by Michael Kerr
Jerry ambled back to Sammy and stared him in the eyes till he had to look down at the ground. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Sammy,” Jerry said. “Appears to me that Rita Jennings has found herself a pro to keep her ass safe. And he’s got Naylor’s gun and obviously knows how to use it. If Naylor gave your name up, then he can brace you and that would make me vulnerable.”
“They’ll be feeling safe, boss. Sal knows what the score is now. He’ll track them down and whack all three of them within twenty-four hours.”
“I hope so, Sammy. This was supposed to be a quick fix to a problem. Now it’s escalating out of control. I need for it to be a done deal. Let me know when it’s been taken care of.”
Jerry went back to his office, sat down and mulled it over. Dealing with lowlifes’ was always a big risk. Thieves and killers were not usually the sharpest knives in the block. And this had been the first time he had needed to actually have people murdered. Hiring Richard Jennings had been a big mistake.
Jerry had known Richard since high school, and knew that he had grown into a decent, home-loving guy that he could trust to look after his books. For ten years, since being laid off by a firm in Huntington, Richard had worked for Jerry. They had a great relationship. Jerry and his wife, Gloria, even met up with Richard and Rita about once a month at the country club for a meal and drinks.
But Richard was not what he seemed. He had resented the way that Jerry treated him at work; as if he had taken him on to do him a favor, which was reflected by the salary he paid him.
Richard was more astute than Jerry gave him credit for, and had kept records of all the deals that did not go through the books. He built up a dossier that would have ruined Jerry and most likely put him in prison. At very least he would have been in hock to the IRS for the rest of his life.
Richard had been totally forthright. He wanted half a million in cash, or he would have the records he had meticulously kept made public.
Jerry had panicked and arranged with Sammy to have Richard killed. Only after the deed was done did Jerry start to worry about what might be on a disk or flash drive.
Maybe Richard had been bluffing about keeping records. And it was more than likely that his wife and daughter knew nothing. But paranoia is a force to be reckoned with. To Jerry’s way of thinking he needed to wipe the slate clean, and not spend his time wondering when the hammer might fall and ruin his life.
He sat back in the leather swivel chair and put his booted feet up on the mahogany desktop and looked at the paneled wall and the framed photos hanging on it: of himself with the mayor, with the Country singer Toby Keith, and his favourite, the prior Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, his arm around Jerry’s shoulder and both of them chomping down on expensive Havana cigars.
No, Jerry thought, he wasn’t going to risk losing his wealth, his status or his freedom. Whatever actions it took to maintain the status quo, he would take them.
The phone rang, and Jerry picked up. “Yes, Marcie,” he said to his receptionist.
“I’ve got a Mr Johnson on the phone, Mr Brandon. He says that you’ll want to have a word with him.”
Jerry’s mouth fell open. This could not be happening. “OK, Marcie,” he said. “Put him through.”
“Brandon?” A deep, steady voice. No emotion.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“You know who I am. I’m sure Sammy, Sal or Roy has been in touch.”
“What do you want?”
“You know that as well.”
“So humour me.”
“Okay, I’m Johnson. And you are in serious danger of coming face to face with me in the very near future.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“So why did you take the call, Jerry?”
“Tell me what it is you think you have a problem with me over.”
“You had Richard Jennings mown down by a car. Now you have a contract out on his wife and daughter.”
“That’s ludicrous. Richard was my friend. It was a hit and run.”
“Whatever. Thing is, you need to call off the dogs.”
“I haven’t―”
“Do you want to die, Brandon, because if you don’t back off, that’s the way this will end?”
“You have no fuckin’ right to threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you, Brandon. I’m promising you that if anything should happen to Rita or Sharon Jennings, then you get to wash up in the Kanawha River with your throat cut. Ask Roy what kind of guy I am, and then think long and hard about what you should do.”
The call was terminated and Jerry just sat for a minute holding the receiver in a white-knuckled grip. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he thought he was going to have a heart attack.
It didn’t compute. The two inept killers had no idea that he had put the contract out; not unless Sammy had told them, and there was no reason that he would have. But the stranger had hurt one of them bad, and had got Sammy’s name.
Jerry took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and then punched Sammy’s number into an untraceable cell that he kept for very private calls.
“Yeah, boss,”
“Where are you now?” Jerry said.
“On my way back to Twomile.”
“Turn round and get back here. We need to talk.”
“On my way,” Sammy said a half second after the connection had been broken.
Sammy gave Ray Darrow, at the lot where the limo service was run from, a call. Told Ray that he’d have to cover a pickup at the airport for him. He then headed back to see what Brandon wanted.
Sammy was worried. His boss had spat the words down the phone. Something bad had happened in the short space of time it had been since they’d talked at the lot. But what? He couldn’t begin to guess.
Jerry was standing outside the office, grinding a cigarette butt into the gravel with the heel of his boot, when Sammy pulled in and parked up.
