Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  “My, my, haven’t seen one like this without a fatality before, Mr. Franklyn, you’re a lucky man.”

  They were standing next to his car sitting on the flatbed of a wrecker. Mace gave a thin smile and nod in response to Ray Bollinger, an insurance adjuster. Mace was impatient to get a housekeeping task checked off and not involved in a conversation. The crash convinced Mace Jirair was very much alive and wanted him out of the way. This wasn’t helping him find Jirair or prove the women were still alive or finding where they were being held.

  With growing impatience, he watched the adjuster making notes on his clipboard. The man had a sparse crop of combed over hair striving to hide a bald head and a too-small jacket straining to contain a plenteous stomach.

  “Now let’s see, the accident happened a few blocks west of here, the Kwick Stop on Eastern Michigan Avenue.”

  Mace nodded while shuffling his feet.

  “In your statement, you indicate you were doing fifty-five, here in town, on Michigan, a thirty-five miles per hour business zone. Is this correct, Mr. Franklyn?”

  “Yes, Ray, a fellow officer called, and I believed her to be in distress. I was rushing to her aid.”

  “That included driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  Mace lowered his head and nodded. I know where this is going.

  “Do you often use your car for police work, Mr. Franklyn?”

  Mace chuckled. This is more than a waste, it’s a joke. “I’m a consultant, Ray, I don’t do police work in the sense of traffic control or emergency response, but in this case – “

  “Mr. Franklyn, I’m afraid it is clear to me, and Mutual Auto, that you were carelessly driving in a reckless manner. Unless you can prove mechanical failure for the horrific accident, we are forced to deny your claim.”

  “You going to pick up the car rental, at least?”

  “Afraid not, Mr. Franklyn. This was strictly a property damage accident that you could’ve avoided. I’m afraid the burden is on you.”

  Mace’s frustration level was volcanic and nearing an eruption. He had an urge to jump up and down and scream at Ray, but he knew that would do little to get a favorable judgment. “So, Ray, if I can find evidence of mechanical failure, you will take another look.”

  “You find that Mr. Franklyn,” Ray said, shaking his head, “and I’m certain Mutual Auto will have no problem covering your losses.

  Mace reached over to shake Ray’s hand. “Thanks for coming by so quickly, Ray. Now, what do I do with this hulk of metal.”

  “It’s yours, Mr. Franklyn. Do whatever you want with it.” Ray turned for his car. “Oh, I must advise you that the owner of the Kwick Stop informed us he is bringing suit to recover damages.”

  “Any more good news, Ray?”

  “Best get a lawyer, Mr. Franklyn, we won’t be representing you, I’m afraid.”

  Ray drove off, leaving Mace, his hands braced on his hips, like a mother about to give a head wagging admonishment to a child, but this baby, his BMW, wasn’t talking. Or can it?

  Mace climbed onto the flatbed. The interior dash panel was a melted flow of plastic drooping down to the floor, frozen in time over bundles of sagging wires and misshapen brackets. The seats were naked, blackened coils and rods; everything seemed to belong. The floor panel behind metal spikes that once were the brake and throttle pedals was less damaged than the rest. A metallic box with four wires leading to the tangle running across the dash seemed out of place.

  “You shouldn’t be up there,” said a booming voice behind him.

  Mace turned to see a large man straining the confines of a long-sleeved blue shirt with the name “Ted” embroidered on it. “Sorry, it’s my beamer, or what is left of it.”

  “Figures.”

  “Where you taking it?”

  “Liberty Recycling, Romulus.”

  “I would like you to take it someplace else.”

  “Mutual only pay for Liberty.”

  Mace dug for his wallet in his back pocket and pulled out a credit card.”

  “How about I pay you to take it to another place.”

  “What’d you have to mind.”

  “Lansing, Forensic Science Division evidence yard.”

  * * * *

  It took Mace an hour in his Rent-A-Junker minivan to lead the flatbed wrecker to a high-chain link fenced area, the FSD evidence yard, behind their annex. The single-story block building seemed an afterthought extending from building three at the Lansing government center. Mace asked the driver to wait while he talked to Brok Blivens, an FSD technician, to get authorization.

