A few seconds later, Director Hollings answered, and Betty connected the senator. “Skip, how the hell are you doing?”
“Just fine, Senator. What can I do for you this time of night?” The inflection in his voice indicated he was a little perturbed. Betty scurried in with a note: Director Hollings was at Carmine’s for dinner with his wife. Bowman nodded. It would be a short call. Family quality time was limited for the CIA director, and Bowman didn’t want to impose any more than necessary.
“Skip, I’ll be brief. I need to borrow Agent Caldwell tomorrow. It’s a domestic issue back in Enid.”
“No Russians this time, I hope.”
“No. No. My son has been framed for a crime. Some lunatic reporter concocted a few stories, and now Jason is in jail.”
“Jail? I can’t believe someone took that knucklehead seriously. We’ve been following his broadcasts, but they seemed so outlandish we didn’t think anyone believed it.”
“Oh, yeah, somebody did. My attorney will be there tomorrow. I just thought it would be helpful—to Jason at least—to have a friend in town with some influence.”
“Say no more. I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Skip. Would you mind if I called Agent Caldwell this evening? I’d like him on the road as soon as possible.” The director knew Caldwell had become . . . familiar with the senator after the attack.
“Not at all. Give him the heads up tonight. I’ll start the paperwork to catch up with him as soon as I get to the office.”
Bowman sighed with relief. Another obstacle cleared. He wished he could have flown out to Enid this past weekend, but there were some issues. “Thanks again. Enjoy the rest of the evening. And order the tiramisu for dessert. It’s fantastic. Tell Diane hello for me.”
He hung up the phone with the director and then called the one man he trusted when it came to his son—Aaron Caldwell.
BIG JOE MCCAIN walked into the living room of his Tulsa home, buttoning up his trousers and tightening his belt. Waddling behind the bar, he opened a new bottle of Jim Beam and filled the glass packed with ice half-full. He poured Coca-Cola in the remaining portion of the glass. The news broadcast he’d seen earlier confused him. It’s like nobody knew who this punk kid pilot from Vance was until he saved his dad from getting killed. Now everybody knew him and what he had for breakfast.
Across the room, Tuggar sat in a straight-backed chair, his eyes still glued to the television. He had screwed the pooch in his first attempt to kill Jason Conrad. Then that damned cop showed up, and Tuggar had to shoot him. So far, no one else was a suspect. As far as the police could tell, the story was a hit on the cop. No mention of Conrad in the initial broadcast on the cop shooting, but now . . . now it was being reported Conrad did it, as well as a buttload of other killings. And to top it all off, he was a Commie spy? Surely no one would be upset if Big Joe were to kill the son of a bitch now.
The Jim Beam and Coke went down his throat smooth. Debating on whether to pour another, he decided he had other business first. He stood in front of the TV and towered over Tuggar. “You ready to head back to Enid?”
Tuggar’s shoulders drooped, and his head rose slowly. “Jeez, Big Joe, do you think it’s safe?” Tuggar jerked his head as Sheila emerged from the same bedroom Big Joe had a few moments earlier. Her hair was disheveled, and she wore pink panties and a wife-beater tank top. Big Joe admired her backside, too, as she strolled to the fridge for a bottle of water. In the kitchen, she pulled a joint out of a drawer, retrieved a lighter, and sparked up.
“Nothin’s safe,” Big Joe said, returning his attention to Tuggar. “They got that Conrad boy locked up in jail in Enid. They’re blaming him for the cop you shot. You should be fine. There’s a lady working in the jail. She’s a client of mine. I want you to go to Enid. Take Sheila with you.” Tuggar glanced at Sheila, whose cheeks turned rosy red. Uncomfortably aware of the attention from both, she took another hit of her joint. Big Joe leaned on the bar and scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to Tuggar. “You contact her and let her know I want Conrad dead, a-s-a-p.”
“You want me to just walk into the Enid police station and find some lady cop and tell her you want a guy in their jail dead? That’s crazy. Especially knowing I killed that feller a few days ago.”
