Sooner Fled

by David L Thornburg

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I thought it was kids when I first got here,” the sheriff said. “But I think it was planned pretty carefully. I was here 20 minutes after the alarm went off, and they were long gone. They did the maximum damage in the minimum time.”

  He turned to John. “I have everything I need for now. I’ll have Eileen at the station e-mail you the pictures and the police report for your insurance. I guess you can start cleaning up.”

  Stephanie said, “I’ll take Cynthia and Crystal home then come back and help.”

  John and I watched the sheriff and the ladies leave, then he turned and said, “Come look at this.”

  We went to his office and he pulled his chair out. He lifted a torn piece of paper from it. “I got this off my desk as fast as I could so the sheriff wouldn’t see it.”

  It was a page torn out of a Bible, from the book of Exodus. Circled was the verse, “The Lord will visit the iniquities of the fathers on the children, to the third and fourth generation.”

  “Do you know what it means?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Well?”

  He sat down heavily. “I shouldn’t bother you with this. You’re supposed to lay low, remember? You may have already blown it after you took down old man Vassel and found those lost manuscripts last week.”

  What he didn’t know was as a cop for five years and a police chaplain for five more I couldn’t walk away from anyone in trouble. “John, don’t worry about me. I can be more help than you think.”

  “All right. If it was still just me, it might be different. But now with Cynthia, and especially Crystal, I can’t put them in danger. Back in 2008, when the economy tanked, people around here were barely able to keep their homes. They sure weren’t buying new Fords. My dad owned this place then. I was off at college. I was worried about the business, but then one day the troubles seemed to go away. The oil jobs came back, the price of wheat and corn rose, everything was better.

  “Then Dad had his heart attack, and I got to put my business degree to use. What I saw was a massive infusion of cash in January of ’09 to the tune of $600,000. That money got him through the rough patch, but I never found where it came from or if was paid back, at least not in a lump sum.”

  “Loan shark?” I asked.

  “Mob money, most likely. My grandad made his living by running bootleg whiskey up to Chicago for Capone’s boys during Prohibition. Let’s just say he was not a deacon in a church. Anyway, if Dad needed money, he probably knew where to get it.”

  “And now somebody wants it back.”

  He nodded. “About a year ago I got a telephone call that ‘The bank was closing,’ but when I asked what they meant or who they were, they hung up. Then a couple of months back, I got a visit from some guy asking for the owner, and he seemed surprised when I came out. We went into my office and he told me about the loan, that with interest it was up to $750,000, and to call him at the number on his card when I had it.”

  He looked out his office window to the chaos of his showroom floor. “I guess the time is up.”

  I said, “Let me guess. You don’t have the money.”

  He chuckled grimly. “Nope.”

  “And Cynthia doesn’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  Stephanie walked into the office. Her blue dress had changed to shorts, sneakers, and a Police tee shirt. Her brown hair was swept back in a ponytail. “I called some kids from the youth group. They’re picking up brooms and stuff from the church then they’ll be here to help. I’m so sorry, John.”

  “Thanks. Me too.” She left, and he looked back at me. “Where do we start?”

  “Let me see that card.”

  It read Frank McNeill, Financial Consultant, and gave a phone number. No address.

  “Let’s give it a call,” I said. I got up to close the office door. The youth group had arrived, and Stephanie was assigning jobs. When she saw me closing the door, she scowled and put her hands on her hips.

  John punched in the number and put the phone on speaker.

  “McNeill.”

  “This is Peter Andrews, calling on behalf of Gray Auto Sales.”

  “Really? Are you by chance with law enforcement?”

  “No, actually. I am Mr. Gray’s pastor.”

  The snort on the other end was either laughter or disgust, I couldn’t tell which. “What can I do for you, Reverend?”

  “I wanted to mention that the debt in question is not Mr. Gray’s, but his father’s, who is now deceased. So, we don’t think he has to repay.” John was burying his face in his hands.

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Then we might have to take it up with the proper authorities,” I said.

  “I have mentioned to Mr. Gray that would be a bad idea. It would be terrible if the next visit to Gray’s Auto Sales happened during business hours, when customers and employees are there. Not that I had anything to do with today’s incident.”

  “Of course not. At the very least, we need more time to get that much money together.”

  McNeill was beginning to lose his cool. “The terms are not up to me. I have to answer to my boss. My job is to collect, so that’s what I plan to do. Call me Friday before noon with a drop point. I don’t want this to take any longer than it has to.”

  He hung up.

  “I think you made him mad,” John said.

  “Do you think the bank will loan you the money?”

  “I doubt it. The house has 75 in equity, I have about that in other assets, and the net worth of the dealership wouldn’t make up the difference.”

  Stephanie opened the door without knocking. “We could use some help out here, gentlemen.”

  After finishing at the dealership, Stephanie and I were both hungry, so we stopped at the local hamburger joint, Ed’s, the only place open in Oak Valley on a Sunday evening.

  “It wasn’t just kids, was it?” she asked, between sips of her shake.

  “Afraid not. Pros.”

