Authors: J.D. Rhoades
“One more!” Laurel called out. Stan turned back and raised the rifle.
The girl behind the wheel of the VW Rabbit was young and thin. What might have been a pretty face was marred by a spray of acne across her nose and cheeks. As Stan’s finger tightened on the trigger, the girl did something odd. Instead of trying to run straight away from him as the other drivers had done, she appeared to be trying to climb over the backseat. It was as if she was looking for something. Then Stan saw the car seat.
It was made of gray plastic with a thin white blanket spread over it. Stan lowered the rifle. The girl looked back at him, a pleading look in her eyes. She appeared to be trying to reach into the car seat but she couldn’t get back far enough. Then Stan noticed a pair of tiny hands reaching out of the seat toward the girl.
“Shoot!” Laurel yelled. She was working at the action of her own gun as if trying to clear a jam.
Stan couldn’t speak. He tried to raise the rifle, but was stopped cold by the sight of those small, desperately reaching hands. Then Roy gunned the engine and they were pulling away.
“I don’t get out now, the road’ll be blocked,” he called back. Laurel’s rifle clattered to the floor of the van as she pushed the door shut. Just as it closed, Stan could see the guard shack next to the gate. The uniformed guard was frantically shouting into a phone.
“Hold on!” Stan shouted. “Open the door!”
Laurel pulled the door back slightly. Roy slowed, then accelerated as if unsure what to do.
“The guard!” Stan yelled. He raised the rifle. He could see a crudely stenciled sign hung beneath the window of the shack. 195 DAYS NO ACCIDENTS, the sign read. Another sign hung beneath with the same smeared stenciling read: NO DRUGS NO WEAPONS ALL CARS ARE SUBJECT TO SEARCH. Stan shot the guard in the chest.
“Go!” he screamed. Roy gunned the engine. Laurel lost her grip on the door and tumbled backwards, cursing. Stan grabbed the door with one hand and pulled hard. The door rumbled on its tracks and slammed shut.
Stan moved to the back of the van and looked out the rear window. There was a tangle of cars in the road behind. The exhaust fumes had been joined by plumes of steam from broken radiators and water lines of cars that had crashed into one another. He collapsed to the metal floor of the van. Laurel was pulling herself up to a sitting position. She grabbed Stan and pulled him to her, kissing him roughly, her lips demanding. She pulled away and looked at him, her eyes bright.
“How was it, Stan?” she hissed. “Was it good? Didn’t I tell you? Wasn’t it intense?”
“Y-yeah,” Stan said. His heart was pounding and he felt a thrill in his blood that was more intense than the meth had ever been. At the same time, he couldn’t get the image of the girl with her baby out of his mind. “I … I think I missed one,” he stammered.
“I know, hon, I saw,” Laurel said. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be fine.”
“She had a baby,” Stan said. “What the hell was she doing with a baby?”
“It’ll be okay,” she said again. Her hand smoothed his hair as if to reassure him, but her touch was rough, brutal. She pulled his lips to hers again. Her tongue invaded his mouth.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Roy called back. “Save it for later. We got work to do.”
Stan broke the clinch, gasping. He felt the van bumping over rough road. After a few minutes, they stopped.
“Get the plates,” Roy said.
Stan reached into one of the canvas bags on the floor of the van and pulled out one of the stolen license plates Roy had showed him. They got out.
They were in a dirt clearing behind a grove of trees. The van’s appearance had changed. There was a ladder rack with a pair of aluminum extension ladders on the roof. Working quickly, they changed the plates, took the ladders off and unscrewed the racks. Then they climbed back in the van. Stan’s high was wearing off and he felt limp and shaky again. He wanted some more of the meth. As if reading his mind, Laurel pulled out one of the “special” joints. She handed it to Stan with a Bic lighter.
“Fire it up, baby,” she said. “You’ve had a busy day.”