“She’s not a cop. And you don’t have to go into the police station.”
Tuggar’s forehead wrinkled. “What’s she do?”
Big Joe took another swig of his drink and smiled. “She’s the cleaning lady.”
34
April 30, 1996
DOWNTOWN ENID after hours reminded Tuggar of an abandoned amusement park. Streetlights sizzled to life as the sun sank below the horizon, but the streets were empty. So much to do, yet no one doing it.
He pulled the Ford Bronco across the street from the Enid police station and parked. Their contact was to meet them here in less than five minutes. Sheila sat silently next to him, picking at the crack in the dry-rotting dashboard. Her eyebrows scrunched together, and her lips pursed. The woman had constantly changed radio stations on the drive here, which drove him nuts, and said virtually nothing since they left Tulsa. Tuggar’s job was to pay the contact to have Jason Conrad killed. They were to stay in Enid until Conrad was dead. If this lady couldn’t do it, then he would have to.
Tuggar called before they left Tulsa to coordinate the meeting. The woman, Esmerelda Bishop, worked the night shift. The meeting place disturbed him, but Esmerelda insisted they would be okay.
They sat in the Bronco for twenty minutes before the pale old woman shuffled up the sidewalk to the passenger side of the car.
“You be Mista McCain’s folks?” she said. Even in the darkness, Tuggar spotted the lines in her face, no doubt worn through years of stress and worry.
“That’s right,” Tuggar replied. “And you are?”
“Esmeralda. I was told you had a package for me.” She smiled, and the mangled deteriorated set of teeth told him everything. She was a meth addict.
Tuggar grabbed the package and passed it across Sheila to the old woman outside. She took the package and examined its contents. Esmeralda nodded and read the note Big Joe wrote. Her smile revealed several missing teeth as her eyes danced across the page. The more she read, the more her eyes sparkled. Big Joe’s note gave her new life. He said he would erase the debt she owed, plus throw in some pocket change for her. A separate envelope inside held cash and instructions for whoever did the job.
“I can take care of this,” Esmeralda said. Her appearance evolved, giving her youth and vitality. She spoke like a woman of authority now. The woman was more than she appeared to be. And Big Joe wasn’t as washed-up as some might think. This was a ballsy move for the Godfather of Oklahoma, but it would get him his street-cred back. The old woman waddled across the street and through the front door of the police department. Tuggar cranked the engine of the Bronco, pulled away from the curb, and headed toward their hotel.
JASON SAT on the hard metal bench inside the drunk tank at the police station. Peeling paint and obscene writing covered the battered, gray cinder-block walls. His focus shifted to each of the men incarcerated here. He had called his mother earlier with his one phone call. She assured him help was on the way. In the meantime, he was stuck in the cell, waiting for someone to come bail him out.
The entire thing was nuts. They accused him of murder based on a news broadcast. He had no idea who the two people were at the lake. Hundreds of other people were there. Why weren’t they suspects? He’d heard rumblings that there were several calls to the police about someone with a gun on the lake, but it would take days, possibly weeks, to find and interview those people.
Hell, why were they even saying Kathy was dead? Did they know something he didn’t? And how in the hell did some girl’s panties show up in his jeep? It couldn’t be hers. He didn’t own the Jeep when Kathy was in town. His father bought it for him three months ago. This was a set-up—he just wasn’
t sure why.
He wasn’t sure of the time since the cops confiscated his watch when they in-processed him. The cell had no windows and no clock, so he had no concept of day or night. When different officers passed through, he imagined it might be shift change. If he were drunk or unconscious like some of the others in the cell, it might not have bothered him. But lucid as he was, it annoyed the hell out of him.
Regardless, his life had changed dramatically within the last few days. As he reflected over the events since Friday, he realized one thing: He’d been restricted to the base for so long, he forgot what it was like in the outside world. Carelessness and naivety had overcome awareness and judgment. He had become complacent in his life within the outside world—something he had to change fast before he got himself killed, or rather, before someone killed him.
