A Taste of Honey

by Tom Benson

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “With sugar would be good, thanks,” she said, accepting the plastic mug. She looked around and realized that just inside the small cave was a large Bergen and a laptop computer with a small green box connected to it. The green box was half the size of the laptop and had a row of lights along the top.

  Honey felt comfortable with this man, although she was aware of him watching her.

  Grainger said, “I tend to keep my equipment charged up to the max so that I can work from just about any location.” He smiled. “So, what can I do for you Honey?”

  “May I ask you a few questions to make sure I’ve got the right man for the job?”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “If you can afford my fee, I’ll earn it.” He sipped his coffee. “I don’t work out of an office, because this way I can trace anybody, but nobody can trace me.”

  Honey explained the first part of what she wanted the Private Investigator to do. He nodded as he listened, but made no comment during the explanation. He made no notes.

  “Okay,” he said. “I have to find a prisoner that fits in with the parameters you’ve given me. Would I be correct in assuming that the second part of this plan is with regards to another person, but maybe not a prisoner?”

  “Correct,” Honey said and went on to explain the second part of the plan, but withheld the second person’s name.

  “Nice idea,” Grainger said. “Have you got somebody in mind to carry out the part that joins these two separate entities?”

  “If you can get the information for me, I was intending to deal with bringing them together myself. Time constraints and distance will make it hard-,”

  “I don’t have to know the background,” Grainger interrupted, “to know that the solution means a lot to you.” He paused. “If you can meet my regular fee, I’ll make the connection for you free of charge.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  He sipped his coffee and nodded absently as he looked at her. Before he spoke a faint smile passed over his lips. “Your specific interest in why I left the police force told me a great deal. Like I said earlier, I was tired of seeing guilty people walking away unpunished, which is where I think you’re coming from.”

  Honey nodded but remained silent.

  “Besides,” Grainger said, “most decent guys who have a daughter of their own, feel a duty to help another man’s daughter.”

  “Thank you ... Mr. Grainger,” she said. “I’d appreciate whatever extra expertise you can offer with my endeavor.”

  “You can call me Bert,” he said, “after all; I only know your first name.”

  “Honey Wood,” she said and produced a wad of bills. As per his terms, she paid the PI half of his fee up front.

  Bert took the money and folded it into an inside pocket and then lifted his coffee.

  Honey said, “Aren’t you going to check the cash?”

  “If we’re going to work together Honey, there will be a high degree of trust.” He displayed a broad smile. “You followed my instructions to the letter, and combined with the task you’re putting together, that tells me all I need to know about your integrity.”

  “Why haven’t you stood up to check the approaches since I’ve been here?”

  “That green box,” he said, nodding towards the device beside the laptop, “is an infra-red indicator system. A radio signal connects it to a pair of sensors two miles to the east, and another set two miles to the west.”

  “What about other directions?”

  “The only type of vehicle to cross this terrain would be a tank or a helicopter, and they’re both noisy.”

  They finished their coffee, agreed on a method of contact, shook hands and Honey made her way down to her car.

  When she reached the intersection of Route 75 and Route 70, it was late in the evening, so she decided to find a motel and get some rest. She drove south across the intersection and went on until she found a place with diner a few miles north of Dayton.

  *

  Honey’s next scheduled target was Gus Higgins, a 40-year-old ex-soldier who had a successful business as an outward-bound instructor. While at the Internet cafe, Higgins had been in the first of her series of searches. Taken at face value, he was a good American and a veteran, but Honey couldn’t trace him back too far. That made him unusual.

  Her knowledge of following online sources solved the issue. When the man had been serving his country, his name had been Hitchins, but he wasn’t a hero like so many thousands of other US veterans. He had been an embarrassment to his unit and country. Dishonorable discharge for molesting young girls was why Hitchins changed his name. The crimes occurred when he had served in Europe, in peacetime.

  In any attached photographs where he had posed in military uniform, he had tampered with the images to blur the nametag on the fatigues. In this way, in his publicity shots for his business, he came across as an all-American, a trained and fearless adventurer whom nobody suspected had a darker side. He took camouflage seriously when it came to his past.

  Higgins as he had become known by name, lived some of the year in a trailer park not far from Greensburg, so he was able to come and go without any suspicion. A little digging produced what Honey was trying to discover.

  He had a bolt-hole in West Virginia in the form of a hunting lodge deep in the woodland of the Appalachian Mountains. According the website, Higgins lived and worked from the lodge whenever he was in the mountain range. This openness about his mountain workplace made Honey suspicious about the transparency and accuracy of the information. It all seemed too clear cut and honest. She remembered that Brett had mentioned the Appalachians.

  *

  Prior to going to her room at the motel, Honey sat in the diner for a while to catch up with news and weather reports. She was glad she’d decided to watch the news.

  “Hello, this is Caroline Connelly reporting for ISITV. I can now confirm that the mystery woman with the tattoo we told you about earlier, is Gillian Carson, the wife of the missing lecturer Rick Carson.”

