by J. D. Barker
“Take off my handcuffs and give me the gun,” Poole said. “I’ll tell them you surrendered to me.”
Leaning over the steering wheel, Porter’s eyes shifted wildly from the signs above to the cars around them. Sweat dripped down his brow. He pursed his lips and gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “Hold on.”
His foot stomped down on the brake, the SUV lurched in protest, and Poole’s seat belt yanked back against his chest. The vehicle behind them slammed into their bumper with a sickening crunch. Poole heard at least two other crashes behind that, and when he looked in the side mirror, he realized at least a half dozen other cars had wrecked, too. A few airbags deployed. Horns everywhere started to blare.
Gridlock behind, open space in front as traffic continued to move forward.
Porter floored the gas. Plastic crinkled behind them as their bumper tore away from the car that had hit them. He crossed the remaining two lanes on the right and took an exit toward the private hangars, an executive airport, picking up speed as he went.
“Helicopter.” Poole spotted it first, coming in from the east.
Porter didn’t seem to care. They were approaching a small guard house, the gate down.
Poole cringed.
The gate arm swung up moments before they would have burst through it. Porter didn’t even tap the brakes.
The helicopter arched down, tried to block their path, then zipped back up into the air when they realized Porter had no intention of slowing. In fact, Porter was still picking up speed. Someone said something over a loudspeaker, but Poole couldn’t make out the words.
Porter tugged the wheel to the left. The front tires cried out in protest, then gripped the blacktop. The helicopter came up behind them about a hundred feet above the pavement.
Far in the distance, Poole spotted several other vehicles racing across the tarmac with lights flashing. “Stop, Sam! Stop!”
He sped up. He pointed the SUV toward the open mouth of a hangar and picked up speed. It wasn’t until Poole could see people scrambling out of the way inside that hangar that Porter touched the brakes at all. When he did, he hit them hard. His right hand went to the emergency brake and he yanked it up, locking the rear tires. Poole braced himself; they were going to slide right into the large jet occupying most of the hangar. The blacktop gave way to concrete, and Porter jerked the wheel again, pulling them to the right. They skidded into the hangar, the SUV threatening to flip. Above, the helicopter roared over and gained altitude.
A moment later, when the Bombardier Global 5000 jet with Talbot Enterprises painted on the tail rolled out of the hangar and onto the tarmac, the helicopter was still doubling back. The emergency vehicles racing toward them were still a quarter mile away when the jet’s engines screamed and the private plane tore down the runway. They were in the air long before anyone had a chance to determine who the plane belonged to or could attempt to ground it.
84
Diary
“Where’s The Kid?” I said it because nobody else seemed able or willing to ask.
Welderman’s hand tightened on Weasel’s shoulder, and Weasel cringed, trying to shrug off the man’s grip. This only seemed to irritate Welderman, who dug his thumb down into Weasel’s shoulder blade as he glared at me. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and took out the note we’d given The Kid. “Was this your idea? Are you fucking kidding me?” He released Weasel and took a step closer to me. “Do you realize with that broken arm you’re worth damn near nothing to us? I’d sooner chop you up into little bits and bury you out in that field than deal with your bullshit.”
I felt Libby’s hand try to curl into mine, but I pulled away. I didn’t want to risk Welderman seeing that. While he didn’t, I failed to notice Ms. Finicky watching us, too. I wish I’d seen her. Oh, how I wish I’d seen her. “Yes,” I told him. “It was my idea.”
Welderman’s eyes looked like they might explode out of his face. “First the mess at the motel, now this? Give me one reason not to put a bullet in your head.”
I didn’t answer him, because I didn’t have one. I would have killed me. Father would have killed me. Mother would have certainly killed me. I was a problem, and Welderman knew it. I’m not sure what stopped him.
“Bring that little shit in here!” Welderman shouted over his shoulder.
