by Chuck Dixon
Bill carded himself into the Blanco house and accepted the paper booties and vinyl gloves offered to him. He was handed along by a trooper to a state CID guy and up to the second floor where a forensic team had broken for a boxed lunch. From a balcony that overlooked the large center room of the open plan chalet, Bill could see three kitchen chairs draped with strands of duct tape. They sat two on one side and one on the other. The same scenario he’d seen before. A smear of blood stained the floor beneath one chair. Tape marked where a body lay. The area describing the head was circled by a dark mess of dried gore.
The forensics team was in the only room not framed in tape. A children’s room decorated with posters and stuffed animals. The team looked like spacemen in their white Tyvek bunny suits, standing in a room decorated in a riot of colors.
“It’s a fucking mess,” Special Agent Ted Brompton said by way of greeting.
“It’s the Blanco house, right? That’s established?” Bill said, peering toward the entrance to the master bedroom. The bright glare of high-wattage stand lamps glowed from within like the heart of a furnace.
“We found family pictures. Fingerprints confirm it. It’s Blanco’s house though he hasn’t been here in a long time,” Brompton said, picking onions off the tuna sandwich in his hand.
“What did they get away with?”
“Better question is, why did they leave what they left? There’s half my section’s annual budget lying on the bed in there in cash. There’s enough Rolexes for the office Christmas party. They either left it behind when they were interrupted or never planned to take it in the first place.”
“They’ve been after a bigger prize all along. Maybe they got away with it,” Bill suggested.
“Who the fuck knows?” Brompton shrugged.
Brompton reviewed the situation on the ground for Marquez. There were bodies everywhere. Civilians and otherwise. First impression was that the crew was out to eliminate any witnesses. There was a guy, a local handyman, found dead in a garage across the lake — two rounds to the back of the head. There was a retired couple four properties down from that scene. The man shot dead at the front door. The wife in the media room. And there were perps everywhere. Including one found in the woods about six miles north and a woman gunned down by the owner of the gas station down at the highway.
“Any early theories?” Bill asked. He’d reviewed the reports on the flight to Bangor. None of it made much linear sense. No clear timeline had been established yet.
“Thieves fall out? They found what they’ve been looking for and someone was reluctant to share?” Brompton said.
“Anything to back that up beyond pure blue sky?”
“We found that guy bled out in the woods. And there were two vehicles parked with that semi. One of them is gone.” Brompton tossed a wedge of crust back into the box lunch.
“There’s witnesses?” Bill asked.
“Three. But good luck getting much out of them,” Brompton said, rooting in the box and coming up with a cellophane pack of cheese crackers.
44
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Fenton. I really am. But you know that I won’t be the last to ask you questions about what you saw,” Bill Marquez said. He was seated at the kitchen table. Mrs. Fenton sat huddled in a woolen robe across from him. She had not offered him anything but entry into her house. From somewhere in the home came the sound of loud pop music.
“I understand that,” Danni said.
“How is your son?”
“They took him to Bangor on a helicopter. The doctors tell me they reattached his fingers. It’s wait and see for now.”
“You’ll be traveling down to see him?” Bill nodded toward suitcases packed by the doorway.
“We’ll be staying in Bangor while he recovers. Nate had family there. That’s where we’ll be holding the funeral. They’re making all the arrangements.”
“I see. I’m very sorry.”
“What is it you want to ask me?” Danni sighed, lowering her eyes.
“How did you escape? Your statements are vague. You and your children were securely bound. You told state CID and the Bureau that you were able to rip free from the duct tape. But the tape was cut by a blade.”
Danni said nothing. She twirled her wedding ring on her finger with her thumb.
“I’ve been on this case, following this crew, for nearly a year, Mrs. Fenton. They don’t leave witnesses. Never. They didn’t let you go. So who did? Who cut you free?”
“Are you religious?” she said, looking up to meet his eyes.
“I’m Catholic. Lapsed.”
“Me too. That teaching sticks. You may not go to mass but you still pray, am I right? Every now and then?”
Bill nodded.
“I was helpless while my child was being maimed. I knew they’d killed my children and me. I knew my husband was dead. I knew we were in the hands of men with no souls. No mercy. I did the only thing I knew how. I prayed. I prayed to God, Jesus and the Holy Virgin to save my babies. I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed. I begged. I promised and I swore to dedicate my life to the Lord if only he could come and lift us away from the hands of those men.”
Bill waited.
“And my prayers were answered.” She locked on his gaze, defiant.
Bill pushed himself away from the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fenton,” he said before letting himself out.
45
They were sharing a pizza in a Motel 6 in Waltham, Massachusetts.
Levon had stopped at a Walmart and picked up two changes of clothes in their sizes. A pair of sneakers for Merry along with a sweater and a winter coat. A fresh set of pajamas to replace the ruined pair she’d been wearing since the night before. Bags of socks and underwear. A gun cleaning kit. And toothbrushes, shampoo, and other necessaries.
Merry spread the new clothes on the bed. A towel turbaned on her freshly washed hair, snug in a new terrycloth robe that came to her ankles.