At some point, an old woman passed by the cell, pushing her wheeled mop bucket with the long handle of the mop. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for something. She moved to the far end of the hallway outside the cell and mopped the floor. Jason wanted to close his eyes and block her and everything else out of his consciousness, but he couldn’t. He needed to remain alert.
Several minutes later, the whispering across the cell got his attention. One of his cellmates, a scrawny long-haired biker, leaned against the bars, his back to Jason. On the other side of the cell, the janitor stood talking to him. She passed him something through the bars, but he wasn’t sure. Moments later, the old woman scurried out of the area, and the biker she spoke to moved back to one of the benches.
One of the cops walked through the area, eyeballing each of the remaining men, attempting to intimidate them. Jason was aware the cops blamed him for Rusty’s death, and they didn’t like him. That was validated as the overweight cop gave him an “f-you look.” The cop lingered for a minute, then continued his march out of the area. It pissed him off, but he understood how these guys felt. Somebody killed one of their own, and they thought he did it. He would have reacted the same if someone in his squadron had been killed, even in the line of duty.
Jason sat on his bench for the next few minutes, frustrated as hell at his predicament. The biker who stood by the bars earlier now stood at the far end of the cell, talking to three other prisoners. They spoke in hushed whispers, the biker occasionally looking over his shoulder toward Jason. His instincts kicked in. Alone at this end of the cell, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles. Twisting at the waist, his back cracked, and he tilted his neck back and forth to accomplish the same.
It didn’t take long for the biker to confront him. The long-haired thug was in his late thirties/early forties. The sunken eyes, blotchy skin, and rotted teeth covered with an unkempt mustache made Jason think he was a drug user, which, in his mind, made him unpredictable.
“What did you say to me, asshole?” The biker approached Jason, his body shifting from side to side with each step. That came out of nowhere. Here it comes. The guy screwed up by moving slow. He should have rushed him if he wanted to start a fight. Jason leaped from the bench and squared off to face the oncoming threat. He’d been in plenty of fights before. It wasn’t until the man reached behind his back and pulled out a small knife, he became worried. Combative knife fighting wasn’t one of his skillsets, but he’d seen movies.
The biker held the knife in position to jab him—not the most effective method in a knife fight. It limited his ability to utilize the blade. Jason peered into the drug-induced eyes. The guy didn’t know what he was doing. Where’d he get the knife? Nobody had been in here but the cleaning lady, mopping the floor. Could Enid’s finest have missed the blade when this guy in-processed?
Jason studied his bigger opponent. A few inches taller, the biker was thin. His shirt and pants hung loose on him, and Jason figured there wasn’t much muscle under those loose-fitting clothes. Still, he wasn’t about to take the biker for granted. No telling what this guy was on. Jason had heard plenty of stories about guys hyped up on drugs from both Rusty and Agent Caldwell.
The two men circled each other. The other men in the cell gradually rose from their slumbers and egged the biker on. A bloodletting would ease the boredom around here. Jason quickly brought the other prisoners into his crosscheck, unsure if he would be jumped from behind. The way they rooted for the biker; it was a distinct possibility. He was clearly a regular; the house champion fighting the challenger.
The prisoners moved between them and the bars, blocking the view of anyone who might come into the cell area. Not their first rodeo. Most of them anyway. A couple were overnight drunks, waiting for their attorneys to show up, but they learned fast. Better to assimilate than stand out in the crowd.
The biker lunged at him with the knife; Jason side-stepped the blade and snatched his wrist. Jason’s fingers dug into the biker’s flesh, but the biker jerked back violently. Breaking free, the biker whirled back to face him, wheezed, and worked up a mouthful of spit, attempting to spray Jason. The guy was on some serious drugs. Lunging at him again, the biker swiped the knife blade from right to left, the arm holding the blade extended across his body.
