Hard Wired

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Something poked her in the butt, and, after fumbling around beneath her and between the cushions, she came up with the remote.

  Really? It’s been here the whole time?

  She hated it when people were so unorganized. Could have saved her a lot of trouble if Sheriff Bobseyn put his things where they were supposed to go. She fumbled with the remote, flipping channels until she found the nature channel — something about sharks and surfers — and folded her legs underneath her, trying to look as natural as possible.

  Her heart finally started to slow down when she heard a key go into the front door. Composing herself, she pretended not to hear, to act surprised when Dent and Sheriff Bobseyn came inside.

  But for some reason the sheriff was having trouble unlocking the front door. She could hear the key rattle back and forth but nothing was happening. You’d figure someone who labels all his keys would at least know which key opened his own house. She was still looking back over her shoulder at the door when the sheriff finally got the door unlocked. She already had a few choice remarks to throw at him about him not being able to open his own door when the door shook and rattled.

  Narrowing her eyes in confusion, she watched as the door went still and then shook again, this time even more violently. The dead bolt up top was still engaged and the idiot was trying to get in before unlocking that too. Maybe she should go unlock it for him. She stood up, grabbed her soda, and turned to walk around the couch—

  And froze.

  Someone outside kicked the door. Hard.

  What the …?

  Another kick resulted in loud splintering cracks on the doorframe.

  One more kick and the door came free with a spray of splinters, swinging in to reveal three men standing in the light of the porch. Not one of them was Dent or the sheriff.

  Seeing her standing there all alone, they suddenly rushed inside, and Kasumi did the first thing that came to mind.

  She screamed her lungs out.

  XXIV

  It took them just over twenty minutes to reach Frederickson’s house.

  The ride over consisted of Bobseyn dialing and redialing the bank manager’s house and cell, to no avail. In between calls, Dent asked pertinent questions.

  Was Frederickson married?

  Yes, with one boy, the same one Dent had seen in the football photo on the man’s desk.

  Did the family live with him?

  Yes, but his boy would likely be out with football buddies.

  Was it normal for the man to ignore his calls?

  No, Frederickson was a night owl, accessible to friends and clients at all hours of the day. This time of night, he and his wife should be getting around to eating dinner, his wife was a great cook.

  When the Cherokee rounded the bend leading to Frederickson’s house, Dent took immediate notice of the vehicles in the long driveway. It was like one of those children’s games — one of these three doesn’t belong.

  A run down beige Chevy pickup was parked at an angle behind a maroon Mercedes S-class and a pearl-white BMW X5, as if to block any possible escape.

  Frederickson had visitors. And chances were they were unwanted.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Bobseyn muttered as he slammed on the brakes behind the Chevy. Before the Cherokee came to a complete stop, Dent was already out the passenger door. He put a hand to the Chevy’s hood.

  “Haven’t been here that long,” he told Bobseyn, who’d come up to shine his flashlight inside the truck.

  “Back seat is full of stuff,” Bobseyn said.

  “So there’s likely only two inside.”

  Bobseyn nodded. “You aren’t armed, are you?”

  Dent shook his head. His guns were in his SUV, under the rear driver-side seat.

  Holding up a .45, the sheriff said, “I’ve got my service weapon.”

  Dent rolled his shoulders, flexed the well-honed muscles of his upper body. He had weapons of his own. He started for the front door when Bobseyn hissed for him to stay put.

  “My party, Dent. I lead.”

  Looking from man to door and back again, Dent shrugged.

  They made it to the front door and paused, listening. Nothing except a steady, low humming sound which could have been a radio or television. Putting a hand down and motioning Dent to stand to the side of the door, Bobseyn knocked, a quick four-time rap that had to be the universal “I’m-a-police-officer” knock.

  No response.

  Another four-time rap accompanied by the sheriff calling out Frederickson’s name.

  No response.

  Dent figured it would be pointless to try again so he reached over and turned the handle. The door swung in easily. Bobseyn shot him a look, though what it said Dent had no clue, and then he pushed the door open completely with a boot.

