Smoke & Mirrors

by John Ramsey Miller

  Albert took the recorder and, shifting uncomfortably, promptly emptied his bowels.

  “Nice,” Finch said. “Carl, roll down some windows.”

  102

  WINTER SAT WATCHING HAMP PLAY A VIDEO GAME. To everyone’s great relief, Cyn had just sent a text message saying she would be home by ten P.M.

  Seated on the floor with his legs crossed, the controller in his small hands, Hamp worked his fingers expertly, his eyes glued to the screen where muscular figures dressed in tight outfits traded punches and kicked at each other.

  “Which one are you?” Winter asked.

  “The white one,” Hamp replied. “The good wizard.”

  Winter’s cell phone rang and he opened it, stood, and walked out of the room so he wouldn’t disturb Hamp.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Yeah, what?” Sean’s voice said.

  “Yeah, hello, my dear.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I was sitting in a room with a child that reminds me of my son.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “We’re winding down. We have a meeting in a little while to transfer some land that has already cost three lives.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you later.”

  “What about you-know-who?”

  “He who must not be named?” Winter said, infusing the joke with a joviality he didn’t feel.

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing but tracks,” he said truthfully.

  “You’re being careful?”

  “Of course I am. How’s Trammel doing?”

  “Hank’s really proud of Faith Ann’s deer. He is getting the pictures blown up for the wall. Is Alexa with you?”

  “Not at the moment. She had to go handle some Bureau politics.”

  “The FBI getting involved?”

  “No. It’s still a local matter.”

  “I wish you were here,” Sean said. “I wish you were here in our bed with me. I could use some of that special Massey attention.”

  “I’ll bring you a few pounds of that when I get this done. Word of honor.”

  “Should I worry?”

  “No, you definitely should not.”

  Winter heard Olivia crying in the background.

  “I have to go. Sleeping Beauty is awake. Call me in the morning?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Massey, you know what?”

  “No, what?” he asked, smiling.

  “When you get back, I’m going to show you what.”

  “I love you, Sean,” he said. “Tell the gang I said I love them.”

  “Even Hank?”

  “Don’t tell him.”

  Winter closed the phone after Sean broke the connection. He formed a picture in his mind of Hank and Millie Trammel and felt his eyes narrow into slits, as he pictured them run down and shattered in that rain-soaked New Orleans street.

  Winter looked over his shoulder and what he saw stopped him cold. There through the partly opened kitchen door Winter was treated to a view of Brad and Leigh. They were embracing, her head against his chest. As he watched, Leigh leaned back, looked up, and instead of stepping back, as Winter expected, the two looked into each other’s eyes and put their lips together.

  When their kiss finally ended, they tightened their embrace, and when Leigh opened her eyes, they met Winter’s and enlarged in the same sort of embarrassment that one might expect from a teenager caught singing to her reflection in a mirror. He wondered, as he turned away, if she’d seen the same expression on his face.

  103

  AS SOON AS ROY BISHOP AND ANOTHER DEPUTY arrived to stay at the house with Estelle and Hampton, Winter, Leigh, and Brad prepared to leave. Four other armed deputies would caravan to the casino and wait until Leigh’s business was concluded, then stick with them until the papers were signed. Billy Lyons was going to meet them at the casino at nine o’clock to make sure the documents were legally binding and correctly signed.

  Before the trio filed out of the house, Leigh embraced her son and told him to mind Estelle and the deputies. He agreed easily. All Hampton and Estelle knew was that Leigh was going with Winter and Brad to a business meeting.

  Brad drove them in Winter’s Jeep since it was being monitored. They’d decided they wanted the cutouts to know if Styer made an attempt on Winter.

  The drive to the casino was uneventful. Winter wondered if Brad knew he’d seen the couple kissing in the kitchen. He supposed Leigh might have said something to him, although he didn’t act any differently than before.