“And it’s not even my new birthday yet,” she said.
"Your birthday isn't until August," Levon said. He sat at the room's deskette, cleaning the Sig Sauer he'd picked up. Lying by his elbow were four magazines and two boxes of nine-millimeter ammo he'd found in the door pockets of the Suburban. He also had a new Keltec twelve gauge shotgun and six boxes of buck that was in the cargo area of the SUV.
“My second birthday. Moira Roeder’s birthday is in February. The one on the papers.” Merry smiled and took a nip from the end of a pepperoni slice.
“Two birthdays? Is that right? Well, you might be getting a third birthday.”
“We need to change our name again?”
“Somewhere between here and Mississippi. I need new eye-dee to get us a new car.”
“Daddy?” she said and took a seat on the corner of the bed nearest where he worked.
"Uh oh. That's your 'don't be mad at me' voice," he said and turned smiling to her.
A returned smile grew and faded on her face. She lowered her eyes.
“I told Giselle Fenton my real name.”
“What else did you tell her?”
"Nothing. Just to call me 'Merry' when we were alone."
“Maybe she thought it was a game, honey.”
“Maybe. You think so?” Her face brightened.
“Either way, there’s not much we can do about it,” he said, still smiling.
Merry threw herself back on the bed covers to reach for the TV remote. She was pointing it at the TV when a gentle knock came from the door. Merry looked from her father to the door.
Levon covered the action of the Sig with his hand to mute the sound of it sliding closed, chambering a round. He moved to the door, standing to one side, away from the spyhole set in the center.
“Who’s there?”
“Housekeeping. I brought extra towels.”
Levon nodded to Merry who was off the bed in an instant and retreating to the bathroom.
Hand tight on the doorknob he spun
it open as he rammed his shoulder against it. The door struck the person on the other side, sending them sprawling onto the sidewalk. The lot was dark and empty. He'd chosen a room facing away from the highway. A hand-held, small revolver. Levon stamped his boot heel on the wrist and tugged the .38 from the gloved hand. He dropped a knee to the visitor's abdomen, pinning them unmoving to the concrete. The hood of the anorak fell away, revealing a head of blonde hair.
The woman who called herself Leandra Tessler snarled up at him, eyes brimmed with fury. He tapped her chin once with his fist, bouncing the back of her head off the sidewalk and she was still.
“Kiera Anne Blanco-Reeves.”
She came around at the sound of her own name.
The man she knew as Mitch was seated at the edge of the bed with her wallet open. The contents of her purse were spilled on the worn carpet. She was seated in the chair by the deskette. She tried to open her mouth to speak but found her lips pressed together by tape. More tape secured her hands behind her. An electrical cord bound her legs to the legs of the chair.
“Are you a relative? A sister?” he said. He knew the name from the news reports already filling the 24-hour cycle with speculation.
She shook her head. A dull ache rose like a tide and turned into a ring tightening around her skull. Her eyes swam in her head.
“Don’t throw up,” he cautioned her with a sharp slap to her cheek.
A rushing sound. The shower was running in the bathroom.
“You’re an ex-wife,” he said.
Her eyes went cold. She huffed through her nostrils.
“Think you can tell me your story without hollering?”
She nodded.
He tore the tape off her mouth.
“That money’s mine. And a lot more where that came from,” she seethed and nodded to neat stacks of bound hundreds visible in a bag by one leg of the bed.
“You knew they were coming. And you didn’t say anything to anyone,” Levon said.
“That bastard took off on me. We had a divorce settlement. Alimony. He ran out on all of that with that bitch of his.”
“Stolen money.”
“Yeah. He fucked some assholes out of their money. That was business. But fucking me out of my money was personal.”
“And you just watched the house. Waiting for those men to come looking. And you were going to help yourself to whatever they left behind.”
“That’s right,” she said with bitter assurance.
“Like a buzzard on a kill. Like a maggot.” He tore a fresh length of tape from the roll.
She drew in breath for a reply to that. He slapped the new strip of tape over her mouth. Rocking in her chair, she screamed into the tape while he wound a three-foot band around her head to secure the gag in place. The sound started in her chest as a shriek but came out as a squeaky mewling. Levon keyed the TV remote. An infomercial for skin care products came on. He set the volume just high enough to mask the muted shrill she was making.
Levon went to the bathroom door and knocked. The shower water turned off with a squeak. The door opened and the little girl who called herself Moira stepped into the room. She was fully dressed in a new sweater and jeans. She slid her arms into a winter coat then walked past the bound woman, eyes averted. Merry picked up her backpack by the door and waited.
Levon zipped closed the bag with the money and carried it and the shotgun, wrapped in a bath towel, to the door.
“I’ll call the office in the morning,” he said before leaving. Then he switched out the room lights, leaving the room dark but for the flashing light of the TV making crazed shadows on the walls and ceiling.
Merry was walking toward the Suburban parked nose into the curb four rooms down. Levon tabbed a remote in his hand and another car, parked closer to the office, gave a short bleat and blinked its lights.
