Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  “You a fucking lawyer now? You invited me in. Besides, it’s pretty rude to try and slam a door in a cop’s face, Howie.” He crushed Howie against the wall with his substantial bulk. “What have you got to hide in here?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered, eyes cast down, praying Bear wouldn’t look to the bedroom. The freaking gun and baggie sat in the open. No such luck. Bear saw them and smiled.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Bear said, clamping on Howie’s neck. Daniels caught him as Bear shoved Howie out the door. “Cuff him, Sad Dog.”

  Daniels face-planted Howie on the uncomfortably warm hood of the Crown Vic and Howie grunted as the handcuffs bit into his wrists. Wearing only boxers, there was nothing to frisk so Daniels pulled him upright and leaned him against the car. Things crashed and banged inside his trailer for a few minutes before Bear came out with the butt of the pistol in one hand and the bag of Devil Ice in his other. A pair of jeans and a shirt draped over his arm. He tossed the clothes on the ground when he got to the car.

  “Jesus God,” Daniels said. “This guy smells like ass.”

  “He’s getting ready to smell a hell of a lot worse,” Bear said, examining the pistol. He handed it to Daniels who checked it to ensure it wasn’t loaded and placed it on the hood of the cruiser. Bear held up the baggie, the afternoon sun lighting up the red rocks like a half-ass prism. “What’s this?”

  “It ain’t mine,” Howie said, ashamed the lamest and most tired excuse crossed his lips.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t. Where did you get it?”

  “How should I know if it ain’t mine?”

  Bear grabbed Howie’s face, digging his powerful fingers into his cheeks.

  “Don’t dick with me, Howie. Where did you get it?”

  A million comebacks flooded Howie’s brain. Should he continue to plead ignorance, or maybe try feeding Bear enough information that he might cut Howie loose? It took a few seconds to conclude silence was the only response to guarantee Shane wouldn’t slice his balls off and feed them to his mountain of a bodyguard. He clamped his lips together.

  “Nothing?” Bear said. “Fine, we’ll take you in and have a little discussion. You’re on probation, right?”

  Howie had six months remaining from a previous illegal weapon and meth possession charge. He’d served fourteen months in the county jail with no desire to go back. But he didn’t answer Bear.

  “Well,” Bear continued, releasing Howie’s face. He put a thick finger under Howie’s chin and raised his head, so their gazes locked. He dangled the Devil Ice in front of him. “You better start figuring a way to help yourself out, Howie. I don’t know what this red shit is yet, but I’m guessin’ it ain’t Jolly Ranchers.”

  Bear motioned to Daniels who wrestled Howie to the back of the squad car and shoved him inside. They climbed into the front and talked as if Howie wasn’t even there.

  “Well, what do you think?” Daniels asked.

  “I think some heads are gonna roll over this, Sad Dog.” Bear held up the baggie and flicked the rocks inside. “Some heads are gonna roll starting with this shithead in the back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the time Bear pulled Howie out of his trailer, Jake pulled up to the Hospice House entrance. The single-story, cream-brick building rested at the back of a long, macadam driveway that set it apart from the traffic of Highway 50. Jake crept up the drive, the thick pine trees on either side thinning out until the building spilled in front of him. He stopped at the entrance, shut off the engine and stared across his old man to the front door. He’d phoned ahead to the director to let her know he was on his way. Stony’s gaunt face rolled from the window. Bloodshot eyes squinted at him.

  “Where are we?” Stony rasped, his bony hands tightening over his stomach. Though it had been a decade since Jake heard the man’s voice, the mere sound of it raised his blood pressure. The last conversation involved him saying “Hold on” when Jake made a rare call to talk to Janey.

  “Hospice in Sedalia,” Jake said.

  Stony’s thin lips curled upward into his patented shit-eating grin before a coughing spasm racked his body. It took a good minute for the fit to pass.

  “Aw, man.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fucking Hospice? Am I that bad off?”

  “Yeah, you are,” Jake said. He focused on a crushed bug on the windshield, hands alternating between his lap and the steering wheel. Another coughing spasm lurched Stony forward. He covered his mouth with the sleeve of his gray shirt and Jake noted specks of red as he pulled his arm away.

