The Red Zone

by Tim Green

  Wilburns cries were drowned out by the throbbing sound of the big engine beneath them. Luther dragged the team owner back inside the condo, sliding the glass door shut with his foot. He placed his knee squarely on Wilburn's spine. Wilburn twisted his face and winced in pain. Luther pinned his head sideways, with his palm pressed flat and hard against Wilburn's ear. He jammed the gun into the side of his nose and leveled the barrel off so that if he pulled the trigger, Wilburn's brains would be sprayed for twenty feet over the thick Berber carpet.

  "You crazy bastard!" Wilburn protested. The eye that wasn't squeezed into the carpet rolled in total fear between the gun and the outer limits of his vision where he could just make out the edges of Luther's face.

  Luther jammed the gun harder into his nose. "Tell me where my brother is," he commanded.

  "You're crazy," Wilburn said, his voice rising and breaking, blood spilling in a small but steady stream now from his nose. "I don't know what you're talking about! You're crazy!"

  "You're right," Luther said, pushing the end of the gun into Wilburn's nose until he whimpered in pain. "I am crazy! We're both crazy, aren't we? That's what this is about, you piece of shit. . . you . . . you . . ."

  Luther started to shake with rage. His voice broke abruptly in a high-pitched animal noise. Tears were in his eyes as if he was about to cry. He cocked the hammer of his Beretta. The metallic clank of the weapon had the clarity of a heavy tool dropped on a steel surface.

  "No!" Wilburn shrieked, desperately closing the eye Luther could see against the noise of the explosion and his own death. "I'll tell you! I'll tell!"

  "Tell me then!" Luther raged.

  "I don't know where he is," Wilburn whined, "but you can call him. You have to page him with a sky-page. He'll call back. That's how I get in touch with him. I don't know where he is!"

  "Give me the number," Luther demanded, thrusting again with the Beretta.

  Wilburn recited the number. Luther kept the gun on his face, using his free hand to undo his own belt. He removed a roll of duct tape he'd hastily secured there.

  "Put your hands behind your back," Luther commanded, lifting his weight off Wilburn's quivering body. He set the Beretta down and sloppily wrapped the owner's wrists until his hands were bundled in a ball of silvery tape. He then began wrapping Wilburn's ankles, working his way up past the knees and securing the hands to the legs. Then he used a length of the wide, sticky tape to cover Martin's mouth.

  Luther picked up the gun and moved toward the phone that rested on an end table. There was a pad of paper there, and he wrote down the number Wilburn had given him. He dialed the pager and then hung up to wait for the callback.

  He wasn't at all surprised to find enough Percocet in Wilburn's bathroom to ease the pain of his throbbing gunshot wound. The team doctors, he knew, dispensed medicine liberally to everyone within the organization, not just the players. Percocet, an opium derivative, was as strong as anything you could get anywhere. Luther washed two of them down with some tap water, then made his way back to the living room. He untucked the bulky new shirt Madison had purchased for him at a nearby Marshalls before sitting down on the couch to wait. Wilburn watched him warily from the floor. Luther raised his pistol and sighted down the barrel of the gun. Wilburn's eyes snapped closed and he turned his head away as fast as he could.

  It was easy for Leeland Zorn to remain inconspicuous in Canal Point. The black population, supported by the enormous sugar mill nearby, was big enough so that he could move through the town unnoticed. It was also not unusual for blacks from the Palm Beach area to bring their battered old boats up the canal to spend a day fishing out on the lake.

  Leeland had plunked himself down at the counter of a side-street diner and ordered a cheeseburger with fries when the pager went off again. The waitress, a dark three-hundred-pound woman in a bright lime-green dress, looked accusingly at him over her shoulder and clucked her tongue. Leeland pulled the beeper from his backpack and quickly shut it off. He looked and saw that it was again the man who called himself the panther. Leeland snickered. He'd like to meet this panther some day. He'd show him a panther.

  "Be right back," he said to the waitress as he rose from his seat.

