by Alex Kava
“No! They’ll kill me. Don’t you understand that?”
Amanda curled herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, from underneath sweaty bangs and long hair that she’d let fall into her face to hide behind. She felt tears stream down her cheeks, but she muffled her sobs. She could see them staring at each other and they seemed to do it for the longest time, as if neither one wanted to give in to the other.
“Upstairs bathroom,” Hannah finally told Ryder. “Get me the laxative from the top shelf in the medicine cabinet.”
“Laxative?”
“How else you think they’re coming out?”
He glanced at Amanda in the same way someone looks at a wounded animal, but then without saying a word, he headed out of the room.
“And you,” Hannah said to Amanda, “get ready to start counting. I hope to God for your own sake that you remember how many you swallowed.”
22
NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA
MAGGIE O’DELL CURLED into the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her and her head swirling from the nightcap she had convinced herself she deserved, since she hadn’t finished her second beer at Old Ebbitt’s. Now she wished she had invited Ben to come back to her house.
She had recently rebuilt and remodeled much of the two-story Tudor after a fire had destroyed the front section of the house. The process had been painstaking, but amazingly, she could no longer smell soot or ash or any hint of what had happened. Still, the place felt different.
She knew the fire had destroyed more than the plaster and beams and furniture. It had taken a chunk of O’Dell’s sense of security. The house sat on a wooded acre, isolated by a creek and a natural preserve behind the property. Ironically, she had bought the place with a trust her father had left her—her father, who as a firefighter had died in the line of duty when O’Dell was just twelve. She thought she had created a sanctuary with its high-tech security system and the natural barriers of the high-banked creek that ran along the back of the property. Even the stately pines that bordered the sides reminded her of sentries standing guard, shoulder to shoulder.
She also had two canine bodyguards: one she’d rescued and the other had rescued her. Harvey, a white Labrador retriever, lay on the sofa beside her, his head against her thigh. Jake stayed at her feet, the German shepherd constantly on alert. The dogs put up with her late nights, many of which were spent here in the living room instead of her upstairs master bedroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept more than three or four hours at a time. She accepted the insomnia as if it were just another occupational hazard. However, the nightcap was beginning to do its job.
Just as she decided to call it quits for the night, she noticed a new e-mail. The icon flashed in the corner of her laptop’s screen. She’d come up empty-handed after putting through several searches in the databases she had access to. ViCAP hadn’t come back with any matches close to an MO of fire ants being used as torture. Not that she expected any. What was more remarkable was that none of the floater’s info seemed to ring any bells.
O’Dell was used to looking closely at a victim’s lifestyle, habits, whereabouts, connections—anything that might lead her to the killer. Some victims were at higher risk than others, even if they were chosen randomly by a killer. Driving late at night in an unfamiliar area, accepting a ride from a stranger, drinking at an establishment of ill repute, buying drugs, engaging in prostitution put a person at higher risk. Yes, it might sound like blaming the victim, but it was an unfortunate fact that some homicide victims—like, perhaps, a drug dealer—put themselves at more risk than the ordinary person. And knowing how and where and under what circumstances the victim met his or her killer could oftentimes beat a path to the killer’s identity.
However, Trevor Bagley had no outstanding warrants, no arrests, no fines—not even an unpaid parking ticket. All taxes—property and income—were up-to-date. According to the Alabama real estate tax assessor, Bagley owned a house on ten acres. His mortgage had no late-payment fees.
His 2012 Dodge Ram pickup had been paid off. As was a brand-new Land Rover that was also registered in his wife Regina’s name. Bagley’s driver’s license was current. He was self-employed and so was his wife. In the last year he had been an independent contractor working for a commercial fisherman.
There was no record of drug use or abuse for either Bagley or his wife. No debt or liens against them or their property. Just two respectable taxpayers minding their own business.
The only thing O’Dell could find about Trevor Bagley that possibly sent up a red flag was his discharge from the military. She wasn’t given access to see why and suspected it might have been a dishonorable discharge. She’d need to investigate that more closely.
Now, as she scanned the e-mail that had just come in, she saw no new information. Nothing to even suggest drug dealing. How could she have been so wrong? Had she let a tattoo of Santa Muerte judge this poor man? Was it possible he was the random victim of a sadistic killer?
She typed Bagley’s home address into the Google Maps search. Just as she suspected, the ten acres were in a remote part of southern Alabama. Few roads showed up. The Conecuh River ran on the left side of the property. Not far to the south was the Conecuh National Forest. Before she clicked on the satellite view, she found herself wondering if it was possible Bagley was tortured in his own backyard.
Maybe Regina Bagley could help shed light on how her husband could have met a fate like this. Unfortunately, the woman wasn’t answering her phone. O’Dell had already reserved a morning flight but she wasn’t looking forward to it. Never mind that she hated flying, she hated even more to have to break such news to a family member. How exactly was she supposed to tell Mrs. Bagley that her husband had been tortured and his body dumped nine hundred miles away in the Potomac River?
