The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  Dean handed him a folder, classified top secret, with an unusual name across its middle: Pandora.

  “Who is Pandora... and what’s her interest in this campaign?”

  “Joe, that’s a code name for a government ex-operative... a rogue killer.”

  “Operative?” Fitch had not yet touched the folder. “Explain rogue killer.”

  “Picture the Terminator character in those movies. He takes an assignment and goes way off the deep end to get it done. Doesn’t care about collateral damage. That’s Pandora. Nobody could handle him... but when they got ready to burn him, he disappeared. Until now, anyway.”

  “You mean he’s working for Durocher?”

  Dean nodded. “I can’t nail it down positively... but it seems pretty likely.”

  “Don’t tell me Nancy hired a hit man to take me out...” Fitch scooted his chair farther from the window.

  “Can’t rule that out, but it doesn’t seem like you’re the direct target.”

  Fitch sighed heavily. “So who is this Pandora going after?”

  “It almost sounds like a bad movie, Joe. But this rogue ex-agent seems to be tracking down people who know…or think they know…something about Nancy’s bad egg ancestor.”

  “That’s absurd. Only a homicidal lunatic would go to that kind of extreme.”

  “Exactly what they say Pandora is—an insane killer.”

  Through distinctly confidential sources, Fitch already knew people in high places were sniffing around Durocher’s campaign finances, but he hadn’t heard about this other mess. “Two questions, Dean.” He pointed to the folder. “Does Nancy realize who she’s hired? And how did you find out about this Pandora maniac?”

  ****

  Ed Dillon was behind tightly-closed doors in Nancy’s office, less than four blocks from the Fitch headquarters. Dillon had initially selected this suite because it was so close to the incumbent’s campaign space that someone with a telescope could practically see into their windows. But that had proven unfruitful because Fitch was usually at the Capitol’s legislative offices or in his home just outside the city.

  Dillon had just provided feedback to Nancy about the “read my lips” quote which was being played every half hour on the local news channels.

  “That’s not what I said.” Durocher tensed her manicured fingernails like cat claws.

  Dillon knew better than to respond.

  A moment of silence. “Well, it’s not what I meant.”

  “Nancy, we can’t let them veer us off script.”

  “I know! I got so sick of that bimbo... who was she anyway? Which station?”

  Dillon named both.

  “Is she with the Fitch camp too?”

  “That’s the other thing we need to dial back a bit, Nancy. Not all the difficult questions are plants from your opponent.”

  She pointed directly between his eyes. “That was your instruction, from the very beginning.”

  “Yes, but we both figured we could get some mileage from Fitch dragging out the media later to explain himself. But he hasn’t been.”

  “And the problem is... ?”

  “If he’d bothered to refute even a few of those vague allegations, we’d have him right where we want him—on defense.” Dillon mentally tallied how many darts they’d tossed out. “But he hasn’t responded to any. I hadn’t factored on the possibility that he’d ignore us.”

  “I... do... not... like... being... ignored!” Her words came out like frostbite.

  “Our strategy was to keep them scrambling to counter our inferences. I figured after we got him on camera refuting each allegation that the networks would be running his face looking and sounding guilty, and those charges would start to stick... at least in the voters’ minds.”

  “What happened to your grand plan, Ed?” Her syllables were icy.

  He just shook his head. “I told you that Fitch’s manager hired a female consultant.”

  Durocher gave him a frigid stare and began pacing slowly.

  He watched her shapely legs as they passed in front of his chair. “This lady consultant’s been steering him around any potential gaffes which might alienate women voters.”

  “Can’t we use that against him?” Nancy looked sincere.

  Dillon struggled not to laugh. “If we launch into him for being extra considerate and sensitive to female voters... it would only make him look even more like a saint.”

  Durocher plopped suddenly into her leather chair and left her knees slightly parted. When she saw the line of Dillon’s eyes, she slowly closed her knees and her lips curled ever so slightly. She knew!

