Blood Brothers

by Kate Merrill

  “Yeah, all the agents call him that now,” Carla said. “I don’t want him behind the pulpit at my church, though.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  The preacher’s callhad scared Bobby Porter so badly he couldn’t remember half the conversation. Thank God they had it all on tape. Bo poured more wine, acutely aware that Carla was watching his every move. “The kidnapper demanded fifty thousand and wants the cash delivered in twenties. I can’t believe the family actually raised that much money--- with some help from their friends.”

  “Very good friends,” Carla amended.

  Everyone at the office had heard how a man named Matthew Troutman wrote a check for twenty-five thousand, no questions asked. Diana Rittenhouse went groveling to her mama and raised an additional fifteen grand. Add this money to Bobby and Juanita’s life savings, and they had come up with the ransom.

  The FBI’s stance on ransom payments was ambiguous. While they hated to bargain with criminals, the child’s safety was always the number one priority. “Those people made an amazing grassroots effort to raise the cash.” Bo smiled. “Hope it works…”

  “How come they’re not showing the preacher’sface on TV?” Carla asked.

  Bo’s stomach lurched. “The kidnapper was furious when he saw Bobby and Juanita’s appeal on television. He said he’d kill the boy if anything else appeared in the media, so we intend to honor his wishes. But we do have an APB out to the police and sheriffs in five counties. They have strict orders to maintain a sharp watch, but keep their hands off. The cops have been discreet so far, but if they spot the preacher,I’m afraid they’ll go ballistic and take matters into their own hands.”

  “God, I hope not.” Carla knew better than most that public relations between federal and local authorities were often a tug o’ war. Each group was territorial, and everyone was a cowboy. With a child’s life at stake, however, brainless heroics were not an option. “So tell me, Beaufort…” she continued. “How’s the drop going down?”

  He shot her a stern look of disapproval. Bo was not in the habit of sharing the details of a stakeout with anyone, especially when the element of surprise was critical and the risks so high. But this was Carla, after all. They had worked together for six long years, not as intimately as he might have liked, but he knew she was close-mouthed and reliable. Even her personal life remained a mystery, or maybe that was because Bo had never had the guts to probe her secrets?

  “The preacher laid it out for us.” Bo confided. “He made all the rules and he’s calling the shots. It’s set up for tomorrow afternoon in Concord. Bobby is supposed to take the cash to a convenience store directly across from the Charlotte Motor Speedway.”

  “Is there a race scheduled tomorrow?”

  “No, but they’re having speed trials. Some NASCAR superstars are running, so the place will be a zoo.”

  “Sounds like the preacher’s looking for comfort in a crowd.”

  “Yeah, he should blend right in,” Bo said bitterly. “I hope we will.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Bobby is supposed to come alone, unarmed, of course. The kidnapper knows Bobby will be driving his beat-up ’94 Ford pickup, and he calculated the drive from Troutman to Concord should take one hour. If Bobby doesn’t arrive at two o’clock sharp, the deal is off.”

  “Good luck.” Carla snorted. “What if there’s a traffic snarl on Interstate 77? If there’s an accident, God Himself would be late.”

  Bo frowned. “That’s why we’re planning an early start for Mr. Porter, and I have the dubious honor of booting him out the door on time. After that, I’m out of it.”

  “What happens when Bobby gets to the convenience store in Charlotte?”

  Bo sighed. Obviously Carla didn’t understand how much he hated being cut out of the action. “Bobby was told to bring the cash in a red gym bag. When the preacher comes out of the store, he’ll open a pack of Winstoncigarettesand light up, so Bobby will know who he is. Then Bobby turns the red bag over to the man, they shake hands, and Bobby climbs back into his truck to wait.”

  “How very civilized.” Carla smirked. “When does Bobby get the kid?”

  “When they shake hands, the preacherwill pass Bobby a sealed envelope containing the address of a motel where Juan is being held. Then Bobby is supposed to wait forty minutes before he leaving to collect Juan.”

  “While the kidnapper makes a leisurely getaway, right?” Carla’s dark cheeks flushed with anger. “That’s bullshit, Bo. What kind of a deal is that?”