  Lights were on throughout the house.

  Similar layout of the sheriff’s house, Dent saw. Kitchen and dining room to the left, living room to the right. Stairs further back, hallway near the stairs leading to rooms on the ground floor.

  The sound they’d heard outside came from the kitchen, along with the aroma of something baking. News station, it sounded like. Italian, it smelled like.

  Dent ran through circumstances in his mind. Upstairs was fairly dim. Likely Frederickson and his wife were downstairs when the Chevy pulled up. Front door was unlocked, not pried open, so Frederickson, or his wife, knew the intruders. Stepping fully into the house, he kept his eyes on the hallway near the stairs.

  Bobseyn seemed to have reached the same conclusion as he aimed his gun in that direction. The two crept across hardwood flooring, keeping to the left of the living room, until they were less than a dozen feet from the hallway. They paused near a cold fireplace, a stack of wood to one side, two iron pokers on a stand on the other.

  A soft sobbing could be heard, as well two men’s voices. Bobseyn heard it as well. Dent could see the man’s eyes glaze over as he strained to make out any words.

  One voice sounded deep, steady, the other higher pitched and clipped. Bobseyn’s breathing became slightly more rapid and Dent could see the sheen of perspiration on the man’s forehead. For some reason, Bobseyn didn’t move closer to the hallway. The man was probably running through years of protocol training, trying to determine the best course of action that would result in the least amount of civilian injury.

  Dent wanted to get in and get out, but gave Bobseyn time to gather his thoughts, to draw up a plan of action. The voices, muffled and erratic, continued to echo out of the hall. Seconds ticked by.

  He wasn’t what one would call impatient, but when Dent saw the other man continue to hesitate, he decided to take the lead. Before Bobseyn could argue about this being his party, Dent picked up a fireplace poker and turned into the hallway. There were two doors on the right and one further down on the left. The sobbing came from the closest door to the right, the voices from the furthest doorway.

  He sidled over to the open doorway and, when he felt Bobseyn come up behind him, took a deep breath. He raised the poker in his right hand, nodded to indicate to Bobseyn that he was going to move, then leaped into action.

  Dent turned into the doorway, focused only on finding the bodies within. A woman sat on a small bed, hands bound behind her, pillowcase over her head. The man, bearded and dressed in flannel and jeans, stood at the foot of the bed, baseball bat in hand. He let out a low yelp as his eyes widened at seeing Dent appear. And in the time it took for the man’s brain to register what Dent’s presence in the room meant, Dent had closed the distance between them with three large steps. On the final step, he brought the poker down hard on the man’s skull.

  There was a slight give as bone crushed and caved under the blow. Somehow the man was still able to give out a strange scream that faded in volume as his body dropped to the floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” Bobseyn cried out, rushing past Dent to check on the crumpled man. Completely pointless, Dent thought. Without immediate medical care, the man would be dead wi
thin half an hour.

  “You could have killed him, Dent!” Bobseyn said, his voice a loud whisper.

  “I was trying to.”

  “We need to get him to a hospital—”

  “R-Rick?” the woman asked from within the pillow case.

  Looking from dying man to bank manager’s wife, Bobseyn left the one to tend to the other. He pulled the pillow case free and told the wide- and teary-eyed woman to hush.

  “It’s okay, Kathy, it’s okay. We’re here to help.”

  The woman sniffed as Bobseyn untied her hands and she said, in a cracking voice, “Fred’s back there. He has him, doing things ….” The sobbing came back and then the woman lunged for the door.

  Catching the woman up and dragging her back to the bed, Bobseyn asked, “Who has him, Kathy? Who has Fred?”

  She struggled to move but the sheriff had his arms firmly around her shoulders, keeping her in place.

  “Jerome Wheatly,” she said. “He and Lucas came in all smiles and handshakes then they starting asking questions about Fred’s work. When Fred wouldn’t tell them anything, they hit him. Dragged me in here as they beat him and then Jerome took Fred back there.”