  “There is still confusion as to what Mrs. Carson was doing in Pittsburgh and why she might have been running across a busy street downtown, half naked, early in the morning. As I mentioned in my previous report, her clothing was tattered. The police inquiry is going to be wide-ranging because her husband is still missing.” The reporter paused and stared into the camera lens with a face devoid of emotion and held the pose for a moment.

  “The Carson’s house was left unlocked and unoccupied last night and their car, an expensive foreign SUV was found parked several streets from their home.”

  Honey had heard enough and walked across to her room. She wondered if one of Charles’s men looked upon Gillian Carson as a weak-willed little woman. If that happened, there would probably be a man somewhere in downtown Pittsburgh regretting his decision to untie her; she was a she-devil.

  Honey sat on the edge of yet another firm motel bed, studying the area of Monongahela National Forest and the adjoining George Washington National Forest. The longer Honey looked at the region, the more it struck her that it was an ideal hunting ground; for a sexual predator. There were so many youngsters, both male and female who wanted to prove themselves and a few nights in that forest and mountainous terrain was the perfect trap.

  As Honey’s imagination started to work overtime, she decided it was time to get some rest. To think further on the subject would only serve to give her nightmares. She lay back on the bed still dressed, closed her eyes and mentally rehearsed her navigation and hunting drills. Time spent on rehearsals was an investment, even if the early rehearsals were performed mentally.

  It was as she considered her tactics that her cell buzzed. She glanced at the display.

  “Hello,” she said after swiping the screen. She listened.

  It took Charles less than a minute to explain that one of his men was now dead, because the man had underestimated the attractive sex-slave that had recently arrived. Ashley had
been chasing the Carson woman when she ran onto the street. Charles was apologetic, because the woman’s punishment had not lasted as promised. He told Honey that he was in her debt and to call anytime.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the offer, and I might take you up on it. Bye.” She placed the cell on the bedside cabinet and got ready for bed. She knew Charles acted like a true gentleman, but she didn’t have him down as a man of such honor.

  ***

  Chapter 11

  A Hunting Trip

  .

  Friday, June 20th, 2003

  Dayton, Ohio

  Following a hearty breakfast and plenty of coffee to ensure that she was ready for the day, Honey drove to Dayton to locate the nearest Internet cafe. For comfort, she dressed in T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. To evade the CCTV cameras in the vicinity she wore a baseball cap which wasn’t a perfect disguise, but it was effective. Later, she would be adopting a whole new look, in keeping with the tasks that lay ahead.

  It took very little time before she was hammering the keys at a terminal and once again writing brief notes. They were notes that only she would recognize later. As she reminded herself of the long day and night ahead, Honey became aware of a mild anxiety. The sensation didn’t exist because of what she planned, but in the hope that it would work out without the involvement of innocent parties. Avoiding collateral damage was a priority.

  Honey left the cafe and used a public phone booth to call Higgins on his business line. The answering machine suggested using the alternative number, which thanks to her notes; Honey recognized was for the West Virginia area. She got a response at the third ring and disguised her voice using a southern drawl.

  “I know it’s kind of late for such a booking,” she said and took a breath. “I’m a school teacher from Abilene with a group of girls, 14 through 17 years old-,” She was interrupted by a brief and cold apology. It was to say that Mr. Higgins was dealing with a personal injury. There were no bookings until August. It was intended to sound like an officious assistant, but Honey had a feeling it was Gus Higgins himself who’d responded.

  “Well,” Honey said aloud after replacing the handset, “if you haven’t got a personal injury now, you soon will have.” She picked up the handset again and dialed another number.

  “Hi,” she said, concentrating, ready to dull her New York accent. A cheerful male voice informed her that she had reached Shelbyville Police Department. Honey continued.

  “I’ve got a message for Detective Sorrenson.” There was silence for several seconds, where before there had been background office chatter. It was as if the line had gone dead, or the mouthpiece covered.

  The same man’s voice came back on but was more subdued. He informed the caller that she had reached Detective Sorrenson. Shelbyville was Sorrenson’s usual station, a few miles north of Greensburg, but only someone who knew this would have his extension.

  Honey said, “A guy driving a pick-up just gave me $20 to pass you a message,” she paused, “wait a minute.” For effect, she rustled some paper near the mouthpiece. “Meet me at my mountain hideaway, Saturday noon. Don’t call me, and don’t tell Tony.”

  The line went dead.

  Dimples appeared in Honey’s cheeks and her blue eyes narrowed. It was a long shot, but if the idea didn’t payoff, Sorrenson’s day of reckoning would come soon anyway. He was a dead man walking.

  *

  During her session on the Internet, Honey had double-checked the information she had on her next target. In one of the website publicity shots of Higgins, he was at a cabin in the mountains. He was in a picture with three other men. Honey recognized her stepfather as one of them; Brett stood beside him, and the other was Ben Sorrenson wearing a bush hat.

  She crossed to the lot, got into the Dodge and switched on the air-con. It was a lovely day for a drive, if a little warm. She set off for the Appalachian Mountains and the lush forests that decorated them. As she reached cruising speed on the highway, it occurred to her that she’d recently seen a similar photograph with a group of men cradling hunting rifles. When she relaxed, her memory worked better, so she concentrated on driving.

