Sandusky Burning, page 28
“Randy must have been tapping your communications and discovered you have a kid with nut allergies. Something gave you away yesterday, and they found you at the waterpark. He had his tech guy find your room number at the hotel, obtain access to the key system, and sent a guy over to poison the milk. Meanwhile, he torched my RV in broad daylight. Nobody saw anything. Pretty productive day for Randy and his crew, I would say,” I said, taking a drink of bourbon.
“Randy plays chess while we play checkers. Actually, while we play nothing, we just trade opinions and jerk off. He has been two or three steps ahead of us. That is sad, given our military backgrounds. Shouldn’t we be dropping some Art of War types of tactics on them in this conflict?” he asked.
“In our defense, this has been a series of ambushes over a few days. Do you expect an all-out attack while convalescing at some Podunk campground? You should be focusing on getting a margarita buzz and making s’mores with your kids around a campfire, not defending yourself from getting roofied, blackmailed with a dead hooker, or your kid poisoned. This was Pearl Harbor. We’ve taken some huge hits; now we need to pivot and hit back. Hit back immediately and hit back hard,” I said, taking a drink.
The TV played a commercial for the General Motors dealership located east of the campground. I started to make another drink but opted for a glass of water instead.
“This all revolves around tech. The background checks, the surveillance, the tracking, the hacking into hotels, the collection of info from phones. He has a dedicated tech staff. None of those clowns like Chuck, Sam, or Viktor could program the clocks on their microwaves, let alone pull off some of this sophisticated shit,” Brady said.
“So, we need to isolate and question one of them. Who is the weak link?” I asked.
“I think it would be Chris, but Chris doesn’t appear to be an insider. I think he was getting blackmailed along with me. That free night at the cabin courtesy of Chuck makes zero sense. They probably pulled him in, got a Romanian girl involved, and are blackmailing him too,” Brady said, taking another drink. He was staring blankly at the TV broadcast of a lottery show, where a blonde model was pulling numbered ping-pong balls out of a draw machine.
“So, Chris may be a waste of time. I’m thinking either Chuck or Viktor,” I said.
“So, pick one,” he said.
“I’m thinking Chuck. He seems more pliable. Some of those Eastern European guys have a high pain tolerance. We would pick up guys when I was in Kosovo, and they took a lot of work to get any useful intel. Most of the quality intel came from bribes, not interrogations,” I said.
“Okay, that is a starting point,” he said. He finished his drink and set the cup down on the dresser.
“Infiltration is easy. You live there. Chuck putts around on his golf cart after dark, ordinarily in an impaired state. There are all kinds of places to have an in-depth conversation with him. The woods are nearby. Lake Erie is nearby. We could find out if Chuck floats or sinks,” I said, smiling.
I got up and walked over to the nightstand. There was a pen and a small pad of paper there. I opened the drawer and took out the Gideon Bible. I sat back against the headboard, put the pad on top of the bible, uncapped the pen, and started writing. “First thing we need to do is make a supply run,” I said.
“Are we doing this tonight?” Brady asked with a look of concern.
“Yeah. Do you feel comfortable sleeping at the campground tonight after your daughter was poisoned and my RV was torched? We can’t afford to wait another minute; the next escalation is going to result in either one of us or someone in your family in a body bag.”
Mike 14
8:20 p.m.
Getting on site unnoticed was a piece of cake. I took my campground parking pass out of my truck and put it in the rental van’s front window in the lower-left-hand corner. I rented the van for ninety-five dollars cash at the same place that we rented Brady’s Taurus. It was a large, white Chevy Express van with over 150,000 miles on it, and it had seen better days. I don’t think I would have trusted it for a voyage outside of the county. I verified before I left the lot that the thirty-one-gallon tank was filled to capacity.
I drove slowly down Nickle until I was almost perpendicular to the entrance. I rolled down the passenger window, leaning over and gazing carefully at the security booth. It appeared empty.
