by L C Hayden
twenty-nine
Paul stood at the airport in Rapid City, South Dakota, looking, wondering. He had no idea how to find Carrier, but his determination would lead him to that sorry excuse for a human being.
One good thing about being a computer whiz, Paul knew how to get into ATF’s database on illegal gun dealers in South Dakota. When Freddie’s name popped up, Paul contacted a police informant who had a reputation for working on either side. Paul made sure he paid this two-bit Dallas hood above the amount he would have expected to make all the proper arrangements. The informant had done so, and now Paul stood in the airport, ready to meet Freddie. He opened his cell and made the call.
“Yeah? What do you want?” came the answer at the other end.
Paul remembered the code and hoped he wouldn’t make a mistake. “Certainly not information about the weather.”
“Why? Too cold for you?”
“No, actually the weather is perfect.” Paul waited. Had he forgotten a phrase? Said one wrong?
He’d almost given up when the voice came back. “About a ten-minute drive from the airport, there’s a park, Buffalo Gap City Park. There’s a bench, facing the pond. Meet me there.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you.”
The line went dead. Paul put the cell away, hailed a taxi, and instructed the cab driver to take him to Buffalo Gap City Park. He found the bench, plopped down his luggage in the space beside him, and sat down. While waiting, he thought of Bronson and Mike. If they were sitting on this bench, they would have memorized by now where each person stood and what each wore.
He watched two kids feed corn to some ducks. An elderly woman stood by them. Their grandmother? A handful of teens, each on roller blades, zoomed up and down the street. A man in his mid-forties read a newspaper. A couple with their arms wrapped around each other stared at the pond. No one paid attention to him. He’d been stood up. Good thing money hadn’t been exchanged.
Paul looked around once more. No one of interest. He looked at his watch. He’d wait five minutes. To help pass the time, he studied the people again. The couple by the pond was now kissing. Grandma gathered the kids and dragged them screaming to the car. The guy reading the paper had vanished. A man walked his dog. A car pulled into the parking lot, but no one got out.
Paul looked at his watch again. Seven minutes had lapsed. Time to head—where? He didn’t have a motel room, and he didn’t have a frigging car to get there. He picked up his carry-on luggage and headed out of the park.
A maroon sedan pulled up in front of him. The driver reached over and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
Paul stared at the man. He was the one who had been in the park reading the newspaper.
“Do you want the merchandise or not?” he asked.
“I’m interested,” Paul said, but now wondered if that had been a good move. His experience with gun dealers had been restricted to seeing their names in the computer, reading about them, filing information away, and checking on evidence that would hopefully lead to their conviction. He’d never confronted one, until now. The idea filled him with fear, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw his wife’s smiling face followed by the image of her lying in her coffin. He’d do this, no matter where it led him.
“Get in,” the man said again.
For a second, Paul hesitated. Then he took a deep breath, opened the door, and climbed in. “I’m Paul McKenzie.”
“Who cares? I’m here to do business with you, not be your friend.”
Paul opened his case, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to him. “It’s all there. Where’s my piece?”
The driver reached under the seat and handed him a box. Paul opened it and stared.
The criminal made a noise that sounded more like an animal’s cry. “Do you even know what that is?”
Paul looked at him. Did he look that stupid? “A gun.”
The man closed his eyes and shook his head. “I meant what kind of gun.”
“Oh.” Paul shrugged.
“It’s a .25-caliber automatic. You can put five rounds in some dude’s head while a guy with a .38 is getting one out.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Do you know how to fire it? Load it? There’s some extra ammo in the box.”
Paul had never fired a gun before and knew little about them. Other guys in the lab dealt with guns and other weapons. They were the experts. Not him. Not that it mattered, or at least not until today. “I’ll only need one bullet.”
“I don’t want or need to know that.”
“Sorry.” Paul closed the box and put it in his carrying case. He had the weapon now. All he needed was Carrier. “You wouldn’t by any chance be for hire, would you?”
“I may be a lot of things, but a killer, I’m not.”
“That’s not what I want to hire you for. That pleasure will be all mine.”
“Too much information.”
“Sorry.” Paul cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a man, and I’ve no idea how to find him. He’s extremely dangerous, so all you’ll have to do is find him and report back to me.”
“Tell me about this person you want me to find.”
Paul did, then thought maybe he had said too much. Had he spooked Freddie?
Freddie sat back in the car seat and studied Paul. “All you want me to do is find Carrier. That’s all? Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours. It’s going to cost you, though.”
“I figured it would. Do a good job and you’ll be paid well.”
The man’s gaze focused on Paul. “Fine.” He inserted the key in the ignition. Paul remained sitting in the car and made no attempt to leave. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, you can take me to a clean, but inexpensive motel.”
The driver glared at Paul.
* * * * *
Soon as Freddie dropped Paul off at the Happy Trails Motel, he retrieved his cell and pressed speed dial number four.
Stuart Ruggiero answered on the first ring. “Hope this is about a job. I could use one just about now.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
“Speak.”
“I’m looking for a man named Carrier.”
