Edge of the Heat 3

by Lisa Ladew

  Oberlin raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you sure they weren’t just very persuasive? Mr.?”

  Craig was torn. He’d never talked with Oberlin before and on one hand this was a great opportunity, but on the other hand, Emma was here, he didn’t have his gun, and Oberlin had the upper hand. That’s what will get him to talk, a voice in head said. Craig shoved it aside. If Emma weren’t here, maybe, but he wasn’t going to put her through that.

  “We’re leaving now. Our babysitter called and said she needs us.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, sending another quick text message as he pulled Emma to the door.

  “Stay, please, I have some questions,” Senator Oberlin said, and suddenly the man from the chair was between them and the door. He leaned against it, pulling his jacket open. Craig could clearly see a gun in a shoulder holster. Emma must have seen it too. Her grip tightened on his arm. He pushed her behind him and backed away from the man who wore a soft, evil smile. The man was Johnny Frabrazio.

  “Thank you,” Oberlin said, as if they had a choice. “Now Miss, what did you say your name was again?”

  “V-Vivian Dashell,” Emma said.

  “And what makes you think that I am your father?” Oberlin’s color was back, and he seemed fully in control of himself again.

  “I took a DNA test and it came back telling me that Tim Oberlin is my uncle. His only sibling is you, so …”

  Senator Oberlin leaned back and smiled. “So you just assumed I was your father. Well that’s really simple isn’t it? There couldn’t possibly have been a mistake somewhere?”

  Emma shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  “I suppose now you want me to submit to a DNA test to prove or disprove it, is that correct?” Oberlin said amiably, calmly.

  Emma shook her head again.

  “Oh really, then what did you come here for Miss Dashell?”

  Emma didn’t say anything. Craig wondered where this was going.

  Oberlin sat forward suddenly, intently. “Who have you told?” he barked, his voice no longer friendly.

  “No one.” Emma said.

  Craig jumped in. “That’s not true, we’ve told friends, and coworkers. I told everyone that my wife’s father was going to be the next President of the United States as soon as we found out.”

  The Senator narrowed his eyes at this. “Really?” Then he sat back again. “Johnny, get them out of here. I need some time to think. Keep them close by. And take their phones and wallets.”

  As Frabrazio started to step forward, a loud crash rang from somewhere in the house. Craig cocked his head and listened and so did Frabrazio. A knock on the door startled Frabrazio and he whirled around, his hand under his jacket. It was the security guard.

  “Uh Senator, there’s some guys yelling FBI on the main floor.”

  Relief flooded through Craig. He knew Hawk was coming since he had first texted him. He just didn’t know if Hawk would make it on time or not. He took another step back, giving Frabrazio lots of room and keeping Emma behind him.

  “Fuck.” Frabrazio’s voice was high and reedy, and didn’t fit him at all. In three steps he was at the door to the veranda, pulling it open and disappearing into the night.

  “Johnny!” Oberlin called out to him, standing up. Oberlin’s face was white again. “Dean, what’s going on?”

  But Dean didn’t answer either.

  Craig faced Oberlin, and almost apologetically said, “I called the FBI Senator. You might as well give up, come quietly as the saying goes. They know about you and your guns. They know you murdered Lucy Kinkaid. They know you blew up the factory in Westwood Harbor. They know you had Norman Foster help Wayne Serg go free so he could continue unloading guns for you and laundering the money through various Westwood Harbor governmental agencies and businesses. And they know you killed this woman’s mother in 1983.”

  That last part wasn’t true, but he said it anyway just to see what Oberlin would say about it.

  Oberlin seemed to shrink. He dropped back to his chair, his eyes wide and glassy. He stared at the ceiling and his throat worked convulsively. His tongue shot out and tried to wet his lips, but the tongue looked as dry and cracked as the desert, even from 15 feet away.

  Oberlin put his hand in his right desk drawer and it came out with a revolver. Craig’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs at the sight of the gun and he fell back a step, his eyes flicking to the furniture closest to him. He was about to dive behind a couch, pulling Emma with him, but he needn’t have bothered.

