Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  The camera’s eye lingered on the pooled blood, the blood-spattered car, the body, until Dixie longed to rip the images off the screen. Why would anyone want to watch these women die over and over again?

  Then the screen flooded with color—a head-and-shoulders snapshot of Avery Banning, another of Chief Wanamaker standing beside the Mayor, the two men laughing. A rush of gray snow signaled the tape’s end.

  The footage of the shooting appeared to be the work of an amateur, but with a good eye, Dixie thought, and a good camera. A private citizen brazening along behind the cops? A photographer who stumbled on the scene by accident?

  Dixie punched the EJECT button and stepped down from the stage. She swept the side wall with her penlight. Posters showed young men in competition and combat. Interspersed among the images, captions proclaimed: HONOR THY COUNTRY, HONOR THY CONVICTIONS, and UNITED WE ARE ONE FORCE, THOUSANDS STRONG. Another cautioned: WATCH BIG BROTHER.

  Had she stumbled on a paramilitary counterculture? No swastikas or hate slogans. No obvious racial separatism. But the message clearly celebrated a readiness to do battle.

  Following the sharp odor of cordite, she found a door. It opened easily, and she peered down a long hallway flanked by closed doors on either side.

  She glanced back at the entrance, at a sliver of outside light seeping through a crack. Here she was creeping around in dark forbidden places for the second time in less than twelve hours. Maybe Parker was right, teasing her about being a snoop. These people were seriously into concealment, and she was poking into their secrets. Once she entered that hallway, there’d be no chance of hearing Laskey return behind her.

  He’d been gone … what, fourteen minutes?

  Moving quickly to the first door, she put her ear to it, tried the knob. Inside a narrow room, her beam fell on metal lockers. No padlocks. She opened a few at random … men’s gym shoes, pieces of clothing. Continuing, she found a shower space, a one-stall rest room with lavatories, urinals, and another closed door that opened into a gymnasium. About forty feet square, it looked as modern as any commercial gym, with free weights and punching bags at the far end—nice stuff—and a door that led back into the hall.

  Only two doors left. Dixie checked her watch. Laskey’d been gone sixteen minutes. Staying longer increased the odds of discovery. If this group turned out to be involved in the assassinations, being discovered could taint any evidence she found. Under Texas law, evidence obtained by cops or civilians during the commission of a crime—such as breaking and entering—could be ruled inadmissible.

  But if she could locate the office, a letterhead or business card might tell her who owned this place—and why they possessed a video of the Granny Bandit shootings.

  She turned the next doorknob and peeked into shadows stinking of cordite. Three stations, ear protectors hanging on wall hooks.

  Meeting room, gymnasium, shooting gallery … a training facility? Located far away from any neighbors who might take offense, soundproofed—Dixie hadn’t heard any road noise since she entered. And a rifle range out back. For sighting in an assassin’s high-powered scope?

  She could be wrong. The videos of Lucy Ames and Aunt Edna might be as innocent as the shoot/don’t-shoot films used for training police officers. This is what can happen … here’s how to avoid it.

  As Dixie turned to leave, her beam streaked across a face. She stifled a yelp. Then, slowly, she played the light over a life-size poster of Avery Banning. Another of Chief Wanamaker. Not one copy of each but several, hanging from clips.

  Suitable for target practice.

  Jazzed with sudden conviction, she swooped her light around the room. In a trash can lay a discarded poster riddled with holes. A tight firing pattern centered on the Chief’s face. Any of the shots would’ve been a kill.

  She’d found the sniper’s lair.

  The puzzle pieces chinked into place. A gang of middle- to upper-class boys, with enough money to outfit this building as a training center, an education that included plenty of video war games, and a notion of superiority. Wasn’t it always the educated youth who protested the sorry mess the older generation had made of their world?

  Dixie’d been only a child during the turbulent sixties and seventies, but she recalled the college campus riots. Today’s youth took violence a giant step further—manufacturing bombs, shooting up schools.

  Whatever else they might be, the “Preservation Society” boys were cop killers.

