by Paul Bagnell
Chapter 18: PACK ME SOME CASH
Tom’s sober sensibility was shot as he lay flanked out on his couch. A few good swigs of sweet rye, and he was feeling physically dangerous. The horrific images of Doctor Alvin’s deformed future and the unimaginable destruction of mankind was like a mental handicap, a reoccurring brain symptom irritated by the mind-crash affliction. He required a strong regiment of psychiatric help.
“Our agents were tracking you since Wednesday,” a man said.
Tom was startled and jumped from the couch like his feet were on fire. “God dammit, Rosky, don’t you spy-guys ever knock?” Tom scolded the secret agent in a sarcastic tone while wiping a splash of booze off the front of his shirt.
“Sometimes but not always,” Ivadot replied loosely and sat on the couch and crossed his stiff legs. “Federal investigators have all ready begun sorting through a handful of suspects, and I know that your name is among that list.”
“How do you know that?” Tom asked.
“I know it because I’ve seen the list.”
“I’m finding that difficult to believe so don’t try to bullshit me ‘cause it won’t work.”
Ivadot leaned further from the couch and stared with a face like cold iron. “Do you know that the KCB has files on people the CIA or FBI haven’t seen for years or can find? Our covert operations are so secretive that Congress has no documented proof of our existence; but if I made one telephone call, twenty lawmen will be here in two minutes,” as he snapped his fingers--“just that fast and that would probably be a record for them,” he said convincingly.
“Go ahead make the call,” as Tom handled the phone. “I don’t believe you for a single second.”
“You’re very strong minded,” as he gestured with a flattened hand for Tom to disconnect, “and that’s good, but there’s going to be someone convicted of Samuel’s murder; and it’s going to be you. When that happens, since you might not be aware, this great State that you live in still enforces its right to execute its criminals. You’ll be facing the grimmest possibility--death by lethal injection; I can promise you that much.” Ivadot wore an overcoat that concealed his handgun, but it didn’t conceal a manila-coloured envelope that protruded out of his top inside pocket. “I saw a lot of bad blood in my time, and it’s not something you’d like to remember.” He reached into his coat and removed a nine-by-twelve inch package, which he tossed on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” Tom asked as he stared at the sealed bundle.
“Just open it,” Ivadot instructed.
Tom reached over and pulled the envelope across the unkept surface. His eyes were fixed on Ivadot; he didn’t trust him, not for a second. He ripped open the paper and emptied an assortment of items into a pile. “What’s this for?” Tom asked as he picked up the wad of hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s fifteen thousand in cash,” Ivadot replied. “Let’s just say, it’s for services rendered.”
Tom remained quiet. He didn’t want to know what the money was really for and placed it back on the table. The next item from the envelope was a handgun. He held it in his possession. “What do you expect me to do, kill someone?” he asked as if it were a remote possibility.
Ivadot smiled and folded his hands in front as he replied, “It’s for your self-protection; killing isn’t our protection strategy--defending one’s life is.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is.” Tom spun the loaded ammunition chamber and listened; then set it gently on the table next to the money roll. There was also a faded photograph. It was bound in a piece of white paper, which partially covered the image of a soldier.
“This is the last photo we have on file of Remmie Take,” Ivadot admitted. “He has eluded us for a very long time, but we’re close to getting him this time.”
Tom pulled the wrapped paper off the photo and stared at the faded image. Remmie looked about the same age that he remembered from his dream. “I’d like to help you but no deal,” Tom said, and forced the items across the tabletop.
Ivadot didn’t flinch or speak a word. He stared at Tom for a moment. “Samuel’s execution--do you think it will be the last?” Ivadot questioned the evasive accountant. “Do you think Remmie Take is going to let you just walk away? You saw what he looks like so you could easily identify him.”
“No, I don’t want to get caught up in this unnecessary hanging.”
“You’re already trapped. There’s no way out except for my way. Listen to me; Remmie’s a professional. He could kill you with an electric razor or a nutcracker. He would do it in public and make your death look like an accident.”
Tom picked up the picture and again studied it.
“This is how Remmie looked about twenty-some years ago. I suspect he may have had his facial features altered to make himself appear younger than his age,” Ivadot said.
“Those eyes,” Tom said, “I’d know those black, evil eyes anywhere.”
“So, you’re admitting to have met our villainous friend,” Ivadot said.
“I’m sorry to say yes.”
“I must warn you; I’ve encountered them all; Remmie Take is the most ruthless person on the face of this planet.”
Tom looked up, “I’ve heard that from a few people, some dead.”
Ivadot didn’t understand what Tom meant but continued. “When he was a young man, I recruited him because of his lack of fear. Remmie was one of the quick learners, a prize student. He worked undercover for a secret antiterrorist brotherhood for ten years until he had a falling out with a senior member and disappeared for all these years.
