Never Again, Seriously

by Forrest Steele

  He found a turnoff into the woods and drove a short distance, parking in a turnaround where the road ended. He walked back along the road until he neared the landmark and turned toward Rachel’s property. Ducking under thick branches and pushing aside the thinner ones, he made his way to what appeared to be an animal trail leading in the right general direction. The ground dropped off suddenly, and he fell as his feet slipped. He pulled himself up, using exposed roots for purchase, and dusted himself off with his hands. A wash, the dry bed of a stream, curved and pointed in the direction he was headed. It became deeper as he walked along the bottom, the banks reaching almost to shoulder level.

  A hole in the bank, about four feet in diameter, came into view. The cave. This had to be it. Shivani approached silently. The ground in front of the cave bore signs of a scuffle, with leaves kicked up and marks in the dirt.

  He stood in front of the cave and listened for two full minutes. Hearing nothing, he aimed his cell phone flashlight, but it only penetrated the darkness a few feet. Phone in his left hand, he crouched and removed a chakram, an ancient Indian circular throwing weapon, from his pocket and held it with his arm crooked toward his belly. Used by someone with Shivani’s agility and speed, its sharp edge could stick in an adversary’s skull in a flash, the shallow penetration causing distraction even in a skilled fighter. In less than a second, Shivani would be on them, bringing them down with a deadly Kalaripayattu strike to the most accessible vital point, or marmam.

  Stepping farther in, he saw what looked like someone sleeping. When he got closer, he realized it was a rumpled blanket on the floor. The smell of dank earth enveloped him. Moving closer, he accidentally brushed his arm against the dirt wall. He wiped his skin with the edge of the blanket and shone his dim light down on a lunchbox and a small flashlight beside the blanket on a tarp. Using the new-found flashlight, he illuminated the narrowing back of the cave, where a cave-in blocked deeper access, even for a small person.

  He slipped the flashlight in a back pocket and walked in slow, cautious steps back to the entrance. Standing motionless just inside, he waited until he was satisfied he could hear nothing, then edged his way out, scanning all directions.

  Standing atop the bank across from the cave, he could see a house through the leaves. Always keeping a tree between his body and the house as much as he could, Shivani moved forward. Run-down, white clapboard in need of paint, sagging roof. Brown sedan in the grass next to the front corner of the house.

  He froze behind a tree. Through a back window, he saw two figures silhouetted in the light of the open front door, one tall and thin and the other diminutive. Under the midday sun, they got in the sedan and left.

  He waited without moving for four hours, until a black Honda CR-V came up the drive and parked behind the house. The two people, a man and a woman who must be Rachel, went in the house. Her movements were languorous.

  Arthur Temkin relaxed in the easy chair, which he’d covered with clean towels because of its musty smell, and watched Rachel nod off. The little house was sparsely furnished and appeared to have been cleaned only superficially over the years, judging by the deep buildup of grease and grime. He knew there was a saying in the carpet business: “Carpet doesn’t wear out; it uglies out.” The original color of this mottled carpet may have been beige. Now it was shades of brown and a tannish gray. It was matted down almost flat, like felt. Rachel sat on a wooden chair at the kitchen table, her bony arms folded on the Formica surface in front of her, head drooping.

  She’d been passive but willing to call her dealer and take Arthur to make a buy. As long as he could keep from overdosing her, this was an ideal way to keep his captive under control. He’d used no force on her, so he felt immune from kidnapping or false imprisonment charges. Even if she told about the drugs, who’d believe her word over his? He’d deny it and say he’d only been waiting with her at the house for Sharon.

  Pushing the recliner back another notch, he reflected on the drug transaction, which had taken place in a fast-food restaurant. They sat at a table over hamburgers and fries. Wearing a gray sweatshirt and crisp jeans, the dealer, Gary, had brushed his hair away from his eyes. The tension in his voice belied his casual bearing.

  “I didn’t even want to meet with you, but I’ve known Rachel a long time. So talk to me.” His accent was northern, maybe New York.

