“Mainly the wind knocked out of me and I can taste the blood. Really hurts,” he complained.
“Here comes Dr. Roberts down the hall from the ER,” she said as she waved him down. It just took a moment to explain there was no fire, that they had pushed the alarm to generate a call for help, and Marco had been assaulted with a sharp blow to the chest. Dr. Roberts yelled at trailing nurses to get a gurney. Arabell left them to it and turned back to Johnbull and Helmut.
“Have either of you seen them before?” she shouted over the alarm.
“The patient they took is the one who assaulted me last night. It would seem other birds of the same feather are gathering up their lost flock,” concluded Helmut.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to nag you,” began Johnbull, “but you came to Greg’s room with a fresh bag. I don’t want him forgotten or nuthin in the excitement.”
The alarm went silent. Firemen came from down the hall, looking into each room.
“Let me quickly change his bag,” promised Arabell, and then with a wave to the firemen, “then I better let them know how the alarm came to be so they don’t insist we needlessly move patients.”
Andres opened the driver’s door of Bruno’s car and got behind the wheel. Fire trucks were already on scene, and the police wouldn’t be far behind once word got out that it was an abduction of a suspect. He reached for the key that had been left in the ignition. They always left the keys so there wouldn’t be any fumbling in pockets or in case the person with the keys got nabbed. The car turned over, but the engine didn’t fire.
“What the fuck, Man!” complained Jhon from the backseat. He sat directly behind Andres holding on to the unconscious Bruno.
“Well if we’re not racing away,” said Diego on the other side of Bruno in the back, “I’m sitting up front.”
Andres tried the key again, the starter cranking but the engine still not roaring alive. The passenger side door opened and Diego reached in to dispose of trash on the floorboards by throwing it out on the ground before sitting down. He then reached for his seatbelt and calmly adjusted it.
Jhon pushed Bruno aside, the lifeless body flopping on to the passenger side door’s armrest and raised his voice, “Stop messing around. Let’s go. Let’s go!”
“Press the gas pedal a couple of times,” suggested Diego in a calm voice.
Andres stomped it like he was trying to kill a roach. He turned the key a third time, and the engine roared at redline revolutions.
Jhon turned to look out the back window to check for any pursuit, sweat dripping off his long dark sideburns. It had been a busy day for the trio. Mr. Armesto had instructed them to fetch Bruno’s car. When they had driven down the road to turn around, they had wound up having to bribe a cop. Now they were tying up a loose end.
Diego instructed, “Good, don’t overdo it. Take a right out the parking lot so we’re heading west on Main Street.”
Andres put it in gear and ran the stop sign as they turned onto the road. Far in the rearview mirror he saw flashing blue lights.
Jhon, from the backseat, saw them too, “Shit, the cops are already here.”
Diego leaned forward against the restraint of the seatbelt and pulled a pound yellow bag from underneath the seat. He tore open the top, and poured some peanut M&M’s into his fat scarred hand.
“Slow down,” Diego said as he picked out the orange ones.
Diego hated the orange ones. Andres didn’t know why. Maybe it had started as a simple act, for no other reason than to display a weird eccentricity to unnerve people, which had become a real personality quirk because he’d done it so many times. But the display of nonchalance was soothing. Andres felt his heart and breathing slow. He watched the rearview mirror and saw the flashing blue lights turn into the hospital, and he settled in for what began to feel like a Sunday drive.
They took Main Street out of town to the west, passing the city park and many Victorian Era homes. They then made a left hand turn across the oncoming lane to take Full Cry Road on the green arrow. Thus they began the half circle bypass around the south of Westburg. The road was quiet on a Monday night, and even the lights in the scattered houses began to go out over the dark farms and pastures since morning came early. Fifteen minutes later they approached the stoplight on the east side of Westburg next to Full Cry Market.
