The Red Zone

by Tim Green

  It was bright on the water now, but Leeland would have worn his dark wraparound glasses anyway. He didn't want people looking in at him, and it made him feel much better to have them on when he encountered other human beings. He passed the early afternoon motoring through the canal, ignoring the occasional fellow boaters he saw. Finally he was through the lock and able to open his throttle and race into the expanse of Lake Okeechobee. It wasn't long before there was no land and no other boats in sight. Leeland lost himself in a fantasy that the entire world was covered in water and everything besides him and the fish below the surface had been destroyed. A broad grin broke out across his face, but, still, something hidden behind his eyes flickered like the tail of a rattlesnake. Whatever it was, it wanted nothing more than to come out.

  Kratch hung up the phone impatiently. He had work to do and didn't want to be bothered with things like body IDs and medical updates. It was, however, good news he had just received. Lawrence's doctor had assured him that, although his detective was still unconscious and had a bad concussion, he had stabilized. Lawrence had just come out of extensive surgery to remove one of Luther Zorn's 9mm slugs that had shattered his ankle. More orthopedic surgery would still be necessary.

  Gill's wound wasn't life-threatening either, but it was certainly substantial. Some significant arteries and veins had to be cauterized to stem the bleeding, and his shattered femur also required some extensive orthopedic hardware. Both of Kratch's men would be out of commission for quite some time.

  Kratch had other help, but it wasn't quite the same. He didn't like this at all. He would prefer to have three guns blazing when they found Luther Zorn, not just his one.

  While his two best men were undergoing their operations, Kratch had mobilized the entire Sheriff's Department and the state police as well. Kratch had issued urgent bulletins over the police wire requesting that every law enforcement office in the state be on the watch for Zorn and the missing police car. The local television news divisions and CNN were flashing shots of Luther's face on the screen hourly. It wouldn't be long before they found him.

  Kratch lit a Camel and sucked angrily. It was a blunder to have let Zorn escape. Not only that, but he had two men down. Well, every cop in Florida knew that now, and the likelihood of Luther being taken alive was greatly reduced. Any good cop who had a shot at a criminal who had already gunned down one of their own would take that shot if the situation allowed it. The endless ringing of phones and the frantic bustle of cops outside his office door annoyed Kratch. He wanted a few moments to think, so he shut the door. If at all possible, he wanted to be on the scene when Zorn was pinned down.

  Kratch looked at the phone, trying to figure out whom to call next. It rang suddenly. It was the desk sergeant.

  "There's a man named Cody Grey here to see you," the sergeant said, and then in a lower tone continued. "Says you'll want to talk to him. I guess that woman killed at the hotel was his wife . . ."

  "Send him up."

  Kratch had no idea what to expect. Normally, the last thing he wanted to deal with was a raging husband bent on finding his wife's killer. But right now one more free-floating radical might just improve the chances of Zorn's being gunned down. That was his ultimate goal.

  Cody rapped on Kratch's door.

  "Come in," Kratch said, not bothering to get up.

  Cody stepped into the office and shut the door behind him.

  "I'm Cody Grey."

  Kratch said, chain-lighting another Camel before stubbing the butt of the first one out in his mountain of ash, "I know who you are. What do you want?"

  Cody was taken aback by the rude cop. He wasn't expecting the sympathetic comfortings of a priest, but he wasn't expecting this either.

  "I want to know where Luther Zorn is," Cody said, gritting his teeth the instant the words passed his lips.

  Kratch looked at him and shrugged. "If I knew that, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here."

  Kratch leaned over and slid open the lower drawer on the side of his desk. Without a word he took out a hand-held radio and put it down on the edge of his desk. Cody looked from it to the detective.

  "What?" Cody said, baffled.

  "That's a police radio," Kratch said as if he was instructing a teenager on how to tie a fly. "What you want to do is take that and keep it on channel two. Luther Zorn won't get far. I don't know what you've got in mind, and I don't want to know. If anyone asks me, you took that radio when my back was turned. You have no right and no authority to interfere with the lawful apprehension and arrest of Luther Zorn, but I can tell you this: when it all goes down, it's going down big. This fucker shot two cops, and when we find him, there'll be so many people around that no one will know who's who. I don't know, you might get a chance ..."

