “I was given a number to call. No one answered, but I was told to leave a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“Just my telephone number. I had to answer a question when he called back.”
“What was the question?”
Hotchkin lowered his head. “‘What comes but once, can’t be avoided, and ends as soon as it begins.’”
“And the answer?”
“‘Death.’” Hotchkin said.
“I want the number.”
Hotchkin shook his head. “I don’t have it anymore. I threw it away.”
“I don’t believe you. A guy like you who can’t keep his pecker in his pants isn’t about to throw away his lifeline.”
“I did. I don’t have it anymore.”
Jenkins stood and started for the door. “Then I guess we’re done here. Sorry we couldn’t do business. Make sure you check out the front page of the Washington Post tomorrow, and YouTube. The Internet can really get those videos out there fast.”
Jenkins got halfway to the door, which was a lot farther than he thought Hotchkin’s game of chicken would last.
“Wait.”
Jenkins turned. “You have something you want to say?”
“If I give you his number you have to be certain he does not trace it back to me. You’re wrong about my ever calling him again. I won’t. I don’t want anything more to do with him, and if you were smart, you wouldn’t either.”
“Agreed. Here’s how this will work. I’ll give you a number to call. You will call and leave the telephone number after the message. If I find out you gave me a fake number, Ed, you’ll have a bigger problem than him.”
Hotchkin smirked. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“To the contrary, I now know exactly who I’m dealing with. He’s the one who’s going to be in the dark this time.”
THE WASHINGTON ATHLETIC CLUB
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
MENTALLY EXHAUSTED, SLOANE returned to his hotel room and sat by the window, the ambient light casting half his face in shadows. He had still not been back to Three Tree Point. He had relied on Jenkins to retrieve needed clothes, and now that Jenkins was back east, he had bought what he needed.
Nights and mornings remained the most difficult. He filled the days with the only thing he knew, the only thing he had ever known before Tina and Jake—his work. His resolve to take down Kendall Toys and Malcolm Fitzgerald kept his mind occupied until the point of exhaustion, usually well past midnight. But by the time he finished the short walk back to his hotel room the memories of Tina and Jake swirled in his head, and the depth of his pain, and guilt, kept him from sleep.
IT WAS STILL dark out. Sloane slid from bed and slipped on running shorts, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt. He closed the bedroom door behind him and walked softly downstairs. In the kitchen, Bud jumped onto the counter to greet him. It wasn’t love. Bud wanted to be fed. Bud always wanted to be fed. It was a bad habit Sloane began when he first rescued the cat, feeding him at all hours of the day and night, not knowing he was establishing a pattern.
“Sorry, Bud, but Tina says you’re too fat. This is her domain. Have to put you on a diet. One meal a day.”
The cat mewed.
“Don’t I know it, brother. She’s got me eating almonds and flaxseed.”
He made himself a cup of tea and sipped it while allowing his body to wake. After ten minutes he had put off the inevitable as long as he could, slipped on his running shoes and pulled open the door, stepping out into the morning cold and dew.
He was not one of those people who looked forward to getting up at the crack of dawn for a crisp five-mile run. He had yet to ever get the adrenaline high runners claimed kicked in. His was a five-mile slog that took every ounce of discipline to keep him from turning around and heading back to bed. He forced himself to do it because his ego would not allow him to be fat. Tina was five years younger with the metabolism of a teenager. Tall and fit, she could still eat just about whatever she wanted, with minimal consequences. That was no longer the case for him. He worked out at the Washington Athletic Club downtown, but the treadmill became monotonous, and he couldn’t even think about a basketball game or racquetball match without twisting an ankle or pulling a muscle. Running the streets of Burien was his next best option.
The dampness cut through his clothing and he shivered, as if someone had dumped an ice cube down his shirt. Pulling a stocking cap over his head and a pair of thin gloves over his hands, he did windmills with his arms to generate body heat as he pulled open the gate, stepping through to the easement.
“About time you got here.”
Sloane startled and immediately balled his hands into fists. Jake stood in the easement.
“Jake? You scared the hell out of me; what are you doing up so early?”
“I’ve been waiting since six.”
“For what?”
“For you. You said you were running at six. It’s now six-ten.”
Sloane noticed the boy wore sweats and running shoes. “You want to go running?”
“You said I could.”
Jake had brought up the subject the night before, but Sloane hadn’t taken him seriously. “I thought you were kidding.”
Jake started back for the gate. “It’s okay, never mind.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on there. I didn’t say I didn’t want the company. I’d love to have you join me.”
They started down the block at a slow pace and ran along the street parallel to the Puget Sound, their feet slapping the pavement in unison.
“So why the sudden interest in running?” Sloane asked, breathing hard and waiting for his wind to kick in.
“I thought I might go out for the cross-country team,” Jake said, not sounding at all winded. Nearly thirteen, Jake was not the most coordinated kid, and athletics did not come easy. He was tall for his age, already five nine with feet nearly as big as Sloane’s. It was taking time for his skills to catch up to his growth. Junior high had been a transition, and Sloane sensed that Jake wanted desperately to play sports but was anxious about trying out.
“No kidding? I thought you
wanted to try basketball?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said.
“Something bothering you?”
“I’m not very good. Mom has taken me to play a few times but . . .”
“You like to play?”
The boy’s face lit up. “Yeah.”
“Well, I know a pretty good coach. He played in high school. Started on the varsity and once scored twenty-two points in a game.”
“Really? Who?”
Sloane laughed. “Me.”
“No kidding?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Jake shrugged, smiling.
“What do you say we go to the gym tonight and get started?”
“That would be awesome.”
Sloane looked up. They were coming to one of two very big hills. “Race you to the top,” he said, but Jake was already three steps ahead of him.
SLOANE WOULD GIVE anything to have just one of those mornings again. He’d give anything to turn back the clock and simply decline Kyle Horgan’s file. Nothing that had transpired from that one simple act had been what he intended, but had he been blind to the unintended consequences? Had he dismissed them because, as Tina said, he felt the need to try to help everyone?
But even as he thought it, he knew he had not been wrong to take Horgan’s file. The autopsy of Austin McFarland proved it. The toy was dangerous. Children were at risk. Tina would have told him to take the case. He knew it in his heart.
So if he had done nothing wrong, why then did she have to die? Why was it always someone he loved? First his mother, then Melda Demanjuck, his Ukranian neighbor when he lived in Pacifica, and now Tina. Why had every woman he had ever loved died a violent death?
Tina had told him that he was her soul mate, that nothing would ever separate them.
She was wrong.
His cell phone rang. In a daze from fatigue and grief, Sloane found it on the floor by the chair and answered without considering the time or the caller. It didn’t matter anymore. The hours and the days bled together without distinction.
Bodily Harm: A Novel Page 21