  He’d thought his fascination with her legs was a secret. Dillon gulped quietly and shifted his gaze toward the folders in his lap.

  “I’m positively sick of them running that clip.” She pointed toward the television screen, though the volume was off. “How much longer before we launch those nasty surprises? I want every news cycle to show his face looking like he was caught stealing the cookie jar.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss. Fitch has thrown us a curve by not responding to any of our well-placed innuendos, so we have to assume he’ll react differently than we predicted to the potential scenarios we discussed weeks ago.”

  “Because of his female consultant.” The way she said it, Fitch might have been consulting a gynecologist.

  Dillon waited a moment to be certain she’d completed her observation. In those seconds he watched her legs as she crossed them. She didn’t tug down her skirt hem afterward.

  “Remind me—but just the most promising ones.” More frost on her words.

  Dillon and his most trusted aide had brainstormed and prepared several options as their manufactured surprise for late October. “Remember, of course, that our timing…and delivery…has to be precise. Close enough to the election that Fitch cannot mount an effective rebuttal... but still giving us a couple of good TV days to capitalize on it.”

  “Friday evening before the Tuesday election.”

  “Exactly.” Dillon cleared his throat. “Now, any other political candidate would give us a lot more to work with, but Fitch is a special case. So, we’ve narrowed it down to three. One—we hire a bimbo to go public and allege a brief affair with Fitch. Infidelity would be a huge turn off for female voters and most of them wouldn’t hear any of his rebuttals before the election.”

  “You’ve already found a bimbo?”

  “Not one in particular... but we can use pretty much any of the exotic dancers around the city. They’ve even got a few places way out in the boondocks, east of here, along the Interstate. It might be less traceable to hire one of them.”

  “I like that one so far. Fitch gets the shaft and the dancer has fifteen minutes of fame. But how does it get resolved?”

  Dillon sighed. It doesn’t actually matter. “Depends how much publicity she wants. She could drag it into a TV movie if certain media get hold of it.”

  “But nothing comes back to us.” She spoke like an Arctic drill sergeant.

  “Absolutely not. All the contacts go through three parties before the designated tramp even sees a face. And the money goes through four hands. Completely untraceable, even if the bimbo admits being hired.” He tapped his pen barrel against his stack of folders. “Besides, like I say, the election results will be promulgated and officially accepted by the secretary of state before the newly-famous dancer gets through with her media interviews.”

  Durocher snapped her fingers to get the remaining options. Dillon explained each one in detail: an alleged child out of wedlock, vague accusations about Fitch’s supposed tax problems, and a disgruntled lobbyist willing to swear Fitch sent contracts his way for unspecified favors. Each had more logistical problems than the dancer story and wouldn’t be as effective at stealing votes from the incumbent.

  A smile crept over Durocher’s face as she leaned back in her executive chair and closed her eyes, likely imagining the look on her opponent’s saintly face
. “The bimbo. Definitely. We’ll destroy that old silver haired fox with the torrid affair he forgot to tell his long-suffering legislative wife about. You think sweet little Laura will stand by his side at the press conference?”

  “Well, if it was a true story, probably not. But since we’re completely making it up, I’d guess she’ll stand by her man.” Sometimes Nancy seemed to forget the blurry lines between fact and insinuation.

  Durocher requested an update about the investigator’s efforts.

  “Well, it’s a little difficult to get any details... because we both agreed we couldn’t afford to know anything.”

  “If we don’t know what’s he’s working on, how do we know he’s doing anything we wanted done?” When she frowned, it looked like her face might crack.

  “That’s our price for deniability... we hired him to scrub your family history clean and we have to assume that’s what he’s doing.”

  “I don’t like assumptions. You’re sure he understood what we wanted?”

  “Pretty certain. In fact, he seemed to be way ahead of me. Real eager to dive right in. He even knew who was working in the Fitch campaign and what they were doing.”

  “Well, I don’t like not knowing. Not one bit.” Durocher rubbed her temples. “I’ve never even heard this man’s name. How will we know when he’s finished the job?”