  The gun followed a smooth track from the drawer into Oberlin’s waiting mouth. He pointed it straight up towards the roof of his mouth like he was an expert and didn’t hesitate. The shot boomed loudly in the room and Emma screamed.

  Craig pulled her to him and hugged her tight, hiding her eyes in his chest. He watched, as Oberlin’s hand fell to the side and the gun fell out of it and his head lolled first backwards and then forwards onto the desk, making a wet sound as it hit. From this angle, Craig could see the large hole in the back of his head. And he didn’t know whether to be glad or disgusted.

  Chapter 30

  Emma sat on a fancy chair in the foyer, feeling exhausted and slightly dirty. Her dress was sticking to her and her feet hurt. It was 3 in the morning, and the police were still interviewing people. In fact, three different cops had interviewed her already, 2 of them more than once. She knew this was going to be a huge scandal, but at this point she didn’t care. All she wanted was to get some sleep.

  Hawk came over and brought her a bottle of water. She wrinkled her nose at it. “Is this from his fridge?” she said, knowing she sounded stupid and petty.

  “Nah, one of the cops brought up a cooler of drinks. They are all going to be here for days.” He smiled at her and she felt like maybe he understood.

  “Where’s Vivian, at home?”

  “No, I had her taken up to the FBI safe house. I didn’t want to take her home since Norman is still loose and I didn’t know how long we’d be up here.”

  “Good idea. Are you guys getting along OK?”

  Hawk smiled again. “We worked out our differences.”

  “Oh good!” Emma was thrilled to hear it. She bet that made Vivian very happy.

  “Where’s Craig?”

  “He’s upstairs still. He’s drawing a diagram and being interviewed for the hundredth or so time.”

  “Wow, I guess I got off easy.” Emma drank some of her water and then asked, “So what happens now?”

  “We’ll get to go soon. Craig and I will have to come back, but we aren’t staying here all night. Maybe I’ll have someone bring Vivian here. She said she wouldn’t sleep.”

  “So what happens now?” Emma asked.

  “We’ll have to get a warrant to search anything, and once we do Craig and I will be back here every day. “We’ll close the house off and no one will be allowed in or out till we are done.”

  Emma nodded. “But what happens now with you and Craig, now that Oberlin is dead?”

  “Oh. Well, we’ve got clean up. And there are other people involved that we need to complete our investigations on, then arrest and convict. It will be a good 6 months to a year before we’re done in Westwood Harbor. Plus we need to find Foster.”

  Emma nodded, remembering Craig’s promise to quit the FBI once this investigation was complete. She wondered where Hawk would end up. She yawned, and she felt her left ear pop. “I’d curl up in one of these chairs and go to sleep right now if they didn’t all belong to … to him.”

  “He made a bad impression on you, huh?”

  “The worst.”

  Hawk nodded. “I’ll check on Craig and Vivian and come back and let you know.”

  Despite herself, and despite the noise and lights, Emma dosed a little, bent over in the chair, propped with her hand. She dreamed a little too, a scary dream where Norman chased her down a long hallway for days.

  When she opened her eyes again she saw Vivian sit
ting in a chair next to her, watching her. “Oh! What time is it?”

  “It’s almost 6 a.m.” Vivian told her.

  “How long have you been here?” Emma got up and ran to her sister and hugged her. “I missed you so much!”

  “I missed you too. I only just got here. An FBI agent brought me.” Vivian looked around and hugged herself. Emma sat down with her on the same chair.

  “Was it horrible?”

  Emma nodded. “It was horrible. He put the gun in his mouth and shot himself right in front of us.”

  Vivian shuddered. “But you’ve seen that before?”

  Emma shook her head. “I’ve seen the bodies before, but I’ve never seen anyone do it.”

  Vivian hugged her again, in the chair, and Emma drew comfort from her sister.

  They pulled back. “So Hawk told me you guys are getting along now. I guess that was a good thing that you took him … wherever you took him.”

  Vivian smiled. “I have a cabin up in the Tetam woods. That’s where we’ve been the whole time.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but Emma was suddenly waving across the room.

