by a b
Little did he or she know that business was about to pick up.
Wagner had tracked Darci to a mini mart twenty miles north, where she’d switched onto a two-lane freeway leading into the high valley towns of Blake and Hammet. The trail dead-ended there. She hadn’t made it to either town; Wagner had spent the better part of the afternoon canvassing both areas. It took approximately twenty minutes for each – there wasn’t much to see. Four gas stations, a Taco Bell and a series of convenience stores that sold “live” bait later, and Wagner had decided to retrace her steps. Still wondering why people in two different stores put quotes around the word live in their advertising of “live”, she’d come across a small service road with a sign for Burly’s Logger Lodge and an arrow. Did they want to emphasize the fact that their bait wasn’t really alive? A bumpy ride down the road did not make the logic any more clear. It might have been a more philosophical look at what life really is, questioning if bait, a metaphor for the condemned is ever really sold to into its destiny alive.
The highway she’d pulled off of, connected with Interstate 70 fifty miles farther up the road. If Darci’s destination hadn’t been along the old two-lane highway it would have been much smarter to stay on the larger road then cut over into the mountains. Six lanes gave much better odds on getting a ride, and Wagner was willing to bet that Darci knew the practical math of hitchhiking much better than any story problem she might have come across in a math class. She’d come a long way. BUMP, Wagner came back to reality in time to dodge a branch that swept across the single lane. The lodge pole pines were soldiers lining the road encroaching right up to the sides of the car with their branches. She pulled into a clearing that stood adjacent to Burley’s.
The dark cabin was deserted and Wagner bypassed the bartender and decided to sit at a table and collect her thoughts before ordering. She stared at the barman, waiting for him to look up and come over. He did neither. She became inexplicably anxious taking out some of her frustration on the mountain man. “Can I get some service?”
“Waitress quit, orders at the bar.”
If he’d looked up during his disposal of the law of the land, Wagner missed it. She couldn’t believe it. She’d been so close to catching up with Darci and now she was taking shit from some backwater buffoon who didn’t properly maintain his service road. The temperature around her face rose suddenly and she abandoned the idea of being rational. She just wanted a win, “I’ll wait.”
“For what?”
“For you to hire a new waitress.”
He looked up, and after a pause the room filled with a rumbling laugh that rolled in his throat like a bowling ball looking for pins. He said nothing, but with a good-natured wink he picked up a pad and waddled toward the end of the bar. “I haven’t been on this floor to serve a customer in fifteen years, lady, but I’ve been told I have bad habits, so I might as well break one of them with you.”
He swung his frame around the corner of the bar and found quite an astonishing thing. He didn’t fit through the narrow gap. He shrugged. Wagner approached the bar.
“Give me a diet coke.”
“Hell of a thing.” The bartender said still looking at the gap. His eyes swung across to Wagner’s face. “I’ll get you a light beer.” He popped the top and continued before she could complain. “See if you pass the cigarette test.” He offered her one from an open pack. “People who stumble into this place looking like you do are either artists looking for solitude or cops looking for trouble. Take the cigarette and you’re an artist, leave it and you’re a cop.”
Wagner smiled and pulled one out, the bartender’s skull emblazoned lighter quickly flicked into action. “Why can’t I be a smoking cop?” The smoke filled her lungs, draining the bright ember tip quickly down the paper wrapping.
“You are. An artist rarely has a weapon slung in a shoulder belt, saw that when you reached for the pack.” The fat man had his charm, and also a perspicacious bent certainly a product of years of rowdy crowds, knowing when a fight was about to break out on the floor. His eyes gleamed, then flitted to the entrance. “I think I just spotted the trouble you’re looking for.”
Wagner followed the bartender’s eyes to the door, where a visibly grungy, worn out girl entered the bar. It was immediate, unmistakable, Wagner had been looking at that face for the past week, it was Darci.
“Burly Bear!” Darci lit up seeing the bartender. The combined weight of the road, her trip and the pack on her back dissolved into the shadows of the dreary room and it was like the sun shone just under a gleaming layer of her skin. She leaned over the bar and let her cheek sink into the upper roll of fat below the bartender’s rib cage, pressed close to his heart.
“I thought you were gone for good.” He grumbled.
“How’s Mac?”
Burly looked at Wagner. “The police are looking for you.” Wagner coughed, sputtering.
Darci chided him “Why would you say a silly thing like that?”
Before Burly could answer Wagner cut in razor sharp “Because I’m a federal agent, and I think you have answers to my questions.” She looked her steadily in the eyes as defiance welled up. Wagner didn’t have time for games; she needed to cut through the role-playing before it started.
What would Legacy say about now to cut the legs out from under her? She went through a mental checklist that Legacy said he used as an unconscious algorithm whenever he was put in front of an interrogatee.