23
AS FAR AS ASSIGNMENTS WENT, the one that the Iceman had just given Falco would be his most challenging. Little did it help that he hated dogs. No, that wasn’t exactly true. If it were, this would be easy. He didn’t hate dogs—he was frightened of them. But never in a thousand years would he admit that to anyone, least of all, the Iceman.
He didn’t even have a good reason to fear them. He wished he could point to some vicious attack or at least a scar from a dog bite. But there was nothing like that.
Several years ago, in his hometown of Mosquera—a suburb of Bogotá, Colombia—it seemed that stray dogs had taken over the city. More than thirty thousand dirty mutts roamed the streets. You could see them lounging under trees during the day and prowling the alleys for food at night. You couldn’t walk the city sidewalks without stepping in their crap. It was disgusting.
One by itself might have been a pathetic sight. But they traveled in packs. They looked like savages, desperate and hungry, with long legs, protruding ribs, scruffs of fur, glassy eyes, and frothing mouths. Maybe not frothing. Panting and flashing yellowed fangs. It was what he remembered. He was still just a boy at the time.
It didn’t help matters that his mother had told him that a pack of wild dogs had attacked and eaten a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from the safety of his backyard. Never mind that it was probably a story that mothers told to misbehaving young boys in order to instill enough fear in them to straighten up and do right.
It had given Falco nightmares. Sometimes he still dreamed of being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. He could hear them thundering closer and closer until he could feel their razor-sharp fangs snapping at his heels. Usually he woke up just as they started to drag him down.
A thumping sound made Falco jump and almost swerve off the road. As he checked the rearview mirror he was already embarrassed by his reaction. In the back of the Land Rover the bundle twitched and jerked.
How the hell could the bastard still be alive?
> He glanced at the vehicle’s navigation system. He still had forty-seven miles to go. Falco adjusted the rearview mirror to take a better look. He’d rolled the guy up in a plastic tarp and wrapped a sturdy cable around him, tying it securely.
How was the son of bitch able to breathe?
No way he’d manage to get out, even in forty-seven more miles, but Falco didn’t want any blood in the back of the Land Rover. It was bad enough that he had to keep all those burlap bags back there. He’d grown quite fond of this vehicle. Earlier, he worried that the Iceman would make him dump it.
“You haven’t gotten rid of the Land Rover yet?”
“It has a V8 engine,” Falco had told him with a grin.
The Iceman didn’t smile.
“Besides, I changed out the license plates like you told me.”
“Where?”
“That strip club on Davis Highway. Figured some drunk horny guy’s not gonna report it, even if he ever knew what his license plate number was.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought the Iceman almost smiled. Almost. He did nod and that, alone, was praise from the man.
“Still, I’ll tell them to get you a decent ride. Have they, at least, been paying you on time? You let me know if they don’t.”
That wasn’t a problem. The money was good. Falco didn’t know what to do with it all. Really, he didn’t know what to do with it. They paid him in cash. It wasn’t like he could walk into a bank and open an account.
He had started wrapping stacks in aluminum foil about the size of a meat loaf, then labeling them “meat loaf” or “pot roast” on the outside with a black marker. But his freezer didn’t have room for many more. He’d gotten the idea from an old black-and-white movie. He figured if someone found them, they’d just feel sorry for him that all he had to eat was meat loaf and pot roast.
A freezer full of anything was certainly more than his mother had when she was raising him. Sometimes he wished she could see him. She’d love this Land Rover. The seats were made of smooth leather, softer than anything he imagined she’d ever sat on. Maybe in a month or so he’d try to find a way to send her some money.
Falco glanced in the mirror again at the bundle twisting and thumping. Of course, his mother would want to know about his job. Maybe he’d tell her he was a deliveryman.
He smiled at that and turned on the radio, blasting the volume until he couldn’t hear the thumping anymore.
24
CREED IGNORED THE SWEAT dripping down his back and the buzz of mosquitoes. Bastards would eat him alive if given half a chance. He’d drenched a kerchief in Hannah’s special elixir and tied it around his neck. Then he rubbed some of the liquid over exposed parts of his body: face, neck, hands, and ankles. The rest of the stuff he sprayed on Bolo and raked through his short coat. Must be working. The big dog was snoring, sprawled out in the knee-high grass alongside him.
His snores made Creed wonder if this could all be a waste of time. Maybe he was being overly paranoid once again. Were the drugs inside Amanda worth it? Was she worth it? Seems like it would be easier to cut their losses and consider her collateral damage.
He had taken up a patrol post in his neighbor’s field across the road from his own property. Nestled inside the tall grass at the edge of the pine forest, he had a perfect view, not only of the entrance to his own driveway, but the entire stretch along the road. Anyone who dared to come onto his property would have to somehow manage it from this side. Otherwise they’d need to cross a river and hack their way through the thicket and forest.
Creed couldn’t imagine a bunch of arrogant drug-cartel goons going through the trouble, especially in the pitch-black of night with only a sliver of moonlight. No way could they stumble around in the dark in an area they didn’t know without bringing flashlights.
But then, what did he know about drug-cartel hit men?