  Winter couldn’t help but wonder if this trouble had broken down the icy wall between them. As far as Winter could tell, the years they were apart had been unnecessary, due to their youth and misunderstanding. He supposed that Leigh’s stubbornness had played a big part in their lengthy split. It was Winter’s experience that successful relationships depended on open communication, mutual respect, and forgiveness, but he figured they understood that now.

  At the casino, the cruisers parked and the deputies stepped out to their assigned posts, where they would await further orders. Billy Lyons waited under the portico, briefcase in hand.

  Leigh’s cell phone rang and she looked at the caller ID. “It’s Cyn!”

  She flipped open the phone. “Cyn, where are you?”

  She listened for a few seconds.

  “That’s great. We’ll see you later at the house and you can tell us all about it.” She hung up and smiled.

  “She’s being dropped off at a public place as soon as the deal is done,” Leigh said. She wiped a tear from her eye. “She’s fine.”

  “Did she say where she was?” Brad asked. “Who had her?”

  “No,” Leigh said. “But she said she’s fine. She sounded fine. She said to call her phone as soon as the papers are signed.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Winter said, relieved.

  After the deputies were in position, Brad cut the motor and said, “Showtime.”

  They walked toward the casino, Winter’s and Brad’s eyes scanning the crowd like two cowboys headed toward the only saloon in a lawless cow town.

  104

  ALEXA SAT IN THE EXTENDED CAB OF LEIGH’S PICKUP parked in a dark pecan orchard a mile from Six Oaks, waiting for whatever Styer was waiting for.

  “Can we go home now?” Cynthia asked. “I told Mama what you said to.”

  “Sit quiet and let the adults talk. We’ll be going in shortly,” Styer said. He continued thoughtfully, “I should have been an athlete. My father was a gymnast, a gold medalist for East Germany. My mother was a chess player, a grand master who was a cryptologist for Stasi. When I was eight, I had an IQ of over one hundred and sixty, amazing physical strength and agility.”

  Styer smiled, his eyes far away. “My parents were good Germans. Hitler and his generals were giants, conquering an entire continent one country at a time. Few complained while they were winning because their stomachs were full and they could feel proud again.”

  “Good Germans,” Alexa said, not knowing what else to say.

  “My parents let the KGB take me from them when I was nine. I remember them telling me how wonderful it was that I would be trained as so few were. How fortunate I was to have been born so special that such very important men and women would prove my greatness to the world. They were so proud.” There was a distinct note of bitterness in the last words.

  “When they came for me to take me to the school, it was winter. I recall how the exhaust pipe smoked in the dark, how the snow crunched beneath my shoes. I was taken by plane to a base at the foot of the Ural Mountains, and out from there, by military helicopter.”

  “What kind of academy was it?” Alexa asked, curious.

  “It was a school for assassins, but of course I didn’t know that at first.”

  Styer stopped talking when three sets of headlights came into view. “There they are. Massey and the others. Jeep and two cruisers. Let me
remind you, Alexa, before you try to turn on the lights, that I have the cell phone in my hand.”

  “I know that.”

  After the caravan was out of sight, Styer set down the binoculars. “Where was I?”

  “You were talking about your parents.”

  “Last year I dropped in for a visit with them. Not a word had they had from me in twenty-nine years, and they begged me to stay. But we were no more than strangers. My mother said she was sorry she ever let them take me, but had no choice. She and my father were just being good Germans who showed their appreciation by giving their beloved only son to the state. I became no more than an instrument for others to use to their own ends, instead of something else like a doctor, a musician, even an Olympic gold medalist.” Styer smiled strangely. “You can’t imagine all those nights I cried silently in my bed so no one could sense my weakness and use it against me.”

  “I know there must be something of the boy you were deep down inside you,” Alexa said. “None of this is necessary. If you leave, Winter won’t be a threat. His children need him. His wife needs him.”

  Styer put the truck in gear, then turned it off and looked at her. “It will be less suspicious if you will drive again from here, Alexa. Cyn, no warning looks or I will kill the deputy and cut your throat. Come around, Alexa, and I will slide over.”

