Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

  Bridget was floored and stopped in her tracks, only able to mumble out a few “Oh, my God’s” as she surveyed the damage. She grabbed James’s hand and arm and squeezed tightly. “Thank God, you’re okay. I had no idea it was this bad.”

  “Neither did I,” James replied, his jaw wide open as he looked at the car he and his dad had rebuilt, put their sweat in to. The '69 Boss 429 Mustang was a numbers matching car and James had always told friends, with great pride, “Only 858 of these babies galloped off the production line.” It was his first and only car. His dad found it in a barn in Arizona and had it delivered the day before his sixth birthday. He didn’t drive it until his eighteenth birthday.

  “Raven Black,” said James in the direction of Harry. “That’s the color, original color, Raven Black, only 858 of ‘em made.” Harry didn’t respond and Manny made a note of some sort.

  The adjuster was instantly at work, taking pictures of the front of the vehicle, the driver’s side, followed by close-up shots of the exact same areas. He then took a picture of the interior, focused on the gauge panel, noting the odometer showed 84,322 and moved to the car’s undercarriage. He then moved to the back and took a couple more shots. “How much do you think it’s worth, Mr. Spain?”

  James wanted to say priceless, but gave a ballpark figure. “I’ve seen them go for eighty thousand plus when completely restored, but no one ever sells them and the prices have dropped recently. My dad and I fixed her over a twelve-year period and I was planning on never putting her in a stable. She loved to run.”

  James absentmindedly began polishing one of the smaller scratches on the driver’s door with his shirt tail, caught himself in the act, and iced over. He could only look at the broken glass in the driver’s seat. He reached in, took his mp3 player and phone charger cord, popped the trunk, and collected his dry cleaning.

  He moved to the passenger side and picked up the vehicle’s manual, registration, and important data cards from the glove box. He rounded the front of the car and irately kicked a detached headlight lens toward the pile of other parts. He walked around the vehicle once more thinking that if he had a gun he’d aim, pull the trigger, and put the wounded mustang out of her misery.

  “Well, that’s it,” he stated as he walked toward Bridget, who was still motionless. She could only nod and appeared frozen in time. He wasn’t sure whether she was in some type of shock. He placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

  “Do I need to hang around?” James shouted to the adjuster.

  “No, Mr. Spain, I will be in touch in a few days. In the meantime, you can get a mid-sized rental if you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” James shouted back.

  “Do I need to do anything?” he asked Harry.

  “Yeah, sign here saying that you collected ya belongings and I gotta make a copy of your driver’s license. Also, if the car is considered totaled, I can buy it from you for scrap. I’ll work with Manny over there on the deal and he’ll call you. Here’s my card.”

  James accepted the business card and clipboard. He was stunned to see what appeared to be a dot-matrix printout. Normally, he would’ve got a kick out of seeing such antiquated gear. He was even more surprised that they still made paper for it. He found the big X and scribbled his signature.

  Harry returned and traded the license for the clipboard.

  James did a final onceover of the car. “I’ll contact you as soon as I find a garage, she will never be scrap.”

  He turned Bridget around and escorted her to the Honda.

  James, having missed lunch, was starving and could hear his stomach growling. He contemplated stopping for something, but looking at Bridget, who was too quiet, he decided it best to stay in, turn on the tube, and order a pizza. He was back on Aurora Avenue when she cupped his hand and gushed, “I saw my life, James. A life without you, flash in front of my eyes. I was so sad and ended up living in the mountains owning a hundred cats. You’re not getting any more fancy little sports cars. We’re getting something safe, safer than safe.”

  “The car is safe. Look, I’m fine, they don’t make them like that anymore,” defended James. “It’s okay; we won’t have to do anything for a few weeks, anyway. I was thinking we’ll just veg out tonight in front of the tube and order pizza from that place you like. What do you think?”

