Sooner Fled

by David L Thornburg

  “She has a point there,” said John, watching from the doorway.

  I summoned up all my courage, and said, “Steph, you can’t come. So much could go wrong. Carlos Ponty and his gang are vicious. They will do anything to keep me from testifying. I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise.”

  I braced myself for the storm, but it was interrupted by two black SUVs coming to a stop along the street. Two FBI agents got out of each, scanning every detail of the neighborhood through their dark sunglasses. After a moment, one of them took his glasses off and walked toward us. It was Agent Wilder.

  “You packed?”

  Another agent entered the house and came out with my suitcase and travelling bag. Wilder looked at Stephanie and her bag. “Housesitting?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Afraid not.” An agent grabbed my arm with one hand and put his other around my shoulder, ushering me into the back seat of one of the vehicles.

  “Stephanie!” I called as the door closed. She pressed her hand against the window just as our car took off.

  I’ll never forget her pretty face twisted with shock and anger as she got smaller and smaller in the rear window.

  We made the Oklahoma City airport in record time. Agent Wilder and one other agent escorted me onto a commercial jet immediately before take-off and occupied the seats on either side of me. Neither was much for small talk during the non-stop flight to Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport.

  We disembarked down a special staircase to a waiting SUV on the tarmac. As we exited the airport complex, another SUV fell into place behind us. Only then did Wilder seem to relax a little.

  “After you left Detroit, Ponty was held on $1-million-dollar bail, which he posted, no problem. He then disappeared, which is impressive since his organization was in tatters after the raid. We got intel that he was rebuilding, but couldn’t find him. Then, at the court appearance to set the trial date, he shows up. He retained some high priced legal out of New York, and they apparently convinced him it was in his best interest to face the charges.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure they took one look at our case and saw how weak it was. They think they can beat it and he’ll walk.” Wilder glanced at me. “They’ve been looking for you.”

  We rolled into the underground parking of the Patrick V. McNamara Building off Michigan and 1st. We took a secure elevator to the 26th floor, the home in the clouds for the FBI field office. We cops used to call it the Ivory Tower, but any of us would have taken a job there in a heartbeat.

  I was ushered past the receptionist’s desk and through the bullpen, an open area of 20 desks or so, each with a computer and phone, and staffed with mostly white guys who had been to the same barber and bought their suits at the same store. I was conscious of all eyes on me like I was the last, best hope. Behind me was a stream of whispers.

  I was sequestered in a conference room between the bullpen and a wall of windows. Wilder seated me in one of the black leather chairs and shook my hand. It was more like he was washing his hands of me. There I sat for the next hour, interrupted only by the receptionist asking me if I needed anything.

  The mid-day sun was directly over Detroit’s skyline when two men entered the room. One could have been any of the generic agents from the bullpen, but the other was more impressive. His name tag read SAIC Hernandez. The Special Agent in Charge. Not overly tall, his powerful build filled out his tailored suit. His jet-black hair and dark skin framed piercing brown eyes. I stood and offered my hand.

  “Officer Stratton,” he said. “I am Luis Hernandez, and this is Agent Oliver. Please sit down.”

  Hernandez had come in empty-handed, but Oliver’s briefcase disgorged legal pads, pens, and folders onto the table.

  “Tony…can I call you Tony?” Hernandez began.

  “Of course.” I didn’t ask if I could call him Luis.

  “Tony, our trial against Carlos Ponty on murder and drug trafficking charges, as well as conspiracy to commit murder, starts Thursday, three days from now. Today, we want to briefly go over your story, then Oliver here will help you prepare your testimony. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Great. Now briefly tell the story of your involvement with the Ponty gang.”

  “All right. Back in March, Nick Stafford, a detective on the Detroit police force, approached me.”

  “In your capacity as Police Chaplain?”

  “Yes. He’d been taking money under the table from Carlos Ponty for information and tips, but Ponty had just asked him to ensure there would be no police presence in the West Chicago Street and Livernois Avenue area on the night of March 23rd. Ponty was receiving a major shipment of coke and meth from an out of state supplier. Stafford’s conscience was getting the better of him, and he wanted my advice as to what he should do.”

  “Which was?”

  “I encouraged him to come clean with the department and tell what he knew. I told him information that valuable might go a long way toward reducing any prosecution for corruption charges.”

  “What did he intend to do?”

  “He didn’t say. I assumed he took my advice, because the PD mounted a large operation to intercept the drug deal. I was allowed to accompany the team because of my experience with the department. Nick was also there, so I figured he told the Captain.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Of course not. We don’t call it the confidentiality of the confessional like my Catholic friends, but it’s basically the same thing.”

  “I see.” Hernandez exchanged glances with Oliver. “Tell us what happened the night of March 23rd.”

  “The deal went down at midnight, like Stafford said. The police caught both gangs off guard, but they were armed like the 45th Infantry. We reached a stalemate, and the out of towners got out of there, taking most of their product with them. The task force rounded up most of Ponty’s gang, including Carlos himself. A couple of his lieutenants escaped.”

