by Jim Beegle
He tore the page from the pad that held the information regarding the taps on phone. He folded it into his shirt pocket before turning his attention back to the pad. Then he tore off the pages he had been writing on along with ten or fifteen blank pages behind the last written page and threw them all into the fireplace. He watched as each page caught, burst into flame and, after consuming itself with its potent energy, turn into black ashes. When the last page was burned Mark took the poker and mixed the new ashes in with the old.
In the kitchen he picked up the paper bag and the briefcase and took them both to the car, locking the back door behind him. He was sure that as soon as he was gone the people who had wired the bugs would be back. Drawing as little attention to their actions as they could, the ranch house would be gone through again. He considered asking the Willies to make sure they were watching the place, but if the people who planted the taps and assumed bugs were with law enforcement from one branch or the other of the government, it would be very hard to explain to them later. There was also the real risk of putting his neighbors in danger. That had to be avoided at all cost.
Finally, driving away from the house, he turned on to the main road that would take him to town. It was now his plan to kill some more time before driving back to Dallas by having lunch at the diner. He would park in front of the building and sit at one of the tables that looked out the large plate glass window so he could watch the car and at the same time see if anyone was following. He doubted he could spot anyone, especially if they were any good, but he planned to look anyway. It would give him the extra benefit of watching to make sure no one tried to go through the car. At present, he was most worried about the briefcase and its contents. There were things in there he would need shortly. He considered bringing it into the diner but that would look out of place on a Sunday afternoon in Runaway Bay and do nothing but draw attention to himself, which is the last thing he wanted to do right now.
He got to the diner and parked the car in front as he had planned. He was also able to find a table against the big plate glass window that allowed him to watch the car. The waitress greeted him with a smile and brought him a large glass of iced tea before he could ask her to. He didn’t even bother to look at the menu but ordered the chicken-fried steak lunch special, which to his knowledge was always the lunch special.
If Lone Star beer was the national beer of Texas (as the slogan on the label claimed), and the Dallas Cowboys were the official state team, then chicken-fried steak was without question the official state meal. It was a made from a beef cutlet that was dipped in egg and then battered with flour and spices. Each Texas dining establishment had its own secret spice recipe that was guarded as closely as the cash register. After the cutlet was breaded, it was then fried in a cast-iron skillet that was half full of liquefied Crisco shortening. From the skillet, it was put on a plate and smothered in a cream gravy that was also spiced. It was usually served with corn and mashed potatoes, both also liberally covered with gravy.
Mark had eaten different variations of chicken-fried steak all over the country, but no one made it like they could in Texas. He had joked with Pat on more than one occasion when they dined on chicken-fried steak for lunch in the early days of Micronix that the second most powerful state agency under the governor’s control was the Department of Chicken Fried Steak. The Texas Rangers being the first, no doubt both had unlimited arrest powers within the state’s borders.
It did not take the young lady long to return with his lunch and a refill for his now half-empty glass of tea. As he ate he kept his eye on the car and watched to see if he could spot who might decide to follow him as he made his way back to Dallas. While he ate and watched, his mind went over his plan again. Once he was convinced that he had covered as many of the bases as he could, he began to think about what could go wrong and how to best react when they, as things always seemed to, didn’t go as he had planned.
It was after two o’clock when he finished and paid for his meal. He left the restaurant and drove slowly through town but accelerated up to the legal speed limit of seventy when the car passed out of the city limits. He rode in silence, playing neither the radio nor the CDs in the glove box. Instead, he smoked and watched his rearview mirror. By the time he got through Ft. Worth, it had gotten dark enough to require him to turn on his headlights. As soon as he did, he started watching the exits for a gas station that was neither very busy nor well lit. He finally found what he wanted, an older place, just before he got to the area of the Texas 114 highway where it interchanged with the traffic going and coming from the DFW airport complex.
He pulled the car into the gas lane that put him between the cashier’s island and the gas pump. He got out of the car and stretched before going inside and paying for ten dollars’ worth of gas. He made sure that he asked for and got a receipt. When he returned to the car he opened the driver’s door that was positioned on the side of the car farthest away from the road and put the receipt in the glove box. When he emerged from the car he was holding the brown paper bag that he had packed before leaving the ranch against his body, making it hard for anyone trying to see through the darkness and around the gas pumps that he had emerged with something out of the car.
Uncapping the gas tank, Mark turned his body to block any view of what he was doing from either the road or the cashier. Instead of putting the nozzle into the gas tank he hung it between the body of the car and the filler spout. The result of this action would make it look as if he were pumping fuel into the car, but he had something else he planned on doing first. Still trying to keep his movements confined within the area of the shadows of his body and the gas pump, he inserted the white plastic funnel into the opening for the fuel tank. When it was securely positioned he opened the bottle of bleach and poured its contents down the funnel, and he hoped, directly into the gas tank. The whole process took less than thirty seconds and, just as soon as he was finished, he began pumping gas on top of the bleach already in the tank. He dropped the funnel and empty bottle into the paper sack and then dropped the sack on the ground in the shadow of the back wheel while he worked the fuel pump.
