by Mike McKay
Chapter 24
The good news, they did not need to walk too far – about a mile and a half.
“Probably a mistake to call you here, guys,” the local Deputy apologized, “as a second thought, we rather made pictures with a cell phone, and you would send us a coroner's statement without leaving the Station.”
“Hence we are here, who killed whom and at what place?” Mark asked.
“That saloon over there. The Shine Moonshine,” Deputy pointed. “A very decent watering hole. The owner is a great guy – I know him well. Naturally, the saloon was closed, as everything else, but the robbers knocked. Such-and-such, we are traders, on the way home, the weather is terrible, could you let us in? The owner took pity of the guys and opened the door. And the so-called traders pulled out guns and knives! Only, they didn't see that the owner's son was sitting nice and quiet – behind the bar. With a rifle in his hands! The young man served in Mexico, as a sniper. Bang, bang! Two shots – two dead. Three others decided to flee for dear lives.”
They quickly inspected the scene of the failed armed robbery. Natalie made few photos, put on latex gloves and packed belongings of the hapless burglars into evidence bags. For the weapons, they had an ancient revolver, by the looks, from the 1970-s, a shiny brass knuckles and a standard-issue Army knife. Tom pulled out a handheld fingerprint scanner, and ten minutes later reported the robbers had been identified. Both men were from western suburbs. By their main specialty – the fish traders, indeed. Probably today they did not have time to purchase their usual load of smoked fish in Galveston, and decided to earn money by a quick robbery.
Obvious from the first glance, the owner's son did not exceed limits of self-defense. The bullet holes in both robbers were in the upper third of the chest. The ex-sniper fired as taught in the Army, and positively at the attacking, not retreating enemies. Besides, the young man remained on the floor behind the bar, wrapped in a blanket, with a bottle of bourbon in his hand, and still shaking. One thing to fire a bullet into someone at five hundred yards, and quite another – to kill somebody like this, eye-to-eye.
Even if they wanted to, they could not carry the dead to the Station – how would you do it on the bikes? They left the local deputy to write a report and decide what to do with the bodies, and got out, under a canopy next to the saloon's front doors. Arthur raged now in full-strength. Beaumont Highway was not flooded yet, but in the gutters water stood almost level with the road. Mark tried to call Frederick Stolz again. Six standard beeps, a click, and: “Greetings! You have reached Syntegas…” What the hell was he doing there? He dialed Mary's phone. “The phone you dialed is switched off or outside network coverage area.” He called William's number.
“Mark?”
“Clarice! Are Mary and William back?”
“Not yet.”
“And Samantha?”
“Also not here. Mark, we're getting flood! The water is up to the front deck.”
“Move to the second floor and sit tight.”
Suddenly, Mark realized what was wrong with the Spalding's file. Despite the man got two Purple Hearts, he was not discharged from the Army as a disabled vet. Samantha did not mention any disability either. Of course, Spalding could have an artificial leg, which would explain his canvas sneakers and the limp. Still, with other-than-honorable discharge after serving his term in prison, he should have appeared in the last-year Pentagon list. Why was he omitted?
Mark turned to the CSIs, “Tom, can I ask a hypothetical question?”
“Sure thing. I love hypothetical.”
“Let's say, we ask the Pentagon to give us a list to fit a particular profile. Age such-and-such, served in the special forces, and so on. Is it possible they omit some names from the list?”
“Of course, sir. Their DB admin is a human too. Humans make mistakes. Errare Humanum Est, so the Romans said. But the Romans certainly didn't have computers to amplify their screw-ups.”
“No, I'm not about human errors, Tom. Can they omit a name on purpose? What if someone served on a nuclear submarine, for example?”
“If on a nuclear sub, nobody cares. It's not a big secret: they don't go to sea anymore. But if the person in question served in some very advanced military command, for instance, in Mil-Int, – they may consider if it's necessary to edit him or her out. Why do you ask?”
