Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  They’d approach hardened criminals, stooges, Hines called them. Propose a crime. Say it was government authorized. Promise the stooges if they pulled it off they’d receive a lifetime pardon from all crimes and a big bucks payoff.

  The stooges fell for it every time.

  After a few months of building the stooges into a crime wave that terrorized society and stirred the media into a frenzy, Hines and Wingate would betray the stooges. Set up the next crime, then crash it. Go in with guns blazing. None of the stooges ever survived, leaving Hines and Wingate the sole voices of what went down.

  The result was always the same: heroes with benefits galore. Awards. Special dinner parties in their honor. Lucrative contracts for speaking engagements. And promotions. Name the position and it was theirs. They practically owned the FBI. Of course they wanted—needed—to stay in the field. It was the only way they could continue their highly rewarding crime-solving scam.

  Wingate gulped the last swallow of black coffee then tossed the paper cup on the helicopter floor. Running his thick fingers through his thinning salt and pepper hair, he cranked the helicopter. “Up, up and away,” he sang as they took off.

  Hines sat behind Wingate. The high powered precision rifle, complete with scope, flash suppressor and silencer, was almost assembled. He had been trained in police sharpshooting, including from an aerial platform. Until two years ago, when a former Marine Corps sniper shattered it, he had held the FBI’s one-shot kill training record. Theodore Hines lived by the police sniper’s motto: Be prepared to take a life to save a life ... especially since that life he was saving was usually, in one way or another, related to his own. Despite the sharpshooting mission, he wore an expensive, hand-tailored business suit like a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

  Markus, however, was the exact opposite. A slob. And a cheap dressing one at that. He wore a purple and white striped dress shirt made of material that wrinkled easily. The tails hung out over black polyester pants hiked up over his sizeable belly and cinched tightly with a worn black fake leather belt.

  “So what’s the gig?” Markus inquired.

  “Just taking care of loose ends,” Theodore answered.

  “Who you shootin’ today?”

  “A small-time sheriff.”

  “Takin’ down one of our own. Must be pretty important.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  Wingate chuckled.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for a white Ford Expedition with lights.”

  Wingate nodded at Hines’ instruction.

  Their flight was void of conversation for six minutes, then: “Hines. Eleven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch. You got her. Fuckin’ hawk eyes,” Hines said, beaming at the sight of the white SUV barreling down the vacant road in the near distance below. Double-checking his safety harness, he slid the door open, steadied the rifle on a bipod and peered through the scope. “Get me closer.”

  “You got it.” Wingate maneuvered the helicopter closer to the SUV. “There’s a narrow bridge with a steep drop off, about two miles ahead. Might be a good place for an accident.”

  “Fuckin’ perfect,” Hines said, gazing through the scope at the suggested target area. “And still not another car in sight,” he bragged.

  “Approaching countdown,” Wingate said. After a few seconds: “Five. Four. Three. Two. Show time!”

  Hines pressed the trigger.

  They watched as the SUV violently swayed on the road, hit the shoulder, rolled end over end into a spectacular swan dived off the bridge, crashing onto the jagged granite boulders below.

  Moments later, an explosion. A fireball belched into the sky. Black smoke billowing.

  “No one could have survived that,” Wingate said.

  “Now’s not the time to cut corners. I want to double check,” Hines said.

  Wingate flew the chopper close to the wreckage.

  Hines scoped the fiery heap of crumpled steel for signs of life, saw a mangled body, was satisfied. “Congratulations on another successful mission,” Hines said to Wingate, arrogant triumph in his voice. “Take us home.”

  • • •

  Deputy Baxter continued to call Sheriff Jodie Clarkston on the CB radio to no avail. Lilly couldn’t reach her via cell either. An ominous impression blackened her soul. Something bad had happened to Jodie; she felt it.

  If FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines was crooked and somehow involved in Jewels’ disappearance, who else might be connected? Could he have contacts with the locals? Warily, she glanced over at Baxter, whose voice was going hoarse from calling Jodie non-stop over the CB for the last half hour. Could he be involved? Probably not.

