“Denise, GES must not be linked to whatever Hamm stole. Byrd is the only connection to us. You must silence him. He’s a government agent, so be careful. He should disappear, or make it look like suicide.”
“But?”
“Do not question me. Henri is assigned to you. Use him for this.”
“Click.”
Denise Guerry glared at the phone.
He thinks I’m a killer!
She dialed again. It was a U. S. number, but the man who answered had a French accent.
“Henri, where are you.”
“In North Carolina, Wilmington, like you told me.”
“I want you there a few more days. Have you visited the farm yet?”
“Yesterday, it is well stocked.”
“Did you check on the phony turtle lab and my new electronic equipment.”
“Not yet.”
“Then don’t. Smets is there. You stay in Wilmington. There are important developments. I may need you, entendu?
“I understand.”
“Click.”
Denise sat at her desk, hand on her chin. She had not mentioned Byrd.
I am not a killer and that oaf Byrd might still be of use.
She needed time to decide his fate.
***
Hugh Byrd was stuck in traffic on I-95 south of Woodbridge, Virginia, when his cell phone vibrated. It was Tom Holder in Kinston, North Carolina. Byrd spoke.
“You’re waiting in Kinston, like I said, right?”
“I’m here, but I have news for you. Our contact in Camp Geiger did some checking. Ryan visited the quarters of a Captain Hume. She left her car with him when some guy picked her up. They left right away.”
“A guy?”
“His car had Maryland plates. I checked. He’s from Rockville. His name is Wayne Johnson.”
“But where were they going?”
“The guard saw that the passenger had red hair, and was a looker. The car turned south. It had a ‘TI’ sticker on the rear bumper, ‘Topsail Island.’”
“OK, if the traffic lets up, I’ll be there in four hours. Meanwhile have the office check on this ‘Johnson.’ Find out if he owns property on Topsail.”
“Click.”
Hugh Byrd pressed the accelerator and squeezed between two eighteen wheelers.
Ryan, you can run, but you can’t hide!
***
Driving on Highway 17 in North Carolina, FBI agent Stew Marks watched as his partner, Jack, spoke on the phone. When Jack hung up, Stew spoke.
“Jack, did the resident agency in Wilmington have anything new for us?”
“Not really. There’s no trace of Ryan since that clerk saw her in Wilson, and nothing at all on Hamm. They think he’s in North Carolina too, but I think they’re guessing because Ryan is here. We know as much as they do.”
“Great. Now we’ve lost both Ryan and Hamm.”
Jack was about to answer when his phone buzzed. He picked up and listened.
He turned back to Stew.
“That was Wilmington. We have a lead. A farmer found Hamm’s rental, an Accord. It’s burned out, but there’s no body in it.”
“Where?”
“In some pine woods, west of Brown Town.”
“Brown Town is on 17. It’s not far. Hang on.”
The car lurched forward.
***
Somewhere in North Carolina, Bill Hamm, prostrate on a hard floor, stirred once again. His jaw and cheek stung. He opened his eyes in time to receive another blow to the side of his face. A man, arm raised, knelt over him ready to slap again.
“Wake up, Hamm. Wake up. I have to feed you.”
Bill tried to lift his head, but his neck muscles refused to respond. His captor forced his mouth open and stuffed some fluid mush in it. At least half missed Bill’s mouth and slipped down his cheeks to form a messy mixture on the old floorboards.
“You’re worthless Hamm. They want you alive, I don’t. You’re lucky, if it was up to me you’d be taking a dirt nap by now.”
He grabbed Bill by the shoulders and propped him against the worn plaster. He unlocked the handcuffs and fastened one to an exposed lead pipe in the wall. The other he tightened about Bill’s right wrist. He perched a bowl of grits and milk on the rubble that hid the floor.
“Help yourself. Choke all you want. You’ll get your injection when you’re done.”
Gilles Smets left the room.
