by Thomas Scott
“What is it?” Cool asked.
Bell turned back. “Is it just me, or does it smell like fish in here?” When he saw the look on Cool’s face he laughed and said, “Virgil told me to say that.” They both laughed.
“Well, I don’t know what kind of pilot you’ll make, but you’ve got the sense of humor for it.”
Bell couldn’t remember the last time he was this excited. He felt like a teenager who was about to get laid for the first time. “That’s another reason I want to do this. I’m tired of being so stuffy all the damned time. If you’re a doc, it’s sort of expected from you. It’s like no one will take you seriously unless you’ve got a stick up your ass. But this…this is a whole other world.” He rubbed his hands together then slapped Cool on the thigh and said, “Come on, let’s launch this motherfucker.”
When Molly Jacobs looked out her kitchen window she saw something that simply didn’t make sense. It was her mother’s Lincoln Continental driving away from the house. There were two things wrong with what she saw: One, her mother’s eyesight had deteriorated to the point where she could no longer drive—she’d lost her license over a year ago, and two, it was the way the car was being driven. It wasn’t exactly reckless, but it was…aggressive. Even when her mother had still been able to drive, she drove, well...like a little old lady.
Did her mother lend the car to someone? It was possible, but not likely. Even if she had, it was the kind of thing they would have talked about. They talked about everything. Something didn’t feel right.
Molly grabbed her jacket and hurried next door.
One of the SWAT team members, a guy named Leach, was showing Murton the trail through the weeds on the opposite side of the fence. Murton looked around trying to get into Decker’s head. With all the time he’d spent working undercover for the FBI, it was something he was fairly good at.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to be Decker. I discover I’m being surveilled and I’ve just climbed out of my own back window—probably in full panic mode—then busted through the fence and crawled through a ditch full of weeds to get away. Where do I go from here?”
The SWAT guy named Leach looked around. “Need wheels.” He pointed to his right and said, “Closest residential area is right over there, just past that tree line.”
“Lets go check it out. Ever catch any shit about your last name?”
Leach gave him a look. “Not too much. Once or twice a year, maybe, when being introduced to someone or something like that. If they’re an asshole they might say something or get a look on their face…you can always tell. Then they find out I’m SWAT and suddenly it all goes away and they want to be best friends.”
Murton was nodding. “I hear you.”
They moved through the tree line—a single row of densely packed Arborvitaes that separated the trailer park from the back lot of a warehouse. When they got to the far side of the warehouse they passed through a residential backyard and ended up in the middle of the street. To the left was an intersection with a four-way stop. A patrol car was sitting at the intersection and the officer who’d been driving it was standing on the front porch of a house close to the intersection, speaking with a man dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, a cup of coffee in his hand. The man pointed with his cup and the cop turned and looked at Murton and Leach. He keyed the microphone attached to the upper part of his vest and said, “Starting the door-to-door.” Murton heard it come through on the SWAT frequency.
They waved to the cop, looked around for a moment and were about to turn and go back to the trailer when a woman came running out of a house at the end of the cul-de-sac. She was screaming something—Murton didn’t know what—and pulling at the hair on both sides of her head. She stopped, doubled over like she’d just been punched in the gut, then began screaming again. She stood upright then spun in a full circle, still screaming, like she was having some kind of fit. Then she stopped and collapsed backward on the ground, smacking the back of her head on the pavement.
“What the hell?” Leach said.
Murton ran toward her, his gun drawn. “Cover the back of that house,” he yelled to Leach. “And get that other cop down here.”
The last part of his instruction wasn’t necessary. The cop was already running their way.
Decker turned off of highway 37 to the East, down an unmarked gravel road that snaked its way along a dry creek bed and skirted the edge of a large wooded area. Once he was past the woods he saw the house. It was a modern looking log cabin style home that sat about a quarter-mile back from the road. The road curved just enough that he could see a large shed and a pond in the back yard. He’d seen it all before of course, when he’d done his reconnoitering, but that had been in the middle of the night. Now, in full daylight, he could see all the details of the property. He wasn’t very familiar with acreage and how it was calculated, but he guessed the cop was sitting on at least twenty acres…maybe more. Where’d he get the money for this type of setup? Why did everyone seem to have it so easy except him?
That was about to change. He’d go in and grab the boy…his boy, and get the hell out of Dodge. They’d have to leave the country, probably go to Mexico, he thought. Then what? How was he going to get the pension money? He’d have to lean on Gordon to make that happen. He had enough dirt on him that he’d have to pay. Either that or end up in jail. He knew all about the back-room dealings and under-the-table money that had changed hands between him and Westlake and the Russian oil men.
But what if Gordon wouldn’t pay? Then what? Could he sell the kid to the Mexicans? It wouldn’t be as much as the pension fund money, but it’d be something. Enough to hold him over until he figured out his next step. Whatever. One step at a time. Right now he needed to get the boy and get gone.
He turned into the cop’s driveway and rolled up on the house.
