by Pat Powers
The Wrangler summoned all his strength. "Hey," he said. "Hey."
The guardsman knelt down over him. "Take it easy, guy, we'll take care of you."
"Woman in trunk of car next door -- gray Toyota sedan -- locked in there," said the Wrangler. "Help her. Help her."
"Sure, we'll help her, but you need help too," said the young man. "Take it easy."
"She might die if you don't get her," said the Wrangler. "Help her."
"Right away," said the Guardsman. "We'll have a man down to check that car out right away. Now, you rest."
The Wrangler nodded. He didn't know if he would die or not when he closed his eyes, but at least now he could close them knowing he'd done what he had to, to save Christine's ass, and maybe his own.
Corpsman Alan Greene was alarmed by the Wrangler's words, and as soon as the medics had the Wrangler in their gurney, got two corpsmen and hurried next door. There was a gray Toyota sedan parked under it. They pried open the trunk with some firefighting equipment.
A round, striped suitcase lay in the trunk. Corpsman Greene flipped open the latch, and there inside it was a naked woman. Ropes criss-crossed her body and a black hood enclosed her head, with an iron collar beneath it. There was a red ball with holes in it gagging her mouth.
The Corpsmen lifted the suitcase out of the trunk, then lifted the naked woman out of the suitcase. She made a number of intelligible noises through the gag, possibly indicating distress.
They pulled the hood off her head and unbuckled the gag from her mouth, then untied the ropes securing her while she gagged and retched. Tears were streaming from her eyes.
Corpsman Greene placed his coat over her to cover her nakedness. She hardly appeared to notice.
"Oh, thank you thank you thank you," she said. "I'm going to live!"
Her eyes were so bright and her manner so distracted that Greene was concerned about her presence of mind.
"My name is Corpsman Alan Greene," said Green. "What's yours?"
"Christine," she said. "Christine Willock."
She paused for a moment, as if saying her name had reminded her of something.
"You need to call my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Willock, right away," she said to Greene. "They've got to be worried sick. I've been kidnapped."
* * * *
Arthur Willock was just approaching the bridge that crossed the Jolly River behind St. Simon's Island when he got the call. When he heard the words "safe and sound" his heart leapt with joy. Christine was alive! Suddenly the bag of bills sitting in the back seat behind him meant no more than a pile of leaves swept from the lawn. All the weight on his shoulders was gone.
"She's alive and she's OK," he told Mendova, his chief of security who sat beside him.
Mendova's whole body relaxed perceptibly. "That is GREAT news!" he said. He had been racked with guilt ever since the package from the kidnappers had arrived. His shoulders, too, were a lot lighter. He might get fired yet because the kidnapping had happened on his watch, but at least there were no dead kids for him to worry about.
Willock noted Mendova's increased relaxation, understood it as simple relief over Christine, and decided not to fire him on the spot.
* * * *
A few days later, the Wrangler lay in a hospital bed while an array of men in suits sat in chairs surrounding it. (The cops had tried to interview him the day after the explosion, but the doctors wouldn't let them, since the Wrangler was feigning incoherence.)
One of the men in the chairs was his court-appointed lawyer, the other was an assistant D.A. and there were also two assistants for the assistant D.A.
The Wrangler had been spending the couple of days thinking about this meeting and what he would say during it. It was so important to him that he cut back on the painkillers just so he could think without the haze induced by the painkillers fogging his mind. After a time the haze induced by pain would send him back to the painkillers, but he was able to get in several hours of clear thought each day in that way.
He thought he had it figured out.
"Mr. Sanders, we are sorry to have to interview you in your hospital bed, but we understand from your doctors that you are well enough to talk with us," said Assistant District Attorney Culpepper. "We have a few questions for you related to your activities prior to the incident which injured you. What were you doing at that condo?"
"I was considering renting one of the apartments in it," said the Wrangler.
"How did you come to be among the other men that were found there?" asked the D.A.
