by James Swain
“I know it’s done. I just want to hear it again.”
“Once you deliver the slave phones to Thunder, you’ll walk out of the prison, and get in a van being driven by Special Agent Wood. Wood will drive you to a hotel by the airport where a pair of FBI agents are waiting.”
“A safe house,” Drake said.
“That’s right. You’ll stay in a room with the agents. If we have to use you again, the same procedures will be followed. Once the sting is done, you’ll be put on a plane to Arizona, and enter witness protection.”
“Will there be a car in Arizona for me, and a house?”
“Yes, Eric.”
“I’m gonna need money.”
“We’ll help you find a job. Anything else you want to know?”
“I think I’m good,” Drake said.
Soon they were on prison grounds. Linderman parked and zippered up his rain slicker. They both got out. Drake turned up his collar and headed toward the employee entrance of the prison. He had not gone five steps when Linderman called out to him.
“Your forgot something,” the FBI agent said.
Eyes downcast, Drake retrieved the slave phones from the back seat.
Linderman entered Warden Jenkins’ office at a few minutes past midnight. A dinner tray from the cafeteria sat on the desk, the meat loaf and mashed potatoes hardly touched. Jenkins sat at his desk, staring at his computer.
“You want some dinner?” Jenkins asked.
“I already ate,” Linderman said. “Is the feed on your computer?”
“Yes, sir. Came in a few minutes ago. I’ve never been involved in a sting operation,” Jenkins admitted. “What exactly is going to happen?”
“It’s quite simple. Any call made over the slave phones will be transmitted by satellite to our Jacksonville office. The call will be recorded, and typed up by a stenographer. The text will be sent to your computer for us to see.”
“What kind of delay is there?”
“It depends upon how fast the stenographer types. There’s usually no more than a ninety second lapse.”
“How will we know which conversation is Crutch’s?”
“Two things will tell us. Crutch will be calling Broward County. His call will either have a 954 or 754 area code. And, he’s the only inmate using a cell phone who isn’t a drug dealer, so what he says will give him away.”
“Will you trace the call?”
“Yes. A team of FBI agents is standing by in Broward.”
“Sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The two men fell silent. They both knew what came next. Lightning flashed in the windows and the rumble of thunder shook the building. Fifteen minutes later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Wood, and he sounded furious.
“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.
“Drake is in my car,” Wood said. “He changed his story.”
“Jesus Christ. I’ll be right down.”
There was no fast way out of the prison. Linderman left Jenkins’ office and was processed through the main building. He reached the parking lot five minutes later. His chest was heaving as he walked through the puddles. He wanted to rip Drake’s head off, only Drake was too dumb to understand how dangerous a changed story could be. A single slip-up or suspicion and someone could get killed.
Wood’s van was parked with its headlights on. Drake sat in the passenger seat with a blank look on his face. Linderman banged on the passenger window.
“Get out of the car,” Linderman shouted over the storm.
Drake climbed out. He stood in the pouring rain with a pitiful look on his face. Linderman grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
“Tell me why you changed your story,” he said.
“I’m sorry… I just forgot.”
“Tell me what you said.”
Drake cowered in fear as lightening cracked the night sky. “I saw Thunder in the mess hall. He was making snacks for the night guards. He delivers the cell phones the same time he delivers the snacks. He asked about my face. I got tongue-tied and forgot my story. I told him I’d fallen asleep driving home, and hit a tree.”
“Did he buy it?”
“I guess.”
“Did he ask you about the phones?”
“Yeah. I gave him the bag, and he said “New phones?’ and I told him the old ones got destroyed in the wreck. He asked me if I was going to charge him more to pay for them. I told him I was thinking about it.”
“Was that the end of the conversation?”
“Yeah. I left right after that.”
“You’re sure you didn’t say anything else to him?”
“Positive. Oh, wait a minute…”
“What?”
“Shit. I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
“I forgot to get the money.”
Linderman nearly hit him. Thunder had run a street gang. He would piece the puzzle together — Drake’s busted up face, the brand new cell phones, Drake forgetting to get paid — and realize that Drake was running scared, and working with the law.
“Go back and get the money,” Linderman said.
Drake’s eyes went wide. He was soaking wet and looked like a scared dog.
“Say no, and the deal is off,” Linderman told him. “We’ll take you back to your house, and leave you there.”
