by Trace Conger
I reached under my jacket and clicked my safety off. “Just for the record, I don’t like the idea of taking him out of that building,” I said.
“Noted. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Little Freddie slipped his Beretta 9mm from his jacket and tightened a suppressor to the business end. It doubled the length of the weapon. He kept it tight to his side and stepped out of the SUV. We walked around Banks’ unit until we stood on the fairway just beyond his back patio. Banks’ curtains were closed, so we couldn’t see into his living room. I approached the patio and saw a narrow band of light peeking through the edge of the curtain. I wedged myself against the wooden privacy fence and peered in. Banks sat in a leather recliner, watching television. No one else was in the room. I motioned to Little Freddie, and he went to the front door. I joined as he turned the key, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
Little Freddie led us into the foyer, past the kitchen and into the living room. Banks saw us and struggled to get to his feet from his reclined position. Little Freddie closed and placed his weapon to Banks’ forehead before his feet found the floor.
“Scream, and I shoot you,” said Little Freddie. “Nod your head if you understand.”
Banks locked his eyes on me and tried to nod his head against the forward pressure of the suppressor. His arms quaked and his pupils grew wider.
“Is there anyone else in the house?” said Little Freddie. Banks shook his head. I grabbed the remote, inched the sound up and then wiped the remote clean with my shirt.
“I want you to tell me your name,” said Little Freddie.
“Justin.”
“Justin what?”
“Justin Banks.”
Little Freddie glanced at the front door and then back to Banks. “Now listen very carefully, Justin,” he said. “You’re going to take a short car ride with us. You’re going to stand up and walk out the front door. Our car is waiting in the parking lot. If you run, I’ll shoot you in the back of the head. If you yell, I’ll shoot you in the back of the head. If you do anything besides walk to that car and get in the back seat, I’ll shoot you in the back of the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Banks, his eyes still wide.
Little Freddie backed off his weapon. “Okay, let’s go.”
Banks looked at me as he passed by. “Are you going to kill me?” he said.
“That’s up to you,” I said.
Little Freddie turned the doorknob, but I stopped him. I ran up the steps, found the bedroom that Banks used as an office, and grabbed the purple sack of bitcoins and the accordion file from the closet. Banks’ eyed followed the items in my hand as I came down the stairs.
I opened the door and glanced around to make sure no one was around. It was clear. I signaled Little Freddie and he nudged Banks out of the door. Twenty steps later, Banks and Little Freddie sat in the backseat of my SUV. I used my shirt to wipe the inside and outside doorknob clean. I grabbed the knob underneath my shirt and pulled the door closed and then headed to the SUV.
Banks looked out the rear window. “Where are we going?” he said.
“Someplace to talk,” said Little Freddie.
WE PULLED INTO THE HOOVER Dam Recreational Area. According to the sign, the park closed at dusk, and it appeared that everyone except Little Freddie and me obliged. Little Freddie sat with his back against the rear door, facing Banks, his 9mm resting on his thigh. I left the car to survey our options. I’d hoped to find a building, a clearing or something where Little Freddie could do what he needed to do. A sidewalk led from the parking lot, through a picnic area and across the top of the dam. The dam itself was maybe one hundred feet high and less than a quarter mile long. Water gushed from the top of the dam into Big Walnut Creek and the reservoir below. The rushing water overpowered my ears and the echo effect almost took my balance, but the water’s cold spray knocked me back into equilibrium.
I ran the length of the dam and found a padlocked access door. Equal parts rust and luck held it in place. I pulled my .45 and, keeping my finger off the trigger, drove the handle down hard. The padlock snapped off and shattered into three pieces on the ground. On the other side of the door, a stairwell led down to a concrete room about fifty feet square. I felt around the wall until I found a light switch, which powered eight dim lights. They flickered on one at a time. In front of me stood six cylinders, maybe pumps of some kind, about eight feet tall and as big around as a whiskey barrel.
My legs took the steps two at a time on the way back up the stairwell and my nerves turned my tongue to sandpaper by the time I made it back across the dam and to the car. For a moment I thought Little Freddie had already started in on Banks. He had the time. But when I arrived, they were in the same place I’d left them. Both silent.
I waved and Little Freddie grabbed his duffle from the floor and then motioned Banks to step out of the SUV. We started toward the dam.
“Same rules apply,” said Little Freddie. “You run, I shoot.”
Banks didn’t answer.
When we got to the door, we sent Banks down first and then Little Freddie and I followed.
Little Freddie pointed to the center of the room. While Banks walked, Little Freddie removed his jacket, folded it and laid it against the concrete wall. He placed his 9mm on top of the jacket and unzipped the duffle. Banks’ eyes followed his every move. Little Freddie pulled something from the duffle and slipped it into his pocket. Then, he took something else out and gripped it in his palm, but I couldn’t make it out under the dim fluorescents. The water cascading over the dam on top of us sounded like an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the highway.
Little Freddie circled Banks like a shark exploring a meal. “You know why you’re here?” said Little Freddie.
“No, I don’t.”
“Bishop sent us.”
Banks studied Little Freddie as he circled. “I don’t know who that is.”