  “Our investigator’s most recent report, which I received last night,” Dillon looked at his notes, “said that all the problems have disappeared, except one or two ‘insignificant spills’.”

  “What does he mean by spills?”

  “I didn’t ask. Suffice it to say, he’s taking care of them immediately.”

  “Good... because time is running out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Shane had, that very morning, figured out how to take advantage of Cratchit’s intel-sharing with Ricks. However, Shane wasn’t certain the grungy Mill Street bar would be open on Sunday afternoon, so he hopped on his bike to find out.

  Cratchit was in the corner when Shane entered the nearly empty bar.

  “Ain’t foun’ yer druggie yet?” Cratchit’s bony hand reached for the freshly-opened bottle of beer Shane handed him.

  “Gave up. Yesterday, I went to that last place you told me about and Ricks left something that tells me he’s heading back to California. So I’m going back too. No reason to stay around here.”

  “That cute little gal ain’t gonna keep ya?”

  How did Cratchit know Bethany was cute? “Too much time has passed. She’s got a new life here. I gotta get back to work or I won’t have a job left.”

  “Where do ya work?”

  “I’m a bank executive.”

  Cratchit cackled so loudly and so long that he began coughing. It took several sips of beer to settle him. “That’s a good ‘un. You’d look jus’ perfeck in a suit an’ tie... sittin’ there an’ turnin’ down loans fer poor folks.” He took another long draught. “So what do ya really do? Work at a garage somewheres?”

  “Bike shop in Long Beach. Harleys mostly. Repairs and restorations for the museum that’s in the works.” Shane swallowed some beer from his own longneck and then looked Cratchit in the eyes. “Did Ricks ever tell you anything about his boss?”

  “Nary a word. But I figgered he wuz takin’ orders from somebody lots smarter’n him.” The old man’s eyes were steady. “This boss man... he don’t play too nice. I figger he’s ‘bout a thousand pounds of trouble in a hunnerd pound bag. But you prob’ly know that.”

  “Seems likely.” Shane nodded. “But I don’t guess he’s even around these parts. I got him pegged as a long distance manager with real clean hands and maybe a fancy manicure.”

  Cratchit took another long slurp and studied Shane’s face closely. “No, ya don’t. He might be off in Kalamazoo, but his hands is dirty an’ there’s blood in his claws.” The old man raised his own gnarled hands to emphasis the point.

  That part of Shane’s bluff might not be working. He shrugged. “Well, in case that boss character ever does show up, clean hands or dirty—it’s gonna be up to the local cops now.”

  “So yer ackchuly givin’ up?”

  Shane nodded.

  “That don’t seem like ya... somehows.”

  “I’ve been here since Monday night.” Shane’s finger stabbed the table for emphasis. “If I haven’t found that skinny meth head in seven full days, I’m not likely ever to. Besides, like I said, I’m positive he’s gone back to the coast.”

  “What happens when ya find ‘im back yonder?”

  “When I find Ricks, I’m gonna rip his meth head clean off and stuff manure down his neck.” Shane took a long drink.

  Cratchit nodded as though he approved. “When ya headin’ out?”

  “First thing in the morning. After a good night’s sleep.” Shane took another sip. “I’m beat.”

  “It’s gonna rain tomorry. Bad storm. ‘Sposed to squat here all day.”

  “I’ve been through a little rain before.” Shane fished in his thick wallet and placed a ten dollar bill on the soiled tabletop.

  Cratchit snatched it quickly. Once it was safely tucked in a shirt pocket, he asked, “What’s the sawbuck fer? I ain’t tole ya nuthin’ today.”

  “Maybe it’s a thank you note. Hadn’t gotten jack from anybody else around here.” Shane took a long swallow and held up his bottle. About a third remained at the bottom and he knew the old man would finish it. “Just call it a goodbye gift.”

