The pilot smiled. “Well said, Dr. McCain. I think that was my first response when I stepped into this thing. I’ll be sure to let Mr. Rutherford know you are pleased. Please sit anywhere. The copilot is almost finished with all the pre-flight operations, and we can be wheels up in less than ten minutes. Help yourself to the bar if you like. By the way, you’ve got a small present on the table.”
The pilot turned and entered the cockpit, leaving me alone in the cabin. Remembering to bend over in the low-lying cabin, I walked to the dining table and discovered a box containing 50 rounds of .357 Magnum ammunition lying in the middle of the table. Rutherford’s gift. One more advantage of flying noncommercial.
I didn’t drink but decided to check the bar anyway to see what a rich Texan kept in it. I found expensive bourbon, aged Scotch, and Mountain Valley Spring Water — the best darn bottled water I’d ever had. I grabbed a bottle and sat down in one of the leather chairs. Soon, the plane began to move toward the taxiway. No pilot announcements. No preflight instructions. Wheels up in ten as the pilot had promised.
A little less than three hours later, the plane touched down in another executive airport in the D.C. area. Jessica was waiting for me near the stairs looking very excited. As expected, she tussled my hair, but the kiss afterward was rather lackluster. “Sorry, I don’t have time for you to curl my toes,” she teased, “but Agent Marshall needs us ASAP at our favorite coffee shop. I’ll let her explain. You can tell me about your flight and what you plan on doing about the Outfit on the way there.”
I spent the 20-minute drive detailing what happened in Missouri and describing Rutherford’s involvement and use of his private plane. I followed up by explaining my plan to end the ever-growing problem with Scott Beyers and Robert Deluca. Jessica looked at me skeptically until I told her I wasn’t joking.
“Where do you come up with this stuff, Legend?”
“You think it will work?”
“And then some. Holy shit, Legend. You’re going nuclear on them.”
“I want this over.”
Special Agent Marshall and Special Agent Armour were waiting for us at the coffee shop when we arrived. Larry was seated at a table near the back wall. He looked uncomfortable.
“How bad is it?” I asked Larry as I pointed to the crutches leaning against the table.
“Nothing broken. I’ve got a sprained ankle and a sore tail bone.” He seemed to sense my anger. “Don’t worry about it. For now, I’m going with the idea that Boyd wasn’t driving the van.”
“Yeah, me too, Larry. Me too.”
Marshall barely waited for us to sit down before talking. “I think everyone at this table believes Shelley Baxter is alive and well.” I nodded. “I now have irrefutable evidence that the body retrieved seven years ago belongs to Stephanie Woodson, the young woman who went missing in Philadelphia. Her boyfriend had pictures showing birthmarks that match up perfectly with those on the recovered body.”
Marshall stopped to look around the table, maybe to see if anyone had any objections or questions. No one spoke up.
“Combine that information with what you found out in Oklahoma, and we must seriously consider that George Mansfield was right. With her brother’s help, Shelly Baxter conned her husband out of three million dollars by faking her kidnapping. And by killing an innocent woman who looked like her, we now know she is the evil sociopath I said she is.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “But this is hardly news, just confirmation of what we already suspected. Why did you need me here the moment I touched down?”
“Dr. McCain, the Bureau will reopen this case. I can promise that.”
Larry nodded his agreement.
“Good,” Jessica said. “Maybe this would have been over sooner if they had cooperated in the beginning.”
“Sure, maybe. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that yesterday Boyd injured a federal officer. He sort of screwed himself. Unless...”
“Unless what? What are you proposing?”
“Just this, Dr. McCain — Special Agent Armour and I have decided to sit on our findings until Monday. Being Thursday, you have three and a half days to find Boyd before we take everything we have to the FBI, and they open this case back up. After that, the Bureau will be hunting for him, and if they find him first, then there’s nothing we can do for him. He will go down as an accomplice of sorts. And if he was driving the van, he might be up a creek without a paddle anyway.”