They went straight through the light, to continue on Full Cry Road. They passed the girls school, and then Stirrup Cup Road leading to the Westburg’s Hunt Clubhouse and Kennels. A couple of minutes later, they were at the awkward turn that went directly south to the middle of town completing their three quarters circumvention. Hopefully any witnesses would think they fled out west somewhere, unaware of their plans to double back. Andres took the gravel spur of Gone Away Lane to the north, the dark unlit road making Andres slow down to a pace about twice that of an athletic human’s fast walk. The fields and woods were much darker here in contrast to the numerous houses south of town. They passed a dark and tattered farmhouse, visible only because it was so close to the road.
A pair of oncoming hi-beam headlights suddenly turned on, showing four broad-shouldered silhouettes before them. Andres let the car slowly roll to a stop and turned off the engine, then the lights. Next to him, Diego unfastened his seat belt and popped out. The dome light had been deactivated once upon a time so he didn’t bother to close his door. Then Andres felt the opening of the door behind him as Jhon also exited. Andres took a deep breath, wiped his palms on the front of his pants, and got out too. Before him was Mr. Armesto, his driver and a couple other muscle guys he hadn’t worked with before. Behind Mr. Armesto’s Lincoln was their maroon Chevy Tahoe and Miyer’s and Camilo’s, the new arrivals, small sedan.
“How did it go?” asked the boss in conversational volume. His voice was barely audible with the summer insects chirping away on the Virginia night.
Diego spoke up, “We got him, Sir. There was no police guard on him. But some staff and visitors did see us.”
Mr. Armesto nodded, “You gentlemen won’t be in town but another couple of days, so don’t worry about it. How is Bruno?”
Jhon spoke, “He didn’t wake up on the drive.”
“Well,” said Marcelo Armesto wistfully, “perhaps that is another blessing. He’s not likely to survive without medical care. And if he has medical care, then he will be in custody which isn’t good for our organization. So he must go away, not to be seen again. I find that sad. Bruno was with us for many years and always gave good service.”
Mr. Armesto jerked his head at Esteban the driver, and Andres watched as the man strode off the road to the right, hopped over an old barbed wire cattle fence and disappeared into the darkness.
Diego asked, “What’s our next play, Sir?”
“Mr. Grunfeld will soon make up his mind. But in the meantime, help the boys keep a low profile. This isn’t the district. It’s too easy to stick out, and things have been stirred up recently.”
A giant rumbling engine, coming from the direction Esteban disappeared, drowned out conversation and made further exchanges impossible. Soon there was the metal clattering and squeaking of caterpillar treads, rapidly drawing closer with a surge of diesel revolutions. Andres looked upward to see a giant track-hoe excavating machine lumbering forward.
The huge bucket and its thick metal teeth ripped into the earth, leaving behind a hole in the ground big enough to bury a cow. It emptied its content, top soil and red clay mixing together with the weeds, and swung back to scoop another load. In fifteen minutes, the hole was nearing ten-foot-deep and Mr. Armesto raised a fist and motioned back and forth.
Esteban swung the bucket out over Bruno and his car, tilted it so that the teeth were down, and used the hydraulics to smash it into the faded silver Oldsmobile. The roof collapsed and tore, sending shattered automotive safety glass into the gravel and drainage ditches. The bucket rotated, the teeth taking further purchase, and then the excavator’s arm gently picked up the car. It swayed some with
loose doors flapping, but held fast, and Esteban dropped it into the bottom of the hole. The roof was only a couple of feet below grade, but that would have to do.
Mr. Armesto gestured to his boys to follow him as they strolled behind the small caravan to escape the noise while his driver commenced backfilling the hole.
“We’ve done this work before, even if Grunfeld hasn’t,” he began as they tried to solemnly nod while walking after him. Mr. Armesto demanded respect. He stopped strolling once away from the noise. “It’s a high value project. This isn’t some tiny nightclub in the big city. How we proceed depends upon if this Harper guy voted the right way. If he did, we’ll be going home soon.
