HIRTY-SIX HOURS STRAIGHT without sleep was taking its toll. All Stacey wanted to do was go home and crash. He rode in the passenger seat of Mr. White’s car, frazzled, gazing out the window. A few times a minute White would check his rearview mirror, watching the car following them. “We’ll get back at it tomorrow Stacey. It looks like those feds’ll let you sleep with both eyes shut.”
It was the first touch of humor Stacey had seen in the man. “Yup,” was all he could manage.
Mr. White let Stacey out in front of his apartment. Stacey trudged up the stairs, unlocked the door and headed for the kitchen.
Suddenly a spiked object drove deep into Stacey’s right leg. Shocked with pain, he lurched against the wall. Looking down, he saw a blade sticking out of his thigh, connected to some sort of springloaded contraption. Attached was a note with the words little turd scribbled across it. Through the open door, Stacey yelled down to the street where his federal friends had parked for the night. He then removed the note, slipped it into his pocket, and yanked the blade from his thigh. The blood poured down his leg as he limped to the bathroom for a towel to tie off the wound.
The agents cautiously entered the dwelling. Seeing the trail of blood and the spring-trap, they quickly placed a call to Buseth.
For more than an hour Don had shared his dreams with her, future visions that seemed to align with her own. After the conversation with Mr. White, he’d finally been able to see the brighter possibilities that lay ahead. He’d even talked about attending a church meeting or two.
Cecily, still cuddled up against him on her couch, could feel the rhythmic thump of his heart. Soon he’d have to go home. She nestled closer.
“We need the HAZMAT unit....No sir, we’re in the process of sealing off the area now. I expect it was Peck’s work....He’s been stabbed. We’re not sure if the blade was infected....Nope, we still haven’t recovered the source.” Buseth hung up his phone.
Stacey was confused. “Who’s Peck?”
“Colonel David Ray Peck—‘Bingham’ to you. He was known in Virginia as Hales, and goes by at least ten other aliases. Now we’ll see about your injuries.”
Stacey felt light-headed. Blood was soaking his pants. His leg throbbed with pain.
“That doesn’t look too good,” muttered Buseth. “The bullet that killed your detective Derickson had small traces of ‘VN twenty dash three-five-two’ on it. The trace is what killed your friend, not the bullet itself.”
“You think he might have infected me?”
“Let’s hope you have his only source of the chemical.”
A semi truck bearing a 60-foot trailer pulled up in front of Stacey’s apartment. Automatic hydraulic feet descended and pumped up from the ground, leveling the four sides of the trailer. Four men in protective suits and breathing equipment got out and unfolded a stretcher. Entering the kitchen, they scooped up Stacey and carried him out. An automatic ramp lowered from the back of the trailer and they marched him up the ramp. A pair of heavy doors slammed shut behind them.
A mask was placed over Stacey’s face as he was prepped for surgery. He quickly slipped into unconsciousness.
Christina awoke in the most beautiful place she’d ever slept. It was like the movies: king-sized bed, plush carpet, a walk-in closet the size of a normal bedroom. The night before, they’d relaxed in the marble hot-tub with gold faucets and mirrors on the ceiling. Then they’d eaten the best ice cream—imported from Italy—Christina had ever tasted. She’d managed to push the ugliness of the orchard away from her mind and had done her best to keep the peace with her mother.
Loran hadn’t returned before Christina went to bed. She and Monica had caught up on everything that had happened in the month they were apart. Monica went first, telling about the European vacations, all the fine food they ate, the clothing and jewelry he’d bought her. Finally Christina drifted off to sleep while listening to her mother tell about her visit to Neuschweinstein Castle in Germany. Christina didn’t get a chance to tell her mother about her experience with Melvin, and her mother hadn’t asked.
Easing herself up out of bed, Christina padded into the kitchen, where she fixed herself a bowl of fruit. She was anxious to get to school. Timidly knocking on the door to her mother’s bedroom, it finally opened a crack, enough to see her mother’s scantily dressed body and the dark, sunken, faraway look in her eyes.
“Mom, I’m going to be late for school.”
