by Jack Hardin
He didn’t really know anything personal about Aldrich either. Nothing a little digging around couldn't solve. Right now the FBI thought that Oswald had blown his own people halfway to Cuba. But he hadn’t. It’s not to say that he didn’t have it in him or that the right scenario would not have shown itself in the future, a scenario in which Oswald would have done it himself. But the facts stood. This event had not been his doing. It was that slimeball Aldrich with his perfectly cut and combed hair. That’s who had done it. And Aldrich and Ringo would both pay. Ol’ Ronnie boy would too, just the way his little buddy Dawson had. He would start with their thumbs and take his time until there was nothing left. Not even their arms.
And then. Then he would begin recruiting for a new squad.
Other than bone fractures and thick, throbbing bruises, there was one thing he had gotten from his old man, the man who had donated his sperm to endow him with life. It was the ability to make people feel like the star of the show when you wanted to. He had learned it early, right around the time he’d hit grade school. It’s how he had recruited Garber Hunt and Ben Victorino who, according to the papers a couple days ago and that short clip on Fox News, had been blown through the ceiling of his compound during the raid. People were people. Everywhere you went they were the same. Somewhere, deep within, they were empty, lonely, or hurting. And most of it could be, superficially, cured within two minutes. It would start with a compliment, “You look nice today,” or “That cheeseburger was deeelicous...do you always make them that tasty?” And after seeing the giveaway glimmer of appreciation in their eyes, he would ask them how their day was going, which was when the proverbial lid popped and they would start down the path to spilling their guts:
“I’m doing all right.”
“No, say, what’s wrong?”
“Well, you see, my kid brother, he’s run off again and my mother can’t work because of her diabetes and this...well, this job doesn’t help all that much.”
It had to be the right person, of course. But that was just the thing. Eli Oswald could spot the right person the way an eagle could narrow in on a mouse in a grassy field from a half mile up.
And that’s what kept Eli Oswald going like the Energizer bunny. The thrill of manipulating the heavy-hearted and weak-minded and the high-rolling, blood-spiking power that came with it.
He would start again after the dust settled. It would settle. It always did. Oswald would find another batch of down-and-outs and would make them his own. Then they would begin anew and would learn from the mistakes of the past.
A renewed surge of confidence shot through Eli Oswald, and he belted out a few lines from the song still running though his head. He bent his knees, snapped his fingers along with the rhythm, and made his way to the stairwell looking like someone practicing for a stage production of Grease. He needed to snag a fresh bottle of whiskey if he was going to be holed in for a couple days. Nothing like waiting out all the fury of Mother Nature with a hard buzz riding your veins.
He got into the Town Car, the one he had paid cash for yesterday, and pulled out into the road.
* * *
Ellie sat parked in a grimy bay of the Clean As A Whistle Car Wash for two hours before Eli Oswald stepped from his second floor room of the Purple Parrot Motel. She’d watched him lean into the railing, light up, and remain there for ten minutes, periodically swaying his head to an inaudible beat. His dark hair stood up in a swoop that curved to one side and made her think of Elvis.
Ellie had easily gotten the pimply-faced young man at the Purple Parrot’s front counter to give up Oswald's room number, to confirm that he was here. It just took a wink and a drawling little “please,” and, like someone had greased him in the right place, he opened right up.
The kid did not seem to know that one of his guests was currently on the FBI’s most wanted list.
Waiting here in the car wash had given Ellie plenty of time to think, time to consider the timing and nature of getting released from the DEA. On one hand it was infuriating. She was getting things done, and yet they thought it best to scapegoat her. But on the other hand she could do things her own way now. Her rule book was written in a different language than the one kept by the DEA’s bureaucrats. She didn’t blame Garrett for letting her go, and she hoped that he was right, that down the road she could come back.
Mark had asked her to wait before she did anything, if she did anything at all. The simplest course of action would be to call the FBI. It was their case now, and she had no formal authority to do anything but phone it in. She was just an ordinary citizen now. But the storm had slowed the FBI’s efforts. Many agents at their local office had already gone upstate to get out of the way of the hurricane. Ellie wanted to get Oswald, but she wanted to find Dawson Montgomery more, and two days could make all the difference.
If she had learned anything from her time with the CIA, it was that lines were meant to be crossed. Sometimes they were meant to be torn down altogether or moved halfway down the field. Doing so, however, came with consequences that couldn’t be avoided. But she had decided it was a line worth crossing. She would face the consequences on her own.
Oswald got into a black Town Car, started the vehicle, and pulled out onto the main road. He headed north.
Ellie followed him.
Chapter Forty-Three
Oswald pulled off five miles down the road and parked in front of the 7-Eleven. It was full of busy patrons who had decided at the last minute to try and stock up on chips and Gatorade, the bare necessities in hurricane preparedness. All of twelve gasoline pumps were in use with extra cars waiting in line at each pump. Oswald navigated the car to the side of the building and parked next to the open dumpster enclosure. Ellie drove her Silverado to the edge of the lot where the asphalt stopped and the forest began. Oswald parked his Town Car and stared down the backside of a lady as he walked into the store, still bobbing his head to some rhythm.