Little Freddie snapped his wrist, extending a steel baton from its handle. He slammed the baton into Banks’ left knee. It sounded like a firecracker, a quick pop and then a crack. Then, a scream. He grabbed his knee and tumbled to his side on the concrete floor. He screamed again, but the rushing water overwhelmed the sound, locking it inside the concrete tomb. Little Freddie left him twisting on the floor until his screams descended into a low moan.
Little Freddie tapped the baton against the concrete floor. “You want to lose that other knee?” he said.
“No.” Banks’ words fought to escape as he drew in deep breaths.
“I’ll ask one more time,” said Banks. “Do you know why we’re here?”
“The website. The money.”
“That’s right,” said Little Freddie. “The coins my friend here took from your place. Is that everything that Bishop gave you, or is there more?”
Banks watched Little Freddie as he twirled the steel baton in his hand. “It’s all there.”
“That’s good,” said Little Freddie. “Now, we still have the problem of the breech. Bishop wants to know how you did it. And you’re gonna tell me so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Banks gripped his knee with both hands. His face was a landscape of terror and pain. “I used a—”
Little Freddie threw up his hand. “Hang on there, buddy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Little Freddie tucked the baton under his left armpit and pulled a small red digital voice recorder from his pocket. He pressed a button and it beeped. Little Freddie held it in front of Banks’ face. “Okay, now go ahead. All the details, please.”
Banks inhaled and explained step by step how he hacked Bishop’s site. More Chinese algebra to me. After five minutes, Little Freddie had recorded how Banks got into the site, how he gained administrator access and obtained all the information he downloaded. He also explained how Bishop could update the website code to stonewall another similar attack.
I was glad that Little Freddie thought to record it because I didn’t know what Bank
s had explained, nor did I have the brain cells to relay it back to Bishop in a coherent manner.
Little Freddie slipped the recorder back into his pocket. “Is that it?” he said.
“That’s it.”
“Anything else you want to say?”
“No.” He still cradled his knee. “Just that I’m sorry I did it, and it won’t happen again.” He looked up at Little Freddie. “Can I go home now?”
Little Freddie turned to me. “He wants to go home. What do you think? Should we take him home?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look around, you piece of shit,” said Little Freddie. “You’re going to die here tonight.”
“But you ...” Little Freddie drove his right foot into Banks’ chest, crushing at least one rib. The snap reminded me of the sound his knee made. Banks grabbed his chest and searched for his breath while Little Freddie returned to his duffle. He replaced the baton and took out a pair of pliers.
The continuous rumbling of the water overhead convinced me no one would hear Banks. I was more concerned that a park ranger or patrolman might run our plates in the parking lot, since the SUV was in the lot after hours, or perhaps a maintenance worker might be out checking the locks on the substation doors.
I looked up at the substation door. “Let’s get this over with,” I said. “We got what we need.”
“We got plenty of time.”
Banks crawled toward me. Toward the stairs. He looked up at me. “Why are you letting this happen?” he said.
Before I could think to answer, Little Freddie was back on him. He sat on Banks’ back and punched him in the back of the head, knocking it against the concrete floor and breaking several teeth, which scattered in front of him. He grabbed Banks’ right hand, held his arm out straight and slipped the pliers around Banks’ thumb. Little Freddie drove his knee into Banks’ back and squeezed the pliers. The bone crunched. Not as loud as the knee. More like kindling crackling in a fire. Banks screamed again. Little Freddie moved fast, cracking each finger in rapid succession. When he finished with Banks’ right hand, he stood up to admire the mangled fingers, each pointing in a different direction.
I looked down at the floor. “That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time to go,” said Little Freddie. He returned to his duffle again and swapped the pliers for a knife the size of a bowling pin. He pulled the blade from its sheath. “I’m gonna carve this fucker up.”
Banks looked up at me. His face smeared with blood, saliva and small bits of broken teeth. Little Freddie started toward him, the knife raised high. Before I realized what had happened, I’d pulled my .45 and buried a slug in Banks’ forehead.
Little Freddie looked at me like I’d just pissed in his ice cream. “What the fuck?” he said. “I was just getting started.”
I kept the .45 out, but pointed it at the floor, in case Little Freddie charged me. “It’s enough. We got what we needed. It’s too risky to stay here longer than we have to.”
His eyebrows arched, his eyes squinted, and it looked like he was sizing me up. Then, he slid the knife back into the duffle and pulled out a plastic drop cloth and a role of duct tape. I returned the .45 to the holster under my jacket, pocketed the shell casing and helped Little Freddie wrap the body. We used half the roll of tape to secure the plastic. Little Freddie grabbed his duffle as I wiped the light switch clean. Then, we carried Banks’ body up the steps.
I opened the door and checked the top of the dam. Still clear. Little Freddie said something, but the water cascading over the top of the damn took his words into the reservoir below. I wiped the doorknob clean and we carried Banks’ body into the woods that surrounded the park and rolled him down a steep ravine. We’d be long gone before anyone found the body, and there was nothing to tie us to Banks when they did.