  Cody looked at him carefully. "Why are you doing this?"

  Kratch's good eye stared right back at him. "Mister, I don't know you, and I don't care to. But that's got nothing to do with any of this. I know I'm a police officer, but this Luther Zorn is a sick son of a bitch. He's an animal. If someone raped my wife and did what that fucking animal did to her . . . I'd kill him without a doubt... I really couldn't blame you for doing the same."

  Kratch could see the pain and the anger churning in the eyes of the man before him. It was a volatile mixture of toxic waste and poison. The rape was a lie, but Kratch knew it was an effective one. He doubted Cody Grey could pull off anything that would really help him, but it was certainly worth having another person out there with the same murderous intentions as Kratch. Kratch knew well enough that you didn't tear up a free lottery ticket. Sure, you probably wouldn't win with it, but you never knew until the game was up. It never hurt just to wait and see.

  Kratch scribbled the name of the coroner and some simple directions to the morgue. He tore the instructions off the top of his pad and pushed them across the desk to Cody.

  "I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this," Kratch said, not sorry at all, "but we need you to identify your wife, Mr. Grey. I'm not going to lie to you. Luther Zorn decapitated her, and he appears to have taken whatever purse or wallet she carries with her as well, so we'll need you to identify the body."

  Cody pursed his lips and his face twisted involuntarily. He took the note and, without another word, he left Kratch to his investigation. Kratch watched him go with his good eye, and when the door shut he said to no one but himself, "This crazy bastard might be just what the doctor ordered."

  Chapter 43

  Chris had no luck trying to reach Cody, and the Palm Beach Sheriff's Department wasn't helping him with information of any kind whatsoever. No one seemed to know exactly what had happened at the Walk Inn, or if they did, they were so concerned with having two officers down that they weren't bothering to talk with an out-of-town lawyer pumping them for information. Instead of sitting alone in his hotel room, Chris decided to go retrieve the recording device tapped into Pallidans home phone.

  After making sure he wasn't being followed, Chris stopped off at a uniform supply store in a run-down Kmart shopping center. There he purchased a gray repairman's uniform with a matching gray cap. It was probably unnecessary, but since it only took him an extra fifteen minutes, he figured it was worth reducing the likelihood that any neighbors would call the police if they saw him emerging from the bushes in Pallidans side lawn in broad daylight.

  Chris rode into the exclusive neighborhood warily eyeing each house for signs of life. Except for an old woman walking her dog at the far end of the street, there was no one. Chris pulled up in front of the house just beyond Pallidans and removed his briefcase from the front seat. He marched right up the lawn as if he had every right in the world to be there. He correctly suspected that any security people Pallidan had would be with him at the Ibex offices.

  Seven minutes later, Chris got back into his car and drove off without a hitch. As he drove along he was able to use his free hand to fit the wire of a small earpiece into the recording device and switch it on. He rewound the
tape to the beginning. It clicked off automatically after only a few brief spins. Chris cursed under his breath. If he had spooked Pallidan in any way, it certainly hadn't spawned an excessive amount of phone calls to the outside world. He pushed the play button.

  The distinct sound of digital numbers being punched into the phone rang out in his ear. Later, he could feed those tones into his computer and have it interpret the actual numbers being dialed. The phone began to ring. What followed was only a series of more touch tones as Pallidan contacted someone using what Chris presumed was a paging service. There was a brief pause in the tape before Chris heard ringing. It was an incoming call, and Pallidan picked it up on the first ring.

  "Hello."

  "This is the panther."

  "This is the wolf," said Pallidan. "I have a job for your boy."

  "I think were at the end of the line with him. I think you need to find another guy." The incoming voice was obviously perturbed.

  Pallidan was silent for a moment, then he spoke. "I didnt ask you what you think. I want him up here. The Mexican is here, and he's not going away. I want him out of the game. I want your boy up here right away."