  Still, she couldn’t take any chances. Nonetheless, it was imperative that someone be told about what she suspected of FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines. But who could she trust? After a moment of pondering Belinda Parker, Jewels’ secretary, surfaced in her mind.

  “Let me know if you reach Jod,” Lilly said to Baxter before closing the office door and dialing the New Greensburgh Press.

  “Do you know anyone we can trust with this information and who will also know what to do with it?” Lilly asked, after relaying the story about the overnight express envelope and the subsequent events that followed.

  Belinda was silent for a moment, then: “Yes, I think I know the perfect person who can help. Is it okay if I call you back later ... after I talk to him?”

  Lilly’s face pinched tight with impatience. “Certainly, but hurry. Please hurry.”

  • • •

  “Howard, it’s Belinda, can you talk?” she quizzed, urgency in her voice.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just found out, through a very reliable source privy to some incredible evidence, that Theodore Hines might be involved in Jewels’ disappearance. And because he’s FBI, we don’t know whom to trust or what to do.”

  “Belinda, I need specifics. I need to know everything your source told you as well as have access to this evidence—”

  “Uh, I don’t think she has the physical evidence anymore, but she can tell you want she saw and heard.”

  “Okay. I’d prefer to meet with you and your source in person as soon as possible.”

  “So you can help?” she returned enthusiastically.

  “Make the necessary arrangements to meet me, with your source, within the next hour if possible at—”

  “Consider it done,” she interrupted.

  Clearing his throat in obvious annoyance to her interruption, “As I was about to say, let’s meet at Kate’s Diner in the parking lot.”

  “Meet in the parking lot? Uh, okay.”

  “Call me back the second you talk to your source.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and Belinda—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep this on the QT. Don’t mention it to anyone else. Understood?”

  “Absolutely. Oh, and Howard?”

  Disgusted: “Yes?”

  “You never called me back yesterday,” she whined.

  “You know when I’m working on a story, I can’t be interrupted.”

  “A story! You’re treating Jewels’ disappearance like a story?”

  Chuckling, “Come on, Belinda, you know a good reporter is also a great detective. And that’s the mode I’m in right now. Have a little faith.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you care for Jewels ... a lot,” she said, her tone inferring more than a mere business relationship.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  Belinda forced a laugh. “Yeah. At least to me. I see the way you look at her.”

  “Just remember to call me when you and your contact can meet. The sooner the better.”

  “Got it. Kate’s. A-sap,” Belinda said, disconnecting the call.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  SATURDAY, 1215 HOURS. Finishing the last bites of the protein bar Marshall had given her to suffice for both breakfast and lunch, she sat on the edge of the bed in her cell and r
olled her shoulders. The side Tank had smashed was feeling better, though stiff and aching like a bruise.

  For the last twenty minutes her mind had been focused on Kirk Kirkland. He and Sharon a couple? And members of a radical, covert domestic terrorist group? “I guess you really never know people,” she muttered, her tone oozing with disappointment and body sagging in negativity. “You gotta snap out of this,” she said to herself. “You can’t help Sharon or Kirk now, so you better think about helping yourself.” Flushing thoughts of departed friends from her mind, she sighed, closed her eyes and imagined Sheriff Jodie Clarkston opening the express envelope, listening to the tape, and deciphering the map. Envisioning herself picking up life where it left off less than two days ago, she saw herself puttering around the house and handling business at the office.

  To keep a favorable edge on life, Jewels practiced visualization and positive thinking. Even walked on hot coals once, figuring if she could walk on fire, she could do anything.

  Jewels also subscribed to the see-it-when-you-believe-it philosophy of life, written about by many authors including Dr. Wayne Dyer, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Deepak Chopra, and Rhonda Byrne. Basically, it went like this: If one believed in something strongly enough, and took the appropriate action, one could actually manifest the desired outcome. And right now she desired to be out of this prison cell, free of the militia wackos, and leisurely enjoying the comfort of her own home and all her life was before SPOF.

