“Allow me to provide proof.” Swenson put the phone on speaker and walked to the darkest corner of the room where they were tied and gagged. He pulled off Patterson’s gag and kicked her in the stomach.
“When I get loose, I’m gonna kick your skinny ass,” Abby said. Swenson smiled and pushed her gag back in her mouth.
He took off Baily’s next. “Tee, we’re in the Ster …” Swenson kicked his face.
“Cops are all alike,” he chuckled. “They would rather die than do what’s in their best interest. I hope you have more brains than this one, Detective Wilcox. You don’t have a very good record keeping partners. Maybe you’re ready for another and I’m out of luck.”
“If you do anything to them, I will find you. You will beg me to let you die.” Wilcox walked to the window of the cheap hotel. “And if you know anything about me, you know I will do what I say, you miserable punk.”
“It’s not nice for a police officer to threaten citizens. Your boss would be disappointed to hear such unlawful language from one of his homicide detectives.”
Swenson stooped down and removed another gag. “Go ahead,” Swenson said. “Tell your employee how you disapprove of his aggressive language and unlawful threats. Tell him how you would send an army of police officers to apprehend him if he killed anybody.”
“Tony, this is Cottam.”
Damn! Wilcox cupped the phone. “They have Patterson, Baily, and Cottam.”
“Do not negotiate with … ”
This time the one holding the cigar kicked a hostage. He smiled when Cottam fell on his side and created a new puddle of blood. Swenson stuffed the rag back in the director’s mouth.
“We want you, Petty, and Keller.”
Wilcox knew he was responsible. He pulled Abby into his nightmare—he broke all the rules doing it. If he had done his job the right way, Abby would be safe somewhere tracking another lame cheater. Her subjects were scumbags. He threw her to cold-blooded killers.
“Are you still there, Detective Wilcox?” Swenson taunted. “Are you going to save the people you put in danger. How could you expose a PI and rookie detective to so much danger? You are an irresponsible man. Even your director faces death because of your inept skills.”
If Wilcox had stood his ground at Lamplighter’s Baily would not have been shot in the head or taken by Swenson. Baily would be drinking a beer with his generation’s cops talking about the senseless homicides. Swenson was right. Wilcox was irresponsible.
You must be desperate—kidnapping the director of the Memphis Police Department. I get Patterson and Baily, but not Cottam. Talk about putting the stick in the hornet’s nest. And his kidnapping has been kept under wraps. MPD has gotta know he’s missing, but they’re not saying anything about it. What the hell are they doing? What kind of power do these people have?
“What do you want?”
“I’m a thoughtful guy, Detective Wilcox. If you do what I say, everyone lives.”
“What do you want?” he said again.
We meet on Mud Island tonight. You and Dr. Petty bring Hunter Keller. We trade three for one and go our separate ways.”
“Where on Mud Island? It’s a big piece of real estate?”
“History says you’re quite familiar with the place, detective. It was in all the newspapers. You and that world-renowned forensic pathologist tangled with a serial killer on that island. I suppose you’re getting tired of the place.” Swenson grinned as he returned to his chair and drink.
“Where, Swenson? Give me specifics.”
“The north end is most convenient, yet remote. I’m sure we can conduct business and not be disturbed. We will meet where you found those disgusting heads on stakes, the sandy clearing near the bank. Surely you remember.
“We will meet at ten p.m. sharp. And please do not underestimate our capabilities. We are quite capable of monitoring and assessing situations from afar. If we feel the slightest compromised, your friends die and we simply move to our plan B. I advise against games, detective. I would not sacrifice my friends for a psychic-serial killer. Mr. Keller has killed many, although I am quite certain he has been on his best behavior while under your purview.”
“You’re an idiot, Swenson,” Wilcox fumed.
“I’ve been accused of many things, but that one is new. We will take Hunter Keller off your hands tomorrow night, and everyone lives happily ever after.”
“Who do you work for?” Wilcox asked.
“Is that information truly necessary?”