Since she herself wasn’t a freak of nature, Wagner would have to go a more deliberate route, checking off the list best as she could remember.
Was there a weakness that presented itself in the appearance of the person being questioned, some affectation of behavior or style of dress?
In this case, Wagner could see the piercings like pockmarks all contained fake gems as decoration. Her rebellion included the need to be noticed.
Her clothes were tight; the outline of her demi bra drew attention to her chest, the same with her panty lines. She was afraid of being lost in a crowd, and would go to extreme lengths to get the eyes on her.
Next question: did the person exhibit strength or weakness before the interrogator identified himself?
She had run into the bartender’s arms dismissing Wagner as a woman, a trivial part of the scene. That spoke volumes about her view of her own importance, and her need to feel protected, and secure. Ignoring something is always the weakest reaction, but that is not to say that confronting it is always the strongest. There are many parts of the mind that become engaged the minute a problem is taken on. The fear of engaging the parts that solve a problem is the embodiment of weakness.
Last question before a word is spoken: does the person want to be treated with respect? It was a simple yes no question, based on all of the intangibles collected and analyzed from answering the first two questions. Wagner answered with authority. No.
Her cigarette had burned down a quarter inch; Burly and Darci were looking at her in reluctant anticipation of what was coming next. By the looks of them she hadn’t said anything in about a minute. Her disconnect had put them on the defensive, without saying a word and the advantage was clearly hers before she opened her mouth. Oh, God, was this how Legacy operated? She felt fresh blood rush to her cheeks. No time for her own weaknesses. She jumped in with the urgency of pursuing an advantage could be lost any moment.
“You could save an important life, be remembered for something other than being a slut.” Wagner layered her voice with the kind of cruelty that she could tell Darci had come to expect. Darci’s eyes registered nothing.
Burly rose to her defense “Hey now,” He slapped his hand down on the bar, Darci turned to him like a savior. “Let’s not make this – OWWW”
Wagner planted her thumb in-between the knuckles of Burly’s middle and ring finger pressing through the flesh and feeling the wooden bar below. Burly’s arm went numb an instant after the pain shot through the muscular flab that looked like it was held together by a patch
work of connected tattoos. He pulled his hand back and was rewarded by pins and needles that stung his fingertips and enveloped his arm. “Damn, damn!” Wagner’s face softened into a heartfelt look of concern, turning back to Darci. Wagner slipped a hand around the teen’s waist and led her away from the bar.
The confrontation could have gone either way, it could have been a disaster, but in the aftermath Darci was more isolated than ever. Wagner lead her over to her table without a word and pulled out a chair. Darci sat like one condemned, she felt her power slip away, helpless as she was in the past.
Wagner tried to reassure her with a smile. It would have worked coming from most people, however, in Darci’s life, evil always presented itself in her life with a smile.
Chapter 59 Last Ditch
“Creak, creak, creak, creak.” The obsessive repetition of jumping jacks had put a spring into the boards under Laura’s feet. “Creak, creak, creak” She had to keep in shape, she had to have something in her life that listened to her commands and did exactly what she wanted. Her legs and arms still obeyed, and that meant she still had something left inside her that listened.
She was petrified of the way Blue had been conditioning her mind, scared that she would tell her legs to do something and they would be unwilling without permission of her captor at some crucial time, and that crucial time was approaching fast. The indoctrination went so deep that she feared that it would take a drill to the base of her spine to drain his will from her. She was divided against herself in every thought of rebellion or revenge. Even her dreams of killing him lacked satisfaction. She’d wake up sobbing, screaming, “no.” Her limbs shook like his death took away the chaos control that kept her from moving outward in all directions and breaking apart.
Disgust flooded through her and pushed her body erect. Then she’d start doing jumping jacks, always in the same place. She carefully stepped off paces from the far and sidewalls before beginning. The exercise continued until her muscles no longer listened to her mind. She loved that last moments, when it was clear she had no control. It made her feel like there was a point at which everyone’s boundaries are the same.
“Creak, creak, creak.” Tonight was special. Laura heard the motorcycle engines roar into life. She’d heard Blue giving them permission to take a break after the session. This was her chance. She watched the boards flex below her feet.
She’d chosen the location of her exercise routine carefully after studying the position of the support studs through her peephole in the ground. This was strategically the weakest area of the floor. The sun would go down soon, and she would put this circle of hell behind her. The finality of her next thought reverberated in her mind – there was no going back, freedom or death were the only acceptable terms. She’d already surrendered too much.
Blue watched the video screen in the mirror between peeling off his mask and splashing his face with the icy cold ground water that ran throughout the compound, keeping the memory of the last winter in every drop. He wasn’t looking forward to the shower that would close his pores and leave his body shaking under a downpour of the same icy temperature. His doctor had told him that the stiffness in his arms and back could be worked out with improved circulation. His skin clammy and red from being encased in the blue plastic wrapper would soon be cold as marble. He stepped into the shower. He needed to be alert, with all of his faculties ready to experience what came next. The men left only moments before, and what they didn’t know is that they’d never see him again. Blade had complete access codes to the accounts, and he didn’t need anything from this shithole so packing would be quick.
