Whirlwind

by Rick Mofina

  Yanna passed a small cardboard chocolate box to Maddick. He peeked inside. It held five thousand dollars in unmarked fifties and twenties.

  “I’ll enjoy these, thank you. I’ll give you some additional background on the information. Would you like to get a coffee first?”

  Maddick, Gromov and Yanna looked like any other group of suburbanites socializing at a children’s birthday party. Only the subject was the Texas justice system and Maddick gave them a primer.

  “Are you familiar with prisons, Sergei?”

  “No, I know very little of prisons.”

  Yanna looked away so her face would not betray his lie.

  Maddick said that there were some 150,000 offenders in over one hundred fifty prisons, jails and other facilities in Texas, and if needed, he could help get information on just about anything.

  “For now, I am interested in locating Mason Varno,” Gromov said.

  Before he was paroled, Maddick said, Mason Varno completed a five-year sentence at Hightower Unit for robbery. The prison was near Dayton, northeast of Houston. The unit housed about 1,400 prisoners, give or take. Like prisons everywhere, the institution had its challenges with gangs, beatings and other issues. While Varno was inside, he took part in various programs and also sought the help of the Fellowship of the Good Thief Society, a faith-based support group.

  “He kept to himself and managed to stay out of trouble,” Maddick said. “However, I was able to find out that he associated with four prisoners, and maybe not always on the best of terms, but there were four.”

  Maddick’s intel indicated that among Varno’s circle, there was talk of plans for various enterprises on the outside and that Varno feared retribution on the inside for a disastrous drug deal prior to his incarceration.

  “By the sounds of things, you would think he would’ve been almost happy to be inside, or so it seems,” Maddick said.

  “Where are these four associates?” Gromov asked.

  “Two are still in prison. One died in a workshop accident. Only one has been paroled. All of their information is in the envelope.”

  Gromov began opening it.

  “Now, while it would be a parole violation for the inmates to associate with each other while on parole, we all know rules are broken every day.” Maddick smiled.

  Gromov looked at the first page of records. The ex-con’s name: Lamont Harley Faulk.

  “A little warning about Faulk,” Maddick said. “You’ll see he’s serving time for aggravated assault. In prison he was legendary for knowing everything about everyone. He was drawn to white supremacist gangs. He once put out a man’s eye with his thumb, bit off one of his ears and ate it, then used a nail gun to leave him crucifixion-style against the wall of a barn. This was after a fit of road rage. The man cut Faulk off. Faulk confronted him at a red light, hauled him away to the barn where he nearly killed him. Faulk’s not quite right upstairs. He’s got a temper. He hates most living things, but apparently keeps his word. He’s pathological about that. It’s all there in his psych reports.”

  Gromov studied Faulk’s records.

  “I don’t know how you’d persuade him to tell you anything about Mason Varno,” Maddick said, nodding to Yanna. “Oh, could you please pass me my grandson’s things on the seat there? I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave.”

  Yanna passed him the small sneakers, jacket and ball cap.

  “Thanks and good luck,” Maddick said.

  * * *

  After Maddick left, Yanna moved to the seat across from Gromov.

  She sipped her tea while he slipped on his bifocals to study the documents more closely. She thought it a strange juxtaposition how this powerful Russian mobster, no doubt a murderer himself, was sitting here amid the laughter of American children, preparing to hunt down a violent psychopath.

  41

  Garland, Texas

  A lush grove of oak trees gave Remy and Mason cool sanctuary at the edge of the I-30 truck stop southwest of Garland.

  They were nearly out of sight, sitting back in the shade on the soft grass. The baby was content lying on their blanket. Remy had just fed him and was engrossed in the news reports she was reading on her laptop. Mason was studying a new map that he’d folded precisely. Take-out wrappers, drink cups and grease-stained bags dotted the blanket.

  They’d been driving across the Metroplex for the past few hours.

  Their pickup truck was the only vehicle at the far end of the lot. To anyone who saw them, they were a young family enjoying a private picnic.

  The hum of freeway traffic rushing along the causeway over Lake Ray Hubbard was punctuated by the growl and grind of rigs wheeling in an out of the Exxon station. Remy lifted her face to the ensuing breezes. It calmed her and she paused, allowing herself to believe that she and Mason were really on their way now. They were really closer to their dream. She reached for Caleb to stroke his cheek lovingly. But touching him underscored her aching emptiness, her overwhelming sadness over the baby she’d lost and all that she’d been through.

  Remy battled her painful maternal feelings as she gazed at Caleb.

  Your mother does not deserve you. No one deserves you more than me. I saved you. It was all meant to be. You’re MY angel.

  Yes, it’s all meant to be.

  Just like it was with Mason, the way he knew, absolutely knew that we had to get out of the motel at the right time. Thank God he talked some sense into me. I was not thinking right when I walked to the park. He was so smart to get us out of our motel before the police found us.