  “It’s the only deal we’ve got. Grim thinks he has it covered. He left with a crisis team an hour ago, and they’ll work all night to set up a sting. Plainclothesmen will be stationed across at the Speedway, in both adjacent lots, and inside the convenience store…”

  “Jesus, Bo, what will our guys be doing inside? Cutting salami or working the cash register?”

  A hot rush of embarrassment crept up his neck. “Matter of fact, as we speak our guys are taking a crash course in deli management. We’ll even have an agent pumping gas.”

  Carla giggled. “You’re well out of it, Bo.”

  Not true. He beat down his disappointment and glared at her. How could he expect Carla to understand? She wasn’t the one in need of redemption. Tomorrow’s confrontation could have been his one perfect chance to make up for past mistakes. Again Bo saw the three-year-old victim, her mutilated body abandoned in the old warehouse, and fought the horror rising in his throat.

  Carla reached out to him. She took his hand and lifted his fingers to her lips. Her kiss was soft as a butterfly’s wing. “Let it go, Bo,” she whispered. With her free hand, she touched the hot contours of his face. “Let Grim handle it.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” he told her. “God help us all…”

  “That sounds like a prayer. I never took you for a religious man.”

  Had she thought of him as a man at all? A powerful sense of longing, of time lost, invaded his spirit. Impulsively, he captured the small hand touching his face and flattened it against his chest, so she could feel his beating heart.

  “When this is all over, will you go out with me, Carla?”

  This time, it wasa prayer.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  TWENTY-SEVEN

   

   

  Not a team player…

   

  Bo arrived at the Porter’s house too early. Because it was Saturday, only a handful of laborers were at work erecting an impressive stone monument at the entrance to the park. Bo spotted the agent assigned to guard Juanita today. Disguised as a workman, the FBI man was leaning against his car smoking a cigarette. When the man lifted his hand in a listless greeting, Bo realized this sentry was bored out of his mind.

  Bo was not bored, he was wired. After parting with Carla last night, he had called Max Grim at the stakeout in Charlotte and begged for a role in the ransom drop. Finally Max had tired of Bo’s whining and assigned him a job as Bobby’s tail. His part would be one step removed from the real action, but it beat twiddling his thumbs.

  As Bo entered the Porter’s small house, the couple’s nervous energy charged the space like electric current through a fish tank. The door swung open even before he knocked, and as Bobby and Juanita bounced around the living room, Bo got the jitters, too.

  He saw two untouched plates of food on the table. “Hey, why don’t you folks sit down and finish your breakfast? We have plenty of time.”

  “The eggs are cold…” Juanita paced the kitchen. “So I’ll fix us some lunch.” She scurried from the refrigerator to the counter, each time trading one plastic container for another in helpless indecision. The special phone the agents had given her,
the hotline connecting with the FBI, never left Juanita’s hand.

  “She’s strung up tighter than a drum,” Bobby confided in a whisper. “She ain’t finished one thing she started all day.”

  “How are you holding up, Bobby?”

  “Fair to middlin’, but I’m ready. Here, I’ll show you…”

  The bright red streaks staining Bobby’s normally pale neck and face told Bo that Bobby wasn’t good at all. He watched as the agitated man dragged an enormous red bag out from under the table.

  “The money’s all here, Beaufort---fifty thousand, like he said.” Bobby unzipped the bag and brought out fat wads of banded twenties, each pack worth one thousand dollars. “I went to K-Mart and had me some trouble finding a bag big enough to hold it all. You wanna count it?”

  “No thanks, Bobby, I trust you. But what the hell were you doing at K-Mart? We assigned an agent to buy that bag.”

  “Yeah, and I told that agent to take a hike. I won’t be a prisoner in my own house.”

  Bo exhaled in exasperation. Bobby Porter was a brave man, but he was not a team player, and that bore watching. So did Bo’s blood pressure. He could feel the tension building in his veins and chugging even faster through his heart as he observed Bobby and Juanita’s antics. Neither sat down, nor did they invite Bo to sit. They bickered about everything from what to fix Juan for his homecoming dinnerto which shirt should Bobby wear to pick him up.Their manic behavior set Bo’s teeth on edge. Christ, they were talking like parents retrieving their kid from summer camp.

