Grave Mistakes: A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller (Affair with Murder Book 3)

by Brian Spangler

  My phone buzzed—the plastic vibrating from the floor of the car. I was unwilling to pick it up and needed to rest—maybe sleep would find me and tell me this was all a nightmare. The phone buzzed again, and I swiped errantly.

  “What is it Brian?” I asked, my voice gravelly and deep.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” The sound of Steve’s voice jarred me.

  “No, no, you didn’t,” I answered.

  “There’s no picture of you.”

  I couldn’t let him see me like this and kept the phone on the floor. “Not used to the phones yet,” I said, lying while I made a fumbling sound.

  “Dinner was nice,” he said. He gave a little laugh, adding, “So was dessert.”

  “It was,” I agreed, trying to mask my voice and hide the terror rising inside me. If I wasn’t careful, I would spill it all, tell him everything: it’d surely be a death sentence.

  “And I’d like to see you soon if that’d be okay?”

  My heart skipped, but the sensation was fleeting. “Uh-huh,” I whispered, a wave of emotion eclipsing my words.

  “Amy, are you ok?” He asked.

  I wasn’t. Hard, painful sobs were coming up. I pushed my fist against my mouth to hold them inside. After a second I told him, “I’m fine.” But I was sure he could hear the emotion in my voice. “I’d like to see you again too.”

  “How about tomorrow?” he asked, his voice sounding warm and uplifting. “An early lunch at the Diner?”

  “What? You didn’t get enough of the Diner?” I joked, hiding my heartache, cringing, my insides boiling over. I need time to figure this out, I heard in my head, and translated, “I’d love the Diner again.”

  “Sounds great, I’ll see you around one.”

  It was quiet for the rest of my drive. And during that time I went through the timeline the Wilts had set in place for me. They gave me twenty-four hours. That’s a day. One earthly rotation. And in that single day, someone would die. I just didn’t know who.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  WHEN I GOT HOME, I crawled to the center of the office and collapsed onto my belly, shutting my eyes from the world. But I couldn’t shut my mind—a storm was circling, picking up speed, and the thumping pressure was threatening to burst through my skull. The room spun around me and the floor rolled in carpeted waves, undulating as if I were at sea, lost, adrift, and with only a dying sun and fading star to guide me. Death. My thoughts went to suicide again. And then to tell Steve everything, thinking naively that maybe he could swoop in with a team of officers and agents, anyone, everyone, and save the day.

  “Snacks,” I mumbled. “Michael.” They’d get slaughtered within a minute of my showing signs I wasn’t going through with the Wilts’ demands.

  It was in the last mile before reaching home I saw the car. Tommy Wilts wouldn’t dare let me leave the White Bear without some kind of assurance, some kind of leash on me. I had a personal escort service—at least until all of this was over. Would Brian notice the men in the car? Would Steve? I didn’t think so.

  “This can’t be happening,” I cried, tossing the gun from the lip of my pants and curling into a tight ball. “But it is happening.”

  My phone buzzed, and I swiped at it, uncertain of how Brian would take the news.

  “Brian?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not your rich boy toy,” I heard Tommy’s voice and shoved the phone away from me. “Have a message. Call it motivation.”

  There was a scream then—guttural, tortured—it was my daughter’s voice. “You got some business to take care of,” she cried amidst roaring laughter. “There’s no wasting time.”

  The phone clicked, and I felt something snap deep inside me. I got to my feet with unsteady eagerness and picked up the gun, tucking it into my pants—the shape of it fitting snugly against my lower back. And as I dried my face, I gave the empty whiteboard a stare, fixing my eyes on the empty canvas, imagining words and lines and a drawing with a timeline. I had to plan Steve’s murder, or at least make everyone believe I had.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I SHOWERED AND BREWED a pot of coffee. I tried to eat, forcing myself, but could barely keep it down. Brian was on his way over to help with the planning. By now, I’d told him what happened, told him to not say a word to his wife about Snacks. I could hear the fear in his voice, the concern, the frightening angst that any parent would have when their child’s life is in peril. He loved my daughter. I could hear that too.