“We knew, from reports, he was training soldiers for a number of terrorist operations. This man isn’t your typical gun-slinging cowboy who walks around jingling his spurs. Everything he does is silently calculated, and you’re not dead because he needs you for something; but when it’s finished, your services will be terminated and so will you.”
Tom leaned back in the chair to catch his concealed breath. “I’m still not convinced that I can trust you.”
“There’s no other way out,” Ivadot replied. “You’ll have to trust me; you’re a dead man if you don’t. If you accept, I’m offering you freedom. If you don’t, after I leave your front door, there’s nothing our organization will be able to do for you; and you’ll be on your own.”
Tom thought Ivadot may be bluffing, but he wasn’t about to gamble. He stared deep into Ivadot’s poppy eyes. “Okay; I’ll do it,” Tom said. He didn’t understand exactly what he was supposed to do, but it didn’t matter. “Once it’s finished, I’m out; right?” he stressed.
Ivadot nodded.
“So say it. Once I do what you ask, I’m out,” Tom demanded.
Ivadot paused for a moment, “Okay, you got my word.” Again, Ivadot paused as he stared at Tom. “Unwrap this piece of paper that covers the photo and look at it closely.”
Tom eased the gun and the money closer to his reach and slid the paper out in front.
“Don’t be shy; it won’t bite,” Ivadot said.
The item was folded several times, and Tom was slow to react. On the printout, a set of words and numbers were linked together in an enigmatic style.
“This is your opportunity to set things straight. This tiny piece of paper is keeping you alive,” Ivadot said.
“Why’s that?” Tom asked, but Ivadot ignored the question.
“All you have to do is pick up a package and deliver it,” Ivadot admitted. “The address is printed at the bottom of the code. It’s so simple a child could do it.”
“Then what’s the gun for?” Tom asked.
“I’m not asking you to use the gun,” Ivadot said. “I wouldn’t let any of my agents go into the depths of the unknown without packing some heat. Let’s just say it’s for my own self-comfort.”
Tom felt slightly satisfied and wasn’t about to argue the facts with him. “What’s inside this package?” Tom inquired. “It’s not a bomb or something--you know something that could blow up in my fa
ce and make me as ugly as a cow’s ass.”
“Don’t be foolish. When you receive the package, they’ll tell you what to do with it,” Ivadot replied. “They’ll be expecting you to arrive on time.”
Tom viewed the paper; his eyes dropped below the address where the time was highlighted.
“It’s tonight or the deal’s off; otherwise, you’ll have nothing to keep Remmie from killing you or to keep you out of jail,” Ivadot said as he rose from the couch. He limped toward the front door, stopped, and looked back. “I’ll keep my part of the deal; you keep yours,” he said.
“What if I don’t keep my word?”
“Those consequences are not for me to decide,” Ivadot replied. “Truthfully, I don’t know, maybe nothing or maybe something. As I said, it’s your decision; make the correct one and stay alive.” He started forward; then he stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot; thanks for finding those bodies.”
“What do you mean?” Tom replied.
“No need to play stupid anymore. Thanks! Now their families will be able to sleep at night; that’s more than I can say for myself.”
Tom closed the door behind Ivadot and leaned against it for a moment. He was trying to clear his foggy mind. The bundle of money was clasped in his sweaty hand as he tried to figure out what could be so urgent that the KCB would give him fifteen thousand in cash for a few hours work.
He sat back in the chair and held the gun at his head, thinking. He reached forward and picked up the paper for a closer look. “1943 Hillside Venue is an extremely ritzy neighbourhood; it gotta be the address of some rich dude with nothing better to do than make my life a living hell. I’ll pick up this so-called phantom parcel and shove it wherever with whomever wants it,” Tom challenged himself.
The words CRADLE-OCTO-LANDLOCK-FINCH appeared like a secret message, but Tom surmised that they formed an electronic password of some sort. The accompanying set of numbers also created an interesting puzzle comprised of a ten-digit series of 6485 1012 22. They possibly could be part of a system access code.
Tom felt frustrated trying to solve the equation, and even his years of academics and public accounting offered him no logical solution.
He was expected at Hillside Venue at 6:55 p.m. so he’d first get some rest. He wanted to be fresh and spry for his date. He tucked the paper into his shirt pocket and gathered the items scattered on the coffee table; the picture and the money slid nicely back into the ruptured envelope as he filed them away. The gun was too heavy for his pocket so he stuffed it beneath the chair’s cushion. “I hope this is worth it,” Tom said with a worried breath.
What happened today was too much stress for one year. He stretched out, shut his eyes; but he was interrupted by the doorbell. He let it ring a few times. “Who the hell could that be?” he cried out as he went to the door.
“Mr. Bronze?” the weathered-faced gentleman asked.
“Yeah,” Tom replied through the chained opening.
“Sorry for bothering you at home.”
“What’s this about?”
“Oh, excuse me, I’m Detective Gene Riley. We spoke on the telephone earlier today.” He tried to look into the house, but Tom blocked his view. “I promise not to take up too much of your valuable time. May I come in?” he asked politely.
