The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  He folded his bulky arms, causing his old T-shirt to ride up more on his flabby and hairy belly, which definitely didn’t improve his appearance. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Private and personal,” I said, holding up three more hundred-dollar bills. “Come along. You did a great job, did it quickly. Aren’t you happy with that?”

  “You better fuckin’ believe it, pal.” He got up and ambled over to me, and I pulled the money back.

  “Glad to hear it, but let’s reach an agreement. I want to know how and why they contacted you.”

  His cockiness evaporated, as he sat back down heavily on the rock. “I … I don’t think I should.”

  I made it a point to look surprised. “Really? Did they threaten you, Eddie? Did they? You mean to tell me some flatlanders from away came and pushed you around? Told you to keep your mouth shut? Made you their bitch?”

  His nostrils flared, his faced colored. “Nobody make’s Eddie Century their bitch, pal.”

  I gave him the money. He took it as quickly as a snapping turtle grabbing a baby duckling. “Two guys came up to the house, driving a rental. White Buick. You see things, you know that the only white Buicks in this fucking state are rentals.”

  I thought about George and said, “Was one of them an older guy, white hair, well-dressed, cheery-looking fellow who looks like a car dealer who wants to repossess your truck?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  “And the other guy.”

  “Large, wide. Dark hair. Dark skinned. Kept his mouth shut. He was the one that drove the guy in. I guess he was the muscle.”

  “All right. What then?”

  He unfolded his arms, scratched at his baggy crotch. “Pretty simple. Offered me some bucks to repair a house. No questions allowed to be asked from me. Just report to the house and get it done in a day, a bonus if I got it done quicker.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  “You from the IRS?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Then fuck you, pal.” He paused. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  He scratched at his crotch again, like a sleepy bear looking for some satisfaction. I produced five more Ben Franklins. “All right, Eddie. Final Jeopardy.”

  “Hunh?”

  “You need to watch more than Duck Dynasty. My final question.” I waved the bills around in the air. “You tell me something, anything, about how to find these guys, this packet comes your way.”

  “Man … ”

  “Come along, Eddie. Something. Anything. I’m not looking for their darn cellphone number or Twitter account. Something that can lead me to them. The older guy. Did the younger guy call him something?”

  “Mister … something. Once. And the older guy nearly punched him out … like the younger guy had made a mistake.”

  “Last name, then.”

  “Sickerly, Sinclair, something like that.”

  “No first name?”

  Eddie shook his head. “The guy wasn’t the kind of guy you called by his first name, okay?”

  “Fair enough. What else.”

  His eyes looked hungrily at my hand. “Whaddya mean, what else? Isn’t that enough?”

  “I’m sure if you think really, really, hard something will come up. Any idea of the license plate?”

  “A Vermont plate, that’s it.”

  “Anything else?”

  His legs crossed and recrossed. “I’m trying!”

  I waved the bills once again. “Try harder. Was there anything in their car? Luggage with an airline sticker on the handle? Sandwich bag? Shopping bag?”

  He grinned, snapped his fingers. “Parking stub.”

  “Explain.”

  Eddie talked fast, like he was trying to get everything out before I changed my mind. “On the dashboard. An orange parking sticker for that new hotel outside of Bellows Falls … the Green Mountain … Hotel, Inn, that sort of thing.”

  “Very good,” I said. “That’s very impressive. Did they give you an idea of how long they might be staying in the area?”

  “Not a fuckin’ word.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I stood up and he stood up, and I brandished the five one-hundred-dollar bills, and he looked happy indeed at the money that was coming his way, but a split-second later, he was definitely not happy in how I delivered it. I spun on my feet and drew back, and then propelled myself forward, using all of my body weight to be behind my clenched right fist as I punched him hard in the throat. I’m sure that at any other time, Eddie would have anticipated the coming punch, or at least try to deflect it, but greed had colored his mind.

  And as I punched him, I made note of long-ago training I had received. Most folks, if they’re not sociopaths, are always reluctant to throw the first punch, unless drastically provoked. This doesn’t work if a first punch needs to be thrown, because the output tends to be weak and flabby. But if you pretend your target really isn’t a person, and you pretend that you’re trying to smash a housefly buzzing in the air about three inches behind his head, then your blow will hit him with righteous fury.

  Eddie took the punch pretty well, gagging and coughing, and he stumbled back and looked like was going to stay on his feet—an impressive task—except he stumbled over the boulder he had been sitting on. He fell flat on his back with a thorough thud!, and then I ducked in—avoiding his flailing arms—and punched him hard, three times in the sternum, right near his heart.

  Those four total punches made him gasp and flounder like a large dumb shark being pulled on board, but I still had respect for him, which is why I went in and out quick.

  I also dug into his jean vest and retrieved my hundred-dollar bills. It was a short-term investment, and I was calling the note due.

  “Thanks for your help, Eddie,” I said. “I appreciate it … and think of this last message as a bit of payback from high school. You know what they say about revenge, don’t you? It’s a dish best served … ah, forget it, I don’t think you care that much, do you.”