  Oliver nodded. “That’s the general story we have.”

  Hernandez said, “Then what?”

  “A couple of days later, Stafford was captured by the remaining gang members, and he said the only person he’d told was me. A police informant notified the PD, they called you guys, and I ended up in the WPP in Oklahoma. I understand Stafford wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Essentially correct,” Hernandez said. “Are you able to testify that Stafford told you the about the deal and implicated Carlos Ponty, giving Ponty motive to kill Detective Nick Stafford?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can Carlos Ponty identify you?”

  “Yes. In my capacity as police chaplain, I organized many programs for at-risk youth in Ponty’s territory. I’ve actually met Carlos on a couple of occasions.”

  “Did he see you on the night of the 23rd?”

  I remembered the chaos of that night. I was the only unarmed member of the force, so every detail was etched on my mind. The officers falling to my right, gang members scrambling for cover, the billowing clouds from the smoke grenades.

  And Ponty backing toward his SUV, the fire from his Taurus Millennium gun lighting his face like a strobe light. As he ejected a spent clip, he looked my way. The night was oversaturated with yellow and orange as our eyes met. Then he got into the back of his vehicle and his driver floored it, but they didn’t get far. A black and white cruiser stopped in front of them and took the full force of the impact. Ponty was pinned inside by police fire until the conflagration died down, then he was arrested.

  “Yeah, he saw me.”

  “That’s why you will need to remain in the WPP, even after the trial. Detroit is not safe for you anymore. And through your own actions, Oklahoma is too hot, as well.”

  I nodded. Stephanie and I had been in the papers a few times, solving the mystery of author K. C. Waters’ true identity, helping recover a Confederate treasure, and most recently revealing her grandparents as Soviet sleeper agents. I had inte
nded to lay low, I really did.

  Hernandez looked at Oliver. “Do you have everything you need for now?”

  Oliver started stuffing things back in his briefcase. “Yes. You’ll be staying in a secure hotel room under high security. We will spend tomorrow prepping your testimony.”

  They stood. Hernandez said, “Before that, you have some visitors.” He opened the door, and motioned my parents into the room.

  “Mom! Dad!” I hugged them both. Hernandez and Oliver left the room.

  I hadn’t seen them in six months. They seemed older as they sat at the conference table. Was it the worry I had put them through?

  “How are you, Tony?” my dad asked.

  “I’m better now. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  “Your precinct captain told us what happened,” Mom said. “We understand.”

  Dad said, “I know you can’t tell us where you were, but were you OK?”

  “Yeah. I even met someone. She’s very special. I hope I can introduce you sometime.”

  “The agent who picked us up today said you might have to go away again after the trial,” Mom said. “That we might only see you once a year, by special arrangement. Is that true?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s for your safety as well as mine.”

  “How is that going to work with your young lady?” Dad asked. He had a talent for getting to the heart of the matter.

  “I haven’t worked that out, yet. Last time I saw her, she was angry that I left without her.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Oliver entered without waiting for an invitation. “I apologize, but the detail is ready to take you to the room.”

  My dad stood. “Please give us another moment, agent.”

  Oliver closed the door behind him.

  When he was gone, my Dad said, “I thought we would have more time.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This was in our front door this morning.” I put it in the front pocket of my jeans. I hoped Oliver hadn’t noticed; whatever it was, it was none of his business.

  Oliver said, “We really have to move.” A hug from each of my parents, and they were gone.

  Oliver ushered me to the elevator. Waiting was another agent, in standard issue suit and haircut. “Agent Korman will escort you to your hotel room. Wait there until you hear from us. It will probably be a couple of days.”

  I followed Korman into the elevator and turned to watch the door close. After a couple of floors, he said, “How’s it hanging, Rev?”

  I pivoted. The clean-shaven face seemed to morph into an acne-ridden teenager with long hair and a bad attitude. “Frankie?

  “Francisco, if you please. It’s been a long time since the Community Center, hasn’t it?”

  “I lost track of you years ago! I was afraid you’d come to no good. You’re with the FBI?”

  “I had a good example on the Detroit PD. A chaplain, I think he was. Probably saved my life. When I heard you were back to testify, I pulled some strings to get this duty.”

  I hugged him as the door chimed its arrival to the ground floor. He pulled back and straightened his jacket. “Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  He led me outside to a waiting sedan. I noticed his eyes continually scanned the area, and his right hand was never far from the holster on his hip. Little Frankie meant business.

  He opened the back door. “I’ll ride in the front,” I said.

  “Please get in the back, sir.”

  I complied, and saw my luggage was already there. He closed the door and slid into the front seat. He merged into the flow of traffic; after a few minutes, his eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “How do you know about the envelope?” I asked.

  “I was approached by a former lieutenant in Ponty’s gang to deliver it to your parents. If they know you’re back in town, that’s trouble.”

  I agreed. I opened the envelope.

  “Dear Reverend Peter Andrews (my WitPro alias),

  We have Stephanie. She is safe unless you testify.”