I stood up from the table so abruptly I knocked my chair over in the process. “Agent Marshall, thank you for allowing me an opportunity to find Boyd first. Larry, if he was driving the van, then do what you need to do, friend or not. In the meantime, Jessica and I are out of here.”
Marshall said, “Do you want copies of anything I have so far to help you convince Boyd he’s wrong about Shelley Baxter?”
“No. If Boyd doesn’t trust the word of his two best friends, then I’ll knock his ass out and drag him out of the mess he’s found himself in. One way or another, we will find him and stop him from making things worse.”
***
Three days to find Boyd. I might have expected the offer from Larry. Even though it appeared Boyd was driving the van that injured him, Larry knew that Boyd was my friend. Furthermore, Boyd helped me save his wife last year, meaning Larry probably felt indebted to Boyd. But the offer didn’t make sense from Agent Marshall’s standpoint. She had to be working an angle. It’s what she did. She was cunning and crafty and liked head games and manipulating circumstances to her advantage. I didn’t blame her. It’s not like we were friends. She was doing exactly what I would have done in her situation. Each of us was merely using the other as a mutually beneficial means to an end.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Jessica said as we walked to our rental car.
“You might want your penny back.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking, then we’ll see.”
“I’m probably just being paranoid.”
“Legend McCain, I’ve never known you to be paranoid.”
“It’s Agent Marshall. I can’t help shake the idea that she’s using us.”
“That’s because she is using us. You know that. Just like we are using her.”
“No, it’s more than that.”
“Can you be more specific.”
“I’m trying, Jessica.”
I was quiet for the rest of the walk to the car while I tried to formulate my feelings into a coherent train of thought. My wife could see I was mentally struggling and volunteered to drive to our destination, a town slightly more than 20 miles west of D.C. More specifically, we were visiting Bill Brookins at his place of employment. Per Jessica’s advice, I reached out to my friends in the intelligence community to ask them to run down the license plate of the van she provided. Brookins was the name they gave me.
“You’ve had 15 minutes to think it over, Legend, now tell me what’s wrong with Agent Marshall.”
“Lots of things about Marshall bother me. For one, she has red hair and a weird smile, just like Shelley Baxter. Hopefully, that’s only a coincidence.”
“You’re right. I think I want my penny back. Are you saying Shelley Baxter and Marshall are the same person?”
“Two pretty redheads who smirk; what are the chances?”
“You think Agent Marshall is pretty?”
Something about Jessica’s tone made me wary. Was it a hint of jealousy? I couldn’t be sure, but I also wasn’t in the mood if she was playing games with me
“Sure, because, you know, she is pretty. That doesn’t mean I find her attractive. Geez, Jessica.”
“I’m just messing with you, Legend.”
“Please don’t,” I said in an abrupt, irritated tone. “I know it sounds ridiculous. You have to admit we don’t know enough about Marshall. She told us she went to college in Michigan and worked in Iowa, but we don’t know that for sure. Maybe she went to college in Texas. If Marshall is thirty like she told us, then she is only thr
ee years younger than Baxter. Maybe they knew each other.”
“You forget that Baxter graduated from college in 1982 when she was 21. Marshall was graduating from high school at that time. They might be only three years apart in age, but they were six or seven years apart academically.”
“Then maybe they are related. It could explain the physical similarities.”
“As you always say — I guess that possible, but not very probable.”
The more I talked, the more stupid I felt. However, Jessica insisted I tell her what I was thinking, and there was no going back.
“Remember how Marshall walked out of that bar with Evan with no problem at all. Something doesn’t add up. And we both saw the look of recognition on Evan’s face at the time. Marshall said she was an attorney in Iowa. Maybe they knew each other.”
“Not everybody in Iowa knows everyone else, Legend.”
“Jessica, I usually don’t mind when you play devil’s advocate, but this time you are annoying me.”
The tone of my voice caused Jessica to look at me, her brow wrinkled up in concern. “I’m sorry,” she replied in a timid tone full of genuine sorrow.