A small pause followed. “Benjamin Carrier?”
Freddie brightened. That had been easy. “That’s the one.”
“Take my advice, from one cell mate to the other. Steer away from him.”
“Bad news, eh?”
“Real bad.”
Freddie considered this, but the good part was that he didn’t need to get involved with Carrier. “All I need is a phone number and an address. Then I hand the information to a customer. No sweat off my brow. I get paid. You get paid.”
“Sounds easy.”
“Does that mean you can get me Carrier’s contact info?”
“Oh, yeah.” Stuart paused. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“Back a couple of years when we did time at the Federal Correctional Institute.”
Freddie recalled that he and Stuart had been cell mates for a bit over a year. That hadn’t been the best part of his life. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Remember that guy two doors down from us?”
Freddie squinted, trying to recall the name. Then it dawned on him. “Weird Jimmy.”
“That’s the one. He’s Carrier’s cousin. Used to talk about him all the time.”
Freddie recalled all the tales Weird Jimmy had spun. At the time, Freddie had doubted that Carrier existed or at least did half the stuff Weird Jimmy gave him credit for. “Can you get hold of Weird Jimmy?”
“You bet. I hire him now and then to do odd jobs for me. I’ll give him a buzz. I should have Carrier’s contact information in an hour or two.”
thirty
Approaching an unfamiliar place in the dar
k ranked high among Bronson’s list of Things I Hate Most to Do. He slipped the gun into his hip holster for easy access, grabbed the flashlight, and stepped out of the car.
He stood at the top of the cliff, staring at the valley that housed Mensa Enterprises. The well-lit single building beckoned him, but instead of making him feel welcome, it filled him with dread. This certainly was no abandoned site as he had been led to believe. Someone had been taking care of it, or at least was paying its electric bill.
He started his descent, thankful for the full moon. As he worked his way down the hill, he watched his surroundings as carefully as a bird preparing to take flight. Still, he advanced at a steady rate. During the few times he knew the beam of his flashlight couldn’t be seen by anyone who might be watching from one of the windows, he’d turn the light on, always directing its beam downward.
The cool night breeze blew, chilling Bronson’s bones. The anxiety gnawing at his gut drenched him with a cold sweat. He ignored the discomfort. Off in the distance, he heard the shriek of birds. Other guttural creature sounds surrounded him, making his descent seem unreal, menacing. Still, he pushed on.
When he reached the bottom of the hill, he made a wide circle, enabling him to get a good view and approach the building from the back. He crouched and waited from behind some shrubs, watching the warehouse that loomed before him. He didn’t detect any movement.
Keeping low, he advanced at a snail’s pace. He crouched under a window, the only sound stemming from his pounding heart. He raised his head high enough to peek. Row after row of stacked cardboard boxes filled the area from floor to ceiling. Carrier could easily hide behind any of those.
Bronson moved on to the next window and encountered the same setup. He sat hard on the ground, trying to think of an alternate solution. Nothing came to mind. If Carrier held Pete prisoner, his chances of survival diminished with each passing second, but Bronson knew better than to try to use shortcuts. He would check the rest of the windows. Hopefully, he’d be able to spot something different, something that would give him the upper hand, no matter how slim.
Luck evaded him.
Resigned, he worked his way to the back of the building. He took out his gun and held it at the ready position. He plastered his back against the wall and swung the door open. He waited and listened for the slightest noise. In the far distance, an owl hooted and the wind whistled around him.
Bronson stuck his head in just long enough to enable him to see. The place seemed deserted.
He stepped in, knowing a trap awaited him.
* * * * *
At 9:03 the call came in. Mike checked the caller I. D. and sprang to his feet. “Got to take it.” He looked at Little Carol and pointed to the TV show they were watching. “Fill me in?”
“Of course.” Little Carol returned her attention to the TV.
Mike stepped out of Bronson’s camper, the cool night air hitting his face. “Mike.”
“You’ll want to see this.”
Mike recognized Detective Gorman’s harsh voice. “What is it?”
“Just get your ass over here.”
Mike glanced at Bronson’s camper where Little Carol sat tucked in the recliner, her legs folded under her. Two doors down, over at the Watsons’, Carol rehearsed her part for the play. Mike had promised Bronson he’d watch his family. He wouldn’t go back on his word. “You’ll need to send someone over here before I can leave.”
“You’re talking about that protection thing, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t see what good that’s going to do. That’s just a waste of taxpayers’ money.”
Exasperation consumed Mike. “What are you driving at?”
“Get here, now.”
Mike knew Gorman had no authority over him, but Gorman could call the Dallas department and demand Mike be sent home. Dallas would frown at Mike’s failure. He didn’t want any harsh reprimands from his superiors. After all, he had his career to consider. He knew Bronson wouldn’t have cared about commands. He would’ve stayed, and that’s why Bronson was now unemployed, while Mike hung on to his job. He wasn’t Bronson. He opened his mouth to say he’d be right there, but nothing came out. He took in a deep breath and held it. “I’m not leaving until I know someone is here to protect them.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll send someone.”
