The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  Then I closed the doors and got back to my Ford carrying Carla’s bags, which I gently deposited in the rear seat.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Going to get you to a hospital.”

  “But … ”

  “Carla, I’m getting you to a hospital. Right now.”

  I retraced my drive back through Bellows Falls, got onto Route 103, and we were soon on Interstate 91, heading north. I goosed my speed up to eighty miles per hour.

  Carla said, “I’m thirsty.”

  “Water in the cooler, right behind you.”

  She turned in the seat and clumsily retrieved a water bottle, blood-sodden napkin still on the side of her head. Her face was gray and smeared with dirt and old tears, but I liked the look in Carla’s eyes. Unlike the dead look back at that schoolyard field, with a large man named Micah ready to kill her in a second, life was coming back to that face.

  I guess it took killing George to do that. A fair and appropriate trade, it seemed to me.

  Carla sat back down, put her seatbelt back on, unscrewed the top of the plastic water jug, took a long, long swallow. When she pulled the bottle away, she said, “What hospital are we going to?”

  “The one in Springfield, about fifteen minutes away now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  Carla took another healthy swig. The gray pallor of her face was beginning to change to a healthy pink. “You planned it, didn’t you.”

  “Yep.”

  I checked my speed. Eighty was probably too fast. I backed down to seventy-five. Traffic was light, but then again, this was Vermont. Probably never had a traffic jam here in its entire history.

  “You’re something else, aren’t you. You plan and plan and plan … but you were going to let George get away.”

  “At the time, I was,” I said. “Your ex-sister-in-law, Wanda … she’s in bad shape. With no body for her husband, it might take a number of years for any will to go to probate. Her and the boys, they won’t be able to last that long.”

  “Are you pissed that I shot George?”

  “No. Surprised.”

  Another sip again, more slow and gentile. “Glad to know I can surprise you.”

  I took Exit 7, started navigating my way to the Springfield Hospital, saw the pleasing blue signs with the white H in the center pointing the way. When I got to Ridgewood Road, it was straight ahead.

  “I’ll walk you in, but I can’t stay,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of other things to do. But I’ll be back later today, I promise.”

  “What should I say to the ER personnel?”

  I slowed down as I approached the two-story brick building, with its inviting blue signs.

  “Surprise me,” I said. “Come up with some sort of tale … but please leave me out of it.”

  Carla’s eyes started tearing up as I pulled to the side of the main entrance. After I put the Ford in park, I walked around and opened her door, and then the rear door. “Give me a minute, all right?”

  She swiveled so her legs were dangling outside. To the cooler in the rear I returned, and took out another water bottle.

  “Your hands, Carla.”

  She stuck her hands out like an obedient schoolgirl, and I gave both hands a dousing, paying special attention to her right one. With napkins I scrubbed her wrists, her palms and her fingers, and dug a bit underneath each fingernail.

  One more rinse and I dried her off.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Just in case some smart cop or state trooper decides to do a gunshot residue test on your hands. I want to make sure this gives you a chance.”

  Carla nodded and I said, “You okay to walk? I’m sure I can get a wheelchair from the hospital.”

  “To hell with that. I’m going in under my own power.”

  We both faced the main entrance, and she started slowing down. I took her left arm and looped it through mine, and she leaned into me as we got closer.

  “Back there, in the field,” she said. “What happened to Micah?”

  “You know exactly what happened to him.”

  “Christ, yes, but who did it? It sure as hell wasn’t you.”

  We made it to the entrance, and the main doors slid open with a whoosh.

  “Remember our earlier conversation, on the way to Vermont? About national technical means of verification?”

  “I do.”

  “That kind of spycraft is worthless without a robust Department of Defense behind it. That’s it, here we go.”

  And inside we went, to the cool tile and warm colors and soft music that offered respite for at least one of us.

  Twenty

  I got lost twice going to my next destination, before finally locating it at a four-corner intersection in some remote corner of this part of Vermont. Based on how much driving and turning I did, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had ended up in New York, New Hampshire, or even Quebec, but the two battered pickup trucks and one dark blue Crown Victoria with a whip antenna all bore Vermont license plates, so I was certain I had finally arrived where I belonged.

  My destination was a ramshackle collection of shacks and buildings grandly called the Four Corner Café, and I walked in and spotted Detective Mike Shaye at a far corner booth. Three other local guys were sitting on round stools at the counter, and after giving me bored glances, they went back to their lunches.

  Shaye didn’t get up as I approached and I didn’t mind. I sat down across from him and his plate, which had a half-eaten omelet in the middle.

  “How goes it?” he asked. He had on a dungaree jacket, black T-shirt, and dark green pants. He didn’t look like a cop. He looked like the type of guy who’d stop by your house to grind a couple of stumps in your back yard, or who’d offer to plow your driveway when the snows arrived.