  She tried lifting a hand to point in the general direction of the back room but for some reason only got halfway before she started crying, covering her face with both hands.

  Bobseyn shook his head. He obviously knew the intruders. The Fredericksons knew the intruders. The whos didn’t matter to Dent. The whys did. Dent knew from Lucas’s dying scream followed by Bobseyn’s yelling, that the remaining intruder, Jerome, knew they were in the house.

  “Guns?” Dent asked the woman.

  When she didn’t answer, just kept saying her husband’s name over and over, Dent grabbed her forearm.

  “Are they armed? Did they have guns?” he said again, voice pitched lower.

  This earned him a glare then a shake of her head and he let go of her arm. Looking to Bobseyn briefly, Dent turned and entered the hallway. By the time he reached the furthest door, Bobseyn was at his side. They put their backs to the wall just this side of the open doorway.

  “Jerome?” Bobseyn called out before Dent could attempt to enter the room. “It’s Sheriff Bobseyn. Everyone okay in there?”

  “Stay out!” Jerome yelled.

  Jerome, Dent noted, had a nasally voice.

  “Can’t do that, Jerome,” Bobseyn said. “I have to come in so we can talk.”

  “Where’s Lucas?” Jerome called out.

  Dent stepped around Bobseyn and into the doorway. “Lucas is dead. Or he will be if he doesn’t see a doctor soon.”

  Jerome, maybe twenty-five, stood behind Frederickson, a hunter’s knife at the bank manager’s throat. Frederickson’s left eye was swollen shut, nose a mushed mass, and his lips were busted and bleeding. Jerome pulled the bank manager closer to his chest and in doing so drew blood from the man’s neck.

  Bobseyn, now just behind Dent, said softly, “We can talk about this, son.”

  Whatever reason the young man was doing this, Dent could tell he wasn’t stupid. He could tell because Jerome’s eyes never left Dent’s. Even when the sheriff spoke, Jerome kept his gaze on Dent. The young man knew exactly who the bigger threat was.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Jerome asked Frederickson.

  Frederickson tried swallowing before answering but the knife was pressed too tightly against his neck. He nodded.

  Jerome suddenly pointed the knife Dent’s way. “Alright, now we’re getting somewhere. The very guy who we’re supposed to find out about. Who exactly are you, man?”

  Dent didn’t answer. It was a vague question.

  The knife went back to Frederickson’s neck. “Who. Are. You?” Jerome clipped each word through bared teeth.

  “Bobseyn,” Dent said softly.

  “No! No, man, I know who the sheriff is!” Jerome screamed. “Who are you?”

  “Bobseyn,” Dent said again, louder.

  Bobseyn, understanding Dent’s request, whispered harshly, “I can’t, Dent. He’s just a kid.”

  Frederickson sucked in a breath as Jerome dug his blade into the man’s neck.

  Dent shifted his weight slightly to the left. Bobseyn was right handed.

  “One, the other, or both,” Dent said. “Your choice, Bobseyn.” He could see the barrel of Bobseyn’s gun in his periphery. He had given the man an open angle to shoot. The gun was aimed at the two men inside the room, but Bobseyn wouldn’t pull the trigger.

  Jerome still stared only at Dent. “If you won’t tell me who you are,” he said, “we’ll just have to find out from the girl. I’m sure she’ll talk when—”

  Jerome didn’t get to finish. As soon as Dent heard the threat to Fifth’s safety, he reacted.

  Twisting and bringing his left hand around, Dent gripped Bobseyn’s forearm, dug his thumb between the muscles, and when Bobseyn dropped the gun Dent caught it with his right hand, brought it up and over, and squeezed the trigger.

  Dent couldn’t help but blink at the muzzle flash and retort, but as soon as he recovered, he rushed forward. Both Jerome and Frederickson where on the floor in a tangle of bodies and blood. He rolled Frederickson to the side and dropped on top of Jerome, knees pinning the young man’s arms to the carpet.