But if not, we’ll have to show him he slighted the wrong people. He’s got a wife and daughter. Get several thick leather belts for slapping on them, cable ties for their hands and feet. Duct tape for their mouths. Put a new razor knife on the shopping list. I might want to slice off fingers and leave some decorative scars. And get some condoms for the boys so they don’t leave DNA behind.”
Jhon pushed playfully at Andres, “Red on head, hot in bed!”
Diego shot back toward them, “Shut up, you assholes. Mr. Armesto is talking.”
Andres’ stomach soured and he felt a chill along his spine as the thud of the excavator’s bucket smashed down hard to compact the earth over Bruno to emphasize Diego’s reprimand. Miyer and Camilo struck attentive poses, too.
Marcelo Armesto stood looking at the disturbed ground in the moon shadow of the excavator trying to cool the rage inside himself as the departing red tail lights of the Tahoe and Toyota faded away to the south toward town. Esteban stood politely by the Lincoln, knowing better than to slouch or lean upon the car. Bruno had let an old man get the better of him, causing the organization to make a scene at the hospital. Luckily, Grunfeld had some type of leverage on the Chief of Police and the City Supervisor. The golf course resort project was turning into quite the struggle; a struggle for Marcelo which was less about business and more about trying to capture the class of his father’s status which so far alluded him.
In Columbia, his family was something. Or had been, anyway. His father, a corporate executive, had run not only the coffee producing plantations but also the packaging and shipping logistic organizations. He had been being groomed to be the Chief Executive’s successor. That meant gaining experience on the sales side, interfacing with customers in their home country and making wholesale shipments to retailers. So when Marcelo had been a school boy, the Armesto family moved to Washington, D.C. It wasn’t New York or Paris, which were too large for a rookie executive to handle and any inevitable mistakes potentially disastrous for the company. But it was sufficiently robust for the learning experience to be worthwhile.
While the assignment was a tremendous compliment in regards to his father’s career, it also allowed the family to be away from Columbia’s rural plantations when flaring violence manifested most prominent. It meant the children being educated in some of America’s most elite schools. And with extended family so very important in their Latin culture, company support for visits home was also extremely generous when unrest was quelled. The realization of life’s dreams was upon them.
Until it wasn’t. His father never took care of himself. He ate too much red meat, and drank too much alcohol. The stress of the job proved enormous, and he adorned himself with high expectations, much higher than he could realistically achieve in what was a stretch opportunity role within the company. A massive heart attack seized him at the office, and he was gone beyond all hope before the ambulance could arrive through morning rush-hour traffic.
Suddenly, the family was home and grouped in with the other widows and pensioners. And they were broke. Not broke, broke, like the peasants picking beans. But broke for a teen boy who had been getting absolutely everything he had ever wanted. He’d lost contact with local friends in those formative years, and had trouble readjusting. He was vulnerable and got into trouble. He began to buy and sell drugs with the business shrewdness of his father. There were some bad fights, and his mother cried when he came home with bruises and cuts. To try and save him, she sent him back to America for university.
Marcelo didn’t find it an unsettling experience. He’d only been gone a few years, and the streets and local customs were familiar to him. The young Armesto was smart and applied himself to his studies, especially business and economics. His success though did nothing to relieve the anger in the young man over his father’s death, and their loss of status. He had been much too young and impatient to rebuild that status with legitimate hard work in the same way his father had.
His college roommate had been Johann Grunfeld. Johann made loans to other students to finance parties, hire strippers, replace broken computers, and other items of immediate utility to strapped college students. Marcelo had made sure they paid back on time, or in a few cases, suffered an accident. It made him feared, which to an angry young man felt the same as the respect he craved.