  “Extortion?”

  I wondered how much to say, but I knew she would figure it out anyway. “Loan sharks. Serious ones.”

  She chewed her fries for a while. “So how are you going to help him?”

  “What makes you think I can help him?”

  “I don’t think you’re an ordinary pastor. At least not any that have been at our church in my lifetime.”

  I knew I should change the subject. “What do you mean?”

  “You certainly kept your cool when old man Vassel had a gun on us. And, you’re not very good at public speaking.”

  Ouch. She had me there. As a police chaplain in Detroit, I hadn’t ever given a traditional sermon.

  She went on. “You seem more like a fix it guy. Have you ever been a cop?”

  “No. Just a garden variety seminary graduate. Sorry.”

  She frowned. She knew I was lying.

  “Jose,” answered the voice on the other end.

  “Hello. Don’t use my real name.”

  It was 7:00 Monday morning, Oklahoma time, and I knew Jose was at his desk in Detroit.

  “Copy that,” Jose said. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah. I need a favor. Ping a phone for me. Text me the location at 11, your time, then I’ll get rid of this burner.” I gave him McNeill’s number off his business card.

  “Will do. Listen, we’re all worried about you. That was really brave what you did back here. We just hope it doesn’t get you killed.”

  “They have to find me first.” I ended the call and looked at the log. 27 seconds. Not long enough for anyone to trace my location.

  At 10:02 I was at my desk in the church office, thinking a little about next week’s sermon. I pulled out the burner phone I bought for $19.95 off a display at the general store the next town over. The screen flickered on, and an electronic beep announced an incoming message.

  “Phone location was latitude 36.057, longitude -97.635 at 8:37
A. M. CST. Looks like a backwater so rural Google Maps doesn’t even show addresses for the area. Don’t know where you are, but I hope you aren’t there. It looks like ‘The Wagon Broke So We Stayed, Oklahoma.’ Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I took the battery out and placed it in the left pocket of my windbreaker and the rest of the phone in my right pocket. I entered the coordinates in my office computer.

  “Son of a bitch!” I exclaimed. Stephanie leaned back in her chair in the outer office with her eyebrows raised. I couldn’t help it. Sometimes the cop’s language won over the chaplain’s.

  The coordinates were downtown Oak Valley. He was here.

  I walked over to Stephanie’s desk. “Field trip.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said, grabbing her backpack.

  We locked the church and headed toward the main street, which was actually called Jackson Boulevard. The east/west streets were the presidents in order of succession, but the city limits were so small the northern boundary was Pierce Street.

  I dropped the phone in a trash receptacle, and the battery in another.

  “I assume this has something to do with yesterday,” Stephanie said.

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. “Tell me if you see anything unusual or out of place.” She was raised here, so she was the expert. It all looked alien to me.

  “That car parked in front of the Moore Hotel,” she said immediately.

  It was a black Taurus. “It has Oklahoma plates,” I said.

  “It’s a rental. We have farm implement and feed salesmen come through here all the time, but most have their own trucks or company cars.”

  “Do you know who runs the hotel?”

  “Duh.”

  “Do you mind asking if they have any out of the ordinary guests?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’ll be in the diner over here. I’ll get us a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “Slice of pecan pie.”

  “And a slice of pecan pie.”

  I sat facing the front window, where I could see the hotel entrance. After twenty minutes, Stephanie strolled out of the building, looking natural except for the cat that ate the canary look on her face. This stuff agreed with her. She was glowing.

  She slid into the booth. “Larry Foster checked in last Friday. He had ID. The owner said he’s hardly been out of his room since. When the cleaning lady goes in, he stays. She said he pretends to be working on his computer, but seems to be keeping an eye on her. Is this our guy?”

  “What do you mean, ‘our guy’?” I asked.

  “Don’t get cagey with me, mister. The guy who wrecked the dealership.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “I wish I could get a look in the room. This guy says he is just the collector, so there must be a bigger fish up the chain. That’s who John should be dealing with.”

  “Might be time for a fire drill.”

  “Not bad. That might give me time to search.”

  “Or me,” she said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Work with me here. A young lady in a housekeeping uniform wouldn’t attract any attention if he sees me.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m the one that knows the owners, remember.”

  I paused. Maybe she was right. “We would have to be in constant contact.”

  “How about the Bluetooth receiver that came with my phone?” Her eagerness was infectious.

  She took my hesitation as consent. “Give me an hour to get my Bluetooth and a uniform, and let the Moores know what is going on. His room faces the alley, so be back there when I call you.”

  I sighed. I hoped this wouldn’t go sideways. God knows I’d had plans fall apart before.

  “Can you hear me?” Stephanie’s voice whispered in my ear.

  “Yes.” It seemed somehow unseemly for a minister to be standing in the late morning shadows of an alley.

