The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  Michael had wanted to leave the property before sunrise, and its condition further encouraged that notion. The lack of footprints oughta give me some comfort that I’m alone, but all it does is drive home the reality that they’re determined and capable, and I have no back-up. No one’s gonna come to help, no one’s gonna hear me yell. Especially over this howling wind. Just me and the goddamned basement coyote.

  As Michael replaced the phone and zipped his coat back up against the cold, incessant wind, a sharp bark and whimper from the house caught his attention. He pointed the flashlight’s blinding beam and his Glock’s sights at the porch where the sound had come from. A full-grown, black-and-white Border Collie mix with a mottled chest hesitantly wagged its tail and looked back at him across the open space. Michael lowered his gun and brought the flashlight’s beam down below the dog’s eyes. Its tail wagged wider, despite its underweight appearance. It whimpered again and barked optimistically at him. Michael whistled back.

  wwhhssst

  “Come here, boy!”

  The dog sprinted over to him and stopped just before running into Michael’s knees. After putting his Glock away, he used the flashlight to examine the excited animal and spoke to it like he was a favored child. “Are you the mean ol’ vicious dog from downstairs, huh? No, you’re just a good boy!” The collie mix turned circles and whimpered as he looked up at Michael, his tail wagging much faster and wider now. He didn’t have a collar, which wasn’t all that unusual for a ranch dog, but getting lost was. “Who wantsa go get in the warm truck with me, huh, boy?” He rubbed the dog’s sides and estimated he was at least ten pounds underweight. Shouldn’t feel his ribs like this. He’s been out here for a while. “Can you sit?” The dog faced Michael and sat upright. His head tilted to the side like he waited for another command. Or a treat for being a good boy. “Wanna go for a walk?”

  The dog jumped up and led Michael back out into the cold.

  “Alright, boy, let’s get the hell oughta here.” Michael left the stable behind, and the collie mix stepped in behind him on his right side. Bet he’s trained to walk in that spot. As Michael led their way out toward the county road, he veered north toward the property’s running trails. Now out in the open, he’d had his fill of surprises for the morning and didn’t dare use his flashlight.

  The far eastern horizon brightened ever so slightly and winked out stars from the sky to warn him of the impending sunrise. Michael looked back at the dark, lifeless structures. There’s already been three different times I thought I’d finally left this miserable place forever. If nothing else, I’m sure this one’s gonna stick. I can’t ever again set foot on John’s terra firma when it doesn’t exist anymore.

  February 11. 07:49am

  Niobrara County Sheriff’s Office. Lusk, Wyoming.

  Michael drove his rented truck into the small lot in front of the Sheriff’s Office and parked near the front entrance. Not the best tactic, but it’s what cops expect from the typical civilian. He reached over to the passenger seat and pet his new best friend, whom he’d named Ira, behind his ears. The dog was so tired and warm under his new fleece blanket that he didn’t wake up. I’d sleep pretty hard, too, if my belly was full for the first time in a couple weeks. Thank God feed stores open early in cattle country. Michael glanced down to the passenger floorboard, just below Ira, to make sure the dog’s new water bowl hadn’t spilled. He’s already drained most of it. See how he does and maybe give him some more in about an hour. “Good boy, Ira.” The dog still didn’t do more than breathe. “Definitely keeping you, and we’ll see if the name gets to stay, too.”

  Ecstatic to have rescued the dog from the abandoned compound, he stepped from the truck, zipped his barn coat back up to seal out the howling wind, and pushed the door shut. Michael glanced at The Blue Bonnet Café, which stood across the street and two buildings east of the Sheriff’s Office. At least that’s still in place. I’d check myself into a rubber room if that had changed, too. Ducking his head away from the wind, he strode into the small cop shop. Small motorcycle “Gremlin” bells chimed from the back of the door, and Michael saw a familiar face behind the counter. What was her name? Patty, maybe, something with a ‘P’ for sure.

