by Alan Black
Natalia shook her head. She said, “Nothing in the report.”
Jack frowned. He typed a few commands into the dashboard computer. “Do we have a name on the Marks up here near Carbon Hill? Porrizzo only said David or Donald.”
Natalia fumbled through the papers in her lap. Finally, she shrugged, “No LT. There isn’t anything about any of his family up here in his employee file. There is nothing in the report from the police interview with his parents. Should we send someone back to re-interview his parents?”
Jack shook his head. He said, “No. If they didn’t tell us before, they are sure not going to tell us now. I can’t access county land records from this terminal. Let me see what pops up on a criminal database.” He typed a few more commands and waited.
“Hum,” he said as he scanned through the information.
“Hum, what?” Natalia asked.
“Well, I have more reports on people named Marks in this area than we could sift through, even if we take all day.”
Natalia leaned in and scanned the data. “Here,” she pointed at a report. “And here. Call those two reports up.”
Jack frowned, “Why those two? I don’t see how they match, or if they would be helpful. This one is a report of an ambulance call for a ten-year-old named Spitter who got his head caught in a dog pen gate. It was a couple of years ago and the ambulance was called off before they got there.”
He studied the other report and shook his head. “This other report is about fifteen years old. It is a drunk and disorderly call at a bar in Carbon Hill on a Geezle Marks. No charges were filed.” He looked at Natalia. “What kind of a name is Geezle? Or Spitter for that matter?”
Natalia smiled, “Neither report had an address in a town. Both reference a farm location by rural postal route number only. Both have the same rural route reference. It is at least worth a look-see. Besides, according to Mark’s employee file, his mother’s name is Irene, but in the interview with police, they called her Hoover. And on Dr. Marks job application, he lists Red as a nickname.”
Jack nodded, “So, nicknames run in the family?”
Steve spoke up from the back seat. “Well, if you two geniuses are done working around the fringes of the case, how about the fact that this rural route address is a little over a mile away from where your state police buddies have set the trap for the ASS?”
Jack said, “Okay we are cooking now. Let’s see…trucks registered to that location under the name Marks? No. Okay, any vehicle registered under any name at that location?” He looked at Natalia, then to Steve and back to Natalia. “What kind of farm doesn’t have any vehicles registered with the DMV?”
Natalia said, “If I had a cousin living off the grid, that would be who I would go to if I was on the lamb.”
Jack said, “Good. That is our next stop. But we have nothing more on this blue truck?”
Natalia laughed and said, “You mean like the missing license plate number? Come on, LT. Do you really think that a license plate would be easier to spot than an orange haired orangutan sitting in the front seat?”
Jack looked sheepish. He said, “Yeah, I keep forgetting that Harpo is an ape. Natalia, get a BOLO out on an old blue truck with an orangutan in the front seat. That shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”
Steve grunted from the back seat. “Yeah, that is what you said about an ape in one of those little cars. That didn’t get us very far. I can guarantee you there are a lot more blue pickups in Alabama than Smart Cars.”
Natalia shrugged, “Plus out of town, we don’t have access to traffic cams and there are a lot fewer of us to look around.”
Jack grimaced as he thought about the problem. Natalia and Steve were both right. Tracking anyone by a general description was difficult, no matter what they looked like. Natalia sent out the BOLO. They would just have to see what results they could gather until they could get to the Marks farm and ask direct questions.
He reached down and turned up the volume of Williams’ tactical two frequency. From the excited chatter, the state police were ready to close the circle on the ASS.
*
MBOTU’s red SUV slid to a stop next to his men’s white pickup truck. Billowing dust swirled, settling into a thin, chalk colored cover on both vehicles. He was in the back, sitting behind the driver. The driver pulled up so his window was next to the passenger side of the white truck.
Mbotu did not roll his window down right away. He waited for some of the dust to settle. He scowled at the men. He was angry for them letting Marks and the ape get away, but they had already lost too many men. He needed these men because he could not fight the coming war alone.
When the dust finally cleared, he scowled through the open window at the two men.
“They escaped?” he said through clenched teeth.
“Yes Mbotu,” the passenger said. “We tried to follow but the truck died and would not start again.”
Mbotu said, “I am sure that you did your best. It was not good enough, but it was as good as possible.” He marked these men in his mind. Someday he would kill them for this failure.
The passenger pointed up the road. “There is a turn off up there. We saw a dust cloud that way. They must have turned and gone east.”
Mbotu closed his eyes in frustration. When he opened his eyes, it was only to glare at the two men. “Fools. You have been too long gone from Africa. Can you not see the two men watching us from the rise?” He pointed at the two men peering at them from over the rise of the next hill. “You say that another man was in the truck with Marks and the ape?”
Both men in the pickup nodded.
Mbotu said, “I do not know why Marks has stopped to watch us. Perhaps, his truck has also stopped working. But, it is foolish on his part. We are six. And even with another, he is but two.”
He looked at the two men in the truck. “Climb in the back. We will chase them down as the lion chases down a wildebeest. We will bring them to the ground and tear their throats out.”
The two men jumped out of their truck. The driver hesitated at the lift gate to the SUV. He turned and raced back to the truck. He grabbed the gun he had forgotten.