“Shhh—I’ll be out in a minute,” croaked her mother. “Who is it?” Loran’s deep voice emanated from the bed. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ve got it.”
A few moments later Monica emerged wearing a silk robe. “Honey,
“Mom, I don’t want to go to some fancy school. I want to be where my friends are.” The volume of her voice climbed. “You can’t just start deciding what my whole life’s going to be like.”
Monica reached over and clamped her hand over Christina’s mouth. “Let’s take this conversation to the kitchen,” she coaxed.
Christina pulled away. She was losing control. “I have a life, too, one that I’m happy with!...you might think the only way to be happy is to have lots of money and get high!”
Monica had heard enough. She drew back her arm and let loose, slapping her daughter across the face. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, young lady!”
Outraged and near tears, Christina glared into her mother’s eyes. They were similar to those she’d seen once before, on the tree house roof—deep, dark, empty. Her hands began to shake as she remembered.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” Monica announced, storming from the room.
Afraid, hurt, embarrassed...Christina needed to get out of there. Her only thought was to return home. She headed for the outside door. Glancing back, she could see her mother’s bent body leaning over a coffee table. Christina knew exactly what she was doing.
Even in the early-morning hours the police station was abuzz. Just coming in, Mr. White learned that Olsen had called in to report a vehicle in the river. White arrived to find a wrecker trying to pull the heavy, water-logged load from the muddy embankment. Just then, the wrecker’s cable snapped, sending the load back into the water.
“I can’t get hold of Stacey,” Olsen yelled over the roar of the river and the noise of the wrecker.
A second, larger rig arrived. The operator climbed across the bottom of the overturned vehicle and hooked his cable to the front frame. Returning to the bank, he pulled down on his hydraulics. The cable tightened and the vehicle’s front end again began to lift from the swollen river. It rose straight up, teetered, then slammed to the ground. The force of the water inside the vehicle blew the driver’s door off its hinges. As it burst open, the bloated body of a man in his mid-twenties slumped halfway out the door. White made a mental guess as to who the man was. Mitch opened the passenger’s door and rifled through the glove box, scrounging through the wet papers.
“Looks like it’s registered to William Vaughan of Spanish Fork.” Along with mud and debris from the river, several beer cans littered the floor.
“Let’s get the coroner on his way,” Olsen ordered. “See if we can figure out where he went into the river.”
Don clocked in at seven-thirty. There was a backlog of work to get done, plus he needed to be with Christina when she went to see Doctor Wendy. If Mr. White’s plan didn’t work, it’d take a passel of money to get his daughter back. He looked forward to seeing Cecily at lunch. All morning long he found it hard to keep his mind on anything but the two young ladies he cared so much about.
The mile-and-a-half walk to Kate’s house was well under way before Monica had even realized Christina was gone. The deputies offered the girl a ride, but she refused. Kate pulled to the curb and waved them off before opening the door for Christina to climb in. Kate’s phone rang a few minutes after the two walked in the door.
“Kate, it’s Monica. Have you heard from Christina?” “She’s standing here next to me with a welt that resembles a hand print on her face. How dare you, Monica?” Christina had never seen her so protective. “Do you have any clue what this child’s been through the last few days? Do you?”
“I guess I don’t.”
“Pure hell, that’s what! Don’t you dare come back here until you get some help. Alan and I will spend every penny we have taking away your parental rights.” Kate slammed down the receiver.
He awoke to the sound of a metal door closing. Rolling onto his side, he peered out the window into a dark, empty room. The stainless steel countertops were bare; the men in white suits had vanished. An unknown voice came from a speaker mounted on the wall. “How do you feel, Mr. Stacey?”
“Like I just slept on a slab of cold concrete.”Stacey sat up and stretched his arms and back. He slid from the table, his right leg now fitted with a brace. He actually felt quite refreshed from the drug-induced sleep.
