Colton Banyon Mysteries 1-3: Colton Banyon Mysteries (Colton Banyon Mystery Book 20)

by Gerald J Kubicki

  “That water is a lighter blue. Why?”

  “Oh, that is Peconic Bay. It’s between the two forks of Long Island. It’s a sandy-bottom bay. Sometimes the water is as clear as in the Caribbean.”

  Dean took his word for it. “Why are we here?”

  Pierce ignored him and pointed. “That hill over there represents the highest point on eastern Long Island. This hill that we’re standing on is the second highest.”

  Dean understood the old man wanted him to ask a question. “How high is it?”

  “Three hundred sixty-five feet and three inches,” replied the man proudly, and nodded his head.

  Dean asked, “You’ve measured it?”

  “I had it surveyed — I own it.”

  “Impressive.” Dean quickly got the feeling he was being given a tour for a reason.

  “In fact, I own all the land around here and all the land up the road on which you have just driven. It’s sacred to me and there’s something hidden on this land which was lost and I must have it back. You can help me find what I search for, or you can die out here — it all depends on how committed you are to the cause.

  “Now I get it,” Dean said thoughtfully.

  “How committed are you, Mr. Dean?” The gun was leveled at Dean’s chest. “If you cannot document your commitment to the cause, you will die out here where no one will ever find you and I will find another to take your place.”

  Dean knew the gun was useless against him. He was too fast and the gun had not been maintained properly. He could easily overpower the old man, and so he faced the next task sensing opportunity not fear.

  Dean took off his coat and dropped it to the ground. He then pulled his turtleneck over his head. Turning around, he showed the man his back. A tattoo covered almost the entire muscular surface. The giant swastika had one other feature, the word “Aryan” underneath, written across his lower back.

  “Thank you,” the pleased ancient man uttered. All the tension seemed to leave his body.

  ***

  Dean saw tears in the eyes of the weary old man — a man who had been hanging on, waiting for someone to come. Dean was someone to help him complete his mission, someone who believed. He would be the one that Pierce employed to finish the job. The gun now pointed to the ground and soon disappeared in a pocket. The old man stepped forward.

  “My current name is Walter Pierce.” His right hand extended to shake hands with a confederate. “I am pleased to meet you, Michael Dean, very pleased, indeed.”

  “The picture you sent me was taken out here, wasn’t it?” As soon as Dean had said it, he wanted to take it back.

  “I will explain everything in due time, my son.” The old man spoke as might a teacher to a student.

  Returning to the car, they started back down the road toward Westhampton. Pierce directed Dean to drive to a small restaurant in the downtown area of Westhampton Beach. They were seated immediately in an inconspicuous corner. Both ordered local lobster.

  As they ate, Dean commented. “The food and service is very good here, surprising for a resort town.”

  “I own it,” a slight grin this time from Pierce. “We need to stop at the bank before we head back to my house — to get you some cash, if that is acceptable?”

  “Just don’t tell me that you own it,” joked Dean.

  “But I do,” grinned Pierce. “It has three branches.”

  Paranoia kept Dean sharp and had kept him from stepping into many bad situations in the past. Looking around before speaking, Dean said, “You haven’t shown me your tattoo. How do I know you are a true believer?”

  “That’s because I don’t have one. It would not have been prudent to have that kind of identification in my time. But I do have my signed orders, signed by Admiral Canaris. He signed the orders to start this mission; you will finish it.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Dean. “I know who Canaris was. He was the head of the Abwehr, the military counterintelligence service. Canaris was one of the top Nazis during World War II.”

  “Actually, I knew them all: Canaris, Himmler, Heydrich, Ribbontrop, and even Hitler. They sent me on this mission and now I’ve found you to complete it. You can be the savior that I’ve sought.”

  “Are you a sleeper?”

  “Hardly,” Pierce said, now amused by Dean’s excitement. “I was born here, just a few miles from this very spot. My task was to be finished by 1942. Alas, it remains undone.”

  “You haven’t completed your mission after over sixty years. Why can you complete it now?”

  “That’s the reason you’re here — you can complete my mission for me. Come now, we must leave. There are too many ears here. What I need to tell you will take all night.”

  Back in the car, Dean asked, “I left you a message almost a year ago. Why did you wait until this week to call me back?”

  “That’s no mystery,” said Pierce. “I needed to make certain arrangements and also have you checked out. I’m not sloppy. Now I have a question for you. Is the print on the picture Colton Banyon’s?”

  “How did you know?” Dean was surprised.

  “I suspected,” was all that Pierce would admit to. “But it is the name of the person in the picture that I really need. I need you to find Colton Banyon and get the name from him.”

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence. As they left the car and walked toward the house, Pierce turned to Dean. “Under no circumstances is Colton Banyon to be harmed. I don’t care what else you do, but don’t let him know who you are and don’t hurt him. Do you understand?”

  “Banyon will not be harmed,” Dean lied with a straight face.

  After they had settled on the couch in Pierce’s living room, Dean realized he didn’t know how much money Pierce would pay him. “How much will you pay me to complete the mission?”