Mbotu rolled his eyes in disbelief.
The SUV driver said, “Mbotu, the men left the ridge. Oh. Look. It is not Marks. It is the police.”
A state police cruiser slowly crested the hill in front of them. It stopped at the top, blocking the road. Two uniformed officers got behind their cruiser, pointing rifles at the SUV.
“Fools,” Mbotu said. “Look, they have silhouetted themselves against the sky. If I had a hunting rifle I would kill them with no more effort than hunting an antelope.”
The driver nodded, “I too Mbotu. But, this,” he shook the shotgun in his hand. “this will not be of much use in this open space. We must get closer.”
Mbotu nodded, “We are still six, and they are still two. Even if Marks is seeking the protection of these weak American police, we will wipe them all out.” He slapped the side of the SUV. “This is special armor. We are still six against their four.”
“There are more of them,” the driver of the pickup said as he climbed into the back of the SUV. He pointed behind them.
Three state police cruisers and a large state police SUV crested the hill behind them. The four vehicles blocked the road. Men and women boiled from the police vehicles taking defensive positions.
Mbotu said, “They have made an error. We cannot go back, but there is only one car ahead to block our way. If they meant to trap us, they did not build a big enough snare. We will blast through them and escape that way.” He patted his driver on the head and pointed to go ahead.
The man grinned, but before he could press the gas pedal, a shot rang out and the left rear tire blew out.
“Who fired? Who shot?” Mbotu shouted. He knew the police in front could not have hit the left rear tire. He had been looking at the police behind and they had not shot at the SUV. They all heard one shot, but no one could tell the direc
tion the shot came from.
Mbotu’s driver did not wait for another order. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor, fighting the steering to keep the SUV on the dusty road. He could feel the back left wheel rim biting into the dirt, digging deeper and deeper with each revolution. But, the only way out was ahead. He kept the accelerator depressed as far as it would go.
The man in the front passenger seat leaned out of his window and pointed his gun at the cruiser ahead of them.
Mbotu ducked in reflex as a hail of bullets slammed into the rear of the SUV. The large state police SUV raced down the hill after them, the police firing at him and his men. But the extra armor plating on his SUV stopped the bullets from doing any more damage than scratching the paint.
“We will reach the hilltop ahead of those coming from behind. We will get there first even with a flat tire. We will kill those ahead and take their car. We will get away, men. Trust me.” Mbotu said.
No one heard the second shot over the sound of gunfire from both sides. The front left tire exploded, a bullet ripping through the sidewalls. The SUV swerved, before the driver could get control, it dipped into a ditch on the left side of the road and dug in deep.
“We will kill them here,” Mbotu shouted. “Kill them all.” He jumped out of the SUV, dropping flat into the ditch. Looking at the 9mm semi-automatic in his hand, he realized it was too small for such a firefight.
The three men on the right side of Mbotu’s vehicle hesitated, as if exiting an armored vehicle to step, unprotected, onto an open road was a bad idea.
Mbotu’s driver vaulted from the SUV, sandwiching himself between Mbotu’s open door and the driver’s door. He fired his shotgun at the state troopers on the ridge in front of them. The distance was too far. He might pepper the paint, but it would do no real damage.
The man shrugged at Mbotu as he reloaded, pulling shells from a jacket pocket.
One of the men in the back kicked open the SUV lift gate. Diving out, he rolled on the ground and came up on one knee. He opened fire with his small Mac-10 submachine gun. The bullets rattled against the approaching police SUV. It starred the windshield, but it did not break the glass.
The police SUV slid to a stop, blocking the road behind them. A hail of police bullets ripped Mbotu’s man to shreds, but even as he fell, he continued to fire the Mac-10.
A thunderous roar cracked the air.
Mbotu was amazed. He could see the bullet from the police ripping through the air. It tunneled through the dust and found the open back of Mbotu’s SUV. The bullet ripped through the neck of the man sitting there, nearly decapitating him. Its momentum only slightly affected by human flesh, it found its way through the man who had been seated next to Mbotu. The bullet blew pieces of the man’s torso outward in a spray of red. Being blood spattered would have angered the man in the front passenger seat if the bullet had not fought its way through the seat back burying itself deep in the man’s spine. It killed him before he knew he was dying.
Mbotu’s driver screamed. “Run.” The man jumped over the ditch and attempted to vault over the barbwire fence. A barb snagged his pants leg. He tripped, falling face first into the dirt. The man cut himself loose with a quick slash of a knife and raced for a pond in the field. The large earthen berm would be good cover.
“Follow me,” he shouted to Mbotu. He blasted away at the state police with his shotgun.
Mbotu ignored the man. He slithered forward in the ditch, looking more like a lizard than a man. Just a few yards ahead, a small copse of trees grew all the way from the trees on the ridge to the fence. Rather than leap up to jump over the fence, he slid under the lowest wire, snaking his way into the trees. He continued crouched over, working his way deeper into the trees, he moved from shadow to shadow.
He hoped his driver had been enough of a distraction for him to get away. He did not really care if the man survived or not. He doubted the man lived. He was a fool, and drivers were easy to come by.