  “I have the cleaning cart in the hallway on the second floor outside McNeill’s room. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  I got a double dose of the fire alarm, one from the building and one from my earpiece. I heard doors opening and the murmur of people moving down the hallway. “Move along,” I heard Stephanie say. “Go down the stairway and meet out front. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  A few moments passed, then, “He’s out of the room. I’m letting myself in. Wow, this guy is a pig. There are clothes and delivery food wrappers everywhere. Oh. Don’t get me started on the bathroom. Do all men revert to this with no female influence in their lives?”

  “Do you mind focusing on the job?”

  “Stick in the mud. It looks like he grabbed his phone, but his laptop is here. It’s closed, so it probably needs…yeah, it wants a password.”

  “Look around for messages, or invoices, or a notebook.”

  In the middle of my sentence, I saw McNeill come around the corner into the alley. I don’t know how I knew it was him, but he just looked like he didn’t belong. He was wearing jeans, but his shoes were black dress, and his shirt was button-up. His jet black hair was pulled back into a tight pony-tail. He leaned against the building and lit a cigarette. His eyes met mine and then slid up to the window of his room.

  He threw his smoke down and vanished around the corner.

  “Stephanie, get out!” I hissed. “He’s coming up!”

  Her face appeared at the window. She disappeared for a second. Then she opened the window and threw the laptop out. I had to take a couple of steps, but it was a great toss. It settled into my hands like it belonged there.

  “Jump!” I yelled.

  She leaned out and shook her head. “It’s too far.”

  She let one leg out the window, then the other. Facing the building, she lowered herself until she was extended fully, hanging by her fingertips.

  I heard the door to the room open. “Hey!” I heard an East coast voice yell.

  “Drop,” I said, standing underneath her.

  She let go, and we both tumbled to the ground. I had dreams of catching her, but I didn’t do much more than soften her landing.

  McNeill’s head jutted out the window. His eyes widened when he saw his laptop. “Wait right there!”

  Stephanie and I stared at the empty window for a full second, then looked at each other. We picked ourselves up, I grabbed the laptop, and we ran.

  John Gray, Stephanie, and I sat around the small conference table in my office. We were all looking at McNeill’s laptop.

  “Tell me again how this helps us,” John said.

  “It will help us if we can get to the person that ordered McNeill to collect. Perhaps they will be more open to reason than he was,” I said.

  “It won’t do us any good if we can’t unlock it,” said Stephanie, opening it up and turning on the power.

  “Try ‘password,’” said John.

  Stephanie typed, waited, then said, “Really? You’d think a criminal would be more security conscious.”

  “Try his e-mail,” I offered.

  Stephanie’s pretty brow furrowed. “It comes up, but it’s empty.” She moved her finger on the mousepad. “His Deleted folder is empty, too.”

  “How about Skype?” John asked.

  A few more clicks. “Here it is. He uses it. There’s only one number in the history.”

  “Dial it,” I said.

  She entered the number, and there were clicking sounds and beeps for a few seconds, then an office appeared. We could see mahogany bookcases and tasteful curtains framing a window that looked to another building several yards away. From a distance we could hear rumbling and crashing. I thought it was a storm, but then I realized it was the sounds of a bowling alley. The screen then jerked to the side, revealing a thin white man with thick glasses and a dark brown suit. His garish purple tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was open.

  “Yeah, Mac?” he s
aid, before he looked closer. “You’re not Frank. Where’s McNeill?” His voice had the same eastern nasal quality as the collector.

  “Probably looking for his laptop,” I said.

  “Frankie never was the sharpest crayon at the picnic.”

  “We were hoping to speak to someone a little further up the line of command about our issue.”

  The man pulled a rolodex close to him and flipped through until he found a specific card. He pulled it out, pulled his glasses down his nose, and tilted his head back. “Let’s see, Frank is working as an independent contractor to collect $750,000 from Gray’s Auto Sales in …Oklahoma.” He looked over his glasses at us. “Is that the issue to which you are referring?”

  A voice from off screen boomed, “Wait a minute? Is that Louie the Okie?”

  The screen whirled around. Booming Voice was a large man with a cloud of silver hair, thick and swept back. Where the first man’s suit was conservative, this guy’s was a flamboyant powder blue. His chest looked like it had been powerful once, but had settled around the mid-section. He reminded me of a proud stag gone to seed. He peered at his screen. I realized he was looking at John.

  “It is you, Louie! How are you?”

  John looked a little unsettled. “Louis was my father.”

  The old man looked perplexed, then he smiled. “You can’t fool Miles Herring. You’ll have to excuse my accountant, Luke. He’s all business. What can I do for the Okie?”

  “Well, sir,” John began, “Apparently my father, Louis, borrowed money from you and now this McNeill guy has come to collect, and I don’t have the money. I don’t know how I’ll be able to get it.”

  Miles said, “Your father is Louie? You look just like him. Why am I not talking to him?”

  “My father passed away from a heart attack recently. I’m running the dealership now.”

  “I see,” said Miles, his face clouding. “I knew your father and grandfather, but I don’t know you. A debt is a debt, son.”

  “A debt is a debt,” agreed Luke. “What are you able to give?”

  John swallowed hard. “I can give you all my available cash, about 50K, and a 50% partnership in the dealership.”