  Alexa got out and climbed back into the cab to find that Styer had adjusted the seat forward for her. She cranked the truck, deciding to keep him talking if she could. She wanted to reach the little boy who had once loved his parents.

  “Do you keep in touch with your parents?”

  “That’s hardly possible, darlin’,” Styer said in the voice of the man he was now impersonating. “They died in an accidental fire while I was visiting with them. Of course, being an only son, I stayed in Berlin long enough to make the funeral arrangements.”

  105

  A MAN DRESSED IN A CASINO EMPLOYEE’S ATTIRE waited at the elevators, smiling at their approach. “Mr. Klein and his attorney are expecting you.”

  His name tag said he was Alex Coyle, the concierge. After they got into the car, he signaled to a young bellboy who was standing beside the desk. The youth came over and got into the elevator, taking a key from the concierge. He put the key in the lock, pressed the button for the eighth floor, and watched the panel with a customer-service smile plastered on his face.

  “Hello, Mr. Green,” Winter said to the boy whose name tag read, JOHNNY GREEN.

  He nodded. “I’m supposed to show y’all up.”

  “Nice night,” Leigh said.

  “I guess so,” Johnny said. “In here you wouldn’t know if it was night or day. Is it freezing over yet?”

  “It’s getting colder by the minute,” Billy Lyons said as the elevator stopped.

  Johnny Green escorted them down the hall to suite 825, and rapped on the partly open door with gloved fingers.

  “Enter!” Kurt Klein’s unmistakable voice cried out.

  Billy Lyons reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a money clip, and peeled off a twenty, which he handed to the bellboy.

  “Thank you,” Johnny Green said, putting the bill into his pocket without inspecting it. He held the door open until they were inside and closed it gently behind them.

  “Never would have found the eighth floor on our own,” Winter said, ribbing his friend.

  “What I’m charging for this,” Billy said, “I can afford to be generous.”

  106

  THE LIMOUSINE FLOATED ALONG NEARLY DESERTED county roads, while Albert recorded the confession Finch had demanded.

  “That was almost perfect,” Finch said, after listening to the second version. “Concise and covers all of the major points.”

  Despite the fear that he was about to be killed, Albert was furious that Klein was going to cover his ass using Albert’s dead body.

  Albert knew where they were going before they turned off the paved road, through the woods to where the landscape opened up like a battlefield. The limousine rolled among great tortured clumps of gathered tree limbs toward the lone equipment-storage structure, which was visible against the levee that ran north to south like a great wall.

  The limo driver got out and opened the gates, then drove into the parking lot surrounding the structure, leaving the gates standing open.

  “You don’t have to kill me,” Albert said weakly.

  “In fact, I do,” Finch told him. “Those are my orders. How I accomplish the task is up to you. I can torture you and roll your fat carcass into a hole and let you smother as we push dirt over you, or I can put you to sleep painlessly. I don’t dislike you, Albert. There’s nothing personal in this. I believe the mitigating factor is that you and Jack Beals robbed and murdered customers of Herr Klein’s casino for profit. Pretty shortsighted—liquidating future customers—don’t you think?”

  Albert didn’t know how they knew about his side enterprise, but seeing that they had found his stash, and knew about Beals’s stash, there was no sense denying it.

  “How much did Mulvane take?”

  “He wasn’t in on it.”

  “Was Murphy involved?”

  Albert shook his head.

  “Just you two?”

  Albert nodded. He was thinking about the gun locked up in his desk, and wishing Tug had come along. With Tug, there would be hope. Without him, there was none.

  The limo stopped ten feet from the door. The driver and the two thugs climbed out. The driver used a key to open the personnel door and stepped inside to turn on the lights. Meanwhile, Finch aimed his weapon at Albert. “After you, Albert.”

  Albert rolled from the seat and crabbed out of the vehicle, hardly aware of the icy drizzle that stung his cheeks like BBs. When he took a step, he slipped in a slick patch in front of the door and his feet flew out from under him. At the sight of Albert flat on his back and flailing in pain, Finch and the thugs laughed—cruel children delighted by the struggles of a flipped-over turtle. With one of the big men pulling on either of his arms, Albert scrambled to his feet, his pants clinging wetly to his soiled buttocks.

