Sandusky Burning, page 29
“Yeah ... listen, I need you to meet me up at the east shower house. I ... I ... need a hand,” he said, sounding raspy and labored. I couldn’t tell if it was a bad signal or he was having some sort of medical episode.
“No can do. I have been ordered elsewhere by management,” I said.
There was another long pause. The radio crackled again. “I ... I will explain to management that you were delayed by me, it ... it will be okay,” he said.
I sighed. As I figured, Chuck had probably screwed things up and was in deep trouble with that leak. I had no plumbing expertise whatsoever, but I was sure it was a common-sense issue and there was something I could do to help. We needed to get a plumber involved if it was getting worse, but that would be Chuck’s call. At worst, we could shut off the building’s water main and close it overnight; the west shower house and the main office facilities were still functioning. I started the work cart and headed up Starling, driving past Sullivan’s camper.
Brady 22
9:20 p.m.
Peering out the small bedroom window of my RV, I saw the yellow work cart drive past my lot. It was difficult to see who was on it, but it had to be the guy who I was supposed to brief on my government technology assets.
The little fat guy with glasses. That was who Sam told me to look for. I recalled a man fitting that description riding around in a work cart, picking up trash. We had never had a conversation, just exchanging nods when we crossed paths.
I hit redial on the burner phone. A second later, Mike answered.
“The IT guy is heading your way, from what I can gather,” I said, closing the blinds.
“Good. In five minutes, get your rain gear on. Cut through your back yard to Sparrow. Walk up to the trail and follow it about thirty meters. Chuck’s golf cart is about halfway down, south of the path. Chuck is hogtied and gagged in the back. I’m going to have this Data guy join him, and all four of us can have a chat.”
“Roger all that,” I said and hung up. I went back into the bedroom and put on a pair of black running sweats and dry-fit socks. I opened the closet and pulled out my biometric safe. Swiping my right pointer finger a few times on the fingerprint sensor, it activated with a click, and the compression gas strut popped the door slowly open.
I took out the Glock, slapped a full clip in, and put the other full clip in my pocket. I removed the holster and placed it on the bed.
Digging in a drawer, I found my black leather work belt. I put it around my waist, slid the holster on, and tightened the belt around my hips. I put the gun in the holster.
I was still surprised that Randy hadn’t taken the gun safe. I think they were so concerned about getting their hooks in my IT stuff that they overlooked it. Even though I was army, I didn’t come across as a weapons guy. They had underestimated me over and over, with good reason, but maybe overlooking my gun was going to cost them.
I put on a long-sleeve blue running shirt, a black Columbus Blue Jackets windbreaker, and a dark-blue Cleveland Indians baseball hat. I didn’t have any waterproof footgear, so my gray running shoes would have to do.
I exited through the exterior bathroom door at the back of the camper, locking it behind me. I figured if I used the back door, then maybe I was less likely to be surveilled from Starling.
I cut through Chris’s lot and went north on Sparrow. Passing Mike’s old site, only scorch marks on the cement and grass remained to suggest that he had ever camped there. I continued past the dumpster up to the trail. With the steady drizzle, no one was outside, so there was almost no risk of being seen.
It was very dark within the woods, especially with the cloud cover blocking the moonlight. A flashlight would have been helpful, but it would have given away my position.
I saw Chuck’s golf cart off to the side and walked cautiously toward it. The figure of Chuck appeared in the back seat as I drew closer, and my eyes continued to adjust to the darkness. I walked alongside the golf cart.
He didn’t react when I walked up. Chuck’s face was very pale, a contrast to its usual ruddiness. His hands were behind his back, and I assumed they were bound. I could see the metal buckle of the seatbelt over his large belly, holding him in.
He was leaning back against the seat awkwardly, with his long hair hanging down into his face, wet and stringy from the rain. The baseball cap he always wore was lying on the floorboard. He was completely motionless.
Glancing east down the trail, I saw two figures walking in the distance. I moved to the side to conceal myself in the trees beside the trail.
The person in front was short and heavy, wearing a big yellow poncho. The guy that Sam called “Data” when he informed me that I was to meet with him tonight. So he could steal my classified government information.
Mike was behind him, marching him up the trail. He appeared to be going willingly; there was no apparent resistance.
As they got closer, I could see that the tech guy was wearing glasses and a yellow hat. His mouth was gagged with a black bandanna.
Mike walked him over, guiding him into the back seat of the golf cart beside Chuck. He cooperated, scooting in and sitting up straight. He bent over a little awkwardly to accommodate his bound hands behind his back. Chuck moved slightly with the tilting of the cart, almost a reflexive adjusting of his position. He continued to stare down at his feet.
“This is Henry, the data guy,” Mike said to me in a voice slightly louder than a whisper.
“I have seen him around. He is one of the less-talkative ones. I don’t think we’ve met,” I said.
“Well, we are going to get to know Mr. Henry Data. He is going to become a lot more talkative. Any of you guys ever hear of the Army Long Range Surveillance Leaders Course? I would expect not. Among the various skills I learned was enhanced interrogation. For you civilians, ‘enhanced interrogation’ is a politically correct way to describe ‘torture.’”