  “How long you been home?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “Staying long?” Stony asked.

  Jake ground his teeth. When the hell would someone come out and get him? “Just long enough. Not a day more.”

  Stony reached a shaky hand to the door and pushed himself up in the seat. He squinted across the cab.

  “You doing okay? You look good,” Stony said, his demeanor catching Jake off guard.

  “Doing fine, Stony,” Jake managed, his white knuckled hands squeezing the steering wheel.

  “You got your mother’s eyes. I ever tell you that?”

  “I don’t recall too many lucid father and son exchanges in our past.”

  Stony chuckled a couple of breaths before erupting into a cough that rocked his body. Jake waited for this spasm to pass and handed him a bottle of water. Stony managed a couple of sips, wiping a bit from his chin with the back of his hand.

  “You ain’t gonna get many lucid conversations with me past this one either. I’m so doped up I’m lucky if I remember my goddamn name half the time.”

  This civil exchange with his father put Jake in an emotional upheaval. Your mother’s eyes…his self-deprecation. It did nothing but raise Jake’s hackles. Why did it take the decrepit old bastard crawling into his death bed to become civil? Jake sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

  “I’ll make sure they spell it right on your tombstone,” Jake said. Pain on Stony’s face from the shot flashed, followed by a knowing huff of resignation. His old man knew it. Too little, too late.

  “You know what I keep dreaming about? Playing catch in the front yard with that scuffed up, old football you got for Christmas when you were six or seven years old.”

  “Ten.”

  “Took you a year to be able to catch two in a row. Taught you good, didn’t I?”

  “It was either catch the ball or get your boot up my ass. Guess either I was a slow learner or your foot got sore.”

  Stony’s gaze moved from Jake’s face to the gold ring sitting in the cup holder next to him. He picked it up, a smile breaking across his face.

  “Damn,” he said. “Haven’t seen this in a long time. Figured you took it when you skipped town. And you kept it all these years to remember me by?”

  “No. Just wasn’t going to let you do any more damage to anyone else with it,” Jake said, turning his gaze from the windshield to see his father’s smile disappear. Jake needed to get him out of his truck before he screamed.

  As if on cue, a couple of nurses in bright, flowery scrubs emerged through the front door with an empty wheelchair. Jake waited for Stony to pop the ring on his finger. Instead, he caressed the rough surface and dropped it back in the cup holder.

  Jake got out of the truck and opened the passenger door. The two nurses worked together to load Stony’s bony frame into the wheelchair. They pointed across the lot to an empty space in front of a line of evergreens where Jake could park and disappeared with Stony into the building.

  As Jake pulled forward, he resisted the urge to gun the motor and careen out to the highway and disappear. Just hearing Stony’s raspy, three-pack-a day-for-forty-years voice box grate syllables in his direction cracked the door of past shadows. Jake had worked hard over the last decade to push them into a room of their own, to contain them and not let them wash him away. Now, with a few spoken words, the waste of welfare opened
the door.

  Jake drove into the parking spot, absently rubbing his knee. He had to see this through. If he bailed now, Janey would hunt him down. Stony would continue to haunt his dreams. The sound of the pipe shattering his kneecap would echo in his ears. He’d keep seeing Nicky in every junkie he met in Kansas City.

  He hopped out of the truck and slammed the door too hard. As his boot heels beat relentlessly on the parking lot, his resolve built. With each step toward the entrance, his certainty solidified this was meant to be. It might be hours, it might be days, but Jake would be there when he drew his last phlegm-filled breath. When Stony died, Jake wouldn’t need that room of past shadows any longer. He would be free.

  Chapter Twenty

  Halle Holden dropped her backpack on the couch, the old sofa groaning in protest under the weight of textbooks. She’d skipped cross country practice, telling Mr. Monroe she suffered from “female issues”—her excuse when a rare bout of laziness rolled through her. Today, she couldn’t handle the track coach’s running regimen he probably pulled off the Internet. Mr. Monroe may be a decent Biology teacher, but he was a lousy track coach.

