Ransom X

by I.B. Holder

  Chapter 64 Legacy’s Embrace

  Legacy dumped the body on the ground unceremoniously. On a slightly incongruous impulse he decided to name the dog Dead Max. He didn’t have much time, and the roaming dog told him that his adversary was expecting him – or at least expecting trouble. A dog like Dead Max wasn’t trained to differentiate between different types of prey. Anything that didn’t smell like his master was fair game – Dead Max would have to be chained up most of the time to protect the other residents of the camp.

  Blade probably let them run free at night, partially as an insurance policy against any of his own crew getting themselves in trouble by breaking curfew. It seemed that the punishment for not following Blade’s exact timetable might be death. Legacy’s speculation didn’t change the fact that there were many missing people on this compound, not the least of his concern was the proprietor.

  He walked briskly around, surveying the blood that stretched out into the grout lines of the tile beneath his feet, making his journey around the possible evidence annoyingly long. He pulled on the straps from which the body hung. The knots were good, he’d seen plenty of knots in his day and these were the kind that almost seemed like a natural extension of the weave of the rope. Legacy wasn’t going to be able to get her down without a fight, and it was important that he did. Legacy stared at the camera, there was a message that he needed to send – and he knew the audience wouldn’t appreciate the manner in which he was about to transmit it. Nobody was going to understand, so he might as well do it fast.

  Wilkes couldn’t believe his eyes. He crushed an empty paper coffee cup in his hand watching the screen in horror. What in the hell did that idiot think he was doing?

  Had the stress of being in the field broken the man whom Wilkes had, quite frankly, always questioned the sanity of? There was no question that Legacy knew he was being watched as he walked from the frame after his eyes quickly dipped to the camera lens and purposefully tapped his nose twice. Then, he’d done the most disgusting thing that Wilkes had ever seen on camera.

  Wilkes had seen it coming from the moment he grabbed who he thought was Laura like the dog, reaching across her shoulders to get leverage. Her head spun like a compass needle searching for true north. He’d snapped her neck and left it propped on top of the stalk like a broken child’s doll.

  Wilkes hadn’t been able to watch after that. He’d turned away, toward the bullpen filled with agents ready to move on the mountain compound, turned back and shuddered while letting out guttural sounds of displeasure. Wilkes’ eyes painted the screen, side to side, up and down, thinking that under scrutiny the senseless image would vanish into the background, somewhat like the theories of physics that become invisible around the bullet, carried on the principles that define it.

  Then Wilkes heard something that almost made up for everything he’d witnessed. “That’s not Laura.”

  It was a low-grade agent who made the observation first, one that would be receiving a promotion soon. He ran to the monitor to study the face. It was, in fact, not Laura.

  He would learn later that the girl was named Snowflake, a fitting name for a thing of such beauty and fragility. She was a victim of circumstance. Legacy would comment later that it must have been so unsatisfying to snuff out this life. It was hardly worth the trouble of cleaning the knife, but it would make it look like Blade was a man of his word. He’d kept his promise, and his schedule, two of the many things for which Blade was willing to kill.

  The truth exploded through the room. Everything entered slow motion around Wilkes, and nothing could be said or done quickly enough to satisfy the single desire brought into new focus by a few gleaming pixels on the screen. “Pull up tape of Blade with Laura, run hand geometry, and a comparative height analysis. We want to get this right.”

  “We already have that data on Laura, sir - “

  “Compare it to the execution footage.”

  Tapping keys had a wild new purpose; the chatter had something foreign and almost impossible seeping into the background. It was hope. Even with the renewed life of possibility, it was difficult watching the taped execution, seeing the knife flash in fire only to be extinguished by blood.

  “Laura’s almost two inches shorter by these calculations.” Wilkes clasped the man on the shoulders. “That could be a mistake.”

  “It isn’t. Tell the local agents to move the second they get there, helicopters land on site, no perimeter, no waiting for a net.”

  “Sir?” dared question one agent. The sledgehammer response came thundering down.

  “These are my orders, agent.” His voice carried a promise of crushing anyone else who had anything to say.

  Another agent in the crowded control room pulled away from a phone to give Wilkes an update. “They’re almost fifty minutes out.”

  “Tell them to push that to thirty. Our window could close at any minute.” He tapped the screen, right on the nose of the deceased. He’d been so used to seeing Laura dressed up in costume, every aspect of her makeup and hair changed so often that he hadn’t dreamed that the girl staring into eternity might be anyone else than the director’s daughter. He got the message.

  Legacy had turned the girl’s head to get Wilkes onto the right track, kick his cautious administrative style into action and put more boots on the ground faster. The nose of the victim was pierced; a small embedded diamond stud glinted under the hot production lights. The ridges next to the stud were planted, that took months of epidural growth – it wasn’t a recent addition. It was a different face.

  “Should we call the director?” It was the same agent who’d spoken before. A thin young man with a nose that filled his face and mocked his profile. The mop of blond hair that grew under his nose and the one that sprouted from his head grew in slightly different geometrical configurations.

  The agent stopped, had the phone poised in his hand.

  Before he could think, Wilkes was in his face, straining at his height to engage the man eye to eye. “Slap yourself as hard as you can, and then tell me why – if it’s that important to you agent.”

  Without hesitation the young agent raised his hand and struck himself across the cheek. The sound relieved any of the observers of the idea that it might have been a stage punch. These were men who knew the sound of physical contact. The young agent’s voice dropped far below the level of the public address that had initially gotten him Wilkes’ full attention. “He’s her father sir.”

  Wilkes was angry that his decision was being questioned, especially by someone who didn’t understand the gravity of bringing the director into the equation. Interrupting the director’s bottomless grief was a poisoned proposition. Wilkes hadn’t secured Laura; he hadn’t even seen Laura. It was irresponsible for him to raise doubt about her execution. Everything in his years rising through the ranks of administration urged utmost caution with any news that increased expectation. He couldn’t win by playing this information early. He knew that he could only lose twice. The rookie didn’t know the game, and he acted automatically without regard for procedures, like a regular person.

  “He’s not sleeping.” The agent said quietly, like it was a detail that might tip his decision.

  Wilkes glared at the agent, his dense wrath balanced against the vaporous argument of good intentions. The only thing closer to career suicide than making the suggestion would be following it. Wilkes spoke quietly,

  “Make the call. And prepare a jet for the director out of Reagan, wheels up in twenty minutes.” Wilkes was a father, too.