  Brok, thin and sporting youthful textured quiff haircut, was wearing his white DFS coveralls and tapping the keys on a laptop. Pausing, he looked up and shook his head when he saw Mace. He pushed back his narrow-rimmed round glasses. “Must be the ghost of the special agent Mace Franklyn, my boss is still Shing Mac, you know. He hasn’t forgotten a certain FBI case and would go ballistic if he saw the real Mace Franklyn here.”

  Mace reached out to shake Brok’s hand. “Won’t touch anything, I swear. How’s it going, B?”

  Brok returned the shake, and the two men pulled together, exchanging back slaps.

  “Haven’t completed processing McCrary’s car yet, if that is what you are here for?” Brok moved back to his chair and invited Mace to sit down.

  Mace accepted the offer and sat facing Brok. “I need your help.”

  Brok smirked. “Mace, you’re nothing but trouble, you know that. I can’t talk about the case; Mac will have my hide.”

  “Not what I was going to ask. I have another vehicle for you to process.”

  “What, the Vulcan again?”

  Mace winced; the topic chaffing his nerves. “Hard to admit, but perhaps it is.”

  Brok pulled open a desk drawer and extracted a form. “Okay, what’s the VIN, and where is it?”

  Mace tossed his vehicle registration onto Brok’s desk. “It’s outside the yard right now.”

  “Yours?”

  Mace nodded.

  Brok pushed back into his chair. “Really, what happened?

  “I was on my way to do a joint interview with a sergeant from Detroit PD. I’m coming around to: someone took control of my beamer, wanting me dead.”

  “You all right?”

  “Pissed, that’s all. Can you help?”

  “That’s the second attempt, don’t see how I can refuse. Let’s go check it in.”

  Brok grabbed a set of keys, and they met the wrecker waiting outside the evidence yard gate. Brok directed the driver where to drop Mace’s burned-out hulk, and they returned inside to Brok’s desk.

  “What made you think the Vulcan had anything to do with your crash?”

  “My insurance adjuster. They won’t cover the damages unless I can prove a mechanical failure.”

  “Ouch, Mace, but I really can’t help you with that.”

  Mace nodded. “I think you will want to. The adjuster got me to thinking. I poked around my BMW’s carcass, and I found something I don’t think belongs, some bit of electronics.”

  Brok bounced back in his chair as if someone threw a punch at him. He raised a finger, gesturing for Mace to wait. Picking up his phone, he punched in three numbers. “Joni, what does doctor Mac’s schedule look like this morning?” He nodded and hung up. Brok sat back in his chair, staring, and then his hands suddenly stroked his head behind his ears.

  “Okay, Shing is working in the burn lab this morning, not expected back today. I think there are some things you should know. Still can’t give you any reports, but… We are still processing the Mustang, but it’s the other two that have me worried.”

  “All right, let’s have it.”

  “The oldest, the Audi A4 found in an alley in Romulus, was the worst. The fire was so intense the interior was fused into a blob of plastic lava, and what didn’t get burned off was washed away by the elements, melting snow and rain. Audi’s real-time traffic information system, map assist, activ
e cruise control, accident avoidance, and other information functions software, survived. The computer hosting it is packaged in the engine compartment and designed to take a lot of heat. I ran diagnostics. The ARTTI system was hacked, deactivated, and the last activity log entry was December twentieth.”

  “Wasn’t found till January ten. That’s good, Brok, tells us when she was abducted.”

  “Make sense, the last GPS point was on I94 just west of metro. Consistent with the ticket fragment we found in the roll-on.”

  “Hacking the ARTTI system easy to do?”

  “Only if you are very tech-savvy and know your vehicles.”

  “So, the week before her roommate declares her missing,” Mace said, “Coria Brien was on her way to the airport. Roommate never gave her another thought until she didn’t return.”

  Brok spun his laptop around so Mace could see the screen. “The other vehicle was a high-end model as well, a BMW 5 series. The new e-Mustang would be in that category as well.”

