The Program

by James Swain

“What about DuCharme?”

  “He’s out of the picture.”

  “Glad to hear it. Good luck, Rachel.”

  “Thank you, Ken.”

  The line went dead. Linderman folded the phone.

  “Looks like the text of their conversation is coming through,” Jenkins said, swinging his chair closer to the computer. “Damn, these letters are small.”

  Linderman fitted on his reading glasses. The delayed text of Crutch and Mr. Clean’s conversation was running across the screen like an old-fashioned teletype. Reading it, he felt the hairs on his neck rise in alarm. Mr. Clean had spotted Vick at the Broward library, and knew the FBI was chasing him. Mr. Clean was scared and approaching panic mode. Serial killers who went on tilt were capable of incredible destruction. Linderman immediately called Vick back to alert her. A frantic busy signal filled his ear.

  “God damn it,” he swore.

  Jenkins pointed at the screen. “You better take a look at this. Something strange is going on.”

  Linderman followed his finger and stared at the words on the screen.

  “Let me think about this. How is the boy doing?”

  “The boy is strange. I don’t think he’s right for The Program.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t seem angry enough.”

  “Your voice is fading.”

  “We’re having a bad storm.”

  “This is different. You sound far away, like at the bottom of a well.”

  “Who’s the boy, and what’s The Program?” Jenkins asked.

  “The boy is our kidnap victim,” Linderman explained. “Mr. Clean is obviously putting him through some type of regimen.”

  “Lord, I wonder what he’s doing to him.”

  The text became frozen on the page. Linderman ripped off his glasses in anger and called the FBI’s Jacksonville office. He started to read the riot act to the agent coordinating the trace of Crutch’s cell phone conversation when the agent stopped him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the transmission,” the agent said.

  “Then why isn’t the text moving?” Linderman snapped.

  “Your suspects stopped talking. They just started back up. You’ll see the rest of the conversation shortly.”

  “But why did they stop?” Linderman pressed him. “Could they have known their conversation was being bugged?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What do you mean, possibly?”

  “There was a glitch in the system right about the time they stopped. It had to do with atmospheric conditions not being normal for this time of year. Your suspects might have heard it on their phones.”

  “How long would it have lasted?”

  “No more than ten seconds.”

  “It would have been nice to know this before.”

  “Sorry. It doesn’t happen very often,” the agent said.

  Linderman ended the call. He tried to call Vick and got patched into voice mail. Vick and the rest of the agents on her team were stepping into a hornet’s nest. He left a brief message, and told Vick that she was in danger.

  “For the love of Christ,” Jenkins said, “now they’re talking about taking a vacation. What the heck’s going on here?”

  Linderman closed his phone and shifted his attention to the computer screen.

  “You need to take a vacation.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. A very long vacation.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  Linderman balled his hands into fists. The sting was blowing up in their faces. Crutch had seen through it, and was now giving Mr. Clean instructions on how to deal with the problem.

  “They’ve started talking in code,” he explained.

  “Like the drug dealers do,” Jenkins said.

  “Exactly. The word vacation was the signal for them to start using the code. They know we’re listening to them.”

  “Any idea what they’re saying?”

  “Most verbal codes are fairly straight forward. Usually, the suspects simply start saying the opposite of what they mean.”

  “If that’s the case, then your agent in Fort Lauderdale is in trouble,” Jenkins said.

  “Take a look.”

  Linderman brought his face up to the screen.

  “What about the cute little blond FBI agent?”

  “I think you should leave her alone.”

  “But I wanted to introduce her to the judge.”

  “Is he with you?”

  “Oh, yes. The judge is in my car.”

  “Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.”

  His breath fogged the screen. He knew about the Judge. It was the nickname for a Taurus .410 revolver that was capable of firing shotgun shells. Judges around the country had started carrying them beneath their robes as protection against violent criminals in their courtrooms. Crutch was telling Mr. Clean that it was all right to shoot Vick.

  Again he dialed Vick’s number. This time, he prayed for her to pick up.

  Chapter 25

  Sunrise Boulevard was a sea of headlights. One a.m. on a weekday night, and the traffic was backed up for miles.

  Vick gripped the wheel and stared at the cars in front of her. Ever since joining the FBI, she’d dreamed of taking down a dangerous criminal — a terrorist, or perhaps someone on the Ten Most Wanted List. Now her dream was about to be realized.

  Just up the road was the intersection for State Road 84. The RaceTrac gas station was on the southwest side. Six vehicles were parked at the gas pumps, another eight in front of the service center. Capturing Mr. Clean in a public place was dangerous, but she didn’t see any other choice.

