Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
Michael tossed his keys on the table by the front door and walked into his apartment. The blinking light on his message machine seemed like a beacon in the dark living room.
What now? he thought, moving to the machine and punching the play button.
“Michael, it’s Dad. I don’t mean to alarm you, but Miriana Georgadoff is missing. Jack’s worried about her; very worried. For reasons I can’t explain on the phone, she could be in danger. I told Jack you wouldn’t know anything about her whereabouts. But he insisted I call. I need you to get back to me immediately, regardless of the time.”
What the hell! Miriana in danger? Michael pulled out the Fayetteville White Pages and found the number for the Rebel Inn. A man answered after ten rings. His slurred words told Michael the man had been fast asleep.
“Room 116, please.” It seemed an eternity before Michael was connected to Miriana’s room, but the phone went unanswered. Convinced the motel clerk had dialed the wrong room, Michael hung up and called again. The same voice answered.
“I just called for Room 116,” Michael said. “It rang, but no one answered. Would you try again, and stay on the line this time?”
Michael heard the guy say “Jesus H. Christ” before the phone began ringing. Again nothing.
“You still on the line?” Michael asked, his voice rising.
“Yeah, pal, but not for long. I got better things to do than play games with you.”
“Listen, mister. I’m worried about the woman in 116. Could you walk down there and check things out? I just dropped her off a little while ago.”
“What do you think this is, buddy? The Waldorf fuckin’ Astoria.”
The sound of the receiver being slammed into its cradle hurt Michael’s ear. He felt the heat in his face and growled, “Bastard!”
Michael speed-shifted through Fayetteville’s streets. Once he reached Persons Avenue, he opened the throttle on the Porsche and raced down the four-lane avenue at one hundred miles an hour.
Traffic at 4 a.m. was nearly nonexistent. Just the cop who pulled in behind him a mile from the motel. Michael reflexively hit his brakes when he saw the cop’s flashing roof lights, but then gunned the Porsche’s engine again. He would deal with the cop when he got to the motel
.
The sportscar’s tires screeched when it turned off the avenue and careened into the motel parking lot. When he pulled up to Miriana’s room, he saw the door was closed, the room was dark. The cop skidded to a stop at Michael’s rear bumper, lights flashing and siren wailing. Michael ran toward Miriana’s room, adrenaline rushing through his system. He tried the door knob on the room door and found it unlocked. He opened the door and flipped on the light switch. Empty. No Miriana. No luggage. Nothing visible, except the unmade bed, to prove anyone had been in the room.
“Hands over your head, asshole. You make a sudden move, I’ll blow your head off.”
Michael slowly raised his hands.
“Now turn around, nice and easy.”
The cop crouched in the doorway. The bore of his .38 police special looked as big as a howitzer’s.
Vitas drove south on Route 1 until he found an isolated area. He pulled onto a dirt road bordered on both sides by tall stands of pines. The trees were so dense he couldn’t see moonlight through them. He got out to check on the girl. She was beginning to stir in the trunk, though still sedated from the chloroform. She looked so tantalizing, he wanted to climb into the trunk and take her right then and there. He reached down and felt her breasts. Then he touched her pubic area with the tips of his fingers. The sense of anticipation coursing through him was like a fever that had taken control of his mind and body. He would have to find a place to hole up soon.
He straightened up and stood at the rear bumper for over a minute, just looking down at the girl. Her legs were exquisite. Long, smooth, finely muscled. Her skin was a golden brown – naturally tan. He removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped the sweat that had magically appeared on his forehead. This one would be the best ever. Not just one of the best. He knew that as a matter of fact. His instincts were never wrong.
He slammed the trunk lid in place, walked around and got back behind the wheel, started the car, and returned to the highway. There were numerous billboards along the highway advertising hotels and motels in and near the larger cities. Miles away. That wouldn’t do. He would need an out-of-the-way motel, where he could be far from traffic and prying eyes . . . and ears, where he could play the game in seclusion. He felt his heart hammering in his chest. He loved this part of the game. The anticipation always made the realization even better.
“Mir-i-a-na,” he sang.
The deputy who’d followed Michael into the motel lot and drawn his pistol on him now stood just outside Miriana’s room, talking with a very big man, dressed in the same kind of khaki uniform the deputy wore. Michael stared at the two men, but couldn’t make out what they said. Finally, the large man entered the room and stood over Michael, squinting down at him sitting on the motel room bed.
“I’m Sheriff Collins,” he said. “You know you got problems here, boy.”
Michael looked up, blinked. The Sheriff stood six feet, four inches tall – at least – and had forearms as thick as cordwood. His accent was so thick his words drawled on forever. But his blue eyes said, I’m a mean bastard and I’d like nothing better than to prove it to you.
“Yes, sir,” Michael said.
“My deputy here says you were driving on my streets at one hundred miles an hour. You didn’t stop when he signaled you to. And when you got here, you ran away from your car and into this room. I suppose you got some smart-ass explanation for your behavior.”
