The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  A county sheriff’s deputy stared back at him.

  29

  Without rolling over, Jake took in the deputy standing over him. He looked to be under six feet tall and middle-aged. He was out of shape enough to strain the bottom two buttons of his navy blue shirt. The flashlight beam made Jake squint when it shined in his face. “No place to go?” the deputy said. His voice hinted at a southern accent.

  “Headed into Pennsylvania tomorrow.” Jake rubbed his eyes. “My ride fell through for today.”

  “Can you get up?”

  “What’s the harm in letting me sleep here?”

  “I’m asking politely,” the cop said.

  “All right.” Jake pulled the gun toward his right side. He propped himself up on his left elbow. When he knew the cop was looking at him, he stared into the distance. The other man’s eyes narrowed, but then he turned his head. With the deputy distracted, Jake shoved the pistol into his T-shirt pillow. By the time the older man’s head pivoted back around, Jake sat up and held the shirt in his hand. “Thought I saw something.”

  “You’re the only one here.”

  “Guess so.” Jake stood and stuffed the shirt into his rucksack.

  “Military?” the deputy asked.

  Jake nodded. “Army.”

  “I hear a lot of soldiers have trouble once they’re back home. Seen it a few times, myself.”

  “I don’t think my problems are typical,” Jake said.

  “When’s the last time you had a drink?” the cop said.

  “I’m not drunk.” Jake rolled his eyes. “I’m just dealing with a delay getting north.”

  “Not what I asked.” The deputy focused the flashlight beam in Jake’s face again, and he squinted against it. “You ever take a field sobriety test?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Ever fail one?”

  “Nope,” Jake said.

  “Let’s see how you do, then.”

  Jake knew resisting would be pointless. The deputy probably could have run him in on some vagrancy charge. His reflection earlier told Jake he looked like a homeless person, and sleeping in a park only added to the image. Dealing with this indignity would be a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. So long as the deputy let him go at the end of it, of course. If the man decided he really needed to search Jake’s bag or bring him to the station, they would have a problem.

  Instructed not to move his head, Jake’s eyes followed the cop’s finger as he moved it side to side. Jake then stood on one leg, walked a straight line, and recited the alphabet both forwards and backwards. By the end, the deputy gave him a nod. “All right, you’re not drunk. Still gonna need you to move along.”

  “You got an idea where I might go?”

  The man shook his head. “I could drop you at a motel. Best I can do other than the station.”

  “I’ll make my way,” Jake said. “Thanks.”

  He slung the rucksack over his shoulder. Then, the deputy asked, “Can I look in your bag?”

  Jake couldn’t say yes. The gun would be way too easy to find, and it would bring a much more unpleasant set of questions with it. “Seriously?” Jake summoned his indignity. “I’m leaving your park. You already made me take a sobriety test when I haven’t had a drink in weeks. You want to search my bag, get a warrant.”

  “You think I need one?”

  “I think the Constitution I swore an oath to defend says you do.”

  The two stared at each other for several seconds. Jake took in the deputy’s stance. His legs were straight. Tense. His right hand inched closer to his belt where a taser sat ready. Jake wouldn’t let him finish the move, though he hoped he didn’t need to take action. The deputy blinked. “Fine. Move along.”

  Jake walked away without another word.

  Tyler stepped outside at the appointed hour. He walked past the neighbor’s house to make himself easier to spot. Sure enough, a gray Tahoe rolled up the street a few seconds later. The driver looked like Shah, the guy he gave the slip to in the parking lot a few days ago. Tyler didn’t recognize the passenger. The man leaned out the open window and leveled an M9 at Tyler. “Get in.”

  “You don’t need the gun,” Tyler said.

  “You packing?”

  “Sure. But there are two of you, and you’re both younger and dumber than I am. I need every advantage I can get.”