I expected Stocks, but it was the man from the van back at the motel. He half carried, half dragged The Kid into the room by the collar of his shirt. The material was torn, stained red with blood. The Kid’s face was a dozen different shades of red, purple, and black, the skin crusted over with more blood. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose was no longer centered above his mouth but off to the side.
Several gasps filled the room, the loudest from Tegan.
Under Welderman’s grip, Weasel squirmed away and went to his friend as Van Man dropped The Kid to the floor in front of us like yesterday’s trash.
The Kid crumbled. His legs failed to hold him up. His right arm attempting to stop the fall, but it was nothing more than a casual swipe—his arm, hand, fingers, they fell with him as dead weight does, and for a moment I thought he was dead. He coughed, though. His good eye scanned us all before closing.
Stocks came in carrying a green bag, glanced around at all of us before turning to Welderman and Van Man. “The truck was out in the barn. Looks like they’ve been working on it for a while now. It’s not running, but it was close. No chance of that now, but dammit, they were close.” He shook the bag. “They found the money too. Found this on the front seat.”
Welderman glared at Finicky. “How the fuck do you let this happen? You’re supposed to be watching them. We give you one job. One simple job, and they find the time to rebuild some old rusted out beater right under your nose? Goddamn pillhead.”
Finicky opened her mouth to object, but Welderman didn’t give her a chance.
Welderman held out his hand. “I want your keys. Nobody is leaving this place until Guyon, understand? Not you, not them, not anyone.”
Her face flushed with anger. “Need I remind you, you still need to go back and make good on the appointment—they’re still there.”
“Fuck!” He stomped across the room, swearing under his breath. “I don’t need this!”
“What’s Guyon?”
This came from Weasel. One of the few times I had heard him speak. His voice sounded so small compared to Welderman’s tirade.
“It doesn’t fucking matter what Guyon is.” Welderman fumed, his face red, with spittle at the corners of his mouth. He looked like he might kick Weasel, or worse. Instead, he grabbed Tegan’s camera off the table and shoved it into the green bag. He pressed the bag into Van Man’s chest and nodded at Weasel. “Get this one back there, tell them he’s a freebie, give them the money to smooth things over, and get back here. No other stops, understand?”
Van Man nodded and grabbed Weasel by the collar, dragging him out the door.
When they were gone, Welderman pushed The Kid onto his side with the tip of his boot before turning on Stocks. “Look at his face. What the fuck is wrong with you? Whatever that ends up costing us is coming from your cut.”
Stocks prepared to argue but said nothing.
“Can we take The Kid upstairs?” I asked Welderman. “We understand. We won’t try anything. We should have known better. We all get it now.”
Welderman’s angry face went from Stocks to me to the rest of the group. “Yeah, get him out of here. I don’t want to see any of you right now.”
I got down on the floor and tried to help The Kid up, but with my broken arm, I had no way to get a good grip on him. Vincent knelt down beside me and scooped The Kid up into his arms. He didn’t say anything as he carried him out of the room toward the stairs. Tegan and Kristina bounded out of their chairs after him, the rest of us behind them.
Upstairs, Vincent set The Kid down on his bed, eased his head onto his pillow. Libby appeared with a bowl of water and a wash
cloth. She tenderly wiped the blood off his face, careful to avoid his broken nose. I peeled off The Kid’s filthy clothes and piled them in the corner of his room. Paul stood in the doorway watching us, Tegan and Kristina behind him. “They’ll kill us all,” Tegan said quietly.
“They won’t kill us. They’re going to sell us,” Vincent replied. “That’s what Guyon is.”
Van Man must have locked Weasel in the van. He was back downstairs arguing with the others. Two kids down now, which was all they really cared about.
We all heard it then, above the voices—the sound of a car coming up the driveway. Tires crunching on the gravel.
Paul was first to the window. “It’s a cop!”
The words were barely out his mouth before Stocks bounded up the stairs and came through the bedroom door, his gun out and waving through the air. “Get the hell away from the window. Now!”
Paul did.
I could still see, though. The black and white patrol car pulled up behind the white van and came to a stop. Nobody got out, not at first.
