by Paul Bishop
“You're bluffing. I owed Devon Wyatt a favor. I came and listened. Favor returned.” She stood up.
Eldon stayed seated, but he did speak. “Before you leave the facility,” he said. “Check my visitor's list. Then decide if I'm bluffing.”
TWENTY EIGHT
“Have they turned up yet?” Devon Wyatt asked from the other end of a cell phone. He was still waiting for Fey to finish her conference with Eldon Dodge.
“The woman and the child are here. The priest won't be far behind.”
“Don't screw this up, MacAlister. This deal is worth too much.” Wyatt had his back turned on the guard who was watching Eldon Dodge through the small door window. There was nobody else in the corridor.
“I don't screw up,” MacAlister said. “The client will get the delivery.”
“Don't take this lightly. If we're not careful, the cops are going to be all over us. I don't like taking chances. Whatever happened with Bianca has already stirred up more dirt than we need.”
“Not my fault somebody chose an amateur to do a pro's job. When the daughter of a prominent judge gets murdered, the cops are going to take an interest.”
“I don't like it. Something’s going on we don't know about or have control over.”
“Maybe somebody else was after the locations of the families in the underground.”
“No other information would have been worth killing Bianca for.”
“Do you think they got it?”
“The word I get from our source inside the coroner's office is Croaker and her crew don't think the torturer was successful. I happen to agree.”
“How's it going with the frog lady?”
Wyatt's voice carried his shrug down the line. “All I can do is delay her. She's a dangerous opponent, as is the rest of her crew.”
“Then pull out of the game,” MacAlister said.
“Too much money involved.”
MacAlister laughed. “You can always rely on a greedy man.”
“Greedy? You think I don't know you're double dipping on this case?” Wyatt's voice was tinged with agitation. “Take notice. I don't care what happens with the mother and child, or your deal with the father, just make sure the priest knows what will happen to his precious pipeline if he tries to deny us the delivery.”
“You handle Croaker. I'll take care of the priest. He ain't never met a nightmare like me,” MacAlister said. He turned the phone off with the flick of a wide thumb.
At six foot six inches tall, packed with two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle and bone, and a face like a bucket of elbows, MacAlister was more than just a big man. He wore size sixteen shoes and had hands so large they made phone books tremble with fear.
He wore a black t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, down over his flat stomach, and tucked into a tapered waist. Huge biceps bulged from the short sleeves. His lower half was encased in tight black jeans, which clung to the muscles of his legs. Specially ordered black high-tops covered his large feet.
MacAlister liked his clothing second-skin tight. It gave him a feeling of barely contained power capable of exploding at any second, tearing the clothing to shreds. As a kid, his favorite comic book character was The Incredible Hulk. The steroids and growth hormones he'd taken since high school now helped him emulate his childhood hero. Unfortunately, their side effects also sent him into regular bouts of dark depressions.
When he'd been a cop, he'd used his bulk to intimidate and terrify. He was a certified five-star sociopath. Everybody knew it, including MacAlister. It was his vanity — he loved being hated, reveled in it. He was a blunt instrument. Whatever didn't get out of his way got smashed. If someone tried to smash back, they soon regretted the decision. MacAlister didn't like to lose and he never did in the long run.
With unnatural gentleness, he placed the car phone on the console of his black Aerostar van. With his left hand, he caressed the pistol stock of the sawn-off shotgun resting across his lap. The double barrels were cut down to eighteen inches and contained high-density, hand-loaded shot. The kick from firing both barrels could tear the muscles in the arm off a normal man. MacAlister, however, was far from normal.
He had waited a long time for a score this big. He made a good living picking up stubborn bail jumpers. But tracking kids, who had been snatched by one parent or another, was a profitable sideline. He enjoyed it most when the women took the kids because they were nearly always ready to offer him anything not to take their kids back. He enjoyed their favors and then took their kids anyway.
He didn't care about the kids. What their parents did to them could never be half as bad as what the monster who'd sired him had done. Let the little jerks learn to fend for themselves as he had.