  Hawk and Craig strode their way. Emma had never been happier to see anyone in her life. She jumped up and put her arms around Craig. “Can we go home now?” He leaned forward and kissed her upturned mouth sweetly. “Yep. You OK?”

  She nodded, and looked at her sister. Vivian had also jumped up, and was now hugging Hawk. Their bodies were pressed together and Hawk was whispering something intimately in her ear, his hand cupping her lower back.

  Emma took a step towards them, still holding on to Craig. “Are you …?” Her voice trailed off as she saw Vivian turn to her and smile, and Hawk’s mouth stay pressed against Vivian’s neck as she turned, his face covered by her hair.

  She dropped Craig’s hand and took another step. “Oh my God you are!” She jumped up and down in her silver heels like a little girl. She ran to her sister and hugged her, pulling her away from Hawk. “What happened? How did it happen? Tell me everything.”

  Vivian laughed and pulled Emma with her so she could snuggle back up with Hawk as they all walked out the door together.

  Chapter 31

  Norman left the big bus in the early morning light and looked around, placing his hands in the small of his back and stretching, feeling satisfaction at the crackle of his spine. The bus was warm and dry, and he had food, a camping stove, books, room to work out, flashlights, and an old mattress, which made living like a homeless man as comfortable as possible, but still not very comfortable. He walked a bit and stretched his legs and chest, then climbed the steps of the bus to take down the sheets from the windows and stow all of his gear in the tub under the hole in the floor.

  He’d been in the far corner of the police impound lot, living in this bus for 3 weeks now. He knew this lot well, having stored vehicles in it and stolen vehicles from it countless times. Before the police department had taken it over, it had been a junkyard, housing probably 300 decrepit cars that no one had touched in years. When the police department bought the land, they left the junkyard, put a few miles of fence around the outside, and over the years carted in several thousand more vehicles. Once a year they had a police vehicle auction, where they sold 30 to 40% of the cars that still ran. Once every 3 years they sold the rest for scrap metal. But this corner of vehicles was never touched. It was like the city had forgotten about it. No one ever came down this way, and these cars never moved.

  When Norman had first escaped from the prison, with only about half or less of his normal strength, he was desperate to find cover. Somewhere to hunker down in and take the time he needed to heal. He had no money, and certainly couldn’t go to his house. He knew they would look for him there.

  He’d climbed up into the ceiling of that hateful prison hospital and found his way into the kitchen where he slipped out a door into the yellow lights of the parking lot outside. If he hadn’t been so weak, feeling like a just-born calf, he would have laughed at how easy it was. Instead, once outside, sweat running down his face in rivers, he puked in his mouth but swallowed it again so as not to leave a trail to follow. Then he crawled between the rows of cars in the parking lot, looking for a way out. Thinking like a cop, he made sure not to touch one car or let his head be seen above them. He scanned the fence but knew without looking that it would not be his way out. He watched the gate guard, slow and almost sleeping at his post. But since Norman was as weak as a kitten he knew he couldn’t overpower him. Besides, what then? Would he walk? Hitchhike? He looked down at his orange hospital gown, wishing he’d found a uniform or regular clothes on the way out.

  Really, he had only one choice and he knew it. First he had to find some clothes. Second, he had to get a ride out the gate in either one of these cars or in another vehicle. From behind him came the wail of the siren, advertising the chaos that was going on inside the prison/hospital, whatever it was. Norman wondered how long till they discovered him gone. If it happened soon, he might be screwed. But if it didn’t happen for a few hours, he knew he might be OK. He searched cars for an open door and found surprisingly many of them. In a blue Nissan he found a dark green sweatshirt. In a white truck he found some heavy work boots that were only a size too big for him. And in the bed of an unlikely, neon-green, lifted Ford F150 pick up truck he found an old pair of khaki pants, somehow split down the crotch, but still better than the gown he was wearing. They were big, but came with a belt so he could cinch them. Someone had split them, and bought or found a new pair, then thrown them in the truck instead of on the ground. Lucky for Norman.

