by Dave Conifer
After paying the cashier he looked around at the half-filled dining room. If he sat in the corner there was no way anybody could get behind him, so he camped out there, battling the urge to hunker down at the table because it made normal people stare. He enjoyed twenty glorious minutes of gluttony before the tray was empty and his belly was full. All he wanted to do after that, if he could rouse himself from the food-induced stupor, was to go back to the motel and sleep.
He didn’t think anything of the dark van that was easing along the curb, keeping pace with him as he approached the corner where he would cross to go back to the motel. He barely noticed it. It was just another obstacle between him and the warm bed that awaited him. That all changed when it lurched to a stop a few feet ahead. The side door slid open and three men in ski masks hopped out. Immediately perceiving danger without understanding it, Fargo glanced up and down the sidewalk looking for help, only to see a fourth hooded man appear from the shadows. There were a few people ambling out of the train station, and he considered breaking in their direction in the hope that something good would happen, but the disguised men boxed him in. “Leave me alone!” he yelled when he felt a hand close on his wrist. “Help! Help!”
An intense blast of pain like nothing he’d ever felt before shot through his body. Am I on fire? His suddenly taut muscles refused to follow orders. He felt himself go rigid, and then limp. Luckily, somebody caught him before he splattered onto the sidewalk. Voices were coming from all around him, but the searing pain was more important than understanding the words. They stuffed him into the van and fell in behind his slumped body, the last man yanking the door closed. “Go!” came a command from one of them. He heard the screech of tires and felt the pull of G-force as the van rocketed away from the station. It had been no more than forty-five seconds since he’d pushed his dinner tray away and left the cafeteria.
By the time his head started to clear he had no idea how much time had passed. The steady thrum of the engine told him that they were on a highway. He was lying on his side, probably on a bench seat in the van. The burning sensation had faded, but it was still strong enough that he was sure he could smell smoke. Which was odd, because nothing was burning. Except maybe his own skin. “He’s awake,” one of them said. Another lifted him into a seated position, propping him against the side wall of the van. Only then did he notice that his hands and feet were bound.
“Why don’t you take off that stupid fuckin’ mask,” Fargo said. It hurt to talk.
“Watch your mouth or I’ll zap you again,” came the answer. “And it won’t be set on low next time.”
Stun gun. He’d been tasered. Had to be. He’d seen them used in the prison, but had managed to avoid being on the receiving end of one. “Who are you? Why are you hasslin’ me?” he grunted. “How long was I out?”
“Only a minute or two, tough guy. I don’t think I gave you enough juice.”
“Think of this is a warning,” said a voice from behind. He recognized him as the one who’d given the command to leave the scene after the capture. Must be the boss. “You and your friends are asking too many questions,” he continued. “That has to stop.”
“What do you mean? You mean asking about—“
A punch to the side of his face put an end to the question. “Shut up. We talk. You listen. Got it?”
Fargo’s lip and cheek were numb. He hoped all his teeth were still in place. That warm sensation on the side of his chin had to be a rivulet of fresh blood. No worse than the occasional beatings he’d lived through in prison, though. He’d live.
“Look out the window,” Boss said, despite the absence of any windows except for the windshield. “Know where we are?”
“I can’t see shit,” Fargo replied. He flinched when he saw a raised fist, but another hand grabbed it before he felt anymore knuckles on his face.
“Take it easy,” a new voice said. “You asked him and he answered. We’re not supposed to kill him, remember? No more bodies.” Fargo felt a hand on his shoulder. “We’re heading north on 29. We’re out of the city now. We passed the state house a little while ago. Say, you ever been inside there? It’s a beautiful building, Billy.”
Fargo shook his head. “Nope, never been.”
“Didn’t think so. Guys like you don’t care about making laws. Just breaking them. Isn’t that right, Billy?”
He wasn’t sure what they wanted to hear, so he said nothing. He’d had enough punishment for one day. No use pissing these guys off by saying the wrong thing. He wanted to ask where they were heading, but he’d already been warned about minding his own business.
Without any warning the van stopped moving and the rumble of the engine died away. Boss leaned forward far enough to see out through the windshield, and then flopped onto the seat beside Fargo. “Know where we are now?”
“No idea,” Fargo answered.
“Scudder Falls Bridge. You know where that is, right?”
Fargo nodded.
“And you know what’s on the other side of the bridge?”
“Yup.”
“Tell me.” A soft cloth appeared out of nowhere and dabbed at his bleeding mouth.
“Pennsylvania. I get it.”
“We were thinking of driving across that bridge. What would you think of that? You up for it? Maybe we could have a picnic. We’re all grown men, we’re not afraid of the dark. Maybe if you looked like you were having fun, why, we’d even leave you over there. What do you think?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?” Boss asked. “I want to make this perfectly clear, Billy. What happens if somebody finds you on the other side of the bridge?”
“They don’t even need to find him,” Mask pointed out. “As soon as he crosses, they’ll know it.”
“Shut up,” Boss told Mask before turning to Fargo. “Answer the question.”
