Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  While he waited for his victim to wake, the Captain explored the apartment. The place had a galley kitchen and a small dining area, he saw―as well as two bedrooms and a bathroom down a short hall from the living room. One of the bedrooms apparently served as a home office, holding a desk and computer equipment. No second exit, but that was to be expected. He hoped he wouldn’t need one. He didn’t plan to be here long. Muffled sounds alerted him. Sweeney was awakening. He writhed in his bonds and moaned. His melon-shaped head rolled from side to side, even though his eyes remained tightly shut.

  The Captain activated the TV set in the apartment, setting the sound fairly high. He moved to the kitchen and filled a small glass with water. Glass in hand, he confronted his one-time straw boss―tossing the water on his face to revive him. “Sweeney,” he said, “wake up, you piece of shit!”

  Sweeney’s piggish eyes popped open and he looked around, puzzled and then amazed by his situation. He saw who stood near him, and his eyes widened in fear. He tried unsuccessfully to say something. The Captain smiled. “I put a gag on you,” he said, “something I’ve wanted to do for months. Listen to me carefully. I have a very big knife. I will remove your gag, so we can talk. If you yell, I’m going to put the gag back, and then I’m going to hurt you. Nod if you understand.”

  Sweeney’s head bobbed in vigorous agreement. The Captain leaned over and ripped the duct tape from his jaw. His high-pitched scream dissolved into a bubbling moan as he remembered his situation. He looked at the Captain. “You,” he said, “you’re that guy from Mountain Orchard. How did you find me?”

  “How many ‘Sweeney, D.’s’ do you think there are in the Grand Junction phone book?” the Captain asked. “I’ll tell you: there’s two. You’re the first place I looked.”

  His captive nodded. “Look, I’m sorry about the cops and all,” he said. “Wasn’t my fault. I barely got away myself. But you’re out, right? Cut me loose. I’ll give you five hundred bucks and we’ll call it square. What do you say?”

  The Captain listened to Sweeney’s bribe, slowly shaking his head. He watched as the fat man’s eyes darted from side to side. His captive perspired heavily while he continued to heave and writhe against his bonds. “You won’t get free, Sweeney,” the Captain said. “I know enough about knots to be sure of that. You and your pals caused the people who worked for you a bunch of trouble. Three of them are in jail for something they didn’t do. I should hurt you, really hurt you badly―you bag of scum. Problem is, I need your help.”

  Sweeney uttered a breathless, choking laugh. “Help you?” he gasped, “Help you? As soon as you leave, I’m calling the cops. That’s the help you’ll get from me, you son of a bitch!”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” the Captain said. “What I need is transport out of here. Quickly. If you’d been reasonable, I’d have left you behind. Now, you’re going to come with us. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to cut the bonds off your legs, so you can walk. Then you and I are going to the parking lot in front of this place, and get in your car. I’m going to drive us a little way, and pick up my friend. After that, the three of us are going on a road trip.”

  “Where are we going?” Sweeney asked.

  “That won’t matter much to you,” was the reply.

  “What you’re planning is kidnapping,” Sweeney said. “That’s a federal rap. I’ve got a better idea. There’s lots of money here. Thousands. You won’t get to it without my help. Take it! Take the truck, too! I swear to you, I won’t tell a soul!”

  “Show me the money,” the Captain said. He looked at his watch. This was taking too long.

  “Untie me,” Sweeney said. “I have to work the combination to a safe.”

  The Captain laughed and shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Tell me where the safe is and give me the numbers. I’m not about to set you free.” The straw boss was more than twice his weight. Unbound, he’d be hard to control.

  Sweeney petulantly directed the Captain to a portable safe in the closet of his office, and gave him its three-number combination. When he opened it, rows of neatly bound stacks of twenty-dollar bills were visible. He gathered twelve hundred dollars―all he could conveniently carry―reclosed the safe, and returned to his captive’s side.

  “We’re almost done here,” he said. “Tell me where you keep the car keys, and what your ride looks like.”