  Norman crouched behind, and practically under this ridiculous vehicle and thought about how to get out. He looked up at the bed and then at the gate guard, a clear target in his lighted little booth (if only he’d had a gun) again. The bed of the truck was higher than the gate guard’s line of sight. Maybe he could catch a ride to where ever it’s owner was going, and then regroup from there.

  Norman hitched himself up onto the back bumper of the truck, grunting and sweating bullets. He was wrong. He didn’t have half his former strength, he had only less than quarter of it. Just this little run out into the yard had used up any of that and now he felt like a wet piece of paper, about to split right down the middle. He hung on for dear life to the back of the truck and tried to hoist himself over, his legs and arms quivering like jello. He couldn’t do it. He was falling. His hand was giving way and down he was about to go in a heap. The guards would find him in a few hours, poor Norman, so close, and yet so fucking far away that he would be in prison forever, or until another prisoner succeeded in sticking a shank in his neck.

  Norman felt his fingers slipping. He closed his eyes and waited to hit the ground in defeat. Then a voice exploded in his head.

  HAUL YOURSELF OVER MISTER! OR IS THE ITTY BITTY BABY GOIN TA LAY DOWN AND DIE? His mother’s voice rang between his ears and his hand jerked spasmodically shut again over the tailgate. With every last ounce of strength he had left in him he hauled. And landed in the bed of the truck where he immediately passed out.

  He didn’t wake again until the morning light was spreading across the sky. Terrified, he pulled himself closer to the front of the bed. In the location he had been in, the driver of the truck would be able to see him in his rearview mirror.

  At the front of the bed was a large, silver tool box that spread the entire width of the bed of the truck, easily big enough for a man to fit inside. Laying on his back, he pushed on the lid with one shaky foot. Not locked. He stared up at the lightening sky and wondered if he dared climb in the box. It would mean exposing himself. He decided to risk it though. He peeked just his eyes over the side of the truck and figured they hadn’t even found him missing yet, because the parking lot was empty. He climbed slowly into the tool box and promptly fell asleep. When he came to again the truck was moving beneath him. The next 12 hours or so was spotty in his memory. He had dozed a lot, not feeling strong enough to move. He was weak and didn’t w
ant to move from his perfect hidey-hole, but one time when he woke up, stiff and aching, to a not-moving truck he had a thought that chilled his blood. What if he had slept the whole day away and the man was back at work, back inside the prison fence.

  His muscles had convulsed him into a sitting position and he pushed the lid on the tool box up, peeking out. He wasn’t in the prison. He was in a dark garage. He climbed out, feeling a little more strength than he’d had in the prison parking lot, and made his way to the outside door in the garage. No people were around so he pushed it open and walked down the street, trying to act like he belonged there.

  He had figured out where he was swiftly, and why shouldn’t he? He’d been a cop on these streets for 13 years. He knew every nook and cranny of Westwood Harbor. Now he just needed a good place to hide out. He’d considered some abandoned buildings he knew of, but decided against them because he’d have to compete with homeless people, some of whom might recognize him. He needed a place that had shelter and wasn’t too far from a way to get food, but that no one would ever think of looking for him at. He’d looked around and tried to imagine what was near him. His legs were already getting shaky and he knew he wouldn’t get far before he collapsed in a heap. He’d realized he was less than a mile from the impound lot and walked toward it, planning on just finding an old car to curl up in for a few days. The gate was closed, like always; it only opened when a tow truck brought a car in or out, but he’d found a place to climb it.

  Once he realized how perfect it was he decided to stay. The first day he’d just slept. But hunger and thirst drove him out soon enough. He’d walked the fence until he found a loose board in the back where the fence was still wood, and he’d loosened the one next to it, marking an easy hole for him to get in and out of. He’d walked the neighborhood closest to the yard and found several houses that looked like the owners had already gone to work. Perfect. He tried garage doors until he found an open one and hit a jackpot almost immediately. A freezer in the garage held popsicles, meat, whipped cream, and a big box of pre-cooked, frozen mexican burritos. He’d taken the popsicles and the burritos and headed back to the yard. He ate the whole box of popsicles while he was waiting for the burritos to thaw. After all the popsicles were gone, he’d actually started to feel human again and examined his situation.