I had planned a few different ways to get on site if the security booth was manned, but it appeared as though I could just drive right in unnoticed. I turned into the entrance, with my black baseball hat pulled down low as I approached the booth. The falling rain would also help obscure my identity if anyone was out. As one of the few black guys camping there (or formerly camping there), my presence would be memorable. But I didn’t see anyone out.
I was completely dressed in black. I bought some water-repellent gear, including the baseball hat, running pants, running jacket, and Gore-Tex hiking boots. It went against my military training to break in brand-new gear on a mission, but with my entire wardrobe going up in smoke when my RV was burned to the ground, I had no choice.
I drove down Seagull Drive, scanning the grounds, squinting as the windshield wipers kept clearing the light rain. I made my way to the back along the tent lots and found a series of empty campsites. I parked the rental in front of one.
It took some restraint not to drive by my charred RV, which Travis said would be towed to the southeast side of the grounds along the stockade fence by the dealership. The police had created an incident report that I needed to get a copy of. I had no idea what Travis told them. If I was found to be negligent, it could be a problem with the insurance company.
Travis threatened to charge me with the cost of covering the fire damage to the site utilities. Fat fucking chance. I would sit in jail before I reimbursed him for the damage caused by Randy’s crew torching my property. Not that I figured Travis did it directly, but he was turning a blind eye to criminal activity in his own backyard.
I used the burner phone to call the campground office and reported a water leak at the east shower house. I was betting Chuck would respond, but if it was someone else, I could adapt. Whether Chuck, the Mexican kid, or the tech guy responded didn’t matter to me. I was eager to ruin the night of the unlucky son of a bitch who showed up.
I got out and closed the door softly. Opening the left-rear door, I grunted as I lifted my large, black duffel bag. I slung the carrying strap over my shoulder and walked over to the east shower house. The steadily falling rain was illuminated by the streetlamp directly west of the building.
I entered the building through the squeaky screen door on the right. The door to the left was to the ladies’ facilities. Unlike the main shower house, there was only one entrance for each bathroom.
I passed the urinals and the bathroom stalls, stopping at the first of three shower stalls. The flooring was grimy, salmon-colored ceramic tiles. The bathroom stalls had a one-foot gap at the bottom where you could see underneath, but the shower stalls extended to the floor.
The openings to the shower stalls were covered by thick, gray plastic curtains. Each had a small changing room with a wooden bench, separated from the shower area by another gray plastic curtain. I put my bag on the floor of the stall’s changing area.
Digging into the bag, I took out a large pair of channel locks. I went to the sink nearest to the door and clamped the wrench on the pipe elbow beneath it, twisting it counterclockwise until water began to run onto the floor. I gave it a soft turn to the right, and the steady stream became a trickle.
I returned the channel locks to the bag, taking out a plastic “Out of Order” sign. I found the small container of putty, broke off a few pieces, rolled them into tiny balls, and placed them on the corners of the sign.
Since the weather was warm, the heavier storm door was propped open, touching the interior wall. I centered the sign at eye level and pressed it against the door. No one entering the building would see the sign while the door was propped open.
I peered through the screen door. A person was walking up the street toward the building, a Hispanic teenager wearing red gym shorts and a plain white T-shirt underneath a clear plastic poncho. I ducked back inside and went into the shower stall, sliding the curtain shut. I listened as the kid took a piss, flushed, and walked out. I waited a moment and then exited the stall, returning to the screen door to monitor the street.
Five minutes later, I saw the headlights of a golf cart moving alongside the playground, taking a left onto Dove. It had to be Chuck. I returned to the shower stall and slid the curtain shut.
Chuck 9
8:40 p.m.
The light rain was keepin’ most folks in their campers, or at least under their camper awnings. I was on until 6 a.m., so I was doin’ my usual circuit. I was almost to the shower house goin’ north on Starling when a dark Ford van with a taxi sign on top passed slowly by, tryin’ to go softly over the speed bump. It was too dark to see who was inside.