  She checked out each room, thankful her mom wasn’t home from Hospice. Lately, they’d butted heads anytime Halle explained her teenage rationale for doing whatever she did. You’d think being a straight-A student and on the Varsity track and cross-country teams as a sophomore would buy her a little leeway from an occasional beer, joint or slightly missed curfew. Her mom cut her zero slack.

  She donned her favorite pair of running shorts and a tank top and admired herself in front of the floor-length mirror in her tiny bedroom. She twisted to and fro, admiring her muscled legs and how her ass looked in the aqua shorts. The summer of running those Ozark hills paid dividends. The boys at school already noticed how she’d grown over the summer. Even her big crush, Senior Mason Dell, did a double take yesterday when she passed by. At least that’s what her best friend Alicia said.

  On her iPod, Sara Bareilles asked how big her brave was as Halle trotted out the front door, down the driveway and on to the chipped pavement of Poor Boy Road. She figured she could work in a quick three or four miles before meeting Alicia at their spot. Hang there for a couple hours and be home before her mom got back from her shift. Perfect.

  The late school bus rumbled by as she hugged the side of the road. A lone face peeked from the back of the bus; little hands pressed against the dusty glass. Tyler Garrett gave her a wave with his little elementary school hands. Halle gave him a big smile and waved back. She babysat for Tyler on occasion, his house not far from the place she and Alicia discovered a few months ago.

  It looked abandoned when they first approached, knee high weeds growing around a sunken, wooden porch. A thick layer of dirt and grime covered the windows and a screen door hung on for dear life by one hinge, rapping gently against the flaking front door. There were no cars, no lights, no sign of life anywhere. She and Alicia squirreled around the outside, wiping away the dust into makeshift peepholes in the windows. The place was furnished, but no doubt abandoned.

  They didn’t venture inside that day, but over the ensuing weeks became brave and wormed their way in through an unlocked back window. The dusty pictures on shelves and old bills scattered on the floor clued them in there wouldn’t be an angry owner barging in.

  Halle jogged at a brisk pace along Poor Boy Road, thinking of the bonding memories she and Alicia forged at the old house over the last five months. She giggled recalling their first marijuana smoking experience. Stoned to the bejesus and talking about boys. She reached the hidden path to the drive and ducked below arching tree branches, not thinking twice that the normally closed green gate lay open. She ran through dark shadows that mixed on the dirt path with spatters of light piercing the thick tree cover.

  Rounding the last curve leading to her secret house, she expected to spot her Alicia sitting on the lawn chair waiting for her arrival. Instead, a white panel van and a familiar rusted out pickup truck were parked in front of the house. She slowed to a walk, panting hard, each step slower than the one before as her brain worked the scene in front of her.

  Flickers of yellow moved through the front windows, but she kept moving forward. What was she doing? It reminded her of those crappy slasher movies she sometimes watched with Mom. They made fun of the bimbos who just had to find the source of the commotion. Blood dripping through the ceiling? Hmmm, let’s go upstairs and look. Home alone in the dark, a loud thump comes from the basement. Better go investigate. Yet here she stood, being that bimbo.

  Her mother’s voice saying “curiosity killed the cat” rang in her head, yet Halle crept along the tree line of the clearing, approaching the house from a blind spot on the side. As she reached the front porch, she glanced to the pickup. Two pairs of feet stuck out of the truck bed. Her heart stuck in her throat and her hand shot to her mouth. Oh my God! There are dead people in that truck. Then one of them raised a leg and spat a rattling fart.

  Every fiber screamed at her to get the hell out of there. Instead, she slid to the sagging porch, carefully setting her weight toward the edges where the rotting wood was best supported and less likely to groan and give her away. She inched to the window.

  Inside, two figures worked elbow to elbow amongst tables of pots, tubes and beakers, dressed in yellow plastic suits she recognized from the movies whenever someone waded through hazardous waste. They wore gas masks under the hoods, and one swung a hammer, smashing something on the table. The other one grabbed handfuls or red crystals and weighed them in quart-sized Ziploc bags. With her attention fixed on the crystals, she failed to notice the figure doing the hammering had stopped and now stared straight at her.