  Remy went back to the news stories about the SWAT action at the Tumbleweed Motel. It was such a close call. Still, she didn’t think that the police sketches accompanying the reports looked much like her and Mason. He’d let his beard grow, wore sunglasses and long sleeves to cover his tattoos. She touched her short dark hair while considering other ways to ensure that she didn’t resemble the wanted woman in the sketches in any way.

  Remy found a new story by the Associated Press, which reported that the FBI was still relying heavily on the public’s help in the tornado baby case. Agents had little information on the two people using the aliases of Luke and Ashley Johnson of Houston. Remy knew that Mason had changed their plate again after they’d pulled away from the motel. He’d been careful, even lining up a place for them to go and, judging by everything that she’d read, she and Mason still had an advantage.

  “We were lucky to get out of the motel when we did. It was a good call, babe,” Remy said.

  “Damn straight, it was.” Mason lifted his attention from the map, but when he saw her caressing the baby his jaw tensed. “Stop that,” he said.

  “Stop what?”

  Mason slapped Remy’s hand away from Caleb.

  “Hey!” she said.

  “You’re not keeping him, so don’t get attached.”

  “Don’t you ever, ever hit me!” Remy’s breathing quickened as she glared at Mason. Since they’d left the motel, he was tense, irritable and sweating, which signaled that he needed his drugs. She hated it when he got that way. She glanced at the bulge in the blanket near him where he’d put his gun. She also hated it when he carried that thing around.

  He stared at her for a long, cool, moment.

  “We’re under a lot of pressure,” he said. “Once we get to my friend’s place we’ll be totally off the grid. That’s when we’ll call the agency, close this deal, get our money and be gone. I know a guy who’ll help us get new identities, good ones with social security, passports, everything. We’ll freakin’ disappear.” Mason looked at his cell phone on the blanket next to his soda then pursed his lips. “Lamont better damn well give up the location. I gave that mother a lot of money.”

  Mason glanced around at the tractor trailers and rubbed his lips.

 
“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up,” he said. “Sooner or later they’ll get on to us, and if your agency in Chicago finds out, there’s no way they’ll take the kid. We’ve got to get off the grid to keep the heat off.”

  “I don’t think those drawings look like us.” Remy was working on her laptop. “Besides, I thought of something I can do to help. It’s a bit risky but if you keep your cool, you can pull it off.”

  She turned her screen to him and he approved of what he saw.

  “All right, that’s near here. Let’s go,” he said.

  * * *

  Less than two miles from the truck stop, Mason and Remy turned into the parking lot of a strip mall. Sandwiched between Aunt Marva’s Donuts and On-the-Spot Payday Loans was Flo’s Fabulous Hair Emporium. Remy stayed in the truck with the baby while Mason entered the hair shop.

  Bells chimed on the transom.

  Scores of blank faces of mannequin heads crowned with every style and color of hair you could think of stared at Mason from displays and shelves.

  It was creepy.

  The store wasn’t busy. A woman was behind the counter replacing paper in a small credit card terminal. She had long straight black hair, a dark tan and revealed bright white teeth when she smiled.

  “How can I help you today, sir?”

  “Well, I’d like to get a couple of wigs for my wife.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. Is she going to be joining you?”

  “No. She told me what to get.”

  “Well, what color and style is she looking for? Short, long, curly, straight?”

  “She said she wanted a blond, sorta long and wavy and an auburn one about the same and curly, sorta.”

  “Hmm.” The woman left the counter and led Mason to a side display. Mason detected a hint of citrus-scented perfume. “Do you know if she prefers synthetic or human hair?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “They’re both nice, but with top-of-the-line synthetic the curls keep, even in the rain, while human hair is more natural.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter then.”

  The woman reached for a head with a blond wig.

  “How about this one? It’s got layered spiral curls, about fourteen inches, that’s shoulder length, and it’s got a stretch skin cap. It’s synthetic fiber.”

  “Looks good. I’ll take it.”

  “That was easy.” She then moved down the row and picked up a head wearing a dark-colored wig, which was shorter but fuller.

  “This one is auburn, synthetic, styled in a layered bob with sweeping bangs and—” she turned the head “—soft curls in the back.”

  “I like it. I’ll take that one, too.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to see some others?”

  “No, these two are good.”

  “All right, let me package this all up for you.”

  The woman took the two heads bearing the wigs, set them on the front counter then glanced through her storefront to the parking lot at the pickup truck parked out front.

  “Is that your wife in the truck with the baby?”

  Mason turned to follow her attention then saw Remy and the baby. “Oh, yes.”

  She hesitated as if stopping to address a sudden concern.

  “Is there a problem?” Mason asked.

  “Um, no.” The woman smiled, shifting her concentration back to the counter. “Most women want to be custom fitted. Are you sure your wife doesn’t want to come in for a custom fit and style? It comes with the wigs at no charge.”

  “No, I think we’re good that way.”

  Mason watched her closely as she shifted her focus back to the sale.

  “Okay. I’ll just get some foam heads and box these up for you. They’re one-fifty each, plus tax. But if you’re military or hit by the tornado, we’ll give you twenty percent off.”