  “Mustang wasn’t moving, so that probably wasn’t a factor. Did you look at the BMW’s ARTTI system as well?”

  Brok nodded. “Deactivated on a Sunday as well.”

  “That’s it, how he approached his victims,” Mace said, “took control of car’s electronics, leaving them helpless, and not only unsuspecting but grateful for the fortuitous assistance.”

  “Wait, you saying these women were kidnapped before they were murdered?”

  Mace shook his head. “No, I’m saying, they are still alive, bodies are not theirs. It’s the reason why I need to know about my car, and you need to finish processing the Mustang. I’ve got to make a solid case for them being alive. It's been over a week for Sharlene and a year for Coria. We’ve got to be running out of time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the dim light of their cell, Sharlene sat on the edge of her bed, fingering her daughter’s phone. Coria was bathing using cloth torn from her skirt and the water in the toilet tank. Trina was sleeping. Was it morning, mid-day, or night, she couldn’t tell. For them, the sudden thrust of a food tray through the door slot marked the passing of each day.

  Sharlene’s heart sank with the longing to hear Sabriel’s voice once more, the pesky questions so essential to their little minds, so trivial to an adult. Would she ever be able to answer them again?

  Sharlene turned on the phone. It glowed, filling the room like a sunrise. She stared at the screen, its digital wallpaper of white butterflies settling on yellow daisies was so Sabriel. Her heart brightened, a thin smile crossed her face and a tear down her cheek, but it was brief. A low battery warning box popped onto the screen, assaulting the image and brief respite of joy.

  Coria buttoning her blouse, looked over at Sharlene.

  “What are you doing? You have a signal?”

  Sharlene shook her head.

  “Christ, then shut it off, no time to get sentimental. We have to figure this out.”

  Sharlene shut the phone off. “You’re right, just my daughters, I miss them.”

  “Tell me about it,” Coria said, “been here a year, should have graduated the end of the winter term.”

  Trina sat up. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” The other two said in unison.

  Trina wiped her eyes. “Oh, okay.”

  “It’s December,” Sharlene said, “I’ve been here, what, ten days? But where is here?”

  The sound of heavy footfalls approaching startled everyone into silence. Coria went over to where Trina sat on her bed. She slid next to her, each holding the other. Sharlene jammed the phone back into her dress pocket and joined them.

  The ponderous door, in their minds more for keeping the menacing out than themselves in, creaked open. It was Sar. He filled the doorway, blocking all but an outline of light around him. “Ulama has sent for you.”

  “He has something in his hand,” Coria whispered.

  “It’s a riding crop,” Trina whispered back, “unless your skin is horsehide, play it cool.”

  “Get up.”

  “Might be our chance.” Sharlene breathed as the other two filed past her following Sar’s direction.

  Sar urged them in front of him, down a narrow hall to two red doors close together separated by a brick-wide column. “Right.”

  Trina was first, she twisted a knob and entered the room. Coria and Sharlene followed. Sar closed and locked it behind them.

  The room, the size of a small bedroom, had bare concrete walls and a table in the far corner stacked with plaid vests, that looked like hunting vests to Sharlene. The only light, dazzling and blinding to their bat eyes, came from small windows cut high in the red doors ahead of them and the dull twilight through similar windows in the room beyond them.

  The room was divided equally by a floor to ceiling partition of chain-linked fencing. On the other side, a third doorway, the light behind it so weak it was difficult to discern it from the gray of the concrete. Sar pushed a man in a wheelchair to the threshold. Sharlene recognized him; it was Ulama. Sar stepped away, to the left of the doorway, and faced Ulama. He was wearing the same dark pants and highly polished black loafers as when she saw him the first time.

  “Can you see his face?” Sharlene breathed to the other two.

  “I will give you a chance for freedom,” Ulama seemed to say, “you must earn it. Today, a taste. If you do as you are told, then more. Now go.”

  Sar turned to them. “Get a vest, one that fits. Outside is cold.”

  “Outside, can you believe it?” Coria gushed in a whisper.

