Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” The old man laughed again.

  An hour later, Provost was back in his cabin. He placed the hair color he had bought on the sink and peered into the mirror, checking his jowls with his hand. He wished he could grow a beard on demand. Well, if I can stay hidden for a few weeks, it’ll grow out. He stripped off and stepped into the shower.

  Engle arrested Jabłoński and led him to her cruiser. Traynor turned to the assembled group and asked, “Okay, the only one left is Provost. What’s our plan of action?”

  “We find him and bring him in, one way or another,” Deborah answered.

  Traynor looked at her and said, “I would assume that my part in this is over. You hired me to find your sister and we have.”

  “You’ve been in this since the start,” she said. “I would like you to stay on to the end. Don’t worry about the money.”

  “I’m not worried about my fee; in fact, from this point on, my services are pro bono.”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’m more than willing to pay you.”

  “Manuel and Jack aren’t receiving anything, other than their salaries. I feel like a mercenary.”

  “Manuel and Jack will be receiving bonuses for their work.” She addressed all of them. “You guys have exceeded anything I had imagined when we started this.”

  Traynor turned to McMahon and asked, “How do we go about finding Provost?”

  “He could be anywhere by now. He has the financial resources to hide for a long time.”

  “Engle will be monitoring whatever the police get and she’ll let us know,” Manuel added. “Nobody can stay underground forever—especially someone who likes being in the limelight as much as Provost does. All we need do is wait. He’ll show up somewhere, and I’d stake my salary that it will be sooner rather than later.”

  Manuel was quiet for a few moments and then said, “Maybe we can help him along.”

  “How so?” Deborah asked.

  “Earlier today, Jack said something that caught my attention,” Manuel replied. “He said Jabłoński was the only person left who can put Provost under the hood. What if we were to let it be known that he has been arrested for suspicion of murder, is out on bail, and was looking to make a deal with the DA?”

  Traynor said, “It may draw Provost out to tie up his only loose end.”

  “Yeah,” Manuel said. “Only we’ll be here to tie him up.”

  What goes around, comes around.

  —English Adage

  81

  Provost threw the half-eaten piece of chicken into the takeout box and stared at the television in disbelief. The reporter stood before the LA Federal Court Building, reporting on a situation that made a chill run up his spine. The authorities had Jabłoński in custody and he was singing an aria. Of everything she said, the phrase that cut him deepest was when she said, “Sources have reported that, based on information provided by Kondrat Jabłoński, a well-known social and political figure has been named a person of interest in the murder of Melinda Hollis, the daughter of a powerful and politically connected East Coast billionaire. It has also been conveyed to this reporter that Ms. Hollis was murdered during the filming of a pornographic snuff film …”

  He leaped to his feet and paced around the small motel cabin. The sonuvabitch was about to sell him out—if he hadn’t already done it! The reporter’s voice drew his attention back to the broadcast: “Jabłoński has turned State’s Evidence in return for a reduced sentence. I have also learned that, apart from the undisclosed person of interest, Jabłoński is the only surviving witness who can identify the killer. My sources have informed me that the person of interest is none other than political king-maker, Lawrence (Larry) Provost, who is currently being sought for questioning about the murders of Celia Doerr, whose body was recently discovered at her home in Simi Valley, and of Darren Hale, believed to be the cameraman on the film, and his companion, Erica Lang. Their bodies were found in Hale’s San Fernando Valley apartment earlier this week …”

  The anchor cut in and said, “Maria, were you given any indication that the police are closing in on this person of interest?”

  “No, Cliff. But my source inside the LAPD has told me that a manhunt covering the states of California, Oregon, Arizona, and Nevada is underway and they hope to have the suspect in custody very soon. Maria Esteban, reporting live from LAPD headquarters. Back to you in the studio, Cliff.”

  Provost switched the television off and picked up the fifth of whiskey that sat on the small table that abutted the bed. He drank straight from the bottle and cursed. He had to get back to LA. Jabłoński had to be dealt with before he could testify. His mind turned to the problem that the Jaguar presented. He had to get rid of it, but if they knew who he was, they’d be watching for it. Selling it to a dealer was out of the question; once the sale hit the DMV the cops would know it. He had to dump it out in the desert where it could go undiscovered for weeks, months if he was lucky. He gathered his belongings and left the cabin.

  Provost left the paved road and followed a dirt lane leading deeper into the desert. As he drove through the night, his mind raced. Dumping the Jag was going to be the easy part; getting back to civilization presented an entirely different set of problems. First, he had to walk back from wherever he left the car and then he would have to get some form of transportation. Buying a car from a dealer was out of the question—it required too many forms and he would have to provide some identification to the dealer. He was still pondering his situation when his headlights illuminated an abandoned farm. He turned off the road and followed the short drive to the barnyard. He stopped before a dilapidated barn and studied it before deciding it would be as good a solution as he would find.

  Before he stepped from the car, he checked the ground around the vehicle. Stories of snakes lying in roads at night filled him with trepidation. The worst thing he could do now would be to step on a sleeping rattler and get bitten out here in the middle of nowhere. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment and swept the beam back and forth across the ground. Satisfied there were no venomous reptiles, he got out of the Jag and approached the barn.