"Well, let me start from the beginning," said the Wrangler. "I was vacationing on St. Simon's and saw the condos and thought they might be a nice place to stay in during my next visit. So I just walked over and took a look at the condos from the outside, figuring I'd call the realtor once I had the number on the sign out front. Plus, it was a pretty good excuse for taking a walk."
"OK, that's how you got there," said Culpepper. "Now, how did you hook up with the other men in that apartment?"
"I wasn't really with them," said the Wrangler. "I saw them drive up and park in the condo next door. When they got out and I saw they were all middle-aged guys traveling in a late-model car, I figured they were either realtors or guys who'd rented the place for some company thing. Then they came over to the condo where I was and walked up the stairs. I decided I'd go talk with them and see if they could tell me something about the condos. But they were moving fast and before I got close to them they were past me. They seemed very intent, if you know what I mean. I was under the stairs when they were climbing them, and while I was there I heard one of the men say, "Man, it is so weird to be traveling around with a hottie locked in the trunk."
And one of the other guys said, "I never travel without at least one hottie locked in the trunk."
"So I figured they were joking," the Wrangler continued. "You know, guy talk."
"Yes, badinage about women locked in the trunk, what wit," said Culpepper dryly.
"OK, so I headed up the stairs and just when I got up there with them, I saw all of them going into one of the apartments. So I figured this way I might get a look at one of the condos, and walked over to the door and looked inside and said, "Excuse me." And two of the men whirled around and pointed guns at me. Then there was an explosion. You know the rest."
"What made you report what you thought was a jest to the Corpsman?" asked Culpepper.
"Well, it was the weirdest thing," said the Wrangler. "I came to for a time after the explosion. I could hear and see but I couldn't move. And I figured the apartment must have blown up. And out of nowhere the thought comes, "If those guys were blown up, they're probably the sort of guys who really WOULD travel around with a 'hottie' locked in their trunk. And even though I knew I'd probably been seriously injured, I was worried about that ... a lot. That's why I reported it to the Corpsman."
"Where did you walk to the condos from?" asked Culpepper.
"My car," said the Wrangler. "I had it parked in that public beach parking area across from the condos."
"Really?" asked Culpepper. "We've received no reports of an unknown car parked in the Sandpiper Beach lot."
"I don't remember the name of the lot," said the Wrangler. "But it's a green Camaletto I rented in Boston."
"Which agency in Boston did you rent it from?" asked Culpepper.
"Brahmin Rentals," said the Wrangler. "The one on Walfort Avenue." (The Wrangler had made some calls over the last week, to a friend. The Walfort Avenue Brahmin Rentals was owned by a wise guy. They'd back the Wrangler's story.)
"What were you doing on St. Simon's?" Culpepper asked.
"Vacationing," repeated the Wrangler.
"Do you normally carry ID cards identifying you as three different people, with matching credit cards, when you're on vacation?" asked Culpepper.
"You don't have to answer that question," said Tollner, the Wrangler's court-appointed attorney.
"It's OK," said the Wrangler. He understood what
his counsel was up to, but he also knew it was unnecessary. They'd found the damn ID cards on him, there was no way he could credibly deny owning them. Best to use his backup story and take the hit for them and avoid being linked with the kidnappers. "Yes, I always carry three sets of ID cards with me, especially when I'm traveling. I am a former Scientologist. I've been involved with exposing Scientology and that has gotten me on their official shit list. On several occasions, I've been reported as an AIDS carrier, a terrorist, all my credit cards have been invalidated, etc., etc. I've learned to carry several sets of ID and credit cards so that if they play their dirty tricks on one of my identities, I can get by with the others until I get things straightened out."
The disbelief in the room was almost palpable. The Wrangler even sensed his own attorney's distrust of his words.
"I'm sure the Scientologist will have records then," said Culpepper.
"Of course not," said the Wrangler. "They don't keep records of those activities. They just do them. They're a cult, you know."
This was the point of the Wrangler's claims. He didn't have to have a story that was believable -- just one that could not easily be disproved.