The screen door on the front of the house squeaked open and slammed shut. Van Man appeared below. He crossed the driveway and went to the patrol car. When the window rolled down, he leaned in and spoke to the driver.
“Nobody make a fucking sound,” Stocks said. His gun was pointed at Libby, but his eyes were on me.
“Who is it?” I asked him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You know him, don’t you?”
“I said, shut the fuck up!”
“Are all the police part of this?”
Stocks raised the gun, ready to hit me, but didn’t. Two kids down. I don’t think he wanted to find out what would happen if he hurt me worse than I already was.
Outside, Van Man was still speaking to the driver. I could see the vague outline of the man behind the wheel, but between the dark and the distance, I couldn’t make out his face. Several times, Van Man gestured back at the house. They spoke nearly five minutes, then Van Man stood, tapped the roof of the police car twice, and ran back to his van. When the police car turned and started back down the driveway, the white van followed.
“Is Weasel in the van?” Tegan asked.
Nobody answered. We all knew he was.
Stocks waited for their taillights to fade away before he spoke again. “I want all the girls in the room across the hall and all the boys in here. None of you are leaving my sight.”
I didn’t see Vincent take the wrench from his pocket, nor did I see him swing. It wasn’t until the heavy steel came down against the back of Stocks’s head with a sickening crunch that I realized what was happening. Stocks’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell to the floor with a thump far too loud.
“Stocks? Everything okay up there?”
Welderman downstairs.
All of us stared at Stocks on the floor, clearly dead.
85
Nash
Day 6 • 2:18 AM
When Nash’s eyes opened the first time, the harsh light took the opportunity to reach down from above and scratch at his dry pupils. He pinched them shut, blinked several times, and tried again. To him, if felt as if only a few seconds ticked by. Had anyone been watching, they would have told him four hours passed. Nobody had been watching, not the entire time, but when he turned his head he did spot Klozowski sleeping in a chair with his feet up on the corner of the bed. “Kloz?”
Klozowski sputtered, mumbled something, then fell back asleep.
Nash kicked his feet off the corner of the bed.
Kloz nearly dropped out of the chair. He grabbed the arms, scrambled to maintain his balance, and quickly glanced around before realizing where he was. When he saw Nash was awake, he stood. “Nurse! Nurse!”
“Christ, Kloz. Calm the fuck down.” Nash’s throat was horribly dry and scratchy. It was hard to speak. “Can I have some water?”
Kloz shouted for the nurse one more time, then filled a pink plastic cup from an equally pink pitcher sitting on the table beside Nash’s bed and held the cup up to his lips. Half the water went down his throat, the other half covered his shirt. Nash really didn’t care, he was so thirsty. He took the cup from Kloz, finished it, and asked for more.
Three cups later, sitting up in the bed, the nurse came in. Red nails, blonde hair, he vaguely recognized her from earlier. “Welcome back, Detective.”
“I didn’t realize I left.”
“You came in with a hundred and four fever. At your age, that’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be sure to put a warning label on my walker.” His throat still hurt but nothing like before the water.
She ignored the quip. “We’ve had you on constant fluids, antibiotics, and anti-virals. Now that we have a handle on what’s going on, we have a treatment protocol.”
“It’s not SARS,” Kloz said. “The CDC ruled that out about an hour ago. They’re treating us all now.” Kloz pointed up at an IV bag hanging above his chair. “I’m not sure what’s in there, but I feel a hell of a lot better.”
The nurse ran an electronic thermometer over Nash’s forehead. She held the display out to him. “Down to a ninety-nine point eight. Much, much better.”
Nash said, “If it’s not SARS, what is it?”
“A highly contagious strain of the flu. Nowhere near as dangerous as SARS, but still bad if left untreated.”
Nash tried to process this. His thoughts were still a little sluggish. “So Bishop didn’t inject anyone with the SARS virus?”
Klozowski glanced nervously at the nurse. “Can you give us a minute?”
She nodded and stepped out of the room.