  Arthur removed a hand from his pocket, palming a sheaf of folded bills showing just enough familiar green of new money.

  “Okay, don’t show that. I understand you.”

  Arthur shifted the money out of sight in his large hand. “Rachel says you sell three bags for fifty,” he whispered.

  Gary’s blue eyes held no expression.

  “I want you to do better. Ten bags for a hundred.”

  “Ten for a gram. Not much for prime stuff,” said Gary.

  Arthur made to put his hand back in his pocket.

  “Okay, okay. I guess you’re for real.” Gary brushed his hair back again and scanned the room. “Put the money under your tray and go.” He gestured with his phone. “A white Mini with a black stripe down the middle is parked near the door. I’ll call him. He’ll follow you for a few blocks. Make sure no one’s around and do a U-turn. Go past him slowly for a handoff. If you see anyone, keep your hand in and keep going. He’ll do the same. If you have to abort the pass, I’ll call Rachel and we can make the exchange another way.”

  “That’s pretty neat,” Arthur said.

  “Always careful.”

  “Speaking of that, be careful about me. You don’t want to try to screw me.”

  “No prob.” Gary sat back and swiveled his gaze around the room. “Rachel knows I’m not into monkey business. I need to take care of my reputation.”

  “Don’t be fooled by the button-down shirt. I can find you and mess you up. Bad.” Arthur watched the dealer’s gaze slide over his broad shoulders and flat stomach, ending on his strong hands and wrists.

  “There’s no need to talk like that.”

  Gary had a discerning eye.

  Arthur said to Gary, “You’re right—no need to talk like that. I just wanted you to put screwing me out of your mind.”

  Arthur congratulated himself on the masquerade he’d pulled off at Global Source Enterprises. He affected a hunched-over posture and splay-footed gait during his employment there to create a false impression. In fact, he was former military. After rising through the ranks and becoming a close-combat instructor, he’d excelled at lone-wolf field assignments.

  When he applied at Global Source, he’d been ready to decompress and find a position using his college finance major while he thought about the longer term. From his first interviews at the company, he’d done his best to conceal the power in his lanky frame as well as his cunning. Though he’d planned on leaving secrecy and violence behind him when he mustered out, he sensed unusual opportunity at Global Source. Whatever conscience he once had was a thing of the past. He planned to be ready for anything.

  He’d sized up Malcolm Weaver as a pompous weakling who appeared to be running a slipshod operation. The employees who interviewed him seemed to fit that mold, apart from Jake Foster. He couldn’t figure that guy out—bright, not highly motivated, but still, why was he even there?

  Arthur had assumed the mantle of weak-willed accountant and accepted the lousy offer. His initial feelings were confirmed; Global Source was a company in disarray. Before he could work out a plan to enrich himself, he found the company already hollowed out and waiting to collapse. It didn’t take long to figure out Jake Foster was the culprit, aided by the bank auditor. He followed Jake when he met José Colón at Tobacco Road, then followed José taking his limp form away in the bed of his truck. He needed José out of the way so he could concentrate on getting the money for himself. After José dragged Jake into the swamp, Temkin killed him.

  By the time Malcolm Weaver disappe
ared, Temkin had copied Jake’s personnel file. He talked to the bank, under the guise of needing vital information from Sharon, and learned where she was from. Then he followed this, the only lead he had. He nosed around Ray City until he was satisfied he was in the right place and discovered the bonus of Sharon’s unfortunate younger sister, whom he could use for leverage.

  Chapter 25

  Raj Shivani stood unmoving in the woods as dark clouds loomed and a light rain started. His brown shirt showed a few spots where raindrops landed. It would soon be soaked. He walked to his car and retrieved a camo-patterned poncho. As he returned along the county road toward his hiding place, headlights swept through the trees from the direction of Rachel’s house.

  He crept through the undergrowth and found a bush he could use for cover, where he could see the house. Under a light in the kitchen, Rachel sat in a plain, wooden chair at a table, illuminated by a ceiling light. The tall stranger had disappeared into another room. He took his time checking for movement, for anything that didn’t belong in his field of vision.

