by Mike Nappa
At 9:17 a.m., he saw a man walk into Denny’s and knew right away this guy didn’t belong here—not at this hour at least. Maybe later, around noon, when the washed masses migrated from church to mealtime. But right now, this man was out of place.
He was tall, over six feet at least, and thick like a man familiar with the free weights section of a gym. He had dark hair, cut stylishly short, and a tanned face. He wore a navy-colored two-piece suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and black dress boots that actually made The Mute feel just a little jealous. He carried a book in his hands and nothing else.
The Mute took a mouthful of grits and chewed.
He watched the man scan the restaurant. He did it quickly, pausing only when his eyes passed over the drunk at the counter and again when they fell on The Mute.
The Mute avoided his gaze.
When the hostess greeted him, the man smiled genuinely and pointed toward the booth by the window. The Mute heard a muffled conversation that sounded like, “Not necessary. I’m just here to meet my friend over there.” A moment later he was standing at the table’s edge.
The Mute ignored him.
The man hesitated just a split second, then said quietly, “Truck sent me.”
The Mute greeted him by lifting up his ringed finger and taking a loud slurp of coffee.
The man almost let his eyes roll but contained himself. “Nice to meet you too. Can I sit?”
The Mute raised his ringed finger higher, until it was about six inches from the man’s nose.
“Seriously?” he said. “Right here, right now?”
The Mute ignored him.
“Fine,” the man said. He dropped the book onto the bench seat across from The Mute, then stripped off his suit coat and tossed it onto the seat as well. From the way his shirt hung, The Mute could tell he’d removed a gun holster from inside his coat before entering this restaurant. Apparently he didn’t want to risk scaring the locals.
Next, with an uncomfortable glance around the Denny’s floor, the man began rolling up his left shirtsleeve. A moment later he stuck the inside of his forearm in between The Mute and his coffee cup. Just below the elbow joint, tattooed in silver, were two arrows, crossed with a dagger, and laid upon an encircling black ribbon.
The Mute leaned back in his chair and smiled, gesturing for the man to sit down. Delores was right behind him.
“Getcha something, honey?” the waitress said to the man.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” the man said pleasantly.
“Steak, eggs, and grits, coming right up.”
When she was gone, the two men allowed a moment to pass while they sized each other up. The visitor let his gaze rest obviously on the scar that decorated his host’s neck. Then he extended a palm.
“I’m Samuel Hill,” he said, “and I’m guessing you’re the one Truck always called The Mute.”
The Mute took the hand, and then let go.
“I got Truck’s message,” Hill said. “Just last Thursday. I would have been here sooner, but, well, Truck never said which Denny’s in Alabama I was supposed to go to.”
The Mute almost laughed, well, he would have if he could make that noise. That was Truck. Never give anyone all the information. Spread it out, in bits and pieces, so everybody has something but nobody has everything. Except Truck, of course.
“Turns out there are exactly seven Denny’s restaurants in Alabama. I went to the one in Auburn on Friday, and the one south of Montgomery yesterday. If I hadn’t found you here today, I was headed up to Cullman tomorrow.”
The Mute was starting to like this guy. But that didn’t mean he had to be nice to him. He held out a hand and flicked his fingers in the universal “give it to me” gesture. Hill reached across the table and placed the book in his hand.
Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
The Mute smiled to himself. It figured.
“So,” Hill said, “now what?”
The Mute pulled an ink pen from his pants pocket and scrawled a note on a napkin: What do you know?
Hill leaned back in his seat and let the fingers of his right hand tap absently on the space beside him.
“Well, let’s see. About ten or eleven years ago, Truck called me out to Kuwait, told me he needed a favor.”
So, Truck had involved this guy right from the beginning. Interesting.
“He worked out a system to send me a message, which seemed strange, because anytime Truck needed me, he usually just called. Anyway, he said when I got a certain message, I was to come to Denny’s in Alabama, where one of his boys would meet me, and that together we were to pick up something valuable for him. He said to keep it hidden and safe until he came for it.”