  I’d also told him about Derek Robbins, about the man being at the White Bear, about his having ties with the Wilts gang and working with the candidate running against Steve. When I heard the door open and then footsteps, I waited in the kitchen. But when Brian didn’t show, I knew he’d found the plans on the whiteboard. He’d object, I knew that. But I was out of options.

  “Amy, you’re crazy,” he said, raising his voice as I entered the room. The sun saddled the horizon and shone through the foyer window, putting Brian’s figure into a glowing silhouette.

  “Limited options,” I answered, wincing and bracing my side. I wrapped a shirt around my middle and worked to tie off the arms, snugging the fit to support where Wilts had kicked me. “Help me with this.”

  “Jesus,” Brian said, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the spidering bruise. His hands shook as he worked the fabric, tying a simple knot, causing me to let out a shout.

  “They’ve got my girl,” I told him, my words breaking. “And they are threatening to kill Michael and his family too.”

  “I know,” he said, his eyes glassy with concern. His moppy hair was uncombed and pressed to one side, squished by the pillow he’d left behind. “But you’re talking about another murder.”

  “It’s a fake murder,” I corrected him and went to the whiteboard. “We only need to make it appear as though Steve’s dead, just long enough to free Snacks from the Wilts and get my son and his family.”

  “Williams!” he exclaimed, reminding me of how we’d tried this once before. “Look how that turned out!”

  “This is different! Steve isn’t Garret Williams. He wouldn’t know what we were doing.”

  “So bring him in on it then,” Brian demanded.

  “We can’t do that,” I said. “I’m telling you, the minute I make an unexpected move, the Wilts will kill my family. Brian, they’d go after you too, destroy you. They won’t stop until Steve is dead. And in Tommy Wilts’ fucking sick game, it has to be by my hand, or Michaels, or yours—”

  Brian raised his hands, shaking his head with frustration. He paced a moment, tapping a finger to his chin and then went to the office’s loft. I hadn’t been up there since my return and wondered if his old workstation was still in place. At one time, he’d converted the office loft into his own geeky lab where he experimented and created all the tools of the trade we needed to furnish our vigilante service. He turned, suggesting I follow him.

  “I can’t lose what I’ve got,” he answered sullenly as we climbed. There was no sign of the lab, no equipment, no scopes or electronics, or vials filled with oddly fascinating, poisonous concoctions. The room had been cleaned out, emptied of the past, and replaced by an old chair and a small table with yellowing doilies that were the shape of snowflakes.

  “Did your grandma live here?” I asked, half joking.

  “Funny. I like to come here and read. It’s quiet.”

  “I remember this looking a lot different,” I told him, wondering why we were here and hoping he’d reveal some kind of miracle. I sensed he had an idea though, and that was enough to give me hope. “You have something in mind, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he answered and moved the furniture around, knelt down and gave me his hand to join him. A shimmer of dust caught in the beaming sunlight, I waved it away and joined him as he pressed a set of floorboards in a coded sequence. A latch unhinged and released a hidden door. When he removed the flooring, he said, “If you’re going to do this, going to fake a death, maybe something in here will help.” He ste
pped away from the hidden cavity, the dark interior filled with tools of an assassin’s trade—our tools, preserved the last twenty years.

  The sight of our past, of what made Team Two, gave me a jolt. “Still good?” I asked, understanding his idea and picking up a vial to hold against the sunlight. I turned the glass ampule around, the warm rays setting the amber-red color on fire. At one time, the vial held a lethal poison. “Does this stuff go bad?”

  Brian shrugged. “On some of them, they become useless when the composition breaks down,” he started. “But a few have actually grown more lethal. And that’s where we must be extra cautious.”

  “We just need to make him look dead, enough to put him in the hospital, fill the press with fake news—”

  Brian shook his head, disagreeing. “I’m good, but news coverage is so faster than ever. If just one post, a mention, any news about his being alive comes out, it’ll spread faster than we can contain it.”