Keller was up and drinking a cup of coffee when the knock came on the door. He peered through the peephole. A man and a woman were standing there. They both wore dark suits as nearly identical as a man’s and a woman’s suit could be made. He opened the door.
“Jackson Keller?” the man said. He was tall and angular, with thinning dark hair and a widow’s peak. Keller didn’t answer. “I’m Special Agent Sanderson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He showed Keller a flash of badge. He indicated the woman, a slim attractive blonde with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was carrying a slim black briefcase. “This is Special Agent Cassidey.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “I’m Jack Keller.”
“Mister Keller,” Sanderson said, “would you come with us, please?” He stepped back, leaving a path between himself and Cassidey. A dark blue Ford Taurus was parked under the live oak.
Keller didn’t move. “Am I under arrest?” he said.
“No, sir,” Cassidey answered. “We just want to ask you some questions.”
Keller stepped back into the house. “You can ask me those here, then,” he said. “C’mon in.”
Sanderson and Cassidey looked at each other. They obviously weren’t used to people refusing to come with them. Sanderson stepped through the door tentatively, as if he expected someone to jump out at him. When no one did, he asked Keller, “Sir, is there some reason you don’t want to come with us?”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “My grandma told me never to get in cars with strange men.” He sat down on the couch and picked up his coffee. “Or strange women,” he said to Cassidey, who was still standing in the doorway, “although I’ve been known to fudge a little on that rule. You coming in or going out, Agent Cassidey?”
Cassidey’s lips drew into a thin line. She came in and shut the door. She didn’t sit down, however. She stood by the doorway as if blocking Keller’s escape.
“You guys want coffee?” Keller asked. They both shook their heads. Keller shrugged and lit a cigarette. He picked up his coffee cup and leaned back on the couch. “You had some questions?” he said.
Sanderson took the easy chair. “You’ve been tracking a young woman named Laurel Marks.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “She didn’t show up for her court date. We’ve got paper on her. I’m supposed to bring her back.”
“We want to know everything you know about her and a guy named Roy Randle.”
Keller took a sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?” “What were you doing out at Randle’s place on the river?” “Looking for her,” he said. “He’s her boyfriend. I thought she might be there.”
Cassidey spoke up. “You didn’t find her.”
“No.”
“Is that why you burned the place down, Keller?” Sanderson said.
Keller didn’t answer. He took a long drag on his cigarette and studied Sanderson for a moment. Then he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Cassidey sat next to him on the couch and snapped open the briefcase. She pulled a manila folder out and flipped it open on the coffee table. There was a sheaf of photographs in the folder. Keller had to lean forward to see.
He recognized the dirt lot where the trailer had stood. It was mostly gone, burned out to the frame. A figure stood off to one side. It was impossible to tell if the figure was a man or a woman because of the bulky orange coverall it wore. A square helmet that looked like it belonged on a kid’s drawing of a spacesuit hid the person’s face.
“What’s with the HazMat suit?” Keller asked.
“Turns out the place is rotten with toxic waste,” Cassidey said. “The development’s been on the EPA’s Superfund list for years. Somebody used it as a dumping ground. Plus, it looks like Randle had been running a methamphetamine lab. He was just dumping the waste on the ground.”
So that’s where he got his money, Keller thought. “What makes you think I’m the one who burned it down?”
“Your girlfriend told us all about it. She said you two went out there looking for Laurel Marks. She told us you went in.” He smirked. “She said the door was unlocked, but I think we both know better than that.”
Keller shrugged. “He had something better than a lock.”
“So we heard,” Sanderson said. “And we also heard you got pretty pissed off about Randle’s security system.”
“Yeah. Getting shot is kind of a pet peeve of mine. I’m funny like that.”
“We also know some of your history, Keller,” Sanderson said. “We know you got bounced out of the army on a medical discharge. Went pretty nutso, I hear. Since then you’ve been in and out of trouble. Even managed to beat a couple of murder charges. And we know you’re under psychiatric care.”