  I stepped back from his hands and his feet, and let the torn halves of the original hundred-dollar bill flutter down to his heaving chest. He at least deserved that.

  “No hard feelings, okay?”

  He grunted something that could have been agreement or disagreement, but I didn’t hang around to find out.

  I took some time driving around, resting up, noting how swollen my right hand had become. It ached some, but I had gone through worse. I thought about driving over to Bellows Falls, to track down the living quarters known as the Green Mountain something-or-another, but it was dark and I was hungry. I decided to go home for a while, so I drove back across the border into New Hampshire—avoiding the checkpoints and guard towers—and twenty miles later, was having a nice, alone dinner at a Longhorn Steakhouse, where I had a filling meal, no conversation, and plenty of time to think about what had happened. And more importantly, what was going to happen.

  Back again to Vermont, to the delightful Tracy Zahn, and I parked in her condo lot and rang the bell at the front door. I rang it twice, and then I saw lights come on, saw movement here and there through a curtain-covered narrowed window out front, and then she opened the door.

  She was sleepy and she had on the same red robe with the dragon on the back. Tracy yawned. “I told you, I left the back door open so you can sneak in.”

  I walked into the foyer, closed the door behind me. “What, you’re embarrassed to see me now? What am I, some tradesman that can only come in the rear?”

  She took me by the hand and led me to the stairway. “You’re not a tradesman, but a tool man, and for God’s sake, will you stop dragging your feet?”

  There was some odd scent about her, something that tickled my memory, and by the time I figured it out, I was occupied with much more pleasant activities.


  In the morning I made breakfast again—which went quicker because by now I knew where all the ingredients were located—and it was ready by the time Tracy bestirred herself. When breakfast was completed, we returned upstairs. Eventually Tracy stood in her bedroom before a vanity, wearing a tight pair of black slacks, dark stockings, and black shoes. Her black bra and dark gray blouse were on the unmade made behind her.

  I started making the bed while she fussed with a pair of earrings, her breasts delightfully swaying back and forth. “Ask a favor?”

  “Ask away,” I said. “But you know the answer is going to be yes.”

  “Because I’m so loving and dear?”

  I pulled up the sheet and blankets tight, tucking them under the mattress. “Because of your stage of undress. Go ahead.”

  “I need to drop off my car for an oil change and inspection. Can you give me a ride to work?”

  “Of course.”

  She came around to me and lifted up my swollen right hand. “Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I make laughing noises with my hand.”

  “So you ran into Eddie Century.”

  “I did.”

  She kissed my hand again. “How did it go?”

  “We had a frank and open exchange of views.”

  Tracy laughed, dropped my hand. “I bet you did.”

  I followed her to her local Volvo dealership, and when she climbed in I said, “All right, now it’s my turn for a favor.”

  “As long as it doesn’t interrupt my work schedule.”

  “I hope it won’t,” I said, driving out of the parking lot. “You know an inn or hotel called the Green Mountain something, just outside of Bellows Falls?”

  “Sure,” she said, balancing her black leather purse on her lap. “The Green Mountain Resort and Inn. Relatively new place, built near the Connecticut River, has a golf course, riding stables. Pretty damn pricey resort for this part of the state, but so far, they’re making a go of it.”

  “Can you tell me where it is?”

  She smiled. “I can do better than that. I can show you on the way to work.”

  Well, it really wasn’t on the way to work, but I guess Tracy was just trying to repay me back for whatever she thought she owed me. We took Route 5 south, running parallel to the Connecticut River, and then she pointed out a turn-off with the sign for the inn. I took a left and the road quickly improved, and on the left again, I saw an impressive looking four-story building with wings and porches and other houses, looking like one of those grand hotels from the nineteenth century that had somehow missed the wrecking ball or arsonist’s torch. The road went past the inn then looped back upon itself in a cul-de-sac.

  Tracy was talking about the weather and such, and about an upcoming real estate showing, when I made a U-turn in front of the driveway leading out, and up by the main entrance there was a white Buick parked, and I saw the man I knew as George get into the passenger’s side of the car, the door being held open by a younger, bulkier guy.

  In a matter of a second or two, I had made a decision.

  Eight

  I sped out to the road, heading back to Route 5. I said, “Tracy, would you say you have a spirit of adventure?”

  She chuckled. “You’re asking me that, when I still don’t even know your name after all this time?”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “Make sure your seatbelt is nice and tight.”

  “What for?”

  “Do it,” I said, and I focused.

  I braked as I got to Route 5, saw the way clear on both ends. I got out on the road and backed up, so we were facing south, the driveway behind us. I drove up enough to give me room for what I was quickly planning. Across the road was a drainage ditch and a stand of pine trees. The same geography existed on our side of the road.

  I waited.

  Tracy kept quiet. I wasn’t sure if she was mad at me, or just intrigued at what was going to happen next.

  I said, “Do me a favor, open up the glove box, pull out a roadmap, and open it up.”