  A few minutes later, a green pick-up passed, going in the opposite direction and for some reason it sparked a vision. Realization hit her like a slap in the face. A small framed photograph of four men on a hunting trip came to mind. She’d seen it at her parent’s house. In the group, had been her step-father and three other men; the same three as seen on Higgins’s website. They were posing with rifles; in front of a green pick-up.

  Honey was pleased that she’d decided to increase her firepower, having bought a weapon with more range and power than the automatic pistol. It might well make the difference between success and failure; or life and death.

  Honey was making good time, so decided that a stop for a decent lunch would be enough to sustain her for the remainder of the day and on into the evening. At the gas station and diner combo, she was tempted to change her clothes, but then decided against it. The weather was likely to remain bright and warm so T-shirt, and shorts were fine for traveling.

  After crossing the county line into West Virginia, for more than two hours the mass of rock and greenery of the mountain range commanded the horizon to the southeast. The peaks appeared to stretch to the north and south extremities, and it got larger as she got nearer. It was an awesome sight, and a reminder of nature’s wonders; imposing, picturesque and yet dangerous.

  *

  She checked her watch as she neared her chosen entry point in the foothills. Honey decided she would change her outfit away from the public gaze, although she was eager to be camouflaged and at one with nature. That thought reminded her of something else.

  A mile before the turn into the edge of the forest, Honey pulled over. She pulled on gloves and then poured some of her bottled drinking water onto the loose earth at the roadside. She took a glance in both directions before spreading some of the muddy solution over the front and rear plates on her car. It would dry quickly.

  The parking lot was being used for at least 30 cars although it was into the evening. Some of the owners might be spending a night or more in the forest, but most would be day-trippers. Honey stood beside her car and looked up at the dense woodland, overshadowed by the peaks above and beyond.

  During her cursory glance, she noticed that there were two cameras discreetly positioned near the tree line to monitor the large parking lot. She tugged down on the peak of her cap, pleased she’d already dealt with the license plates.

  As she left the car with her backpack, she experienced a flashback to when she was 14. It was about then that she started to go on hunting trips with her dad. He taught her to stalk prey, using patience, stealth, camouflage, and weather conditions.

  They would carry rifles with telescopic sights, but they never killed anything. The rifle added the realism that she couldn’t feel on a firing range, but the only shots the youngster took were with a camera. The excitement for her was to succeed in the chase and get close to the target.

  Now, it was a different young woman that made her way towards her chosen entry trail. As she got closer to the greenery, she inhaled the wild fragrances of the forest. She felt a light breeze and sensed the welcome intimacy of the trees. There was a slight change in gradient, and it was cooler too as the cloak of woodland enveloped her. This time on the hunt, Honey wore a backpack that contained everything she would need, but there was no camera.

  As she strolled onward and upward into the darker confines of the trail, she acknowledged others who were heading towards the parking lot. She was aware of several of them looking disdainfully at her outfit because she looked like such an amateur. A young woman with her hair tucked up inside her baseball cap, wearing T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. These people would never suspect the contents of her pack, or for that matter her mission.

  The opportunity to leave the recognized route occurred after about half an hour. Honey stopped and studied her map. She ch
ecked both directions to ensure that nobody witnessed her disappearance. At that point, she still looked like a novice hiker.

  Honey took three rapid paces off the trail, and found herself enclosed in the dense greenery. For 15 minutes, she then fought through low branches and clinging undergrowth, but at the same time keeping noise to a minimum. She only stopped when she found a suitable clearing.

  Honey had stood still for a moment before she slipped her pack from her shoulders. The clearing was no more than three yards square and a fallen tree dissected its area. Different species of fern and nettles covered most of the space either side of the tree and the trunk was home to a variety of fungi and lichen.

  There was a natural corridor, where the once great fir had come down between its neighbors and broken everything in its path. A heady pine fragrance filled the air, and the only sound was the chirping and trilling of birds. The sound gave away their presence, but the level of noise disguised their numbers and locations from the visitor.

  Honey undressed down to her underwear and then opened the backpack to lift out her next outfit. A green thermal vest and shorts went on first, with thick socks. Next was her Ghillie suit; a one-piece camouflage outfit. It was the style preferred by snipers, having pieces of loose, multi-textured, multi-colored material stitched to its surface.

  She slipped her feet into calf-length boots before securing her hair into a ponytail using a black scrunchie. Honey opened two tubes of cam cream. Rather than paint her face with solid green and brown, she used it to create several diagonal stripes to break up her features and dull any shine.

  Her camouflaged Boonie hat would keep her head free of insects and forest debris, but the slightly irregular shape and floppy brim would also assist in breaking up the shape of her profile.

  She dabbed a little cam cream behind her ears, knowing that it was a small but important area. On many skin colors it shone and stood out in the dark like the white tail on a rabbit. It was something that her dad had told her during their hunting trips. Don at The Rifle Range had reminded her with a wink.