He stopped to take stock of his surroundings. Behind him was a vacant field, which in turn backed up to another building. The single-story structure to the right appeared almost black in the night. Several window panes were broken and were filled in with scraps of plywood. To his left was an old house, in much better shape. A faint yellow light seeped out from the building near the ground—maybe from a basement—but other than that, it too was dark.
After taking one last look around, he slipped his phone into his back pocket, making sure to button it closed. Then, he climbed the fence.
The chain-link was in good shape, tight and firm against the metal support post. With very little slack to fight, the climb was easy. When he reached the top, he lifted one leg up and over, making sure of his footing and balance. He pulled his other leg over and then dropped to the asphalt of the parking lot. Crouched near the fence, he listening for any alarm, or god forbid, the sound of a guard dog.
Convinced he was undetected, he crept forward, making sure to keep to the shadows where possible as he approached the first row of trucks. Remembering the long list of registry numbers from his earlier research, he pulled out his phone and snapped photos of each vehicle, capturing their registry numbers and license plates. After working methodically through the trucks on one side of the lot, he stopped to consider the shipping containers. Not wanting to spend the time photographing each one, he compromised by capturing several in each photo. He circled the area, making sure to get photographs from different positions and angles, realizing they could be transferred to his computer later, and blown up as needed.
Finished with that, he slunk toward the long building with the loading bays and snapped pictures of the trucks there. He crept around to the other side of the building, discovering only a few metal doors at ground level, about the size of a single garage opening. Hugging the side of the building, he continued to the back of the long warehouse. He could see the soft yellow light he’d noticed earlier glowing in the distance.
Once he reached the far corner, he turned back, trying to decide if he dared risking a closer inspection of the small office. He worked his way forward, deciding to just take a few pictures from the shadows. Then, everything went to shit.
The low, guttural roar of a pickup truck in need of a muffler job was his first warning, reinforced by the sudden glare of lights on the parking lot pavement. Then, a clicking sound, followed by a shudder and a low, rattling grind convinced him he might soon be at risk of discovery. Luckily, he was on the far side of the building, still out of sight from whomever was waiting for the automatic gate to finish opening. He turned and sprinted to the back of the building, sticking close to the metal siding. He rounded the corner and considered making his exit over the top of the fence. His curiosity got the best of him.
He snuck around the back side of building until he was at the corner about ten or twelve feet from the nearest parked truck. He edged along the wall, ducking under the back end of the first truck, and repeating the process until he was halfway to the end. The truck engine rumbled, and he could hear big, heavy tires rolling across the pavement. A sudden sweep of light blinded him for an instant, and he shielded his eyes and scrambled beneath the nearest semi.
***
“What was that, Georgie?”
George turned toward the woman in the passenger seat and gave her a disgusted glare. “Dorrie, I told you not to call me that when we’re bein’ regular people.
“Sorry...George, but I thought I saw something.”
“Where?”
“Over there, by the trucks near the warehouse.”
George turned to the men sitting in the backseat of the double cab. “Either of you see anything?”
“No,” the man behind Dorrie answered.
“How ‘bout you, Frank?”
“Didn’t see a thing, boss, but I wasn’t really looking. I was resting my eyes for a minute.”
“I know I saw something,” Dorrie insisted. “You should drive around and check.”
George swung the truck to the left and slowly passed the line of parked trucks, while Dorrie peered into the shadows. “Spot anything?” he asked.
“No, it’s too dark to see. I wish there was some more light over here. It’s kind of spooky at night.”
“That’s the way the boss likes it,” he reminded her. “It makes it easier to keep things low-key.” He braked and slowed the dually to a stop. “Satisfied?”
Dorrie lifted one shoulder. “I guess. I must have imagined it.”
“Must have,” he agreed. He made a wide turn, and headed back through the parking lot to the office.
George pulled in around back and killed the engine. “Come on,” he instructed his passengers. “It’s almost time. I wonder where the rest of the crew is? They’re cuttin’ things a little too close for comfort. Fields should be here soon.”
He opened his door and hopped down from his seat. The rest of his passengers followed. Another sweep of headlights signaled the approach of the rest of their party, and George waved the old, rusty Jeep into the parking spot next to his truck. The engine sputtered to a stop and the doors of the Jeep opened. Three large men joined him by the side of the truck.
“What took you so long?” George asked.
“Had to stop for a bio break,” the driver answered. “Steve couldn’t hold it.”
George spit in disgust. “Come on in, then. We need to get in place. I need two of you in the side office, one on the back door, and the other with Dorrie and me in the main office. Steve, you cover the front door once Fields comes inside. Don’t let him see you.” He pulled out a ring of keys and hunted for the one he needed. “Grab a weapon from the back of my truck if you need one.”
“You think he’s going to be prepared for trouble?” Dorrie asked.
“Never can tell,” George answered, waiting by the door while the men each made their selection from the collection of lug wretches and little slugger bats. Dorrie opened the front passenger door and retrieved the cattle prod.
“You got everything you need?” Dorrie asked.
George lifted the tail of his flannel shirt and patted the revolver tucked into the side of his jeans. “Sure do.” He dropped his shirt, then ushered everyone inside.