“I got a call shortly after you left, Sammy,” Jerry said as Sammy stepped out of the cherry-red Nissan pickup and sauntered over to him.
Sammy waited. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and listen. Best way with Jerry was to wait for a question and answer it.
“Guess who it was? Jerry said.
“No idea, boss.”
“Johnson or whatever his real name is. He accused me of having Jennings hit, and putting out the contract on his wife and daughter.”
Sammy blinked a few times and looked puzzled.
“Thing is, Sammy, how could he have known my name, or had a fuckin’ clue that I had anything to do with your friends Naylor or Mendez?”
“He tortured Naylor, Boss. So I guess he got my name from him. Maybe he asked who I worked for.”
“I think your right, Sammy,” Jerry said. “And because of your big-mouthed friend we have a serious problem. I want you to go and have a word with Naylor. Find out exactly what he told this maniac from nowhere, and then kill him.”
“Kill Roy?”
“Yeah. He’s put both you and me at risk, Sammy.”
“You think this Johnson will come after us, boss?”
“Not if you’re right, and Mendez takes care of business.”
“He will.”
“Then we’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about, have we?”
Logan ignored the command or request, and got up. Walked past Sharon and went to where the discovery was parked in front of the cabin. Sharon followed him. He got down on his knees at the rear of the vehicle and put his hand up the inside of the fender to his elbow. Felt around for a minute and then withdrew his arm. Went to the other side and repeated the exercise.
“What are you looking for?” Sharon asked him.
Logan said nothing. Just stood up and went to the front of the SUV. Found the tracker way up under the offside wheel arch. Handed it to Sharon and checked the nearside.
“What is it?” Sharon said.
“A cheap little g
lobal positioning device,” Logan said. “I should have looked a lot earlier.” Your mother was followed up north by one of the hitters. She will have stopped once or twice for something to eat, or to get gas, or use a restroom, and this was attached to the car.”
Sharon put her hand to her mouth. “So they’ll know where we are?”
“Not necessarily. This will relay a signal to a remote computer or phone. It isn’t continuous, and probably isn’t very reliable in terrain like this. I would think that the guy will only have a rough idea of the area we’re in.”
“So we’ll have to move, won’t we?”
Logan smiled. “No. This gives us an edge.”
He took the small, black, lozenge-shaped tracker back from Sharon. Went into the cabin and picked up the Discovery’s keys. Rita stopped cooking supper and looked at him quizzically. Sharon came in behind him.
“Sharon will explain,” Logan said. “Do either of you know how to shoot a handgun?”
“I took lessons, but it was years ago,” Rita said.
Logan took the 9mm pistol from his pocket and checked the load. He had removed the silencer after dealing with Naylor at the lake. He handed the gun to Rita butt first.
“It’s loaded,” he said. “I doubt that you’ll need to use it while I’m away, but if you do, thumb the safety off, aim at the body and keep pulling the trigger till it’s empty. Remember the safety. Lots of people don’t.”
Rita held the gun pointing at the floor; kept her finger outside the guard. Logan noted that and nodded.
“Where are you going?” Sharon asked him.
“Not far. I’ll be back in time for supper.”
He drove out to the highway, made a left, and after a few minutes on the looping mountain road he came to a truck stop called The Gap. He parked next to a big truck in the lot at the rear and checked that no one was around. Walked to the rear of the truck and quickly knelt down and clamped the tracker to the inside of a wheel arch. The metal was clean and the grip was fine. He would have liked to go inside for a cold beer, but didn’t. Last thing he needed was to be seen in the area. Back in the Discovery he waited. Fifteen minutes later a guy with a bushy walrus moustache and wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, ankle boots and a sweat-rimmed ball cap came out of a rear door, walked over to the truck, climbed up into the cab and within a few seconds had fired-up and left the lot, heading south.
Logan drove back to the cabin. Had it not been for the two women, he would have kept the transmitter and waited for the hitman to find him. He liked things to be wrapped up and put away, permanently. Loose ends bothered him.
CHAPTER SIX
Rita and Sharon locked the door after Logan left; then checked that all the windows were secure. His absence seemed as enormous as the man himself.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” Sharon said.
“He will, sweetheart,” Rita said. “I don’t really know why he has got involved, but I do know that he isn’t the type to walk away. As long as we’re in danger, he’ll be here for us.”
Sharon looked as if she was suffering from a serious illness. Her face was too pale, and her hands started to shake. Sometimes tragic events take a while to hit home. She had stoically been attempting to come to terms with her father’s death. Had in some way put a mental shutter up and not grieved properly: couldn’t get past that first stage of disbelief at her loss. But now two of her friends had been murdered, and even though she knew it was irrational, she felt that it was her fault. She should not have let Claudia borrow her car. The killer had thought that he was following her home, and had just erased Claudia and Pam as if they were houseflies, not vibrant young women who would now never marry, have children, or lead a full life. To Sharon it somehow made everything pointless to a degree. There was no guarantee that you would exist for another minute. Life was a brief episode that promised nothing but the certainty of death at the end of it, be it tomorrow or in fifty years.