  The click of a key in her cell door snapped Jewels out of her positive trance. Opening her eyes, “Well there’s Jodie with the cavalry now,” she softly muttered, anxiously looking at the door.

  The door swung open. The image was familiar, but not Jodie and the cavalry. “Marshall Watters,” Jewels cheerily called, rising to her feet, noticing he had a pair of combat boots in his hand, probably the ones she had dumped in the hall when she was running away from Tank.

  “Cooman wants to see you ... now.” Marshall’s face was drenched in tension.

  “Oh. What for?” she asked, an upbeat tone to her voice. Despite her dismal situation, the earlier positive thinking exercises bestowed Jewels with a hopeful heart.

  Marshall wrinkled his forehead in suspicion. “Don’t know. Probably not good, though.” He dumped the boots on the floor.

  “For me?” Jewels inquired, tipping her head toward the boots and gesturing like they were some great surprise gift.

  A bewildered look on his face, he nodded yes.

  Almost eagerly, Jewels slipped into the two-sizes-too-large combat boots, still missing laces. Looking up at him, “I guess I’m ready.”

  Marshall gently took up her arm and, once again, escorted her down the creepy hallways that seemed to be nothing short of a maze. Her boots clip-clopped against the cold stones.

  “Jeez. This could be habit-forming,” Jewels joked, smiling and batting her eyelashes at him as she rubbed his solid arm and leaned her head against it.

  Frowning, “What kind of weed have you been smokin?” he asked sourly.

  Winking at him, “Just high on life.” Of course, what he didn’t know, and what she certainly wouldn’t tell him, was Sheriff Jodie Clarkston was on her way to rescue her. It wouldn’t be much longer until she was saved and the entire bunch of SPOF lunatics would be locked in real prison cells never to see the light of day ... perhaps with the exception of Marshall Watters.

  Two armed guards stood at each side of the doorway to Cooman’s office. One nodded at Marshall as he passed by.

  Upon entering Cooman’s office, Jewels instantly felt the heavy air sagging with bad news. Suddenly on high alert, she stood tall. Her inner smile fizzled.

  The room was less than inviting. Stacks of ammunition leaned against the one wall, while a semicircle of eight or ten folding chairs were set-up on the other side of the room. The general’s desk was positioned opposite the door. A single chair covered in green cracked vinyl was parked in front of his desk.

  Marshall guided her to the beat-up chair facing the general’s desk and motioned for her to sit down.

  Rhett Cooman looked turbulent. Scowling at Jewels, the muscles in his jaw twitched. “Who else did you send an overnight letter to besides the FBI?”

  Shaking her head in denial, she was on the verge of verbalizing she hadn’t sent one to anybody else, but Cooman slammed his fist on the desk and wagged an angry finger at her.

  “And don’t even fuckin’ think about lying to me.”

  Jewels glanced down at her watch: 12:24. If Jodie was going to get the envelope, she would have received it over two hours ago. And if Cooman was this upset, she must have received it. So what was the harm in telling him what he already knew?

  Gulping dryly, she cleared her throat and fidgeted in the chair. The brittle vinyl pinched her ass, felt like she was sitting on course steel wool. “Yes. I did send one to someone else.”

  Cooman glowered. “Who? I want a name. I want an address.”

  Licking her dry lips, “A friend. Her name is Jodie Clarkston. She’s the Sheriff of Westmoreland County. I don’t know her address.”

  “Who else?” Cooman probed.

  “That’s all. Just two letters. One to FBI Agent Hines, the other to Sheriff Clarkston.”

  He shot her an evil eye.

  “No one else. Honest. And I’ll swear to it on a Holy Bible,” she said, raising her right hand as if giving sworn testimony.

  “Really? Then how do you explain the involvement of the MTAF early this morning?”

