Divisible man three nine.., p.25
DIVISIBLE MAN--THREE NINES FINE, page 25
She handed me my phone.
“He’s such a sweetheart, offering to murder you like that.”
“You forget. I worked for him. I heard that every day.”
Lonnie Penn did not answer. After half a dozen rings, a machine voice advised that the person at this number was not available and that I could leave a message at the sound of the tone.
“Miss Penn, this is Will Stewart. We met in LaCrosse. I was the pilot. I need to speak to you. Please call me at this number. I was wrong about your daughter and grandson. There’s a chance they are in some…danger…” Andy winced and shook her head at me. “Please call me. I’m heading for Prince Henry now. It’s urgent.”
I ran out of ideas and ended the call.
“You sounded like you were trying to con her,” Andy said.
“Then she definitely won’t call. That’s already been done.”
El Paso to Prince Henry flight-planned at just under nine hundred miles. The new Navajo had the legs to make the trip, but Andy’s bladder did not, and fuel consumption would leave less than legal reserves on arrival. I laid out a two-leg trip, with a stop at McCook Regional Airport in McCook, Nebraska. At the midpoint stop I suggested taking the airport courtesy car to get some food, but Andy and Donaldson pressed for a fast turnaround. The fuel truck topped us off and we were on our way quickly.
A little before four p.m. I kissed the wheels to the familiar pavement of Prince Henry’s single runway and taxied to the gas pump.
“There’s our ride,” I said, pointing at the old blue Chevy van.
It still smelled like pizza.
52
“Why are we stopping here?” Andy asked.
“Because I’m starving, and this place makes a great burger.” I rolled the van to a stop in front of the White Bluff Motel café, joining a row of parked cars, SUVs and pickups. Business for the early dinner hour looked good. I glanced up at the motel room where Lonnie Penn lost her half million and where I had tossed a large man over the railing onto the windshield of his Dodge Ram pickup. The truck was long gone, and the closed room door upstairs sealed in its secrets.
I took it as a lucky omen to be seated in the same booth I had occupied with Lonnie Penn. Restaurant patrons filled roughly one quarter of the available seating. Two teenaged girls dressed in jeans and t-shirts worked the tables. Their rapid navigation to and from the kitchen distinguished them as staff. I looked through the gap between the front counter and the kitchen to see if the same cook worked the griddle. He did.
We ordered coffee all around to get the neurons firing again after an afternoon of flying. The waitress produced mugs and poured. The brew was decent, though not quite as good as I remembered. We placed a unanimous order for cheeseburgers.
Andy and Donaldson engaged in a low-volume conversation about the best way to locate the ICE officer who handled custody of Gloria Rilling and her son. Donaldson advocated for the FBI to take the lead and go directly to the commander of the ICE unit, being federal siblings. He argued for a full-frontal charge with accusations flying. Andy preferred a quiet approach to the county sheriff, relying on the fellowship of local law enforcement, and not steam rolling him with Donaldson’s federal credentials. The verbal contest continued until the food arrived. I looked up to see the cook himself carrying three plates on his wiry forearms.
He slid the plates onto the table, then stood back and examined Andy.
“This fella’s been in here twice in one week with two of the most beautiful women I ever laid eyes on,” he said to her, earning a smile. “Miss, you blink three times if you’re here against your will.”
Andy laughed and held up her left hand, displaying her modest diamond. “Strictly voluntary.”
“Well, then maybe I shouldn’t’a mentioned t’other one,” he said. “Folks stayin’ at the motel?”
“Just dinner,” Donaldson replied.
“Well, ‘njoy. Holler if you need anything.” He drank in one more appraisal of Andy, then gave me a nod that felt like a blessing.
“Got any mustard?” Donaldson asked.
“No.”
The burger was better than I remembered. After a couple days of sporadic dining, the meals hit the spot. I finished first and slipped out of the booth while Andy and Donaldson resumed their strategy discussion.