  ****

  Kaser had been back in Nashville since Saturday evening and was ready to launch his final mop up of the few remaining spills: his two hirelings and the estranged couple who’d held the surviving evidence of Durocher’s skeleton. As usual, he’d done an exceptional job, way above and beyond the assignment’s original intent. But that was his M.O.—the only way to do a job was thoroughly. Even if the client had no intention of taking things that far. Kaser knew best. His ex-colleagues in various black ops programs had begun acting like they were afraid of him. But that was best, because it meant respect. And fear—both were important. But those colleagues had to understand that he was better. And if being better made Kaser slightly unpopular, too bad. They were jealous. He often wondered which ones of them had supported his expulsion, his burn notice. It didn’t truly matter, because he’d never encounter them again. But if they ever did cross paths, he’d have to dispose of them.

  Kaser wasn’t sure if the Muse woman actually comprehended anything or if she was still just trying to piece together some tidbits. It would help if he knew what was in that little suitcase, and Melvin the Mutt hadn’t remembered much. But whoever possessed the overnighter was a potential leak which Kaser must plug.

  Though he was aware of Holder through both Ricks and Mutt, all Kaser actually knew about the biker was that he’d recently been in Verdeville searching for Ricks. Kaser had no fondness for Ricks, but that particular meth head was a hired sub-contractor, so anybody trying to find Ricks would have to be dealt with.

  Was Holder a threat? Not certain. In Kaser’s expanded interpretation of business, everyone was a threat, even a frail lady on heart medicine who talked to her cat. It was not important to figure out exactly how someone was a risk. Kaser’s job was to eliminate them. He was a fixer, a cleaner. The mistakes other people made or inherited were sometimes quite complex. The only certain way to clean up some messes was to obliterate them. Collateral damage? No problem. You can kill a snake with a .22 caliber slug or a full load of 12 gauge buckshot. The only difference was the number of wounds and size of the holes.

  ****

  Beth had come to dread Sunday afternoons: her ritual visit to the folks.

  It was about twenty miles to the east edge of Nashville, a dozen or more across the city, and another ten to Exit 196. Forty-two miles, plus a couple north to their subdivision. Just to pop in and sit for an hour or two. They didn’t typically have much to say and Beth usually had little to tell them. Oh, she could explain abou
t her burglary, about Ricks driving two thousand miles to follow and accost her. But she wouldn’t.

  Beth usually talked about her sometimes creepy boss and often tedious job; the parents complained about their boring neighbors. They always asked if she was dating. She never answered directly... which was, in itself, the answer. Dad sometimes talked about the weather, which he could feel worse in his missing leg. Chit chat. Hardly varied.

  One subject was off limits, at least in her presence: Robert’s name never crossed their lips.

  Beth was dressed enough for this visit and already had purse and keys in hand. She unlocked her rear door but couldn’t open it. Not today. Shane was back in her life, to some extent, and that threw her off balance sufficiently that she could not bear a couple of hours chit-chatting with her folks. If they asked whether she was dating, she’d probably bawl and then have to explain.

  She wouldn’t. Not today. Couldn’t.

  She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes, and lay on the couch where Shane had slept the night before. After pulling up the blanket which had covered him, Beth napped soundly for over two hours.

  When she woke in a groggy haze, the last thing on her mind was calling her parents. She half-heartedly checked e-mail, but had nothing to write to anyone.

  About nine o’clock, Shane phoned and said he was making an early night of it. He also explained the ruse he’d planted with Cratchit. That would surely be in Ricks’s ears within hours. “Now, we’ll just have to wait for him to pop up.”

  “Any idea where he’ll pop? Or when?”

  “No telling, but if he believes I’ve left town, he can come out from hiding and show himself.”

  “You don’t think he’d head to the coast, on the belief that he’s following you home?”

  “I doubt it, Bethany. Until Ricks locates what he was hired to get, I don’t think he’ll leave Verde-town.”

  “Whatever.” She yawned audibly. “Look, I’m completely bushed.”

  “You said you took a long nap.”