Most likely, my fantasies about Eric Spalding are just a first-degree paranoia, Mark thought. Even if other-than-honorably discharged Captain Eric Spalding was indeed a night watch at Frederick's plant, what made me conclude this particular Spalding became a serial killer? A military officer, with the highest decorations, twice wounded in action, maybe in the military intelligence. Well, Spalding ended up behind bars for something. So what? He served his time and got out, even retained his rank. Whatever the crime, it was not the worst type. More than likely, our Captain refused to take part in a covert operation. After the ill-fated Gas Shield, many officers lost faith in their commanders. Operation Gas Gangrene, they called it so for a reason.
“Just an unrelated thought,” Mark avoided the answer. “OK. That's what we do. You guys start for the Station, and I'll pay a quick visit to my friend's gasoline plant at the 'Fill. Just one mile from here.”
Tom hesitated. “We'd better stick together in such weather.”
“No, Tom. It's private business. I just need to check if my daughter is OK, that's all,” Mark said. “I'll join you at the Station in about an hour.”
“Good luck,” Natalie pointed to the river-like highway gutter, “if you need a boat – call.” She kicked off her flip-flops and stuck them under her scene kit at the bike rack. Tom followed Natalie's example and removed his rubber boots. Waist-deep in water, they forded the gutter and began pushing their bikes along the rain-drenched road, leaning against gusts of wind.
Mark was afraid to take his boots off and scooped them full while getting to the highway, but at this point it made no difference. At least, for him the storm was blowing in the back, and he walked, or more precisely, – ran, trying to slow down his bike, pushed by the wind.
Filthy alleys at the McCarty Road Landfill were deserted. The garbage processing shops were all closed, but few stacks emitted fine plumes of smoke, even more noticeable in the rain. Mike once said that most smelters ran their furnaces day and night. Surely, guards were inside, keeping one eye on the fire, and the other – on the door, and lightly fingering whatever weapon they had handy.
What would he tell Spalding, if it was, of course, the Eric Spalding from the file? Presumably, Frederick and the kids had gone home. The night watchman – at the plant, along with Jasmine Hobson and her two brothers. Spalding must be armed. It would be real-nice if Captain Spalding followed the rules of engagement as taught in West Point: first, positively identify the target, and only then – shoot. You got to stop thinking the night watchman and Captain Eric Spalding are the same person, Mark reminded himself. Much greater chance, the watchman had never been to West Point, knew nothing about the rules of engagement, and would start shooting left and right. And then, it would turn out the watchman's name was Joe, and he was a former NBA player with a hernia.
But if the watchman was indeed – the Butcher, Mark had no legal reason to make an arrest!
He only had a vague suspicion, based on a file from the Pentagon database. Even during the rough times immediately after the Meltdown, no judge would approve. Besides, looking at Spalding's service record, even if Mark had a couple of armed deputies, such an arrest would be dangerous. Thus, no arrest today. But then, Mark's visit to the gasoline plant would tell Eric Spalding the FBI was after him, and the ex-special forces man's behavior might become unpredictable.
Mark desperately needed a plausible excuse for his visit. Right: Jasmine and her brothers! I must look at Eric Spalding, as if he is a piece of furniture, Mark decided. A mere civilian, an irrelevant nobody. Special Agent-in-Charge P
endergrass, a dull FBI bureaucrat, comes to see Hobsons who are on his Witness Protection; other civilians, please step back…
Mark planned the possible dialog in his head. Introductions, show the badge. Then: “may I have your name, sir? Eric Spalding?” Show no emotions. “These three teenagers – the Hobsons family, are they at the plant? I'm here to move the kids to another location. Where to? I'm not at freedom to tell you. Witness Protection, you must understand, blah, blah, blah…” If Mark played this just right, Spalding would suspect nothing.
The gasoline plant gate was bolted, but a brick chimney above the boiler room emitted smoke. As Mike explained, once a bomb started, it should run the full cycle. Stop it before the due time, – and you face an unpleasant business of cleaning semi-cooked plastic by hand. Mark banged on the gates for full five minutes until someone from the inside answered: “is it you, Jass?”
Half a minute later, a small look-out window opened in the gate, and a man poked out. A raincoat hood shadowed the face. “Who the hell are you? Get lost!”
Mark produced his badge and started along the prepared line: “FBI, Special Agent Pendergrass.”
“Wow! From the FBI!” Behind the gates, the latch rattled, and one wing came slightly ajar. “OK. Please come in.”