Keller looked at him. “So?” he said.
Sanderson started to say something, but Keller interrupted. “Look, quit jerking me around. If Jones told you what happened, she also told you we came straight back here. Right after she left, I was talking on the phone with my doctor. Then some more friends stopped by and we were here all night. If you think you can work that timeline to stick in enough time for me to drive all the way out there, torch the place, and come back, be my guest. Otherwise, stop treating me like I’m stupid.” He sat back again and took a sip of coffee. “You get a match on the cartridge Jones found out there?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Cassidey said. “You don’t have any …”
“Okay, we’re done.” Keller said. He stood up. “I’ve got to get to work. If I catch up to Laurel Marks, I’ll be sure to let you guys know. After I’ve surrendered her downtown and cleared her paper.”
Sanderson stood up. “You’re off that case, Keller,” he said. “You try to interfere in a federal investigation, and we’ll—”
“Good luck, guys,” Keller interrupted.
Sanderson and Cassidey hesitated, then got up. They walked past Keller and out the door. Sanderson turned as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Don’t leave town, Keller,” he said. Keller didn’t answer. Sanderson seemed nonplussed by that. He turned and walked back to the car.
Keller closed the door. He was washing the coffee cup and putting it into the sink when his cell phone rang. He answered. “Keller.”
“That you, balloon man?” Ellen Marks’s voice was hoarse.
“Mrs. Marks,” Keller said. “Yes, ma’am, this is Jack Keller. What can I—”
“The son of a bitch hit me,” she said. “He hit me.”
“Who?” he replied. “Your husband?”
“Twenty-two years we’ve been married,” she said. “He’s never raised a hand. Can you believe that? It was what I always told myself…the things they say can’t be true. He’s never raised a hand to me. He’s never hit me. So I believed every word he said. That son of a bitch.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“Mrs. Marks,” Keller said. “You need to call the cops.”
Her voice was steadier as she said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Keller,” she said. “I will. Believe it.”
“Why do you think he hit you?” Keller said.
“After all this time …” Her laugh was a horrible sound, like that of crows feasting on a corpse. “He didn’t like me talking to you. Oh, no, not one little bit. He thought I might lead you to Laurel, and if Laurel started talking again … who knows what might happen?”
“So you know where she is,” Keller said.
“I know where she might be,” she said.
“I’m listening,” Keller said. “You’ll need to come to the house,” she said.
“Why?” he said, but she had hung up.
The news set was in a state of barely controlled chaos as Grace walked in. The morning-news anchor had been on live since the news of the hog-plant massacre had come over the police scanners, but he had long since run out of new information to report. The station had sent the Live-Cam helicopter to the scene, and the young anchor was rereading the official press release from the local sheriff over the aerial shot of the mess on the ground.
The monitors showed a jumble of automobiles strewn across the road like toys tossed out by a small child. Here and there, red and blue lights flashed among the tangle as law enforcement tried to sort out the crime scene. Grace walked quietly in the dimly lighted space behind the cameras. Picking her way over thick black cables that stretched across the floor, she made her way to the control room.
Howard was standing behind the technical director. He was calling out directions into his headset microphone in a low tense voice. His forehead was glistening with sweat.
“Okay,” he was saying. “Wrap up and throw to commercial. In five … four … three …” he counted down the seconds. As the music swelled up and the news logo rolled, he whipped his headset off.
“Howard,” Grace said.
“Not now, Grace,” Howard snapped. He turned to the technical director. “When we come back—”
“He called me, Howard,” Grace said, a little louder.
Howard turned toward her. “What? Who called you?”
She gestured to the monitor that showed the feed from the chopper. “The guy that did this. Or one of them. The ringleader.”
Howard looked skeptical. “How do you know it was him, Grace?” he said. “It could have been some kid—”
“Because he told me. He was on his way to do it. He told me it was ‘show time.’ Right before that happened.”