MacAlister left the police when dangling suspects by their ankles over a bridge to gain confessions was no longer acceptable. Worrying about civil rights took the fun out of everything. Devon Wyatt, however, had provided an acceptable outlet for his talents.
It never occurred to MacAlister he was joining the other side. There was only one side — his. The association with Wyatt was profitable and entertaining. Wyatt would do anything as long as the chance of being caught wasn't too high. This time, however, MacAlister sensed Wyatt was being extra careful. It only added to the excitement.
When MacAlister heard the rumors on the street about an underground organization protecting abused kids, he'd passed the information along to Wyatt. The lawyer did the rest. There was a lot of money to be made reclaiming the kids. It tickled MacAlister he was on the legal side of the scam.
The setup was even better than the days when he'd been hired to kidnap spoiled rich kids back from wacky religious cults. He missed the fun of the deprogrammings, but you couldn't have everything.
Up to now, it suited Wyatt's agenda to leave the underground intact. Any contracts he sent MacAlister for missing kids were cleared up with ruthless efficiency before they got to the underground. However, Wyatt had now been hired to use the underground as a way to assure a very special delivery for a client. Enlisting MacAlister into the scheme was only natural.
For MacAlister, finding a situation to lead him to the underground was not difficult. The Hudson case was perfect. It was easy to get Hudson to hire him, so MacAlister could pick up a fee on both ends. One from Hudson for the return of his kid, and one from Wyatt's client for assuring the delivery of another product.
All MacAlister needed to do was find Judy Hudson and her daughter, which was pathetically simple for a man of his experience. He had to nudged her in the direction of the underground, and then sit back and wait. A simple task, thought MacAlister, calmly watching the motel where Judy Hudson and her daughter were housed.
He'd followed the woman for two weeks gently guiding her until she'd finally made contact with the right segment of the underground. Using illicit technical skills, MacAlister tapped the phone lines of the hotels and motels where Judy and her daughter, Stella, stayed. He'd listened to the conversations she had with the underground and the plans being laid. He knew Father Romero was coming for the pickup tonight.
It wouldn’t be a problem for MacAlister. He'd dump the woman, assure the priest's cooperation by putting the fear of the devil into him, then take the kid back to daddy and pick up his two-ended fee.
In the gathering dusk, a brown Ford passed in front of the hotel. MacAlister saw the profile of a man in the driver's seat and another silhouette, possibly a woman, on the passenger side. MacAlister hefted the shotgun in his lap and waited for the Ford's next pass. Sometimes life was almost too good.
***
Inside the motel, Judy Hudson stared through the lobby window into the dusk. She felt like a sitting target, lighted up and on display. But she would have felt more vulnerable outside. For the millionth time, she looked out the window and glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of the brown sedan she had been told to expect.
Sitting beside her mother, Stella happily flipped the pages of an oversized picture bo
ok. The young girl's long blond hair had been sacrificed in favor of a little boy's haircut with a precise part down the right side. Blue jeans, Keds, and a boy's plaid flannel shirt completed the disguise. Stella thought the game was neat. She even liked her mom calling her Josh. Make-believe was a lot more fun with mommy than it was with daddy. It never hurt with mommy.
If someone had a photo of Judy Hudson in their hand, they wouldn't have recognized her either. Her own blond hair had been dyed black, the curls straightened and falling across her forehead in lank strands. Her cheeks had hollowed from loss of weight, and a pair of large clear glasses could not hide the heavy purple stress bags beneath her eyes. A faded fabric coat hung from her shoulders, buttoned across a small pillow making her look pregnant.
Unlike her daughter, Judy hated the make-believe. But she knew her husband well and refused to underestimate the risk. If playing dress-up could give her an edge, she'd continue to do it till Max Hudson dropped dead.
She stared through the hotel's lobby window again and finally saw the brown sedan. Approaching the hotel, it slowed and the appropriate turn indicator flashed on. Judy prayed the car was the right one. She prayed the waiting was over. She prayed the nightmare would end.