“If you feel good enough to drive, you’ll find an automobile with keys in the ignition and the paperwork in the glove box. Do as you please with the car. You’ll also find on the passenger seat a phone and your radio and weapon.” The metal door buzzed. Stacey picked up a single crutch and started to exit. The voice once again blurted from the box. “Your friend seems to be recovering quite well and your dog is still resting at the veterinarian’s. You may call Mr. White and tell him you’re back.”
“Did you find Bingham?” Stacey asked as he opened the door. “Agent Buseth will be in touch with you soon. I’m sorry I can’t discuss the matter any further. We’re sorry to have inconvenienced your community. Please see a doctor in the next few days to have your leg checked. Goodbye, Mr. Stacey. And good luck.”
Stacey opened the outer door and limped down a set of metal steps. Stepping off the last one, they hummed and retracted. The trailer’s four hydraulic feet whined and withdrew at the corners, its diesel engine roared to life, and the big rig rolled away down the dusty road. Stacey, leaning on his crutch, glanced behind him to see the captain’s Lexus parked alongside the road. Not another person or vehicle was in sight. He hobbled to the car and opened the door. Everything was exactly as he’d been told it would be. Settling into the leather driver’s seat and swinging his stiff leg inside, he started the car and picked up the phone. His first call was to Mr. White.
“This is Stacey.”
“Feeling better, Officer Stacey?”
“Yes. I’m parked on the edge of the orchard.”
“Good. Let’s meet and discuss the love note you received from your dear Captain Bingham.”
Mr. Bill Penrod sat in his corner office, absentmindedly staring down onto Main Street. For five years he’d been bank president, starting off as a lowly teller 22 years earlier. That was back in his college days. It didn’t take long to make loan officer, then he was promoted to assistant vice president at his hometown branch. Here, under his watchful eye, the bank flourished, even through the tough ‘80s. When the branch president retired, he was made president.
The town had grown—and so had the bank, having outperformed every other branch in the chain. He gazed fondly at the photo of his wife and children on his desk, feeling a little less guilty each passing day. Perhaps, finally, after a long stretch of dark days, he was in the clear. The blond-haired teller no longer disrupted his daily thoughts, and no one from upper management had called to find out why millions of dollars were being shuffled from one account into many smaller ones.
His secretary buzzed him. “Mr. Penrod, a Mr. Phelps with the federal government is here to see you.” His heart jumped, then seemed to stop. Suddenly flushed, small beads of sweat began to break out on his wrinkled brow. Was this to be the day that everything fell down around him?
“Send him in, Ms. Lund.” He wished he could crawl into a crack. Dressed in suit and tie, a slender, balding man in his mid-fifties limped into his office. He carried a dark brown briefcase in one hand; the other was tucked in a sling under his suit. He set his case down and took a small black booklet from his suit coat pocket. Opening it up, he lifted the identification and stuck the badge in Penrod’s face. “Agent M. Phelps,” he chirped. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, please.”Settling into a chair, Agent Phelps’s body momentarily sagged to one side. Catching himself, he straightened up to compensate for the missing portion of his backside. “I’m a surveillance special agent assigned to a task force, Mr. Penrod. We’ve recently been monitoring the movements of a young lady who worked for you.”
Phelps’s presence was generating the desired effect. The banker fought to keep his wits about him, but he was betrayed by the sweat now trickling down his face and by the heavier, more irregular breathing. “I’m not feeling so good—haven’t all day...” moaned the banker. “Must be a touch of the flu...” He lay his head on the desk, imagining himself behind bars, “property” of a 300-pound tattooed muscle man named “Monster”; he’d lose his wife and family, all because of his infidelity; and, his financial resources wasted on attorney fees and alimony, he’d have to resort to living in a ratty apartment the rest of his life—if, that is, he ever got out.
“Relax, Mr. Penrod. This visit’s unofficial. Did you know Detective Kiser Derickson?”
Penrod raised his head from the desk, unfurled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. Now he was confused. “He was one of our customers. Yes, I knew him.”
“He was killed by a dangerous man named David Ray Peck. Your town knew him as Captain Daryl Bingham.” Mr. Penrod began to feel sick again. His mind raced back to the night in the field.
