Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  “WHERE ARE WE GOING?” MEGAN ASKED.

  Walt Crosley kept his eyes fixed on the road. “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  Crosley reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a crumpled pack of Camels. He shook one out and pulled it from the pack with his lips. His eyes left the road long enough to scan the area in the middle of the dashboard. “Where’s your lighter?”

  “There’s not one. The place where the cigarette lighter used to be is where I plug in the charger for my cell phone.”

  He grunted an obscenity and fumbled a pack of paper matches from the same pocket that held his cigarettes. Crosley steered the car with his knees until he managed to get his cigarette lit. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke out his nose before returning his right hand to the wheel. His left elbow rested on the open window.

  Megan had a dozen more questions she wanted to ask, but she kept quiet. She knew Crosley wouldn’t answer. Obviously he wanted her alive for at least a while, probably until he could get the information he needed. It didn’t bear thinking about what he might do to make her talk. And if she didn’t have what he wanted, the only way he’d be certain would be to torture her to the point of death.

  Then it dawned on her. He’d made no effort to disguise his identity. He wasn’t trying to keep her from seeing their eventual destination. The only interpretation she could put on those actions made the pit of her stomach clinch into the hardest of knots. She felt cold chills ripple down her spine as it became clear—when he’d finished, Crosley intended to kill her.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SHANNON PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF THE DESK IN THE CLINIC DICTATING room, every nerve ending in her body tingling, each of them urging her to hurry on to her next phone call, but she knew this one was important, too. “Mom, are you sure you don’t want us to come by tonight?”

  “We’re fine, dear. Your father had no problems with his other chemotherapy treatments. He’s a little weak, but not as much as he feared. Right now he’s in his study, preparing his sermon for Sunday.”

  So he is going to preach on Sunday. “How about tomorrow night? I’ll call Megan, and we’ll take you and Dad out for dinner on Saturday.”

  “I think your dad would probably rather save his strength for Sunday. Why don’t I fix dinner here for all of us—you, Megan, and Mark, if he’ll come? I’m sure your father would like that.”

  “Let me check. I’ll call you tonight.” She looked at her watch. “Got to go right now, though. Love you.”

  Shannon took in a deep breath and tapped out Elena’s number. After four rings, she was about to give up. She relaxed when she heard, “Elena Waites.”

  “Elena, it’s Shannon. Do you have any news for me?”

  “I talked with my contact at the FBI. He’s agreed to meet you at the cemetery this afternoon about five. I’ll be there as well.”

  “So I show him where I found the key and label, give them to him, and he’ll take it from there?”

  “Exactly.”

  Shannon knew she should feel relief, but it hadn’t come. Maybe after the actual transfer. “Can I bring Mark? He was with me when we made the discovery.”

  “I think that will be okay. Be sure to call me if you’re going to be late, though. It took some convincing to get Seth involved—that’s the special agent’s name, Seth Andrews. Anyway, he’s afraid you’ve already contaminated the chain of evidence, but he’s willing to see what we’ve got.”

  “I’ll meet you at Greenwood. If you arrive first, go to the far southeast corner of the cemetery and look for the monument with the statue of the Confederate soldier.”

  Shannon was in the process of ending the call when she heard, “Dr. Frasier?” A clinic nurse stood in the doorway. “Dr. Martin called. He’s in X-ray if you want to come down and see Mrs. Molina’s CAT scan.”

  “I’m on my way.” Shannon made a conscious effort to shift mental gears. She was certain the scan would confirm a gallstone ileus, which meant she’d be taking Mrs. Molina to surgery this afternoon. She’d need to call Mark, tell him that lunch was off, and make sure he was available to go with her to the cemetery later.

  As she punched the button for the elevator, Shannon wondered if she shouldn’t phone Megan to see how her sister was doing in her new apartment and new job. That would be a good idea, but for now it would have to wait.

