by Ethan Cross
Garrison helped him to his feet and said, “Come on. We gotta go.”
He shook his head in an attempt to dust the remaining cobwebs from his brain and said, “Hey … I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been seriously considering your offer to sell my house, and I think I’m going to go for it. This place just doesn’t seem to agree with me.”
Garrison smiled, and some of the intensity left his eyes. “Really? After you’ve made so many new friends.”
“If these are my new friends, I don’t want to stick around long enough to make any enemies.”
Garrison nodded. “Can you walk?”
He still wasn’t sure how Garrison came into play, but at the moment, he didn’t care. “I’ll make it. Lead the way.”
He glanced around in an attempt to get a bearing on his surroundings. Shelves containing canned goods, tools, and an assortment of junk sat on an old concrete floor. Cobwebs hung from the joists above his head. The whole area smelled damp and musty.
He noticed stairs leading into the main part of the house. There was, however, another smaller set of stairs that appeared to ascend up to an old-time cellar door and then, presumably, outside. He experienced a flash of a memory in which he was being dragged down those same stairs. He felt the bruises on his arms and back to confirm that it was more than just a memory.
Garrison moved like a cat as he led Marcus toward the cellar door. “I had to cut three heavy-duty locks to get through this access door, while avoiding the Sheriff’s security patrols. There are always four to five sentries patrolling the outer perimeter.” Garrison looked down at his watch and appeared to do a quick mental calculation. “In about one minute, we should have our best opportunity to slip past the patrols. Just stay close and keep your head down.”
Sentries patrolling the outer perimeter? That’s not typical realtor lingo. Plus, he’s cased the joint to the extent of being able to predict holes in the security. Who is this guy?
Garrison moved up the stairs, and Marcus followed his enigmatic new friend. Garrison turned back and said, “Here we go. Stay close.”
They emerged from the cellar and ran across the open space between the house and a machine shed. They made it across the yard, and Marcus realized that he had been holding his breath. As they ran, he had noticed one man walking in the opposite direction, facing away from them. They had slipped by him, but Garrison had said that there would be at least three more.
He glanced back at the Sheriff’s home. The massive gray, white house consisted of two stories. Gables filled with intricately carved pediments adorned even the home’s rear. The elaborate landscaping looked to be under the constant scrutiny of a professional. It was the dwelling of an oil tycoon, not a county sheriff.
They continued to the corner of the shed. Garrison peered around the edge and turned back to him. “There’s a guard around the corner smoking a cigarette. We’re going to have to go right past him and over that hill. I’ll take care of the guard. Wait here until I give you the signal.”
He nodded and gave a thumbs up. He watched as Garrison glided around the corner and headed for the guard. The man stood about fifteen feet from the building, looking toward the perimeter. The sentinel clearly didn’t expect opposition to come from within.
As he watched Garrison move toward the guard, his companion reminded him of an Indian brave floating across dry leaves. He had been told that the Indian warriors could do so without crunching the leaves and alerting their enemies. Although there were no dead leaves to be trampled, judging by the way that Garrison moved, he wondered whether or not the ground being covered by autumn’s offerings would have made any difference.
Garrison crept up to the guard’s back. With unsettling precision, the so-called realtor disarmed the sentry while grabbing him around the neck and squeezing until the man passed out. Garrison accomplished this making little to no sound.
Who is this guy?
They crossed over the hill and made their way to Garrison’s vehicle. The realtor’s large, black SUV sat hidden behind a few American Sycamore trees alongside a dirt road. He recognized it as a Cadillac Escalade, just another vehicle that was way out of his price range and beyond his social class.
They jumped into the vehicle and sped down the dirt road. He didn’t know where the road led, but at this point, he really didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that he left behind certain death and the role of a pawn in some sick game cooked up by a backwater sheriff with delusions of grandeur. The question remained, however, whom the mysterious man sitting next to him really was and what part he played.
It occurred to him that Garrison’s participation could have been a trick and part of the Sheriff’s plan. He would keep that in the back of his mind. At that moment, he trusted no one.
*
Garrison broke the silence first. “I know that you found Maureen Hill’s body, so I’m guessing you saw something at the crime scene that the Sheriff didn’t want anyone knowing about.”
Marcus recounted his story. Afterward, Garrison said, “Did the Sheriff mention anything about his big plans for tomorrow?”
“Not really. He said that Ackerman was important and that I messed things up by letting him escape. But he said that he could use me instead. For what … I have no idea. The only thing about a plan that he mentioned was that he had someone he wanted to kill.”
“Think, Marcus. You didn’t overhear anything about a location or a target, a time? Anything?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Garrison punched the steering wheel. “So am I. I risked everything to break you out of there because I thought you might be able to fill in the blanks. But you know less than I do.”