“I’m busted,” Fargo said.
“Then what?”
“Back to jail. I get it. If you take me out of state I go back in.” Some kind of hand signal passed, and then the engine roared to life.
“Good, Billy boy.” The van began to move. “Now, understand, that’s not something we want to happen. Not that we give a shit about you. We don’t. At least I don’t. But let’s just say we want you and your friends to shut the fuck up. We want that real bad. That’s best for everybody and it keeps you out of prison.”
“Are we on the bridge?” Fargo asked.
Boss laughed. “No. We’re heading back downtown. You’re going home. But Billy, don’t forget about us. Because we’ll be out there and we’ll always know how to find you. Don’t forget, you’re an ex-con. You’re dog shit. You can’t do anything about us, because nobody cares what you say.” Another blinding bolt of pain surged through his body before he had a chance to answer. It wasn’t set on low anymore. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the screaming he heard was his own. Then there was blackness.
~~~
Ricky Willmar was sure he heard somebody inside the offices of Willmar and Karlstad when he arrived from the motel in Trenton. The lock on the front hadn’t been jimmied or forced, but that didn’t mean much. He scratched quietly around the steel door with his key until he found the keyhole. It wouldn’t be the first time I had a visitor, he thought as he slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out a loaded pistol, the one he never left home without. Break-ins, ambushes and all manner of violence was part of the territory for a bail bondsman and especially a bounty hunter, and it was why the state was perfectly willing to allow him to carry a semi-automatic. After he got the door open he flipped the light on and burst inside, knowing from experience that there was no advantage to be gained by waiting around for something to happen. He swept the room with his eyes and the gun at the same time and quickly determined that there was nobody there.
Without lowering the gun he charged into the next room, the one that housed his and his partner’s desks. Nobody in there, either. He left the office and passed throug
h the kitchen to the seldom-used utility room. Sure enough, the narrow pane of glass in the back door of the office had been kicked out, and the door was hanging open. Good thing I stopped by, he told himself as he yanked it the rest of the way open and quickly policed the alley. Whoever had been there was gone.
Both the main area and the inner office looked relatively undisturbed. Joanie’s space was characteristically neat while his own was a jumble of folders, files, and stacks of paperwork. If anything was missing or even out of place, he wasn’t seeing it. Maybe he’d surprised the burglar before he’d had a chance to do his thing. More likely it was one of the angry punks he’d dealt with over the years, showing up to teach him a lesson by trashing the office.
He was back in the utility room looking around for something to patch the door with when the front of the office erupted with the sound of gunfire and shattered glass. He threw himself to the floor as he heard the all too familiar thump of slugs being pumped into the office walls. It was all over in fewer than ten seconds, he’d decide later, but it seemed like longer. When he was sure it was safe to get off the floor he crawled through the back door and into the alley. It would be safer to circle around outside in the dark than to walk through the office.
When he got there he saw that the plate glass window with their names stenciled on had been completely obliterated, and the storefront riddled with bullet holes. A few brave souls up and down the block began to emerge from hiding, but kept their distance as they watched him. Willmar knew they wouldn’t tell him if they’d seen anybody, so he didn’t bother to ask. Instead, he grabbed the phone and started calling around, looking for somebody to help him board the place up for the night.
~~~
The smell of garbage surrounded Fargo when he came back to consciousness and struggled to get up. The cold steel that his flailing hand grabbed onto when he lost his balance turned out to be a dumpster. He took a few deep breaths, and when the world stopped spinning around him he staggered towards the light, sliding his hand along the dumpster for support. His body was quaking with cold. Good thing I woke up, he told himself.
After all that, they’d left him at his motel. Clearly a lot of time had passed, because the dark was deeper and the night quieter. He found his way inside and walked past the elevator, not wanting to be trapped in a metal cube with somebody who’d stare at his bleeding mouth and filthy clothing. Climbing the stairs was agony. Blinding light pierced his eyes and his aching muscles screamed. He reached the fourth floor and limped down the hallway, thankful that he hadn’t run into anybody. It took three tries to insert the key card the right way and make the door open. Once inside he locked and chained the door, then dragged himself into the bathroom.
Jesus, he thought when he saw his reflection. Even on a good day he didn’t fit in, with his increasingly unkempt hair and the stubble of his beard. Now he sported a face full of dried blood, and the clothes that had been new just a few days earlier were soiled and torn. Guess I shouldn’t do no job interviews anytime soon. He still didn’t know what time it was, but all that mattered now was getting into bed. It only took a few swipes with a damp towel to wipe the blood away. Have fun getting’ that one clean, he thought as he threw it onto the floor. On the way out of the bathroom he pulled his clothes off, leaving a trail that ended at the side of the bed, which he carefully climbed into. Yeah, just another fucking day in paradise, he thought before rolling onto his side and shutting it all down.