When the pump showed the ten dollars he had paid for, the flow of fuel shut itself off. He placed the nozzle back on the pump, put the gas cap on, and scooted behind the wheel to continue his trip home. He moved off the exit ramp and back onto the freeway heading east. Mark had no idea how long it would take the bleach to work its way through the fuel lines and into the injectors. He did not have to wonder long.
Within two miles of the gas station, the car began to slow and then buck wildly. He moved off the highway onto the shoulder and turned on the flashers. He was careful getting out of the car in order to avoid being hit by fellow motorists speeding by at seventy miles an hour on their own trips home. Opening the hood, he spent a good ten minutes playing with the wires and hoses. When he returned to the car he tried in vain to restart it. When he was on the verge of running the battery completely down, he gave up, took his cell phone out, and fished the membership card for the auto club out of his wallet.
The lady at the other end of the number he called from his phone was polite and promised to get someone out to him within thirty minutes. When that call was complete, he called information and got the number for a local cab company. He explained his plight to the dispatcher who promised to send a cab from the airport, just five miles away, to pick him up.
The cab arrived before the tow truck. He agreed to the cabbie’s request to pay the meter for the waiting time. Finally, fifteen minutes later than he was promised, the tow truck arrived. The driver positioned the truck in front of Mark’s disabled car. He jumped out and with a nod in Mark’s direction began hooking the car up to tow. When he was done, he filled out his paperwork to ensure he would get paid by the auto club and then asked Mark where he wanted the car towed to. Mark gave him the name and general location of the dealer from whom he had purchased the car. The tow truck operator told him he knew whe
re it was and would see that it got there. Before Mark got in the waiting cab, he retrieved his briefcase from the back seat of his Malibu. Once in the cab, he told the driver to take him to the airport rental car lot where he would rent a car.
He hoped the act of going to the airport would cause a panic in whoever had been detailed to follow him. Granted, he had not seen anyone, but the longer he pondered his situation, the more he was convinced that someone had to be following him.
The trip to the airport took less time than it had to wait for the tow truck driver. He got out in front of the well-lit rental car building on the south end of the sprawling DFW complex. He paid the driver and went inside. There he joined the line at the National Rental Car counter. When it was his turn he showed the young lady his driver’s license and DECCO Corporate MasterCard and in less than ten minutes he had been given a dark blue Nissan Altima, which closely matched the size and comfort level of his Malibu.
He pulled the car out into the stream of traffic going east from the airport into Dallas. The first part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. So far. It would cost him several thousand dollars to straighten out the mess he made of the engine, but it was money well spent. Now he had a car that he was sure was not bugged and would take a great deal more effort to follow than his Malibu; he guessed that in addition to any listening devices, an electronic locator had been hidden somewhere in the car.
The remote control for the garage door was still in the Malibu, so he parked his newly rented car in the driveway outside the door. When he got out, he made sure he carried the briefcase with him. Using his key, he opened a side door that let him into the garage. Once inside the garage, he walked to the far side where, to his relief, Amy’s car was parked. He moved several cardboard boxes filled with last year’s Christmas decorations and gained access to the phone box that hung on the wall of the garage.
Even though he had expected to find several more of the small digital phone taps in the junction box, he still had a cold feeling move in the pit of his stomach when he saw the devices; small and just like the ones he had left behind in Runaway Bay, they stared back at him. At the same time, he was relieved that he had guessed right and not tried to warn Amy over the phone about what was happening. He was now even happier that he had made arrangements to get a “clean” car. It might be the only safe place they could talk that evening.
“Amy,” he called as he went into the kitchen from the garage.
“In here” she called back from somewhere in the den. They met at the entrance to the kitchen as he walked toward the den and Amy walked to the kitchen.
He did not kiss her as they met. It crossed his mind at that moment that they had not greeted each other in that manner in years. “Have you had dinner yet?” he asked, moving to a small chalkboard that hung over the phone and was used to for messages.
“No, I haven’t” She said as he moved away.
“You know what I am in the mood for?” he asked.
“No, what?” she inquired, watching him stop in front of the phone.
“Fresco’s” he said, now looking for a piece of chalk. He finally spotted one on the small shelf by the phone.
“Fresco’s? Mark, it’s late and they’re on the other side of town.” she said as he began to write.
“I know, but that’s what I’m in the mood for. It’ll be fun. What do you say?” He finished writing at the same time he finished speaking. He turned to face her, put a finger to his lips and moved to one side so she could read what he had written as he pointed to the words.