Ellie exited her truck and approached his Town Car, noting that the lock on the passenger door was still up, peeking over the glass. The door was unlocked.
She waited off near the dumpster until Oswald came out holding his keys and a brown paper bag. He opened the door to his car and plunged into the driver's seat. The door squealed on an ungreased hinge as he shut it and, before he had a chance to slip the key into the ignition, his passenger door opened and a hot blonde chick was in the seat next to him. He started to speak but didn’t get very far. The hot lady slammed her door and sent her right fist crashing into his solar plexus. The brown paper bag hit the floorboard with a thud, and Oswald’s eyes bugged out as he doubled over and wheezed. He turned his pained and confused face toward her. He grabbed the steering wheel and, while he wheezed, felt something cold on the skin of his wrist, followed by a series of clicks. He pulled back and saw his right hand cuffed to the steering wheel.
The words didn't come easily. “Wha...wha…”
“You’ll want to know what this is all about. I get that,” she said.
Ellie looked around and made sure that they hadn’t caught anyone’s attention. Oswald sucked in a deep breath, and his face gained a measure of color as oxygen reentered his bloodstream.
“Eli Oswald. So nice to finally meet you.” She waited patiently until his breathing returned to normal. “You and I need to have a conversation.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Where, little lady, did you learn to punch a man like that?”
Ignoring him, she peered down at the paper bag at his feet. She asked, “What’s in there?”
“Jim Beam. Cigs. Funyuns.”
“Perfect. Reach down—slowly—and hand it to me.” With his free hand he did what he was told. Ellie grabbed the bag and the keys off his lap. “Now, I’d rather not make a scene, so when I speak I want you to do exactly as I say. Got it?”
He narrowed his eyes, nodded.
Ellie got out and walked around to the driver’s side. She handed him a carbon fiber handcuff key. It was a universa
l key, had a clip on the side, and looked more like a pen than a key. “Slowly remove the cuff off the steering wheel and step out.”
He took the key and paused for a fraction of a second, a pause that told Ellie he was pondering his options. Ellie slapped an open hand into the side of his head. “Now. Let’s go.”
“Hey! Okay now, Julie Jangle. Say, no need to get aggressive.” He did as instructed.
“Now turn around.”
After cuffing both hands behind his back, she shut the door and shepherded him back to her truck, walking close behind him so as not to gain any attention from customers filling up their cars.
He retained his confident swagger as he walked. Ellie opened the passenger door. She frisked him, and besides his wallet she found a small pocket knife and a BIC lighter. She unlocked a cuff and said, “Get in.” Again, he paused, and Ellie pushed him between his shoulder blades, impelling him into the truck.
“All the way to the driver’s side.” He muttered behind clenched teeth and complied. “Cuff yourself to the wheel. You’re driving.” He sighed and grabbed the loose cuff. He set it against the steering wheel, and it clicked in.
She saw what he did and smiled inside. There was only way for her plan to work: Oswald had to feel out of control in her presence from the very start. Oswald would be assuming that he could easily take her and get out of this new and undesired situation. She had intentionally provided him a window to crawl through, to test him. He had tried to crawl through.
He wasted no time. He had indeed closed the cuff, but he had not attached it to the steering wheel as he had been instructed. Ellie got into the passenger seat, and, as she was shutting the door, Oswald shifted his weight and shot a hand out to grab her. What happened next he could have never accounted for.
With electric speed Ellie slapped his hand down and sent her right fist crashing directly into his nose. The muffled crunch of bone filled the cab, and Oswald screamed as his nose flared with the agonizing sensation of torn cartilage mixing with blood. His head hurled backward and thunked into the driver’s side window.
Ellie relaxed back into her seat, put her hands on her lap, and stared at him.
Oswald touched his face with his hand and, seeing it come away bloody, stared at her in painful disbelief. “You...you bromme noose!”
“I did break your nose, Eli.” She reached over and slipped the right cuff’s cheek plate around the steering wheel. “Try anything else. You’ll just get hurt again.”
He sat there, his chest rising and falling as he came to grips with the pain. He stared out the windshield, smelling like acrid cigarette smoke and days-old sweat. Clearly, he had not taken advantage of the shower amenities at the Purple Parrot. She reached around and buckled herself in and then twisted the keys in the ignition. She opened the glove box and tossed the handcuff key inside. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” he mumbled.
“Head north. Drive until I tell you otherwise.”
His fingers could barely grab the gearshift. He pulled down on it, moved it into drive, and slowly accelerated.
The first thirty minutes of the drive was shrouded in silence. It was only now, as Ellie gave him directions, telling him where and when to turn, that Oswald began to sense that they were nearing their destination and started to speak.
“Where are we going?”
She said nothing.
“You know, you didn’t actually arrest me back there and verbalize my rights. What you’re doing right now ain’t legit.”
“I’m not government.”
Oswald said nothing else. She motioned for him to turn right onto a sandy road.
Oswald knew he was in trouble; he just didn’t know what kind. It was a favorite tactic of Ellie’s. The more questions a captive asked, the more his chances went up that he would get some kind of an answer. Answers would make him feel some measure of control. It gave him something that he wanted. But when questions were ignored, when they were not returned, it created a sense of powerlessness and served as a reminder of who was really in control.