  “Not the mall, sweetie,” Trina said, “and it’s cold. Don’t get too excited.”

  All the vests seem to be too large for any of them, especially tiny Coria, but each selected one and put it on. It felt good to Sharlene. Warm, something she had not felt since stepping off the stage. The vests were bulky wool-lined vests with small belts across the center where buttons would typically be.

  Sar gestured for them through the second set of red doors. At the threshold, Sar grabbed Coria by the neck. With a mega-sized marking pen, he stabbed a black line on the nape of her neck and a similar one on the vest. He shoved her forward, his hand engulfing Trina’s throat, stopping her. She froze and swallowed hard. He jabbed the back of her neck, leaving two streaks of black, and he did the same on the vest. He sneered, seeming to delight in her palpable fear of him and shoved her into the bright room.

  Sharlene stood a pace behind the threshold. The sneer rooted to his face, a meaty hand beckoned her forward. She stepped to the threshold, a condescending smile as if acknowledging the cut of a sarcastic remark, spread across her face. His went to stone.

  Sar’s hand encircled her neck, stopping her. He leaned in, his face so close it felt a layer of skin away. She twisted her face aside, eyes squeezed shut, she tightened her head into her shoulders, expecting the worse for her defiance.

  His breath hot, his beard scraped against her cheek. Sar's fingers slid around to the side, he rubbed her jugular. He pressed the black marker there, hard and deep, then he encircled her throat. She was losing control. She fought her body's urge to purge what it clearly no longer needed.

  He marked her vest. “You are the least worthy, whore. Ulama chose you because the day of sacrifice grows near.” He shoved her forward with a brutal force. Coria and Trina catching her before she struck the ground.

  “Walk.” He shouted and slammed the steel door shut.

  * * * *

  They were in a small courtyard framed by the high concrete block walls of windowless buildings. A single gray steel door in the opposite wall. Sar was watching from the door behind them. Sharlene urged the other two to walk. They heard a metallic click of a deadbolt. They were locked in the yard.

  Do you have a signal?” Trina asked.

  The air was crisp, their jackets and thin clothing barely keeping the dry cold at bay. “Huddle to together, he may still be watching, keep your head down,” Sharlene said.

  The
y walked around the yard, seven paces in each direction, Sharlene counted.

  “Are there cameras?” Coria asked.

  “Is he still watching from the window?” Trina asked.

  They came abreast of the gray door. “Stop here,” Sharlene said and tried the door, but it was locked. “Keep your heads down, girls, we can’t all go gawking at once. We are going to call the wall where the doors are, north.”

  Sharlene urged them to resume walking. “Coria, you look for cameras and glance at the window when we are pacing the south wall. Trina, you alternate looking east when we are walking the opposite wall, then west. I’ll look around the door and for cameras to the south.”

  They paced the square courtyard three times, no one could see Sar or anything that looked like a camera. The sky began to cloud over.

  Along the south wall, “check for a signal,” Coria said.

  After passing the red door, Sharlene stepped ahead of the other two, retrieved her daughter’s phone, and turned it on.

  “Dim your phone,” Trina said, “it will save your battery.”

  Sharlene did that. “Two bars.”

  At the east wall, she shut off her phone and palmed it to keep it hidden.

  “What are you doing?” Coria said.

  Sharlene kissed her forehead, and freeing a hand, did a warming massage on her back. “Not much battery, who do we call?”

  “Someone who will believe us,” Trina said.

  “The police,” Coria said.

  They passed the doors. The cold had seeped through Sharlene’s thin entertainment clothing. She shivered. “Don’t have their number, other than using nine-one-one.”

  “That’s it we call them,” Trina said.

  Along the west wall, Coria squeezed tight to them. “What if they think it is a crank call? They’ll forget about it.”

  “Sean,” Sharlene said. The girls flashed a confused look at her.

  Pacing the south wall, Sharlene smiled at them. “He’s my husband, always defending me. He will know what to do, call Mace.”

  “Mace?” Trina asked.

  “Mace Franklyn, a private detective, my steady in high school, I called him for help, just a little too late though. What do you think?”