by Bryan Koepke
“Darla, anymore calls?” Reece said, emerging from the door into the control room for ICEP.
“No.”
Reece picked up his phone and looked at it. There were two missed calls from his father and one voicemail message. He pressed the button for his father’s phone and listened. The call rang twice and went to voicemail. He left a message.
“Dad, it’s Reece. Hey I was busy in the cleanroom here at work. I’m sorry I missed your calls. I hope everything is going okay for you and Mom.”
He reached up and rubbed at the top of his scalp as if addressing an itch. “If you get this, I’ll be out here in the control room for a few minutes and we can talk. Okay then. Take care.”
Chapter 9
Al Culver stashed his cell phone into the pocket of his coat, tossed his cane into the front seat of the car, and limped across the two-lane blacktop, chasing the man who’d beaten him to within inches of his life four years earlier. He still couldn’t believe his luck finding him now after all these years. A new kind of adrenaline, something he hadn’t felt in years, coursed through his veins. He was alive and once again had a purpose.
The taillights of the black Camaro faded down the narrow dirt road in front of him. Al stopped, took a quick glance back, and saw the flashing light of the liquor store sign, the only light for miles, painting his GTO with its eerie red glow. He felt strangely alone, but excited.
He moved forward as fast as he could and wanted to get to the guy he’d seen climb into the driver’s seat of the Camaro back at the house in the city. A brisk wind swirled, whipping up dust, and Al coughed. Dim light danced across the road in front. He turned and saw the bouncing lights of a car coming from behind. Al hobbled left, awkwardly dove, and made it through a barbed wire fence just in time. The car passed like a big black shark in the night, never slowing. He picked his head up from the field, pulled in a deep breath feeling relieved, and smelled the sweet clover of the farm country mixed with the pungent odor of horse manure.
After getting up, he moved forward into the darkness and wished he’d brought a flashlight. The uneven terrain threatened to topple him with each step. Tall weeds scratched at his pant legs. Al silently cussed himself for leaving his cane behind in the backseat of his car.
Up ahead he could see something in the darkness. He went closer feeling an excitement that both scared him and urged him onward. It was like it had been that day he and Haisley had decided to follow these men into the warehouse. Their action promised glory, but there was a price to pay, and pay he had—with his health, his career, and nearly the loss of his life.
Al came to a corner where perpendicular runs of fence wire collided in a thick weave of cross ties and rough-hewn log posts. He knelt down and felt the moist earth touch his knee. With his left hand still on the post, he peeled the new digital camera from its leather case and brought it to his eye. It was dark. Reaching up, he found the lens cap still attached and Al laughed with nervousness as he removed it. Using both hands now he squinted, closing his left eye, and looked through the viewfinder of the telephoto. The image was out of focus, but with a quick turn of the lens he saw the front entrance of a black-and-white dairy barn several hundred yards distant. Twin carriage lights illuminated a single black door, and the sign above read Malum Farms. He wondered about the word Malum, searching his brain, and couldn’t remember ever hearing of that family name.
In quick succession he pressed the button on the top right of the camera body, taking multiple photos, and then for some odd reason he went off balance. Al reached down with his left hand and found the top of the wooden post, steadying him self once again. Panning right, he eyed the dirt parking lot and counted four neat rows of high-end automobiles. He hunted for the black Camaro hopeful the driver might still be there. Then he thought of those he’d tried to call for backup.
Maybe I should take a few pictures and pull back. His left hand went to his revolver. Swinging left with the camera, he spotted the shiny black car with its knock-off wheels sandwiched between a Porsche 928 and that blue Corvette he knew had been driven by Zimmeratti.
Satisfied, Al stowed the camera in its leather case and stuffed it into the deep grass between a fence post and the base of a tree. Standing tall, he felt a flutter of excitement deep within his core and he watched as the last traces of daylight vanished. It would have been better if he’d raised someone back at the liquor store. Maybe I should try Haisley again or just call this in and hope for the best.
Al climbed through the barbed wire fence. He stood and as he did heard the fabric of his jacket tear, followed by a surge of pain in his right shoulder. One of the angry steel barbs had snagged his coat and bit into his flesh. Squatting down, he pulled away from its hold, freeing himself. He reached back and touched the spot where his coat had been caught, pressed his index finger into tear in the fabric, and brought it back to his mouth. The taste was salty and metallic—blood. Another injury, however small, wasn’t something he could afford.