  He raised the beam of light from the ground and into the interior of the worn-out building. The exterior of the barn was gray with age and the wood was warped and twisted from years of exposure to the sun. He wondered for a few seconds what would make anyone think they could scratch out a living by raising crops in such an arid, desolate place—but he dismissed the thought and accepted the former owner’s stupidity as a blessing.

  He swept the light around the inside and saw a setting perfect for a hack-and-slash horror flick. Spiderwebs arched between the beams, and old, worn-out farm implements were scattered around. Even though the place had obviously been abandoned for years, he could still detect a foul hint of animal urine and manure. He stepped inside, ducking beneath two worn six-by-six beams that had fallen across the entrance. He turned the shaft of light to the upper end and supposed he could push them aside enough to allow him to drive the car inside without the whole building collapsing around him.

  He swept the light across the surface of the old wood to ensure it was free of black widow spiders and scorpions. Satisfied that that all was safe, he set the light down. Suddenly, he heard something scurrying through the debris and old dry straw that littered the stalls and he froze. The furtive sounds ceased, and he dismissed them as those of small rodents fleeing.

  He grabbed the board and pulled. A load screech filled the air as he pulled the rusty, aged spikes from their resting place. The beam yanked free and he lost control of it. An avalanche of rotted wood and dust cascaded from the loft and he knew that he had made a major miscalculation. The unwieldy beam kicked to the side, hitting him in the shin. He cried out in pain and fell backward as the heavy post dropped, driving him to the floor, and shattering his tibia. The second post also fell, dropping across his already broken leg. Provost screamed in pain before passing out.

 
When he regained consciousness, he found himself pinned to the sandy floor like a butterfly in a display case. He lay back and fought against his desire to cry in frustration—then he heard the ominous rattling near his left ear.

  All’s well that ends well.

  —William Shakespeare

  82

  Two days after they had leaked Jabłoński’s arrest to the press, Deborah woke Traynor with an early-morning phone call. He was usually slow to wake up, preferring to ease into the day, but what she said brought him to his feet instantly. She said, “They found Provost. We’re all meeting in the dining room at eight.”

  He showered and dressed in record time but was still the last to arrive. He sat and poured coffee from the carafe that sat in the middle of the table and asked, “Have they got him in custody?”

  They all turned to face Engle, waiting for further information.

  “An old man who runs a motel in the desert saw the newscast and called the information hotline. By the time the local cops arrived, Provost was gone, so they started an air search. His car was spotted in the yard of an abandoned farm in the desert. Provost was inside the barn. It appears a beam fell on him, breaking his leg.”

  “Where is he now? Do the local cops have him?” Traynor urged.

  “He’s in the local morgue. When he was pinned by the beam, he must have disturbed a sleeping rattlesnake—it bit him near his carotid. He was probably dead within minutes.”

  “Too bad,” McMahon said. “I was looking forward to bringing him down.”

  “It’s probably better this way,” Deborah said. “The courts would have given him life—this way he got death.”

  “Yeah,” Manuel intoned, “only it would have been nice to know that every night his cell mate was doing to him what he did to Mindy …”

  “Better this way,” McMahon said. “They’d have kept him in solitary confinement.”

  “So,” Traynor asked Engle, “where does that leave Jabłoński?”

  “He says Provost blackmailed him into making the movies—”

  “Movies?” Deborah asked.

  “They made three of them, using young girls who had just arrived in LA. As we knew, Skidgel was the recruiter, Jabłoński the director, and Doerr the matron who kept them at her home until their debut.” Engle looked at Manuel. “If it gives you any consolation, he’s confessed, and by this time next week, he’ll be either in Folsom or San Quentin.”

  “Like they’d have done with Provost, he’ll be in solitary,” McMahon said. “If they put him in with the general population, he’d be killed in no time … if not by some inmate, then by suicide.”

  “Then, it’s over,” Deborah said. “Now we can all go home and I can bury my sister and hopefully get on with my life. It’s strange though—I thought I’d get more satisfaction from bringing these degenerates down. Instead of feeling jubilant, I just feel empty.”

  All farewells should be sudden.

  —Lord Byron, Sardanapalus

  83

  Traynor stepped out of his SUV and saw McMahon walking toward him. “You back to being the would-yuh?”

  “More or less. How you been?”

  “I can’t complain.”

  “Good thing,” McMahon said. “Nobody wants to hear you whine anyhow.”

  Traynor grinned. “How’s the movie doing?”

  “Well, as you can see, I haven’t quit my day job yet. There hasn’t been a line of agents and producers at the door either.”

  “You should talk to Deborah. Maybe she can bring the power of Hollis International into the equation.”

  “Truthfully, acting is hard work. The hours are crazy and then there’s all that envy and backstabbing shit that happens on the set. Not to mention that my experience with Jabłoński and his ilk kind of soured me on the industry. You better head out back—the duchess awaits.”