  “It’s a truck, a grey Dodge Ram,” Sweeney told him, “parked right out front. Keys are hanging in the kitchen, by the phone.” The Captain quickly found them, and returned to stand above his hostage. He held a glass of water in his hand.

  “I brought some pills with me,” he told Sweeney, “and you’re going to take them, right now. They won’t kill you, but they should put you out for a while. That will give me time to get away.”

  “You’re trying to poison me!” Sweeney keened. “I won’t do it.”

  “If you don’t take the pills, and take them now, I will kill you,” the Captain said. “I’ll have no choice. Do as I say, and save your life.”

  “You promise they won’t kill me.”

  “I swear it,” the Captain said, wondering if he told the truth. He propped Sweeney’s head up, shoved six large brown pills into his mouth, then let him sip water from the glass. When he saw all the pills were swallowed, he let the fat head drop to the floor and stood.

  “Now what?” Sweeney asked.

  “Now we wait,” said the Captain. He moved to sit on a nearby chair. Nothing happened for half an hour. Then Sweeney began to moan.

  “I’m sick, I’m sick,” he said, his voice slurring. “My … guts … exploding! You’re killing … me!” He arched his back, rolled on his side, and vomited forcefully. He began to shake, and soon soiled himself. After that, he lost consciousness.

  The Captain waited ten more minutes, busying himself by disabling the phones in the apartment, as well as the computer in the office. He found Sweeney’s cell phone in the bedroom, and broke it apart as well. When he was done, he bent to feel his victim’s pulse―then changed his mind. It didn’t matter one way or the other, he decided. He had worn gloves, so he was reasonably sure he’d left no prints. Using his knife, he cut through the cords that bound his unmoving hostage and collected them, careful to avoid the mess Sweeney had made on his floor. Whistling a nameless tune, he left the apartment, found the truck, and drove to pick up Pauley so they could get out of town. Denver was four hours due east, and he intended to be there before sunset.

  Del Sweeney lay in his apartment, unmoving, for the next two days. When neighbors complained about the stench, the building’s superintendent discovered his lifeless corpse. The stress of his encounter with the Captain, the lithium carbonate he’d been force-fed, poor health, and his gross obesity had all conspired against him. They combined to trigger a massive heart attack that had killed him shortly after his assailant left.

  Chapter 10

  Grand Forks, North Dakota

  Three Days After the Captain’s Release from Jail

  As the small government jet banked to line up for its landing, Jack Prell got his first good look at Grand Forks, North Dakota. The town seemed oriented north-south, and hugged the Red River to its east. Prell knew the river had often flooded the country around it, and noticed the levees and parkland that bound it these days.

  Prell had left Cardiff in Grand Junction. The prints lifted from the trailer there matched those found in Tucson―Taws for sure, and maybe Abbott. The knife that killed the city councilman’s dog was identified as a Ka-Bar. A body had been discovered in a suburban apartment. The deceased was identified as a manager at the telemarketing business Taws had worked for. The dead man’s truck was missing. There were no results from the autopsy yet, but bruises on the wrists and ankles of the corpse indicated he had been bound by cord before his death. There was plenty of work to be done. Prell would pick the Tucson detective up on
his way back from Grand Forks. He hoped this side trip to the last place Taws was known to live would yield some useful information. It was worth a day to find out.

  The resident agent met Prell at the airport and drove him to his office on Fourth Street. “There’s quite a back story on your man Taws here,” said the agent, whose name was John Farrell. “He’s a local boy, an engineer. Parents both dead. He used to work for a drayage company here in town. Married, two kids, owned a home.”

  “Sounds like things were going well,” Prell said. “What happened? Why is he wandering around the west, surviving on odd jobs?”

  Farrell shrugged. “Stories are mixed. Taws was in the National Guard, had two tours in the middle east. He was in logistics support, running supply convoys. Those guys get beat up sometimes, Jack. You and I both know it. Taws got badly wounded outside Bagram. Records say he saved a convoy. Bought him a Bronze Star to go with his Purple Heart. Spent four months in Walter Reed, recovering. When he got back, his wife threw him out. Nobody knows where he went after that.”