“Not really. Why do you want Keller?”
“I am certain you’ve witnessed his talents, a very gifted young man. I am equally certain you have seen but a fraction of his astounding capabilities. And I’m also certain you’ve spent most of your time doubting him. He needs to be with those who can appreciate him fully.”
“What makes you think he’ll share anything with you? You killed his parents and friends and remote viewers. Your minions have forced him into a life of hiding.”
“You should know better than most that things are not always as they appear. We’re not the bad guys here. Our mission is secret, and it goes beyond your narrow focus. It can withstand your judgement. I recommend you do the right thing tomorrow night.”
Swenson dropped the cell phone onto the cold, cement floor and crushed it under his heel. “This is not going to go well,” he said while staring at the shattered pieces.
“They will come. That is all we need.” Light seemed to avoid the dark figure sucking the cigar on the long sofa. He pushed the stub into the arm and sparks rained down.
“No one leaves Mud Island alive tomorrow night. When we have Keller, we terminate the others and dispose of their bodies under the Harahan Bridge. We leave Memphis by water.”
“Nasty currents down there. They’ll be sucked under immediately,” Swenson said. “They will tumble along the river bottom for miles. Their body parts won’t make it to Vicksburg—fish bait.”
“This time I’m ready for Hunter Keller,” Cankor said.
Thirty-Seven
“I will sleep when I’m dead.”
Warren Zevon
*
The bullet found his chest and they carried him away …
Another crisp November day on Mulberry Street in south Memphis set the stage for the scheduled spectacle to be covered by the national media. Satellite trucks sat in their designated spaces and crowds began to grow outside the National Civil Rights Museum. Since its opening in 1991, each U.S. Attorney General and many high ranking government officials found time to visit the hallowed grounds—the place of the Martin Luther King assassination, and where the civil rights movement gained its unprecedented momentum. The NCR Humanitarian Award waited for Alfred E. Baldwin. Now, the event mattered. He needed an excuse to be in Memphis, Tennessee.
The complex of historic buildings and museum grew from the Lorraine Motel, the site where King died on the balcony on April 4, 1968. Now marked by a wreath outside room 306, the small motel is frozen in time and serves as an honored backdrop for NCRM awards ceremonies. Unlike other events in the city, the promotional campaign for Alfred Baldwin’s visit to the city had a three day run. The last minute commitment from the attorney general left little time for the usual preparations. Some believed the brief promotion was for security purposes.
The honorees and local dignitaries mingled around the buffet table in the private quarters of the museum—the staging area for the event. Baldwin stood alone at the tinted windows looking at the growing crowds attending the special award ceremony.
The mayor took a position next to Baldwin at the window. “Dr. King never had a chance,” he said staring across the plaza at the wreath on room 306 behind the stage waiting for them. “It was a terrible day. When it happened, I was twenty working at The Tribune, a cub reporter.”
Baldwin stood silent. Although both looked out the same window, their thoughts were very different. Baldwin’s eyes stayed with the churning crowd, not room 306. He w
as killing time. He had a reputation and had sent all the signals—he wanted to be alone. But the mayor persisted. Baldwin showed no interest in the mayor’s lame anecdotes. His head was on important matters few could comprehend.
The mayor edged even closer to one of the most powerful men in the world. The Attorney General sets the legal agenda for the nation. He can change the course of history by ignoring gross travesties of justice, and by transforming the most innocent acts into politically correct barbarism. It was always about personal gain, and Alfred Baldwin was the master. He understood power.
“They’re gathering,” the mayor whispered. “Thank you again for coming to our city. We appreciate you fitting us into your schedule. These special recognition moments are important to the region and national community. Coverage of the positive helps offset the negative.”
Baldwin stared straight ahead. “It was a single 30-06 round fired from a Winchester Model 760. The bullet entered the right cheek, broke the jaw, and went down the spine.”
The mayor straightened his stance pushing his chest out. “Excuse me?”
“Shattered vertebrae and severed the jugular.” Baldwin sipped his bitter punch.