  “Good morning. How can I help you today, besides the obvious?” She pointed toward a large Thermos of coffee that sat on the lobby’s counter just inside the doorway. “I’ve got hot water for tea, too, if you’re the one man in Niobrara that doesn’t drink coffee in the morning.”

  Michael smiled. Peggy. Her name is Peggy. “No, thank you, ma’am, this looks like just the God-send I need this morning.” He stepped to the Thermos, pulled a Styrofoam cup from an adjacent stack, and poured his morning’s third cup of coffee. Heavy steam rolled out of the white cup and dissipated in the air above.

  “You look familiar,” Peggy offered and walked closer to Michael and the counter. “Have we met somewhere before?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t believe we have,” Michael lied. “I’m Tom Giles. I’m wondering if you might help answer a couple questions I got about some properties near here.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Giles, I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

  “I help run a program for the Archdiocese of Santa Fe, back in New Mexico, and we take down old barns and use the reclaimed wood to teach job skills to folks in halfway houses. Try to give ‘em a new skill, a legit trade, so they can get back on their feet and keep their noses clean. I got sidetracked a little out east of town here, figure there might be a couple places with old barns they might wanna get rid of and donate the materials to us.” Michael knew rehabilitation programs were not especially well-received in rural communities, but he hoped that a story about one that provided skills training would be. If I offered to pay top-dollar for the lumber, I bet she’d have the deed-holders on the phone in nothing flat.

  “Well, bless your heart, that sounds like a, a, well-intended program.” She grimaced, and skepticism dripped from her voice. “I just don’t know anything about that, though, you’d have to get in touch with the individual property owners to work that kinda thing out.”

  Good, Michael thought, she doesn’t wanna jump through hoops for me. He glanced at the wall to his left, which displayed a large map of Niobrara County. “Maybe if I could point it out to you.” Michael stepped over until he touched the map’s epicenter, which was Lusk, the county seat and his present location. He followed Highway 20 east until he found Bruch Road, then guided his finger north on County Road 15. “I think it’s about right here. There’s a place on the west side of the county road that looks like the whole place might be abandoned. Few buildings, a stable, maybe, just about fallin’ down. Any idea who owns that?”

  Peggy stepped closer to the map but stayed behind the counter. “The only abandoned place out there’s the old Ahern spread.”

  “It’s on the west side, a few miles north of the highway?”

  “Yessir, only place out there without occupants. Well,” Peggy smiled and corrected herself, “there’s sure to be coyotes, antelopes, and wind. Maybe some prairie dogs, but that’s about it.”

  “Any chance you’d have contact info for the owners?”

  “Mister Giles, the only way anyone’s talkin’ to Mister Ahern is through a saint or a seance.”

  “He’s passed?”

  “Bless his heart, yes, a number of years back. He died in prison, actually, up in Rawlins, in the maximum-security facility there. Killed his wife and her lover, terrible thing, just cut that man to pieces.” Peggy shook her head as though chilled. “Anyway, he’s been dead for a while now, and left no heirs. The property’s been with the state since then, and I guess they haven’t gotten around to doing anything with it. Not like it costs ‘em anything to let the wind and the coyotes reclaim it.”

  “That’s terrible, ma’am. Must’ve been a hard thing in such a small town.”

  “Not really, we figured it was just a matter of time. Can’t cheat on a jealous drunk in a town this size, ya
know?”

  Peggy smiled and then appeared as though she’d just remembered something. “Now that we’re talking about it, there was another man that was just in here askin’ about that place. I came in a couple hours early this mornin,’ cause I gotta drive down to Cheyenne this afternoon, so, anyway, you don’t care about that. So, this fella was chattin’ with our overnight deputy about that very place. Is there something goin’ on with it that I just don’t know about?”

  Who else is out here digging up bones? Michael tried to conceal his sudden apprehension. “I don’t know of anything. I’m just out hunting old wood. Heck of a coincidence, though.”

  “It sure is. Nobody’s cared about that place for two decades and now it’s hot real estate.”

