AGGIE DROVE DOWN the cul-de-sac and up the driveway in front of the run-down garage. “There’s not much to eat inside,” Stephanie apologized as the women stepped from the car. “And you might have to help me open the garage door. It didn’t work last time.”
“I had that problem once,” remarked Maggie. “My daughter had to show me how to pull a rope to manually lift the door.”
Stephanie blushed slightly. “Oh, so that’s what the little rope is for. I thought it was to tell you how far to pull the car in. I always stop when it’s even with my windshield.” She fumbled in her handbag for her keys and turned to look next door. Joan’s car was parked in the drive. “Thank goodness Al’s not out or he’d be over here harassing us. Believe me, you don’t want to meet him.” She shuddered at the thought. “He’s the grossest man I’ve ever met.”
Maggie swung open the screen door as Stephanie reached for the lock. A bright orange notice laying between the door and the screen caught her eye. Picking up the paper, she read aloud the first few words:“Three-Day Notice to Vacate.”
Safely inside, Stephanie slumped down on the couch and read: “You are hereby ordered to vacate the premises and surrender possession of the subject premises to the Owner. If you fail to vacate the subject premises within three days after this notice is served upon you, you will be deemed guilty of an unlawful detention and legal action will be taken against you. . . .”
“Oh, dear,” she gasped. “Mitch promised he’d take care of it before he left town. Now what am I going to do?”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Maggie said, putting an arm around her young friend. “Well, we’ll just have to deal with it, won’t we?”
Stephanie felt like the ground was quaking beneath her. “How can we? Three days? We can’t possibly move out in three days.”
Maggie pondered the matter. “Let’s take things one step at a time. Why don’t you see if you can call Mitch’s hotel while I clean up the kitchen. You’d be surprised how being single has toughened up this old woman.” Maggie lowered her voice to a high alto, at best, and flexed her flabby arms.
Stephanie laughed–then began to cry, daubing the tears that appeared on her cheeks. “That’s exactly what Mitch does when I complain about Al.”
Both women lit into their assigned tasks, Maggie humming a tune in the kitchen, Stephanie growing more frustrated by the minute. The hotel Mitch had planned to stay in said he never checked in. The registration office at the National Vocational Competition claimed he hadn’t registered, either.
In the house next door, Al sat snoring in his easy chair. A collection of empty beer cans cluttered the floor to his right. A handful of cigarette butts peppered the residual brew on the carpet. The noontime news blared from the television as Andy wandered up from the basement in nothing but his leopard-print bikini underwear. He opened the fridge. With a cold blast of indignation and a string of crude language, the younger Kostecki marched to the living room and gave the pile a wild kick, sending droplets of beer, cigarette ashes and empty containers scattering in his wake.
The flames long since fed and fanned, Al exploded awake in a violent verbal brawl of his own. The vulgarities soon led to a swinging of fleshy arms and doubled fists, one that connected squarely with the side of Andy’s listless head.
The young Kostecki careened across the living room, colliding with the dividing wall to the kitchen. As he hit, the sheetrock crumpled like a used tissue under his bulk. Recovering his senses, Andy clambered up and shouted, “What was that for?” Then, brushing sheetrock dust from his arms and thighs, the young troublemaker tried to reason with his bully-of-adad. “You drank my beer again. You . . .”
Another string of Russian cuss words cut Andy off. The boy knew better than to wake Al from his morning nap–when suddenly the elder man started to laugh. “You broke the vall, you stupid vomans man!”
Andy didn’t see what was so funny. “Yeah, so?”“Andy glanced at the stairway leading to the basement. “She’s so hung over she wouldn’t know the difference. And for a couple of beers she’ll . . .”
“Shut up in there!” Joan screamed from the bedroom. “I’m trying to get some sleep!”
Fearing the wrath of the tough old broad, the men lowered their voices. “I put beer back soon,” Al vowed. “I find dat girl next door, I make ‘nough money to buy beer for three months.”
Andy appeared puzzled. “What about the girl next door?”
“Watch. She come back, I get paid big bucks.” Both men gazed out the window to the next house.
Andy flinched. “It looks like your lucky day, pops. Someone’s there.”
Al snatched up the phone. Outside, he could see Maggie’s gold Saturn.
“Look! It’s come unplugged,” Maggie said, pointing at the garage door opener. “Let’s get a chair and plug it back in.”
With the cord back in the outlet and a touch of the control clipped on the visor of the Camaro, the double-wide door–its gears knocking and squealing–groaned upward. Stephanie took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Finally,” she muttered.
“Don’t you worry about the house, Stephanie,” Maggie consoled. “It’s probably nothing. We can sort through it after work. And I have a few dollars you can use if you need to.”
“It’s not just the house; it’s Mitch. Where is he?”