  “I’m starved.”

  “Then order up,” he said. “Guy named Hank Perry runs this place, used to sling hash for the Navy. Once he figured out how to reduce portions by 99 percent or so, he can scratch up a pretty good meal. Breakfast all day if that suits you.”

  “Thanks.”

  A teenage waitress sauntered by and I placed my order of pancakes, sausage, coffee, and a glass of milk. Shaye said, “Lots of challenges being a cop in a small town, you know?”

  “I’m sure.” I kept quiet, wanting to see where this was going.

  He said, “There’s the politics, of course, and the budget battles, and then the mindset of your citizens, who want you to do a fine and proper investigation if someone takes a baseball bat to his mailbox. I mean, dust for fingerprints, set up a surveillance, check for tire tracks, that sort of shit.”

  “You bet.”

  “Hunh.” He ate for a couple of minutes, and then my order arrived, and I dug in and he finally said, “But what really can get to you is knowing that you’ve got no quiet time, no private time. Small town, small department, the good citizens feel like they own you, day and night. They watch you when you go to the bank, go to the supermarket … and they time you at lunch, see how long you take.”

  The detective waved a fork at the place. “Here, they leave me alone.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Most of the traffic here is from guys getting from one part of Vermont to another, not locals. And the owners here, they don’t care what I order, or how long I stay.”

  “Sounds like a nice set of owners.”

  “Well, I did a favor for them. Something embarrassing involving a son, a couple of sheep, and a cellphone video.”

  “Seems like everyone has a favor to be fulfilled.”

  “True … like you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Ha.”

  We both finished in silence and I said, “Thanks for this morning.” />
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I must be mistaken.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  I said, “Mind if I pay the bill?”

  “Won’t say no, that’s for sure.”

  When the teen waitress came back, I paid the bill, left a hefty tip, and then Shaye said, “I think I’d like you to pay another bill.”

  “Not a problem. What do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing for me, you understand.”

  “Sure.”

  I took one last sip from my coffee. “Here’s the deal,” Shaye said. “I have friends with a couple of charities. You ever hear of the Wounded Warrior Project?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to see a donation there, within the week.”

  “Not a problem. How much?”

  A slight smile. “Make it a good number. And make sure it’s good, or I’ll track you down and make your life miserable, however secret it might be.”

  “A deal.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  We both sat for a moment and I said, “Tell me, is this your day off?”

  “Yeah, but not for long,” he said. “I imagine I’ll get a call here in a little bit. Actually, I’m surprised it hasn’t come through yet.”

  “A call about what?”

  “Oh, I have a vivid imagination. You know how it is, a detective lets his mind wander. Thinks about a good case to break up the day, keep him away from the usual vandalism, car thefts, burglaries.”

  “Fascinating. What’s your imagination telling you today?”

  “A double homicide, if you can believe it.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Oh, yeah. Double homicide, probably a drug deal gone bad. It happens—not that often, but it happens. Especially if you find both guys shot, and with some cocaine sprinkled about. And if the two guys are from away, and have interesting … backgrounds.”

  “Cocaine? For real?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Just enough left there to raise the right sort of questions.”

  I smiled. I was liking this detective.

  “Feel like a poem before you leave?”

  “Sure.”

  He fumbled into his shirt pocket for a moment, took out a folded sheet of paper. With a low voice he read the poem, written a lifetime and a world away:

  “’Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:

  There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

  But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

  If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

  The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.

  If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

  The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”

  He raised his head up from reading Kipling’s poem. “Nice little bit, especially about raising one’s hand to alert a rifleman to open fire.”

  “Kipling always had a way with words.”

  “True,” Shaye said. “I’ve read it a few times, and always thought, man, that guy in the poem, Kamal, he was taking a chance. Just raising one hand. Leaves a lot to chance.”

  I nodded. “I guess if somebody was going to be inspired by this poem, he might raise two hands.”

  “Good idea.”

  A cellphone started ringing, and Shaye slipped it out of his coat pocket. “Detective Shaye here,” he said. “Unh-hunh. Unh-hunh. Any witnesses so far? Unh-hunh. Okay, I’m rolling.”

  He clicked the phone shut, put it back into his coat. “Looks like my imagination just came through. Double homicide, in the old playing field of an abandoned school. I’m afraid our little chat is over.”

  “Not a problem.”

  We got up and walked out, and nobody bade us farewell. It’s like we had never been there at all.

  Outside he strode quickly to his unmarked cruiser. “Oh, I probably don’t need to say this, but I’m going to do it, anyway. Leave my little corner of Vermont and never come back.”