THE HOUSE IS BUGGED. DON’T SAY ANYTHING—JUST GO ALONG WITH WHAT I SUGGEST.
Shock registered in her eyes. She stood there for a moment moving her eyes in a questioning manner back and forth between the chalkboard and Mark. He made a motion with the fingers of one of his hands on the open palm of his other, to indict walking and then pointed to the kitchen door that led out into the garage. Finally, she nodded. “Let me get my purse,” she said, indicating that she understood what he was instructing her to do. Mark turned and used his hand to erase the message.
He led her out of the house and through the garage. “Where’s your car?” she asked when she spotted the empty place normally occupied by his car.
“Outside,” he answered, taking her hand and leading her through the door he had just come through. She followed along.
“This isn’t your car. Where’s your car?” she asked stopping in the driveway and looking at the rental car.
“It quit on the way back from the ranch. I had to have it towed to the dealer. I rented this thing at the airport.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked him.
“Oh, it was late, I didn’t want you to have drive all the way out there to get me and besides,” he opened her door for her. “I need a car to get to work tomorrow.” He closed the door and walked around to the rear, opening the trunk in the dark far enough to get his briefcase in but not far enough to trigger the trunk light. He tried to do it as quickly as possible, then moved and got in on the driver’s side. He started the engine before turning to speak to Amy, but she beat him to the punch.
“What the hell is going on? Where is your car and what do you mean the house is bugged?” Mark put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway and onto the street. On the drive to the restaurant, he told her what he had found at the ranch and in the junction box in the garage when he had arrived at the Dallas home. He also told her what he had done to the car and why.
“I had to assume,” he told her, pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant, “that my car was bugged too. I knew that I could gain a few hours on them by ditching the Malibu. They may not have picked up on the fact that I have changed cars yet. Either way, I knew that at least I could talk to you in here.”
“Well that’s all well and good.” she told him when they were parked. Mark was instantly struck by how her voice mannerisms sounded a lot like Hamilton’s. The way he said things and the words he chose to say them. He guessed it came from them spending so much time together. “So, what are we going to do now?”
“We’re going to eat,” he said with a smile before turning serious again. “I’ll tell you once we’re inside.” Mark asked the hostess if she would seat them in a quiet corner, knowing the best place she could put them shielded them from everyone else in the room but also allowed him a clear view of the car. He did so in a way that suggested that he would like to talk to the woman he was with privately and say things that he would rather not have overheard. Which for the most part was true. The woman was young and did not know the many things you might need to say to a woman in private did not always involve romance. She blushed when Mark winked at her and quickly lead them off deep into a dark corner away from the other tables. Mark assured her this would be just fine and slipped her a ten dollar bill.
The waiter came and took drink orders. Amy had wine while Mark ordered a Coke. The waiter disappeared into the bar area to pour their drinks.
“What are we going to do?” she asked as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
“We’re not going to do anything,” he told her, as a questioning look crossed her face again. He paused before answering while the bus boy delivered fresh bread. “I’m going to move the money. I think it’s the only safe thing to do.”
Shock and disbelief registered on his wife’s face. “And just where are you planning on moving it to?” she finally managed to spit out.
“Here,” he said nodding out the window of the restaurant. “Dallas. Back to IBC.”
“How are you going to do that?” she asked him, still struggling to recover from the shock of his announcement.
“You remember when I told you and Hamilton about the money?” His wife nodded that she remembered very well. “I told you then that it was scattered all over the globe. Well that was and still is true, but at least half of it is in one place. I plan on going there tomorrow to have those people help me move t
he money that is on deposit there and also the other accounts in the other countries to IBC.” Mark stopped talking when the waiter returned with their drink order. When they pronounced their satisfaction with the drinks, he took their order for dinner and quickly withdrew. They drank in silence for a few moments, considering what Mark had just said.
“Where are you going?” she asked him, finally breaking the spell.
He thought for a moment longer before speaking. “When I leave in the morning I want you to go to work just like you usually do. When you get there, find Allen Ketchem and tell him as much of the story as you can. Then make him stay by the phone until I can call you.” Allen Ketchem was the current president of IBC, like Hamilton had been at Southwest Bank of Houston when the money was first stolen and before the merger with IBC. Mark was sure the story would sound an instant chord with him.
“What about Hamilton?” Amy asked of her husband.
Mark shook his head. “You can tell him, but not until you have talked to Ketchem.” All at once Amy became very animated.
“You don’t think he’s behind this? I have worked for Hamilton Hunte for years and he is the …” Mark cut her off.
“I am sure he is a fine fellow Amy, and I am equally sure he had nothing to do with this,” Mark said, lying to her. In fact, he thought E. Hamilton Hunte more than capable of doing something like this, but he had no proof. Besides, he had to admit to himself, whoever had done this had to have a lot of money to pull this kind of thing off so fast.