  “I’m not military—my dad was. But we did get caught in the storm.”

  “Is everybody okay?”

  “We’re still a bit shaky, but I need to get going.”

  “Of course. And how would you like to pay, sir?”

  “Is cash all right?

  “It certainly is.”

  Mason left with the woman watching him through the window. For an instant, as he reached for the truck’s door, they exchanged a glance.

  * * *

  As the customer got into the cab of his truck, the clerk bit her lip.

  That was very weird, she thought.

  Then she reached for her phone and searched for the news story about the baby kidnapped in the storm.

  She found the number for the police tip line.

  Maybe she should call.

  No. She put her phone down. But that was definitely odd.

  * * *

  Mason returned to the truck, gave the boxes to Remy, who was fussing over the baby in his car seat. Before turning the ignition, Mason checked his phone and cursed it. No messages from Lamont. Mason took a moment to think where they could go then started the truck and pulled away from the strip mall.

  Remy opened the boxes with the wigs.

  “Oh, these are nice. They’re gonna work fine, babe.”

  But Mason wasn’t listening.

  He was a little worried about the strange look from the saleswoman at the wig store but shook it off. He had bigger problems, chiefly the fact that Lamont still hadn’t contacted him. Mason speculated on the reason. Did Lamont rip him off? Did he turn him in? Mason ran the back of his hand across his mouth. They had gone about six blocks and turned from a quiet street onto a busy thoroughfare.

  That’s when they heard the wail of a siren behind them.

  42

  Garland, Texas

  Red-and-blue police lights blazed in Mason’s rearview mirror.

  “Oh God, what’re we going to do?” Remy looked over her shoulder.

  Mason tightened his grip on the wheel and he kept an eye on the mirror, on the grill of a marked police unit coming up behind him fast.

  “Quit gawking at him,” Mason told Remy. “This can’t be for us. He’ll go around.”

  But the patrol car didn’t go around them. It stayed right behind their pickup truck until the cop got close enough to read a plate.

  If that’s what he’s doing.

  The siren was blaring, shredding Mason’s nerves. His reflex was to take the next turn while his gut was screaming at him to flee. Punch the gas and run because there was no way he was going back inside.

  Damn it, why isn’t that guy going around us?

  Options blurred through Mason’s mind. He eyed the mirror for any telltale signs the cop had read his plate and called it in. The cop hadn’t reached for his microphone. He was not on a cell phone. His mouth wasn’t moving like he was talking to a dispatcher on a hands-free unit.

  Nothing like that.

  So why’s he coming up hard on my ass?

  “MASON, LOOK OUT!!!”

  Standing on the road directly in front of them was another police officer, his arm extended and finger pointed at Mason. His free hand hovered over his holstered sidearm. Eyes fixed on Mason as he braked hard, the cop pointed for him to pull over to the right, up close behind another parked vehicle, a white Toyota, and shut the truck off.

  The siren behind him made a last loud yelp before it went silent as the patrol car parked tight behind the pickup truck so that Mason could not drive out. The emergency lights lit up the cab with pulsating intensity.

  “Goddamn it,” Mason growled under his breath. “GOD-DAMN-IT!”

  It had all gone down so fast.

  “This isn’t good.” Remy pulled the baby from his car seat and held him as she craned her neck in both direct
ions. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Watching the cop on the road and the cop in the car behind him, Mason dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, assessing what had befallen them. Suddenly he reached under his seat for his gun and tucked it under his left leg.

  “Mason, no! Oh Christ, what’re you doing?”

  “I’m not going back inside.”

  “Mason, don’t! I’m begging you!”

  The driver’s door of the car behind them opened and the officer got out quickly. “Please stay in your vehicle!” he said, keeping his hand on the grip of his holstered weapon as he trotted past them while talking into his shoulder microphone.

  Surveying the situation Mason saw people in the Toyota in front of them waiting in their vehicle, then realized more people were doing the same in the line of cars and trucks that had been stopped up ahead.

  Other police vehicles were blocking the intersection.

  This is a choke point. Something’s going on, Mason thought.

  The running officer joined the other officer in the street. Then two more cops came from behind, ran alongside Mason’s pickup truck. Their portable radios were turned up loud and crackling with transmissions as they jogged down the line of cars.

  Several long moments passed. In all, about fifteen heart-pounding minutes went by before Mason and Remy saw one of the marked police units in the street drive off, its tires squealing.

  One officer on the road began directing the line of cars to flow back into traffic, while other officers walked in a relaxed manner by the pickup truck.

  “I think it’s over, Mason,” Remy said.

  “Excuse me, Officer?” the woman in the Toyota asked one of them.

  A cop stopped at the Toyota, close enough for Mason to hear.

  “What’s going on?” the Toyota woman asked. “What happened?”

  “A bank was robbed,” the young officer said. “The suspect was in the area. They grabbed him about seven blocks from here.”

  “Wow, glad to hear it. Good work, thanks.” The woman started her car.

  “Wait.” The cop stepped forward and pointed at Mason and his heart skipped.