Eyes blurred, Bill struggled with one hand to lift the bowl of grits to his lips.
***
******
Chapter 7
Thursday, August 23
In Kinston, North Carolina, Hugh Byrd hung up the phone and turned to Tom Holder, his assistant.
“That was Wilmington. The FBI found Hamm’s Accord near Brown Town.”
Hugh smashed his fist into his hand.
“I can’t believe this. Dr. Smets dumped the car too close to the house.”
"Boss, I told him you said to keep Hamm at the old house, but to ditch the car in Wilmington.”
“The dumb-ass doctor is stubborn. He always knows best. He doesn’t listen. Now we’ll have to move Hamm.”
“Why not kill Hamm and be done with it.”
“Because I want him alive until I set up the frame. He’ll take the rap for you and me.”
“But why move him? All the FBI has is a burned car.”
“My man reports Stew Marks is on the way. He’ll find somebody who saw something. And the car is only ten miles from the house. Marks will find it. He’s sharp.”
Hugh’s face went florid.
“Once I feed Hamm to the FBI, I’ll dump the arrogant doctor. Meanwhile, that rat has to get Hamm out of that house right away. Give me the damn phone.”
He stabbed Smets’ number into the instrument.
***
Hugh Byrd’s reasoning was dead on. Stew Marks already was at the scene of Hamm’s torched vehicle. An oval area of scorched vegetation surrounded the wreck.
Stew and the farmer who had found the car stood to the side while technicians examined the charred remains for evidence. Stew spoke.
“The pines are pretty thick here. How did you find it?”
“Couple of days ago I saw black smoke above the trees. It thinned and disappeared fast and the ground was wet so I figured there was no danger to the woods. Yesterday was the first chance I had to visit. I came looking along the old fire break. And here it was. You see what I found. I didn’t touch anything. This is the way it was.”
“The firebreak is overgrown, my Ford made it OK, but the techs had a tough time getting the van here.”
The farmer rubbed his neck.
“It was no problem for my pickup, some more scratches on the sides, nothing bad.”
“Whoever lit the fire must have left in another vehicle, maybe something smaller, a motorcycle or an ATV.”
The farmer smiled. Maybe this city boy knows what he’s doing?
“Thought of that myself. Come with me. I want to show you something.”
He led Stew through a thorny tangle of brush. Once clear of the bushes, there was a narrow path that reached through the pines.
The farmer pointed at a bare spot in the sandy soil where the layer of pine needles had been scattered and thrown backwards. He motioned to Stew.
“Mister, that’s a bicycle, probably a mountain bike. Only one. The rear wheel spun when he took off. He must have brought a bike on the car. He set the fire and left on this trail.”
Stew was elated.
“He couldn’t have gone far!”
“I don’t know about that, the first pavement is about five miles. Could be a car was there waiting.”
“But if they had a second car, why not just bring it here. My guess is there was only one person.”
“Could be, that makes sense.”
“If he stuck to the woods on the bike where would he end up.”
“That depends. The closest farm is the Austen’s, but th
ey’re a big family. Somebody’s always there. They would have noticed, and besides, I already called them. They didn’t see anything. In the other direction, there’s the old Maynard place. Somebody bought it about two years back. No one lives in it, most times there’s nobody there.”
He handed Stew a scrap of paper.
“I figured you’d want the directions.”
Now Stew was truly excited. He took the paper offered with his left hand while his right seized the farmer’s with a firm shake.
“You’re a sharp guy. You’ve been a great help. Thanks a lot. By the way, I’m Stew, Stew Marks.”
“Ben Rutledge and you’re welcome.”
Back at the wreckage, Stew pulled his partner to the side.
“Jack, you go to Wilmington in the van with the techs. Pick up a government car and meet me in Brown Town. I have to check the old "Maynard” place. It’s not far, maybe ten miles direct. This shows where.”
He handed Jack the paper with Rutledge’s directions. Stew had committed them to memory.
Stew turned and left.