  107

  TUG HAD FOLLOWED THE LIMOUSINE, AND PARKED White’s SUV at the edge of the woods. On foot, he trailed the five men into the enormous barn filled with massive earth-moving equipment. The tires on some of the pieces were taller than he was. Only the closest rows of overhead warehouse lights were on, and the men were clustered below a steel support beam in front of the manager’s trailer.

  After slipping into the rows of equipment, Tug watched as the driver placed a cinder block and a wooden crate side by side below the beam. The larger of the thugs went into the office trailer and returned with a looped yellow nylon rope, which he threw over the beam. The driver tied a slipknot in one end and, after taking out the slack, the noose dangled five feet over the crate.

  “You’re planning to hang me?” Albert asked in a horrified voice. “Not that!”

  “Do as we say,” Finch told Albert. “There are propane torches in here, if you’d like to go that route.”

  “Get up on the crate, fatso,” the largest thug demanded. “There’s also dynamite in the explosives shed. We could shove a stick up your ass and light it.” The men all laughed, no doubt delighted by the prospect.

  “We could roast your little pig balls,” the driver said, snickering.

  Tug moved closer each time the men said something, using their noise to cover his stealthy movements.

  Resigned, legs shaking, Albert climbed onto the cinder block and stepped onto the crate, which shifted under his considerable weight. While the smaller of the thugs kept his gun aimed at Albert’s groin, Finch climbed up onto the block and placed the noose around Albert’s neck. The driver pulled the far end tight and tied it to a steel water pipe.

  Albert began begging for his life, steam issuing from his mouth in the cold building.

  “Please…please…don’t do me like this, Mr. Finch,” he said.

  “Mr. Finch�
��please!” the driver called out. The four men, standing in a loose line with their backs to the equipment, were laughing and jeering.

  Tug Murphy was in position, his shotgun loaded to its steel gills with five rounds of double-ought. It would be enough. He had left his coat outside so he would have immediate access to the USP45 in his shoulder holster, along with the six loaded magazines suspended under his right armpit.

  “Please!” Albert screamed. “Please let me have me a few last words!”

  Tug stopped behind a bulldozer that stood between him and the men. He crept around the massive steel treads and in behind the lowered blade. Tug put the shotgun against his shoulder, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and straightened, now square to the men as the gun cleared the top of the steel blade. While only his head and shoulders were exposed, the men between him and the wall had no cover at all, and not one of Klein’s henchmen had a gun in their hand at the moment.

  The limousine driver saw Tug rise into view, but the barrel aimed at him froze him in mid-laugh. When Tug squeezed the trigger, the driver’s head literally vanished. As his corpse collapsed, his hat spun away like a Frisbee.

  Tug aimed the next shot at Finch’s legs, but because Finch was already moving, the buckshot only took his right knee off. The South African fell hard on his left side and went for his gun, but Tug swung the barrel to one of the others who had drawn steel and was raising the muzzle of his handgun. Tug blew a hole in that man’s chest, a few inches below his neck.

  There was a dull clap as Finch’s gun barked, but the bulldozer blade deflected the round. Tug’s third blast hit Finch in the right shoulder, rendering his hand inoperable as the gun locked in his grip fell heavily to the dirt.

  Tug heard a report and felt a slap to his right shoulder. He turned to see Albert kick out at the last standing shooter, striking him in his back before he could fire again. It didn’t keep the man from firing at Tug, but it spoiled his aim. As Albert shifted his balance to kick out again, the crate fell on its side, the noose abruptly ending his fall. It took longer than it should have for Tug to point the gun, but the back-kicked man was squatting now to get a more solid shooting stance. He took the buckshot square in his stomach and fell behind the overturned crate. Tug pointed the shotgun at the crate and fired again, the buckshot piercing its wood slat walls to find the man behind it.