  “Answer this first,” replied the old man. “Will you be the savior of the Aryan cause?”

  “I’m equal to the task. I’ll be the savior of the Aryan race. I’ll complete your mission.”

  “Good. When the ‘event’ is over, the cause will inherit my estate,” replied Pierce.

  Surveying the house, Dean asked, “How much is it worth?”

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and thirty million,” the old man croaked.

  “Dollars?” The amount stunned Dean. His head was swimming with possibilities.

  “Plus all the land you saw today.”

  “All the land?”

  “I own five thousand acres along that road.”

  They spent the entire night going over the plan and the expected final outcome. Dean left the following morning, feeling like his destiny was in his own hands. Kroll could not fight him. Dean would control the entire white supremacy movement. It would just take a few more days. It was a glorious time for Dean. All he needed to do was secure the name of the person in the picture. That person held the key to everything.

  ***

  It was now four days since Dean had spent the night talking to the old man. Pierce’s incredible story rattled around in his head constantly. He felt burdened with the weight of the world. Yet he must succeed. He alone was charged with changing the world. Although he knew he was good enough to pull it off, he was less sure about the people around him.

  ***

  The date was now August 6, day two of his clandestine operation. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and he was already suffering setbacks. As he prepared to call Pierce to relay the news that they didn’t find Banyon yet, he searched his mind for the right words to soothe his new commander. A lie was clearly in order.

  While Dean was overwhelmingly impressed with the old man, Dean asked himself how he could use this information to gain more power. How do I eliminate everyone in my way? When will I become the Aryan savior? The need for power was an adrenaline rush even greater than his sexual needs.

  He dialed the number, and this time Pierce answered on the first ring.

  “Dean, checking in with
a progress report,” he said smoothly into the cell phone.

  “Did you get the name?”

  “We have secured the items you requested from his sisters’ houses and all operations were a success.”

  “Did Banyon give you the name?”

  “Banyon’s out of town, in Las Vegas, until Tuesday. He suspects nothing and we’ll grab him the night he returns. We have listening devices in his house and will know when he’s home. It’s all planned, Herr Pierce.” The lies came out with little effort.

  The response was instantaneous and resembled the crack of a whip. “Never use ‘Herr’ again in addressing me the old man yelled into the phone. “I am Mr. Pierce. This no longer has anything to do with the Germans or Nazis. It has to do with true Aryans. America will be the center of the Aryan empire. Do you understand, Mr. Dean?”

  Dean was stunned by the force of the reply but rallied for control. “All the materials are being shipped to you today. You’ll have them soon. All arrangements are in place. We’ll be able to reach the location within twenty-four hours. The man in the picture will give us the location. I promise you. Mr. Pierce. We will find the box.”

  “The sisters, you did not harm the sisters, correct?”

  “We set up the break-ins just as discussed. As far as they are concerned, it was a prank,” Dean responded.

  “Good, good, no harm must come to any of them either, you understand?”

  “No harm will come to anyone in the Banyon family.”

  “Report back to me when there’s more information. I’ve transferred fifty thousand dollars to the account we opened at my bank. I trust it will cover your expenses for now?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierce. We will succeed and the Aryan nation will rise again, thanks to you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the very moment that Dean ended his call with Mr. Pierce, Colton Banyon was waking up to unfamiliar surroundings. He was in a dark basement bedroom. There was a small window on one wall, but since it was below ground, little light filtered in. He had expected to see fluffy curtains, heavy dark furniture, and many bright colors throughout the space. As his eyes adjusted, he realized the room was furnished almost the same as his own bedroom.

  He remembered having come to the house last night, meeting the family and twins. They were twins, but only Previne wore the red dot. A married Indian woman often had one placed on her forehead. He was feeling a little more comfortable and safe.

  He did, however, have a new worry. He realized Pramilla had an uncanny ability to keep him off balance — or was it that he was so physically attracted to her he wanted to believe she kept him off center? Did she flirt with him, or did he misread only honest concern?

  In truth, Banyon didn’t know what to make of his current situation. All he knew was a strange exotic woman had protected him and furnished him with a place to stay for the night. He had uncanny luck. Things had a habit of turning around for him just when he was facing total disaster. Pramilla had even offered him a very strange job. The job entailed returning to his boyhood home. He pondered the prospect of returning to the old haunted house. He also wondered why she really wanted to visit his old house.

  He was brought back to the present by a knock at the door. Still lying in bed naked, he answered. “Yes.”

  “May I come in?” came the throaty voice of Pramilla.

  “I’m still in bed,” he replied. “Give me ten minutes, okay?”

  The door swung open just as Banyon had said okay. Pramilla stood there smiling. She was dressed in a man’s T-shirt, which hung over skimpy white shorts. He could see that she was braless and her feet were bare.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she breathed out while staring at Banyon’s exposed chest. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “We do?” Banyon was mystified.

  She glided over to the bed and effortlessly raised her toned leg and began poking the bottom of Banyon’s feet. He had to pull his legs up to his chin to prevent her from arousing him. Unfazed, she stood with her leg in the air for another ten seconds and then pivoted, lifting her leg straight up toward the ceiling. She did this while caressing the inside of her thigh with her long slender fingers. Banyon was already breathing heavily.