  The voice sighed. "He did the same thing to the lawyer. He took her head."

  "I don't care if he eats their eyeballs! I want him here and I want this Mexican taken out. You said he'd stay out of this once she was gone. He came to my house for Gods sake!"

  "Your house?"

  "My house!" "Shit."

  "Take care of it," Pallidan said. "Were very close."

  "I hear you."

  The line went dead and the tape ended. Pallidan had made one call only, and it was to have Chris killed. Chris looked around nervously, wondering if Luther Zorn wasn't already on his way to Memphis. It was hard to believe that whoever these people were, they controlled Luther Zorn to such an extent that they could send him from state to state like a contracted hit man. In fact, it made no sense at all to Chris. That wasn't the profile. Luther was supposed to be a crazed killer, not the kind of hired gun these two men were talking about.

  He wondered about the man who called himself the panther. It was a voice he'd heard before, but whose? Chris replayed the message. It was Martin Wilburn. He drove back to his hotel and flipped on CNN as he dialed the number of the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Department. He asked for someone who could tell him about the shooting incident at the Walk Inn. While he was on hold, the double line beeped in his ear. He switched over and was relieved to hear Madison's voice.

  "What happened?" he exclaimed.

  "I'm fine," she said. "Have you gotten in touch with Cody?"

  "Not yet. I can't reach him."

  "Jo-Jo?"

  "No."

  "Chris, please," she said. "You've got to find them and let them know I'm all right."

  "I will. I will."

  Madison then briefly described the story Luther had told her. Then she explained that Luther had dropped her off to get a rental car before returning to his nearby hiding place.

  "Were coming to Memphis," she said. "I want you to use your police contacts to find me a doctor somewhere between here and there so we can stop and get Luther patched up. He's been shot, and I don't want to risk having Kratch get a line on us by stopping for a doctor anywhere in Florida."

  "Madison, wait a minute," Chris said, "why are you coming to Memphis?"

  "Luther wants to find his brother. The answer is--"

  "I know how to find his brother," Chris interrupted excitedly. It made sense now. "Its Wilburn. He's the one. I tapped Pallidans phone. He pages Wilburn and gives him instructions. Wilburn is the one who has been directing Luther's brother."

  Madison paused to digest that information.

  "It was Wilburn," she said to herself out loud. "How does Kratch fit into this?"

  "If Kratch's man really did just start shooting at Luther at the Walk Inn," Chris said, "then it sounds like Kratch fits right into the middle of it. You need to stay away from him, Madison. If he's in deep, he'll shoot Luther and you if he gets the chance. There's nothing as desperate as a dirty cop. Nothing. Cops know what happens to them in jail. Kratch will kill everyone before he takes a chance of that happening, I promise you. We need to call the FBI. This thing is interstate, it's in their jurisdiction, they can neutralize Kratch."

  "I don't want you to do that yet," xMadison said.

  "Madison--"

  "What if Wilburn has already gotten to Luther's brother? What if Luther won't talk to the FBI? Then both you and I have death warrants out on our heads with a very dangerous, very capable killer. We need Luther to get to his brother before his brother gets to you, or me."

  "He cant get to us if were protected," Chris said, but his words faltered. Even from the short version of Leeland Zorn's story and the brief history that Chris was already aware of suggested that, in fact, he could get to them, any time, any place. A heat-seeking missile was the right analogy Luthers brother was a heartless killer.

  "How are you going to get Wilburn to tell you where the brother is?" Chris asked.

  "I'll leave that to Luther," Madison said.

  Chris started to remind her that she could be considered an accessory to whatever crimes Luther Zorn might be about to commit, but then he remembered whom it was he was talking to. Madison had probably forgotten more rules of that game than he had ever learned.

  "If he won't talk," Chris said, "I want you to call the FBI right away."

  "I promise. And you get out of wherever you are. Don't make it easy for him to find you if he's already on his way. Let me know where you are by leaving it on my machine at home, and, please, find Cody and Jo-Jo."

  "I will."

  "Thank you, Chris."

  "Madison?"

  "Yes?"