The Mute waited, thinking.
“Then, about five years ago, Truck showed up with that book”—Hill motioned toward the Poe collection—“and said it was a gift for my wife.” He grimaced. “Well, now my ex-wife. But that’s another story. Anyway, he said it was a gift for my wife, but that if I ever had to come to Denny’s in Alabama, it’d be a good idea if I brought it with me.” Samuel Hill spread out his hands, palms up. “And that’s it. That’s all I know.”
Just then Delores returned with a fresh plate of steak, eggs, and grits. “Enjoy,” she said blandly, and then she was gone. Samuel Hill didn’t even fake an interest in the food, just pushed it to the side and continued the conversation.
“So what’s the big deal about the book?” he asked.
In answer, The Mute wiped his steak knife clean on a napkin and then opened the back cover of the book. His eyebrows frowned slightly at what he saw there, but he continued nonetheless. He slid the blade of the steak knife into the edge of the endpaper, twisting carefully to loosen the glue that held the paper to the inside of the back cover. Once the knife was inserted, he let it glide around the edges until three sides of the paper were no longer attached to the quarter-inch-thick cover board.
He gently lifted the paper up, and now his frown moved down to his eyes and mouth. The secret compartment was there, all right, but in place of a key there was just a pink slip of paper with the monogrammed initials “T. S. C.” emblazoned at the top. He read the note and let an annoyed sigh spurt out of his lips.
“What is it?” Hill asked. In response, The Mute shoved the whole book back toward the visitor.
Samuel Hill picked up the pink notepaper and groaned. It read:
My Dearest Ex-Husband,
Now you know what it’s like when someone you trust betrays you.
See you soon,
Tru
How could Truck have ever trusted this bungling lothario? The Mute’s mind started racing. He had to find the girl, and this book was supposed to lead him right to her and provide the key to set her free. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he were unable to find her in time. Maybe she’d just die out there, wherever it was that Truck had hidden her. If he couldn’t find her, that’d be the best thing, really. A mercy on her, even though she might not understand it.
“All right.” Samuel Hill was standing now, lips flat and angry, sliding his suit coat over his shoulders. “Looks like I’ve got an errand to run. Meet me here again tomorrow?”
The Mute shook his head. He’d wasted enough time waiting for this clown. It was time to go hunting by himself.
“Fine,” Hill said. “Then just tell me this: What is it that I’m supposed to keep safe for Truck? Did he pilfer something from Iraq? Fine art? Jewelry? Diamonds? What?”
The Mute thought for a moment, pictured the face of that lost little girl. Then he reached for the pen and napkin again.
Two emeralds. He wrote. Priceless.
“All right.” Samuel Hill looked really angry now, both at the betrayal by his ex-wife and at the thought of traipsing around just to track down some of Truck’s lost jewelry. But he didn’t question the order, or Truck’s command, so that was something. He was an idiot, but maybe not totally useless.
“Tell
Truck I’ll have his emeralds within the week,” Hill said, then he turned to leave.
The Mute reached out and grabbed his arm. When Hill turned back, The Mute shook his head. He flashed the Special Forces ring again and then drew a finger across his throat.
It took Hill a second to understand what The Mute was saying, then realization fell heavy across his face. He sat down on the bench.
“Truck’s dead?” he asked. The Mute nodded. “Wow. I didn’t think that old man could ever die. Too much vinegar in his blood. Too mean-spirited. Too important.”
The Mute nodded, grateful at last to share his misery with someone who understood the complex nature of Sergeant Leonard Truckson.
“Man was more than a father to me,” Hill muttered to nobody.
The two men sat silently for a moment, then Hill let out a sigh. He stood, pulled out his wallet, and dropped some cash on the table.
He looked toward the door, then paused and turned back to The Mute.
“I’ve recently become aware of a man,” he said evenly. “An older gentleman, Caucasian. Dresses well. Carries a cane.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I now find myself very much interested in locating this man. He goes by the name of Dr. Jonathan Smith. Do you know this name?”