  Three veteran FBI agents shared the car with her. Special Agents Ayer and Padgham sat in back, while Special Agent Cunningham rode shotgun. Middle-aged and gray, the three men had fifty-plus years experience between them. In a small way, each reminded Vick of her father, which was strange. She despised her father, yet had chosen to lean on men similar to him for help.

  The light turned green. Vick drove thirty feet before it turned red. She hit her brakes hard. Up ahead, a car backed out of a parking spot in front of the RaceTrac. Vick felt her heart skip a beat. Was Mr. Clean getting away?

  The car pulled onto 84. It was a convertible with the top down, the driver a balding white male talking on a cell phone. Mr. Clean was still inside, talking to Crutch on a payphone. Vick decided to make things happen.

  “I’m going to burn the light,” she said.

  She put hand on the horn and kept it there. Cars parted, and a space magically opened up in front of her. She floored the gas and reached the intersection.

  The turn arrow was red, the cars in front of her braked. She considered hopping the median and driving on the wrong side of the road. Only too many cars were coming in the opposite direction, and she might get in a wreck.

  She kept her hand on the horn and flashed her brights. The drivers in front of her got the message, and ran the light. She did the same, taking the turn on two wheels. The entrance to the RaceTrac was right on top of her. She spun the wheel in the opposite direction. Her Audi rocked like a carnival ride.

  She braked in front of the service center, her breath caught in her chest. She glanced at Cunningham, then the others. They were cool, calm and collected. Bastards.

  “Badges,” Vick said.

  The agents pinned their badges to their clothing so they were plainly visible.

  “Everyone set?” she asked.

  “Ready when you are,” Cunningham said.

  They piled out of the car. The service center was a rectangular building with a wall of windows in the front. Inside, there was a food court, bathrooms, and aisles of chips and snacks. The payphones were behind the food court, next to the rear entrance. Standing at the windows, Vick spotted a large Latino male talking on a phone.

  “There he is,” Vick said.

  Her partners stared throu
gh the glass. Mr. Clean was hard to miss. Six-foot-three and approximately two hundred and forty pounds, he wore a white tee-shirt over his muscular chest, acid-stained jeans with holes in the knees, and his kinky hair cut short. Clutched in his hand was a super-sized fountain drink.

  Vick said, “I want Ayer and Padgham to cover the back entrance while Cunningham and I go through the front. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to get around the building. Remember gentleman, our suspect is armed and very dangerous.”

  Ayer and Padgham took off running. Both agents had their weapons drawn and were moving faster than their years.

  Vick silently counted to fifteen. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she tried to stay calm. Cunningham had the front door open, and she followed him inside.

  Time was relative to the speed you were traveling, and how fast your heart was beating. Vick felt like she was moving in slow motion as she and Cunningham passed through the food court. She drew her Glock from the harness inside her sports jacket, and held it in front of her chest. Every movement felt painfully slow. All around her, people were ducking under tables for cover.

  Mr. Clean didn’t see them coming. He was the only person at the payphones; the closest bystander an elderly woman extracting cash from an ATM machine. She got her money and teetered away, having no idea how close she’d come to a killer.

  Mr. Clean raised his drink and sucked through the straw. He shook the ice cubes, trying to get the last drops of soda out of the cup. The phone’s receiver was clutched in his other hand and held down by his side. Like he’s on hold, Vick thought.

  There was a wall of windows behind the pay phones. Ayer and Padgham were behind it, aiming their weapons at Mr. Clean. Vick made a quick motion with her hand, and they slipped inside the back door.

  Mr. Clean was surrounded.

  Finally, their suspect reacted. He placed his drink on the ledge beneath the pay phone and stared at Vick. Genuine surprise registered across his face.

  “You guys filming a TV show?” he asked.

  “Put your hands behind your head!” Vick shouted.

  “Me?” he asked, sounding shocked.

  “Yes, you! Do it now!”

  Their suspect dropped the phone and clasped his hands around the back of his head. The phone was on a metal cord, and banged noisily against the wall. To Vick, it sounded like a cannon going off.

  The four FBI agents quickly closed around him. While Ayer pressed his gun against Mr. Clean’s back, Cunningham made their suspect turn his pockets inside out, then frisked him. He was not armed. A cheap plastic wallet was produced. Vick pulled out a handful of credit cards and a Florida driver’s license.

  “Is your name Wilfredo Pruna?” she asked.

  Sweat pancakes had formed on their suspect’s tee-shirt. His breathing was labored, his eyes blinking rapidly. He looked ready to pass out.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “You’re under arrest,” Vick said.

  “Look, I told the judge that I’d get the payment to her soon.”