  "Be careful."

  "It's too late for that."

  Leeland held Julie Tarracola's head between his knees and carefully extracted her teeth with a pair of battered gray pliers he'd taken from the tool chest in his boat. From the water, he appeared to be nothing more than a local fisherman gutting out his catch with practiced care. The boat itself was hidden in a nearby labyrinth of mangroves. For his own part, Leeland sat on a fallen tree at the waters edge where a swampy river opened with final relief into the gaping Okeechobee. After the cabin incident, Leeland had moved to the almost entirely uninhabited western shore where the demarcation between swamp and river and lake was sometimes uncertain.

  He had found a high spot one hundred paces in from the shore among a cluster of banyan trees, and that was where he pitched his tent. After the tiny sucking pop each tooth made as it was removed, Leeland took care to pitch it into the mouth of the roiling muddy river before returning to his trophy. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, removing the teeth of his latest victim, but thoroughness was part of his training as an elite soldier and, since the Gulf, little details stuck to his conscious mind, building up like plaque on the inside of an artery, until their importance was undeniable.

  When the teeth were removed, Leeland took the head and carried it into the undergrowth. Within twenty minutes it was securely mounted on a post that rose about fifteen feet above the small clearing that was his new home. He gazed appreciatively at his handiwork. His smile drooped when he heard the muted staccato cry of his electronic beeper. The proximity to the last call he'd gotten told him right away that something was wrong. After his first mission to reconnoiter Chases swimming area, he hadn't received a page for months. And, although his most recent assignments had come in a matter of weeks, never had he been paged twice within a matter of hours.

  He threw himself down inside his tent and rolled over on a small cot while he fished through a backpack for his beeper. He found it and held it out in front of his face to read the numbers that had been entered into it from some unknown place on the planet. He committed the numbers to memory and cleared the device. He'd have to turn right around now and go back to Canal Point on the other side of the lal^.

  Leeland clo
sed his eyes. He hadn't slept in more than thirty-five hours. He decided to nap for twenty minutes before he made the call. As he drifted off into sleep, images of incredible violence filled his mind. He saw his men and others being hacked and twisted. He saw himself in a carnival of blood. The visions didn't disturb him in the least. He was quite used to them by now, and he knew that if he simply watched on, his mind's projector would stop and he would be left alone, and in relative peace, in the black void of sleep.

  Chapter 44

  Martin Wilburn stood alone in the middle of his living room. He watched the clouds beyond the skyline of the city They were high horsetails, advancing at a visible rate. A storm had been forecast. He finished giving instructions to Leeland Zorn and then hung up the phone. He knew the whole thing was unraveling. Still, there was time to stop his deal from falling completely apart. If Leeland could eliminate the troublesome Mexican, then there should be no more obstacles.

  Of course there was still Luther, but that was Kratchs job now. And as much as Wilburn disliked the unsavory cop, he was admittedly effective. Wilburn was confident that if Luther survived, he would be convicted of murder. All of them, Wilburn especially, had worked hard to see to that.

  Crawford had warned him about framing Luther, about getting emotional. He told Wilburn months ago that it was unnecessary, but Wilburn hadn't been able to resist.

  It was so simple for him to use the same code that Vivian had been using to lure Luther to their various rendezvous, thereby placing him right at the murder scene. Not only had it been easy to set Luther up, it made complete sense to Wilburn. It threw the police off the trail of everyone but Luther Zorn. And made sense emotionally as well. Luther Zorn deserved to be put in his place. He was much too full of self-importance for a poor ghetto kid who hadn't even finished college.

  Wilburn strolled out onto the deck that overlooked the choppy aqua-green water of the Intracoastal Waterway. A long red cigarette boat crept by pounding the serenity with its Glass-pak mufflers. The noise and the distracting sight prevented Wilburn from hearing Luther Zorn kick open the inside door to his condo. Luther crossed the wide living room, dodging the squat handcrafted pieces of furniture as if they were fallen men on the football field. By the time Wilburn sensed his presence, Luther was on him and clubbing him in the back of the head until he fell to the floor.