Mark touched his Glock with the left elbow, felt the reassuring weight of the gun, and pushed his bike inside. Everything seemed to be fine. Was it the Eric Spalding from the Pentagon file or not? “What's your name, sir?” So far, Mark only knew the watchman was exactly as tall as the Butcher (or Eric Spalding) – five feet and nine inches. Mark also saw that the watchman had a twelve-gauge. In its former life, this weapon was probably used for clay pigeon shooting, but now both the barrels and the butt were sawed off, turning it into a poor man's version of a tactical shotgun.
The watchman shut the gate and threw the bolt in place. Then, he turned and removed his hood. The man's face had a lot in common with the face of Eric Spalding on the file photos, but the man was positively not the Captain Eric Spalding. Mark's well-trained eye instantly counted a dozen of differences: the nose, the ear shape, slightly arched eyebrows… Mark felt a huge relief.
The man introduced himself: “Rick Spalding. In charge of the plant security. Howdy, sir? And, uh, please don't mind the gun. Reasonable precautions.”
“I don't mind the gun, Mister Spalding,” Mark replied, shaking the man's hand, “Extra caution does not hurt, especially on a day like this.” The shortened name ‘Rick’ could be ‘Richard,’ ‘Patrick,’ or quite possibly ‘Eric,’ but it was just a coincidence. Besides, the watchman seemed friendly enough, and did not look worried or nervous.
Spalding pointed towards the yard. “Goddamn rain! Let's get into the office, sir.”
Mark leaned his bike against the gate and followed the watchman. What a nice pair of rubber boots, he mentioned. Wellingtons. Must be bloody expensive and not easy to find. Even the FBI did not have access to such supplies. This Rick Spalding was not lame.
We have a diagnosis for you, Mister Pendergrass. You have Schizophrenia! With delusions! Relax! Spalding is not the Butcher. Just an abstract night watchman at the 'Fill, and nothing to do with the serial killings. We prescribe you Prozac, or something from a backyard pharmacy. You feel better in no time!
At the office entrance, the watchman knocked mud from his boots. Next, he solemnly opened the door and motioned for Mark to enter. “How may I be of assistance, sir?” he said: a British butler from an old Hollywood movie.
Mark looked around the darkish office. The furniture was Spartan. At the window, a plywood box with a battered oilcloth served as an improvised coffee table. Along the walls, there were similarly improvised shelves, with multiple folders and books. Three little stools were placed around the coffee table. In the corner, – a prehistoric-looking fire safe. Two huge dilapidated office desks and two equally abused leather chairs occupied the center of the room. The desk next to the safe was buried under a pile of books and papers, while the second one – empty, except for a strange-looking tin box with electric contacts and thumb-switches. At the far end of the room, there was a second door, fitted with milk-white glass: either a storage or a sleeping room for the watchman.
Following the earlier conversation plan seemed pointless, so Mark asked directly, “Frederick Stolz – is he at the plant? I tried to call, but all I got was the damn answering machine…”
“The local cell tower is down. We had no coverage after lunch.”
“But – the Syntegas answering machine?”
“Oh, it's because Mister Stolz has an expensive plan. The answering machine is a computer at the phone station. Translates the voice messages into a text, all bells and whistles.”
“I see. I worried and decided to drop by, just in case. Frederick, his Martin, and our Samantha went to the 'Fill this morning…”
“Oh, you must be the father of Samantha and Michael!” the watchman shined a wide smile, “wonderful children you have, sir, wonderful! When Samantha joined us here at the plant, I said: excellent idea, Mister Stolz!”
The watchman was shamelessly lying. Samantha said, the first reaction was: ‘a maggot for a Chief Technologist?’ Spalding is an ordinary suck-up. A type who always say what you're pleased to hear.
“So are they at the plant?”
“Gone home an hour ago.”
Mark looked through the half-open window at the rain-drenched yard. Mike's cargo tricycle stood at its usual spot – in the corner, under the shed. Two orange jerrycans at the platform and no rubber boots under the seat. Good Samantha put her boots on. The road was flooded, and the murky water hid all sorts of crap.
Mark unbuttoned his raincoat and pulled out his phone. Here, at the plant, it had no signal. “What about Jasmine and her brothers, Mister Spalding?” he asked.