“No Arizona?”
“No Arizona. That’s the price for screwing up.”
A storm cloud opened up directly overhead, the rain coming down so hard that Linderman could hardly see the shivering figure standing directly in front of him.
“All right,” Drake said.
Drake went back inside the prison. Linderman climbed into the van and sat with Wood. Still breathing hard, he watched the storm rage around them.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Wood said.
Linderman did as well, but said nothing. He had long ago accepted that bad feelings were part of his work, and would only go away the day he turned in his badge.
Drake reappeared and tried to get in the car. Linderman got out, and made him stand in the rain. He was not going to have a conversation with Drake without looking him in the eye. It was the only way to gauge if Drake was telling the truth.
“Tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out,” Linderman said.
“Thunder was still in the cafeteria. I got the money and left,” Drake said.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him I wanted my dough.”
“How did he react?”
“He just laughed, said I had shit for brains.”
“He wasn’t suspicious?”
“Hell, no. I’ve forgotten the money before.”
“You’re not lying to me, are you Eric?”
“I swear, I’m telling you the truth.”
He stuck out his hand. “Give it to me. All of it.”
Drake removed a rolled up tube of bills from the pocket of his shirt. Linderman tore the rubber bands away and counted the money. It was all there.
“Is the deal still on? Am I still going to Arizona?” Drake asked.
“Yes,” Linderman said. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Chapter 23
Crutch lay on his cot, listening to the storm.
He thought about a girl he’d fallen in love with in the tenth grade. Lee Chambers, with shoulder-length blond hair and shimmering blue eyes, had sat behind him in science class, and was the most perfect creature he’d ever seen. They’d become friends, and had started eating lunch together in the school cafeteria. His feelings for her were only real feelings that he’d ever felt toward another human being that did not involve violence or death. It had made him think there was still hope for him.
One summer, he’d gone away to camp. Upon returning home, he had discovered that Lee’s family had moved away. Heartbroken, he’d gone to his mother for help. His mother didn’t know where the Chambers fam
ily had gone, and had told Crutch that he’d just have to adjust to the loss.
Crutch had cried for days. He could not stop thinking about his mother’s response. Another mother might have helped him get Lee’s forwarding address, and encourage him to form a pen-pal relationship. Not dear old mom. She had chosen to crush him instead.
That was when he’d started hearing a voice inside his head.
Kill the bitch, the voice had said.
The voice would not go away. A few months later, he had killed his mother and three sisters at the dining room table. That was when he’d discovered the beauty of killing, and the equitable sharing of unendurable loss, and suffering.
The steel door leading into the cellblock opened, and light flooded the cellblock. A night guard entered, and stood in the center of the cellblock with his arms crossed.
Thunder shuffled in behind the guard, carrying a bag of cell phones. Thunder was a huge Latino, his face dotted with scars and cryptic tattoos. He went to Leon’s cell first, and handed the black inmate his cell phone.
Crutch gripped the bars in sweaty anticipation. Prison life was defined by waiting. Waiting for meals, waiting to be let out in the yard, waiting to hear from lawyers. The timetable was always someone else’s. Tonight, it was Thunder’s.
“Yo peckerwood, how’s it hanging?” Thunder said, coming to his cell.
“Big and long,” Crutch replied.
“Glad to hear it.”
Crutch stuck his hand through the bars. Thunder slapped the cell phone onto his palm. The moment it touched his skin, Crutch knew something was different.
“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.
“What do you think it is?”
“It’s new.”
“My source got into a wreck, smashed up the old ones. He had to buy new phones.”
Crutch brought the new phone up to his face. It was a Nokia. He flipped it open and studied the keypad. The numbers looked bigger.
“Give it back. I’ll rent it to someone else,” Thunder said.
Crutch continued to stare at the phone. He did not like change. It raised every suspicious fear in his body.
“No, I’ll keep it,” he said.
“Take it easy, peckerwood.”
The Latino left the cellblock with the night guard. The steel door shut behind them, plunging the cellblock into darkness.
Sitting on his bed, Crutch powered up the new cell phone. The face was brighter than his previous phone, and easier to read in the dark. Thunder purposely delivered the phones at night, when the surveillance camera could not see into the cells.