They stayed together for years even after Marcelo dropped out after freshmen year. His mother had wanted him to get a job in the cafeteria and take on student loans to continue to pay tuition. Instead, he took his new found skills and applied them to protection and anti-graffiti rackets on pizza parlors, food stands and bicycle shops near campus. Small businesses that failed to pay up were trashed by his growing gang of wild kids looking for some drug fueled adventure. Soon he moved up to extorting local construction jobs and their workers. He drifted away from Johann, at least in the sense of day to day business, but they still called each other from time to time.
A few years ago, he and Johann reconnected again. The nature of their respective enterprises had grown; their respective character had not. Marcelo had diversified to laundering money for other clients, and Johann had continued making the type of loans requiring collection methodologies more stern than harassing phone calls. They still complimented one another, but Marcelo understood a few more things about life than he’d understood before: money, status, respect and power were all related, but not the same thing.
He turned toward the back of the Lincoln. It was time to stop reminiscing and get back to work.
CHAPTER—19
Mrs. Bridgette Grant fretted in front of her desktop computer, the mug of coffee long cold. Somehow yesterday had slipped away from her, despite her best intentions, and she’d failed in crafting a message to the parents as a follow-up to the security reminders she’d sent the students. The pursuit of the trespasser who doubled back to assault Mr. Muench compelled her to make notifications, but the required savviness drove her to compose draft after draft until timeliness was somewhat lacking. And as Ben Franklin supposedly said, “Lost time is never found again.” Which meant the only way to compensate for the delay in the message was the quality of the message. It wasn’t enough to say there’d been an assault on campus. She needed to allude to analysis and logical actions being taken. Her audience was parents with considerable resources, strong critical thinking abilities, and no tolerance for nonsense.
Thus, the Fox Ridge School safety patrol was born. Anyone thinking they had plenty of budget for hiring watchmen or installing security mechanisms was grossly misinformed. She’d bought teachers instead, never expecting trouble would find them here in a small. Mrs. Grant also prided herself on strong critical thinking skills, and what she lacked in resources she made up for in organizational skills.
During the week, all girls by long standing school policy, were to be behind locked doors by 10:00 pm until 6:00 am the following morning. Overnight staff did periodic checking. She judged that prudent and sufficient. All that was required was groups of girls patrolling the campus during the non-overnight hours who could call if they saw something suspicious. A few bright road safety vests and some flashlights were the only equipment required. Best of all, it put responsibility where it belonged; on the students for the students. Mrs. Beechcroft, who supervised later hours in the library after the teach
ers had all gone home, could be on the receiving end of suspicious calls to provide adult leadership before dialing 911.
A little incentive went a long way, too. Giving out extra desserts for reported situations would help young ladies overcome their inhibitions and call in even if there was truly nothing in the way of trespassers to report. Such reports may still have value to her by identifying risk indicating behaviors like students sneaking off or bringing contraband on to campus. But she was getting ahead of herself again, and turned her attention back to the email.
She read the sentences again slowly and making small edits, trying to strike the right balance between expressing concern and conveying that there was no concern. Another big breath, and she hit send.
Then there was a soft knock on the door, a sleepy Matron’s Assistant opening it and leading in a downcast Holly Healy. Her assistant also dropped her gaze, stepped backward through the doorway and closed it to leave Holly to her fate.
“Miss Healy, please sit down.”
Bridgette continued to check a few other emails to make her young charge have a chance to sweat just a little bit, but hopefully not enough time to pull together. Then she whirled her chair away from the computer monitor at the sideboard and stared down at the small blond girl perched on the edge of the chair before her.
“Do you know why I sent for you?” began the matron. Bridgette always started such conversations this way. You never knew what they were going to say, and sometimes they confessed to crimes more interesting than what had caused them to be sent for in the first place. Based upon the tea party Sunday evening, followed by Sergeant Barker’s visit yesterday, it sounded like a man was visiting campus houses unsupervised. That meant it was just a matter of time until one of her girls was pregnant. They didn’t need another scandal, especially during the fall enrollment season.
By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2 Page 17