  She had to get out of here. She could use the cell phone in the Mustang to call … who? With no legal right to be here, how could she report what she’d found without compromising the evidence?

  Out in the hallway, she stared at that final door. What more might she learn in there? Did she really believe a few young men had planned and carried out the assassinations alone? The setup here—the gym, the AV equipment, all of it—was too sophisticated, too well thought out. Not to mention costly. If she had a name, a face … if she could link Laskey to a known terrorist or criminal …

  Two minutes. I could be in and out of that room in two minutes.

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  The small office contained a battered metal desk with a wood chair and computer, a butt-sprung sofa, a bookcase, a four-drawer file cabinet with a thirteen-inch portable television on top of it, a water dispenser, a guest chair, and another damn door. That one opened into a bathroom, complete with shower. Dixie went straight to the computer.

  While she waited for it to boot up, she searched the desk drawers. She found stationery with the triangular “P” emblem, but no name or address. No business cards. She found pencils, pens, rubber bands, computer disks. A cell phone. She looked behind the CPU for a cable connection to a wall jack … none. The building probably had no telephone service. Everything was remarkably neat, no stray Post-it Notes, loose paper clips, or other clutter. In a bottom drawer, she found three letters, identical except for the names at the top: Chief Edward Wanamaker, Councilman John Jason Gibson, Mayor Avery Banning.

  This is the only warning you will receive …

  Each letter was signed in a careful script, “The People.”

  More proof linking the building occupants with the assassinations. But where were the names she needed? Maybe she could choke them out of Philip Laskey.

  Dixie wondered why Gib had been targeted along with the others. Anyone who paid attention to local politics knew that Gib Gibson opposed everything Banning and the Chief stood for. Unless all the City Council members received a similar letter, it made no sense. Had they? If so, why keep only these three copies?

  A message on the computer asked for her password. Dixie didn’t even try. Her two minutes were up. She rose from the chair to tackle the file cabinet.

  But as she scanned the bookcase, her gaze fell on an object that totally surprised her, and a chilling new puzzle piece slid home. She reached for the sculptured onyx paperweight.

  “Ms. Flannigan? What are you doing here?”

  Dixie froze.

  Philip Laskey tossed a plastic bag from an office supply store onto the sofa. A printer cartridge slid out. Despite the astonishment she read in Laskey’s face, his hand pointing a Sig Sauer at her chest remained steady.

  “I was … waiting.” Dixie prayed the vague lie and Laskey’s confusion would buy her some time to think. She couldn’t risk going for the .38 holstered at her waist.

  “Waiting for the Colonel?”

  “Yes. He … had to run an errand. Said he’d be right back.” Her thumb on the onyx sculpture traced a circle of stones surrounding a single garnet.

  Laskey moved closer. “Colonel Jay doesn’t run errands. That’s my job.”

  Damn. Should’ve stopped with “yes,” kept the lie simple.

  “We were hungry.” Dixie edged toward him. Keep him talking, get within reach, aim at his kneecap … “I asked him to pick up some burgers.”

  Laskey shook his head. “No, ma’am. No way.”

  Wrong again. “Philip—�
��

  “Ma’am, would you sit down?” He circled away from her.

  “Do you know who the Colonel really is, Philip? What he does?” The sculpture contained more stones than a similar model she’d seen at The Winning Stretch.

  “Drop the paperweight. And sit down. Please.”

  “No.” Once seated, she’d lose any advantage. “If you plan to shoot me, go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you, ma’am. But I need to page the Colonel. You’ll be more comfortable seated.”

  “Philip, this man you call Colonel Jay ordered the assassination of Mayor Banning and Chief Wanamaker, didn’t he? And those two officers who were murdered—”

  “Eliminated.”

  “—to avenge the deaths of Lucy Ames and Edna Pine?” The videos had been used to stoke the men’s anger. Dixie recalled the photograph on Laskey’s desk, of a woman old enough to be his mother. “Philip, Colonel Jay also sent those two mothers into the banks to steal. He knew they couldn’t succeed.”