  “Get in,” the man repeated. His beady eyes narrowed. He wore his brown hair short in the classic military haircut. His trigger discipline was terrible, though—he actually held his finger on it as if ready to fire. Braxton’s standards were slipping. Maybe he needed to hire Hair-trigger Harry because Tyler killed a few of his men already.

  “Guys, really?” Tyler said. “A gun in a residential neighborhood when people are home? When did Braxton start sponsoring amateur hour?”

  “I’ll shoot you.”

  “I’m sure it would make your boss real happy. He sent you here to pick me up, right?” The passenger spent a few seconds practicing his stare—it needed more work—but he finally nodded. “I’m sure he didn’t mean for you to carry me in with a bullet in my head.”

  “Maybe he wants you dead.”

  “No doubt, but he wouldn’t want a lackey like you to do it.” Tyler considered his options. He couldn’t reach for his own gun without drawing fire, and he stood on a street full of houses. The knife would only be useful if either of these idiots climbed out of the SUV. A late-model Toyota pickup sat at the curb behind Tyler and to his left. If the bullets flew, he would try to take cover there.

  “You getting in . . . or what?” the guy yelled.

  “You putting the gun away?”

  “No.”

  “There’s your answer, then.”

  “Braxton still wants to talk to you.”

  “Tell him to send higher quality men next time,” Tyler said. “Better yet, he should come in person.”

  “Screw you, old man,” the passenger said. He drew his arm back into the cabin and put the window up. The SUV sped off. Tyler watched it drive down his street and make the turn before he took himself back inside.

  After a restless night, Tyler put a plan together. Sometimes, walking into the lion’s den turned out to be the best strategy. He’d used it a few times overseas. When the terrorists reacted in alarm and surprise at the small American contingent storming their building and killing their men, it always gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction. In his homeland setting, he wouldn’t be visiting the lion’s den, but rather standing near it and shouting over the fence.

  Braxton answered the phone quickly. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

  “Glad I could solve the mystery for you. We need to talk. Leo.”

  A pause. “I don’t like this first-name shit. You used to call me Colonel.”

  “You used to be a colonel.”

  “I guess I should’ve expected you to rub it in.” Tyler heard annoyance in Braxton’s voice, and it made him smile. “You could’ve come with my men last night.”

  “Those clowns?” Tyler scoffed. “Send better men next time. I want to talk to you, not a pair of idiot lackeys.”

  “We’re already talking, aren’t we? Say what you have to say.”

  “Not over the phone,” Tyler said. “I want to meet. Just you. Any of your goons come with you, and you can take them back in a hearse.”

  “No need for any violence. I’ll meet you. Where?”

  Tyler didn’t know where Braxton lived anymore. His ex-wife divorced him after the army court-martialed him. Were Maxwell or White big enough toadies to put him up in a guest room? The only address he could find for Hexagon was near BWI Airport. “Catonsville. Should be nice and convenient for you.”

  “Great. You know where the Double T is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “One hour.” Braxton hung up. Tyler performed some body-weight exercises, showered, and made coffee. After downing a mug, he drove to Catonsville. The Double T Diner sat
on a small side road not far from the main drag where a historic part of the town exuded a lot of old-time charm. Small places like coffee shops and art studios occupied large houses on both sides of the street. Tyler curbed the 442 about a block from the restaurant and walked inside.

  Even considering the spacing of the tables, the diner wasn’t busy. A young waitress seated him right away, and Tyler asked for coffee before she could depart. When she returned with the steaming cup, he ordered waffles, bacon, and hash browns. The girl walked into the kitchen. Braxton strode in a moment later. He’d aged more than ten years in the decade since Tyler saw him last. His hair had turned completely gray, and he wore it short to try and hide it. Despite his self-inflicted indignities, Braxton still carried himself like a man used to giving orders and having his subordinates follow them without delay or question. He slid into the booth across from Tyler.

  “Leo.”

  “John.”