Relief flowed through Mike’s veins. He returned to the camper and watched through the window for a sign of a cruiser. Ten minutes later, he spotted the police car pulling into The Roost Resort. His gaze went to Little Carol, who continued to enjoy the TV movie—some romantic comedy Mike had no interest in. She opened a can of Diet Pepsi and a bag of chips and offered Mike some.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to go out for a little while. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Little Carol bolted to her feet, spilling most of the chips. “Everything is okay, Uncle Mike? Dad’s okay?”
Mike bent down and helped her pick up the chips. “Everything is fine. Captain Grouch wants to talk to me.”
Little Carol giggled. “Captain Grouch?”
“Actually, it’s Gorman, but he’s a grouch with a capital G. I’ve got to be careful not to call him that to his face.” He pocketed the car rental keys. “Lock the door behind me.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Dad.”
Hoover smiled and stepped out. He wondered what was so important that Gorman couldn’t tell him over the phone.
* * * * *
Gorman threw a file folder Hoover’s way. “How well do you know Bronson?”
Mike reached for the folder. “Very well,” he said. “Why?”
“You’d stand by him?”
“You bet. What’s all this about?”
Gorman pointed at the file. “That just came in.”
Mike read in amazement the report listing Bronson as the man responsible for Mitch Randig’s, Pedro Gonzalez’s, and Jay Pilot’s deaths. Bronson was considered armed and dangerous. Mike slammed the report on Gorman’s desk. “That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah. So now you see why I can’t provide police protection to Bronson’s family. Seems Carrier doesn’t exist.”
The image of the inferno surrounding him momentarily paralyzed Mike. “Oh, he exists all right.”
“Granted, he does—or at least did. Thing is, as the report shows, the only one who’s seen him is Bronson. No prints, nothing to trace back to Carrier.”
“We have the prints—the ones that made us aware Carrier is behind all of these murders.”
Gorman leaned back on his desk and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “Tell me. Where did you get these prints?”
“Bronson sent them to us. We matched them against the computer listing and got a hit.”
“Uh-huh. Ever consider the possibility that Bronson might have been planning this for years? He could have gotten the prints from an old file or something and sent them as brand new.”
“That doesn’t make sense, and Bronson wouldn’t do that anyway.”
Gorman’s nostrils flared. “How’s this for making sense? I’m removing police protection.”
thirty-one
Bronson stared at the aisle created by the large shipping boxes piled just high enough to prevent him from looking over them. The passageway dead-ended ten feet down, but at that point, he could turn right or left. He scooted down to the next aisle. The layout remained consistent, as it did in the next aisle and the one after that. It’s a freaking maze, Bronson thought, and the realization unsettled him.
Bronson tried moving a box. To his surprise, it didn’t weigh much, but it’d take him forever to knock them all down. Besides, he didn’t know which rows he should destroy. He doubted that he’d maintained the element of surprise in spite of his earlier efforts. He felt sure Carrier was watching him. He looked for cameras, but saw none.
If he took a right every single time he might not get lost. He headed up the first aisle and turned right. One row down, he executed another
right and heard a low moan.
Bronson paused, his gun at the ready. He listened to the night’s noises, then mostly to the lack of noises. He pushed on until he heard the moan again, followed by gasping, whimpering sounds.
Bronson braced himself, sucked in huge swallows of air, and executed a turn. The maze opened to reveal a large, open space. At its center, a kid sat in a plain wooden chair, his legs tied to the chair, his arms bound behind him. Duct tape held his mouth shut.
Bronson recognized Manuel. He had expected Pete. “Are you alone?”
Manuel’s wide-open eyes pointed to somewhere behind him.
At that moment, the room went dark. The great engulfing blackness swallowed Bronson, temporarily disorienting him. He dropped to the ground, holding on to his gun with his right hand, his left hand reaching for the flashlight.
He listened to the screaming silence around him. The seconds stretched into hours, the hours became days. Manuel’s muffled cries led him to turn the flashlight on, focusing the beam on the area behind the kid.
From behind Bronson, an explosion erupted, followed by three more, to his right, to his left, and in front of him. The distinct smell of burning boxes filled his lungs. A pulsing whoosh of air grew in his ears and swept past him, the sound reminding him of a panting animal. The air fueled the flames.
He pocketed the gun and flashlight and rushed toward Manuel. Fear swam in the kid’s eyes. “I’ll get you out.” Bronson forced his own choking fear aside, hoping against hope he could pull it off.
The flames surrounded them like giant tidal waves, the smoke scorching Bronson’s lungs. He untied Manuel. “Stay low. Follow me.”
Manuel’s limbs trembled uncontrollably, his hands a shaking blur. He remained frozen, staring at the inferno that surrounded them.
Cardboard burns fast and hot, and only in a few scattered areas had the structure caught fire. This little bit of hope provided Bronson with the edge he sought. He reached for Manuel’s arm, jerked him to the floor, and dragged him along, always heading toward his left, toward the exit.