  She gave me an odd look and then did as I was told. She unfolded the map and said, “What am I looking for?”

  “Camouflage.”

  I kept my Pilot in reverse, revved the engine, stood on the brakes as the engine shuddered. I waited some more, and didn’t have to wait long after that.

  The white Buick came out, halted at the stop sign, and the driver glanced at me.

  “Tracy, drop the map and brace.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw her move, and that’s when I released the brakes and stomped down on the accelerator. The Honda jumped back like it had a Saturn F-1 rocket engine up its ass, and Tracy said something as I plowed the reinforced rear end of the Honda right into the driver’s side of the Buick.

  The impact was something else, a jarring, shuddering jolt I felt right through my bones.

  I had my hands and arms locked on the steering wheel of the Pilot, so I didn’t move much, though Tracy yelped. I kept my foot on the accelerator until the Buick was pushed to the other side of the driveway and fell on its side into a drainage ditch.

  “Hey!” Tracy yelped.

  I slammed the Honda in park and got out, Sig-Sauer in hand, and I had to give the driver credit, he was one brave and dedicated son-of-a-gun. By the time I was out and on the pavement, he had his own pistol in hand, aiming it out the now open driver’s side window.

  I quickly started shooting, advancing under fire, pumping round after round into the front seat of the Buick, depending on shock and awe to overwhelm my opponent. Forget what you see in movies and television about the shooter using a two-handed approach, squatting down, looking like he’s about to expel an enema. That makes you immobile, makes you wide, makes you a target.

  I don’t like being a target.

  I had spun around so I was rapidly walking toward him with only my side exposed, my right arm extended, quickly emptying my magazine. Moving like that is designed to shake up and startle the other shooter. I didn’t get him with the first round, but I sure as hell got him with my second, third and fourth.

  That seemed enough. I went around to the front of the Buick, to get a better view of the passenger’s side.

  Empty.

  Damn.

  The driver was slumped over, not moving. I jumped down the short slope that went to the drainage ditch, sailed over the little stream of water. The right rear door was open. I gave a quick glance into the car.

  Empty.

  The woods were in front of me. I was exposed.

  I stepped back, went around so the Buick was between George and I, wherever he was. I went quickly back to the Pilot, making sure my back was to the Honda, still looking back at the crash scene. I suppose I could have spent some long minutes flailing around in the woods, but having had the initiative, I’d now lost it. A number of things were now on George’s side, from time for someone to show up and call the cops, to finding concealment there in the woods. At this moment he might have even thrashed back through the trees and was running for the relative safety of the Green Mountain Resort and Inn.

  I got back into the Honda, put it in drive and made a U-turn back onto Route 5. Tracy sat there, in shock.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Tracy, are you all right? Are you hurt? Does anything ache? Did you bite your tongue?”

  “No … no, I’m okay … ”

  “Good.”

  As we drove to her real estate office, I started mourning the loss of my Sig-Sauer and the Honda Pilot. Both were too dangerous now to own, so I would have to get rid of them. The Sig-Sauer would be easy—just a toss into a lake or river—but the Honda would take some work.

  “The airbags,” she said. “Why didn’t they deploy?”

  “I had a kill switch instal
led a while ago, so I can disable them.”

  “Why?”

  “To allow for what just happened, using the Pilot as a weapon,” I said. “I also don’t like the idea of having a shotgun shell pointed at my face. I drive safe and always wear my seatbelt. I trust that instead of an airbag.”

  “But who … why … ”

  The low buildings of downtown Bellows Falls appeared, and it was going to be another few minutes of driving before we got to her office.

  I said, “That was the man who killed my coworker. I wasn’t going to let him get away.”

  “But why didn’t you call the police?”

  “No time,” I said.

  “But … you still could have called the police.”

  I was happy the Pilot seemed to be driving just fine, but I couldn’t stay out here in the open too long with one heavily dinged-in rear bumper and hatchback. Even the dullest cop imaginable could probably make an easy link between the wrecked and shot-up Buick and my crippled Pilot once investigators arrived at the scene.

  “For what reason?” I asked.

  “To … get him arrested. What else?”

  “All right. Hey, remind me, do I take a left or right up here?”

  She ran a hand across her forehead. “Uh, left … no, right. Take a right.”

  I did just that, as we entered the pretty village of Bellows Falls. Traffic was light and I was happy not to see any concerned citizens, pointing at what was left of three-quarters of a functioning Honda Pilot.

  “Say I call the cops. By some miracle, they actually track down the Buick and arrest the shooter. That means I have to come out of the shadows to testify, which ends my career and opens me up to a lot of unwanted attention. Then there’s court dates, hearings, motions, depositions, and a year or two later … a trial. And with a good lawyer … he gets off … and my original goal is missed. And, by the by, I’d probably be going to prison after my record is finally breached.”

  Up ahead on the left was a block of red-brick buildings, and a small parking lot that abutted her real estate office. I backed in the Pilot so the damage wouldn’t be visible from the street, and like the good gentleman I often try to be, I went around and opened the door to help her out.