  “You’re wrong. The Colonel had nothing to do with the bank robberies.” But for an instant, his eyes had gone flat, as if he were thinking about it.

  “Where did you meet the Colonel, Philip? At a YMCA fitness class?” What better place to recruit young men? “He attracts women the same way, at aerobics classes. Conditions them for service in a sort of cult he calls the Church of The Light.” Dixie’s thumb traced the silver filigree lacing the stones together, forming a web. “How did he get film from the shootings? He had to’ve been there—”

  “He bought it from a TV cameraman, a friend—”

  “The same friend happened to be on-site for both shootings? How logical is that?” How logical that anyone could’ve been at both sites? If he waited near the banks for Lucy or Edna to hand off the money, why would he then follow them? The horrible truth struck like stone. “Philip, the Colonel knew they wouldn’t escape because he made the anonymous call to the cops.”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Yes, Philip. And I can show you right now where another woman, locked away in seclusion, is being conditioned for another robbery … and another police shooting.”

  The gun wavered as Philip’s gaze once again flattened.

  Dixie hurled the paperweight and moved in for a kick—

  A bullet tore past and slammed into the wall.

  Philip spun sideways. He slumped to the floor, blood running down his neck. Surely not from the paperweight—

  A shape in the doorway. Another gun muzzle aimed at her.

  He looked different in The People’s khaki-and-blue uniform. He looked harder. His unruly mop was combed neatly in place and he wore no trace of his usual boyish grin: Mike Tesche.

  Chapter Seventy

  “I can see that you’re armed, Dixie, and unlike Mr. Laskey, I know your capabilities. So lift the tail of your shirt and remove the gun with your left hand.” When she complied, Mike said, “Slowly now, move to the desk and put it down.”

  Dixie’s gaze flickered to Philip Laskey. The boy’s head was a solid red cap, oozing blood. Just a kid, really, misguided by a master.

  “He needs an ambulance.”

  “Not for long. I shot to kill.”

  “Why? Why shoot him?”

  “You planted a seed of doubt. Mr. Laskey was fertile ground for growing it.”

  “It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it? Killing your own man. Or woman.” Dixie seethed at the horror: He’d sent Lucy Ames and Aunt Edna to certain death, then ordered the murder of Art Harris and Ted Tally for killing them. Why?

  “Like disease, Dixie, doubt must be eradicated before it spreads. Put the gun down and empty your pockets. Please use your left hand.”

  She placed the .38 Airweight on the desk and followed it with the Lock-Aid, her Kubaton key ring, wallet, handcuffs, penlight.

  Mike wedged the Airweight under his belt. He scooped up everything but the handcuffs.

  “Snap one of those around your wrist and sit down in the chair.”

  Reluctantly, Dixie did as he instructed. He’d already proved he’d shoot.

  Mike circled Philip’s body, keeping his .25 semiautomatic aimed at Dixie’s chest. He slipped the Airweight from his belt, dropped it and her other things into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. He located Philip’s Sig Sauer near the boy’s hand and put that in. Then he removed a metal lockbox from the drawer, and set it on the bookshelf, before locking the file cabinet.

  “I know your tricks, Dixie, and you know I won’t hesitate to kill you. But if you cooperate, that may not be necessary.”

  Oh, really? She glanced at Philip.

  “Mr. Laskey’s disappearance will not raise any eyebrows except his mother’s, and she can be handled,” Mike said. “But you, Dixie Flannigan, have too many friends in high places.”

  “And if I cooperate?”

  He smiled, but without the boyish good humor she’d seen so often. “Then you’ll leave here with no great loss, except a bit of your memory.”

  “How—?”

  “Never mind that now. First, your cooperation.” When she nodded, he said, “Put your hands behind you and push them through the chair slats. Then snap the handcuff on your free hand.”

  Again, Dixie complied, as her thoughts raced through her mental file for what she knew about Mike. He liked to talk, to lecture on his philosophies. You have a beautiful soul…

  “What happened to, ‘You would make a tremendous leader, Dixie. Align with me’?”