  He removed the phone from his pocket when it vibrated and dismissed the call from Jake. That could wait until he picked his way to the edge of the woods where his car was parked.

  He called Jake. “Where are you?”

  “On our way back. We were spotted at the bank, or at least I think we were. We’ve got to get Rachel away from this guy.”

  “You’re coming now?”

  “Yes. We should be there in an hour or so.”

  “I’m staying at a motel in Valdosta. I’ll text you the location and room number. I’ll be there.” He had a few hours to work out a plan.

  At the same time Shivani began his stakeout of Rachel’s house, Paul Moore was on his motorcycle, following Malcolm Weaver’s BMW on a two-lane state road. Moore spotted a rhythm to Malcolm Weaver’s driving. He never went more than five miles over the speed limit, and he often slowed down, hands gesturing as though talking to himself. Paul was able to keep himself behind a car or a truck much of the time, and he occasionally lay back entirely out of sight of the dark blue BMW, pulling ahead for a glimpse and dropping back again. He knew he’d been seen a few miles back, so it was time to keep a low profile.

  Paul congratulated himself on what he’d accomplished. He let his mind wander back over the events that had led up to this.

  A few weeks ago, when Jake Foster had revealed his thinking in the bar on South Beach, Paul’s antennae had gone up. He played dumb, trying to read his companion and glean information. He’d been sure he was looking at a real opportunity.

  He followed Jake to his apartment after meeting him in the bar. Staking the place out presented some challenges. It was hard to be inconspicuous on a motorcycle in a quiet neighborhood, so he left the street in front of the apartment more often than he liked. One afternoon, he found Jake’s parking space empty and cursed himself. After waiting for several hours, he decided his quarry had taken off.

  It was time to put his thinking cap on. At Walgreens, he purchased a buff-colored document envelope, put some blank paper in it, and handprinted, “Jake Foster, Global Source Enterprises,” on the front. He took it to the company.

  The young receptionist had worn bright red lipstick to match her nails, and a blouse that invited him to look but didn’t show anything. When he asked for Jake Foster, she gave him the news.

  “Sir, didn’t you know? The president of the company disappeared. People think he committed suicide. Most of the managers are not here. It was in the paper. Here’s an extra one.”

  Paul stared down at the front page. Above the story was a headshot of Malcolm Weaver, staring at the camera with a thin smile.

  “Wow,” was all he could say.

  “Sir, Jake Foster hasn’t been here since before that happened. Disappeared. The only management left is the chief financial officer, Mr. Temkin, and he’s acting crazy. He’s questioning employees and going through files and computer records, and he’s sleeping in his office.”

  Paul scanned the work stations behind her. All were empty. “Did Mr. Foster have any friends I might try to locate? I need to get this to him.” He held up the envelope.

  “There was one guy he used to hang around with. Willis Turek. But he’s gone too.”

  “Do you have a home address for Mr. Turek?”

  “I’d need approval from Mr. Temkin for that. If you would like to wait, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t bother him. May I borrow a computer just long enough to try finding it online?”

  “Sure.” She pointed to one of the empty workstations.

  He coughed. “Would you show me how?”

  “I’ll do it myself. Just wait right here.”

  That afternoon, Paul rang the bell at Turek’s apartment, holding his hand over the peephole. After several minutes, he stepped to the side and walked by a window with closed blinds, to his motorcycle few doors away. He found a vantage point behind an old white van with a flat tire, where he could watch the front door.

  Hunger pangs struck, but he ignored them. He’d resolved not to lose this one. The urge to pee had been building, and now he had spasms. He had to do something. Concealed from view by a dumpster in the parking lot behind him, he relieved himself. He sighed and, not for the first time in his life, reflected on how this might be the best feeling in the world.

  As soon as he returned to his station behind the van, the front door of Turek’s apartment opened.