***
Gilles Smets M. D. drove slowly. He had no wish to encounter the highway police with a sedated Hamm hidden in the trunk.
He fumed at Byrd’s orders to move Hamm. Byrd, you arrogant ass, never will you talk to me as you did this morning. Never! Hamm should have been dead two days ago. I’ll show you how it’s done!
He laughed and jammed the accelerator. Only this morning he had wished a perpetual dirt-nap for Hamm, but now he had a better idea. A perpetual sleep with the fishes would suit Hamm better.
And Hugh Byrd would have no say in the matter.
Smets would take care of the “Hamm Problem” his own way. He headed north for Surf City and Topsail Island.
***
Dr. Smets was not alone in reevaluating his alliances. At the same time that Smets was heading to Surf City, Hugh Byrd and Tom Holder were approaching the same intersection from the north. Hugh spoke.
“We’ll go to Surf City. Smets will meet us there with Hamm. Once we have Hamm, we won’t need Smets. I want you to finish him. There’s a spot in Pender County where you can dump his body. No one will find him. Here’s the map.”
Tom, who was driving, kept his eyes on the road and stuffed the map into his pocket.
“And Tom, once we get Hamm, he mustn’t see me or hear me. He’s never seen you. You’ll have to control him.”
“No problem.”
“Good. Now when we meet Smets, this is what we will do.”
The sign ahead indicated left to Surf City and Topsail Island. Tom took the turn.
***
The old Maynard place was set back from the road. Stew Marks parked his car out of sight of the property and followed a path to the rear of the house.
Bingo!
There against the wall was a road-bike with freshly caked mud on its tires.
The rear door was unfastened. He chambered a round in his Beretta and stepped inside. The floor was covered with mounds of fallen plaster and dirt. The once-plastered walls were comprised of exposed slats.
To Stew’s right sat several empty aquaria on a long wooden table. Tubing and supplies under the table indicated the tanks were for marine use. On the floor was a manual for the care and feeding of sea turtles.
He entered a large living area. On the floorboards was a pair of handcuffs and a cracked bowl with dried traces of hominy grits. Stains of blood splotched the bare wall that reeked of urine. A prisoner had been fastened here under miserable conditions.
To his right was another door. Stew looked in. The room was spotless. Overhead were batteries of fluorescent lights. To his right, the wall was lined by a lab bench with multiple outlets to which various electronic devices and parts were attached. The equipment appeared new and unused.
What’s going on here?
***
At Wayne’s house on Topsail Island, Jeannine Ryan, her eyes shut, sat slumped over a mass of papers on the kitchen table. Wayne touched her shoulder. She looked up.
“I must have dozed. I’m getting nowhere.”
“Damn it, Wayne, Bill’s in trouble, and I can’t help!”
***
******
Chapter 8
Thursday, August 23
Dusk had fallen when Dr. Gilles Smets drove through Surf City in the direction of North Topsail Beach. He had no intention of delivering Hamm to Hugh Byrd. He wanted to rid himself of this burden, and had no desire to hear Byrd lecture him on the mistreatment of his “patient.”
It was not Smets’ fault that Hamm was too far gone to serve Mr. Byrd’s purpose. Per instructions he had kept Hamm incapacitated with low-dose injections of Sodium thiopental. Hell, even Byrd should have known that a large dose of that “truth” drug was the first of three injections in a Texas execution, and the only injection in the single-drug method used in Ohio.
Screw you Byrd and your precious hostage too. What did you expect?
He arrived at his destination, an isolated dock on a marshy creek near the Permuda Island Nature Reserve. Smets was relieved to see two wooden skiffs afloat and tied to the posts.
He opened the trunk of the car and examined his cargo. Hamm’s eyes were half-open and his breathing was shallow. Smets pulled the limp form towards him.
“Come on Hamm. Wake up.”
He propped Hamm upright on the rear bumper.
“Put your arm around my shoulder and stand up. We’re going for a boat ride.”