  “Any idea, ma’am, who the other party was?”

  “No, I hadn’t ever seen him before. Wasn’t familiar lookin’ like you. I only know he wasn’t from around here.”

  “Any chance he left a name, or anything else?”

  “John,” she slowly replied and nodded. “Yep, when he left, he shook hands with the deputy and introduced himself as ‘John.’ Said he was doing some kinda property assessment for the state. Just wanted to know if anyone had expressed interest in the place, like maybe the state hopes they’ll be able to sell it soon. Guess he showed up a little too early, right?” Peggy laughed at her own observation.

  Michael smiled and tried to chuckle along while keeping his anxiety under control. He retrieved his cell phone and opened a password-protected photo app. After swiping through the first four digital images, Michael settled on the last picture he’d clandestinely snapped the same day he got the device. There he is. I knew these might come in handy one day. He zoomed in on the picture, which showed his former lead instructor and current boss seated at the dining table in the main house of their training compound four months ago. Still amazed the place looked like this. Michael presented the photo to Peggy. “Any chance this is him?”

  She put on her reading glasses and looked at the image. “Well, yes, that is him, that’s so strange that you two would know each other! I bet there’s a heck of a story behind all this, Mister, Mister, I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

  Dead Man Walking, was the first one that came to Michael’s mind.

  February 11, 5:03PM local

  Vatican Housing Complex. Rome, Italy.

  Cardinal Paul Dylan escorted a bishop from the Vatican Travel Office out of the luxury apartment that bureaucracy had just assigned to him. As they strolled toward the front door of Paul’s new residence, the red-clad cardinal clapped the subordinate bishop’s shoulder through his black cassock. “Thank you, Bishop Rute, for bringing us from the airport this afternoon. I greatly appreciate the hospitality and assistance you and your staff in the travel office have shown in getting us moved over here from New York these past few months. Please give my regards to Cardinal O’Rourke.” He opened and held the door for the meek, balding bishop from rural England.

  Rute paused inside the door just long enough to shake hands, a social norm in both their home countries. “Thank you, Your Eminence, I will pass on your gratitude. Peace be with you.”

  Paul smiled pleasantly. “And also with your spirit, my son.” He closed the door behind the departing bishop and threw its deadbolt closed. Even though I have no concerns about being robbed or assaulted here, the consequence of being overheard far outweighs anything that ruffians might do to my body. A smug grin broke across Paul’s face as he stepped back into the living room where his reserved and loyal assistant, Bishop Harold Hoffaburr, PhD., stood and awaited his return.

  Hoffaburr smiled at him. “Congratulations again, Your Eminence.”

  “It is nothing that we’ve done on our own, Harold.” Paul sat in a white leather armchair, so Hoffaburr returned to a matching loveseat placed perpendicular to it. “We’d have accomplished none of this without God’s blessings and our greater understanding of His mysteries.”

  “I still attest that God’s choice to reveal His mysteries to you inspired the creation of the Absolvers. I agree that we’re only servants God has chosen to use for His divine ends, but I would suggest we’re merely beginning this particular journey. There’s a much higher purpose for Him having chosen you to lead this endeavor.”

  Paul snorted at Harold’s mention of the group’s unofficial name. “Remember that John demands we call them nothing. Don’t let him catch you giving his precious baby a real name.” He let his ego stew in the sycophant’s flattery and considered the man’s ignorance. You’re right that God has a much higher purpose for me and the Absolvers, but you have no understanding of who’s in charge or what our long-term objectives are. “You’ve not mentioned John or his globe-trotting minions in several days. Have you any news of their progress, what with all the trouble that traitorous Thomas has attempted to cause for all of us?”

  Harold absentmindedly removed a speck of lint from his black cassock. “John reports no problems. His men remain active, but not over-tasked. After removing all the colorful language from his communications, it would seem he needs nothing but solitude and trust.”

  Paul sneered, “Were those his words?”