  “What payment is that?” Vick asked.

  “The alimony payment to my ex-wife. I lost my job, got behind a few months. You know how it is.”

  “We’re arresting you for kidnap and murder,” Vick said.

  Pruna gave Vick a wide-eyed stare. He twisted his head to look at the other agents.

  “That bastard set me up,” Pruna said angrily.

  “Cuff him,” Vick said.

  Cunningham made Pruna lower his arms and put them behind his back. The FBI agent put a pair of plastic handcuffs around Pruna’s wrists and pulled them tight.

  “Don’t you want to hear my story?” Pruna said indignantly.

  “Sure, we do,” Cunningham replied.

  “I was going into the bathroom to take a leak,” Pruna said. “Guy was standing by the phones, said he’d give me ten bucks to hold the phone so he could get something from his car. I said sure. Sounded like an easy way to make some cash, you know?”

  Something hard dropped in the pit of Vick’s stomach. The story sounded lame enough to be true. She thought back to the casual way Pruna had been holding the receiver. Not on hold, but waiting for someone.

  She said, “Describe this guy.”

  Pruna perked up. “My height, real strong-looking, had a Cuban accent. He was wearing tinted glasses and a baseball cap. He had some kind of uniform on.”

  “What kind of uniform?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he a policeman?”

  “No, I’d recognize that.”

  “Anything else stick out?” Vick asked.

  “He was shy. He didn’t look directly at me when he spoke.”

  Vick looked at her partners. Their faces said it all. They’d been set up.

  “You said he went outside to his car,” Vick said. “Where was he parked?”

  “I saw him walk across the field to the tire store next door,” Pruna said.

  “Did you see what he was driving?”

  “No. I just saw him cross the grass to the lot.”

  “Show me where he went.”

  Vick put her hand on Pruna’s back and turned him around so he faced the windows. Behind the convenience store were a line of cars. Beyond them, a field of knee-high grass that led to the parking lot of a Tire Kingdom. Pruna put his face up to the glass. Vick did the same. Then she saw him. A large Cuban man wearing shades and a baseball cap passing between two parked cars, walking toward her. His movements were lithe, and reminded her of a fish moving effortlessly through the water. In his outstretched right hand was a huge pistol that looked like something out of a cowboy movie.

  “Get down,” Vick shrieked.

  The windows imploded and glass rained around them. Vick felt a stinging sensation on her cheek and knew she’d been hit. She put her hand on Pruna’s arm and pulled him down to the floor. Her partners dropped down as well.

  Mr. Clean kept firing, pinning them to the floor. Everyone in the restaurant was screaming, some in English, some Spanish, the sounds fueling its own hysteria.

  “Stay down!” Vick yelled.

  Pruna lay beside her on his side, moaning. A ragged bullet hole had appeared in the front of his tee-shirt. Blood began to seep out of his body like water coming out of a spigot, forming a hideous pool on the floor.

  The gunshots stopped. Vick rose on shaky legs while staring through the gaping hole where the windows had been. She saw nothing.

  “Is everyone okay?” Vick asked.

  “We’re all hit,” Cunningham replied.

  Vick checked out her team. Padgham sat on the floor, clutching his arm, his head rocking from side to side as he tried to control the pain. Cunningham and Ayer were aiming their guns at the windows, their faces covered in blood. Hundreds of tiny holes had appeared in the walls and the payphones. Mr. Clean was firing buckshot.

  “Ayer, get these handcuffs off our suspect, and try to stop his bleeding,” Vick barked. “Cunningham, follow me outside.”

  Vick hopped over broken glass and hurried outside with Cunningham beside her. She aimed her gun at shadows that held no threat while Cunningham searched between the rows of parked cards.

  “He’s not here,” Cunningham said.

  Together, they ran across the field to the Tire Kingdom, and searched its grounds. Mr. Clean had vanished. Cunningham got on his cell phone and called for backup. Vick stepped away from him, and stood very still, listening to the night sounds. It was quiet save for the hiss of cars and the mournful wail of an ambulance racing down Sunrise Boulevard. People didn’t just disappear into thin air, yet Mr. Clean had done just that.

  “Where are you,” she whispered.

  Her shoulders sagged, feeling the weight of her own failure. She’d done everything by the book, yet the sting had blown up in their faces. She was going to get blamed for this. It was how the game worked.

  She headed back to the convenience store, knowing the worst was yet to come.

  Chapt
er 26

  Crutch lay on his cot, listening to the mayhem on his cell phone. The payphone at the Race Trac was off the hook, and he had heard Mr. Clean ambush the FBI agents who’d come to arrest him.

  It was as much fun as going to the movies.