There was a small patch of grass that he crossed quickly before moving over a second cattle guard and finally onto the dirt lot. He took careful steps past the cars, crushing bits of gravel beneath his shoes. Only the noise of his steps penetrated the silence of the night, but Al heard something not unlike a buzz somewhere in the distance. What it was he wasn’t sure, but it was there. The dark covered all clues except for the lights he’d seen earlier on the front of the black-and-white stone-walled building.
Al Culver welcomed the cool touch of the building’s stone exterior. An arid summer wind howled, whipping up loose bits of dirt and gravel in a driveway that seemed neglected. Hugging the wall, Al stayed in the shadows as he edged forward. Halfway down the structure he came to a small rectangular window chest high, perfect for snooping. He could hear what sounded like a boisterous party inside as he peered in from the bottom corner, doing his best to avoid detection. Inside, the walls were covered in lavish wallpaper, and a woman in a designer purple outfit sang to a piano on her left. Circular tables inhabited by men in tuxedos and women in the latest fashions stretched toward gambling tables near the center of the cavernous room. Along one wall a long dark antique bar held a line two and three deep of thirsty patrons. Fuel up before you lose everything you came with, he thought with a retired cop’s irritation.
Al ducked as a man stood up from one of the tables and stared toward the window. He wanted to take a look to check, but he knew better. Keeping low, he instead passed beneath the window frame, thinking how clever it was to hide a casino in the carcass of a stone farm building this far out in the country. Yet it was still an easy drive west from St. Louis. Sidestepping toward the back of the building, he reflected back to his days as a detective. He would never have done a reconnaissance like this back then, with no backup or without a single soul knowing his whereabouts. But that was before he spent four hard years relying on a cane. All that time he had been searching for the men that beat him so badly. Al counted himself lucky for spotting them when he had. He owed it to himself to at least confirm that all the rats were in the same cage. Then he’d pull back to a pay phone and call in the others.
At the far corner he peered around to view the back of the large property. No more than thirty yards distant he could see the glow of cherry-tipped cigarettes in the night as two men laughed.
Suddenly, Al heard a noise, much too close, and whipped around.
Cold steel pressed against his right temple, indenting the flesh. He slid his hand down toward the Smith & Wesson on his belt, only to be met by the firm grip of another man. Al thought about spinning to break loose and run, but that wasn’t happening. He tried to see their faces, yet as he stepped back, he felt the unmistakable snout of a gun barrel pressing into his back.
A hand patted the left breast pocket of his sports coat, reached inside, and ripped out his wallet, nearly taking his nipple. The powerful white beam of a flashlight illuminated and he blinked at the flash of purple dots. Someone walked to his left, crunching gr
avel, and he wondered how many he was facing. He still had a snub-nose .38 clamped to his bum left ankle, so he knew he still had a chance.
“Well, well, what do we have here? Al Culver, Private Investigator,” a man said in a thick southern drawl. He recognized the voice and felt a shiver part the tiny hairs of his spine.
“Go on, start walking,” the voice commanded.
He knew what happened last time he obeyed an order like that. He wanted to run, but knew his damaged legs wouldn’t permit more than a hobbling stumble. Fear seeped through him like a cancer. He thought about the voice, and the months he’d spent in the hospital after last hearing it. He cursed himself for going in alone knowing he should have waited.
“Come on already, just shoot the stupid bastard,” said a second voice.
“All right, I think I will.”
Al squinted into the darkness and realized the large-caliber weapon this familiar person was holding had a suppressor screwed onto its barrel. He cringed, feeling trapped and vulnerable. Death was near.
His thoughts sped up with a sudden burst of adrenaline, and he felt the urge to run. The man in front raised the gun, the muzzle flashed with flame, and Al Culver’s chest erupted in pain. His legs went weak and he fell backward into the cold, wet rock. As his vision narrowed he reached sideways, trying to somehow brace himself, but instead he sank to his knees, and felt the moist earth soak through his pants. He coughed and struggled for breath as the kind face of his wife came to him in a parting good-bye.