“We’re taking the Mercedes, honey,” he said.
46
“Doesn’t look like any good news,” Cecile said as she handed the bundle of mail over the counter.
“That’s why I only collect it once a week,” Danni said and snapped the rubber band off the thick wad of envelopes.
“Still moving?”
“The HOA wants us out of the house. The kids are back at the cabin packing. Tourist season is coming. The summer residents will be showing up the end of the month.”
Cecile made a phuh noise.
“They already hired a new handyman. His family shows up in two weeks,” Danni continued.
“Where will you go?”
“Down to Bangor. My sister-in-law says we can live with her till we’re back on our feet. I know what that means. Six weeks at the most before her husband starts giving us the stink eye.” Danni riffled through the mail. Among the bills and final notices was an envelope addressed to Danielle Fenton in neat block letters. No return address.
“What will you do?” Cecile said. She poured a cup of coffee from her personal pot behind the counter and held it out for Danni.
“Thanks. I have applications in at a few daycare places. Maybe I can finish my degree. Try to get a teaching job.” She tossed the bills into the trash bin by the counter.
“I’ll miss you, Danielle. You’re on my short list of people I can tolerate,” Cecile said.
“I’ll miss you too. I’ll miss this place. But we can’t stay here,” Danni said and raised the coffee as a farewell.
She was behind the wheel of the car when she realized that she still had the handwritten envelope in her hand. She tore it open and found a single sheet of paper with a small silver key taped to it. The letter was written in the same neat block lettering as the envelope.
DANIELLE,
I AM SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT NATE. HE WAS A GOOD MAN.
I KNOW THAT THINGS WILL BE TIGHT WITH HIS LOSS. YOU HAVE TWO CHILDREN TO SUPPORT AND CARL’S MEDICAL BILLS.
THIS KEY FITS THE LOCK ON THE BOTTOM DRAWER OF MY CRAFTSMAN CHEST. IN THE DRAWER IS A SMALL NOTEBOOK THAT I WANT YOU TO BURN.
THE REST OF THE CONTENTS ARE YOURS.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR SILENCE.
BURN THIS LETTER WITH THE NOTEBOOK.
M.
On the way back from Bellevue, Danielle drove to the Hoffert house and let herself in. In the unfinished kitchen, she found Mitch's Craftsman chest; a wheeled steel cabinet with deep drawers. She knelt to place the key in the lock and open the bottom drawer. Atop a faded canvas tool bag lay a Moleskine notebook with a Bic pen secured in the spine. She put that aside and pulled out the canvas bag. It was packed full and heavy.
Inside were stacks of bills. Worn bills. Twenties and fifties bound in three-inch stacks secured with heavy rubber bands. There were dozens of stacks.
Close to two hundred thousand dollars once she’d finished counting them out on the kitchen table back at the cabin. She zipped the bag closed and secured it in the bottom of an apple box labeled “dishware.” She taped the box closed.
The kids came into the family room from packing up their rooms. They found Danni kneeling before the stove in the fireplace. She was sticking pages torn from a book into the blaze.
Levon’s Run
Chuck Dixon
Kindle edition
© Copyright 2019 (as revised) Chuck Dixon
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
1
Bando blamed his bitch of a girlfriend for everything.
If his bitch of a girlfriend didn’t spend all the money he gave her for their kid.
If his bitch of a girlfriend didn’t keep bitching about visiting her mother in Miami. Bitched that Connecticut in February was too damn cold. Only she didn’t have any money because she spent every dime he gave her for the kid.
If his bitch of girlfriend could just learn to budget he wouldn’t have ha
d to rob that Xtra Mart.
If he hadn’t used her car to rob the Xtra Mart.
If the bitch hadn’t told the cops he borrowed the car.
If the bitch didn’t tell them where to find him.
It was all his bitch of girlfriend’s fault that he was locked up in Middletown City Jail, a guest of the county.
Only good part of all of it was that the cops got all the money.
His bitch of a girlfriend wouldn’t be visiting her mother in Miami.
2
“Notice something about these bills?” said the guy from Westbrook Barracks.
“They counterfeit? We thought they might be fake. You never see anything bigger than a twenty at a place like that,” said the Middlesex County deputy. He leaned over to look at the bill held stretched between the gloved hands of the trooper.
“They’re old,” the trooper said.
“Look new to me,” the deputy said.
The county had called in Connecticut State Police CID when they spotted the bills taken in as evidence in a convenience store hold-up. They found Lyle James Bandeaux high as a kite in his apartment just as his girlfriend said he’d be. The money was still in the Xtra Mart bag. The weapon used in the robbery was on the floor by him. Dead bang.
“That’s the other thing. Series 1993 but still fresh. They’re old but they look new.” The trooper flicked the edge of the bill. It was crisp.
“Damn,” the deputy said, squinting at General Grant’s stern visage.
Connecticut State CID contacted the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston. The trooper faxed over scans of both sides of both bills. The scans remained on the fax machine tray at the Fed until the following morning. An officer there re-faxed the notice from the trooper to Treasury and the FBI.