***
Toby huddled behind the back double tires of the truck closest to the office. He angled his head around the tires to see if he could figure out what was going on. He could make out several figures standing next to the big, white king-cab pickup—one woman, and six men. From their stance, he figured they were talking about something, but he couldn’t hear their conversation. They broke from their clump and began to pull an assortment of objects from the back of the pickup. Then, they all followed one of the men to the back of the small building and disappeared inside. Seconds later, a light inside the building shone through the front windows.
Toby waited, trying to decide if there was any way to get a picture of the vehicles. If he could get just the license plates, it’d be worth the attempt. He hesitated before making up his mind to risk it and crept out from his hiding place, angling his body to stand. A flash of light froze him in place for a moment before he ducked back down, heart racing, and waited. “Someone’s still outside,” he decided. “Good thing he decided he needed a smoke.”
A few minutes later, another set of lights announced the arrival of a new vehicle. The man on guard outside the office dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. A large, black sedan eased up the asphalt and parked. Toby couldn’t identify the make of the vehicle from where he was hiding, but it looked fairly new and well-cared-for. The driver killed the engine, and opened the door. A single passenger got out—a man of medium height and a few pounds overweight. The car’s lights shut off, and the new arrival walked up to the front door of the office. After looking around the immediate area, he opened the door and went inside.
The guard walked to the front of the building and took up a position to the left of the door. A dull reflection
from the overhead light glimmered on the small, metal baseball bat he held in one hand.
***
Nathan Fields opened the front door to his office and stepped inside. George was sitting behind one desk, in his usual spot, and a small desk lamp provided the only light in the room.
“Hey, Nathan. How’s things going?”
“As well as can be expected. You alone?”
George shook his head and grinned. “Nope.”
“Hi, Nathan. Remember me?”
Fields wheeled around to identify the voice behind him. He relaxed when he saw who it was. “Dorrie, you almost scared me to death! I didn’t see you when I came in.”
“I didn’t want you to see me. I bet you didn’t see him either.” She pointed to the far corner. Nathan turned in the direction indicated, noticing the large man standing close to the paneled wall with his hands behind his back. His face was vaguely familiar, but Nathan couldn’t come up with a name that matched.
“Howdy, Mr. Fields. Don’t you remember me? I’m Frank Timonds. I used to be one of your drivers, until you fired me a couple of years ago.”
“Uh, yes, I think I remember you. I hope there aren’t any hard feelings, Frank. I’m sure a man of your experience managed to land on his feet.”
Frank chuckled, low and soft. Nathan wiped away the sudden bead of sweat from his forehead. “What’s going on, George? I knew you’d be here, and I guess Dorrie’s not really a surprise, but seeing Frank is unexpected.”
George nodded, and looked down at his hands. He picked up a letter opener and cleaned some dirt out from underneath one fingernail. “Sometimes, things just work out differently than expected, Nathan. You see, Puppet wanted to throw you a surprise party. Since you’re leaving’ and all…”
“Okay…I was told you’d have something for me.”
“I sure do,” George agreed.
Nathan heard Dorrie giggle behind him, and another drop of moisture formed on his brow. He reached up to brush it away just as George stood up from the desk.
“Come out, come out,” Dorrie sang.
The door to the side office opened, and two large, rough-hewn men stepped into the room. Nathan recognized one of them as another former employee —one with a grudge. The man held a heavy tire wrench and his companion had a length of metal pipe in one beefy hand. “George, tell me what the hell is going on here,” he demanded.
“Well, ya see, Puppet wasn’t too happy with the way you handled your exit from public life, Nathan. It was messy, and Puppet don’t like messes. We’re supposed to tidy it all up and make sure your next departure goes according to plan.”
Nathan’s eyes widened in shock, and he felt his knees weaken. “You can’t do that!” he exclaimed. “Puppet needs me. I’m an important part of the organization.”
“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,” Dorrie whispered. “The fire was a very bad idea, Nathan. When you play with matches, you sometimes get burned.”
Frank stepped out from the corner and removed his hands from behind his back, revealing a length of heavy chain.
“No, no, no,” Fields whimpered in denial as the man advanced. “This has to be some kind of warning…some kind of joke…” He turned to the front door and started forward.
Dorrie stepped into his path and raised the cattle prod. “Joke’s on you!” she jeered. And then, she touched the contact points to his forearm.
He jerked and fell to his knees, screaming as he hit the ground.
“I am shocked—shocked I say!—at your lack of self-control,” Dorrie told him. “That kind of behavior will never do.”
Frank’s metal chain whipped through the air and caught him across the back. Nathan cried out in terror and pain. “Please, please,” he begged.
“Hold off a minute,” George told the group.
Nathan panted in relief.
George walked toward him, and nudged him with one knee. “We need to move him outside. I don’t want to mess things up in here. Frank, have Steve lay a sheet of plastic out in the parking lot. We’ll drag him out there, and then you can all take a couple of swipes at him before I finish him off. That’ll make it easier to clean up when we’re done, plus it’ll be a snap to package him up for drop off.”