“Sit down, Sharon, you look really ill,” Rita said, placing the firearm on the pine table and going to her. “What is it, honey, what’s wrong?”
Sharon sat down, lowered her head onto her mother’s breast and began to sob. Rita comforted her, and just held her and waited until she found some composure.
“I…I just realized how unimportant most of what we do is, Mum,” Sharon said shakily after a few minutes had elapsed and she was able to speak. “I grew up feeling so safe and happy with you and Dad. And now it’s all changed. I can’t see the point to any of it, if all we love is eventually taken away from us.”
Rita didn’t know what to say. She had been putting on a brave face to friends and relations, and especially for Sharon, but could empathize with everything her daughter had just said. Living was a hazardous journey on a road that seemed to have as many potholes as smooth asphalt. More dreams were shattered than realized, and no one got out of life alive.
The bright glare of headlights through the window and the sound of a vehicle pulling to a stop brought both Rita and Sharon to full alertness.
Rita grabbed the gun up, pointed it at the door and waited.
He rapped on the sturdy timber door once. “It’s me, Logan.” he said.
Rita had been holding her breath. She let it out and took another deep gulp of air as she placed the pistol back down on the tabletop again and went to the door. Life might seem to have little meaning at certain times, but when there was a threat to it the survival instinct kicked in hard.
“You two OK?” Logan said, looking from one to the other and seeing nothing but sadness and stress. “Sorry, stupid question.”
“What did you do with the tracer thing?” Rita asked him.
“It’s on a Peterbilt semi-truck, heading south,” Logan replied.
Forty minutes later, after a supper of Jimmy Dean beef patties and scrambled eggs, Logan went out and ambled down to the jetty again. Just stood and looked at the moon and the shimmering silver path its light painted the lake with.
Sharon helped her mum wash up the pans and plates before going out to speak to him.
“A penny for your thoughts, Logan,” she said, standing next to him, looking up at his face in profile.
“I’m just enjoying the view,” he replied.
“Doesn’t all this worry you?”
“All what?”
“You know what. There are killers after us, and you act as if there was nothing out of the ordinary happening.”
“I deal with things as and when necessary. I try to not to lose sleep over events that haven’t happened yet.”
“Who are you, Logan?” Sharon said. “Where are you from?”
“I’m just a guy that moves around. I’m not from anywhere.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Where were you born?”
Logan said nothing.
“Please, Logan, I need to know you as a person.”
“You don’t.” he said. “When this is over I’ll just walk away and you’ll never see me again.”
“Humour me.”
He sighed. Getting too close to people didn’t work for him. It was a distraction that he could do without.
“OK,” he said, sitting down and swinging his legs over the water again. Sharon sat next to him. It crossed his mind that they should have had fishing poles. “My name is Joe Logan. I was born on Staten Island, did a stint in the military, and then became a cop. And now I just drift.”
Sharon waited, but that was it, he said no more.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t you have a home, family, and friends?”
“No. My parents are both dead. And I don’t like being too long in one place, so I don’t tend to make friends. I feel trapped if I’m in one location for any length of time. Maybe I’m like a wild animal. I remember being taken to the zoo when I was a kid and feeling sorry for a polar bear that was pacing up and down in a confined space, slowly going insane.”
Sharon couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to be by
themselves and have no meaningful connection with others, or not want to have a place that they could call home.
“Have you ever been married?” Sharon asked him.
“Hell, no. Women need a whole lot more than I could give them. I owned an apartment once, in the Bronx. Living in it made me unhappy. I have no wish to wake up in the same bed every morning, or to be a prisoner of taxes, utility bills, and all that goes with that kind of structured life.”
“Don’t you worry about where you’ll end up?”
“No. We’re all headed to the same destination; just going there by different routes.”
Before the sudden violent deaths of her father and her friends, Sharon would not have been able to understand Logan’s values or take on life in general. Now, she believed that she had some insight to his way of thinking.
A shape hurtled across their field of vision, just a few feet away from the jetty. Sharon gasped and pulled back, but Logan didn’t move a muscle. The night owl vanished into the trees that fringed the lake.
“Doesn’t anything frighten you?” Sharon asked him.
“No.” Logan said. And he meant it.
They walked back to the cabin. Rita had made fresh coffee. Logan drank a cup and washed his mug out and placed it upside down on the drainer before saying goodnight to them both and going to his bedroom.
He lay on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head. Thought about how the world was populated by good and bad people, and how he always seemed to unwittingly find himself between the two factions, taking sides and doing what needed to be done to protect the sheep from the wolves, and wondering why he did it. He then ran through the present danger that Rita and Sharon were in. He knew that he would have to go to Charleston and make certain that Jerry Brandon ceased to be a threat to them.