John Smith? Couldn’t get more generic than that. Still, The Mute read meaning in the big man’s question. He suspected this Dr. Smith was somehow involved in the attack on Truck’s farm.
The Mute shook his head.
Hill nodded slowly in acknowledgment, looking thoughtful. Then he shook The Mute’s hand as a good-bye, a solemn gesture that almost felt like a salute.
“Okay,” he said.
There was a silent moment between the men, then Samuel Hill walked out of the Denny’s restaurant on Daniel Payne Drive in Birmingham, Alabama.
12
Trudi
Monday, September 7
Trudi watched the security monitor from her desk chair, and she felt like cursing. She didn’t, though. She didn’t say anything.
Her ex-husband didn’t bother hiding his car this time. He pulled into the small lot outside the storefront that held the offices of Coffey & Hill Investigations and slid his silver Ford GT in between a shiny black Mercedes and a dirty Toyota truck right by the front door. He looked a little tired, clothes a little rumpled, like he’d been on the road for a day or two, but otherwise none the worse for the wear. He seemed pleased to find the offices of Coffey & Hill unlocked, and he went inside.
Trudi switched the camera view to follow Samuel as he walked through the empty reception area. Eulalie had the day off, of course. At least that was one good thing.
Trudi’s ex-husband barely hesitated when he found the front office empty and stretched his long legs onward, moving quickly toward Trudi’s office in the back. He actually smiled when he first saw her, a smile of relief, Trudi thought, like he was worried she might not be here after all.
“Well, most folks take Labor Day off—” Sam started to say when he entered the office. Then he thought better of it and fell silent.
Apparently, feeling the nub of a handgun pressing at the base of his skull was a conversation killer.
Now Trudi did curse, but softly, under her breath. Idiot, she thought. He knew better. You never walk into a room without giving it at least a cursory visual check.
This time it played out just like the movies. Bad guy hides beside the doorjamb, pressed against the wall, gun at the ready. Then when the good guy walks in, the bad guy steps behind him with the gun pressed into service. Just like that, Trudi’s best weapon—the unexpected arrival of her ex-husband—was neutralized.
“You’re just a big, dumb, pretty donkey, aren’t you, Samuel?” She said it sweetly, by way of greeting.
He smiled at her again. This time he seemed genuinely amused.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said blithely. He raised his hands above his head. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Trudi shook her head. The goon with the gun shoved at Samuel, motioning for him to sit in one of the two ornate metal chairs across the desk from Trudi. At that point, Dr. Smith stepped out from the other corner of the room.
“Hands on the arms of the chair, please,” he said to Samuel, “where they are always in plain view. See, your wife is modeling the appropriate posture for you already.”
“Ex-wife.”
Trudi was sorry as soon as she said it. It was enough that Samuel had been caught unaware. She didn’t need to rub in the failure of the relationship as well, at least not right now.
Samuel complied with comfortable ease, but Trudi saw that he positioned his legs with the right foot back and left foot forward. Prepared to spring out of the chair in a split second if the opportunity arose.
“Honey,” he said to her, “maybe you should introduce me to your friends.”
Trudi grimaced at him. “The bearded wonder holding the gun I’ve just been calling Ugly Goon #1. The old guy with the cane, well, that’s the one and only Dr. Jonathan Smith.”
“It’s truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hill,” Dr. Smith crooned. “You are a hard man to find.”
“Sugarsweet-Plumberry,” Trudi said to Samuel. “Old meanie here is looking for a friend of yours.”
“Actually, my dear,” Dr. Smith corrected, “we’ve already found Steven Grant, although he was going by the name of Truckson when we caught up with him. Sorry, I should have mentioned that to you earlier, back at your house.”
Samuel’s eyebrow furrowed at the mention of Truck. Trudi recognized that expression. It was a look that could kill.
“Maybe I should catch you up on things, Snicker-Muffin,” Trudi interrupted. Inwardly she hoped her husband—ex-husband—was counting. She’d already laid out the count number for him and now was closing in on the trigger point.