“I missed something. What are you talking about?”
“It lodged in the shoulder—ripped off the man’s tie.” Baldwin turned with fire in his eyes. “This is your city. You should know how King died. You should know the details of this man’s horrible tragedy. He didn’t die so this shrine could be built. He was murdered by a savage element lurking in your city. Dr. King had more to do. But some racist fool thought differently. Your city gave that monster the opportunity because you were not ready.”
“Sounds like you’re scolding me,” the mayor said attempting to recover from the awkward moment. “You have no idea what—”
“—Please! Enough. I heard you. You were twenty. How could you be expected to know? You weren’t responsible. Nobody’s responsible except the man with the rifle. But now you’re the mayor and I’ll bet you still don’t know the details of the man’s death—it’s too messy. You’d rather lose yourself in the pomp and circumstance, and symbolism. While you do that, another piece of vermin is spawned in the bowels of your city.”
The mayor stood a foot taller than Baldwin, and was in far better shape. Baldwin was an overweight bourbon-drinking cigarette smoking man. The cameras in the room caught the mayor’s clenched fist and hard face bearing down on the chubby man at the tinted window. It would make the six o’clock news.
“I know more about my city than you will ever know,” the mayor seethed. “Your twisted arrogance is abominable, and an enormous disappointment. For a sitting U.S. Attorney General to reach such hair-brain conclusions with absolutely no information is concerning to say the least. I know how Martin Luther King died, sir. I know how he was rushed to St. Joseph Hospital. And I know how Memphians prayed for a miracle that day.”
With a cold smile the mayor leaned down and into Baldwin’s fat face—he would give the news media another photo-op. “You’re not welcome in my city, little man. After you take your award, leave. By the way, it was not a Winchester. It was a Remington you pompous fool.” The cameras followed the mayor’s cold departure. Baldwin turned back to the tinted glass.
He enjoyed the reflection. He watched the mayor blend into the crowd behind him, and the whispers and turning heads. Once again he pulled all the strings. Baldwin created the perfect conditions. The news would run with the confrontation for the next twenty-four hours, a perfect distraction, and the room would leave him alone. He needed to focus on the more important matters. Although his perfect plan was unfolding, there were always surprises. He ran over the counter measures still making adjustments.
“Swenson, it’s about time you made contact,” he said into his cell looking out the tinted glass. “I waited last night.” Baldwin looked for and found his lead bodyguard by the door touching an ear. They exchanged nods. “Talk to me, Swenson. Where are you?”
“Sorry for the delay. I can assure you it was in the best interest of the mission. It is also best we not discuss my current location.” Swenson learned how to manage Baldwin long ago. He put at risk those things he knew Baldwin could not lose—control of outcomes. “When do you accept your humanitarian award, sir?”
“Soon I hope.” Baldwin watched them check the podium microphones. The stage was in the parking lot of the Lorraine Hotel under room 306. Bundles of cables snaked through the grass dropping off the curb onto Mulberry and feeding a half dozen satellite trucks. “I’d rather be at the Peabody on my third drink.”
“Be specific on the window of ‘saturated protection’.”
“1:00 to 1:05. But, my protection is already in place. No need for you to do anything.”
“I check behind the protection, sir. There are elements of risk you’ve not shared with secret service, elements posing a greater danger than the routine, political crackpots.”
“You’re talking about the Stargate Project. Let me remind you, the only reason I am in this backwater town is because you guaranteed me a success. This time it better pan out.”
“I believe we have a good chance of accomplishing our mission right here in Memphis.”
“I sense a softening of your position. Has there been a set back?”
“No, sir.”
“Is he in the city?” Baldwin asked. Looking across the room his agent touched his tie with two fingers. “Talk faster. They’re going to need me.”
“He will be here,” Swenson said.
“And the others?”
“Working on it.” You don’t need more, Swenson thought. After one it won’t matter …
“I hope you get it right this time,” Baldwin said.