  By the time Bo escorted Bobby to his truck, he was emotionally exhausted. “You remember the plan, right?” He coached. “I go first. You wait ten minutes, then follow.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Bobby said. “You wait for me at the ramp to Interstate 77, then I pass by like you ain’t even there.”

  “Youknow the way to the Speedway, right Bobby?”

  Bobby smiled. “When I was a young man, I could find that Speedway with a blindfold on my eyes.”

  Bo hoped Bobby’s current sense of direction was equally sound. “Now remember, I have to stay out of sight, several cars back. If you get lost, I can’t help you, Bobby.”

  Bobby nodded solemnly, but the color drained completely from his face and his eyes seemed uncertain. Bo realized he could grill the man until doom’s day hoping to fend off the one slip that could cost lives. And although Bobby was his senior, Bo felt almost paternal towards the little man trembling before him.

  “What happens when you get to the convenience store?”  He asked more gently.

  “I wait until he lights his cigarette, then I give him the money.”

  “That’s right, now raise your arms. I have to check you for a weapon, Bobby.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened as Bo patted him down, and then Bobby automatically spread his legs. For some reason, it hurt to see that Bobby was no stranger to the drill.

  “Told you I was clean.” Bobby was also hurt because Bo didn’t trust him.

  “Well you better be clean. Juan’s life is at stake here, and we have to play by the book.” Without further words, Bo climbed into his car and drove away. He did not look back.

  * * *

  Bobby’s old Ford pickup merged onto I77 right on schedule, and he kept to the right lane, as agreed. Bo waited until a string of traffic flowed between them, then he too pulled onto the Interstate. Trailing Bobby would be tricky. He couldn’t follow too close, but he also couldn’t allow Bobby to get into trouble. In spite of what Bo had implied, if anything did go wrong---flat tire, overheating, missed turn---Bo was watching Bobby’s back and would fix the trouble, because absolutely nothing could get in the way of this rendezvous with the kidnappers.

  He tapped the sentinel button above his rearview mirror, and the digital readout said 94 degrees. It was hot as hell, and they were heading due south. So far, so good. Heat shimmered from the blacktop and sun glanced off the chrome of passing cars. The glare stung Bo’s eyes and aggravated the headache that had plagued him all morning. Drinking that fourth cup of coffee was a big mistake, because now it was sloshing around in his stomach like battery acid.

  He imagined the scene at the stakeout, the details running through his brain in vivid Technicolor. He saw agents in place in the parking lots and the convenience store. He pictured scenarios where everything went wrong.

  Bo couldn’t help himself, because he’d seen too many perfect plans go sour. Today offered too many variables. This perfect summer day would bring every beer-guzzling yahoo out to the racetrack. The human mix complicated everything, and poor Bobby was a time bomb waiting to blow. Already he was behaving erratically, Bo noted as he peered up the highway and saw the Ford pickup passing a caravan of semi-trailers. What was Bobby doing? They had agreed to stay in the right lane and drive safely. With only twenty-some miles to their exit, they had the luxury of time.

  Damn! A slow-moving car carrier pulled up beside Bo, blocking his shift into the passing lane. Up ahead, Bobby had picked up speed. If Bo didn’t know better, he’d swear Bobby was trying to lose him.

  Bobby was carrying a dedicated cell phone, in case they needed to communicate, and Bo was poised to dial, ready to tell Bobby to cool it, when he took an opening into the passing lane and closed the distance between them. Bo figured Bobby was nervous and that his burst of speed was unintentional. Sure enough, ahead and around the bend, Bobby had eased right and was slowing down.

  But then Bobby veered off the highway at the Mooresville exit. Jesus Christ! Bo cursed and panicked. He nearly rear-ended a small compact as he floored the gas and jerked into the exit lane. An angry chorus of horns blared as he nosed in between a boat trailer and a UPS truck on the ramp, and Bo hardly noticed when the UPS driver made a rude gesture with his middle finger. Instead, Bo’s mind weighed the possibilities. Was Bobby having car trouble? If there was a major problem, then time was no longer a luxury.