The Sheriff wiped his face with an already damp handkerchief and turned to his deputy. “Crank up that air conditioner, Del. I’m about to melt from this humidity.”
Michael ignored the man’s bluster. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, Sheriff Collins. But I’m really worried. I think a friend of mine’s been kidnapped.”
The Sheriff squinted. “Before we get into some bullshit discussion about kidnapping, suppose you tell me what you’re doing down here in God’s country.” His eyebrows arched, as though he expected lies from Yankees.
“I’m stationed at Bragg. I’m with the 82nd Airborne.”
Collins stared at Michael for a moment. “I hear they’re sending some of you boys over to goddamn Serb-i-a pretty soon.”
“Yes, sir. We’re shipping out Friday.”
The Sheriff pulled a straight-backed chair from a small table, dragged it over, and sat down. “Now, son, what’s this horseshit about somebody being kidnapped?”
Michael felt like he’d overdosed on coffee. His legs jiggled up and down, and he had to put his hands on his knees to make them stop. He forced himself to try to breathe calmly. “I left my friend here about an hour ago. We’d gone out for dinner, then went dancing over at the Sackett Inn.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Collins asked.
“Miriana Georgadoff.”
Collins looked over his shoulder at the deputy. “Didya get that, Delbert?” his voice heavy with sarcasm. The deputy fumbled at his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen and note pad.
“Yes, Sheriff,” he replied.
Collins turned his attention back to Michael. “Don’t the Sackett Inn close down about two a.m.?”
“That’s right. We sat in the parking lot there talking for over an hour. Then I dropped her off here and went to my place.”
“And what made you break a bunch of my traffic laws to rush back here?”
“There was a message from my father on my answering machine. He said Miriana might be in danger. I called Miriana’s room and got no answer.”
“Why would your daddy think your friend was in danger? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s with the Agency,” Michael said.
“And what agency would that be, boy?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency, Sheriff,” Michael said. “You’ve heard of the CIA, I presume?”
The Sheriff blinked.
Bob Danforth hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after calling Michael’s apartment in Fayetteville and leaving a message. He was wired. The fact Michael hadn’t called him back was causing all sorts of scenarios to reel through his mind – all of them bad. He’d been pacing the floor of his home office or trying Michael’s phone number for the past hour. When the phone on the desk rang at 4:15 a.m., he rushed to the desk and snatched the cordless receiver from its cradle.
“Michael?” Bob shouted.
“Mr. Danforth? Mr. Robert Danforth?”
“Yes,” Bob answered the unfamiliar voice.
“This is Sheriff Roy Collins calling from Fayetteville, North Carolina.”
Bob’s heart sank.
“I have an Army officer with me who claims to be your son, Michael. Would you kindly tell me his middle name and date of birth?”
Bob took a deep breath and exhaled. “Is Michael all right? Has there been an accident?”
“The young man is fine, Mr. Danforth. There haven’t been any accidents. Now if you would answer my question.”
“His middle name is Andrew. Date of birth, 28 April 1969.”
“Okay, Mr. Danforth,” Collins said. “I’m going to put your son on the phone.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Michael, what the heck’s going on?”
“Miriana’s missing.”
“I know. I called and left a message for you. She skipped out of Andrews Air Force Base.”
“I mean she’s missing from her room here in Fayetteville.”
Bob’s heart sank again, but for a different reason this time. Jack’s instincts were right. Michael did have something to do with Miriana’s escape from Andrews.
As though he knew what his father was thinking, Michael said, “Dad, I had nothing to do with Miriana running away from Andrews. I didn’t know she’d follow me down here. She said she’d been given a pass.”
“Jesus, Mary–”
“Whoa, Dad. You’re the spook in the family. I’m just a soldier. What do I know about this stuff?”
Michael told him all about his evening with Miriana – what they’d done, if not what they felt – and ended with his finding her room empty. “I think she’s been kidnapped,” he said.
“Why do you think that?”
“The door looks like it was kicked in. The bed sheet has been ripped, like someone tore strips off it. Maybe to tie her up. Besides, she wouldn’t have taken off without telling me.”
“Michael, you barely know this girl. How can you say what she would or would not do?”
“You just have to take my word for it, Dad.”
“Okay, son. Now put the Sheriff back on the line.”
Michael handed the receiver to Collins.
“Sheriff Collins, I want to thank you for your kind treatment of my son. The young woman in question was in CIA custody. She took off without telling any of us. I’m going to need your help.”
Mentioning
CIA
must have gotten the Sheriff’s attention. “We’d be happy to cooperate with you in any way we can,” he said.
“We need to find that young lady. Fast! I’m going to come down there with a few men. Do you have an office where we can set up a command post?”
“You bet,” Collins said. “I assume you vouch for your son’s moral character and law-abiding nature.”
Bob said, “A day or two in the can might do him some good.”