-- Chapter 10 --
Fargo forced himself awake the next morning when he rolled over and saw the red digits on the clock radio signaling that it was nearly eight o’clock. Time to get moving. He had to stay in New Jersey, that was for sure, but he was determined not to spend another day wallowing in that motel room. He almost changed his mind after pushing the covers off and swinging his feet onto the floor to sit up. Every muscle in his body ached. It was worse than anything he’d ever experienced, even after the first day of pumping iron in the prison yard. Stun gun. Damn. Still hurts. But he knew giving in to the temptation and crawling back into bed would be the worst thing he could do. Besides, he had plans for the day. Good plans. He hadn’t mentioned it to anybody after arranging it while online at Burger King, but somebody was expecting him. When was the last time I could say that?
Another hot shower helped loosen his muscles and ease the pain, and a cup of home brew from the in-room coffee machine made him feel like he was finally ready for the day. As he cleaned up and prepared to get on the road, he never stopped thinking about what had happened the night before. First, there was the phone call from Langhorne. Then there was the vanload of goons beating the shit out of him and threatening to drag him across the Scudder Falls Bridge and leave him there for his parole officer to discover. Somebody was trying to get into his head, but who were they and what did they want? Sure, it could be coming from that cop, but why? There had to be a reason. If it wasn’t the cop, there was somebody else he could think of that wanted him dead, but might settle for sending him back to prison. Rip Mankato.
~~~
If anybody had known where he was going that day, they’d have thought him crazy. There weren’t many friends to share his plans with anyway, but it was easier just to keep the whole idea to himself. In fact, when he’d talked with Kevin Morris he’d pretended that he knew nothing about what Gail Mankato had been doing for the past decade, when the truth was that he knew an awful lot about it. Except for Bismarck, she’d been the only person he’d been in touch with at all while in prison.
It had taken a lot to talk himself into sending her that first email from the prison legal center so long ago. He’d only been inside for about a year at the time, hardly long enough to get his head back together. At the time everybody he’d come in contact with assumed he was guilty. Did Gail think that too? He asked himself that question a hundred times that day before clicking on
His guilt had been crammed down his throat immediately after the fire, and probably down hers, too. If she thought he did it, an email from prison wasn’t going to change her mind. He didn’t even plan to try. All he wanted to do was to tell her he was sorry about what happened, and go through the motions of telling her he had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t just something he wanted. It was something he needed.
He smiled as he tooled eastward on interstate 195, remembering her one sentence, two word reply the next day. “I know,” was all she’d said. She didn’t even type in her name at the bottom, or his at the top. He was so flustered by it that he’d left her alone for months after that, but not a day passed when he didn’t think about those two words. There was at least one person in the world who didn’t think he was a killer. That was one more than he’d known of. And it was somebody that mattered.
There were a few emails over the years after that, enough that they didn’t forget each other, but the topic never came up again. Instead, they talked about their own lives. He thought Gail’s was as crappy on the outside as his was on the inside. They were both in their own prisons. Heartbroken by the loss of her daughters and feeling shunned because of the scars on her face and most of her body, she lived like a hermit, surviving month-to-month on a disability check and the money she made through her home-based business buying and selling on eBay. He never asked her why she’d moved to Freehold, and she’d never told him. It just didn’t seem important when he was locked up hundreds of miles away in northwest Pennsylvania.
Her current home turned out to be half of a farmhouse on a rural road a few miles off the highway, not exactly what he’d pictured when she said she lived in an apartment in Freehold. Despite his growing anxiety about seeing her, he was damn glad he’d come. Being away from Trenton felt good, even though he wasn’t completely free. His whereabouts were, of course, known to his trackers, thanks to the plastic device strapped to his ankle. That lessened the thrill of roaming. They knew exactly where he was. Until he’d served his parole time they always would. But even knowing that, it was nice
to be someplace else.
He parked Bismarck’s Stratus on the dirt driveway, checked his face in the rear view mirror, and climbed out. The pain in his muscles was back after the long ride, but he forgot about it after limping a few steps. Now that it was too late, he wished he’d stopped for some new clothes. A shave wouldn’t have hurt, either. Oh well, he thought. It’s not like she doesn’t know what I am. If anybody ever did, it’s this woman.
Gail hadn’t been a beautiful woman even before the fire. With frizzy black hair that she chose not to subdue, a skinny, almost emaciated shape that never changed regardless of how much she ate, and a hard face that resembled her father more than her mother, she would never be mistaken for a Cosmo cover girl. She’d refused to email a photograph of herself, so adamantly that he’d felt shitty for asking, but he knew from her own descriptions and also from what Morris had told him that he should prepare himself for the worst. As he walked toward the house he reminded himself that nothing was more important than keeping a straight face. He thought he could do it.
~~~
Ryne Colfax hated this part of his job, if he could call it that, but a debt was owed, a deal had been made, and he wasn’t the kind of man who didn’t live up to his end of one. As he dialed the latest phone number, one sent from somebody else’s dummy e-mail account to his own dummy e-mail account, he wondered if there’d ever be a time when the debt would be considered paid and he wouldn’t have to make calls like this. He wasn’t sure either of them could ever walk completely away from each other. Each knew too much. Each had prospered and advanced from the arrangement, and the other knew how it had been done.