His eyes narrowed at Garrison. He hesitated a moment but then said, “Who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“For starters, you’re a guy who answers a question with another question—which pisses me off. Reminds me of a damn shrink. Beyond that, if I was going to play Sherlock Holmes, I’d start by deciding on what you’re not. You’re not a realtor; that’s obvious. And you’re not a killer. Otherwise, you would have ended that guard back there instead of incapacitating him—which rules out Mafia, contract killer, and mercenary. Not that any of those crossed my mind anyway, but I like to be thorough. You’re not a cop, state or otherwise. Anything that’s happened tonight is a domestic matter, ruling out CIA and NSA. And you’re not just some hometown hero or Good Samaritan. If you were, you wouldn’t have that look in your eyes. So, my dear Watson, my money’s on FBI.”
Garrison’s eyes left the road for a second as Marcus peered over at him. “Seems like you’ve got it all figured out, but if I was FBI, why would I go in alone and risk my life to save you? Why wouldn’t I call in the troops and end this once and for all?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. You don’t know who to trust either. You’re in the same position as me. All dressed up, but no one to take you to the ball. You’ve got at least some evidence, but no idea where to go with it. No idea of who to trust. Am I close?”
Garrison hesitated but, after releasing a long sigh, acknowledged the question. “Unfortunately, yes. The bureau has suspected some of the Sheriff’s activities for quite some time now, but never had any hard evidence to prove it. They’ve sent in several agents to investigate, but all of them have been mysteriously taken off the case just when they began to make headway.”
“Someone in the bureau must be involved. Someone with enough influence to force re-assignments.”
“That’s why my presence here isn’t official. It’s as much a mole hunt as it is an investigation into the Sheriff’s activities, but I think this goes way beyond the bureau.”
“What do you mean?”
The dark highway whipped past at a blur outside the window. Garrison reached down and turned up the air. “I have my suspicions that the Sheriff is doing a lot more than ridding the world of serial killers. You remember that congressman who was killed in a bad car crash
in Washington about six months ago?”
He searched his memory for a moment and said, “Vaguely. Hit by a drunk driver. But the guy who hit him fled the scene, and they never caught him.”
“Right. That’s the official line anyway. Most people don’t know this part of the story, but before his death, he was under scrutiny for having ties to the Mafia. The investigators linked him to several shady deals that made a lot of people a lot of money. But if you want to play the game, you have to get your hands dirty. Somewhere along the way, you’re going to make some enemies. So, it wasn’t much surprise to the investigators that the circumstances surrounding his death might seem a little suspicious. After all, there could be some pissed-off Italian out there who didn’t get the construction project he was promised.
“But here’s the kicker. Our friend the Sheriff and his number-one goon, Lewis Foster, were in Washington at the time of the accident. They arrived the day of the crash and flew out the next morning. I can find no reason for the trip.”
“You think they were responsible? But he’s a local sheriff … why use him and not some professional killer?”
“He used to be with the bureau until a killer he was tracking murdered the Sheriff’s wife. They caught the guy, but he got off on some technicality. The Sheriff tracked him down and put two in the back of his head while he slept. From what I heard, he didn’t even try to run or cover it up or anything. But after a couple of days, the police dropped the charges, and the Sheriff walked out a free man. He moved down here and set up shop with a big, fat wallet. Now how exactly does that happen?”
“You think that someone high up in the government is using the Sheriff and his lackeys as some kind of avenging angels? Someone who can take out the dirty laundry that nobody else can legally touch? That’s why they’re being protected and allowed to wage their own private war … because the orders come down from somewhere up the food chain.”
Garrison nodded his assent. “That’s why we can’t call for backup or go for help. Even if we told the right people, somewhere along the way the information would work its way to the wrong ones. We’re all alone in this. The Sheriff has been given some big mission that—according to my source on the inside—is supposed to be going down tomorrow.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on the dash in a rapid staccato. “Do you know who’s pulling the strings?”
Silence.
“You have some idea. I can tell.”
Garrison rubbed his right temple. “I spent two years quietly tracing some money that found its way to the Sheriff, keeping the investigation under the radar. The trail is real thin, and I made some assumptions and inferences along the way. But, as best I can figure, that money came from a company that has some very … influential people on its board.”
“So who’s pulling the strings?”
“The info I found doesn’t prove anything. Besides, it’s crazy. It’s—”
“I’m not the grand jury. Who?”
Garrison exhaled. “The man on the company’s board is named Matthew Jameson. He’s the brother of—”
Marcus interrupted and finished the sentence. He spoke with reverence. “Adam Jameson.” He swallowed hard and clenched his eyes shut.
This couldn’t possibly get any worse.
38
The Sheriff sat behind the antique walnut desk and stared into the darkness toward Asherton. The desk dated back to the seventeen hundreds, a gift from his late wife. He liked to imagine the founding fathers sitting at similar desks, drafting the words that made America free. He closed his eyes. What would they think of us now?
Everything was falling into place, more or less. He had been forced to make a few improvisations along the way, but his men were the best. They could adapt to any situation. Besides, he was confident that—despite anything Marcus might do—the end result would be the same. The only wild card left in the deck is Ackerman.