“They're gone too. Probably, got scared of the hurricane and decided to spend the night at the school…”
“If so, I'd better be on my way. Would you let me out of the gate, please?”
“Wait! You're all soaked! I have hot coffee. A substitute, naturally, but almost as good as the real thing,” Spalding pushed a rickety stool towards Mark. “Have a seat. I insist, sir!”
After a second of hesitation, Mark took off his raincoat. The watchman pulled out two mugs, blew inside to remove the imaginary dust and poured coffee from a thermal flask. Indeed, the drink tasted almost like a real coffee.
“You shouldn't go around the 'Fill alone, especially in such weather,” the watchman said. “I wouldn't dare to leave the plant for any damn money! Of course, you have a gun, all that stuff… At the Police Station – do they know you're at Syntegas?”
Mark had his mouth full of hot coffee, so he did not respond. Somebody started banging at the gate: timidly at first, and then in full force.
“Who the hell is this?” Spalding said, “must be those damn rats from the 'Fill. The ones who don't have a territory of their own. If it rains, they steal scrap from the others, and come here to sell, below the standard price. I'm not going to open. They will bang for a while and go away.”
“What if it's Jasmine and the boys?” Mark asked. The banging at the gates continued, more insistent.
“Nah. Unlikely to be Jasmine. Must be the bloody rats. I gave myself a resolution: never buy scrap from these scoundrels. I'm no chemical engineer. All these PVC, POM, Lexan, Delrin, Nylon, – no bloody idea! And these guys tend to sell you all kinds of wrong stuff. Mister Stolz comes in the morning and gives me hard time. Either: hey, this scrap is no good, or: hey, the scrap is OK, but you paid too much! I'm always wrong.”
Mark wondered: now the watchman suddenly did not expect Jasmine anymore. But when he went to the gate the last time, he shouted the opposite: ‘Is it you, Jass?’
“OK, I'll go look who the hell is out there,” the watchman said, reluctantly taking his raincoat from the hook. As if he did no
t want to leave me here alone, Mark thought.
Spalding cracked open his shotgun, glanced at brass heads of the cartridges in the chambers, and snapped it closed again. Meanwhile, the banging had stopped. The watchman hesitated, but he already had his coat on and his gun checked, so he went out into the rain. After a short while, Mark heard: “Jass?”, a loud click of the look-out window, and few moments later – a heavy bang of the gate's bolt.
Suddenly, a gust of wind shook the room, and the little door at the far end of the office, rattling with its glass, flew open. Yes, it actually was the watchman's sleeping hole: a tiny, four-by-six feet closet, with a wooden couch set against the wall.
What the heck, Mark said to himself. On a colorful baby blanket spread over the couch, there were two tightly stuffed backpacks: one huge, from camouflage fabric, the type usually associated with paratroopers, and one small, dark-black, like a schoolbag. On the top of the large backpack, a pair of rubber boots was tied. Mark recognized Mike's boots, – or more precisely: Samantha's boots, he corrected himself.
The right boot had a neat patch on the toe. Mark remembered how last year his son pierced a hole. For three weeks, Mike complained of missing the right glue and made endless temporary fixes with rags or duct tape. Finally, the glue had been obtained, and the patch had been applied permanently.
It did not surprise Mark the night watchman had collected his bags: merely getting ready for the hurricane, in case the plant was inundated. Mark was not surprised Samantha gave her boots to Spalding and went home in bare feet. By now, – hardly surprising. The highway must be ‘so-o-o wonderfully flooded,’ or she would drop a line of hating this terrible water squelch. All the crap on the road did not concern Mark anymore. His younger kids, with their one hundred percent anti-sissy feet, could go barefoot in any weather and for any distance, even to the other side of Houston. Yet, the watchman had his chic Wellingtons. Why would he ask Samantha to lend him a second pair of rubber boots?
Mark realized, or more precisely, instinctively felt that his daughter had not gone home, but remained somewhere at the plant. He pulled out his Glock, check the cartridge loaded in the barrel, and peered through the window. And just in time: by the corner of his eye, Mark spotted the watchman who approached the office door with the shotgun ready in his hands. ‘Rick Spalding’ was moving a little sideways, quietly placing each step of his chic Wellingtons on slippery mud: the way an experienced hunter comes to his prey. The special forces' training was evident. Mark raised his gun to eye level and stepped into the sleeping closet.