  Hold on. This can’t be. The man stepping off the porch looked like the photo of Malcolm Weaver in the paper. It was Malcolm Weaver. Pay dirt. Paul had to force himself not to laugh out loud. Weaver got in a taxi, and Paul fell in behind at a distance.

  He fast-forwarded his thoughts to the present. Here he was, following the dark blue BMW to God-knows-where. After the BMW had stayed on US 27 past I-4 and taken a state road running generally north, he’d given up trying to guess the destination.

  He’d thought the game was over when the police took Malcolm away a few days ago in Lake Creed. There had been something odd about that. No handcuffs, respectful body language by the officer. On a hunch, he’d kept an eye on the BMW and watched it being towed to Dinardo Towing. His watchful patience paid off when Malcolm showed up and reclaimed his car.

  This sure was a scenic route. Beautiful ranches everywhere, million-dollar homes set back at the end of long driveways. Horses. Paul realized he hadn’t seen the BMW for a while and sped up. The sound of the laboring motorcycle engine muffled the whine of a fast German car accelerating at high speed until it was close. Paul leaned toward his mirror to see what the source of the sound was, just as the car smashed the rear of the bike and sent it skidding to the ditch. Paul landed in the highway and was rolled up under the car, breaking bones and crushing vital organs. His eyes flickered, and his last sight on this earth was the rear end of the BMW as it sped away.

  After calling Jake, Shivani returned to his observation post among the trees. Rachel remained slumped in her chair, but through the windows, no one else was visible. He worked his way to the edge of the forest, almost to the patchy yard. Moving side to side behind trees and bushes, he peered in the windows from different vantage points. No sign of Rachel’s captor.

  He waited in a spot on higher ground where he could look out between two tall trees. This provided the best angle. He hoped the man would appear soon. His mind drifted to the problem at hand. Once Jake and Sharon arrived, how were they going to free her sister? He turned his head to where a faint rustle had come from. Must’ve been a small animal. He listened carefully as he returned his gaze to the house.

  In the instant before everything went dark, he heard another movement.

  When Jake and Sharon arrived at the motel in Valdosta, they knocked at the room Shivani had said was his. Silence. He didn’t respond to their call to his cell phone either.

  Sharon turned
to Jake, her face a mask of fear. “What should we do?”

  “Let’s go to Rachel’s house. Maybe we can see something from the road.”

  As they drove back from the motel to Ray City, Sharon tried both Shivani’s and her sister’s phones repeatedly. Neither answered. They continued in silence, each alone with their thoughts.

  Hoping the darkened glass of their windows would help conceal them, Jake idled the car up the dirt road and past the darkened house.

  “I didn’t see anything, Sharon, did you?”

  Sharon twisted to look through the back-seat window behind Jake as they approached the overgrown adjacent lot. “Wait, Jake, I think I saw something.”

  “I won’t stop here. I’ll go down a way and turn around.”

  As the car crawled back toward the house, Sharon said, “Jake, in the woods, near the edge of the yard. I’m not sure, but I might see someone’s head. Hard to tell in this light. It’ll be getting dark soon.”

  Jake stopped the car at the side of the road. “Give me the big pistol and have yours handy. We’re going in the driveway.”

  “But why? Isn’t that too dangerous?”

  “We can’t just do nothing. If we want to act, this is the only thing we can do. I’m afraid Rachel is in danger, no matter what.”

  Jake eased the car down the driveway, hand over the pistol on the seat. Both he and Sharon scanned the property and the windows of the house for movement.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here. Let’s sit a few minutes,” Jake said.

  After waiting, he opened the car door and slipped out. “Keep your gun ready.”

  Jake crept to the back corner and peeked around it. The form on the ground twenty feet into the woods was a man in camo. Shivani. Jake ran straight back to the trees and used them as cover as he made his way over to Shivani. He bent over the motionless form, his pistol aimed in the direction of the house. Strong pulse. He gave Shivani’s shoulder several gentle shakes. “Time to wake up, sweetheart.”