  “I need to speak to his wife,” Prell said.

  “His ex-wife now,” Farrell said. “Margie’s been married to Earl Prendergast for the last ten years. He’s a local cop. I know them both.”

  “Do you want to set something up, or should I just drive over there?” Prell asked.

  “Let me make some calls,” Farrell said. “I don’t think Margie will want to talk to you at her home, in front of her boys. Earl may get riled up as well. He’s a good man, but he has a short fuse when it comes to family.”

  Prell shook his head. Small towns, he thought. Everybody knows everybody else. “Do what you have to do,” he said. “I’ll walk down the street and get a cup of coffee.”

  The meeting took place that afternoon at police headquarters, in a large, low-ceilinged conference room. There were several people in attendance―too many, in Prell’s opinion. Mrs. Prendergast had brought along her lawyer, a little man with a long nose and bad toupee named Walsh. Farrell was there as well, along with Hugh Prendergast, the woman’s husband. The lawyer and the husband flanked the woman, as though protecting her from whatever harm Prell might attempt to cause her.

  The husband spoke first. “I’m not here by choice,” he said loudly, “and neither is my wife.” He rose from his seat, a large, beefy, blonde man, wearing a police sergeant’s uniform. He pointed a blunt, chubby finger at Prell. “You got no reason to harass my Margie,” he said, as his face quickly reddened. “No reason at all. You get that, Mister F.B.I.?”

  Prell stood as well. “There’s no harassment here, sergeant.” he said calmly. “I’m not reading anybody their Miranda Rights, and no charges are being brought, or even considered. Mrs. Prendergast, you really don’t need counsel here―but if it makes you feel better, I won’t object to his presence.”

  The husband refused to calm down. “No charges, huh?” he said. “That’s not the point, you federal asshole! You’re picking at a scab that’s taken ten years to heal. Who cares about this guy? He’s gone. He’s out of our lives. Why stir all this up again?”

  “Eight people are dead, sergeant―maybe more,” Prell said. “That’s why. We have very few facts to help us right now. You’re on the job. You know how important every piece of information can be. Maybe your wife can tell me something that will be vital. Do you think I flew all the way up here just to give you a bad day? Get control of yourself.”

  Prendergast slowly nodded, then sat down. “Well, O.K. then,” he said, “but I’m going to sit here and listen, and if you …”

  “No, you’re not,” Prell said. “You’re going to leave. I’m going to be asking your wife some questions about the past, the time before she married you. Your presence might interfere with her answers. If you want to know what’s said in here, ask her later.” He nodded to Farrell.

  “Hugh, let’s go,” the resident agent said. “Agent Prell is right, and we both know it. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” He went to the room’s door and opened it. Prendergast stood and left the room without saying another word. Farrell followed him out and shut the door.

  Margie Prendergast spoke for the first time. “Hugh loves me,” she said. “He won’t abide my being hurt.”

  “No one wants to hurt you, Mrs. Prendergast, least of all me,” Prell said. “We think your ex-husband Vernon may be involved in a string of crimes that stretches from Oklahoma to Nevada. He’s been wandering across the west for a decade, and these crimes have happened wherever he’s gone. His journey started here, after he was released from Walter Reed. Can you think of anything he said, anything you noticed, that could help us find him?”

  Margie sighed deeply, then reached into her purse for a cigarette, which she lit. Of middle height, she was sturdy but not stocky, handsome but not pretty. She was a woman who would age well. She kept her brown hair cut short, and wore no earrings today. She frowned as she tried to think about things she hadn’t considered for a long time.