  “Yes, sounds like a plan,” said Bridget, still somewhere deep in the mountains beset by cats. She knew James was deflecting the conversation. He loved that car. It had a lot of sentimental value, but she also knew he’d soon be driving the safest car on the market. He may not have known it, but she did, she was sure of it. It was time to put the Mustang out to pasture.

  They entered the condo just after 7:30P.M. and both were exhausted. James dialed the pizza spot’s number, ordered the natural spinach pizza with goat’s cheese, and confirmed the address.

  About twenty minutes later, the house phone rang. It alarmed both of them because it rarely rang. Friends and family called them on their cell phones. In fact, James couldn’t recall the last time the damn thing ever rang. Bridget seemed surprised the thing even worked.

  “Must be the pizza place,” he said as he picked up the cordless phone from the end table.

  He pressed talk, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Spain, I hear you’re not playing nice at work, that you’re being short and nasty with the lovely Miss Spenser. It goes without saying that I’m not pleased with your attitude,” relayed Mr. Wright on the other end of the phone.

  “Yes,” said James, perceiving what Mr. Wright was doing. He was doing the same thing as the bank did with security. It was both their responsibility, and James wasn’t doing his part.

  “I have here, in my lap, a lovely gift-wrapped present for you, a congratulatory present for your recent promotion. Imagine the argument that would ensue, the devastation in trust if this package made an untimely delivery to your door. We noticed you didn’t mention the promotion to Bridget and I know why you didn’t mention it. Who gets promoted when they are under investigation? Someone who is lying, that’s who.”

  Just then the doorbell rang, and James almost screamed, ‘Don’t answer it.’ He sat helpless, as he watched Bridget slowly sashay in her socks across the hardwood floor.

  James could overhear Bridget say the flowers were beautiful, but the delivery person had the wrong address.

  James cupped his forehead in his hand and said, “I understand completely.”

  Mr. Wright spoke without hurry, seeming to savor the torment he was putting James through, “Remember, James, I see and hear everything. I’m big brother, a synapse in your brain, in your world I am god. I may not hear your prayers, but I know for what you are praying. Goodnight, Mr. Spain, and congratulations. My team had nothing to do with the promotion, but you’ll note our response time was quick and thorough.”

  James wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. He heard the click, then the dial tone, and tossed the phone onto the coffee table.

  “Was that the pizza place?” Bridget asked as she sashayed back toward the couch.

  “Ah, yeah, the driver was lost, but is on his way.”

  Moments later, the door intercom buzzed and the pizza was delivered. Though James could normally eat a whole pizza by himself, he was only able to get two slices down and a single beer. Bridget did far worse, only eating the inside crust of a single slice and barely touching her beer. It was a shame to waste the pizza. He loved the dry golden crust, but he just didn’t have the stomach for it.

  They began watching the 200th episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and both fell asleep on the couch. The television became their nightlight and Bridget was warmly tucked under his outstretched arm, dreaming of the safety claims of Volvo.

  James dreamt of that first Saturday when he was eighteen and slid into the black sports seat of the mustang he had drooled over for twelve years. He had sat in it plenty of times, cranked the engine to life, and listened to it rumble like a caged
, snarling animal.

  He’d ridden in it when he couldn’t even see over the dashboard and let his right hand hang out the open window, watching it glide over the fifty mile an hour wind, his dad quizzing him on the properties of lift and drag. He’d sat in his dad’s lap and in boyhood delight, reined the Mustang around an empty parking lot.

  He had lived up to his end of the bargain. He was accepted into a top college and the only thing left to do was engage the manual transmission. His father had pointed the car toward the street, saying, “It would be a shame if the first thing you do after ten years is go in reverse.” His father was a little off on the math. It was actually twelve years, but James was eager to let the Mustang run and didn’t say anything.

  His father passed away that same year from brain cancer, and James always speculated the miscalculation was one of the first signs of the condition. His father always had a mind like a steel trap.