“I’ll bet he’ll call you at work this afternoon, or at my house this evening. He’s probably so busy he forgot to let you know that his plans had changed.” Maggie went out the front door and walked to her car. “I’ll meet you back at the office.”
Climbing into the tidy ‘97 Saturn, Maggie backed out into the street to wait for her coworker to follow in the Camaro.
From next door Andy yelled at his old man. They’re leaving! You’d better do something fast!”
Maggie pulled down the street a few yards and watched in her rearview mirror as Stephanie backed down the driveway. Confident that her young friend was safe, she then coasted to the end of the street and rounded the corner.
Reaching up to the visor, Stephanie pressed the door opener and waited for the garage door to shut. It rolled down a few inches, then jerked to a stop and retracted back to its open position. She tried again. The motor, nearly shorted out, again refused to push the door down. Stephanie glanced over at the Kostecki home. Al was nowhere to be seen. It was then she remembered Mitch’s itinerary, sitting inside on the countertop. The airline could confirm if he had made his flight. Leaving the car idling on the driveway, she took one last peek over at the neighboring house and made a dash for the open garage.
Meanwhile, Al had bolted from the front room and out the back door. Together with his no-good son, he lumbered out onto the street and up the driveway, stopping in front of the garage. Al panted like a dog on the prowl. “Go to front door. . . . Now I show the girl real man.” Andy backtracked to the idling Camaro and, leaning through the driver’s-side window, yanked the keys from the ignition.
Inside the house, Stephanie folded the itinerary and shoved it in her handbag. Then she headed back to the garage. The sound of the overhead garage door creaking closed stopped her in her tracks. Looking up she watched the door handle turn. “Maggie, is that you?” No one answered. “Maggie?” The eery silence made the hair on her neck stand on end.
Two blocks away Maggie pulled to the side of the road to make sure Stephanie was still following. She hadn’t rounded the corner from the cul-de-sac.
Meanwhile, Stephanie fled to the front door, her only means of escape. Just then Al shoved his fat head through the garage door, a lewd grin stretched across his cheeks. Stephanie twisted the deadbolt. The flimsy door burst inward, knocking her to the ground. Andy scampered in, closed the door behind him and set the broken bolt. “Where’s your man?” he smiled, hitching up his bikini shorts.
Stephanie wriggled backwards in a desperate bid to escape. Al reached down from behind and grabbed a fistful of her long blond hair and jerked her to her feet. Only a slight whimper slipped from her lips. “This vitch say I not real man. Time real man teach you thing or two.”
Stephanie’s adrenaline rocketed; then her mind kicked in. “My friend will be back here any second,” she warned, her nostrils flaring in a mixture of rage and dread.
“Andy,” yelled the louse of a neighbor, “turn on stereo with good rock and roll. Make loud so nobody hear screams.” Andy cranked up the music as Al jerked Stephanie’s face up close to his. “Real men always make vomans scream. Here, I show you.” He reached out and grabbed at Stephanie’s blouse. In turn, she reached out and dug her nails deep into the wretch’s face.
With a violent back-handed clout Stephanie was knocked to the floor. Andy, his hormonal urges raging, joined in, latching tightly onto the woman’s wrists and pinning her to the floor. With Al holding her by the ankles, the two hulking men made her desperate struggle seem futile.
Just as the gold Saturn pulled up the driveway, Joan stomped out from her back door. In a tattered, gaping robe and dingy slippers, she marched out to her car, picked up a baseball bat from behind the seat and came toward Maggie. Seeing the wild woman–wigless, sullenfaced, completely determined–Maggie fought the panicky chill that ran up her arms. She reached over and locked her door, then rummaged through her purse for the small canister of pepper mace she kept for just such occasions.
The woman marched right past Maggie’s car to where the Camaro stood, reached through the open window and pressed the garage door opener. The door began to groan open. Turning her steely gaze on Maggie, she gave a stern jerk of the head–an invitation for her to follow.
When Maggie climbed from the car, she was greeted by the beat of pounding rock music coming from inside the house. By the time Maggie caught up to the fierce woman, she already had her ear pressed up against the garage door, listening. “They’re up to no good.” She motioned to the mace in Maggie’s hand. “You know how to use that?” Still confused but rapidly grasping the gravity of the moment, Maggie nodded and raised the canister.
Joan twisted the knob and butted the door inward. Maggie followed. An unspeakably grim sight met their eyes. Two wild animals intent on their prey, one sitting on Stephanie’s legs, ripping at her skirt, while Stephanie, thrashing and screaming, clawed and scratched at Andy’s wrists. Joan leapt across the kitchen floor like a savage ninja, swinging the bat with all her might. Her second, boomerang blow found its mark, landing at the base of her husband’s skull. Apparently Al’s head was the one rock solid part of his body, because the sharp whack seemed to not faze the aroused animal in the least. The third arcing swing, however, caught him flush on the cheekbone, just below the right eye, and Al crumpled to the floor like a fat walrus.