  "I don't want to eat no cheeseburger of yours!" the waitress barked with an angry scowl. "You better be back!"

  Two wrinkled old men in a tattered booth looked up momentarily from behind their menus. Leeland turned and stared until the big woman averted her eyes and began flipping through her pad as if she were looking for something important. He made his way outside toward the pay phone on the edge of the dusty parking lot. He loaded a stack of quarters into the machine and made the call.

  "Hello?"

  Leeland looked off into space when he heard the voice. He felt suddenly small, acutely aware of the size of the sky around him and the universe beyond that. He felt swallowed by a time warp.

  "Hello?"

  "Luther?"

  "Leeland . . . where are you, man?"

  Chapter 45

  Leeland would meet Luther at his camp. Even though he trusted Luther, he insisted that his older brother might be followed. The location of the campsite would assure that no intruders would arrive unnoticed. Luther began to argue, but then he stopped. He wrote the directions on the pad, tore off the top sheet, and jammed it into the front pocket of his pants. He checked around the room, looking for anything he might have missed, anything that could possibly help Wilburn to escape. There was nothing, so he turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him. Luther had broken both locks and splintered the interior molding on his way in, so the best he could do was to leave it only slightly ajar.

  "Did he tell you?" Madison asked anxiously as he slid into the front seat of their rented light blue Town Car. She had waited for him there. She didnt want to know what it was he was doing inside.

  Luther nodded. "Yeah. I got ahold of Leeland. Hes meeting us out on the far side of Lake Okeechobee." Suddenly he hit the dashboard in front of him with his fist. "Damn, we need a boat. What the hell. He just rattled off the directions like it was no problem. I didnt even ask him how we were supposed to get across the water."

  "I think I know someone who might be able to help us," Madison said as she started the car and pulled away from the curb.

  "Who?"

  "Its the sheriff there--"

  "No way!" Luther protested. "Were not bringing in the law. Thats not happening."

  "I think we can trust this guy," Madison said. "He's a smalltown guy. I'm just saying, if we need a boat. . ."

  Luther looked at her and shook his head.

  "We need it. . ."

  They drove toward the lake through the residential developments of West Palm. As they left the last gas stations and fast-food stops behind, the sky opened up around them like the view from a wide-angle lens. Sugarcane fields and swamp stretched to the horizon. High-tension wires hung suspended from towers that straddled the landscape like columns of giant metal soldiers. Before long, the mill appeared on the horizon, a black hulk belching smoke and unseen poison into the water.

  Luther leaned back and let the Percocet and the slap of the tires against the ridges in the pavement lull him to sleep. Madison looked over at the profile of his handsome face. He hadn't said two words about the pain of his wound. Knowing what she knew about the kind of men who made their living playing football, it didnt surprise her. In her mind she reviewed her own goals: to stop the killing, to exonerate Luther, and, if she could, to convince Luther to persuade his brother to give himself up peacefully. The man belonged in an institution. She was certain that with the right representation, Leeland could be cared for and possibly even rehabilitated. The first priority, though, was to defuse, as Luther had put it, the heat-seeking missile that was hunting for her and Chris Pelo.

  Cody Grey clenched his teeth as the stainless-steel drawer rolled open.

  "I'm very sorry, Mr. Grey," the coroner said in a quiet, gentle voice.

  Her body lay
there, covered with a sheet. The pungent smell of formaldehyde filled Cody's nasal cavity, sickening him further. He swallowed bile and fought to control his heaving insides. The blood left his face. The coroner lifted the bottom edge of the sheet and slowly pulled it upward.

  It was a magic moment for Cody Grey. A strange form of life burst inside him, laced with hope, anger, and fear.

  "That's not her," he heard himself say.

  "What?" the coroner said, lifting the sheet all the way above the corpse's blue-pink breasts and blinking at Cody through thick bifocal lenses. "Mr. Grey?"

  "That's not Madison. That's not my wife," Cody said. The bloom inside him was beginning to fade. If the woman in front of him wasn't Madison, where was she?