  “That’s why you have to plant hundred, thousands of stories, flooding every channel, making it impossible to find the truth. Do what you like you did before, like you did with Garrett Williams. Only a lot more.”

  “It’s risky.”

  “It’s all risky,” I agreed. “When you leak the news of Steve’s death, stay ahead of anything released, starting with the hospital, make sure nothing comes out. We control the news so the Wilts only see what we let them, giving us the opportunity we need.”

  “This one,” Brian said, lifting a vial, a single word: Ketamine. “Never opened. No exposure to sunlight. No heat. Potency will have dropped some, but will still work. It’s fast acting and can be lethal in high dosages. We want to use a fraction, use it like an anesthesia, relaxing his muscles, knocking him out. Nobody will know what’s wrong with him, so they’ll take him to the hospital.”

  “But the dosage? Are you sure,” I asked, uncomfortable, hearing Brian’s uncertainty.

  “It’s been so long since I touched any of this stuff,” he answered, sounding discouraged. “Wait. How about an ingestible, great shelf life?”

  I thought of the Diner and the plans Steve made earlier. “Which one?” I asked.

  “This is it,” he answered, raising his hand with a vial of white powder.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called Succinylcholine, another kind of anesthesia, and also causes temporary paralysis,” he answered. “Acts slower, but if you get enough in him for an ambulance ride, then I’ll flood the news with reports of his death before the hospital makes a statement.”

  “And once we have Snacks and Michael in protection, we’ll tell Steve everything.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I’D NEVER FELT THIS WAY BEFORE—beaten, defeated and scared. And not just afraid, but terrified. The Wilts gang had me under their thumb and I was putting all of my hope into a small baggy of white powder, a poison that might or might not work. But if it worked, it would free me, it would free our family. Would Steve understand? Later, once all of this was over? I mean, I’m poisoning him. My children’s safety was at stake, and so was his living. I could live with the consequences.

  “You’ll lose him though,” I said aloud, my words carrying on a breeze and stopping me mid-step. I was a block away from the Diner, facing the playground, clutching my chest, a dull ache squeezing like a vice. “You’ll lose Steve again, lose him forever.”

  I straightened myself and pulled the small bag of poison from my pocket, checking it for the hundredth time. I knew the sacrifice. I knew what it meant. And I was willing. I moved on, taking to the pavement with earnest like a locomotive, mindlessly driving forward, unencumbered by distractions or senseless what if questions.

  A gust of wind blew through my hair, sending it into my eyes, the warm summer smell giving me a moment, a reason to pause. In prison, the air doesn’t move and the seasonal smells are memories or your imagination. I’d all but forgotten about it until now.

  I pushed my hair back and found Steve in the Diner, and tapped on the front window, meeting him with a smile. My face hurt, the bruising from Tommy Wilts magically hidden with makeup and Carlos’ help.

  “The door,” I muttered, noticing Steve had taken a seat closest to the Diner’s only exit. It’d help too. It’d make for easy transport to the hospital—the ambulance and medics, in and out with limited difficulty—exactly the kind of detail I would have planned for in the past. I hesitated when my fingers wrapped around the door’s handle. I shifted and moved my hips, feeling for the butt of the gun, bringing it with me as a backup, thinking wildly about a bullet in Steve’s arm and Brian flooding the press feeds with fake news. “You can do this.”

  The door opened, startling me, I made room, stepping aside, giving Steve a shrug as a man and a woman with their three little children paraded out of the diner, a look of contentment on their faces as the children’s mother tried cleaning the youngest boy’s grubby cheeks.

  “Aren’t you polite,” Steve said when I made my way inside. “Hope this is okay? Place gets busy.”

  “It’s fine,” I told him and did a quick scan of the Diner’s main room, finding nearly every booth was full. Even the counter was seated at capacity—each of the pedestal seats adorned with someone on their lunch break. And with the crowd, the sounds of the Diner had been ratcheted up to the point of almost being noisy—dishes clamoring, flatware clinking, orders called above the crowd, bus-boys shuffling plates and the cash register ringing its computerized bell. “Wow, this place really got busy.”