  “MTAF?” Jewels echoed, eyes wide, mouth gaping, an expression of genuine clueless on her face.

  Studying her, Cooman set his jaw. “I wonder if your answer would be the same after a few strokes from the cat,” he contemplated aloud, his tone threatening.

  Swallowing dryly, “The cat?” she echoed.

  Smirking, he eagerly enlightened her. “Short for ‘cat o’ nine tails.’ The cat is a barbed flogger that sometimes results in death with as few as fifteen strokes.”

  Shuddering Jewels silently concluded: Hence the purpose of the whipping post in the corner of the disciplinary room.

  Marshall spoke up, “Sir, I don’t think she knows anything about the MTAF or has any contacts with them.” “What makes you think so?”

  “I’ve had a little experience with some of those MTAF pricks and they’re a bunch of closed-mouth, covert operators who don’t make friends or allow acquaintances in from the outside. They abhor reporters and never issue press releases.”

  “Hmm. You seem to know a lot about them,” Cooman said suspiciously.

  Marshall pushed up his sleeve, pointed at a wicked-looking long scar on his left triceps muscle, “MTAF experience,” he said with a bragging laugh.

  Jewels was getting an earful ... and eyeful. Quietly she sat, wondering about the extent of Marshall Watters’ criminal career, concluding maybe some things are better kept secret.

  “Nice,” Cooman said, nodding his head at Marshall’s defaced muscle. “Very well, then,” he said, turning his attention back to Jewels and rising from his chair.

  Watching Cooman’s smooth military gait as he walked around his desk toward her, she noticed how the big handgun rode safely in the slide holster on his belt. It remained virtually motionless as he walked.

  Cooman stopped in front of Jewels. Leaning back on top of the desk, taking up a half-sitting, half-standing position, he folded his arms across his chest. Bending at the waist, he poked his neck forward, his nose less than a foot away from hers. “Your sheriff friend is dead.”

  Bolting upright from the chair, “Dead?” she echoed, her voice shrill with horror.

  Cooman hammered a crooked finger on her sternum. “You killed her.”

  “No!” Jewels screamed, hurling clenched fists at his face. One punch connected, crunching his nose. Instantly he replied with a swift, powerful backhand across her mouth.

  Falling backward into the chair, she tumbled off it onto the floor.

  Springing to his feet,
Cooman meanly kicked the side of Jewels’ thigh. “Get up,” he thundered.

  Looking up, Jewels saw Marshall rushing to her aid, also saw Cooman stop him with a hand gesture.

  Forcing herself up to a sitting position on the floor, she cradled the throbbing spot on her face with her hand.

  Cooman kicked her thigh again. “I said get up!”

  Gazing up at him, her eyes blazed murderously. A trickle of blood meandered out of Cooman’s left nostril. A satisfying sight, it bolstered her energy and willpower to drive herself to her feet.

  Once Jewels was on her feet, Cooman thrust his palms against her shoulders, giving her a hard shove. Clumsily she landed in the chair.

  “You bitches are all alike,” Cooman said, his voice cold as death. “Users. Liars. Deceivers. And, one way or another, thanks to you, the Feds are probably narrowing their search for this compound. That means we’ll have to relocate.” Gazing up at the ceiling and around the room, then eyeing her, “Do you have any idea how long it took us to find this place and revamp it to meet our needs?”

  Jewels shrugged.

  “Do you have any fucking idea what it’s going to take to find another hideout?” The veins in Cooman’s neck pulsated wildly, swelling dangerously. “But you won’t have to worry about that, will you?” he asked rhetorically.

  Like round iced sugar cookies, Jewels’ eyes widened.

  Leaning back on the desk again, he glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him. “In about seven hours the Commander will be coming to take you away. Do you know what he plans to do to you?”

  With facial muscles twitching nervously, Jewels sat, innocently blinking at him.

  A condescending grin ripened on Cooman’s face. “He calls it cleansing. The world calls it mutilation. Female circumcision.”