  Traynor circled the mansion and found Deborah sitting at the same table under the same umbrella; again she was flanked by Cyril and Marsha Hollis. Strangely enough, the old man looked sober and Mrs. Hollis did not look like she had a metal shaft up her butt. Byron Moore sat across from Cyril, looking his usual stiff self.

  Without waiting to be piped aboard the USS Hollis, Traynor stepped onto the deck and sat under the parasol. The first thing that impressed him was that the cold, imperial attitude with which they had greeted him on his last visit was gone—in fact, in their own stuffed-shirt way, the old man and woman seemed positively amiable.

  Marsha was the first to speak. “Good afternoon, Mr. Traynor.” Before he could reply, she said, “I want to apologize for the way my husband and I behaved during your last visit.”

  As much as he wanted to gloat, Traynor took the diplomatic route. “No apology needed, Mrs. Hollis. You were all under quite a bit of stress back then.”

  A servant—not Manuel—stepped up to the table and asked if he would like a refreshment. He ordered iced tea, unsweetened with lemon. Turning to Deborah, he asked, “Where is Manuel?”

  “He is no longer with us,” Deborah said.

  “Oh?”

  “He was paid a substantial bonus after …” She paused. “… we returned from the West Coast. He decided it was time to return home.”

  “Good for him.” He studied the Hollises and decided to get to the point. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “It has been brought to our attention,” Cyril said, looking at Deborah, “that you went way beyond the normal scope of what we asked you to do … to the extent that you put your very life at risk.”

  Still unsure of where this was headed, Traynor downplayed it. “I didn’t give it a thought. I guess you might say it’s an occupational hazard.”

  “I doubt that,” Marsha said.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hollis, what happened to your daughter was despicable. In my career in law enforcement, never before have I had to deal with anything like this. Those people were lower than whale shit—you’ll have to pardon my vernacular, but what happened to your daughter still enrages me. My only regret is that they didn’t get a worse fate.”

  “I was told,” Cyril said, “that the actual killer died a horribly painful death.”

  “Maybe so, but Manuel and I would have stretched that death out from minutes to hours, maybe even days.”

  “Still,” Hollis said, “Deborah …” He amended what he was about to say. “We would like to extend an offer to you.”

  “What sort of offer?”

  Deborah took over. “I’d like you to be our head of security. The compensation package would be quite generous and the salary in the mid-six figures.”

  Traynor had to admit the prospect of a high-paying steady job was enticing. Then he realized it also meant that he would lose his professional freedom—not to mention he thought it could be pretty boring. “Deborah, Mr. and Mrs. Hollis, I’m very flattered by the offer. However, I have to decline.”

  Moore seemed shocked that anyone would turn down such a job. “Why in heaven’s name would you decline?”

  The servant appeared and placed Traynor’s beverage in front of him. He took a sip. “For twenty years, I worked inside a bureaucracy—namely the New Hampshire State Police. After I retired I looked into several options, even running for a county sheriff position somewhere in the state. In the end, I realized that I wanted the independence to take what cases I wanted, without having to deal with a lot of politics. So, I opened my own agency.”

  “You would have absolute authority over all security matters,” Deborah said.

  “Deborah, Hollis International is an entity unto itself—therefore it thrives on policies and procedures. That is not my thing. However, I will offer my services as a security consultant on an as needed basis.”

  Deborah seemed to ponder his answer for a few seconds. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “Why don’t you offer the job to Jack?”

  “I’m certain he’ll be pursuing an acting career.”

  “Have you asked him?”


  “No, I haven’t. But now that he and Angela are considering reconciling, I assumed he’d be going back to California.”

  “If he and Angela are thinking of getting back together and you offer him the same package you were going to offer me, I’m sure he’ll convince her to join him over here.”

  “But,” Deborah said, “Angela seemed determined to have a career in law enforcement.”

  “So, hire her too. They’re really a good team—besides can you think of anyone else more capable of making him toe the line?”

  She smiled. “No, I can’t—and it would certainly keep things from getting dull.”

  He gulped down the iced tea and stood. “Again, I thank you for the offer. I’m truly flattered.”

  They all stood and shook hands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Traynor said. “I have to get back to my office.”

  When McMahon met him by his truck, Traynor asked, “What’s this I hear about you and Angela?” He grinned.

  McMahon actually seemed to blush. “We’ve decided to give it another try. We’re still debating where we want to live.”

  “Well, that decision may become a lot easier.”

  “Oh?”

  “They offered me a job.”

  “I knew they were going to.” But still, his face showed his disappointment that he hadn’t been given a shot at the position.

  “Well, I’m not the corporate type. You, however, might want to update your résumé.” Traynor got in his truck, took out his cell phone, and placed it on the console.

  “You expecting a call?” McMahon asked.

  Traynor grinned. “No, but you never know when a billionaire might need your services.”

  AFTERWORD

  Definition of a snuff film, according to Kerekes and Slater in their book, Killing for Culture: Snuff films depict the killing of a human being—a human sacrifice (without the aid of special effects or other trickery) perpetuated for the medium of film and circulated amongst a jaded few for the purpose of entertainment.