  Antone wore a bright purple suit and lots of gold jewelry. He stepped out of his red Lexus and handed the keys to a sorry-looking white kid with pimples and long, crooked teeth.

  "Make sure you leave plenty of space on either side," Antone commanded imperiously, spitting out the word space and slipping the kid five dollars.

  Inside the restaurant, Antone approached a table where three men sat talking. There was one empty seat, and Antone took it. The men paid no attention to him. It was disconcerting, even to a character as apparently cool as Antone.

  He ordered an iced tea with lemon and stirred in two packets of sugar. Finally, the smallest of the three looked up at him.

  "You're late," he said flatly.

  Antone flashed his biggest smile and shrugged.

  "Traffic," he said.

  "Where's the money, Antone?" another asked.

  "Yeah," said the first.

  "Well, now, that's what we got to talk about," Antone said, gesticulating dramatically with his hands and fingers as he spoke.

  The small man followed the acrobatic movements of Antone's fingers, as if something interesting might come from them.

  "Talk."

  "What I need from you brothers is some more time," Antone said glibly. "It takes time to build a network, and that's what I'm building for you. A man can't build a network overnight, and I got to use product to lure people in. That's where it's at. I'm building a network. What I need is time and some more smack. That's what I need ..."

  The three of them stared at Antone in disbelief.

  "You want more?"

  Antone nodded. "I'm building a network."

  "You said that. You've been saying that. I don't want no motherfucking network, punk," the little man said, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice. "I want my money, and I want it now."

  Antone feigned confusion, "Hey, blood. I thought we were partners. I thought we were in this for the long term."

  "We are," the small man said, nodding at his two companions. '"We're the ones taking the heat from the fucking Colombians and the Jamaicans. We're the ones putting up the money and the blow. You were the guy who was going to open up the Marauders to us for some clientele and a spot to clean up some of our money. We haven't seen shit so far from you, and now we want our money. Today."

  Antone tried to smile, but he felt as though he'd taken an arrow in the throat. A nerve in his eyelid began to twitch. These were not good people. They would kill him. He knew that. He wanted to reason with them, keep things going a little longer.

  The fact was that Antone had been so busy being a big shot with the drugs they'd given him that he hadn't really taken the time or the care to establish himself as a supplier. He thought it would be easy. He thought his buddies would come to him, but the fact was that most of the guys on his team, while they'd gladly accept some free blow on occasion, were not the kind of guys to develop habits. Now he needed money that he didn't have. He wasn't going to bullshit these guys. He knew how they'd react to that, and while Antone was cocky and obnoxious and ballsy, he wasn't stupid. He had reached the point with these people where they were apt to kill him if he looked at them wrong.

  "I'll get the money," Antone said confidently. "Hey, Ramone, I'm sorry man. I am. I thought it could work out. I thought I could get something going, you know. I know I can help you clean some money. That's one thing I know I can help with."

  Ramone stared at him coldly "You get us our money back, and we'll talk about it. Meantime, we got business to attend to.

  "Sure, blood," Antone said, raising the glass of tea halfway to his face before setting it back down amid the slight tinkle of rattling ice cubes. "Sure."

  "Today, Antone. I'm not telling you again."

  Antone got up to leave, and he left fast, afraid that a bullet might find the back of his head. He checked his rearview mirror for several blocks before he felt relatively certain that he wasn't being followed. There was only one place Antone could go for the money he needed. The good news was that, as dire as his circumstances were, he felt pretty good about his ability to get his hands on some quick cash.

  He called the Marauders facility from his car phone and learned that Martin Wilburn was not in the office. He swung left at the next intersection and headed back toward the water. In ten minutes he was looking at the broken door of the owner's condo. He looked around, then let himself in quietly.

  "Shit," he said.

  Wilburn looked up in wide-eyed panic. Blood trickled from his nose across his cheek and into his ear. When he saw it was Antone, he went berserk. Antone struggled to get the tape off his head. Finally, he went to the kitchen and found a steak knife. As he cut the owner loose, he tried to think of what might have happened. He hoped it was something really bad. The bigger the favor he'd done by arriving to save the day, the more likely it would be for him to get his money He cringed when he jabbed into Wilburn's wrist, spilling blood onto the carpet. Wilburn didn't even seem to notice.