  He remembered his father that last day in the hospital. He was pale, had sunken cheeks, his arms were the size of shovel handles and his skin lay on top of his bones, showing the skeletal structure beneath. James was telling him he was going to make it and they’d be driving the Mustang on Route 66 during the coming summer. Neither believed it. His father managed a smile and only said, “When you do, let her run James, let her run.”

  He missed him dearly.

  * * * *

  “Congratulations, gentleman,” said Mr. Wright to his crew as he hung up the phone.

  Mr. Wright was more exhausted than any of them. He’d been up since Friday afternoon and had slept little since he arranged the murder of Mr. Brownstone in January. It was Wright’s fifth kill and he didn’t know how he felt about it. Not being able to settle the debate in his own head kept him awake nights. He unbuttoned his shirt, removed his shoes, and sank deeply into the sofa as he spoke.

  “I think we’ve finally got Mr. Spain under control. Even though we started off a bit rough, the team is a success. Tomorrow will be the true test and will become a sort of Groundhog Day for us. But as planned, we’re only tracking one vehicle and Miss Spenser is doing a superb job. Our first order of business in the morning is to get the conference call over with, track the car as both James and Bridget go to work, and we need to secretly interview the staff that worked Sunday night at The Lounge. Driver number two, since you’ve already have some success in this, I’ll assign that task to you. I’m still convinced she was doing something other than picking up a work schedule. I need to know what that was.”

  Wright bent forward toward the coffee table, picked up the bottle of fifteen-year-old Bowmore Scotch whiskey. He eyed it as if it were a fine marble statue crafted by Michelangelo himself, opened it, and captured a deep whiff of the complex aromas in his nostrils. The smells of mahogany, smoke, and caramel registered in his brain and made his mouth water. He took a deep breath and blew into his favorite Riedel glass, poured the whiskey, swirled the glass with his right hand, and allowed the bowl to warm a minute or two in the palm of his hand.

  “No ice?” questioned one of the younger associates watching the ritual.

  “Never ice a fine scotch and never waste your money on rotgut,” Mr. Wright chided as he brought the glass to his lips and let the scotch velvet his tongue before swallowing the mouthful in a single gulp.

  He inhaled deeply, permitting the scotch’s malted barley to warm his throat and lungs, then exhaled, noting the finish—smoky with a slight burn that slowly faded—and then he relaxed. The signature sound of fine crystal chimed as he placed the empty glass on the table and continued his orders. “We have a conference call at seven sharp. Everyone should be up and ready before then.”

  “Cricket, you’ll be up at five to purchase coffee, pastries, and your choice of warm food for the rest of the team.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the surveillance technician. He didn’t like the nickname, but the more he whined about it, the more it stuck. The others had already taken to purchasing and secretly leaving rubber crickets, Jiminy the Cricket, and other cricket novelties to enforce the inside joke.

  One of the associates dimmed the lights and soon they all found the nearest soft spot. Mr. Wright took the couch and fell asleep to the hum of the servers in the room. Minutes later, the room filled with the deep snores of Mr. Wright, brought about by the scotch and lack of sleep.

  Cricket moved the ottoman, situated his feet on it, and leaned back in his chair. He donned the headphones and fell asleep listening to the condo above. It was a Monday night and the world was quiet, just as it should be.

  Cricket was awakened by a motion alarm in the condo above at about four in the morning. He was groggy and watched as James carried Bridget to the bedroom, paced around the living room for a while, went to the kitchen, then looked directly at the camera. Did he see it? Cricket wondered. He was thankful when James finally went back to the couch, pulled the cover over his head, and went back to sleep.

  Cricket reset the motion alarm and caught a few more Zs.

  Chapter Seven

  ~ The Brownstones ~

  Wright didn’t sleep well through the night. He knew Karl Brownstone’s name would be peppered throughout the conference call. The entire incident would be used as a crude calibration tool forcing him to attest that this time, things were different. That this time, he and his team had full control over the mark and should be rewarded the remainder of the contract. The body count of this project would, in fact, stay stuck at one.

  He repositioned the pillow and stared at the ceiling, thinking of how he lost control.