  THE WEEKS SHE’D SPENT AT FIRST STEP IN HER MOST RECENT rehab stint had done two things for Megan. First and foremost, she’d come away from the experience clean and sober, finally convinced that she was always one drink or one hit away from skidding into a fall that would most likely end in her death. But that time also brought her in close contact with a variety of people, contact that paid dividends in different ways.

  For example, her acquaintance with Jeff Robiteaux had opened the door to a job with R&R Medical Supply. But she’d also met some people who weren’t in the same league as Jeff. Now she hoped that might pay off, too. Because she was nice to Barry Radick despite his criminal history, he’d felt free to confide in her, including some of the things he’d done to get out of tight situations—like this one.

  Megan rubbed her hands together, hoping her captor would accept it as a sign of nervousness. Once she was sure Crosley’s attention was on the road, she slipped her watch off her left wrist and onto her right. Moving the watch was one of the things Radick had mentioned. Anything to get an edge.

  “Here we are,” Crosley said.

  They were almost out of the city now. The houses here wouldn’t be featured in Architectural Digest. The homes were small, probably one bedroom, covered by dingy siding that was barely hanging on. The yards featured rusting bicycles and discarded tires set amid weeds and patches of bare dirt. In some areas, bare foundations and piles of charred rubble marked the site of previous fires.

  The house where Crosley stopped showed no signs of habitation. Megan figured that everyone who could escape this neighborhood had already done so. If she was looking to scream for help, she was in for a major disappointment.

  “I’m going to unlock your door,” Crosley said. “Get out slowly. And don’t try to run.” He pulled the gun from his waistband and waved it toward her.

  She reached for her purse but withdrew her hand when Crosley lifted the gun and leveled it at her head. “Okay. Okay.” Megan opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  “Walk to the front door. I’m right behind you.”

  Megan trudged up the crumbling cement of what was once a sidewalk. When she escaped, which way would she run? She smiled to herself, realizing that there was never any question in her mind of “if she could get away,” only “when . . .”

  Crosley reached above the doorframe and pulled down a key that Megan thought belonged in a museum. She was used to relatively short brass keys with irregular notches cut into the bottom edge. This one was different—a two-inch metal rod with an oval head at one end and a tab at the other. Crosley put the key into the lock, gave a single turn, and pushed the door open.

  “You don’t see locks like this anymore.” He dropped the key into his pocket.

  The room they entered was bare of furniture. No curtains or drapes hung over the windows, but the panes were so dirty there was little chance for sunlight to intrude—or passersby to see in.

  “In there.” Crosley motioned to the next room, which turned out to be a kitchen. An empty space with a capped pipe marked the spot where a gas range once stood. Bare kitchen cabinets, their doors hanging open, flanked a chipped, dry porcelain sink with a rust stain surrounding the drain. A refrigerator stood against the wall opposite the stove, the door open wide to reveal shelves stacked on the bottom, the crisper drawer halfway out.

  The kitchen table was gone, but there were two mismatched chairs in the middle of the room. Crosley motioned for her to sit in one. Megan made a feeble effort to clear a layer of dirt from the seat, then gave up and sat. Keeping her clothes neat was pretty low on h
er list of priorities right now.

  Crosley sat in the other chair, crossed his legs, and let the gun in his hand dangle. “Here’s what I want to know. When I visited Barry Radick at First Step, he pointed you out to me, said you were smart. I told him we should recruit you to drive for the bank job we were planning.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Shut up! I got the impression you were friendly with Radick—maybe friendly enough to do him a favor.”

  Crosley crossed his legs in the other direction. He stuck the gun in his belt, shook another Camel out of the pack, and lit it. “So here’s the deal. When he was shot, I think he was going to your sister’s house, looking for you. No telling how many Frasiers he checked out before he went there.”

  “But—”

  “He knew the cops were after him. If they caught him, someone would need money to get him a lawyer, post bail. He thought you’d do that for him. So the thing on Radick’s mind was the location of his money.”