  “I’m going to caution my client not to respond to this line of questioning,” the lawyer said. “You could be setting her up as an accessory before the fact, and …”

  “Oh, shut up, Abner,” Margie interrupted. “You’re only here because Hugh insisted. You’re no Perry Mason, that’s for damn sure. I’ll keep you around so you can earn your fee, but keep quiet. If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” She turned to Prell. “I don’t know if I can help you or not,” she said. “I can tell you that Vernon got weird after he came back from Iraq.”

  “What do you mean?” Prell asked.

  “Well, before they sent him over there, Vernon was even-tempered,” Margie said. “It took a lot to get him riled up. When he got back, things were different.”

  “How so?”

  “I remember a soccer game. We’d gone to watch our oldest―Bill was just seven then―play in the YMCA league.” Margie tossed her head and looked up, remembering events from her life a decade ago. “It was fun to watch the little kids play. None of them knew what they were doing, of course.”

  “Did something happen?”

  Margie nodded. “Our boy stole the ball from another kid, and he fell down. Shouldn’t have been a problem, those kids fell down all the time. The kid’s father got upset, though. He ran out on the field and called for the ref. Said our boy had tripped his, and grabbed Bill by his arm.”

  “What did Vernon do?”

  “Well, he bolted from his seat before I could stop him,” Margie said. “Confronted the other dad, and told him to let go of Bill.”

  “Sounds like something I might do myself,” said Prell.

  “Yeah,” said Margie, “but it’s what happened next that jarred me, and everybody else who was there. Vernon walked up to the other dad, got real close, and he said, ‘If you ever touch my son again, I will rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.’ He didn’t yell, he said it calm, but the other guy backed off like he’d seen a ghost.”

  “Was there more?” Prell asked. He was probing, trying to stimulate the woman’s memory of events buried in her past.

  “He got suspicious,” Margie said after some thought. “He started talking about how people at his job were working against him. He talked about things they said and did, but he twisted them way out of proportion―at least, that’s the way it seemed to me. He’d get angry, he’d pace around. Sometimes, he scared the kids. Toward the end, he scared me too. He’d get a wild look in his eyes, every so often. Vernon wasn’t a big man, but he looked, I don’t know, competent. I got to feel like one day he’d lash out, hurt somebody.”

  “Did he keep any weapons around the house?”

  Margie laughed. “This is North Dakota, Agent Prell,” she said. “Everybody’s got rifles, and just about everybody hunts. There were a couple of guns in the house, but he never spent much time with them, except to clean them when they needed it. I think I’ve stil
l got them. Vernon did get interested in knives, though.”

  “Knives?” Prell asked.

  “Most people around here keep knives for dressing the animals they shoot, you know,” Margie said. “Vernon always had a couple. He got way more interested in them after he got back from Iraq. He bought some really big, mean-looking ones then. He used to practice throwing them at boards he set up in the back yard. I finally told him to stop, that it was too dangerous around the kids. After that he practiced someplace else, I guess. He started keeping them in his car.”

  “Did he say why he wanted the knives he bought?”

  Margie frowned. “Yes,” she said. “He told me they didn’t make any noise, and that they never needed to be reloaded.”

  This is getting interesting, Prell thought. “Do you remember what kind of knives they were, Margie?” he asked. “It could be important.”

  “It’s hard to remember that far back,” she answered. “It’s been a long time. I remember one was a Bowie knife. The damn thing was the size of a sword. The other one, the one he really liked, wasn’t as large―but it was still really big. The blade was nearly a foot long, if I’m remembering right. He called it a funny name―cablar, keybar, something like that.”

  “What happened to the knives, after he left?”

  “Oh, he took them with him,” Margie said. “Packed them special. Towards the end, he always had them with him.” She shook her head. “By the time he got his orders for Afghanistan, our life together was coming apart. He kept to himself, most of the time. We hadn’t been intimate for months. He told me he couldn’t, anymore. He seemed like he was always tense. I was almost glad to see him go. I could tell he wanted to be back with his buddies, playing soldier.” She lit another cigarette, and stared down at the table in front of her.

  “So, you wanted him to go back on active duty?” Prell asked.