  He jabbed his phone’s speed dial, programmed directly to Bobby. It rand and rang, but Bobby wouldn’t pick up. What the hell? Either Bobby had forgotten to turn on his phone, or he was choosing to ignore it. Shit! Bo craned his neck to see around the brown walls of the UPS truck and spotted the old pickup turning west on River Highway. If car trouble was the issue, then Bobby was headed in the wrong direction. All the repair shops were east, on the way into town.

  Bo started to sweat. He could no longer fool himself--- Bobby had his own agenda, and that agenda was a complete unknown. Bo hits another button on his phone, and in seconds Supervisory Special Agent Maxfield Grim was on the line. His boss, whom he had interrupted at the stakeout, listened in ominous silence as Bo explained. First Bo heard a heavy rasping sound as the Grim Reaper sucked oxygen into his smoke-damaged lungs, then the rough rattle of his voice:

  “Damn. The preacher got to him.”

  Grim’s words confirmed Bo’s worst fears.

  “But how can that be?” Bo moaned. “We have that house wired up tight. No call gets through without us hearing it.”

  Max Grim sighed. “Maybe Bobby got himself a little cell phone we don’t know about? Point is, it happened, Beaufort, now what the hell are you planning to do about it?”

  The use of his name startled Bo. Never before had Grim called him anything but Agent Miller, and this aberration alone scared the shit out of him. “I won’t lose him, sir.”

  “Damn right you won’t, but we better get you some backup ASAP. Say again, where are you…?”

  Bo finally got a green light and made a right turn off the ramp, but Bobby had disappeared. “I’m moving west on River Highway, but I’ve lost visual contact…”

  “Shit,” Grim muttered. “That highway doesn’t run but one direction, so Porter’s not far ahead. Get moving, son, but keep a close watch to both sides of the road. It’s a mess up there---gas stations, marinas, and local taverns. Since Porter has the money with him, we have to assume the kidnapper’s given him new instructions. If Bobby pulls off anywhere, he’s going for the drop. Do you un
derstand?”

  Bo grunted in the affirmative. Again Grim’s words confirmed the fear that now grasped his heart like a boa constrictor. He pictured the team in Concord, how Grim would be forced to abort the operation and send the men home.

  The preacher’splan was brilliant. There wasn’t an FBI agent with a hope in hell of reaching Bo in time. He was on his own. “What about backup, sir?”

  Grim ground his teeth. “When you cross a big bridge across Lake Norman, you’ll be straddling the line between Iredell and Catawba Counties. That means the Iredell police are behind you, and the Catawba Sheriff’s dead ahead.”

  “Can you call them both?” Bo laughed nervously as he caught sight of Bobby’s truck stopped at a light, with only a half dozen vehicles between them. “I see Bobby, sir. He’s at a traffic light.”

  “Good. That light means you’re at Perth Road, so I’ll call in the coordinates. You won’t hit another light until you reach a little country store at Terrell, then again at the Denver intersection of Highway 16.”

  Grim made this predicament sound like a vacation cruise, but Bo sensed he was in hostile territory. Exactly how long would it take these local authorities to come to his aid?

  “Don’t worry, son, we’ll call in the troops. Leave your intercom on, and for Christ sake Beaufort, don’t be a hero.” Grim cleared his throat. “Stick on Porter like a fly on shit, but don’t make a move until help arrives.”

  Bo swallowed hard, and then muttered his compliance. In his wildest dreams, he never thought he’d miss the Grim Reaper, but when Max’s voice crackled off the line, Bo felt a void where the old man had been.

  Sunshine streamed across a highway crowded with Saturday revelers. Cars towed expensive boats, and the atmosphere was festive. Bo kept Bobby’s truck in sight, but his mind wandered. He noticed the lush green summer foliage lifting at the roadside and how brilliantly blue the lake was as he crossed one, then two bridges. Somehow he was numb, allowing the world around him to blur the horror of his own reality. He willed himself to think about Carla, the soft warmth of her lips when they kissed last night. And he watched the sailboats, their white wings floating like doves of peace.