25
It had been a long day and I was dead tired, so as soon as I got home and fed Pilgrim, I slapped some ham on some bread, wolfed it down with a can of Dr Pepper, stripped down to my shorts and flopped into my bed. I closed my eyes and was just drifting off into that wonderful doze state when my cellphone vibrated and started playing the song Why Don’t You Do Right? by Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Killed Roger Rabbit?
“Hi, Sarah,” I said, trying to keep the sleep out of my voice.
“Hi, Gil. Sounds like I woke you.”
“No, no, that’s okay. What time is it?”
“Nine-fifteen,” said Sarah. “So what does the world’s sexiest detective wear to bed?”
“You’d have to ask Ben Affleck. Me, I’m wearing shorts.”
“Boxers or skivvies?”
“Tighty-whities,” I said.
“Oh,” purred Sarah, “going for the Walter White look?”
“No, he’s got me beat by a mile.”
“Not hardly,” she said. “Stay there, big boy, I’ll be right over.”
“Ha, as if. What have you got for me?”
“Well, I did some digging on your Senator Marsh, like you asked, and although he came back pretty much clean. As good as I can tell, despite all the clearance muck I had to skirt so as not to end up on a Homeland Security Watch List, I did turn up some interesting stuff on his ‘supposed charity organization’ for wayward children.”
“Supposed charity organization?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sarah. “The Marsh Foundation. As far as I can tell, it’s taken in hundreds of millions over the decades and shown very little in the way of results. Taking in huge amounts of donations and acting as a laundry, so as not to have to pay taxes on it, then siphoning off the funds for personal matters with no one the wiser.”
“Is that legal?” I asked.
“Legal, maybe, going by the letter of the law. But moral? Absolutely not. Certain political parties tend to get away with this sort of thing… a lot.”
“So, are you saying his organization doesn’t help troubled kids?”
“Oh, a few here and there. College grants and some money for foster kids, that sort of thing. But small potatoes in the grand scheme of things.”
“Scheme of things?” I echoed, my brain still not fully awake.”
“Money, of course. Lots and lots of money. Almost none of which goes to helping kids. Pretty stinky.”
“But legal?” I asked again.
“You say potato, I say slush fund.”
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Sarah. Anything else?”
“One more thing. I talked to a Secret Service friend who’s been on a couple of details with Marsh’s outfit. He says the word behind the scenes is that Marsh is getting ready to make a play for being the next President.”
I tried to get my head around what she was talking about. “Of the charity organization?”
“You must be tired,” she laughed. “No, silly, the President of the United States of America.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’re mixing with pretty powerful company these days. And to think, I knew you back when.”
“Uh, okay. Don’t know what to say to that. Thanks. I’m almost afraid to ask, but anything else?”
“Do you need a back rub?”
“I need sleep,” I said.
She sighed into the phone. “I knew I should have FaceTimed you.”
I laughed. “Next time,” I said and hung up. I rolled back over and tried to get my muddled brain to put what she told me into the picture. Marsh has a shell organization for helping kids that is marginally legal. He says his wife wants him to find this little girl who’s been missing for years. Why? Because he’s thinking of running for president. And what would help his image, not to mention legitimizing his ‘maybe, maybe not legal charity organization’, more than rescuing a little tyke like Keisha, all while using funds from said organization?
Hmm, could be I thought. In any case, it would wait for morning. I rolled back over and was just drifting off when I saw Keisha’s face as she looked at me from the car’s back window.
My eyes opened.
I blew air out past my lips.
Keisha was fine. Jared had her and he loved kids more than he loved police work. She was perfectly safe.
I closed my eyes, let my weight sink into the mattress.
Keisha’s face, and her voice, as she cried for me not to hurt her daddy. Her daddy.
I blew more air past my pursed lips.
I opened my eyes and called Jared on the phone.
“Hey, Gil,” he said.
“I’m not waking you am I?”
“It’s nine-thirty. My babies are barely in bed. You need to get a life, my friend.”
“How’s Keisha?” I asked.
“She’s fine,” he said. “At least she was when I turned her over to your man, Marsh. Oh, and I see what you mean, he does look like Morgan Freeman.”
“You did what?”
“He had all his paper work in order. Closest relatives, Chicago Child Services, everything. Not to mention, he is a United States senator.”
“I thought you said it would take at least a week before she was processed and prepped for transport?”
“I thought it would,” said Jared. “Who knew your guy, God, would step down and speed things up?” There was a slight pause. “You don’t sound happy. Something I should know?”
I scrubbed at my face with one hand. “No… no, just… some stuff I found out about Marsh a little bit ago… I don’t know how it fits into the picture yet. Maybe it doesn’t. How long ago did he leave with her?”
“‘Bout an hour ago,” said Jared. “I heard one of the security guys say they were taking off out of Centennial Airport. You want I should try and stop them?”
“Think you could do that?” I asked.