He turned to Lewis Foster, who sat a few feet in front of the desk in a chair of equal value. Foster awaited his instructions, the epitome of the obedient soldier. “Lewis,” he said, “I have a bad feeling that I can’t seem to shake. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Francis Ackerman.”
“Sir, we’re so close to the border that someone in Ackerman’s position would have to be completely insane not to just jump over to Mexico.”
He wanted to laugh, but Foster was serious. The young man didn’t see the irony in his choice of words when he said that Ackerman would have to be insane not to run. After all, Ackerman was insane, so the rules and logic of the sane world would never apply to him.
“When dealing with a lot of men, I would say that you’re right, but Ackerman is a beast the likes of which few have ever seen. He has no fear, and when he sets his sights on you, you either end up dead or wishing you were. And now, he has motive against us. I need you to go to Asherton and get Maggie out of there. I’d go myself, but I have to prepare for the final act of our little drama.”
Foster nodded in assent. He was a good soldier and would do as ordered. “I understand, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll bring her back.”
He smiled at Lewis with a wide, fatherly grin and tender eyes. Lewis had become like a son to him. Foster’s family had been brutally murdered when he was only a teenager. Afterward, the Sheriff had taken him in. In the moment when Lewis needed someone to take his hand and help lift the crushing weight of the world, he had been there.
Now, the roles had been reversed, and the Sheriff was the one feeling the crushing weight pressing down on him. He had just learned of a game Ackerman had played at a local farmhouse and couldn’t help feeling responsible for what had transpired. And this was only the first report. He knew that more would follow, and he felt helpless to stop it.
“Please, promise me that you’ll be careful. I don’t think that I can stand any more death this evening.” The Sheriff shook his head and continued in a low tone. “Damn it, Lewis, I’m beginning to wonder whether any of this is truly worth it. I should have known better than to allow a monster like Ackerman out of my sight in the first place. How many more people are going to die before this ends? What price must we pay? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. No innocent people were supposed to get hurt.”
“Sir, things may not have gone down exactly the way that we planned, but we’ll find Ackerman. We’ll stop him. We’ll set things right. But we have to stick to the plan. You said it best yourself when you told me, ‘Sometimes, the only way to get a person to open their eyes is to slap them in the face.’ You were right, sir. And we will succeed in opening someone’s eyes tomorrow. I guarantee you that. There’s no way you could have known that any of this would happen the way that it did. What’s done is done, but are we going to let all who have fallen along the way die in vain, or are their deaths going to mean something?”
The Sheriff nodded and said, “I think my good sense must be rubbing off on you. What’s done is done. Right now, we have to stay focused. We have to stay the course. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
A humming filled the air, and the cell phone resting on the desk lit up. He reached out and picked up the phone. He checked the number and recognized it as coming from South Africa. At least, that’s where it appeared to originate. In actuality, the call had been bounced around the world to obscure its true origin—Washington D.C.
An image from long ago flashed in his mind as he took a second to ready himself for the call. He remembered sitting in his cell when the guards came and escorted him to an interrogation room. Then, a man entered and gave him a choice. Looking back, he supposed it wasn’t much of a decision. Go to prison for the rest of his life or accept the man’s offer. The path was clear. Whenever he thought back on it, though, he knew that he still would have chosen this path—even if a multitude of other options had been available to him.
The Sheriff flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Hello … Yes, sir. Everything is proceeding according to schedule.”
39
Adam Jameson … President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world. “You’re tellin’ me that we’re up against the leader of the free world … and his death squad?” Marcus said.
Garrison shrugged. “It fits, but come on. It’s just crazy speculation. I have no proof that the President’s involved. The connection’s weak, at best.”
“But it’s possible, and until we know differently, we have to operate under the assumption that he is involved.”
They were silent for a long while. He felt the weight of an entire country’s worth of resources pressing down. Nothing seemed real anymore. The dark landscape rushed by, and his world spun. He felt like he was underwater.
“One thing I can’t figure,” Garrison said.
“One thing?”
“Well, a lot of things, but one thing about your story. I can’t figure out how the Sheriff and his men kept finding you everywhere you went.”
He had wondered the same thing but had dismissed it as paranoia.
“I get that he could have found you on the highway. After all, you didn’t know the resources he would put into your search, but he could have canvassed every road. So, I get that. But you said that you smashed the cop’s radio and cell phone before leaving him at the crash site, and the cop hadn’t called in his position. Granted, he probably had low-jack in the cruiser, and they could have traced that. But from the sound of it, they didn’t even know that there was a problem. So, number one, how did he find you so quickly? And number two, how was he so sure that you were in that house? Sure enough that he gunned down Allen Brubaker on his front lawn?”
He mulled over what Garrison had said. It made sense, but what was the answer? He searched his memory banks, and his eyes went wide. “My shoes. The Sheriff took my shoes at the Hill crime scene to make castings.”