Jason seized the opportunity. Moving closer, he threw a right-left combination to the biker’s jaw and right eye. He stepped back just as quickly, increasing the distance between them. The biker staggered, still carrying the knife. The other prisoners cheered with each move by these two modern-day gladiators. What seemed to be a one-sided fight quickly turned, and some of the spectators switched sides. They learned fast, too. Better to root for the winner.
One of the guards entered the area, acting oblivious to the fight in the cell. The other prisoners blocked the action from his view, although the guard clearly knew what was happening.
The biker, more cautious this time, jabbed the knife instead of swiping. He repeated the motion several times, unable to make contact. Jason kept his eyes on the knife, focusing on the timing of the jab. When the biker thrust the blade forward for the sixth time, Jason grabbed his wrist and pulled the biker and the blade toward him, sending him off balance. He pulled the knife toward the onlookers, who leaped out of the way as the blade hurried in their direction.
Shoving the biker’s knife hand between the bars, Jason slammed his opponent’s arm hard on the horizontal bar of the cell, jarring the blade out of his hand. Jason reached under the bar and pulled the biker’s forearm firmly down on the bar. Thrusting his right knee upward into the elbow of the trapped arm, Jason hyper-extended the man’s elbow.
The biker let out an excruciating howl. Jason faced the biker, who struggled to pull his wounded arm free.
Three rapid blows to the face ended the confrontation. With the last punch, the man’s nose broke, and his head clanged against the bars, his arm falling free. The biker’s knees buckled, and he slid to the floor against the bars, unconscious.
The cop who watched stood, unsure of what to do. His mouth shut, he gulped, then retrieved the knife that fell outside the cell. Jason could see the doubt in the cop’s eyes. The cop wanted him dead —he just didn’t have the balls to take care of it himself.
The cop moved toward the cell, about to toss the knife back in for someone else to finish the job.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jason said.
“Why is that?” The arrogance of the cop troubled Jason.
“Because if whoever you give that to doesn’t kill me, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. And you better hope all these guys back up what you say.”
The cop paused and surveyed the other eight men in the cell. With the handle of the knife in his right hand, he tapped the blade flat on his left palm, thinking. After a few seconds, he glimpsed back at Jason, then skirted out of the holding area.
Jason, his breathing heavy, turned to face his cellmates. The unconscious body of the biker lay between him and them.
“Anyone else?”
35
May 1, 1996
DANE LEANED back in his office chair, his hands clasped behind his head, fing
ers interlocked. A smile stretched across his face like the Grand Canyon. Last night’s broadcast received the highest ratings in WTSR’s history, and their switchboard stayed swamped for hours. The producer had initially been concerned about the content, but the public reaction was overwhelming, and the veteran producer decided to overlook the fact they had yet to verify Dane’s source. He had all the confirmation he needed in the CIA dossier on Jason Conrad. Could it get any more legit than that? They did, however, manage to confirm the deposit of the four-hundred-thousand dollars into Jason Conrad’s bank account. The producers didn’t tell Dane how they did that, and he didn’t care. Where the hell does a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force obtain that kind of cash?
The phones in the studio rang off the hook following the broadcast. Amazing— everyone, everywhere in the station, talking on a phone. Dane stopped to speak to the director as he left the broadcast studio. “Fantastic job,” he said. “Best broadcast ever.” Word on the street was bigger things on the horizon. Dane simply smiled, said thanks, and headed to his desk. It had been a challenging weekend that led straight into a more challenging week. He yawned and stretched, then scratched his belly as he glanced at his desk.
On his desk sat a FedEx envelope addressed to him. The return address was rather innocuous. He recognized the technique. Another package from Draken Black. He started to open it but decided to wait until he got home. The last thing he wanted was another distraction to keep him at the studio. Joanie stopped by his desk. It seemed like forever since they were together. She said she was proud of him. They kissed briefly, and she detected his exhaustion. He showed her the mysterious envelope, and she agreed. Wait until you get home to open it. He didn’t want someone looking over his shoulder and seeing the name of such a sensitive contact. Her weather report went live in ten minutes, followed by another at ten p.m. She’d be home after that, and he could fill her in.
The Right to Know Page 18