“No,” said Jared. “Not really. Not without losing my bars and maybe my job, depending on how connected your senator is. But if you’ve got something and you think the little gal is in trouble, I’ll give it a go.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve just got a hinky feeling, that’s all. Not anything to act on. But thanks, Jared. Sorry, I came off so hard at the beginning.”
“No problem, partner,” he said and I could hear the relief in his voice. “You get some sleep. I’m not promising I won’t spill the beans about you sacking out before ten, but you go ahead anyway.”
I put the phone down and lay back on my bed, closing my eyes. I saw Keisha, then my daughter Marla, then Keisha, then Marsh, his big white teeth flashing that politician’s smile.
I sat up, punched in the phone number Marsh had given me; but in FaceTime.
He answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Mason,” he said, and I’d swear I was talking to Red from Shawshank again. And not the broken Red at the end of the movie, after he’d had it out with the Parole Board. But the in charge Red, who ran the inside of the prison when Tim Robbins’ character, Andy, first met him. “What can I do for you?”
Behind him I could see dimmed lights, the image shaking a little, expensive curtains covering a round window, part of the jet’s ceiling.
“You have the girl,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “Have you left yet?”
“We are flying at about twelve hundred feet as we speak, on our way back to home.”
“Keisha, is she okay?”
There was the briefest of pauses.
“She’s sleeping peacefully, a few seats behind me in Miss Wells’ lap. You remember Miss Wells?”
“Yes,” I said. “Could I see her?”
“Miss Wells?”
I didn’t say anything.
Senator Marsh smiled.
“What exactly is this about, Mr. Mason?”
“A friend of mine gave me some information about your charity for wayward children.”
The smile stayed in place, but something in his eyes shifted. Ver
y subtle, but there.
“Have you been checking me out, Mr. Mason?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said, “I check out everyone. It’s what I do.”
“And what exactly is it about my charitable organization that you find it necessary to call me face to face after our business has been completed and you have been paid?”
“May I see Keisha?”
There was that pause again. He nodded and pulled his lips over those flashing teeth, still smiling, but just.
“Of course.” He stood up, rocking a bit as he did, and took a few unsteady steps toward the back of the plane. He turned the phone and there lay Keisha, sound asleep in Miss Wells’ lap, just as he said. I could even make out the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The phone turned back to his face. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I guess so.”
“I don’t know what you were expecting, Mr. Mason, but I assure you my only concern for the girl is her wellbeing and safe reintegration with her family.”
“Are you really thinking of making a bid for President in the next election?”
The smile left abruptly and he was suddenly hard, his eyes cold chips of obsidian. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to give up the source of your information?”
I shook my head to the negative. “Confidential.”
“That particular piece of data is not yet ready to be shared with the general public and most certainly not with the media.”
“So, is that what this is all about? Publicity? The great Senator Marsh rescues little girl, kidnapped by the murderer of her mother, when police have been helpless for years?”
“I don’t know what has poisoned you against me in such a way, Mr. Mason. I can only assure you, as I did before, that I have the best of intentions.” He held up a finger. “But… just for argument’s sake, suppose that I was guilty of what you just accused me of. Suppose the only reason I hired you to find little Keisha is so that I can parade her around as a shining example of my fatherly caring and public interest in saving a helpless child from an impossible situation. Suppose all that is true. Would it be so bad? She’s safe, Mr. Mason. Safe and about to be placed back with her family where she belongs. So I ask you; even if I were doing it for purely selfish reasons, does it matter? Isn’t the important thing that she has been rescued?”
It was a good speech, delivered by the best; and worst of all, he was right. I couldn’t help but nod.
“Yeah,” I said, “okay, you’re right.” I pursed my lips. “You are right. That is what’s important.”
“Of course it is,” said Red… Morgan… Marsh. I saw him making his way back to his plush chair. He sat gracefully and the smile slid back in place. “Still, Mr. Mason, I have to admit that your concerns for her anonymity and safety have touched a chord. And since Jerome Larkin, her abductor, has yet to be arrested or killed, I think it best to keep her rescue out of the public eye. So, I give you my word that until Mr. Larkin has been eliminated as a threat to her, I will make no statement about Keisha. She will be returned to her family without fanfare or fuss. Fair enough?”
Wow, this guy was good. I was beginning to feel like a real jerk for doubting him in the first place. But then it hit me.
“In other words,” I said, “if a dumb flat foot P.I. like me could figure out your game, how hard would it be for the press to see through the do-gooder act, right?”
“I’m beginning to see you as a cynic, Mr. Mason and that is sad indeed. I think we have both said all we have to say, so I will bid you a good night. I saw his finger rise to click me off, but then he hesitated. “Don’t call me again.” And with that he was gone.
I sat the cell on my nightstand and flopped back down, looking at the dark ceiling, thinking I should be happy. Only I didn’t feel happy. I felt dirty.
I closed my eyes. Keisha’s face no longer floated behind my eyes. Only shifting darkness.
And then the gunshot.
Senator Marsh closed his tablet and sat back in the plush seat of the jet. Without looking at Clyde he addressed him.