"We'll definitely investigate your claims, Mr. Tottenham," said Culpepper, pointedly using another of the Wrangler's aliases, "Now, we've only got one body other than yours. How many men were in the group?"
"Three," said the Wrangler. That was interesting. Either the Agent or the Cleaner had survived the blast. The Wrangler put his money on the Agent -- he had been out on the balcony when the blast went off, he might have gotten out pretty much unscathed.
"Could you describe them?" asked Culpepper.
"Sure," said the Wrangler. He gave detailed, accurate physical descriptions of the Cleaner (who he figured was beyond help, being the one nearest the bomb when it went off) and the Man (whom he wasn't at all concerned with -- he wouldn't mind if they caught him, but he didn't think they would) and gave a superficially accurate but misleading description of the Agent, whom he hoped would get away.
The DAs all scribbled furiously as he talked, pausing to pepper him with questions designed to get as much detail as they could out of him, and to trip him up if he were feeding them any lies.
"Very accurate descriptions, Mr. Potter," said Culpepper, using his third alias. "We generally don't get this level of detail from an eyewitness."
"It's kind of funny," said the Wrangler. "I remember certain things prior to the bomb blast with crystal clarity, but after the blast, everything is hazy for a week or so. Probably the meds they have me on -- some very serious stuff."
"Speaking of the blast, we had another bombing that same day, down on the Altamaha," said Culpepper. "We don't get a lot of bombings down in these parts -- we like it that way -- and we're pretty sure they're linked. Would you have any knowledge of that other bombing, Potter?"
"No," said the Wrangler. "Did anyone get hurt in it?"
"Strangely enough, no," said Culpepper. "Someone blew up an empty trailer for no apparent reason. But I think you knew that. It's obvious that the two bombings are linked. The trailer was rented by phone, and paid for with a money order that doesn't appear to have been purchased by any real person -- just like the condo that was bombed. We're thinking maybe the trailer was used as a staging area prior to making the pickup on the money. Two million dollars -- that's quite a payday you missed, Mr. Potter."
"I didn't miss any paydays," responded the Wrangler. "But I wonder if I'm in for any kind of reward for helping find Ms. Willock."
"You'll get your reward for what you've done, have no fear," said Culpepper. He clearly was talking about jail time, not money.
"In addition to the blown-up trailer, we also located a corpse that seems to tie in with the activities of your gang," said Culpepper.
"Not my gang," said the Wrangler calmly. He really didn't have a choice about the calm -- he was too weak to get excited. And he'd been subjected to much tougher grillings under much more dangerous circumstances during his days of feckless youth.
"What we found was the body of a man, one Jimmy Dawson, wanted for a long list of minor crimes in New York and Brooklyn," said Culpepper. "Two bullets in him, both to the head at close range. Two sets of ID on him. And nothing else to connect him with ... anything at all, except that forensics has established that he died some time after the first bombing and before the second bombing. Now, this COULD be a coincidence, but he is from the Northeast and has multiple sets of ID on him, just like you and Mr. Carlucci. We're looking at you for killing him, because we tested you for powder residue while you were unconscious and you had recently fired a weapon. But the ballistics on the bullets in Mr. Dawson don't match the gun we found on you. Still, you could have done it with another gun, or the missing members of your gang could have done it, and you could have been the one who ordered it. Why DID you fire your gun at that condo?"
This was a knotty question and one that the Wrangler knew he'd be asked.
"Never heard of this Jimmy guy," said the Wrangler. "Sorry to hear he's dead, though. I fired my gun at some cans in the woods just for practice earlier that day. When the bomb went off I remember reaching for my gun instinctively. Maybe I fired by reflex when the explosion hit me. Lucky I didn't shoot myself, I guess. I really don't remember well."
"Why do you carry a gun?" asked Culpepper.
"I like to shoot," said the Wrangler. "Not hunt so much, just target practice. And there's that thing with the Scientologists. They scare me, to be honest."