  I took to the seat across from Steve while continuing to check out the crowd, check where in the booth I could sit and dose Steve’s drink without being noticed. One man had my eye. An old man with a torn, grime-stained Keep on Truckin’ hat. He’d set his eyes on me the moment I entered, peering down at a plastic tablet briefly and then following me as I greeted Steve. I couldn’t help but wonder if he worked for the Wilts, or if I was just being overly suspicious.

  The window, I decided. I moved close to the window, shifting once, and then moved back, staying clear out of Mr. Keep on Truckin’s view.

  “You okay?” Steve asked, watching me.

  I went blank for a second and then rocked my head, answering with a lie, “The seat has a lump.”

  “Oh, take mine, I don’t mind,” he said, getting up.

  “That’s sweet, but I can manage,” I said, resting my hands atop his, pulling them toward me and taking him off balance so he’d sit down. “I’ve sat on worse.”

  As I eased back onto the seat’s cushion, a hard nudge struck from the booth behind me. I turned briefly, finding two boys horsing around, their mother offering me an apology. She slapped the table-top, striking it with a sharp clap until the boys settled.

  I let out a laugh, a nervous laugh. Steve rolled his eyes, shaking his head. His attention went back to the full diner, “I wish we could move—”

  “No worries. I’ll manage.”

  “Listen, I have a big question to ask you,” he began, fidgeting with a menu, opening it without looking. I could sense he was nervous. “This is short notice and if you’d rather not, I’d completely understand.”

  “What is it?”

  “My campaign. There’s a fund-raiser—big stage, lots of important people, very formal.”

  I nodded as he spoke, understanding what he wanted to ask, but also knowing the outcome of my plans. “I’d love to go. When?”

  Steve let out a sigh. He smiled shamefully and mimed a glance to his wrist, answering, “It’s tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, trying not to sound alarmed or surprised. But also trying to think of what I’d wear. It didn’t matter though. There’d be no fund raiser. There’d be no campaign.

  “Sorry about the short notice,” he answered apologizing. “I completely understand if you said no.”

  “I’ll go,” I told him, knowing the truth, but also knowing it would relax him, please him. By tonight, Steve would be in the hospital, presumedly dead, and Snacks and Michael wou
ld be safe.

  “Terrific,” he said with a brimming smile. He took my hands, gave them a squeeze, adding, “Thank you. It’s a big crowd, and I’m a bit nervous. It’ll be nice to have you there. I have to go early, but will have a pass for you at the front door.”

  “You’ll do great,” I assured him.

  “Get you something to drink?” the waitress asked. I looked up to see Pigtails waiting on us. She looked tired with deep circles cradling her eyes, but she put on a bright smile as soon as she recognized me. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll have some coffee.”

  “Make that two,” Steve added, lifting his hand to show two fingers.

  She gave us a short nod and disappeared into the crowded kitchen. Now was my chance to get this over with. I felt the outside of my pocket, finding the outline of the poison. Pigtails returned, placing two cups onto the table—black coffee, steaming, the surface mirroring the light shining onto our table. “Are we ready to order?”

  “I’ll have a strawberry shake and double fries, salty,” I answered without hesitation.

  “What do you recommend for lunch?” Steve asked, thumbing the menu.

  “They have a great pastrami sandwich on rye bread,” I said, remembering his liking for rye bread.

  “Sounds good, I’ll have that.”

  Pigtails was gone again, and I didn’t expect we’d see her return until there was a flicker of ambulance lights and distant sirens screaming their arrival.

  “Have you heard from Snacks?” Steve asked suddenly. “You mentioned you two getting together? I mean, we’re not the closest, but it’s been a few days.”

  “She’s probably resting,” I lied. I closed my eyes tight, wishing the horror away. “Brian said she’s been working a lot too.”