  “No, that’s—”

  The gun was back in Crosley’s hand before Megan could finish. “We’re not here to argue. I’ll bet your sister told you about the GPS coordinates, and I think you know what they mean. Tell me where I can find the dough Radick stashed. When you do that, I’ll let you go.”

  Sure you will. Megan’s mind was already working at top speed. “She already gave you the numbers, but I don’t know what they mean.”

  Crosley snorted. “Yeah, she gave them to me . . . in the wrong order. But I figured out the right one. The only trouble was that after the numbers led me to a cemetery, I turned it upside down and didn’t find any trace of the loot. So what am I missing?”

  If she could only buy some time . . . “I was with my sister and her boyfriend at the cemetery. We didn’t find anything either. So I don’t—” The rest of the sentence was cut off by her scream as the tip of Crosley’s cigarette touched her arm.

  “I’ll keep on doing that until you tell me what I need to know,” he said. “And if that doesn’t work, I can try something else.” He shoved the gun into his waistband again and pulled a knife from his pocket. He snapped his wrist and a wickedlooking blade appeared. “We’ve got lots of time. Think hard.”

  HER WALK TO THE PARKING GARAGE HAD ALWAYS BEEN A TIME OF reflection for Shannon, reviewing her day, thinking of calls she’d make on the way home. Today, as she and Mark prepared to meet the FBI agents, she spent the time glancing over her shoulder, starting at every loud noise. Shannon noticed that Mark had offered his left hand for her to hold, keeping his right hand free.

  “Your car or mine?” she asked.

  “Mine,” Mark said, and she didn’t argue.

  The ride to Greenwood Cemetery was a silent one. At one point, Shannon thought that perhaps this was the way journeys to this graveyard were made when it was active—mourners following a hearse, riding through the streets in silence, contemplating the solemn event in which they participated. She knew she should feel a sense of relief at turning the key over to the FBI, but even with it out of her possession, she wasn’t going to relax until Walt Crosley was safely behind bars.

  Inside the cemetery gates, Mark steered his Chevrolet down the tiny roads, made the turns he’d memorized, and pulled to a stop behind a white GMC Acadia, which Shannon figured was Elena’s. Beyond that, a man and woman stood by a black Ford Explorer, both talking on cell phones.

  “I think this is our group,” she said.

  Elena exited her vehicle and stood waiting until Shannon and Mark reached her. She held out her hand to Mark. “I don’t think we’ve met. Elena Waites.”

  Mark shook her hand and gave a brief nod. “Mark Gilbert.”

  Elena turned to Shannon. “I presume you’ve got the key and the label with the numbers.”

  Shannon patted the pocket of her dove-gray slacks. “Right here.”

  Elena nodded. “I see the agents headed our way.”

  The two people who approached were a study in contrasts. Both wore dark suits, but the similarity stopped there. The man had blond hair cut short, wore steel-rimmed glasses, and was of average build. He wore a charcoal pinstriped suit. His bow tie was navy with red polka dots. His shoes were wellshined black wing tips. Shannon reflected that five minutes after meeting him, most people would be hard-pressed to remember the man. Maybe that was an advantage for an FBI agent. His handshake was like the rest of him—unmemorable. “I’m Special Agent Seth Andrews.”

  His partner stepped forward and held out her hand before Andrews could introduce her. “Marlene Crowder,” she said. Her voice was a rich contralto. She wore a navy blue pantsuit, but whereas Andrews was forgettable, Crowder was anything but that. She towered a good four inches above her partner. Her skin was a rich chocolate color. Her hair was jet-black and cut short, framing a beautiful face that seemed to require very little makeup.

  This is what Nefertiti must have looked like. Shannon acknowledged the introductions and said, “I suppose you want to see what I brought.”

  “First, show us where you found it,” Andrews said.

  Shannon squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and trudged toward the statue of the Confederate soldier.

  MEGAN SLUMPED IN THE CHAIR, QUIVERING AND SPENT. SWEAT mixed with the rivulets of blood that ran between her breasts. “Okay. I’ll tell you what you missed. Just don’t . . . don’t cut me again.”