He punched in the number Killer X had given him last night and hit Send. Each time he spoke to Killer X, his friend ended the call by giving him a new phone number to call. The numbers were always to payphones. Killer X knew all the angles.
“Hello?” Killer X answered.
“It’s me,” Crutch said. “How was your day?”
“Not good.”
“What happened?”
“The police are hunting for me. I heard them talking over my scanner. They’ve even given me a name. They call me Mr. Clean.”
“You should be proud of yourself. Only special people get names.”
“They tried to trap me.”
“Really? How?”
“With a web site. Someone went to the site, and told the police what fools they were. The police thought it was me. They caught a girl at the public library.”
“A girl? Who is she?”
“I don’t know. I went to the library and watched from a safe spot across the street. Later, I called the library, and told them I was a reporter. A guard answered my questions.”
“That was ballsy.”
“I have more bad news.”
“What?”
“The FBI is involved. I spotted one of their agents at the library. A little blond bitch. She had an FBI decal on the dashboard of her car. She was running things.”
Crutch stared into the darkness of his cell. While Special Agent Linderman had searched his cell this morning, another FBI agent had been chasing Killer X in Fort Lauderdale. He did not believe in coincidences. The FBI were on to them.
“What should I do?” Killer X asked.
“Let me think about this. How is the boy doing?”
“The boy is strange. I don’t think he’s right for the Program.”
“How so?”
“He doesn’t seem angry enough.”
“He fits the profile perfectly. Keeping working with him. He’ll come around.”
“Your voice is fading.”
“We’re having a bad storm.”
“This is different. You sound far away, like at the bottom of a well.”
Crutch’s breathing grew short. Tiny gasps really, clinging at life. The new cell phone had bothered him the moment it had touched his skin. Now, he knew why. The FBI had bugged it, and Special Agent Linderman was tracing the call, and probably listening in as well. There could be no other explanation for why he’d gotten a new cell phone the same day the FBI agent had searched his cell. If he didn’t act quickly, his friend in Fort Lauderdale would be apprehended.
“Are you there?” Killer X asked.
“Still thinking.”
“I don’t want to be caught. I can’t be caught.”
The fear in his friend’s voice was palatable. Crutch imagined himself hurtling down a black, bottomless pit. His body bounced off the walls, crushing his bones and snapping his head like a rag doll. He screamed at the top of his lungs, knowing it would never end.
He pulled himself back to reality. Beads of sweat did a death march down his face. Then, he had an idea.
The FBI was on to him, but he was also on to them. He could use that to his advantage, and turn their lives into living hell.
Fuck them good, the voice in his head said.
Having Leon as a neighbor had its advantages. Drug dealers never spoke normally when they talked business. The spoke in code.
He raised the cell phone to his face.
“You need to take a vacation,” Crutch said.
“I do?”
“Yes. How does that sound?”
His friend hesitated. Then said, “A vacation sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Crutch said.
Chapter 24
At twelve-thirty, the FBI satellite picked up a call from a slave phone to a 954 area code in Fort Lauderdale, and relayed the call to the FBI’s Jacksonville office.
While the call was being recorded, a stenographer wearing a headset typed the conversation into word processing program. Sixty seconds later, that conversation appeared as text on Warden Jenkin’s computer at the prison.
At the same time, the 954 number was run through a software program designed to trace phone calls. This program instantly determined the 954 number’s physical location, and emailed the address to Linderman’s iPhone, along with a street map with a red arrow showing where the call was coming from.
“Talk about one-stop shopping,” Jenkins said.
Linderman liked the analogy. When the FBI put its mind to something, there was nothing it couldn’t do. He called Vick’s cell phone and heard her pick up.
“We’ve got Mr. Clean in the cross hairs,” Linderman said.
“Yea,” Vick said.
“He’s talking at a payphone at a RaceTrac gas station on the corner of Sunrise Boulevard and State Road 84. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in my car in a parking lot on Sunrise Boulevard near the entrance ramp to I-95,” Vick replied. “I’ve got three agents with me. Two other teams of agents are parked in other spots around the county.”
“Which team is closest to this location?”
“We are.”
“He’s yours. Get him.”
“I’m already on the road.”
Linderman needed to end the call, and let Vick do her thing. Talking was a distraction. But a nagging feeling needed to be extinguishe
d.
“Do the Broward police know about the sting?” Linderman asked.