"Mm-hmm," said Culpepper. "What we figure is that Mr. Dawson was part of your gang and you had a falling out about the usual thing -- the money. You or one of your gang shot Mr. Dawson and dumped his body in the marshes, then went on to collect the money from Mr. Willock. But before that happened, the disagreement flared up again, leading to bombing in the condo, killing Mr. Carlucci and injuring you severely.
"We're not sure what the bombing in the trailer was all about," said Culpepper. "Maybe you people just like to blow things up a lot. Our best guess is that it was meant to kill a couple of gang members and Ms. Willock. Her testimony indicates that she was moved from a location after one of the gang got suspicious about the possibility of being bombed. This is undoubtedly what led to all the subsequent killings. There may have been more killings, we just don't know. What we do know is that we have you as the only member of the gang responsible for all this killing and kidnapping and blowing up, and unless we get some answers, we're going to focus much of our attention on you. Which is why we're holding you as a material witness with a strong likelihood of flight until we figure out exactly what we want to charge you with. We'll check your story out very carefully, Mr. Potter, you can believe us, and we'll track down the men you described, if they can be tracked down. In the meantime, you'll be staying here as the guest of MacIntosh County."
"Will you at LEAST check out the possibility that the Scientologists are somehow involved in this?" asked the Wrangler. "They don't generally go in for violence, but there's a first time for everything, and I may be lucky number one."
"You think the Scientologists kidnapped Ms. Willock just so they could involve you in the kidnapping?" asked Culpepper. "Sounds rather, well, baroque to me."
"They're a CULT," said the Wrangler. "They can be very, very baroque."
"We'll definitely be checking out this aspect of your story," said Culpepper, "and our versions of events as well. You'll be hearing from us."
Shortly after that, the D.A.s and the sheriff left. They had what they wanted -- new leads they could check out on both the Wrangler and the men he'd "seen."
Tollner hitched his chair over to the bed.
"You did a great job," said Tollner, "in fact, you really did yourself some favors by giving them such good descriptions. If they can find one of those other suspects, it will take a lot of the heat off you."
"Did they have any actual evidence at all on me, other than me being blown up with those gangsters and having a couple of
spare IDs?" the Wrangler asked.
"Not a thing," said Tollner. "No physical evidence connecting you with any location other than the place you were found. It's as if you dropped out of the sky. In fact, I don't think they're going to bring a case against you at all with what they've got right now."
The Wrangler breathed a sigh of relief. The one thing he'd been sweating was the possibility that he'd left some physical evidence in the new rental car. He'd been lucky -- that and the fact that he'd rubbed down the suitcase handle with a towel to smear any fingerprints after putting it in the new car, out of habit. A very good habit, it turned out. One fingerprint, one hair with root intact, and he'd have been nailed for sure.
* * * *
Two weeks later, the Wrangler had visitors. He was still being held as a material witness while the D.A. tried desperately to paste together enough evidence to convince a judge that they had a case against him.
His non-law-enforcement visitors had been entirely absent, which was very much to the Wrangler's liking. He did not really want to meet with these two particular visitors, but then, why the hell not? It's not like his social calendar was full.
He was wearing a prison jumpsuit, but not the orange of the regular inmates -- he wore the light blue of those with medical problems, to let the guards know to put him on light duty and watch him for signs of illness, such as clutching his chest and keeling over. The bandages were mostly gone, but the Wrangler was still walking with the aid of a cane. No cuffs or shackles or anything -- it would have been gilding the lily. Plus, as a material witness prisoner, he wasn't technically a criminal.
The guard led him into a small meeting room whose furnishings consisted of a battered metal table and matching chairs.
Christine Willock and her father were already there.
They stared at the Wrangler's face intently, as if it contained some great secret they meant to divine by doing so.
What they saw was a man in his mid-30s, with a strong, compact build. He was growing a beard while in prison, coming in with dark brown hair that matched the hair on his head. He had hard brown eyes and a bearing that radiated calm and confidence. There was something in the way he carried himself, even while walking on a cane, that gave you the impression that he was sure he could take you in a fight -- whoever you might happen to be.