31
The impact of Molly Jacobs’ head against the pavement when she fainted would have been much worse were it not for the hood of her jacket. The coat was a thick, heavy parka and the hood itself had a pocket for storage of mittens, scarves, gloves and the like. Molly had packed the hood full last spring—a convenient storage place—and had yet to unpack it for the upcoming winter. When she fell, it was like having a giant pillow on the back of her head. So the impact didn’t render her unconscious, but it dazed her. It was still, she’d later admit, one hell of a knock.
Murton got down next to her and quickly checked her over. Other than the bump on her head, she appeared to be uninjured. She tried to get up, but he persuaded her to remain on the ground. She was crying, her gaze going back and forth between Murton, his gun, and her mother’s house.
“Why do you have a gun? Who are you,” she asked.
“My name is Murton Wheeler. I’m a police officer. You’re safe.”
“My mother…I need to get up. Can I at least sit up?”
Murton scooted back and made room, then gently pulled her into a sitting position. Her legs were splayed like a doll left on the living room floor. “What about your mother?”
“She’s…she’s…someone attacked her or something.” She started crying again. “Her face is smashed in. There’s blood everywhere.” She grabbed Murton’s arm and the strength of her grip surprised him. “You’ve got to call an ambulance. She might still be alive.”
The city cop who’d been doing the door-to-door jogged down to the end of the driveway just in time to hear Molly’s last statement. When Murton glanced at him, he shook his head.
“An ambulance is already on the way,” Murton said. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Molly Jacobs. My mother is Mary Budman. That’s her house,” she said, pointing behind herself.
“Tell me what happened,” Murton said, although he already had a pretty good idea. “What happened to your mother?”
“I don’t know what happened. I saw her car speeding out of the driveway. She doesn’t drive anymore and my father has been gone for years—heart
attack—and when I went over to check on her I found her lying on the kitchen floor all bloody. Her face…it looks like someone hit her with a sledgehammer. If I didn’t know who she was I don’t think I would have recognized her.” She gripped Murton’s arm tighter. “Where’s the ambulance? Why is it taking so long?”
She was in shock and Murton knew it. He turned his back so she couldn’t see and looked at the city cop. He raised his eyebrows and slowly mouthed the words ‘you sure?’ to him. The cop nodded, lowered his eyes and mouthed either yes, yeah or yep, Murton wasn’t sure which. But there was no question, Mary Budman, mother of Molly Jacobs was dead.
He placed both hands on Molly’s cheeks and gently turned her face toward him. “Ms. Jacobs, I need to speak with this officer for a moment. I’ll only be a few seconds. Please stay right here. Can you do that for me?”
Molly nodded, then wiped the snot and spit from her chin. Murton stood, wiped his palms on his pants and tipped his head at the city cop. They stepped a few feet away.
“Victim’s in the kitchen,” the city cop said. “Blood everywhere. Looks like one massive blow to the face. There’s quite a bit of blood on the edge of the countertop, like maybe he had her by the neck and face-planted her. I checked for a pulse, but it wasn’t necessary. She’s gone. I backed straight out. The SWAT guy is still guarding the rear of the house. It feels empty.”
“Okay, good work. Wait right here for a minute.” Murton turned and went back to Molly. “Ms. Jacobs, you said you saw your mother’s car speeding away?”
“Yes. That’s what got my attention. I just happened to be looking out the window and I saw it shooting out of the drive. My mother doesn’t drive anymore…her eyes are bad. Someone stole it, didn’t they? If she were going to lend it to someone, she’d have told me. We talk about everything.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“What? I don’t care about the car. Where’s the ambulance?”
“Ms. Jacobs, we need to know the make and model of the car. The color too. How long ago did you see the car leave?”
Molly again pulled her hair at the sides of her head, her eyes closed so tight her teeth were showing. “It’s a dark green Lincoln Continental. I don’t know the year. It’s old. Late nineties, I think. It was about ten minutes ago. Is the ambulance coming or not?”
Murton looked at the cop. The cop nodded at him, then began walking away, relaying the information about the car over the radio.
Molly Jacobs stood suddenly and tried to run toward the house. The city cop heard, then saw her coming. He did a little juke and cut her off. Murton was there two seconds later.
“I need to get inside. I need to get to my mom.”
Murton tipped his head, his mouth a thin line. “Ms. Jacobs, I’m sorry, but your mother didn’t survive. She’s gone. Come on, lets go over here, out of the street. We can’t let you go back inside right now.”
Two more City patrol cars turned the corner and pulled right up next to Mary Budman’s driveway.
“That’s right, right over here,” Murton said as he steered her toward one of the cruisers. One of the city cops opened the front passenger door and they helped Molly inside. When the door was closed, Murton looked at the cop. “Her mother is the victim. Keep her here.” He then ran to the backyard and told Leach they needed the house cleared.
Five minutes later they were back out. Except for the victim the house was empty. The city cop told him that a BOLO had been put out on the Continental. Murton did a little quick math in his head. With at least a fifteen minute head start a perimeter was out of the question. All they could do for the moment was hope that the car was spotted. He got everyone squared away and up to speed, then headed back to Decker’s trailer.