  Crosley dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out beneath his foot. He wiped the knife blade on his pants, then stowed the weapon in his pocket. “Let’s hear it.”

  “There’s a statue of a Confederate soldier. It’s at the far end of the cemetery. You must have seen it.”

  “I saw lots of statues, but that one . . . Yeah, I remember it.”

  “Start . . .” Megan tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry as dust. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene. “Start at the base of the pedestal and take thirty-three paces in the exact direction the soldier is looking. That should take you to a spot between two oak trees. Dig there. That’s where Radick buried the money.”

  “And is it still there? Or did you already dig it up?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t do anything while Shannon and Mark were with me, and I haven’t been able to go back.” She took a faltering breath. “The money’s there.”

  Crosley was silent, concentration written on his face. “Okay, I’m going to go have a look.” He pulled a set of handcuffs from his hip pocket. “Move over there next to the sink.”

  Megan tried twice before she was able to stand. She staggered toward the sink and fell to her knees in front of it.

  Crosley grasped the doors under the sink, yanked them off their hinges, and tossed them aside.

  Apparently the house was built before the days of PVC pipe and flexible connection tubing. Under the sink were galvanized hot and cold water pipes and a drainpipe of similar material.

  “Sit down on the floor.”

  Megan lowered herself the rest of the way to the floor as gently as she could and then brought her legs around so she sat cross-legged in front of the sink.

  Crosley looked at Megan’s arms. Then he barked, “Hold out your left hand.” He grabbed it and snapped a cuff on the wrist. He fastened the other cuff around the largest of the three pipes under the sink, then gave it a tug. “That should hold you for a while.”

  Megan’s voice trembled as she asked, “When are you coming back?”

  “If I find the money, I’ll be back to let you loose. If I don’t find the money . . .” He pulled the knife from his pocket and made a menacing gesture. “Believe me. Eventually, you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

  An evil chuckle trailed behind him as he headed for the door.

  Megan had two thoughts. Either he wasn’t coming back, in which case she might sit here for who knows how long. Or he was going to come back to torture her some more . . . and then probably kill her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “SO THAT’S WHAT I THINK THIS REPRESENTS,�
�� SHANNON SAID AS she handed Agent Andrews the folded envelope containing the small brass key and the label.

  Andrews tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “You’re telling me you think Radick went to ZIP Code 75035, which as I recall is about ten miles north of Dallas, and rented a private postal box. Then he mailed his share of the money from the bank robbery to himself there. So there’s a package in box 299 somewhere that has a quarter of a million dollars in it. Right?”

  Elena said, “It sort of makes sense. Radick wanted to stash the money where he could get it fairly easily, but where it would be safe. Using a safe-deposit box at a bank would leave a trail, but a postal box at someplace like a UPS store is about as anonymous as I can think of.”

  “It will take a little legwork to check all the private postal boxes in that ZIP Code,” Crowder said. “Why don’t you turn the key over to the Dallas police?”

  Shannon started to open her mouth but shut it when Elena held up her hand. “I’ve explained that to your partner,” she said with a nod toward Andrews. “And we appreciate your agreeing to look into this. After all, the money represents the proceeds from a bank robbery, which is in the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

  “Not to mention that it would look good on our reviews if we wrap this up,” Andrews said to his partner.

  She shrugged. “Okay. We can expend a little gasoline and shoe leather, I guess.”

  “And you’ll let us know what you find?” Shannon asked, directing her question to Andrews.

  He inclined his head toward Elena. “I’ll contact Mrs. Waites.”

  After the agents climbed back into their vehicle and drove off, Elena turned to Shannon. “Feel better?”

  “I should, I guess, but frankly I don’t think I’ll relax until Walt Crosley is behind bars.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “We’ve been so engrossed with Crosley, I think we’re forgetting one thing.”

  Shannon raised her eyebrows. Elena frowned.