  “No, they were not. I believe he closed the message with, forgive me, but I’m only quoting here: ‘Leave me the fuck alone and let me do the goddamned job you assholes hired me for.’”

  Paul laughed aloud while Hoffaburr closed his eyes and shook his head. “Is that really what he wrote?

  “You are truly blessed to not have to communicate with him directly, sir. I often have trouble believing he’s a man of God.”

  “I do appreciate his dedication and his grit, Harold. My father used to say that it takes all kinds of clowns to put on a good circus. For all his audacity, I’m grateful John felt inspired to join us under the Big Top. You have, of course, continued to keep him in the dark about our plans for him and his Absolvers?”

  “Naturally. You might well expect that with such an outlook on our relationship, I find it easy to avoid contact.” Hoffaburr grinned. “He asks me no questions, so I’m forced to tell him no lies. Well, at least, fewer lies.”

  Paul suppressed his reaction. “I prefer to think of them as ‘strategic un-truths.” Just like you, Harold, and your erroneous belief this is only about working toward my papal nomination. “I’m grateful that you stayed on my staff when His Holiness assigned me to this posting in Vatican City.”

  Hoffaburr scoffed in feigned surprise. “I can’t imagine what would be required for me to have turned down the opportunity, Your Eminence. I’ve made my support of you very plain. Your success is my success, and it’s made all the better that you’re still in need of an assistant.”

  Paul leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the pristine glass coffee table between them. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Harold? All this started in the boroughs of New York City more than two decades ago, but we’ve already found our way into Vatican City, into my current assignment as the Under-Secretariat for the Economy. As we sit here, I am but one promotion away from a residence inside the Vatican, which conveys both a seat among Pope Cornelius’ most trusted council and the very legitimate potential of succeeding His Holiness when that time comes.” He glanced about the lavish apartment’s interior, his disinterest in its opulence clear on his face. I only care about its location, not the taste or expense of its décor. “Keep your bags packed, Harold. I don’t expect to be here long.”

  February 12, 06:51am local

  St. Franziskus Seraphicus. Vienna, Austria.

  Just a few minutes before sunrise, Stefanie Schatz-König parked her pristine black Audi A5 on a narrow one-way street along the south side of her church. When Alfred joined her for the occasional Sunday mass, they, of course, had to park his more expensive A8 directly in front of the doors on the building’s west side. He needed everyone to see him and envy his success in this life. Today, Stefanie was alone and wanted to avoid any attention at all. It’s easy to be ano
nymous at this hour. Vienna needs a special occasion to rise this early on Saturdays. One of the altar boys emerged from the heavy metal doors and began shoveling last night’s snowfall from the brick sidewalk around the church. He didn’t seem to notice the idling luxury car only a few meters away.

  Stefanie sat in the warm coupe, watched the boy work, and collected the courage to go inside. The stink of whiskey and schnapps emanated from her pores and the travel mug in the coupe’s center cup holder. I should have come here last night, but all my bravery’s at the bottom of the bottle these days. The Austrian fashion designer and EU business icon glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror and realized how terrible she looked. I’m a damned wreck! Stefanie mussed her sandy blonde hair and tried to wipe some of her disheveled mascara off, but soon abandoned the effort. Looking back to the church’s main entrance just a few meters ahead of her A5, she fumbled for a last drink from the travel mug.

  Stefanie needed help, but she feared her intended visit with Father Burg wouldn’t be her last uncomfortable conversation in the hours, days, and weeks ahead. Once I put this in motion, I’ll lose all control over where it goes. She pondered her assumption, and then finished what she imagined might be her last cocktail.

  Stefanie shut off the car, collected her oversized Schatz designer purse from the passenger seat, and stepped out onto the street’s dirty mix of snow, sand, and crumbled asphalt. With her head held high, she secured the car and strode toward the freshly cleared sidewalk. A snowcapped newspaper bin stood near the edge of the walkway in front of the church, and Stefanie glanced down at its current edition on display. Two above-the-fold articles shared the page.