Nathan moaned in horrified disbelief. He pleaded with George to see reason, but was silenced by the jolt of electricity to his groin.
“You’re a dirty man, a nasty man,” Dorrie taunted. She hit him again with the prod, and he sank into oblivion.
Nathan only regained consciousness once more, after he was dragged out the front door and flung into the middle of the large, blue tarp placed on the pavement outside the office. “Good night, Nathan. Sleep tight,” Dorrie’s high-pitched rhyme told him everything.
He looked up into the beaming face of George Padgett, whose head was surrounded by a nimbus of light. Nathan had just enough time to realize it was the soft glow from the streetlamp, before the first swing of the lug wrench caught him on the temple and his world went black. He didn’t even scream.
***
Toby watched while the large sheet of plastic was retrieved from the back of the truck and unfolded on the asphalt. The last man to enter the building was dragged out the front door just a few minutes later, and tossed in the middle of the tarp, before being surrounded. He heard the woman’s voice sing out in the night. “That’s Nathan Fields,” he realized as soon as he heard her words.
Light reflected off dark metal, and he looked away as an arm lifted and swung. Toby closed his eyes as the smashed pumpkin sound rang across the parking lot, then quickly backed away, suddenly desperate to flee. Gritting his teeth, he stood and started forward, while new sounds of dull, brutal impact echoed in the night. Disoriented by terror, he momentarily lost his sense of direction and was forced to feel his way to the front of the truck, too fogged by what he’d just witnessed to realize he was headed the wrong way. He stumbled over his feet and fell to his knees.
“Georgie! I see him, I see him,” the woman yelled. “I see the little mouse. Let’s get him!”
Toby pulled himself to his feet, using the front of the truck’s enormous grill as leverage. He gained his footing and looked toward the small metal building. The group was already moving quickly toward him. He readied himself, crouching into a fighting stance as they came closer. He noted the weapons in each man’s hands, but he couldn’t figure out what the woman was carrying. “Oh, shit!” he hollered, no longer needing to be quiet.
Then, a sudden calm engulfed him, bringing a moment of startling, crystal clarity. “Run if it’s your only choice. There are times it’s the only option, especially when the odds are against you,” Jon’s lesson rang in his head. “Recognize it when that’s the case…you better learn that lesson now…”
Toby took one more frantic look at the advancing group, and made his choice. Turning and running as fast as his feet could carry him, he pushed himself to the limit, hearing the footsteps behind him closing the distance. His chest burned with effort and fear, but he ran, crying out with relief when he spotted the fence in front of him. Knowing he’d only have one chance, he summoned up everything he had inside and closed the distance, launching himself into air with his last step. His hand touched metal, and he pulled himself up and over, refusing to turn back toward the hiss and pop of sparks behind him. Landing hard, he took a second to regain his balance. Unable to help himself, he looked over his shoulder just as the woman touched the end of her weapon to the metal mesh causing neon blue fire to arc and dance across the links.
The roar of an engine caught his attention, and he saw headlights illuminating the parking lot as the truck made its way across the asphalt to the front gate. He gulped air and pushed up from the ground, forcing his legs to carry him away from Gro-Transport. He cut across the vacant lot and ran past the dilapidated brick building, legs and arms pumping while he tried to keep his air intake steady. “Run!” he chanted to himself. “Run!”
Toby didn’t know where he was in rel
ation to his car, and didn’t care. Hisone thought was to make it somewhere—anywhere—where he could hide from the truck and its headlights. As he sprinted across the road and made a sharp turn around the nearest building, a light flickered to life, set off by an automatic sensor registering his presence. “Fuck no!” Racing down the side of the building, his only hope was to find shadows, any shadows. Spotting a group of construction dumpsters in the distance, he veered off behind a partly-demolished building and headed toward them. Tires squealed in the night. With one last burst of effort, he hit the side of the dumpster and crawled inside.
He worked his way through the debris until he reached the back corner, then pulled a sheet of tarpaper over his body and kicked piles of broken shingles out of the away so he could burrow deeper into the trash. Ignoring the acrid stench and the sharp roofing tacks, he leaned back and listened, trying to calm his heaving chest.
Later, he realized he hid in the dumpster for more than three hours, listening for the sound of tires or searching footsteps. He tensed at every sound, and barely kept from screaming when a neighborhood possum found its way into the container, searching for food. A few tossed scraps of junk encouraged it to find easier pickings. After it scurried away, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Once he felt able to talk, he pulled out his phone. “Melba,” he whispered. “Come get me.” Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, he added, “Bring your gun.”
***
“Find him?” Dorrie asked when George stepped out of his truck.
“No,” he answered. He kicked the front tire. “Tricky bastard got away.”
“Maybe Steve and Frank found him,” she offered hopefully, twisting her hair up into pigtails, fastening each with a rubber band. It nearly time to get ready for the breakfast rounds.
“Hope so,” he grumbled. “I damn sure hope they did.”
They didn’t, but they found the next best thing.
“There’s a car parked a few blocks up,” Frank informed him the second he stepped out of the Jeep. “It’s the only vehicle in the area not locked up in a lot. It has to belong to him.”
Skin Puppet Page 44