  Halle’s heart thundered, and her face grew hot and flushed. The man with the hammer pulled back the hood and removed the gas mask, his face crunched in disbelief, as if he needed an unimpeded vision to believe what he saw before him. She recognized him and had a pretty good idea the content of those baggies wasn’t rock candy.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Willie Banks mouthed. He moved toward the front door and Halle ran like a bat out of hell past the back of the house and into the woods.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The manager told Jake it would take them a little while to get Stony situated in his room. She suggested he hang out in the waiting room or go get something to eat. Outside, he soaked in the sun when his cell rang. Dwight.

  “What do you have?” Jake asked.

  “Did you know some of this shit is flagged by the FBI? The FBI, Caldwell.”

  Interesting. “So did you get it?”

  “Yeah, but this wipes our slate clean. In fact, you should be paying me with whatever proceeds you’re gettin’ from whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

  “Come on, Dwight. Just give me the info and we’re even.”

  “Okay, Marion Holdings is the one the Feds flagged. It’s an ownership group with a shitload of properties including a chain of restaurants, bars, car washes, convenience stores, warehouses and a car dealership.”

  “What dealership?” Jake asked.

  He heard a shuffle of papers. “Langston Motors in Sedalia. This holding company also owns title on the Global Distribution Center you mentioned.”

  “Why was it flagged by the Feds?”

  “I had to hack into the FBI database to do it and you can’t hang around there too long. You can only bounce your signal around so many times. Best I could see it was for concerns with drugs and money laundering. The thing is, the FBI files are all about Marion Holdings. Nothing about this Global Distribution Center.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense,” Jake said.

  “I see it all the time. The spectrum of competency in the FBI is broad. Everything was flagged except for the Global Distribution Center. It’s a new site in the last six months. Doesn’t look like they’ve either put two and two together or done another search since the new site came into the picture. Gotta love the efficiency of our government.�
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  “What about Shane Langston? He’s the owner of Langston Motors.”

  “Langston Motors? Hell, he’s the principal of the holding company. He owns all of it. Guy’s a freaking millionaire.”

  “You found it that easy?”

  “Easy? Hell no. I had to look through six different databases to connect the dots. You’re lucky I have OCD. Doubt anyone else could’ve found it. We even now?”

  “Yeah, you did good, Dwight. Stay away from the casinos.”

  He checked his watch. He had about an hour to kill so decided to head over to the warehouse. His time was running out with Keats. If he couldn’t get to Langston or chickened out of killing him, maybe he could come up with something to hang Langston out to dry.

  * * *

  Minutes later, he turned into the empty lot of Global Distribution Center. Jake followed the side road around the corner of the warehouse, heading toward the back.

  He got out of the truck and checked the back door. Still locked. He checked the door frame but couldn’t see any alarm contacts, and, given the age of the building, decided to take a chance it wasn’t wired. He shoved his Glock into his waistband and pulled a sledgehammer from the back of the truck. With a grunt and a swing, he cracked off the doorknob, ready to bolt if sirens sounded. He pushed open the door and examined the frame. No wires, no alarm.

  The door opened into a small maintenance shop. A few workbenches were covered with tools and an overhead hoist hung above a grease spot on the floor. With nothing of interest there, Jake headed through the door on the opposite wall. It opened to a single, vast expanse; dark save for light filtering through cobwebbed windows set along the roofline. The lone occupant of the warehouse, a large John Deere tractor, rested along the west wall with an office area toward the front.

  He rummaged through the office and found nothing of interest except a thick layer of dust on the desks and chairs. He turned to leave when a muffler rumbled outside and the large bay door began rolling up. His slid behind the open office door, peering out to the warehouse floor through the crack. Seconds later, a black panel van drove inside and blocked his view of the tractor. The garage door screeched down, taking out the flood of sunlight. Jake slid the Glock from his waistband and held it by his leg, adrenaline surging.