“You have everything in place?”
“Of course,” said Clyde.
“This can’t come back to us,” said Marsh.
“It won’t.”
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” said Marsh.
“Loose ends,” said Clyde.
Marsh nodded.
“Do it,” he said.
Clyde picked up his phone and made the call.
26
Jerome stood straight, feeling the kink low in his back, and stretched his shoulders up and around to try and relieve the tight knot. He took one step… two… and then something shot into and through him sweeping his right leg and spinning him like a child’s top. He fell, his hands catching him just before his chin made contact with the upward pitch of the asphalt. Something flew at him from the side of the road and he dodged to his back, just in time for the animal to fly over him, teeth snapping like a loud clap in the night air.
Jerome fired at it, wild and without aim, the bullet screaming into the dark.
He reached down with one hand and felt warm blood seeping through his pants where the creature had struck him on its first attack.
Jerome’s tactical thinking took over and he knew this to be anything but a wild animal. No, it was the white man’s dog. The same one that had attacked him before. And he knew something else. The dog wanted to kill him. But that was okay. It was as it should be because Jerome wanted to kill him too. And he would.
The dog had only one way of attacking and that was to get in close… to get in close and bite. Jerome could shoot it, either on its way in or after it bit and was holding on. He just had to make sure it didn’t get hold of his gun hand. It would hurt, but pain meant nothing. He just had to subdue this unusual terror he felt of the dog. To hold it back long enough to snug the barrel of the gun into the dog’s belly, or against its head and pull the trigger. It would be over fast and then he could deal with the man. He could find out how to get Clair back.
So instead of standing, he allowed his weight to sag to the street. He groaned low and weak, keeping his right arm protected as best he could by his body.
Jerome waited for the attack.
Max saw the man lying flat, making the sounds of a dying animal close to its end. The smell of blood was rich and fresh and tempting. But his attack, although perfectly aimed and executed, had failed to sever tendons or rip through the artery. There was too much muscle guarding the vital mechanics he had intended to destroy. His second attack had missed completely, the man being faster and stronger than Max had anticipated.
The bullet had come nowhere near Max, but subconsciously he understood, on a primitive level, the deadliness of the weapon. For all their frailty, man was a tricky, dangerous beast. Max wanted nothing more than to rush in and tear out the man’s throat. And since he lay not twenty feet away, hidden by the angle of the road, the dark and the grass, it would be simple. A lesser hunter would have done it and been killed by the man. Max wisely stayed his position, watching, taking in all his senses could capture. The blood flow was far too low to incapacitate such a foe. And although he groaned and weakly flailed about as if nearing unconsciousness, his heartbeat was strong and steady, the smell of fear, with its adrenal release, was absent. The man was trying to draw him in.
Max lay his muzzle on his front paws and waited.
I heard the gunshot and sat up in my bed. The mountains made it hard to tell exactly how far off it was, but it sounded close, maybe a hundred or so yards down the road.
Pilgrim lay sound asleep in his bed by the kitchen, but Max, of course, was gone.
And that scared me.
What had he gotten into?
In a rack, just inside my hall closet, I keep a decked out AR15, with Picatinny Rails (which is a military standard rail interface system that provides a mounting platform for firearm accessories… in other words… it holds things on guns) , dual thirty r
ound magazines, a suppressor and a top of the line holographic mounted site with night vision. These days, what with all the media hype on mass shootings, people think AR stands for Automatic Rifle, when in fact, it actually stands for ArmaLite Rifle after the company that developed it back in the fifties. I took the AR and a little .380, with two spare mags I slipped inside the jeans I tossed on. I slid into some hiking boots, dropped my cell into my front pants pocket, and went out into the night, shirtless, looking for my dog.
Not much of a moon, just a thumbnail high overhead, stingy with its light. Good. I prefer the dark. I went off road, going over the hill to the west and down to a little valley set between a screen of trees. I moved quiet and fast, calling on my war-time experiential knowledge to guide me, letting instinct lead me to the sound of the shot.
South and west, I heard something, low, like moaning, brought on a warm wisp of breeze that was there and gone. I moved in that direction, hopping over a small tussle of rocks and leaping over a gurgling creek before moving up a slight incline and back toward the road.
A fell of pine trees hid the road as I broached the lip of the hill, but I heard the unmistakable sound of a man, hurt and groaning not far away. I slipped the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the night sight with its guides and little red dot in the center. In the dark of night, with no street lights or headlights from cars to mess with its optics, the picture was brilliant. I saw the silhouette of the man on the ground, moving weakly back and forth. The features of his face were unrecognizable in the green of the scope, but his shape and size were not. It was Jerome.
But then I saw something else, there on the far side of the road.
Max.
27
Jerome knew something was wrong. The dog hadn’t left, he was sure of this, but it hadn’t attacked. He let his arms fall to the ground and lay perfectly still. The blood puddling under him was uncomfortable, his pants sticking to his flesh. The ragged wounds were beginning to ache and throb.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 34