  Off to the side, Frederickson cried out, “You shot me! You shot me!”

  Dent ignored the man.

  Beneath him, Jerome was gurgling, drowning in his own blood. The bullet that had torn through Frederickson’s shoulder had struck Jerome high in the chest. There was no way Jerome would survive. It was almost pointless to ask what the dying man knew about Fifth.

  Almost.

  “What did you mean about the girl?” Dent asked. His voice came out louder than he had intended.

  But Jerome gave one last gasp and his head lolled to the side.

  Bobseyn started to say, “Why the hell—”

  Dent shot up and spun on the sheriff, cutting him off. “Because you didn’t.”

  The sheriff, who’d recovered his gun, knelt to tend to the bank manager. The man would have problems signing any documents in the near future, but he would live.

  Frederickson, somehow ignoring the bullet hole in him, asked about his wife and the other intruder.

  “She’s fine, Fred,” Bobseyn assured him.

  “I’m sure I killed the other one,” Dent offered. “You two are safe now.”

  Looking up from the propped position Bobseyn had him in, Frederickson, who Dent had just shot, whispered, “Thank you, Agent Dent. Thank you.”

  Gratitude wasn’t what Dent was seeking. “The girl that Jerome mentioned. Did you hear him say anything about her?”

  A slow shake of his head and then Frederickson said, “Just heard him call someone, telling them it was time to grab the girl. That was it. They came in asking about your investigation.”

  Dent snapped his attention to Bobseyn. Fifth was in danger. “Leave him. We have to go. Now.”

  For the briefest of moments, Dent thought Bobseyn was going to argue, but something inside the man gave in and he slid Frederickson over to prop him up against the bed.

  “I’m calling an ambulance for you and Kathy. But I have to go, Fred.” He stood and called Kathy into the room.

  When the wife came in, she took one look at her husband then the gun in the sheriff’s hand.

  “You shot him?” she wailed, and then rushed to kneel at her husband’s side.

  “No,” Frederickson coughed out. “He did.”

  The wife looked up at Dent, red eyes and tears and ruined mascara.

  “You’re welcome,” Dent said before she could thank him.

  “Get the hell out of my house!” she yelled up at him. “Just get the hell out!”

  They did. And even as Bobseyn and Dent raced back to the sheriff’s house in the Cherokee, Dent was still confused at the woman’s odd reaction.

  XXV

  At the sound of Kasumi’s scream the three intruders
came to an abrupt stop. Two were redheads and looked to be brothers. The third was dark haired. None looked very old to her, maybe in their twenties. The way they looked at her told her that this was no robbery. They had expected her to be here.

  They were here for her.

  Three men, and she had no weapon, no way to defend herself. She backed into the coffee table with one leg. The men stepped further into the house, the older brother closest, just a few feet away on the other side of the couch.

  Her heart started racing even faster, her palms got all sweaty, and her soda spilled out of the cup as her hand was shaking so much. Her eyes couldn’t decide on which of the men to focus on, and, as she sent her gaze flicking back and forth, she noticed the dark-haired man take a step back, like he suddenly had second thoughts on whatever they planned on doing here. He stared, not at Kasumi, but at the back of the older brother’s head. The younger redhead began to look around the house, probably searching for Dent or the sheriff. Only the older redhead, the obvious leader, seemed committed to whatever it was they planned on doing here.

  What would Dent do?

  Before any of them could make a move, she decided to act first.

  She threw her cup at the older redhead, not thinking it would do much to deter him. But the man gave out a girly yelp and dodged aside, as if the cup were full of acid. Before the cup hit the floor, Kasumi was off. Three bad guys against her, she had only one chance. Get to safety, hopefully find a weapon.

  She turned, banged a knee on the coffee table, then a hip on the piano as she darted for the hallway. The men yelled behind her as she reached the hallway, where she skid slightly and slammed into the wall. Ignoring the painting that she had knocked down, she righted herself and lunged for the closest door, the one leading to the room full of furniture.