  “I can agree to that,” I said, “but can you give me the rest of the day? I need to make some arrangements, tie up the proverbial loose ends.”

  “Don’t make a career out of it,” he warned, opening the cruiser’s door.

  “I won’t.”

  He got in, started the Crown Victoria’s engine, and I motioned to him. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Quick question.”

  “Better be quick, you know where I’m headed.”

  “When you were in Iraq, you were following that mullah, the one the Bigs decided you couldn’t take out. What happened to him?”

  Shaye shifted into reverse. “Oh, a number of weeks later, he was walking out of his favorite mosque when an unknown shooter splattered his head among a dozen of his followers. Amazing shot, I was told.”

  “Funny how that happened.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Never know what’s going to happen when a lot of bullets are flying around. So long.”

  The unmarked cruiser went out to the road, the blue lights came on in the front radiator and above the windshield, and then he was off.

  I walked to my Ford, my long day almost over.

  Twenty-One

  I hung around downtown Bellows Falls for a while that afternoon, conscious that time was sliding away and that I had promised Detective Shaye I would soon be departing. But my unfinished task rattled around in the back of my mind, like the thought of an unpaid bill to someone I owed a debt to. It had to be paid, had to be addressed.

  As I drove, parked, and then drove again, I kept on thinking of Carla Pope and how vulnerable she had been, how light she had felt when I had escorted her into the Springfield Hospital.

  There. Right across the street from O’Halloran & Son, Tracy Zahn strolled confidently down the sidewalk, heading to her place of work. She had on a short black skirt, short light tan jacket, and a confident bearing.

  She was good to look at.

  I got out and went across the street, joined her as she was walking to the front door, and if I startled her, she kept it under wraps.

  “Oh! Look who’s here … my own personal man of mystery.”

  “Among other things, I hope,” I said, sliding my arm into hers. “Can I bother you for a few moments?”

  “That’d be great. I’d love to be bothered.”

  I escorted her into the office, where the handsome young lad manning the front—Patrick, I think his name was—gave Tracy a big grin as she came into view. He said, “Tracy, don’t forget, you’ve got a viewing out at the Glynn property in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Pat,” she said, and she tried to maneuver toward her desk, but I kept on propelling her to the rear, where the conference room was located.

  I opened the conference room door and said, “Sounds like a busy afternoon. How much time do we have?”

  “About two or three minutes,” she said, smiling slyly at me. “Not enough time to do much.”

  “Oh, I’ll see what we can do.”

  I closed the door behind me.

  I think down in her cellular level, with the long-distant species memories of being out on the wide savannahs of Africa, she sensed some sort of danger. Like catching the scent of a far-off cheetah. But I kept my smile wide and inviting as I invited her to take a chair. I took one opposite her, making sure the door was behind me.

  With the sound of the shutting door, Tracy’s concern grew, and her legs and arms shifted, like unconsciously she was prepared to fight or flight. I wasn’t worried about her fighting, and with me in front of the door, I also wasn’t concerned about her flighting either.

  “So,” she said, trying to keep a c
heerful tone in her voice. “What can we do in two or three minutes?”

  “Depends,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure I can kill you and Patrick, set the place afire, and then get out of here in about five minutes.”

  Her face paled right out, like the blood had decided to stop circulating right above her neckline. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I know exactly who I am,” I said. “The question is, who are you?”

  Eyes wide, Tracy glanced around and I said, “Sit right there. If you want to still be breathing by the time the sun sets, you just sit there.”

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “I ask the questions, you answer with no dancing around, and progress will be made. And I’m a big fan of progress.”

  A sudden nod. “Okay.”

  “How much were you paid? By George or whoever worked for him?”

  There was a long second or two, when the rational part of her—how in God’s name can I be under threat, here in my home town and my own office—was debating with the base part of her brain that was sensing extreme danger emanating from the man across from her, like infrared heat from an open oven door.

  “A thousand dollars, to start,” she whispered.

  “As what, rental for the house on Timberswamp Road?”

  “The cash … it was so easy, I mean … ”

  “I know. Business sucks. And a thousand dollars … you’d take that, no questions asked. I don’t blame you.”

  Another nod. “He … he told me they were filming some sort of movie. All he needed it was for twenty-four hours, in perfect privacy. He promised the place would be left untouched when he was finished.”

  “I’m sure. But all that easy money coming your way … What a temptation. You called him right after I left that showing, true? And you encouraged me to meet with that hulk … Eddie Century. I’m sure you thought Eddie would slow me down, hurt me so that George or his friend could catch up with me if I was dinged up at the hospital.”

  I didn’t think it was possible that her face could grow more pale, but it surely did. I was almost convinced I could see the veins under her skin. “That’s right.”