  The color bleached from the world. “Frankie, stop the car and give me your cell phone.”

  Something in my voice made him do as I asked. I dialed a number from Oak Valley.

  John answered on the first ring. “Who is this?” he asked, his tone fraught with tension.

  “It’s Peter.”

  “Thank God! I didn’t know how to get ahold of you. Steph is missing!”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “I got a phone call yesterday that said no police. I thought this might be a ransom call, but I’m glad it’s you. We’re all worried sick.”

  “A gang has her to prevent me from testifying against their leader.”

  “So that’s why you were in the WPP.”

  “Listen, I’m coming back there. I’ll call you when I get another phone.” I hung up.

  Frankie twisted in the front seat, his hand reaching out. “Give me the letter.” He read it. “And Stephanie is…?”

  “My girlfriend…I mean fiancé. Maybe. It’s complicated."

  “And what, exactly, are you planning to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but the less you know the better.” I tried the door, but it was locked. “Unlock the door. Tell them I escaped and you don’t know why.”

  “What do you think you can do? You really need to let the Bureau handle this.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t risk it. Let me go, please!”

  Frankie looked offended. “I’ve never lost anyone on my watch. And I’m sure not letting you do this alone. I’m going to take you to your room, and I need you to wait for me there. I won’t let you down. Trust me.”

  I nodded glumly. I didn’t have a choice. He was the one with the gun.

  I paced my room like a captured panther, the hours flying by. It looked like Frankie had done a number on me. The guard in the hall was more to keep me in than anyone else out.

  About 8:00, I heard a scraping sound at the window. Frankie was on the ledge. His glass cutter traced a square, and some suction cups kept the glass from falling. I extended my hand to help him in. As I pulled him past me, I looked down. 27 stories to the street.

  He disconnected a safety line from the harness he was wearing. He looked at my uneaten supper. “Good, they don’t have any reason to come in until morning. We’re gonna get you out of here, and I have a car waiting. It’s a beat-up Chevy that belongs to a friend, so they’ll never associate it with you. A plane would be too risky. We’ll be out of the state by midnight.”

  “We?”

  “I said you weren’t doing it alone. I have the next couple of days off, so the Bureau won’t miss me.”

  “What about my testimony?”

  “I want more than anything for Ponty to go away for life – he ruined a lot of lives in my neighborhood. But we take care of our own first.”

  I could see I wasn’t going to change his mind. “OK. What’s the plan?”

  He reattached the safety line. “I go back to the roof and throw the harness back down. You put it on and I pull you up. From the roof, we take the service elevator down.” He looked at me strangely. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m hung up on the part where I dangle almost three hundred feet from certain death.”

  Frankie grinned. “Come on, Rev, aren’t you prayed up?”

  I swallowed and watched him disappear out the window. I stuck my head out and looked up. He was walking up the side of the building like Batman in the old TV series. He vanished as he made it to the roof. A moment later, he lowered the empty harness.

  I put it on and climbed onto the ledge. I felt the line tighten and my feet lift off the concrete window sill. If I looked down or up the world swirled around me, so I focused on the wall inches from my face.

  Soon the wall gave way to Frankie’s face, as he used a mountain climber’s wench to pull me over the side. He took the harness off. “See? Nothing
to it.” He stuffed the equipment into a back pack as I let the vertigo drain away.

  “Frankie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If things go south later, I just want you to know I appreciate what you’re doing for me. And I’m very impressed with the plan so far.”

  He grinned again. “Well, I had a misspent youth, you know.”

  We didn’t talk much on the drive. We alternated driving and sleeping, stopping only for short breaks and fuel. About hour 14 I started awake. It was late morning, and the skyline of a big city hugged the far horizon.

  “Tulsa,” Frankie said.

  “How long…?”

  “You’ve been out for four hours or so. I thought I’d let you get some rest. You might need it.”

  “Can I...?”

  “It’s on the dash. Help yourself.”

  I reached for his personal cell and dialed John.

  “Peter?” he answered. He sounded very alert for this early in the morning.

  “What do we know?”

  “After you left, Stephanie said she was going back to her house to work. I Cynthia called her later to see how she was, but it went straight to voicemail. We called around but couldn’t find her. I went to the station. Sheriff Harris got a call on a green truck that left town yesterday. He tracked them going north out of town. He put a BOLO on the vehicle that raised a lot of attention. His last report to Eileen, the dispatcher at the station, was several law enforcement officers had them pinned in at Ingalls, an abandoned town south of Stillwater. Where are you?”

  “Close.”

  “You might want to stay clear and let the cops do their job. They’re considered armed and dangerous.”

  “You’re right, John. I’ll do that.”

  “Such a liar. Especially for a man of the cloth.”

  The phone vibrated in my hand. I looked at the screen.

  Wilder.

  I showed it to Frankie. He shrugged.

  “John, I’ll call you back.” I handed the phone over.

  “Korman,” Frankie answered. Wilder’s voice was so loud I didn’t need the phone on speaker to hear him.