Jessica did not say anymore, and I didn’t respond, creating an awkward silence in the vehicle that remained until Jessica needed help navigating once got closer to our destination. Soon we stopped in front of a small, run-down car repair shop named Brody’s Automotive Repair. My wife didn’t volunteer to accompany me inside the small shop.
A loud metallic cowbell announced my arrival as soon as I opened the door. The lobby was small and looked as run-down as the exterior of the building. Two filthy chairs to the right. Past the chairs was a doorway that opened into the work area. There was a worn, dirty counter in the back left corner with invoices scattered around with no semblance of order. The metal office swivel chair behind the counter reminded me of the uncomfortable office chairs from my time in the Navy. No receptionist. Brody’s Automotive made a horrible first impression.
The sound of tools and activity emanated from the work area, as well as “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin. Even with the music playing, someone had to have heard the obscenely loud bell, but three minutes later, no one entered the lobby to greet me. I walked to the work area doorway and peered through. My view was obstructed by a vehicle up on a hydraulic car lift.
One step inside the shop area and I quickly discovered it looked nothing the lobby. The work area was well-organized. And notably cleaner than the lobby. The prideful fastidiousness was a sure sign of someone who enjoyed his work.
The garage contained three work bays with hydraulic lifts. The first and second bays had cars up on their lifts, while the third bay contained a beautiful red 1963 Chevy Impala on the ground with the hood up. A fourth bay at the end of the garage was the source of the noise I heard from the lobby. Three men were working near the rear of a white panel van. I was pretty sure I had the right garage.
One of the men looked up, spotted me, and yelled. “I’ll be with you in a second, mister.”
“I need to talk to Bill Brookins,” I yelled back, trying to sound both earnest and friendly at the same time.
“I’ll be with you in a moment. Please step back into the lobby, sir.”
I started walking toward the men. “I’m afraid I’m in a hurry and can’t wait. And I’m here to talk about that van.”
All three men abruptly stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at me. The man who had been talking to me crouched near the back of the vehicle. He stood up and faced me. I could tell he was working through an internal mental checklist as he stared at me, wondering who I was and how he should approach me.
“I’m Brookins,” he said. “You’re in a restricted area, mister. You need to turn around and return to the lobby.”
His comment confirmed he didn’t think I was a cop. It also confirmed he wasn’t planning on being helpful. My suspicion was further confirmed when the other two men walked away from Brookins and started to fan out.
Flanking maneuvers. Fastidious work area. They had to be former military, probably Marines. They had the look. Something about leathernecks, they are a different breed. Every Marine, regardless of his specialty, goes through infantry training, and the training seems to leave an indelible mark on them for the rest of their life. I had noticed even paper-pushing Marines think of themselves as tougher, more capable than the average Joe. It made them cocky. And cocky can make a man stupid.
Let’s hope they’re not stupid. Once I introduce myself, they should be less hostile.
“Gentleman, I just wan—.”
My sentence was interrupted by a hard shove from behind. Four work bays. A fourth worker. I’d missed him. Being cocky can make a man stupid, and I was the stupid one.
I spun to meet my potential adversary, finding a young man in his mid-twenties glaring at me. He was lean, wearing a clean work uniform. Dirty, calloused hands held a long hollow metal bar, commonly referred to as a cheater bar. He was sporting a horseshoe buzz cut popular with Marines. Definitely a jarhead. Who else would pick a fight with a guy built like me, someone six inches taller and 70 pounds heavier?
“Mister, you were asked to wait in the lobby,” he said in a confident voice.
Explode from nothingness — that’s my motto. Without warning, I reached out and grabbed the metal bar with both hands, using my superior weight and strength to pull the bar toward me. He had a good grip. Most mechanics do. I stepped back on one foot and spun the man around, nearly lifting his feet off the ground in the process. His grip failed him. He flew into the garage door behind him with a loud thud.
I kept the metal bar in my hand and backed up a few steps to keep all four men in my view at the same time. Brookins had a wrench in his right hand while the other two were still fanning out and advancing. The fourth man was recovering from running into the garage door.