Mike’s demeanor had changed completely. People always claim “I don’t see colors” racially, which was bullshit, unless you had some medical condition with your eyesight. But in Mike’s case, that had been close to true. Culturally, he didn’t act or speak any differently than any of the white guys I hung out with. He spoke with a bit of a twang, but I attributed that to his southern roots.
His eyes were wide and burning, with the water dripping down from his hat and face giving him an unhinged look. He was in full-on angry drill sergeant mode, similar to his demeanor with Sam in the Mexican place, but without the need to be subdued in a busy restaurant. Not just drill sergeant mode, but black drill sergeant mode.
I had a black drill in basic training, and it was terrifying when he was in my face and focusing his full attention on me. Especially if you were a sheltered white guy from the suburbs, like I was, and like I assumed Data was.
Chuck was still motionless. Data looked at him a few times, trying to make eye contact, but Chuck didn’t move. Data shifted from side to side, trying to relieve the discomfort of having his hands bound behind him, and then sat still. The rain picked up a little, beating down through the leaves above.
“Then I spent some time in the desert, and I got to practically apply my enhanced interrogation skills. On people much harder and more committed than you sorry sacks. By the time I was finished with them, they always spilled their guts. They gave me every bit of intel that I demanded. So, I’m going to pose a series of questions and give you the chance to give me truthful answers. If you refuse to answer or you lie to me, I’m going to introduce you to a level of pain that you’ve never felt before in your miserable lives.”
Mike grabbed his gym bag from the floor of the front seat and put it on the seat. He unzipped it.
“These woods, that swamp over there, and the items in this bag provide a lot of options to persuade you to spill your guts. If you are smart, that is exactly what you’ll do right out of the gate here in the comfort of this golf cart. Can I get a word, Brady?”
I nodded. Mike took a step closer to Data and leaned close to him.
“No talking while I’m gone. Not a sound. I’m not going far.”
We walked about twenty yards east. We could partially see the basketball courts and the shower house through the trees.
“Chuck is dead,” he said softly. My head jerked.
“What the fuck,” was all I could manage.
“I guess the stress of my extraction from the shower house was too much. I got him up here and he was able to have a scripted walkie-talkie chat with Data to lure him over to the shower house. But he expired right before I went down to collect Data. There was nothing I could do to help him; he was already gone.”
I frowned. Suddenly he grabbed hold of my windbreaker below the collar and pulled me closer to him.
“Don’t get emotional on me, Brady. You like getting drugged? You like having your picture taken with dead hookers? You like having your daughter poisoned? Do you think I like having what little I own in this world incinerated in an arson job? God knows what else they are doing to other people around here,” he hissed.
I stared down at my shoes as the rain was dripping down from my baseball hat brim. Then I nodded.
“Got it. I’m good, I will follow your lead,” I said.
“Chuck’s death was unexpected, but we can also use it to our advantage.”
Mike walked over to Henry and pulled off his gag. He coughed and wheezed, then spit to the side, breathing heavily. Mike pulled a hunting knife out of a sheath on his side.
“You are in neck-deep with this crooked little squad here that is all about attacking children, burning down RVs, and trying to force patriots like Brady here into committing treason. If you make any noise, I won’t think twice about gutting you. And I won’t lose a minute’s sleep over it. Do you understand that?” he asked. Data nodded vigorously.
“You may have noticed ole Chuck here has been exceptionally quiet. I bet that is the longest he has kept his mouth shut since you’ve known him, right?” Mike asked. Data nodded, almost robotically, water dripping from the edges of his glasses.
“Chuck didn’t fare too well under interrogation. I’m sure his loved ones will be mourning the loss of this pillar of the community for years. I’m guessing you won’t miss him much. I’m thinking that working with him was a continuous pain in the ass,” he said.
Data jerked his head over and looked at Chuck, with his body drooped back against his seat. His facial expression was one of shock, rather than anger or sadness.
“You are younger and probably more resilient than Chuck, although like Chuck, you are in no danger of succumbing to anorexia. We need a lot of answers in a very short amount of time. I’m just holding this knife here to the side as a reminder. I’m a country boy; I’ve gutted deer and all kinds of critters growing up in Georgia. I know my way with a knife around skin, muscle, and bone,” Mike said, laying down his southern drawl a little heavier.
“We can start with your full name,” Mike said. Data’s glasses were beaded with water, and a layer of steam was making it difficult to see his eyes.
“H-Henry Hallux,” he said softly.
“Good. Now I want you to give me a summary of where you are from, what you are doing here, and how you came to be employed as a criminal here at this campground. Not your entire life story, give me the Reader’s Digest version,” Mike said.
I doubted the reference meant anything to a guy his age, but Henry began talking.
Chris 8
9:50 p.m.
I was sitting at the kitchen table in my RV, staring down at my airport ID card. It had my information and picture (with my fancy new haircut) on the front and a barcode on the back. It was laminated and fastened to a blue lanyard. It was an all-access pass to the airport, categorizing me as a pilot.
Just like that, with the snap of Randy’s fingers, I was in. It made no sense; nothing moved that fast in the world of aviation. Unless Randy had this scheme cooking for a while.