“Mommy, are you okay?”
Judy opened her eyes and bent down beside her daughter, hugging her. “I'm just a little tired.”
“Are we waiting for daddy?” the child asked, and then added with a child's bluntness, “I don't want to see daddy.”
Judy hugged her daughter again. “Don't worry, darling, you won't have to see daddy again.” Standing up, she looked out the window.
From across the street, she saw the door of a parked van open and a huge man step out. Over his right arm, concealing his hand, was a folded raincoat. Judy's mind clicked onto the words of an old song claiming it never rained in California. She took a closer look at the man and realized she'd seen him before. Twice, actually, since she'd been on the run, but it hadn't registered.
As Judy watched the man, the brown sedan pulled into the motel entrance and came to a stop in front of the lobby. The man from the van was now blocked from her sight, but Judy knew what he was doing, and she knew what she had to do.
***
As Father Romero brought the car to a halt in front of the motel lobby, he could see a pregnant woman and a little boy peering through the window at him.
“It's her,” Ferris said from the passenger seat.
Father Romero looked confused. “I thought we were looking for a woman and a little girl. Nobody said she was pregnant.”
“Standard disguise techniques,” Ferris said. “You know the drill, Father.”
Romero shrugged and opened the driver's door.
The woman suddenly moved away from the window and burst through the lobby door. Her obvious agitation alarmed Father Romero.
“We've got a problem,” Ferris said. She pushed open the passenger door and got out.
Judy Hudson was pointing across the street and yelling something.
Father Romero and Ferris turned to look. They saw a huge man running toward them. His left hand was tossing aside a raincoat. Underneath the raincoat was an ugly, sawn-off shotgun pointing directly at them.
TWENTY NINE
MacAlister brought the sawn-off shotgun into a hip-firing position, his finger tightening on the trigger. He figured he'd give the priest a blast across the bows, maybe even pepper the front end of the brown sedan. The whole scene would be noisy and messy, but MacAlister wanted to make sure his point got across. Before his quarry could even begin to deal with the shock, MacAlister knew he could be reloaded and ready to rain more terror down on the small group. He loved his job.
Blinkered by the focus on his mission, MacAlister presented an unlikely, yet vulnerable target. As he dashed menacingly forward, he barely registered the black muscle-van roaring toward him.
Rhonda timed her actions perfectly, opening the van's passenger door at the precise moment MacAlister's brain was sending twitch messages to his trigger finger. The door caught MacAlister flush on the meat of his right shoulder, slamming him sideways through the air and down to the ground, the sawn-off flying free from his hand.
The illegally altered gun spun three times before stabbing muzzle first into the street asphalt. The force of the contact discharged the shotgun round in the chamber, blowing the gun twenty feet back into the air again. Chips of asphalt peppered everywhere, kicked up with explosive force by the muzzle blast. They splattered MacAlister's torso and stung Father Romero's ankles like angry bees.
It had been Hammersmith's idea to retrieve his black van before leaving the area of the church. He and Rhonda would then be able to shadow Father Romero and Ferris in the brown sedan during the pickup procedure. Everybody recognized the staked goat scenario, but nobody mentioned it. The way things were turning out, the precaution had been worthwhile.
As MacAlister was bouncing off the tarmac, Hammer screeched the van to a halt in the middle of the street. Jumping to the ground with his gun drawn, he yelled, “Move! Move!” while waving at Father Romero and Ferris, who were standing shell-shocked beside the brown sedan.
Rhonda followed Hammer through the van's driver's side. Her own shoulder hurt from being hit by the passenger door rebounding off MacAlister. The door had a dent in it, and jammed shut when it ricocheted closed after putting MacAlister into orbit. As she jogged after Hammer, she switched her nine millimeter to her left hand and let her right arm dangle.
Ferris recovered faster than either Father Romero or Judy Hudson. Perhaps it was because of the traumas she had undergone in her personal life. Perhaps she was just better at responding in a crisis. Whatever the reason, she knew to leave MacAlister to Hammer and Nails and take care of her own responsibility.