“Wait a second, gentleman,” I said.
“Waiting is over, mister,” Brookins replied. “You need to leave. You can do it voluntarily, or we can throw you out. You decide. And make it quick.”
“I came for answers. I’m not leaving until I get them.”
I responded forcefully, standing as tall and big and menacing as I could, hoping the risk of violence might convince them to listen to what I had to say. They responded by moving forward, indicating their intention to attack.
“Come on, guys. I only want to talk about my friend, Boyd Dallas, and the van right there behind you.”
I hoped mentioning that Boyd was a friend might dissuade them. Instead, they looked even more determined to throw me out of their garage. The man to the left of Brookins would attack first. I knew it. He was six feet tall. Probably 200 pounds. Wearing a tight black tee-shirt in an attempt to show off his gym muscles. I knew the type. He thought he was a badass because he could bench 225. Mr. 225 was also the one advancing the most and was the only one smirking. As if the whole thing amused him.
But Horseshoe, the man I threw into the garage door, was the first one to rush me. He grabbed the metal bar with both hands and held on for dear life. Again. Not a bad plan with three men to back him up. I could wrestle him for the bar, which would leave me open for attack from the other three. Or I could let him have the bar so I could retreat and save myself.
That’s probably what Horseshoe thought I would do anyway. I did neither. I let him maintain his grip on the metal bar, twisting and turning his body into the three men to use him as a human shield as they advanced while I backpedaled toward the lobby. My goal was to reach the doorway and use it as a funnel to limit their advance to one at a time.
Horseshoe quickly realized he was getting in the way and let go of the metal bar. Four on one again. I continued to retreat slowly toward the lobby doorway as Brookins swung his wrench wildly in my direction. He was the only one with a weapon, meaning I kept the metal bar trained mostly in his direction. Mr. 225 finally lunged at me, his right fist coming in with a big swinging punch that connected harmlessly with m
y left shoulder.
“My wife hits harder than that.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it slipped out. Mr. 225 did not look amused.
The man to the right of Brookins had his fists up, but it was obvious he didn’t wish to engage unless it was absolutely necessary.
Brookins, with his wildly-swinging wrench, was starting to irritate me. It wasn’t a knife, but one well-placed hit could still cause serious damage. Twice I used the metal bar to deflect the wrench as he swung it in my direction.
“Come on, guys!” I yelled. “I just want to talk. I’m looking for Boyd.”
“Never heard of him. Get lost,” Brookins replied.
Suddenly, Mr. 225 was back at me in full force, this time with a large socket wrench in his right hand. Two men with weapons. Great. I used the metal bar to deflect the wrench away from my head as he swung it in my direction. Brookins took advantage of my increased focus on Mr. 225 by swinging his wrench at my right arm. The wrench landed solidly on my right forearm with a meaty thud. Even with all the pain-mitigating adrenaline in my bloodstream, it hurt.
My mother’s voice played in my mind. “The road to failure is paved by those who play it safe” was one of her favorite sayings. I changed my grip on the metal bar to a more aggressive one. I was done risking injury by playing it safe. Plus, I was angry.
All four men backed up as I started spinning the metal bar like a Samurai soldier in a martial arts movie. Brookins was first. I struck him in the shoulder, causing him to yelp. Followed up with a sweep to his feet, which knocked him over onto the concrete floor. The bar never stopped moving. I changed directions and hit Mr. 225 in his torso. He cringed with the impact, yet still managed to grab the bar and pin it against his side. I raised my foot as if I was going to kick him. Mr. 225 let go of the bar to defend himself. Instead of kicking him, I struck him hard in the chest with the flat end of the bar. That one hurt.
Spinning and twisting, twisting and spinning. Constantly moving. The tables had turned, and all four men knew it. None of them wanted to get within reach of me and that metal bar. Brookins climbed to his feet, grabbed an acetylene torch, and lit it. It looked scary, but the hoses on the torch made him less effective than when he had the wrench as a weapon.
Deadly Promise Page 33