  Karl Brownstone was the first mark for Project Northwest, similar to James in many ways. Karl was a model OTS agent, always on time, dependable, a family man, nice home, and he had money in the bank.

  However, holidays seem to stress certain relationships and that wasn’t helped when Mrs. Brownstone of ten years gave Karl the wrong Christmas present, a set of monogrammed cufflinks with the wrong initials. They immortalized the initials ‘P.N.W’, nowhere close to his initials of ‘K.P.B’. Of course, Mrs. Brownstone blamed the mix-up on the jeweler. “The jeweler had simply put someone else’s cufflinks into Karl’s box and wrapped it without checking,” she said. She was sure it was an honest mistake and could be easily corrected on Wednesday. Further questions ensued, but Mrs. Brownstone did not admit to having an affair and didn’t take kindly to being accused of something she swore had not taken place.

  Wright heard the entire conversation and while he was concerned his mark was now tainted, he felt Karl was still a manageable risk. Nothing had taken place that would throw the project off course—that was until Karl hit her.

  Karl sat quietly, fuming under the surface, as Barbara apologized for the confusion in the gift and left it at that. He only asked two questions.

  “Does he have my cufflinks?”

  “No, I only bought the one pair, Karl.”

  “So, when buying my Christmas present, you were thinking of him?”

  “What? No, Karl, I—”

  “The initials weren’t telepathically relayed, Barb. You had to say or write them to place the order. It’s obvious to me you placed the order, but were thinking of him, hence the wrong initials. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

  Mrs. Brownstone slapped him first and he struck back hard, too hard, busting her nose in the process.

  Soon, they were in a full-fledged argument, voices raised, items being thrown, with verbal threats to spare. History from years ago was brought into the fight as a third party, nothing was off limits, every past transgression was fair game and unknown to Mr. Wright, there were a number of transgressions. Another physical confrontation was followed by a phone call to the police.

  Mr. Wright knew what was coming next and hurriedly had his team change into police uniforms for the sole purpose of extracting Karl. But a real patrol unit was already in the area due to another domestic violence call. The uptick in patrol units was common during the holidays and even more so with the stress that the
financial markets were experiencing. Domestic violence was on the rise, even in neighborhoods that could be the subject of Norman Rockwell paintings. However, Mr. Rockwell would’ve left out the number of ‘For Sale by Owner’ signs that plagued the Brownstones’ neighborhood.

  The cops beat his team to the house by mere seconds and arrested Karl for domestic violence and resisting arrest.

  That was the beginning of the downslide.

  Karl, having been arrested, came home the next day to find a painful letter in place of his wife. Having been a pre-law student and paralegal, she was short on emotion and brisk on the points. She’d left and taken half the money in the bank account. She had no further interest in the marriage, wished not to be contacted, and insisted that all communication be directed to her lawyer. Her only emotion was to say she was sorry he had been arrested, but she continued to proclaim her innocence. She did not have an affair, she wasn’t coming back, and it was that simple. It was over.

  On Thursday the 27th, Karl was summoned to an office in the bank building and informed he was being let go for violation of OTS conduct rules. After that, Karl drank most of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Mr. Wright didn’t have anyone in place yet, on the inside of the bank, to protect Karl and watched in horror as his mark was going downhill fast. It was clear that he was now becoming a threat to the project. There’s simply nothing more dangerous, more unpredictable, than a man with nothing to lose.

  Monday, the 31st, Mr. Wright met with Karl to gauge his control over Karl, over the new developments in the situation. The meeting ended with Karl saying he just didn’t care and he was going to tell anyone and everyone about Project Northwest and what they tried to force him to do.

  He knew Karl had to be taken seriously. His drunken phone calls were all heard and recorded and he was calling everyone about the supposed affair, seeking advice he had no intention of taking. Project Northwest wasn’t even personal. It meant nothing to Karl now – it was easy to see him spilling the beans about all the details, just as he had threatened to do. That could not happen.