It appeared that my checkered slate in the aviation business was wiped clean. Not that it was that sullied before. I was dead to the air-traffic control world, but not necessarily private aviation.
Candy was thrilled. Okay, not visibly excited at all, but she was nice to me for the first time since the jumping pillow incident. Maybe not quite “nice,” but she gave me something resembling a smile.
It was wonderful to be fully welcome back inside my own RV again. Especially since it was raining. Candy was sleeping in the back, and I was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark drinking a beer, my mind racing. The adage about things being “too good to be true” kept infringing upon my mood.
I wanted to smoke a joint to slow down my thinking but knew it was a bad idea. I needed to stick to a reasonable amount of social drinking and show up to the airport tomorrow level-headed.
There was a soft knock at the door. So soft that I thought it was some random outdoor noise at first. Then another knock. I was just wearing a pair of gray Adidas gym shorts and socks, so I stood up, went toward the bathroom, and picked up a black Toledo Mud Hens T-shirt that was balled up on the floor. I put it on and went to the front door, unlocking it and opening it just a crack.
It was Brady. He was wearing a black windbreaker and a blue cap. He looked waterlogged, like he may have been out in the rain for a while.
“Hey man, I’m in for the night, can we talk tomorrow?” I whispered. Brady motioned for me to come out.
“I need your help. Get a windbreaker and your car keys,” he said in a low voice.
I sighed. I stepped out on the metal stairs and closed the door quietly behind me.
“It’s Candy’s car, and she is sleeping. I have work early tomorrow. Now is a bad time,” I said.
He stepped closer. “I really need your help. It should only take an hour,” he said softly.
“Brady ... no, I ...”
Suddenly he grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me closer, making me stumble down the stairs onto the wet grass. He leaned in until the bill of his cap touched my forehead. “Listen, Chris. I really, really need your help,” he almost growled.
“Dude, I trust you, you can borrow her car, maybe put a few dollars of gas in it,” I said.
“I need you and the car. One hour. You are involved in something. They have dirt on you,” he whispered.
“They? What are you talking about?”
“Randy and his crew. That free night in the cabin. There was more to it than just Chuck’s kindness,” he whispered.
I frowned. “Dude, I’m not ...” I started to say, but he interrupted me.
“Listen, there are cameras in those cabins. They have you on tape. Do you want to stand out here and have a convo about video cameras and hookers while your girlfriend is in earshot?” he asked, raising his voice a little.
“Okay, okay ... give me five minutes,” I whispered, exhaling slowly.
“Bring the keys to your construction trailer.”
Mike 16
10:10 p.m.
I figured the complacency of the campground workers would work in our favor, as well as the weather. If I kept Data replying to radio calls and returning texts, there was a good chance no one would miss Chuck or Henry for a few hours.
The only other worker on site was Patrick, the Mexican guy. He didn’t strike me as a go-getter. I pictured him hiding out in the office, security booth, or one of the cabins all evening. Chuck was the guy who liked to patrol, so with him out, maybe no one would be out creeping around until morning.
We needed to get all of the players to gather in Randy’s RV. Create an urgent situation they would all respond to. They needed to be there no later than 0100 hours.
They called it the Taj, which had to be some sort of inside joke. It had appeared unoccupied earlier. We weren’t lucky enough for them to all be on site at the RV for a prearranged get-together.
It hadn’t taken me long to get the name of the guy who poisoned Brady’s kid from Data. Alexander. A Romanian, like Viktor and the dead prostitute. He was one of Randy’s fixer guys, and he would definitely have to be at the party as well.
This was an all-in game of high-stakes poker for Brady and me. If we didn’t resolve this by morning, the retaliation would be swift and harsh. Our element of surprise had a narrow window, and we had to execute.
I was leaning against the golf cart when the burner phone buzzed in my pocket. Henry was still bound and sitting still in the back seat. Chuck was still slumped forward. I took the vibrating burner phone out and saw Brady’s burner phone number on the display.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Yeah, there are no hooks for the chains on site here. Have Chris get hooks from the construction site. Yeah, there should be crane hooks. Get four. And get at least ten two-by-fours, all around four feet long. He should be able to find a saw there and cut them. There was a handsaw in Chuck’s toolbox, but I would rather not be sawing wood out here tonight. Also, we need a crowbar. I’m going to continue chatting with Data. You want to hold on?”
I walked over to the passenger side, putting the phone on speaker. I held it in front of Data.
He looked like a drowned rat. A sad, scared, fat drowned rat. He gave me a look of anger, then realized it was a bad idea and softened it.
“Tell us about the chains at the campground here. Brady mentioned that they were delivered the other day,” I said.
“A couple hundred feet of chain, industrial grade. They were originally used for nautical purposes by the Coast Guard. Travis bought them and has them on a flatbed trailer. He is going to run a decorative fence along the east coastline. We sank a few poles, but that’s about it,” he said.
I switched the phone off speaker and put it to my ear.
“Anything else? Get back here ASAP so I can recon the chains. No, there has been no walkie-talkie traffic. Nobody is missing these clowns yet. Okay, out.”
Brady 23