Our teenaged waitress gave me a glance but said nothing when I edged my way through the gap in the counter and slipped into the kitchen. The cook worked at a flattop grille full of sizzling meat. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Thought maybe if you stayed, I’d get to see you toss another fella off the balcony. Maybe that cop you’re with out there.”
“He’s federal.”
The cook glanced in Donaldson’s direction and nodded. “Yeah. I guess he is.”
“You thought it was funny,” I said, “when I asked you about law enforcement around here.”
“It was. What with you trying to evade two of them.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. The one I threw off the balcony. You know him?”
“I know ‘em all. Hell, I know ever’body.” He took a moment to slap a cooked patty on a bun and spin the plate around for a load of fries. The plate went up to the service window. He tapped a bell and returned to his griddle. “Found it int’resting you didn’t get hauled off in handcuffs. Them boys didn’t stick around.”
“Deputies?”
“One of ‘em. T’other works for the ICE. You wouldn’t think you’d find ‘em around here, but Prince Henry is some kinda immigration enforcement hub.”
“Which one did I toss?”
“Deputy Arvin Tolliver. That was a piece of work. He’s a big man.”
“He a good man?”
The cook gave it some thought as he plopped fresh meat on the hot steel. “Doesn’t hassle the kids who party here on prom weekend, if that counts. Otherwise, I don’t bother him, and he doesn’t grabass m’ girls out front. If that makes a man good.”
“I thought I might stop and see how he’s doing. You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?”
Something about the cooking process became intensely interesting to the man. He said nothing while meat sizzled. His metal spatula scraped and arranged the fixings. I wondered if I might have asked too much.
“You know,” he said, “t’other one, the ICE fella, I think his name is Schiff, er Schultz, er something like that—no, it’s Schmidt, yeah, that’s it—it sure looked like he left here with a satchel that belonged to Miss Penn. Did you notice that?”
“You don’t miss much.”
“Might that be summin’ you’re lookin’ to get back?”
“Might be.”
He picked up two eggs and with one hand, cracked and spilled them onto the griddle without fracturing the yolks.
“That gal makes some great movies,” he said. He pulled a small notebook from an apron pocket and a pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled a few lines and pocketed the pen.
He tore off the page and handed it to me.
53
“Here. Turn here,” Donaldson leaned between the two front seats and pointed at a narrow driveway that rose to a freestanding one-car garage beside a small ranch-style house. The cook’s directions gave the name of a county road and said to look for a pink house a mile west of another county road. The house had faded pinkish siding with white trim and sat alone on the side of a narrow, straight county highway. Farm fields sprawled in all four directions in varying states of late summer harvest.
I smelled freshly cut grass as soon as I stepped out of the van. The shaved lawn accounted for the sweet scent.
“He’s in back,” I told Andy who started up a cement sidewalk toward the front door. I pointed.
A cloud of white smoke rose from the backyard. I smelled steaks on a barbecue.
“You should wait here,” she said.
“Agreed,” Donaldson added. “We’ll put the fear of the federal god in him.” He slid past Andy and led the way between the garage and the house, leaving me at the van. Andy glanced back at me and shrugged.
I waited for them to make the corner.
Fwooomp!
I carried a freshly charged power unit in a cargo pocket but opted for hand over hand navigation via the gutter attached to the garage roof. I reached the backyard just as Andy and Donaldson stopped on a brick patio facing a tall man.
It was him. The same man who climbed the side stairs at the motel to find Lonnie Penn waiting. The same man I threw off the balcony. I wondered if his truck was in the garage or the body shop. I also wondered if his hand matched the imprint in Lonnie’s bruised skin.
“Deputy Tolliver?” Andy asked.
He turned from his smoldering grille, holding a set of tongs in hand. His overall dark chocolate complexion stood out against a white t-shirt topping gray work pants. A corset-like device over the shirt cinched his ribcage. When he turned, he used his whole body, moving stiffly and carefully, the way someone moves when sharp pain rewards the wrong move. Several days’ beard stubble blackened his cheeks and chin, although shaving had to be a challenge. Pockmarks and divots marred his face.