Andy, meanwhile, had jumped to his feet and, while dodging her blows, was attempting to harness the maddened woman. He managed to grab hold of his mother just as she cocked to unleash yet another swipe. But it was Maggie who stepped to bat and delivered a home-run hit of pepper spray, sending Andy sprawling to his knees near his father.
Stephanie sat up and wrapped her arms around her quivering knees. Tears streaking her face, she brought her hands to her chest to secure her blouse. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered in shock, her words drowned out by Andy’s cries and the unrelenting beat of the music. Maggie knelt and cradled her friend in her arms, vainly trying to curb her own shakes and shivers. “It’s over now, you poor thing. It’s over.”
Joan sat nearby, whimpering in pain. Traces of over-spray from the disabling liquid had spattered back into her face. She groped her way toward the sink and splashed at her searing eyes. Then she stumbled into the living room to squelch the noise coming from the radio. Great sobs came from her chest. Far worse in its effect than the hot javelin of pepper mace, a boundless rage and disgust burned deep within. Her words came out in a raspy monotone. “I should’ve done that years ago.” She sagged at the foot of the couch, panting, blinded by pain and despair. “Hope I killed him. . . . He’s nothin’ but a . . .” Her salty words were cut short by a violent coughing fit. “Cops’ll be here . . . any minute,” she sputtered. “I–I knew they was up . . . to no good the–the second they left the house.” Another series of retching coughs reduced Joan to a pathetic lump who could barely find the strength to wipe her runny nose and weepy eyes with her robe’s frazzled fringe.
The single squad car arrived only seconds before Agents Barnes and Horne pulled to the curb, almost 15 minutes from the original call. Clint eased into the cul-de-sac and circled back out. Climbing from their vehicle, the agents watched him drive away. Barnes made a mental note of the man’s face and car’s plates. Then, squinting down at the name tag pinned to the crisp blue shirt and drawing his Federal ID from his jacket, he addressed the police officer.
“Officer . . . Fitzgerald, I’m Agent Barnes. You on the job?”
“Domestic. . . . Regulars. Looks like it spilled into the house next door. Can you back me up?”
Halfway up the walk the men paused. A woman’s shrill scream poured from the closed doorway in front. “Lay back down, or I’ll open your thick skull like I did your old man!”
In reply came a younger man’s defiant voice. “He’s going to kill you–if he ain’t already dead!”
“No, Andy. He did that a long time ago. There’s so many times I wished I was dead . . .”
Barnes motioned Horne to take the garage. Fitzgerald tugged at his vest and banged on the screen door. Crouching to the side, he called out, “Police!”
“Come in!” the woman barked. The sound of crashing pots and pans and elevated voices reverberated throughout the house.
Tugging on the screen door’s latch, Fitzgerald discovered it was locked.
Simultaneously from inside the garage, Agent Horne cracked the door open and peered into the kitchen, where there stood Joan’s own flesh-and-blood, a bat in his hand, shaking it at his mother, who lay on the floor. “You ain’t got it in you, you old whore,” threatened the son, still reeling from the sting of pepper spray. Turning toward the front door, Andy yelled, “Stay out, cop, or I’ll bust the old lady good!”
Horne’s pulse went into overdrive as he sized up the situation. He was pretty sure the kid didn’t know he was there. Did protocol allow him to enter and take out the guy? Or should he stay put for the moment?
“Andy, is that you?” Fitzgerald yelled through the screen.
“I ain’t kiddin’,” Andy snarled. “You stay out or I’ll bust her good!”
“Andy, it’s Officer Fitzgerald. You’ve got to calm down now and not do anything to make the situation worse.”
Andy let a string of profanities slide off his tongue. Then he cursed his mother, blaming her for the puddle of blood his old man was lying in.
Fitzgerald appealed to the kid’s sense of logic. “If the old man’s hurt, don’t you think we better get an ambulance on the way?”
“Yeah, do that. Get an ambulance before he bleeds to death.” Through the pain and blurred vision, Andy looked away from his mother, trying to focus on the pitiful sight of his old man, lying face down on the floor.
Fitzgerald leaned to the mike on his shoulder, summoning both back up and an ambulance. Horne seized the split second distraction and burst through the kitchen door, his gun aimed at Andy’s chest. “FBI!” he yelled. “Drop the bat and lay down on the floor!”
Andy wheeled on the balls of his feet, his foggy eyes staring down the barrel of a new Glock-23.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged, dropping the bat and cowering to the floor. “We didn’t do nothin’. We was just teasin’her, is all.”
Backing up Fitzgerald from on the porch, Barnes listened to the new voice from inside the house. “That’s my partner.” Both men tore at the screen, wrenching the door open.