When she was gone, Kloz lowered his voice. “A lot’s happened while you were sleeping. Sam’s in serious trouble.”
“Weidner’s body.” Nash forced himself to sit up, fighting the wooziness that caused the room to tilt.
“There’s more than that,” Kloz said. “I took apart the video from Montehugh Labs. I went frame by frame, because it’s as messed up as all the other ones related to this case, jumbled by some kind of virus or malware. I found a shot of Sam there on the night of the break-in. It’s quick, and I had to enhance the footage to bring up the light, but it’s him, no question.” He lowered his head. “I had to share it with the feds. They think he’s working with some kind of partner. Between the body in Simpsonville and the bodies up here, there’s no way he could have killed everyone. They think he’s trying to cover up something big, something dating back years, and all this business with the virus was just a smokescreen. They think his partner took the mayor and is holed up somewhere.”
“You know about the mayor?”
Conspiratorial guilt washed over Kloz’s face. “I’ve been monitoring all the fed chatter. I pieced it together. Then when Poole dropped off the grid and you showed up here sick, the people upstairs went to the press with the story. They couldn’t keep it quiet any longer. He’s been missing for more than a day and a half. It doesn’t look good. Not after that much time.”
“Christ.”
“It gets worse,” Kloz said. “They found a body hidden in an old van at Sam’s partner’s house in Charleston. Looks like it’s been there for years. There’s no ID yet, but it’s a kid, a boy.”
Nash rubbed at his face; he needed to shave. “How does that tie back to Sam?”
Kloz told him about the bag, what was inside. “Sam showed up while Poole was trying to secure the scene. Sam took him away at gunpoint. There’s an eye witness—Hillburn’s widow. The feds used GPS to track them down.”
“Where are they now?”
Kloz glanced up at the television mounted near the ceiling in the far corner of the room. The sound was muted, and it was tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. A shaky image of a jet filled the screen, the landing gear in the process of deploying. The corner of the video was labeled LIVE and the scroll at the bottom said 4MK BELIEVED TO BE ONBOARD THIS JET OWNED BY TALBOT ENTERPRISES. “Somehow Sam managed to get
on that plane with Poole in Charleston, and they got off the ground before anyone could stop them. They’re landing at O’Hare. There’s an army out there waiting on them. No way he’s going anywhere. They’ll lock him up for sure.”
On the television, the plane touched down on the runway, back wheels, then front, and began to slow. As the camera panned out and went wide, Nash saw dozens of law enforcement vehicles parked down at the opposite end surrounded by hastily erected lights. Federal, local, and emergency—two fire trucks and an ambulance. There was a quick shot of Frank’s boss, SAIC Hurless before the camera went back to the plane.
That’s when Nash remembered. His heart jumped. “Did you find Clair?”
Kloz shook his head. “Not yet. We searched what we could with hospital security but everyone’s sick and we’re thin on help. We’re still missing two uniformed officers too. No sign of them. Captain Dalton told me now that we know we’re not dealing with SARS and they’re opening the doors, he’s sending in reinforcements for a complete search. He told me to stay put and wait for help.”
“They can’t open the doors. Whoever took her will get out!” Nash started removing the tape around his wrist, freeing the IV line and a blood pressure cuff.
Klozowski ignored him. His eyes were glued to the television. The plane had stopped, the door opened, and the stairs came down, slow and mechanical. Officers in tactical gear rounded several of the cars and pointed weapons at the dark opening. In silence, he watched as they stormed up the steps in a low crouch, rifles at the ready.
86
Poole
Day 6 • 2:21 AM
“Go! Go! Go!”
From a world of darkness, Poole heard the shouts. He heard the approach of boots—first outside, then on the stairs, then in the cabin of the small plane. He opened his mouth in preparation for a concussion grenade. He’d heard horror stories of shattered teeth and bitten tongues from people who did not open their mouth and relax their jaw during detonation. He recalled his training at Quantico in exactly that and forced his mouth to go slack.