Ellie directed him to take one more turn and, after passing through scrub oaks and hickory for a half mile, they stopped at what looked like a rickety shack sitting back in the trees.
“What the hell is this?” Oswald said. “This some kind of a joke?”
Ellie retrieved the handcuff key from the glove box and got out, walked around to Oswald’s door, and opened it. Extending the key she said, “Uncuff yourself.”
An amused grin crossed his face. He took the key, and the cuff fell from his wrist and hung off the steering wheel.
“Come on, get out. Try anything and I break something else. Got it?”
“Yep, yep.” He dropped a foot into the sandy dirt and followed it with another. He stood up and looked into the sky. The clouds were a darker gray than they were an hour ago and hung lower and thicker in the sky. The wind had picked up considerably, and he squinted to keep the sand out of his eyes.
“Recognize this place?” Ellie asked.
He hocked a thick loogie, tinted with blood, at his feet. “Nope. Should I? This your place? You gonna cuff me to your bedpost? Cause I think I might like─”
“This is Ronnie’s place, Oswald. Where your little pals tried to get the squeeze on him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Oswald was looking at the shack, sizing it up, so he didn’t see his captor palm her Beretta, nor did he see her swing it around with nearly the same speed that David’s stone had left his sling. The butt of the gun slammed into the back of his head, and, before he could even let out a grunt, his lights went out.
Chapter Forty-Four
Someone was sitting on his head. No, someone had driven a car onto his head and parked it there.
The space between Oswald’s ears pounded. He grimaced against the fierceness of the dull pain. He found that he was sitting up and his chin was sagging on his chest. He blinked hard and shook his head. Bad idea. The pain increased with the movement. Slowly, he brought his head up and looked around. When his vision cleared, he saw a couch to his right. On his left was a counter and a small sink. When he zoned in on what was in front of him, his most recent memories fired up through his consciousness. There she was, sitting five feet away on a table, her legs dangling off the side. She was smiling at him.
“Welcome back. Do you always take naps in the afternoon?”
He didn’t answer at first. He could remember that he wasn’t very fond of her, but he couldn't remember why or how he got here. Where was here?
“Take your time,” she said. “It will come back. 7-Eleven. Funyuns. Does that help?”
It did help. It helped very much. This chick had kidnapped him and broken his nose. She had knocked him out. And now they were here at...whose place was it again? Oh yes. Ronnie’s place.
She smiled pacifyingly, lazily swung her feet back and forth under the table.
“You knocked me out?” he asked indignantly. His lips curled, and she saw a threat coming. “Why, you’re gonna wish you─”
“Oh stop, Eli. Don’t threaten me, please. It’s cliché. I just hate clichés. They’re predictable, and that makes them boring. Let’s talk about you. How are you feeling? You’ve got quite the bump on your head there.”
That was the moment he realized that his ankles and hands were tied to the chair with a fair measure of jute twine. “What is this?” he demanded, looking back and forth at his bonds.
“The name Dawson Montgomery ring a bell?”
He stopped. Then the corners of his mouth curled up, and he replied with a crooked smile. “Why yes, Julie Jangle. What is ol’ Dawson to you?”
“Well, last I checked he can’t count to ten with two hands anymore.”
“Yeah, that uh, that was most unfortunate. Hey, can I get some Advil or somethin’? My head, it’s aching like, super bad.”
“I don’t think so.” A wallet was sitting beside her. She picked it up. “What are you doing with Curtis Smith
’s wallet?”
His eyes moved into slits, and he looked her up and down, sizing her up. “What are you? A bounty hunter or something?”
“No. Not a bounty hunter.”
“Then...what, Nancy Drew?”
“Oswald, I have plans to head out before this storms gets much closer, so I’d rather this not take all afternoon. You injured three federal agents in that blast back at your place. To say nothing of your friends.”
“Look, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I didn’t know the place was rigged. It was all Aldrich, man.”
“Aldrich? You’re trying to tell me that explosion wasn’t your doing?”
“It wasn’t. I swear.”
“Right. Who is Aldrich?”
He shrugged. “Ringo’s right-hand man, I guess.”
Hearing Ringo’s name gave her pause. “You know Ringo?”
“Ohh, well look at you, gettin’ excited all of the sudden.” He sighed. “But now, that...that is not your business.”
“Oswald. Any questions that I ask are my business. You know Ringo? Who is he?”
“I couldn't rightly say. Never met the man. Curtis is under the impression that he owns a proper establishment on Pine Island. But who’s to say?”
“Why would Ringo or one of his men want to terminate you and your buddies?”
He said nothing.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s try a different angle. What happened between you and...what did Ronnie call him? The Enlightened Cowboy?”
Oswald’s brows rose at that, and he smiled large. The blood that poured from his broken nose had smeared down his lips and chin, making him look a bit like a carrion bird who had been feasting on roadkill for the last hour. “Harlan was an old man who cared too much for this country. This country never did anything but get him screwed up over there in Nam and then turned him into a hobo.”