We ran back toward the SUV, and I felt the half pot of coffee and the turkey sandwich I’d had for dinner mixing together and climbing my throat. I reached the car just in time to see what was left of my dinner splatter onto the gravel parking lot.
Little Freddie smiled. “Guess you don’t have the stomach for this type of work,” he said as he tossed the duffle into the back seat and climbed through the passenger door.
I handed him my cell to call Bishop and tell him it was done. Then, I wiped my sleeve across my mouth, hit the ignition, pointed the car south and we headed back to Cincinnati.
THE RIDE HOME WAS SILENT for the first half hour. I thought Little Freddie dozed off. His head rested against the window, away from me. Then, he rolled it over toward me.
“You want to tell me what that was all about?” he said.
“The puking?”
He tapped the passenger window with two knuckles. “No, dumbass. I get the puking. Why you put Banks down like that. I had some more work to do.”
“Bishop wanted the money and the method. We got both. Torturing him wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Maybe it wasn’t part of Bishop’s deal, but that’s how I work and you took that from me.”
I shifted in my seat. “I’ve got no problem putting someone down who deserves it, but I didn’t sign up for pliers and skinning knives. I’m no Sigmund Freud, but you got some dark shit going on in your noggin.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be sitting in on my jobs,” said Little Freddie.
I looked out the rear window to check my blind spot before changing lanes and caught a glimpse of Little Freddie’s duffle. “What’s with that duffle? Your own little torture kit?”
Little Freddie glanced back at the bag. “That’s for my girl.”
“Say again?” I said.
“My girl.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
Little Freddie tapped his knuckles on the passenger window again. Two taps. “Why’d you get into this business?” he said.
“I told you earlier, I needed the money. Don’t have a lot of options without a state PI license.”
“Right, the money. The lengths we go to are defined by our needs. You need money, maybe to support a family or something, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, money motivates you to do bad things, and you’re okay doing those bad things because you can rationalize it.”
“There’s nothing rational about what you did back there,” I said.
“My needs and motivations are just a little stronger than yours. For me, it’s not about the money. Truth is, I’d do this shit for free.”
“Then, what’s it about if not the money?” I said.
Little Freddie hesitated. I could see the strain on his face, like he was having an internal debate whether he should continue or keep his mouth shut, if he should let me through that velvet rope or not. He was on the edge and I had to push him.
“Come on. What is it?” I said.
More taps on the window. “It’s about taking something back from these people. From the pieces of shit like Banks, like Bishop and like everyone else who plays this game, who take and take from other people. It’s about filling a hole that someone opened up.”
“What hole?” I said.
Little Freddie laid his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. His shoulders slouched and eased into the passenger seat. His chest heaved forward, and it felt like he’d sucked all the air from inside the vehicle.
“My wife, Sarah, used to pick up our seven-year-old daughter from ballet class every Wednesday night,” he said. “Sarah would pick her up and then grab dinner at Wendy’s and bring it home. I’d spread out a big blanket, and we’d have a picnic right there on the living room floor. In the summer, sometimes we’d have our picnic on the front porch. Then, one day, they didn’t come home. I thought traffic maybe. Just running a little late. Then a half hour turns into an hour. Then two hours. Part of me wants to jump in the car and go look for them, but I don’t have a cell phone, and I’m afraid to leave the house and miss their call if they need help. My mind is bouncing around inside my skull, thinking
of all the possibilities.
“After about three hours, there’s a knock at the door. It’s a uniformed officer and a plainclothes detective. They say they need to talk to me. That something’s happened. They tell me to sit down. I ask them what happened, where’s my wife and daughter, but I already know. They’re dead. And not accident dead, but murdered. I knew that from the detective. He was there to ask questions. He was there as part of an investigation. Had it been an accident, I’d have been talking with two uniformed police officers. But the detective, he gave it away.
“They tell me they found my wife and daughter in the woods along the road, about five miles from my house. Some guy driving by sees my wife’s car and calls it in because he notices one of the car windows is broken. The cops show up and search the scene and find my daughter and my wife in a ditch a few feet from the car.
“The detective starts asking me questions about my relationship with my wife. If we’re having any troubles, which we weren’t. I know he’s just doing his job. That he has to treat me as an initial suspect, given it’s my wife and kid who’re dead. I’m connected. I answer his questions and then press him for details on the scene. I come to find out that my wife had been beaten and raped. Her throat slit. God knows what my daughter saw that night. They died right there in that ditch. In a fucking roadside ditch. The cops investigated it but didn’t come up with anything. It’s still listed as an open case, but no one’s working it.”
I kept my eyes on the road, not wanting to make eye contact. “Any idea who did it?” I said.
“No. I was working with some pretty bad people at the time, but it never followed me home until that day. That’s the problem with this game—the shit-stains we deal with. They all know someone. You get to the wrong person and they’ll strike back at you, but you’ll never see it coming. It always comes from a different direction. Round and round it goes.
“Whoever did it likes to fuck with me, though. Every now and then, they send me a postcard with details, about how my wife screamed or about how my daughter called out for me, shit like that. I keep all the postcards in a shoebox in my closet.”