“Dr. Smith and Ugly Goon #1 here showed up at my place for breakfast. Sadly, they didn’t find anything they liked in my kitchen, so they went looking all over the house for something special. They spent nearly all morning in their little search. When they didn’t find what they wanted at the house, they insisted that we come here to the office so they could make another awful mess for me.”
“On a federal holiday?” said Samuel. “How uncouth. Some people have no manners.”
Time for the code. Trudi hoped her ex was following the script.
“Well, you know how it is, Lightning-Bear. We came right over here and were just getting started when, lo and behold, you pulled up in the parking lot.”
“I think that catches everybody up,” Dr. Smith said.
Trudi saw Samuel shuffle his feet, shifting his left foot backward and his right foot forward, indicating he was now ready to take out the silent, gun-wielding goon on his left.
Good. He remembered the clues.
Trudi felt her body relax even as her mind seemed to tense up. Many years ago she and Samuel had worked out this little code sequence just for circumstances like this. In a hostage situation, one of them would first rattle off a number of adjectives in a row—two or four or whatever. When Trudi had called Samuel “big, dumb, pretty . . .” she was establishing a count for him to follow. In this case, three adjectives meant a count of three.
Next she’d start calling him idiotic pet names, except that the third pet name would actually be the code name of one of their defense plans. This time she’d decided to go with the Lightning-Bear attack. It would be fast and effective—if she could get Dr. Smith to sit down. She let her mind race toward opportunities.
“Now, Mr. Hill,” Dr. Smith said, “I believe you may have something that belongs to me. A book. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”
Samuel looked surprised. “You told them about the book?” he said to Trudi. “You didn’t tell them when the time-lock opens, did you?”
Trudi took the bait.
“Of course not, you idiot! But now they know about it. Why can’t you ever keep your mouth shut?”
Dr. Smith gr
inned. “I see,” he said. “You’ve hidden the book in a time-locked safe. Very well, where’s the safe?”
Samuel looked angry. He shut his eyes and leaned forward in his chair, but he said nothing.
Dr. Smith sighed. “Samir,” he said, “perhaps you could encourage Mr. Hill to be more cooperative?”
The goon stepped forward and smacked the back of Samuel’s head with the barrel of his gun. Samuel groaned and shuddered. Samir raised up for a second blow, and Trudi jumped out of her chair, concern creasing her face.
“Wait!” she said breathlessly. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. Just don’t hurt him anymore.”
Samuel let out a piteous groan and gripped the metal arms of his chair. Trudi resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her ex-husband always was an overactor.
“Ms. Coffey?” Dr. Smith said, clearly beginning to grow impatient. He motioned for Samir to step away. The goon moved backward until he was leaning gently against the wall, arms crossed and a satisfied look on his face.
“Fine,” she said again. She motioned to the chair next to Samuel. “Please, Dr. Smith, sit down. The safe is here in my office, underneath this desk. The time-lock releases once a week, every Monday at . . .” She looked at the clock. It was 11:22 a.m. How long would be just long enough? She made a quick decision. “Exactly 11:51 a.m.” She slumped down into her chair, hoping she looked defeated. “The book is in there. You can get it in twenty-nine minutes.”
Dr. Smith smiled.
“Thank you, Ms. Coffey.” He turned to his companion. “Samir,” he said in acknowledgment of a job well done. Then he eased himself down into the second office chair, ready to pass the next twenty-nine minutes comfortably.
“There is one other thing,” Samuel said quietly to the room.
“And what is that?” Dr. Smith said, turning toward him.
“Brace yourself.”
On the word brace, two things happened almost simultaneously. First, Samuel leapt from his chair toward the Ugly Goon Samir, and second, Trudi slapped the small black button hidden on the underside of her desk.
In only seconds, Samuel had pinned the goon’s gun arm against the wall and delivered a vicious head butt on the crown of Samir’s nose. Blood spurted out like a fountain, and to add injury to insult, the back of the goon’s head cracked hard against the wall behind him. He collapsed almost immediately.