The watchman, however, pushed the entrance door a little, saw his closet open, and realized he could not fool the FBI agent any longer. Without much aiming, he fired one barrel of his shotgun into the room, jumped back, and zigzagged across the yard towards the reactors' line. Mark stepped to the window, ready to shoot, but Spalding turned and fired from the second barrel. A spray of glass from the shattered window rattled through the room. Mark hesitated with his shot, and the watchman disappeared behind reactor number three.
“Missed your opportunity to shoot, FBI man?” to overcome the rain, the watchman shouted words like military commands, loud and clear.
“Decided to give you another chance, buddy,” Mark shouted back, “I will have my shot later. Where's Samantha? The others?”
“Oh, buddy! Your Samantha… Sorry… She had to go…”
Mark's heart fell.
“Just kidding,” the watchman continued after a theatrical pause, “your Sammy is alive and perfectly well. She had to go behind reactor three, that's all! Want to check it yourself? Samantha, dear, tell Daddy how you love him…”
Almost instantly, Samantha's voice: “Daddy?”
“Samantha? Are you all-right?” Mark yelled.
“…Yeah,” Samantha did not sound very certain. Given the circumstances, Mark's ‘all-right’ was an exaggeration. “Mister Sto…” It sounded like if Samantha was gagged.
“You'd better shut up, my dear. Daddy doesn't need to know the disposition,” the watchman said instead. Then, louder, for Mark: “OK, buddy. Now you know your daughter's alive. Happy? To make sure we have full understanding between us… Do you want full understanding?”
“Sure,” Mark yelled. The situation was not in his favor: Spalding, or whoever he was, had multiple hostages, including Mark's daughter.
“OK. I got to explain you what I have in my gun. I have manly balls, buddy. Minié balls! Heard of such a thing? It works like this. If I shoot one through your daughter's lower jaw, her face will stay here. Nice, and pretty, and a little surprised. But for her brains – you have to walk to the highway! ¿Entender? Now, your daughter and me, nicely and quietly, cross the yard and into the boiler room. Please make sure you don't make any sudden moves. My shotgun – it has so-o-o sensitive trigger! Tell me you understand what I say.”
“Got it,” Mark replied, calculating in his head. How many hostages and where are they located? Samantha, Frederick, and Martin – three. The Hobsons – six. The stokers: Mr. Kingsley and his daughter – eight. Danny, the foreman, and four roughnecks. Thirteen? The hostages must be in the boiler room – that's why ‘Spalding’ wants to get there: to control the situation and use all the hostages in his negotiations. But why was Samantha behind reactor number three and not with the others?
“Here we go,” Spalding shouted, “as I said, no surprises!”
In the narrow passage between reactors two and three, Samantha and the watchman appeared. Mark's daughter, in half-torn T-shirt and jeans rolled up to her knees, barefoot, and drenched by the rain, – was in the front. She had a piece of silver duct tape over her mouth and hands apparently tied behind her back. Spalding held his shotgun trimmed to Samantha's neck.
“OK, my dear. Slowly and gently,” the watchman encouraged Samantha. “Excellent. Excellent! Now: do not turn. Face your Daddy, and move to the left, one step at the time. Watch your feet and make sure not to slip. If you slip, it may turn rather ugly, understand?”
He walked behind Samantha's back, minimizing Mark's chances for a clean shot. Even if he had one, Mark would not dare. Only in the movies, a bullet through the skull kills instantly. In reality, if the gun barrel is pointed at the hostage, the last convulsion is more than enough for a deadly round. Over the full century of hostage situations, the FBI learned it hard way. A sniper placed a perfect shot through the criminal's forehead, and the hostage got her bullet with probability exceeding ninety-five percent.
The watchman and Samantha continued in this sideways fashion across the yard and finally came to an opening in the boiler room wall. Mark saw how Spalding reached out with his left hand and picked a flashlight from the workbench. Then, both he and Samantha disappeared behind the brick partition.