By now Joan had raised herself to her feet and slogged into the kitchen. Amid all the noise and confusion, she again snatched up the bat. Horne called out. The bat came down with a crack. Andy screamed in pain and grabbed at his limp arm. A shot rang out, and the bat fell from Joan’s hand, bounced end-to-end on the floor and rolled to a stop at the base of the cupboards. Barnes and Fitzgerald, having entered the scene, bulldozed Andy into the wall and down onto his stomach. Despite a broken arm, they cinched the cuffs up tight. Then they attended to the gaping wound in Joan’s arm.
Down the hall in the bedroom, a chair propped up against the door, Stephanie and Maggie huddled against the wall of clothing in the closet. The screams, the fighting, the gun shot–it sounded like the house was being torn apart. A minute later there came a loud knock at the barricaded door. “It’s over, ladies. I’m Federal Agent Barnes. You can come out now. Everything’s secured.”
Maggie helped Stephanie to her feet and led her to the bed before unblocking the door. Stephanie collapsed sideways on the mattress, arms drawn to her chest and knees to her stomach, a mother protecting her unborn children. The trembling, the shock, the harrowing impact of what she’d witnessed would not go away.
“Shh, shh,” Maggie soothed, brushing a clump of tear-soaked hair from the growing bruise on the girl’s cheek. “I’m here; everything’s safe now.”
Barnes, still following the draconian rules of the department, brandished his identification and cautiously kept his distance as he spoke. “Are you hurt?”
“Mostly traumatized,” Maggie replied, continuing to stroke Stephanie’s hair. She stepped a bit closer to the agent and whispered, “She’s the poor girl they were after.”
“Two more ambulances are on the way. We need to get her to the hospital for an examination. . . .” Barnes’s eyes narrowed. “Was she raped?” It was never an easy question to ask.
Maggie shook her head. “No, thank goodness. That brave little lady next door stopped them.”
“I have several questions . . .” Barnes hesitated. “–but they can wait.” He bent over the prone figure, speaking softly. “Mrs. Wilson, I need to look around. Is that okay?” A terse nod sent Barnes out of the room.
The ambulances arrived, along with the brass from the Las Vegas PD, a female agent, and one of the Bureau’s forensics special agents.
Three hours later, Stephanie and Maggie were sitting in the office of the FBI to be interviewed. The forensics expert had confirmed that the blood from Mitch’s driveway matched that of Agent Mike Hale. And Ritter? Still stubbornly closed-mouthed, he was resting in a Federal cell two floors down. There he lay, waiting for his answer to a 50 thousand dollar question.
All the evidence pointed to an open-and-shut case. Agent Barnes had called the SAC’s office to request a Federal warrant be issued for the arrest of Mitchell Ray Wilson for the suspected murder of Federal Agent Mike Hale.
It was a killer migraine that plagued Logan Field, 52-year-old Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas district. After swallowing the pill with a glass of water, he slumped at his desk, eyes closed, his knuckles pummeling his temples. The day’s crazy events–coupled with the still-missing agent–rested like anvils on his pounding brain. Angling the heel of his hand, he massaged at his shiny forehead, then ran his fingers across his thinning, short-cropped stand of salt-and-pepper hair and down his tight neck. The muscles that connected at the base of his skull seemed to be the source of the throbbing.
Finally letting go of the nape of his neck, Field muttered, “So, this Ritter guy won’t give it up without money?”
Barnes shook his head. “He’s ready to lawyer up.”
“And you think Hale’s dead and that this Mitchell Wilson is to blame?”
Barnes nodded. “No doubt, he’s involved.”
“His wife willing to talk?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if we get enough on him, she’ll decide to give him up.”
“What are the chances Mr. Ritter can post bail on assault charges?”
“Virtually none. He’s a vagrant. He’s got nothing to lose, everything to gain.”
Field slid his wire-rim glasses down his nose, stuck a finger in the corner of his tired, bloodshot left eye, and pushed. “I’ll give you one day. If you find Hale’s body, we’ll tell Mr. Ritter to take a hike. Otherwise, for the family’s sake, you pay the price.” Field inched the drooping glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t lost an agent in nine years. I was hoping to retire that way.”
Barnes nodded. “I know, sir.”
As Barnes turned to leave, Fields said, “Oh, one more thing. Have this Mitchell Wilson arraigned on assault, not murder. And leave Hale’s name out of the court. We don’t need the media on this thing yet.” He drew the glasses from his face and squeezed his eyes shut. “Have you talked to Agent Hale’s contact?”
Barnes shook his head and issued a clicking sound with his cheeks. “He never would disclose the name–said it was too risky.”
“Find him. Maybe he can shed some light on this whole thing. Call Salt Lake and get their office on it as well.” He replaced the glasses on his nose. “Three months to go,” he lamented, “and I lose a borrowed man from Utah. Issue the warrant. Do whatever it takes to find Wilson.”