  He moved behind her and pressed the gun to the back of her head as he checked the handcuffs.

  “I do regret we never had a chance to discover our compatibilities. You’re the first person I’ve considered bringing fully into my confidence.”

  “And now you’ve changed your mind?”

  “You changed it for me by coming here, learning too soon what I would have revealed slowly.” After assuring she was manacled, he lowered his gun.

  “I didn’t know you were part of these assassinations, Mike. Did you think I was too dense to understand your work in one pass?”

  Without answering, he cast an appraising eye over Philip’s body, then used his foot to push the boy’s spraddled legs out of his way.

  They could’ve passed for father and son, Dixie noticed—not their features, but in similar build and coloring. The reddish hair. The freckles.

  Mike turned his steady green eyes on Dixie.

  “In less than half an hour, twenty-seven men will arrive here. I will congratulate them for their part in forwarding our mission and offer reassurance that their comrades died valiantly this morning.” He snapped the television on.

  “… Chief Wanamaker was pronounced dead at the scene. Mayor Banning was life-flighted to Hermann Hospital…”

  “Twenty-six minutes is not much time for you to convince me of your allegiance.”

  If she had a week, she’d never convince him.

  Or could she? It might be her only way out. If I couldn’t convince people to trust me, Parker’d said, I’d never make a sale. Was it possible to convince Mike she admired his work and desired to be a part of it? Dixie resisted a shudder.

  “Mike, I know so little about the Church of The Light and almost nothing about what you’ve put together here. Yet I was impressed with what I saw last night. Somehow, you brought out Edna’s strengths, and I believe that’s true of the other women at The Winning Stretch.”

  “Not bad. You expressed interest and appreciation without turning sappy.” He lifted the metal box from the bookshelf and carried it to the desk. “And almost managed a nice tone of sincerity.”

  Dixie swallowed a curse and worked on that sincerity part. “What I don’t understand,” she said truthfully, “is why Lucy and Edna had to die.”

  “Death is inevitable. ‘How’ and ‘when’ are the only variables. Wouldn’t you rather go out with excitement and drama?” He unlocked the box and from its depths extracted three amber jars. “Isn’t that why you chose a dangerous profess
ion?”

  “By profession, I’m a nonpracticing lawyer. The other is just something I do.” She watched him measure liquid from one of the jars into a flask, and caught a whiff of the same fragrance as the incense he’d used in his sitting room. “Mike, are you saying that Lucy and Edna chose to die in those shoot-outs?”

  “Not intentionally. They participated knowing the chance of death existed. Effective knowledge is that which includes knowledge of the limitations of one’s knowledge, wouldn’t you agree?” He looked up from adding a measure of a second liquid to the flask. “My information in certain areas of control was limited until Lucy and Edna demonstrated that a person can be induced to willingly die.”

  “Were they drugged?” Dixie had a sick feeling about the concoction he was mixing.

  “Not at all. Of course your suspicion derives from your own experience with your tea last night. I assure you, while we do burn a rare and extremely relaxing type of incense, the herbal tea blend, also rare, is only necessary to heighten suggestibility in the early stages.”

  He measured a third liquid into the flask. The “formulas” in Mike’s computer file had three ingredients.

  “The tea,” Dixie said. “You blend it from three plants. The same plants that are reduced to extracts in those vials.”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed.”

  He wouldn’t be if he knew she’d seen his computer files—and the lockbox in his desk at The Winning Stretch, identical to this one.

  “So am I.” Dixie fought to keep fear from her voice as she watched him remove a hypodermic needle from the box. “You identify women who are emotionally distressed, obtain their trust, use mild sedatives to induce relaxation and suggestibility, then what?” She knew, but she wanted him to tell her, to trust her enough to tell.

  He plunged the needle into the mixture; the syringe filled. Dixie thought of Angela, sweet, childlike. Had she always been so dim? Or only after an injection of Mike’s herbal drug, a substantially higher concentration than the other women received orally?