Slapping the roof of the sedan with the palm of her hand and yelling to get Father Romero's attention, she grabbed Judy Hudson and shoved her into the priest's arms. The pillow under Judy's jacket plopped out like a baby being delivered in the rice patties.
Ferris ran into the lobby of the motel and scooped Stella Hudson into her arms. The child was in hysterics, but immediately calmed as if Ferris was emitting some universal mother code.
Moving at speed, Ferris was back at the sedan while Father Romero was still stashing Judy in the back seat. Not pausing to pass Stella to her mother, Ferris carried the child with her into the front passenger area. She had the key turned in the ignition before the priest was back in the driver's seat.
Seeming to finally kick himself into gear, Father Romero punched the accelerator and swung the vehicle out of the motel driveway.
Cars on the street were either screeching their brakes or pounding on their horns as they approached Hammer's middle-of-the-street abandoned van and the three figure confrontation on the asphalt.
Hammer had drawn down on MacAlister, but the big man ignored his commands to stay put. MacAlister had been a cop. He knew Hammer wasn't going to shoot him, couldn't since MacAlister now appeared unarmed. He pushed himself to his feet and began a stumbling run away from the scene.
Hammer paused long enough to jam his gun into his hip holster before giving pursuit. Behind him, Rhonda collected the sawn-off from its final resting place in the gutter, before joining the chase. It was amazing how quickly something like the sawn-off could disappear, giving someone like MacAlister the opportunity to say, “Gun? What gun? I never had any gun.”
Hammer was not as buffed as MacAlister, but he was younger and faster. He also hadn't been hit by the door of a speeding van. As he caught up with his target, he reached out and slapped the big man's right heel. This minor action caused MacAlister to trip over his own leg and tumble to the ground.
Hammer launched himself onto MacAlister's back, trying to get a pain compliance hold on MacAlister's right arm. The intention was fine, but MacAlister was by nature a dirty street fighter and used his bulk to roll away from Hammersmith's grasp and deliver a vicious head butt. Hammer slipped off MacAlister,
who delivered a hefty kick to Hammer's ribs as he regained his feet.
Rhonda wasn't far behind the action. It was all she could do to hold the sawn-off in her weakened right hand, the arm still hanging like a partially paralyzed log. She swung her left hand in an arcing loop and clouted MacAlister over the ear with the flat of her nine millimeter. He howled in pain and staggered away from his attempt to put the boot to Hammer.
Rhonda followed through, delivering a side kick to MacAlister's thigh that made little if any impression. She'd been aiming for his knee, but racing adrenaline threw off her aim.
She tried another kick, but MacAlister was ready for her. He parried the kick and lashed out with the flat of his hand upside her head.
Rhonda's ears rang and her vision blurred. She slipped to a knee. MacAlister was moving away again, running through traffic down the main street.
“You okay?” Hammer asked. He was up, dragging Rhonda back to her feet.
She shook her head, wincing. She was going to have a huge headache later. “Yeah.” She started running forward to give chase. “Let's get the coward,” she said.
In the distance there were sirens headed toward them.
Hammersmith was soon closing the distance with MacAlister again.
“Give it up,” he said through ragged breaths. “We know who you are. There's no getting away.”
MacAlister's answer was to whirl around, swinging his arm wide, hoping to catch Hammersmith with the blunt end of his fist.
Hammersmith reacted quickly enough to duck under the attack. He pushed forward with his legs, driving his shoulder into MacAlister's ribs. MacAlister grunted in pain and slammed his joined fists down on Hammersmith's back.
Still churning his legs, Hammersmith slammed MacAlister into the side of a parked car. MacAlister reached his arms around Hammer's waist, lifted him off the ground and threw him aside. Hammer went sprawling into the oncoming traffic, skinning hands and knees. An oncoming Toyota truck squealed metal to metal brakes and steered wide in panic.