Donaldson held up his badge folder. “Stewart and Donaldson, FBI. She’s Stewart.”
“Hello, FBI,” Tolliver said. “What can I do for you here in my backyard, you showing up uninvited and without a warrant and all?”
“Are you here alone, Deputy?” Andy asked.
“And you two makes three. Gonna tell me what this is about?”
Andy took a fearless step closer to a man easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Tolliver’s arms bulged with muscles.
“We’re here about the incident that led to your injury last week. We—”
Donaldson interrupted. “This afternoon we arrested Schmidt and Mallorin in connection with the extortion of half a million dollars from the film star, Lonnie Penn. They named you as their leader and gave us information that you also kidnapped a woman named Gloria Rilling and her male child. We’re here to arrest you, Deputy Tolliver.”
The man did not flinch. He ran his eyes up and down Andy in a way I did not appreciate, then glanced at Donaldson who stood with his hand on the butt of his holstered weapon.
“Arrested, you say? This afternoon? Right here in Prince Henry? Did those boys put up a fight?”
Neither Andy nor Donaldson answered. Tolliver knew the game and played it well. He said nothing. The hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Deputy put down the tongs and place your hands behind your back,” Andy said.
He ignored her. “This afternoon? Both of them?”
“Hands behind your back,” she repeated.
“Because Tony’s fishing up at Red Deer and I just got off the phone with Trace. Maybe you want to polish up your story a bit?” He turned and used the tongs to flip a slab of steak on the grill. A fresh cloud of white smoke boiled up over the sizzle. “Who are you really?”
“Where is Gloria Rilling?” Donaldson asked.
“I don’t know any goddamned Gloria Rilling.”
“Yes, you do,” Andy said. “You know her as Lonnie Penn’s daughter.”
“Who the fuck is Lonnie Penn?”
“Yeah, now I know you’re lying,” Donaldson said. Tolliver smirked.
“Mallorin told Penn she traveled under the name Mira Apalacio. She had a child with her. A boy about three.”
“I remember Mallorin mentioning a kid. Huey. Husty. Something. Kid was all alone, if I recall. Sad. These people come across and don’t give a shit what happens to their kids.”
Donaldson eased past Andy and approached Tolliver, tapping his cane on the patio blocks. The big man ignored him.
“How’d you get hurt?” Donaldson asked. “On the job?”
“Got hurt over in go fuck yourself.”
“Cute,” Donaldson said, casually lifting his cane and changing his grip. Almost too quickly to follow, he leveled the cane and jabbed it forward, poking Tolliver in the rib cage.
The big man gasped and dropped to his knees. He gripped the gas grill, but being mounted on wheels, it shot away across the bricks. Tolliver heaved for breath and moaned.
“Lee! No!” Andy grabbed Donaldson’s arm as he drew back for another strike.
Between clenched teeth, Tolliver said, “You get that one for free. Now I’m gonna make you eat that stick.”
Tolliver heaved himself to his feet, muscles corded against the pain. He turned slowly to face Andy and Donaldson.
“Deputy, you’re in serious trouble,” Andy said. “I apologize for my partner, but unless you come clean and cooperate, you’re only going to make things worse for yourself.”
Tolliver winced with each breath. Angry lines embossed his neck and forehead. He took a step toward Andy and towered over her. She stood fast. I formed a grip on the corner of the garage roof and positioned my feet against the wall, ready to launch myself at Tolliver if he lifted a hand against her.
“Like—I—said—go—fuck yourself,” he muttered between short sharp breaths. “And if you need help, lemme know.”
Donaldson adjusted his cane for another strike.
Andy put her hand out and pressed Donaldson to take a step back. She said, “We’re leaving.”