The agent went on. “His girlfriend was your teller. We picked her up at the Salt Lake International Airport on her way to Barbados. Bingham was killed two nights ago—a plane crash. Maybe you heard about it on the news.” Mr. Penrod nodded. “I don’t want to cause you any grief, but I have some of the footage we shot of her...uh, interacting with you. Would you like to review those with me?” Phelps placed his case on the table and removed a laptop computer.
“I don’t think it’ll be necessary,” the banker stammered. “I’ve been trying to forget it ever happened.”
Phelps smiled and reached again into his suit pocket. “I have something here that may help me forget it happened, too.” He placed an envelope on the table between them. “If you follow these instructions, you’ll never see or hear from me again.” He latched his case as he stood and walked out of the room. “Goodbye, Mr. Penrod.”
After executing the customary wet kiss and gingerly climbing in the towel-draped backseat, Sig gave a “good riddance” glance through the window. He was back covering his master’s back. But this time, it appeared, they were traveling in style.
Stacey pulled into the driveway of his parents’ home. Buseth was waiting inside the garage as Stacey opened the door and limped inside.
“Right on time, Officer Stacey. Everything is set up to trace the call. With any luck, we can intercept him before he eludes us again.”
“It won’t work. He’s too good to get caught by a phone call.” The phone rang. Buseth gave Stacey the signal to answer it.
“How’s the leg, Officer Stacey?” Bingham taunted. He used his best tough-guy impression—and did a darn good job of it. “Next time I call, I’ll tell you where you can find me to return my property. Don’t let the feds come. I know they’re listening in.” Buseth indeed was giving hand signals to his men as they scrambled to relay the information by computer. “You’ll know why when I call you again at two tomorrow morning. You’d better get that phone of mine charged.” The line went dead.
“A miraculous improvement,” is how the doctors described Barker’s health update. Nearly every tube and monitor had been removed. Only the bolt and drain remained.
His doctor stopped by during rounds. “I’m here to tell you, you’re one very lucky man.” He opened the chart. “When you first came in, I didn’t know if you’d ever walk again. I’ve seen men who had to start from scratch with a blow like the one you took. Do you even know what hit you?”
“Probably a bullet. It got stopped by the night-vision device I was wearing.”
“I think if you continue to recover at this rate, we’ll have you out of here in a week or so.”
Barker smiled up at Debbie, who gave him a wink. Taking his wife by the hand, he gave it a squeeze.
The tailor pinned and marked the expensive silk suit where the alterations needed to be made. All the while Buseth continued to review the plans with him. “If you follow my instructions exactly, we can wrap up this mess and let you get back to a normal life.”
Stacey gave himself the once-over in the mirror. If he could lose the sheepish grin, get a haircut and a shave, and some jewelry that White had borrowed from a downtown connection, he’d come out of there looking like a prosperous man. He turned to Buseth. “I have an undercover operation to attend to this evening. I’ll do exactly as you wish if,” he added for emphasis, “if you stay out of my way and keep Bingham at bay until I’ve finished.”
“Agreed.”
Mitch sat in the Taurus, spearheading a stakeout in front of the fanciest condo in town. In it, Monica was walking on eggshells around a very angry Loran. She couldn’t understand why he was so tense— even after doing her best to satisfy him.
He threw the last of his things in a suitcase and carry-on bag. His tone was threatening. “I’ll be gone five days. I don’t want her here when I come back.”
“You promised she could be part of the family,” pouted Monica, rubbing her body up against his.
“I’ve changed my mind. She’ll be too much trouble.”
“What’d Don say to you, baby? You scared of him?”
Loran pushed her away and delivered a back-handed warning blow. “I ain’t scared a’ nobody. Just make sure she isn’t here when I get back!”
The sharp whack had sent her onto her backside. She could hardly believe he’d hit her. Even Don, at his angriest, had never laid a hand on her. True, she’d slapped a few men when they got a little too fresh, and she’d lost control with her own daughter a few hours before, but she’d never been hit. “I won’t be here either when you get back!” she shrieked as he started out the door.
“Good! You’ll save me the cost of your habit.” The door slammed behind him.