Sandy was hovering in the stage of sleep that left her not fully out, but not fully there, either. A dreamy nowhere land where bills and laundry and insurance forms and to-do lists were forgotten, replaced by images of a family that was taking shape all around her. She had the man of her dreams, a man who, with her help, was going to raise two fine boys into strong young men. Wyatt and Jonas were going to be just like Virgil and Murton. It was fate, no different from the fate that had brought her and Virgil together.
Had there been adversity along the way? Tragedy? Yes, but things happen…life happens. They’d face their own challenges in the years ahead, but they’d do it together and they’d do it with hearts that were full of hope and joy and laughter and love. Sandy, floating along in her dreamy netherworld, had never been happier. When her cell phone rang it brought her part of the way back. When the house phone rang a few seconds later she was almost up.
In her half-sleep state she heard the car pull into the drive and stop by the front of the house. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and thought…Virgil. She may have even said it out loud. Then the front door exploded inward and shards of glass and wood fragments flew through the air. Sandy was suddenly no longer just thinking her husband’s name, she was screaming it. Except Virgil wasn’t there.
Decker was.
Mok stepped out of Decker’s trailer just as Murton returned. “You’re going to want to see this.”
They went inside the trailer and made their way to the rear. There were two bedrooms at the end of the hall. One was obviously Decker’s bedroom. Murton was surprised by the neatness of the room. The bed was made, the pillows squared, and the personal items on the dresser were arranged with precision. Other than the open window and torn screen, the room was in perfect condition. “Huh.”
“Huh, what?” Mok said.
“I don’t know. Everything we have on this guy suggests he’s a nut. I was expecting the place to be trashed…you know, clothes on the floor, no sheets on the bed, that sort of thing.”
“He’s military. It gets wired into your brain. He doesn’t know how to do it any other way. But don’t worry, you’re not too far off. This isn’t the room I wanted you to see. Follow me.”
They stepped out of the bedroom and backtracked down the hallway a few feet. Mok opened the door to the other bedroom and stood back to let Murton enter first. “Here’s your nut,” Mok said.
Murton looked around with dismay. The room instantly unnerved him. There was no furniture at all…just four walls and a dirty laminate floor. Except every inch of all four walls were covered with photographs of various sizes. There were so many that they overlapped each other. Some were color, others black and white. Most looked like they’d been taken from a distance with a powerful lens. Others looked like they were shot up close, the subjects slightly blurred and always in profile, as if they had no idea their image had been captured as they walked by the photographer. But it wasn’t the photography itself that unnerved Murton. It was the subjects in the photos. Most of them were shots of Jonas Donatti. A few of them featured Pam and Jonas together. In each of those photos, Decker had either scratched Pam’s face out, or colored over it with a black marker. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“That’s the Donatti kid, isn’t it?” Mok said.
“Yeah. And his mother, Pam.”
“Step a little further into the room.”
Murton looked at Mok. “Why?”
“Because Decker is on the run and there’s something else you need to see and see right now.”
Murton moved into the center of the room. Mok followed him in, closed the door, then shined his tactical light on the back of the door. When Murton saw the photos on the back of the door he yanked it open and ran from the trailer, dialing his phone as he went. He made it outside and began running toward his vehicle at the end of the street. When Sandy didn’t answer her cell, he tried her home number. When that failed he dialed another number.
When Virgil answered he sounded happy, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
32
Decker felt like he was moving at light speed, like there was a pressure wave pushing him forward, clearing obstacles from his path, leaving nothing except destruction and devastation in his wa
ke. He felt like nothing could stop him now. He ran up the steps, pulled out his pistol and fired three quick shots at the deadbolt, then kicked the door in.
Glass and wood flew everywhere and even though the gunshots left his ears ringing, he heard, then saw the Jones bitch on the sofa. He saw her turn and face him, heard her scream something he couldn’t quite make out. The sofa was about six steps into the room from the front door. He’d already covered half of that, the pressure wave carrying him forward when the bitch stopped screaming. She stood from the sofa and darted to the end. She was going to try and run for it, which, Decker thought, was foolish because he had the gun and she looked like a whale, her stomach bigger than that fat fuck of an old man that used to beat him down at every opportunity.
But then something happened he didn’t expect. Decker discovered he wasn’t going up against a whale.
He was taking on a tiger.
Virgil’s phone buzzed at him and Murton’s name popped up on the nav display. He hit the green button on the steering wheel to answer the call, enjoying all the conveniences of modern technology. “Hey Murt. You guys track him down yet?” He was speaking of Decker.
Dear God, I hope not, Murton thought. “Virgil, where are you?”
The sound of Murton’s siren came through over the cell phone and Virgil was instantly worried. But it wasn’t the sound of the siren. Murton had called him by his proper name, something he only did when he needed Virgil’s full attention or when something was seriously wrong. “I’m on my way to the doc’s office. I’m meeting Sandy there. What’s the matter?”
“Where’s Sandy?”
“Should be on her way. Murt, what’s going on? I can hear it in your voice.”