Hamm stared. His left arm reached for Smets’ shoulder.
“Good, now lean on me. That’s it, take a step. Good. Now step down, into the boat. Here hold onto me.”
Eyes glazed, Bill Hamm slumped halfway on the bow seat. The skiff pitched to one side, but Smets leaned his body in the opposite direction and steadied it. He released the frayed rope, seized the oars, and pulled away from the dock.
He headed down the creek in the direction of Permuda Island, dimly discernible in the moon-lit shadows.
***
Sometime later Dr. Smets arrived at Hugh Byrd’s rental in Surf City. The house did not front on the beach, nonetheless it was elevated on heavy posts that allowed cars to park under the dwelling. He drove between two posts and cut the motor.
Exterior wooden stairs led to the living level. Smets climbed them briskly. As he entered the great room, Hugh Byrd and Tom Holder stood up in unison. Hugh spoke.
“Where is Hamm?”
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“Enough. This isn’t a game. Where is he?”
Smets’ lips widened into a grin.
“He’s dead, drowned. He fell off the boat in the waterway.”
Hugh’s Glock smashed against his face.
Smets reeled, eyes glazed, grin gone. He shuddered.
Hugh held the Glock ready.
“Smart ass. You killed him!”
Smets lifted one hand defensively. His other hand grasped his cheek stem the blood that flowed from a deep gash. Still, he managed a level voice.
“It was an accident. He had it coming. He was going to die anyway. Your drug was too powerful.”
Hugh pointed his gun at a spot above the doctor’s nose. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“You must think I’m stupid.”
Smets shrank back.
“No, don’t shoot. I lied. I wanted to drown Hamm, but I didn’t. He’s alive. He’s in the trunk of the car.”
Hugh’s finger relaxed. He signaled to Tom Holder to go check the car.
“All right Doctor, for your sake I hope this time you’re telling the truth.”
Dr. Smets exhaled and slumped onto the nearby sofa.
***
But the doctor’s respite was brief. Tom Holder’s voice sounded up from below.
“The trunk’s locked. I can’t open it. Get the doc’s keys.”
Hugh turned as Dr. Smets tossed the keys through the air in a high arc. Hugh reacted instinctively. He l
owered the Glock and stretched his free hand towards the flying metal.
In that second a desperate Smets was upon him.
Hugh Byrd was bigger and stronger than Smets, but the latter’s surging adrenalin gave him a momentary advantage. The Glock was twisted from Hugh’s hand and sent skittering across the floor while a ceramic lamp was seized and brought down on Hugh’s head. He crumpled to the floor.
From below, Tom Holder heard the sounds of the struggle and rushed up the stairs only to find a dazed Hugh sitting on the floor amid chards of a shattered lamp and the glass doors to the deck wide open.
Tom stepped through the doors to the deck and looked over the rail. No one.
Dr. Smets had jumped. He was gone.
Tom helped the stunned Hugh to a seat. He handed him his Glock and retrieved the keys from the floor. Then he ran down the stairs to Smets’ car.
He opened the trunk. It was empty.
No Bill Hamm!
***
Stew Marks was frustrated. He had found no trace of Bill Hamm at the Maynard house, though from its proximity to Hamm’s burned vehicle he was sure that Hamm had been a recent occupant. Was that Hamm’s blood on the floor? Had he been the prisoner? That makes no sense, or does it?
Moreover Stew had no explanation for the new laboratory equipment he had found there, or for the marine aquaria.
The refrigerator had not been stocked with food for a lengthy stay. Either Hamm had not planned to be there long, or he had been too pressed by pursuit to stock up fully.
Curiously, Stew had found several unopened bottles of Sodium thiopental in the fridge. He knew that drug by its trade name, Sodium Pentothal. What use had Hamm for that? For the prisoner?
He called his partner Jack in Wilmington. Stew described his misgivings about the Maynard house.
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 6