Mbotu grinned to himself. He was deep enough into the trees the police would not be able to see him or catch him. He had grown up in the jungles of Africa. He snorted at the underbrush around him. This was a manicured park compared to where he had grown up. He looked behind him. He was sure even the American police could track him into the forest, but once he was far enough away from the road he could slow down and begin to cover his tracks. For now, speed was more important.
Mbotu worked his way up a steep hill, believing the well-forested ridge would provide cover as he sped his way away from the police. He froze as a specter rose from the ground. The shadowy figure settled into man shape. It was a man holding a rifle with a scope. This was just the weapon Mbotu needed.
He started to reach for his handgun, but decided in a flash he was still too close to the road. He could not hear any gunfire behind him, but shooting this man would give away his location. In a quick move, he palmed a knife and held out his hands as if in surrender. The man would not see the knife until too late.
Mbotu said, “Ah my friend. The police had a gun battle with some very bad men. I was just driving by and they stopped me by mistake. I ran away to be safe.” He edged closer to the man with each sentence. “I have become turned around in these trees. If you could guide me-”
Mbotu lunged at the man’s throat. The slash would split him from ear to ear. But, the man was not there. He moved at the last moment. As Mbotu’s knife flashed through the empty air, the man grabbed Mbotu’s elbow and pushed. Mbotu twirled around, his momentum from the slash pushing him off balance on the hill.
He almost fell down the slope, but the man grabbed his arm. Before he could regain his balance, the man twisted his arm to the side. The man’s arms wrapped around his head and neck. Mbotu could move, but every movement cut off the air to his windpipe.
“You have made a mistake, my friend,” Mbotu said. He began sliding his free hand toward his gun.
“Nope,” was all the reply the man made.
“You do not know who I am. Even if you turn me over to the police, I will come back for you.”
“Nope,” was the reply.
Mbotu’s anger flared, “I will kill you and all of your family.”
With a quick snap of his arms, the man applied sixty-six pounds of pressure to the side of the Mbotu’s head. Mbotu felt everything go dark and warm. He did not feel the pressure or hear the man’s final words.
“I don’t think so.”
Mbotu was dead long before his body fell face first into the dirt and slid slowly down the slope.
**
IKE BROADLIGHT helped his wife of sixty-six years into the front seat of their old pickup.
‘Scooch on over a bit, Sarie,” Ike said. He gave Sara a small push on her hip. “There you go, Darlin’. You still fit fine, right up here next to me. Let me grab that end of the seatbelt.”
“No,” Sara said. “I can do it. Tis a good day for my arthritis. I can manage.”
Ike ignored her and snapped the buckle shut. He gave it a quick tug and let his hand rest on Sara’s thigh. He gave her leg a quick squeeze through the thin fabric of her favorite and faded red floral print summer dress.
Sara rolled her eyes and looked at her husband. “You like as not start somethin’ you ain’t likely to finish, you keep that up.”
“Keeping it up ain’t the problem, Woman,” Ike smiled. “It’s the finish that seems to be right scarce these days. Still, I do like that new hair color. Sets my heart all aflutter.”
Sara reached up and patted her new permanent. She had not been sure about the color, but Lucy at the Paint & Body Works in Haleyville said this was the new color fashion. Sara decided she was okay with it since Ike seemed to like it. She patted her husband on the cheek, ignoring his two-day-old white stubble.
“Well, you old geezer, we’ll see how you feel about that after we get home from lunch at my sister’s,” Sara said.
Ike said, “Well, if we gotta go, then we gotta go. At least, we be leaving early ‘nuff to take
the scenic view.” He leaned in and gave Sara a quick kiss on the cheek.
Ike rounded the back of the truck and winced at look of Sara’s new hair color. Over the years he had seen her hair color change to brown, light brown, dark brown, black, blonde, auburn, something he could only describe as ‘flame-ass, on-fire red”, and lately a whole host of various blues. The fact that Ike could not rightly recall what color her hair was naturally when she was younger had less to do with his age than it did the variety of colors over the years. In recent years, he had not seen any shades of gray or even the white that matched his own white locks. However, this new color was weird. Ike decided he was okay with it since Sara seemed to like it.
The old truck started without a hitch, like always. Ike was fond of saying he and his truck were a lot alike these days: they both started out fine, but both seemed to have a bit of trouble when things heated up. He was going to chance taking the long way around to Sara’s sister’s house. He did not much like taking Route 278 into Double Springs. The speed demons down that way raced by way too fast.
He stuck to the two lane roads and they just enjoyed the view.
“What the..!” Ike exclaimed.
“What the what, sweetie?” Sara asked.
“State trooper behind us just turned on his rooftop Christmas lights,” Ike said. “I wasn’t going fast a’tall.”
“More’n likely going too slow,” Sara said. “You just be polite to the young man and see what he wants afore you get your blood pressure up too high.”
“Too late for my blood pressure, with you in that red flowery dress, practically all see thru and all.” Ike gave Sara his best wolfish leer.
“Ease up there, Romeo or we won’t get to where we’re agoin’ and this statey is likely to see more than he bargained for if you get yer Johnson all riled up and angry.”