It passed me and then swung over to the right in front of site 31. The passenger door opened, and Sullivan got out. He went around to the back of the van. A guy who looked Indian got out and met him there. Not Indian as in cowboys and Indians, but an India Indian. Curry and goats Indian.
He opened the back doors and handed Sullivan several gym bags. Sullivan brought them inside his camper. He came back and got another gym bag and a few garbage bags. Sullivan handed the Indian some cash, and he left.
I pulled up slowly alongside site 31, but Sullivan was already inside his camper with the door closed. I sent a text to Randy and Sam letting them know Sullivan was back and then continued up Starling.
I intended to slow down on the booze during my shift, but it was a little chillier than normal and rainin’, so I needed a belly warmer. I texted Viktor to make me a drink and leave it on his deck table. That meant Viktor would pour cheap, warm vodka in a plastic cup. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
I did a big loop of the park and passed by Viktor’s. I pulled to the side and walked up to his camper. There was a red cup on his table. I took it and hustled back to my golf cart to get out of the rain. What passed for “hustled” with me, anyways.
I smelled the cup, and it was pure vodka, four or five shots. Attaboy. I took a deep drink. Cheap vodka mixed with just a splash of acid rain from above. He didn’t disappoint. Maybe Viktor wasn’t so bad after all.
I wished I had a cabin to hide out in, but there was none available. Tourists and Johns. Business was good for everyone. I figured I needed a bigger cut for keepin’ this racket runnin’ so smoothly.
“Hey Chuck, you there?” the walkie-talkie squawked, joltin’ me. I had been rollin’ alongside the cabins backin’ up to Nickle, just sort of daydreamin’. Or evenin’ dreamin’, I guess.
“Chuck here, over,” I said into the walkie-talkie.
“Patrick here. Got a call about a water leak in the far shower house,” he said.
Dammit. “A call? Nobody came in and reported it?” I asked.
“Nope, a phone call to the office. You got it?” he asked.
“I guess. What is your twenty?”
“In the office,” he said. Of course, he was, schmoozing with the desk girls. On light duty with broken ribs, fuckin’ Sam. He ought to be out in the rain fixin’ the leak.
But bein’ responsible for the leak was partly my fault. I took Travis aside earlier and told him I should be doin’ more of the skilled work and less of the trash pickup shit. Plumbing was skilled work, so it was gonna be me. Shot myself in the foot there.
“Go in the back room and get the toolbox. Also, grab me a Hawaiian Punch from the vending machine. I’ll pay you back. Bring the stuff out front. I’m comin’ by now,” I said.
“Roger,” he said.
I pulled up, and he set the toolbox in the back and gave me my drink. I mixed the Hawaiian Punch with the vodka and had a much tastier cocktail.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up and parked in front of the shower house and got out, grabbin’ the toolbox from the back seat. It was heavy, and I felt my body leanin’ to the right as I walked up to the screen door.
I turned around and squinted to take another look at the white van I passed on the way over. It was parked in front of an empty tent lot. That was odd because nobody was rentin’ those. It did have a campground hangtag in the window, but why park there? It was away from everything. After fixin’ the leak, I would have to go take a closer look.
Nobody was in the shower house, which was good. I saw the leakin’ sink as soon as I went in. Should be an easy fix.
I set the toolbox down. I lit a cigarette, opened the box, and got out a set of channel locks. I thought about goin’ out to get my drink from the golf cart but figured I wouldn’t be there long. Bendin’ over, I clamped the wrench on the pipe. I slowly started pullin’ clockwise, tightenin’ it.
Suddenly, something slammed underneath my chin from behind. My head was jerked back, liftin’ me to my feet, and then my feet were off the floor. I started to gag. I couldn’t breathe. My wrench fell and clanged on the floor loudly. The cigarette dropped from my mouth. I tried to claw at the arm around my neck. A pain shot through my left shoulder.
I looked up at the mirror above the sink and saw it was Clemmons behind me. That black son of a bitch. He was snarling with the effort, his face shiny with sweat, leanin’ back, pullin’ on my neck tighter and tighter.