Donaldson and Tolliver traded hate-infused stares, then Donaldson broke the connection and turned his back. Andy followed.
I pushed myself down. She passed me. I leaned close and whispered, “Wait for me down the road.”
A moment later, she started the van and backed out of the yard with Donaldson riding shotgun.
Tolliver maintained an upright posture until they rolled out of view. The instant the back of the van disappeared from his line of sight he doubled over and cried out in pain. He cursed and staggered to a plastic lawn chair. He leaned over gripping the arms, gasping.
He used his left hand to hold his ribcage. With his right, he fished for a phone in his pants pocket. He thumbed it to life and placed a call.
Someone answered. I pushed off the garage wall and floated slowly closer, drawing a power unit and fixing the blade in place.
“It’s me,” he wheezed. “Fuck, no! I’m hurt! Shut up and listen. I just had two FBI agents here. Fucking Lonnie Penn sic’d ‘em on my ass…Who else would it be?...They wanted to know what we did with the chica and her kid…No, goddammit! What do you think!” He squeezed against the pain and swore. “How the hell should I know? Just keep your head down and make sure nobody can find any of that money. I mean it, Trace. If you got it anywhere in the house, they’ll find it…Yeah, that’s probably okay…You gotta call Tony. Tell him to call Padd. I can’t fucking talk anymore.”
He cut the call and dropped the phone to his side.
Padd. I had hoped for something more revealing.
I drifted closer. I tucked the BLASTER in my back pocket and reached out, aiming for his substantial bicep.
The instant I made contact—
FWOOOMP!
—I made him vanish. I heard him gasp for air. I felt his arm muscle turn to stone and jolt. I tightened my grip and lifted.
With both of us detached from gravity, my lifting action resulted in an equal and opposite reaction. He went up and I went down. I planted my feet. With resistance, I shoved him up and away—and released.
Fwooomp!
He reappeared. Shocked. Wide-eyed. Flailing in the air. He dropped, landed awkwardly, and tumbled over backward.
“MOTHERFAAAAH—!” He clutched his ribs and howled.
I used the BLASTER to maneuver to where he now lay on his lawn. Teeth clenched. Eyes clamped shut.
“That had to hurt,” I said.
He swore.
I pulsed the power unit and dropped near his feet. With my left hand I closed a grip on his right ankle. He immediately tried to kick, but I was too fast.
FWOOOMP!
He vanished and his kicks became another Newtonian exercise in futility. I pushed off the grass and we rose. I felt him flailing. He cried out in pain. I let go.
Fwooomp!
He reappeared eighteen or twenty inches above the turf and dropped flat on his back.
“GAAAHHH! STOP! MOTHERFUCKER! STOP!”
Huge wet tears streaked from his eyes. He clenched both hands around his middle and curled his legs.
“Where did you send the girl and the child?”
“Who are you? Whaddya want?!”
“Answer my question or take another ride.”
“NO! PLEASE!” he gasped and sputtered for breath, then abruptly turned his head and vomited. Retching ignited fresh jolts of pain up his midsection. He heaved, then groaned in pain, then heaved again. “For the love of Christ! Stop!”
“The girl and the child—where did you send them?”
“Mallorin took her! Mall—!” he abruptly heaved again. I waited. His muscles trembled. His skin glittered with sweat. He coughed up saliva that ran down his chin. New dry convulsions tore into his broken ribs and he cried out.
I almost felt bad for him.
It took several minutes for the cycle to stop. He lay on the ground clutching himself. He moaned and shivered. Not that it was easy to tell, but I came to realize he was crying.
I maneuvered closer to his head, curling my legs and powering down until my knees touched the grass. A grip on his head would probably work. I prepared for another round.
“They said you gave her back to the coyote. Who’s the coyote?”
He lay with his eyes sealed. Ragged breath shot in and out of his mouth. Spittle and bile ran from the corners of his lips. My stomach turned when I caught a whiff.
“Who’s the coyote?”
“Padd!”