  "Hurry up!" he barked.

  Antone freed Wilburn's hands.

  "Get me the phone," Wilburn commanded.

  Wilburn dialed the phone, sitting on his living room floor, while Antone cut furiously at the bands of tape around his feet and legs.

  "Lieutenant Kratch," Wilburn said, then waited.

  "Kratch," came the lieutenant's voice.

  "It's me, Wilburn."

  "bu're not supposed to call me, dammit. We've got channels that--"

  "Luther Zorn just left my house."

  "Zorn?"

  "He tied me up. He made me give him the pager number and he spoke to the brother."

  "Jesus." "He's going to meet him," Wilburn said. "You'd better get there. Quick."

  "Where?"

  Wilburn hesitated only briefly.

  "Get me that pad, Antone," he said.

  Antone looked up as if he hadn't been listening.

  "Huh?"

  "That pad over there on the table," Wilburn ordered, his wrapped legs preventing him from getting it himself, "get it!"

  Antone brought him the pad, and Wilburn held it up in the afternoon light that shone through the big bay windows in a way that enabled him to see the imprint left from Luther's writing on the page above. He read the instructions that Luther had received from his brother.

  "I'll need a fucking compass," Kratch said, more to himself than anyone. "Okay, good, anything else?"

  "No. He's got a gun."

  "I know that," Kratch said. "He shot both my men."

  "Is this going to work?" Wilburn wanted to know.

  Kratch had already hung up the phone. Wilburn didn't care. He wanted Kratch to get to Luther before Luther got to the brother. If he didn't, things were going to get ugly.

  "I gotta ask you something incredibly important, Mr. Wilburn," Antone said suddenly, out of nowhere.

  Wilburn looked up. He'd forgotten he wasn't alone.

  Chapter 46

  Cody called home from the coroners office. There was no answer. He called his friend and assistant coach Jimmy Spence, who had Jo-Jo at his house.

  "Madison's alive," Spence told him before he could say a word.

  "How did you know?" Cody asked, dumbfounded.

  "Chris Pelo called. He's been trying to reach yo
u. He talked to Madison. She's--"

  "She's all right?" Cody demanded.

  "Yeah, Cody. She's okay. She's--I guess she's with the guy they thought killed her, Luther Zorn."

  "Zorn?" Cody said, out loud. "Zorn?

  "Do you have a number for Chris?" Cody asked.

  "No," Spence said. "He didn't say where he was and he asked me not to say anything to anyone but you about Madison."

  "Jimmy, thanks. Let me talk to Jo-Jo," Cody said.

  Jo-Jo got on the line. Cody told him his mom was alive and that he'd find her. The boy was in tears, more from confusion than anything. Cody talked to him for a few minutes until he calmed down.

  "I'll find her, Jo-Jo. I'll find her."

  Next, Cody called Madison's office. When he asked Madison's secretary if she'd heard from Madison, the secretary acted as if she was talking to a madman.

  "She's alive," Cody told her. "Where's Chris Pelo?"

  He got Pelo's number in Memphis and abruptly hung up on the secretary. He called the hotel, but Pelo had checked out. Cody set the phone down. He looked around the small windowless office. A skeleton hung in one corner, and an old pair of sneakers sat by the heat vent on the floor.

  "Kratch," he said suddenly to himself.

  "Thanks," Cody said as he bolted past the coroner who was standing outside the office.

  Cody made his way to the parking lot and jumped into his rental car. He started toward the sheriff's office, then realized he was going the wrong way. He spun around at the next light. Tires and brakes howled as two cars turning into the intersection veered to avoid an accident. Cody punched his accelerator, leaving blaring horns in his wake.

  As he wheeled into the sheriff's parking lot, he almost hit Kratch head-on.

  "Kratch!" Cody heard himself yell, trying to will Kratch into making eye contact.