I was seein’ stars. My throat was gurgling as I tried to yell out. The room was goin’ black.
Mike 15
9:00 p.m.
I was gasping for air as I lowered Chuck’s dead weight to the ground. Dude was heavier and feistier than I expected. I was glad he dropped that wrench; it could have been a problem if he would have swung that back at me.
His neck was pretty damned fat. I was starting to doubt if I had the strength to squeeze his jugular. I walked quickly over and shut the storm door, bolting it.
I rolled Chuck to his side, putting him in the rescue position. He was out cold, breathing heavily, a thick, wet sound. He coughed a few times and moaned. Chuck’s lit cigarette had landed on a dry spot on the floor, and I stomped it out.
I reached into my pocket and took out a black zip tie. Rolling him on his stomach, I fastened his hands together tightly, like I had done dozens of times to prisoners when I was deployed. I never had one of those prisoners break free from a botched handcuffing, and this fucking guy was not going to be the first.
After I double-checked his wrists, I rolled him on his side. His clothes were soaked from sweat and the water puddles on the floor.
I went over to the front window and looked out. It was dark and quiet, with a light rain still falling.
I examined Chuck closely, lowering down to listen to his breathing. The strong smell of vodka and cigarettes on his breath made me wince. His breathing was deep, as though he was just taking a power nap. I decided to wait on the gag.
Frisking him, I found two cell phones, a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a small baggy of what appeared to be marijuana, a lighter, and a pocketknife. I assumed Chuck left his golf cart key in the ignition. I peeked outside again and unlocked the door.
It was steadily drizzling as I walked over to his cart. The key was in the ignition on a ring with several other keys. I retrieved my bag and threw it into the back of the golf cart. I put Chuck’s channel locks in his toolbox and loaded it in the cart.
After checking my surroundings one more time, I dragged Chuck out by putting my hands under his armpits and pulling him backward. It wasn’t too difficult on the wet tile floor, but more of an effort on the cement.
With a grunt, I managed a fireman’s-carry lift and plopped him in the passenger seat. I put his seatbelt on, which was a lap belt without a shoulder harness, and leaned him toward the center.
I went back to the shower house and removed the sign, putting it in my bag. I started the golf cart and put it in reverse, backing out. Shifting it to forward, I rode alongside the shower house, driving across the wet grass until I found the dirt trail. Luckily the trail wasn’t too saturated with water from the rain, and I was able to maneuver okay.
I didn’t use the headlights. The streetlights beside the shower house and the basketball courts were enough to light the path. I followed the trail up until it veered west and went along the swampy coast area.
Data 8
9:10 p.m.
My stomach dropped as I ended the call. Sam told me to meet Sullivan at his camper and start documenting his government datasets. Since it was after hours, we wouldn’t log into his work systems, but I could start mapping out the architectures and look at some of the existing data extracts that he saved. So, I was progressing toward something that looked awfully similar to treason.
I asked Patrick to cover the security booth, and he didn’t complain, which was surprising. I never understood why anyone complained about sitting idly in a booth. Chuck had been called to fix a water leak at the east shower house, so it was on Patrick to cover security.
I winced when I imagined Chuck trying to repair a complex plumbing issue. My guess was he was making it worse. Maybe he got trapped inside the shower house and drowned after it flooded. That would be tragic.
I put on my Sandusky Shores yellow poncho in case it started raining harder. I went outside and got into one of the yellow work carts, sweeping the puddle of rain from the seat with the edge of my hand. It was a short walk over to Brady’s RV, but it was drizzling and made more sense to drive.
The rain suppressed most activity across the campground. I was riding through a ghost town. My walkie-talkie crackled, and a voice came across.
“Data. You there, Data?”
“Roger, is that you, Chuck?” I asked. There was a long pause as I pulled up to the west shower house, a few lots down from Sullivan’s. I guided it under the narrow awning, which partially shielded the work cart from the rain.