  “I just finished my yoga. I’m very limber, don’t you think?” She turned towards him as she spoke with her leg pointed at the ceiling.

  “Yes, yes, you are.” It came out as a small croak. Is she overtly flirting with me?

  “Why don’t you get up and shower? The bathroom’s right over there.” The slender arm was once again raised. Her index finger pointed toward the bathroom. She giggled but remained as a statue, balanced on one leg.

  “I’m naked, you know.” He baited her with a suggestive voice.

  “So am I, under this T-shirt,” she shot back provocatively. She dropped her leg and started shaking her body. Her head was thrown back and her chest was pushed out. Banyon could see the outline of buds growing under the influence of friction and the fluid sway of firm breasts. Then she started moving toward the side of his bed. She continued to giggle with her hips grinding and her hair swinging from all the motion. Banyon suddenly wondered if she had been a pole dancer at a strip club. She certainly moved like one. Is she trying to entice me into having sex with her?

  He was near panic now, mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. He was trying to think of some way to stop her. Somehow this didn’t seem right. Men pursued women, not the other way around. What about May? He had to do something to stop her, he wasn’t ready. He tried to think of how to redirect her aggressiveness. Instinctively, he threw up the only defense he knew would work — tickling. Banyon knew that when some women are aroused, they become very sensitive and are susceptible to tickling. Pramilla was clearly aroused.

  As she drew into his trap, Banyon grabbed her wrist with his right hand, and drove his left hand under her defenses. He made contact with her flank, and then began tickling. It took her one second to shriek and twist away from his attack. Five feet away now, breathing heavily, with hands on hips, she glared at him. “Not fair,” her sensual lips pouted. “Don’t you like my body?”

  “Actually, I’m a leg man,” Banyon said and hoped the fish would take the bait. In her sexually aggressive mode, Banyon was sure she would want to present her legs to him, just as she had the rest of her body.

  “Oh” was the cooing reply. She turned around, bent over, and placed both of her hands on the ground, keeping her legs straight.

  At that precise second, Banyon bolted for the bathroom. He grabbed his pants and shirt in the process. Once inside, he switched on the light and he turned on the shower. He wondered if the cold water would have any effect. He could hear her moving around the bedroom, a feline after her prey. Was she making the bed or beating it?

  “I’ll be out in ten minutes,” he said to the door.

  “I’ll bring your breakfast down here.” Her reply seemed cheery to him, not laced with the scorn he expected.

  Banyon decided to dress quickly and get upstairs before she returned. When he opened the bathroom door, he noticed the bed was made. He crossed the room and grabbed the bedroom doorknob. While it turned, the door would not open. The door was locked by a deadbolt from the outside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Also at the same time, Detective Heinz walked into the small kitchenette of the police station in an attempt to replace the coffee he had finished drinking. At first, he didn’t see the object lying on the small table to the right. Then he noticed what could only be described as lots of hair, a large amount of human hair. It was fanned out on the small table. A soft moan came from the hair as he let out a chuckle.

  “Loni, are you resting or doing some kind of ancient mystic exercise?” An amused smile underscored his remark.

  “I’m dying, don’t you have any respect? My Chinese herbal cure will start to work in fifteen minutes. I still have one more hour of allotted sleep before I return to work. Can’t you just leave me alone?”


  “Hey, if you are not feeling well, I can’t hold you to your promise you know. Take all the time you need — you being a girl and all.”

  The head quickly popped up. Bloodstained almond eyes, outlined by dark circles, threw daggers at him. Tight lips with a pained pout had replaced the usually confident smirk. There was the puffiness in her face which Heinz had seen many times before, even on his own mug. He knew she had been drinking.

  “So, this is how you look in the morning?” He said it in a pleasant way, not wanting to face a harassment suit for his remark.

  “Very funny, do you kick little children, too? You knew I was on the job last night until late, or rather, early this morning.” Loni responded weakly.

  “Of course you were. After all, you went bowling last night. Had a few beers, did you? I know you needed to play the undercover part up to the hilt. You probably even got someone to buy you a beer or two.” He was getting into it now — maybe there was a crack in this tough but beautiful feminine facade.

  “It was eight beers actually.” She was official, even when having a near-death hangover. “I hung around and bowled six games while attempting to collect information. My cover was good. No one suspected I was a cop.”

  “Somehow I can’t picture you bowling,” continued the detective. “I’m sure everyone couldn’t wait to talk to you at the alley. You being straitlaced, proper, and interrogating each person as he passed.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  “I was state bowling champion of Hawaii in 1979,” she said, again with no ego. “I know how to bowl and I had three 200+ games last night — that got me noticed. Bowlers all like to talk to good bowlers,” she said with a pout.

  “Okay, I didn’t know you spent a misguided youth in a bowling alley. I can’t imagine any skinhead types talking to you though, seeing as how you are Asian and a woman.”

  “That was the easy part,” she said as she stood up. “I wore a skirt.”