Secret Service secured the area the best they could with an impossible setting. Barriers were in place on East Butler, St. Martin, Hulling and South Main to Nettleton. The zone of exposure had been dissected by the most prudent protection agency on earth. Incursion possibilities were weighed, and risks were eliminated, minimized, or closely monitored.
“Excuse me,” said the program coordinator at the edge of the window. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.” Baldwin turned with a scowl and holding his phone to his chest. “The ceremony is about to begin. There will be opening words from the NSM President followed by five smaller award presentations. You will be introduced at 1:00 p.m. and escorted to the podium as stipulated. There will be no variance.”
“Thank you for the update.” Baldwin turned back to the window and his phone. “They don’t like this location for security purposes. They won’t let me get past five minutes on the podium. I’ll get out of here and back to the Peabody in twenty. You call in thirty with an update.”
“Understood.” Swenson disconnected and smiled at Major Cankor. They stood on the rooftop of the Sterick building looking south at the swarm. It was a clear day. They had a perfect view of the Civil Rights Museum parking lot and podium ten blocks away.
The small band started playing. Baldwin forced his cell into his pocket, his coat fit tighter than usual. The conferees filed across the lot flanked by cheering crowds. Memphis police lined their path ten feet apart. Local dignitaries, news media, and family members of the honored guests were seated in front of the small stage.
The positioning was odd. People are a fair distance away, Baldwin thought. They’re forced to stand in a tight, narrow formation to see the podium. It’s like watching a football game from the wrong end zone. Baldwin was told about the last minute change. They said it was a TV network. They had to have room #306 and Mississippi River in the background. Secret Service did not like the added lanes of exposure. They could cancel Baldwin’s participation, but decided five minutes or less of exposure was an acceptable compromise.
He was alone in a non-smoking environment. The two attendants cleaning the ravaged buffet, and two agents with fingers to their ears, would not say a word. Baldwin lit up. Blowing smoke at the glass he tapped speed dial. He held out the phone for
the familiar squelch and waited for the crystal chime—the line was secure.
“Status?” Baldwin said.
The scrambler made the voice on the other end robotic. “Located, sir.”
“Assemblage?” He asked and took another long drag.
“Ready, sir.”
“Good.”
Two cigarettes later, the side door opened. “We’re ready for you, Mr. Baldwin.” The agents stepped out first. The crisp November day hit him in the face. He crossed the lot with a tinny, off-key America the Beautiful playing. Baldwin put on his fake smile and waved to the public from the cluster of sunglasses, ear pieces, and bumps in black coats. Today would be the most important day of his life for reasons few would ever know.
Walking through the crowd, his elation did not come from the honor bestowed. It came from knowing he would soon complete the most important mission of his lifetime, and it was personal. Alfred E. Baldwin was a survivor. He was an elite Gondola Wish remote viewer, and the leader of the Stargate submersion program. Better than anyone, Baldwin understood the power of psychic-weaponry. He knew how it would change human intelligence gathering, and it would be how all future wars are fought. He knew in the wrong hands it would change the balance of power and course of humanity.
Six chairs were at the back of the stage with the five honorees and host. There was no chair for Baldwin—he could never sit out in the open again. Plain clothes Secret Service moved in the crowd and more black suits surrounded the platform. He took the stage flanked by crossed arms and scanning eyes. City officials rose and stood off to the side. The mayor glared at the AG. Baldwin adjusted two of the ten microphones as if it mattered. He flashed a smile at the crowd and looked down at his index card—show time.
It was 1:03 when he started to open his mouth. Baldwin always liked being the center of attention, but this time he felt strange. The image of an enormous ten-point stag was standing in crosshairs. Where did that come from? What did it mean? Was it nerves or something else?
A bead of sweat grew and left a sideburn. It rolled down and hung on his jaw. Baldwin’s clothes felt heavy and tight. He rubbed his jaw and cleared his throat. Baldwin ignored the image and squinted into the flashing strobes. “I am honored to be …”
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