  Tyler took in the smells of the place while Braxton looked over the menu. With the dining area so empty, he could hear meat sizzling from the kitchen. The aromas of bacon and coffee dominated his nostrils, and Tyler figured it couldn’t get much better. Braxton, of course, ruined it all by speaking. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Jake Smith,” Tyler answered.

  “Who?” Tyler repeated the name. Too quickly, Braxton replied, “Never heard of him.”

  “Let’s not waste time on bullshit. Every second I sit with you taints me a little more. Besides, you mentioned him to me.” The waitress dropped off Tyler’s breakfast. She asked what Braxton wanted, and he said he would take the same thing. The former colonel craned his neck to watch her walk away. “She’s a little too old and American for you, isn’t she?”

  “And here I thought we could have a pleasant chat.” Braxton kept his tone civil, though the wrinkle between his brows told Tyler his barb found the mark. “Why do you always bring up the past?”

  “We don’t have any future to talk about,” Tyler said. “If you prefer, though, we can stick to the present. Jake Smith.”

  “Fine. Jake joined the unit after your third tour. He came back for a while toward . . . the end of my tenure.” Tyler grimaced. “You probably think they turfed me out right away.” Braxton’s head moved slightly from side to side. “It took a while. I knew people. Still do. You wouldn’t know, of course . . . you left the second you could.”

  “Couldn’t stand to be around you anymore. Let’s focus on Jake, though. I know how you feel about me.”

  “He seemed like a good soldier,” Braxton said. “I thought he would be a little more flexible than you.”

  “I guess you were wrong.” Tyler buttered his waffle and cut into it. For his long list of faults, Braxton had always been a well-mannered man. He liked to insist everyone eat together. Tyler enjoying his meal out of turn would needle his former commander. It would make the waffles taste at least twenty percent better.

  “You know by now I’m still acquainted with Maxwell and White.”

  “Once a toady,” Tyler said.

  Braxton didn’t take the bait. “They tried to recruit Jake for the company. People who deployed with us—at least those we were still on good terms with—were the first priority. Maxwell told me Jake was interested at first but later balked.”

  “He knew what you were really after in Afghanistan.”

  “It’s something you could’ve had a piece of,” Braxton said. He must’ve known the futility of denying Tyler’s accusation. “Too bad your precious principles got in the way.”

  “Sounds like Jake’s did, too.”

  A shrug served as Braxton’s reply. Tyler followed his eyes as they panned from the kitchen. The waitress dropped off his identical breakfast and coffee a few seconds later. When she walked away again, Braxton said, “Disappointing, really. I thought he was better.”

  “He’s better than the lot of you.”

  Braxton applied butter to his waffles meticulously. The same amount with every pass of his knife. Always exactly to the edge. Every doughy nook received the same treatment. When he finished, he cut them into precise bites. Tyler would need an electron microscope to spot any difference in size. After taking a forkful, Braxton said, “Thankfully, he reported his suspicions to someone we knew.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know everything, do you?” Braxton smiled. As usual, he looked like a predator when he did. “Tell you what, John. I’ll forget all about Jake. We’ll stop looking for him, and we’ll leave his old man alone. I just have one condition.”

  “What?” Tyler asked.

  “You come work for Hexagon.”

  Tyler laughed. “Really? Why in the world would I ever work for you again? Why would you want me in the fold?”

  “You’re damn good at what you do,” Braxton said. “I hate you, John . . . I won’t deny it. I’d like nothing more than to stab you in your smug face with this butter knife. You could be a big help to Hexagon, though. In the end, I like making money more than I dislike you.”

  “Another area where we differ,” Tyler said.

  “It’s no, then?”

  Tyler picked up a slice of bacon and ate it while staring at Braxton. “Of course it’s no. Always and forever.”

  Braxton shrugged. “Then, I’m afraid it’s still open season on Jake. I’ll be nice and ease off the old man, though.”