All that left was the pleasure of keeping his appointment with Laura. An hour with Laura. The disappointment of losing two men and his last victim evaporated in the intoxicating pleasure of thinking about his last hour with Laura. The water hit his skin, and his lungs filled. He screamed like an acid was pouring over him. The pain was all consuming as blood rushed into areas that were practically dry of all life moments before. His chalk white flesh went crimson. He would have the shakes for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and then he would be in full control again.
The medicine of the fresh blood felt like poison as he dried his skin and doused himself with a specially medicated powder and steroid cream. The disease was getting worse, these showers were getting more painful and the rebound time was shortening. One of his jagged nails came free of his towel and jerked across his chest. Like two pages of yellow old paper curling back separating the skin parted, he began to bleed. He looked into his hollow eyes and saw sunken geriatric tissue around the sockets of his 30-year-old eyes.
He lit a cigarette, his hands still shaking, the flame danced inches in front of his nose. He watched the mirror closely. Blade had to wait until his eye batted down before he did anything even if he felt like the shakes had passed. His feelings on the matter were unreliable. The blink response signified that his condition was coming back to normal. The unconscious action was the most trustworthy indicator of regaining control.
Blade watched his face like he was watching a clock. Soon he would get see the face of his true love, the face of the tortured, the face of the damned.
*****
Legacy got back into the sedan, watching the dashboard clock with a sour look on his face. The blinking centerpiece that had always provided consistency and stability was now his betrayer. They had entered the county government offices with a list of criteria that Legacy thought necessary for the kind of operation Blade was running. They came out with a list with three addresses, one of which was sixty miles away and only accessible by hiking trail. He secretly doubted that it was the place he was looking for, because although it fit his minimum criteria, it seemed unlikely that they would hike hostages back and forth from the property to the access road.
Legacy knew that the location would have several out buildings along with a main residence. These were men of appetite and anger; they couldn’t live like the Waltons stacked on top of one another and maintain peace. Blade would have chosen the place for seclusion. There would be little chance of someone happening upon it hiking in the woods.
Finally, all of the girls described direct sunlight in their walks back and forth to the sessions, they couldn’t see it through their heavy canvas masks, but they felt intense sun on their exposed arms and legs. Legacy was taking a risk, but he believed the compound was on or near the top of one of the mountains that rose up like sentinels out of the valley.
Three properties matched the criteria, and they were headed toward one now. Agent Brent checked his weapon a second time even though he knew that the maintenance was perfect. He snapped the magazine into position, then went to his ankle holster and checked the .22 that was inside.
Tree limbs reached out across the cracked asphalt that wound like a snake up toward a set of buildings. The skittering complaints of pine needles across the top of the sedan were a reminder that not many cars passed along this road. The switchbacks only gave Legacy flashes of their destination before dipping back into the trees. He knew the further he drove the greater the risk of being spotted, but he was counting on the fact that the session was about to begin. The men should be busy doing other things.
Brent turned to him a couple times with what he guessed was a warning, but each time, he shook his head and like an etch a sketch he cleared out his opinions and left the thinking to Legacy. Like he was reminding himself of what Legacy was good for.
Legacy could sense that Brent was waiting to take charge on the ground operation. He’d never seen Legacy in action, he had no idea that the skills he left on the field almost ten years ago were good enough to be distinguished among the most elite military operatives in the nation. This was not a guy who needed his hand held, but Brent would find that out in his own time.
They were a mile away from the main building cluster when Legacy pulled the car to the side of the road and they got out. He said only “Keep up,” and began a charge through the woods upward, zig zagging
through trees. He kept the fading sun at a perpendicular angle to keep their shadows mixing in the trees and avoid long silhouettes approaching the main house. He reached the clearing and saw a glint of metal from behind one of the tinted windows -definitely movement. Someone was inside. The property management company had stated that there hadn’t been a tenant in three years. Either the old tenants were really taking their time moving out, or new tenants occupied this place.
“It’s them.” Brent huffed in Legacy’s ear. He hadn’t realized that his pace would have pushed the youngster. Brent must have seen the amusement in Legacy’s expression and offered defensively “The jacket and armaments I carry weigh a ton.”
“Sure, are you ready?” Brent wasn’t ready for the aggressive, flash powder style of military engagement. In the FBI most of the situations of engagement contain no armed enemy, no resistance to the call “Federal Agent!” a point which he was about to explain to Legacy when he noticed that he had already pushed silently off his perch on the edge of the trees and had made it halfway across the open clearing.