“Can we talk about the accident another time? I’ll call you first thing Monday morning.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.”
Tom opened the door and peered down the road. “Okay, then, come on in.”
Detective Riley wiped his feet on the doormat; then he pulled out his wrinkly notepad from his inside coat pocket along with a short, chewed-up pencil. “Would you mind if I sat?”
Tom gestured toward the couch, but Riley selected the chair where Tom had deposited the handgun.
“My legs, they aren’t what they used to be. Thirty-five years of pounding the pavement has really taken its toll on my bones.”
“That’s a very long career to be catching the bad guys.”
“Sure is--I’m happy to say that I’ll be leaving the force next month so I’d like to close your case file and retire with my plate clean,” Riley said very calmly as he brushed his hand over his grey, cropped hair. “About your automobile accident...” he said as he expected Tom to expand on the undocumented details.
“What about it,” Tom bullied his voice.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bronze, I may have misled you when I asked if you filed an accident report.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, acting stupid.
“I also wanted to ask you a few questions about a murder that’s under investigation.” Riley flipped open his notepad to a clean page.
“What murder is that?” Tom asked as if he didn’t know.
Riley sharpened his pencil on his tongue. “Samuel Carravecky; he was murdered last night.”
“Oh, yeah, I only met him once,” Tom replied, as he sat on the couch across from the detective.
“When was that?” Riley inquired.
“A few days ago at a meeting at Carravecky’s; other than that time, I didn’t even know the guy.”
Riley made some notes as Tom talked. “Now, getting back to your accident--from where were you coming when you drove off the road?” Riley asked.
“I was coming from Ms. McBridle’s house,” Tom replied.
“Who’s she?”
“She’s a partner in the firm where I work. It was late, and I must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel.”
“Were you drinking?” Riley inquired as he prepared for more notes.
“No sir, I wasn’t drinking; what are you getting at?” Tom said as if he were getting disturbed.
“So, you were coming back from your girlfriend’s house?”
“Ms. McBridle isn’t my girlfriend; as I said, she’s a partner in the firm where I work,” Tom replied in a more annoyed tone.
“Celia, Celia McBridle is her name?” Riley questioned Tom.
“Yes, that’s her name.”
“Is that vehicle in your driveway your property?”
“No,” Tom replied. “It’s Ms. McBridle’s.”
Riley stared at his notes. “Again getting back to your accident Tuesday night I’m curious why you didn’t report it.” He waited for an answer; the pencil sat between his teeth.
“Well, as I told you on the phone this morning, I didn’t think it mattered. The car was a worthless wreck; and since no one was injured, I figured why bother; someone will come along and collect it for scrap metal.”
Riley shifted his two-hundred-and-forty pound police frame from one side of the chair to the other, apparently bothered by something beneath the cushion.
Tom knew Riley was stepping around the facts concerning who killed Samuel Carravecky, and he knew Riley would eventually ask.
“Ms. McBridle’s vehicle,” his voice grew keen, “how did it get damaged?”
Tom just stared.
“I checked the accident reports for the past six months, and no report had been filed under the name Celia McBridle.”
“I brushed up against a guardrail Thursday night,” Tom replied calmly.
“Two accidents in one week could be a world record,” Riley said with a healthy chuckle. “Well, now, I have a real problem with that. According to a credible witness, a black European luxury model like the one parked in your yard was spotted near the Carravecky murder scene; and this vehicle fits the description to a ‘T’. Mr. Bronze, the way I see it, you were there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom answered in his own defence.
Riley again shifted his weight in the chair. “Oh, by the way, the evidence doesn’t lie. When I was checking the day’s issued parking tickets, one was written on plates registered to a Celia McBridle Thursday night at the corner of Forth & Eighth.” Riley continued to shift his weight and reposition himself on the cushion. “While I was checking your driver’s license photo, a composite sketch came across my
desk.” Riley slid it across the table. “Look familiar?”
“That sketch could be anybody.”
“Mr. Bronze, I could bring you into custody right now on suspicion of murder; but I don’t think you’re a trigger-happy killer.”
Tom felt defeated.
Detective Riley tensed forward in the chair. “Tom, all the evidence is pointing toward you. I’m asking you to come down to the station and give a detailed statement. If you’re afraid and need protection, we can provide that.”
“Protection from what,” Tom replied defiantly.
Riley slid his notepad back into his coat and looked at Tom. “I can help you; but once the Bureau Boys arrive on your doorstep, it’s not going to be nice,” Riley said as he walked to the door. He stopped in the porch and buttoned the front of his coat. “I’m expecting to see you first thing tomorrow.” He passed Tom his cop card.
“I’ll think about it,” Tom replied and closed the door.
Tom had only one alternative; that was to follow Ivadot’s instructions. He collapsed on the couch to rest up for tonight’s unknown business.