He did know a thing or two about staging a security post—watching and looking out for the enemy. Unfortunately, stuff like that from his Afghanistan tours stuck with him. Of course, there was a big difference waiting for the enemy with only a shotgun and a dog, instead of an AK-47. But then, Bolo wasn’t any dog.
Named for the law enforcement acronym BOLO, Be On The Lookout, the dog had lived up to his name on more than several occasions. As far as Creed could tell, he was a mixture of Labrador retriever, with his webbed paws and lopsided grin along with Rhodesian ridgeback, sporting the breed’s telltale ridge of hair that ran the length of his spine in the opposite direction of his coat. He had a nose on him that made him one of Creed’s best air-scent dogs, yet Creed used a lot of discretion before taking Bolo on a job.
Ridgebacks were developed in South Africa and nicknamed African lion hounds because they could keep a lion at bay until their master was able to make the kill. They were known for strength and intelligence. Large and muscular, they had an imposing, almost daunting presence, but they weren’t usually aggressive dogs. More mischievous than anything else. They could, however, be loyal to a fault and dangerously overprotective of their master.
On one of their last outings, a sheriff’s deputy had yelled at Creed. Without warning and in only a matter of seconds, Bolo had flattened the rather large man. Ninety pounds of dog had to be removed from the man’s chest, though Bolo hadn’t bitten him or grabbed any limbs.
It wasn’t the first time the dog had attacked someone he thought was a threat to his master. It was one of the reasons Creed had to be careful what assignments he took Bolo on. It was also the reason he had him along tonight. Though not specifically trained as an apprehension dog, he was the closest thing Creed had to one. He figured the dog could probably take down an intruder faster and better than Creed could with the shotgun. But he was in no hurry to find out.
He had brought a sleeping bag, though he didn’t expect to sleep. The rolled-up bag cushioned his back from the tree bark. He’d be stiff and sore by morning from sitting all night in the damp, but it was nothing some laps in the pool wouldn’t smooth away. Just as he started to readjust his long legs, Bolo’s head shot up.
“It’s okay, buddy, it’s just me.”
But it wasn’t just him. And now Creed could hear the approaching engine. He put a hand on the dog’s back to keep him by his side. In the dark Creed tried to see the vehicle, but even as the sound grew louder he couldn’t see it. Then he realized why, as he spotted movement about a half-mile up the road.
The vehicle didn’t have its headlights on.
25
THE SUV HAD SLOWED TO A CRAWL. Probably trying to avoid the slightest tap on the brakes that would flash the red backlights. By the time it came to a stop it was less than twenty feet from the entrance to the driveway. Creed and Bolo crouched in the ditch, already within striking distance.
The big dog knew to be quiet, but Creed could smell his sweaty coat and feel his anxiousness. He held firm the strap on the back of Bolo’s harness, just in case the dog decided to bolt and play hero.
As far as Creed could see there was only one person inside the cab. Though the vehicle had stopped, the driver had not killed the engine. So Creed was surprised when the driver’s door creaked open.
He felt Bolo tense and go rigid. Thankfully, he didn’t lunge. Instead, the dog cocked his head to the side. Both dog and master waited, Bolo sniffing the air and Creed squinting to see through the tall grass.
In the forefront of his mind he kept thinking, What the hell does a drug-cartel’s hit man look like? Anything he imagined certainly didn’t match up with the small man who leaned out and took jerky glances all around him. He seemed jittery and nervous, even knocking his head on the door frame as he jumped down.
The man moved around to the back. His hands swung free at his sides. No weapon. When he popped the liftgate and opened it, Creed could see a large bag with bulges, slick and black, almost like a body bag. But the man w
asn’t messing with it. Instead, he started yanking and pulling at another shadow that was up against the inside of the vehicle. Creed heard a yelp and knew it was a dog even before the man dragged it out and dropped it to the ground. The dog fell on its side, and as it tried to get to its feet the man kicked it.
He could feel Bolo pulling and struggling against the leash. Before the man could lift his leg for a second kick, Creed let go of the leash.
Bolo hit him full force, slamming the man to the ground. He started to scream, but Bolo’s front paws came down hard on his chest and Creed could hear the gasp as air literally got knocked out of him.
“Good boy, Bolo. Stay put.”
“Are you . . . nuts?” the guy managed to stutter.
He ignored him and went to check on the dog—a skinny black Lab with a sagging belly that up until recently had been nursing puppies. Creed petted her and helped her to her feet. Told her she was a “good girl” and asked her to sit in the grass.
Before he stood back up to look inside the open liftgate, he knew what he’d find. His fingers couldn’t untie the knot quick enough, so he ripped open the end of the black plastic bag. He expected them to be already dead, but one by one the puppies started wiggling up and out.
He didn’t need to ask what this guy had intended to do. By now, Creed knew too well. People had gotten into the bad habit of dumping their unwanted dogs at the end of his driveway. It was how he had acquired many of his dogs, including Grace.
But so as not to take too much advantage, this guy was going to leave only the adult dog. The puppies he had gathered up into a trash bag. He probably would have dumped them in the river after he left Creed’s place.
“What’s your name, mister?” Creed asked, without leaving the puppies and without giving Bolo a command.
“Can you get your dog off of me?”