  Considering the personnel Hexagon lost in the last few days, Tyler understood the real reason for Braxton’s faux magnanimity but let him take his little victory lap. “It’s something, at least.”

  “You might try being grateful,” Braxton said.

  “I’ll never thank you for anything.” Tyler finished his breakfast, swigged the rest of his coffee, and set a twenty on the table.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast, Leo.”

  Braxton grabbed Tyler’s wrist as he walked past. The two glared at each other for a moment. “Just remember, John. I offered you a way out.”

  Tyler jerked his arm free and left.

  30

  Maxwell stopped the car at Rodney Standish’s apartment building. The trail to Sara Morrison went cold after the attempt on her life failed. Tyler must have stashed her somewhere. Maxwell burned to do something about the meddlesome Tyler, but Braxton gave assurances he would handle it. He needed to hurry up. In the meantime, Maxwell would see if Rodney knew anything. He hoped the man didn’t want to talk.

  It was always more fun when they resisted.

  He strode to the door. The label for 4C showed STANDISH, R. beside it on a separate label. Maxwell pushed a bunch of the other buttons. A moment later, a random resident buzzed him in. Someone always did. Maxwell dashed up the stairs in case whoever let him enter got curious about who walked in. He didn’t see anyone on the short jaunt to the top level.

  Apartment 4C was the third of three on the left. Maxwell put his ear to the door. He heard a muffled man’s voice but nothing else. A soft knock didn’t lead to any barking from within the apartment. Maxwell rapped harder. No response. He did it again. Footsteps approached, and a man opened the door. He matched the fellow in the photos Maxwell took at Sara Morrison’s house a few nights ago. “I’m busy,” Standish said, frowning at Maxwell.

  Despite working from home, Standish wore a pressed button-down shirt, dress pants, and a tie. The color of his brown hair must have come from a bottle, and the painstaking style required many minutes in front of a mirror. Maxwell kept his military haircut for a litany of reasons, one of which was the time he saved not having to do anything but dry it. This guy at the door with his middle-aged dad bod seemed like some kind of financial dweeb. Morrison could have done better a thousand different ways at the Pentagon. “You’re Rodney Standish?”

  “I am, but I told you I’m busy.” He closed the door a few inches before Maxwell inserted his boot.

  “It’s about Sara Morrison.”

  Standish pursed his lips. “Is she in trouble?” />
  “I don’t think we should talk in the hallway.”

  “Oh. Right.” Standish moved to the side, and Maxwell walked in. The apartment was immaculate. It could have passed any military inspection Maxwell ever witnessed or conducted. The dark hardwood floors gleamed with reflected fluorescent light. Nary a speck of dust lay on any surface. Area rugs showed tracks from recent vacuuming. Standish could afford hiring it out, but he struck Maxwell as the type to put a lot of effort into appearances. Hence, the professional attire despite teleworking. “Is Sara in trouble?”

  “You mind hanging up?” Maxwell pointed to Standish’s earbuds.

  “I’m not on a call at the moment,” he said. “You interrupted me. I might need to take another one soon, though.”

  “What is it you do, Mister Standish?”

  “I’m a financial manager, Mister . . .?”

  “Max.” The other man’s profession didn’t surprise Maxwell at all.

  “Your first name?”

  Maxwell shrugged. “Sure. We’re not here to talk about me. When’s the last time you heard from your girlfriend?”

  Standish snorted. “Look, Sara and I are dating, but I’d hardly call her my girlfriend.”

  “How many times have you been out?”

  “I don’t know,” Standish said. “Five . . . maybe six.”

  “You sleeping with her?”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with Sara being in trouble.” Standish crossed his arms and did his best to look like he’d suffered some great indignity at Maxwell’s question. He pulled it off. Probably thanks to lots of practice in the office.

  Maxwell put up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right. We’re concerned about her is all.”

  “You work with Sara?” Standish sat on a small sofa and gestured to the recliner opposite him.