Deadly Errors (38 page)

T
YLER RODE IN the front passenger seat of Benson’s gray Mercedes CLK 420 coupe with Jim Day silently in the back seat clutching the laptop while Benson’s two thugs followed in another car. Tyler remained rigid, unable to release the aching muscular tension, nervously brushing his thumb against each fingertip—back and forth endlessly—while he mentally stormed through various scenarios, all bad. Had Ferguson picked up the page and voice mail? He hoped not. When making the phone call he’d naively believed Nancy would be in Benson’s office. Stupid. The anxiety ice cloud froze in his stomach.

After a fifteen-minute drive that seemed to take an hour, Benson turned into the parking lot fronting the storage area. Behind a 10 foot cyclone fence topped with razor wire, parallel rows of increasingly large buildings occupied an entire city block, reminding Tyler of a prison camp. Benson’s thugs pulled up alongside and killed their engines.

“The fuck you waiting for?” Benson had his door open.

Tyler stepped onto cratered asphalt and pointed to a section of fence down the block in relative shadows. “There’s an area down there where we can climb over without being seen.”

The bigger of the two thugs said, “Fuck that noise,” and stepped around to his car’s trunk. A moment later he held up with a bolt cutter. With one whack the lock protecting the swinging gate clanked to the ground. “Any dogs in there?” the cutter asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Better not be, I hate those sonsabitches.” From underneath his coat he pulled a flat black gun with a cylindrical suppressor attached.

Benson told the other man, “Stay here and keep the keys in the ignition.” To Jim Day, “You come on and bring the laptop.” Then to Tyler, “Lead on, but don’t make any noise.”

Tyler pushed through the gate and led them single file along an asphalt drive flanked on both sides by a monotonous series of similar sized roll-up metal doors. Other than an occasional soft footstep he heard only a dog bark in the far off distance. His gut knotted tighter with each storage unit passed. At the end of the row Tyler held up his hand, stopping the procession. He turned to Benson, whispered, “It’s just around the corner.” Only Benson was with him now, he realized. How long ago had the other man dropped away from them?

They turned left. Tyler’s rental was the third one in from the road. The vertical rolling steel door was half open, light spilling out onto the asphalt. Quietly, Benson moved forward, Tyler and Day following. Benson pulled a gun from under his suit coat, glanced around the door and said, “Find anything interesting Yusef?”

T
YLER STEPPED AWAY from Benson so that he could see into the storage bin. Khan sat cross legged, on the concrete looking up at Benson. He shot a glance at Tyler.

Benson asked, “Yusef, you have the CD yet?”

Khan smiled as if nothing was wrong. “Yes, I just found it.” He held up the platter, the overhead incandescent bulb reflecting dancing rainbows off the smooth silver surface.

“Give it to him.” Benson nodded toward Jim Day who had the laptop open now.

Day leaned toward Khan just enough to quickly grab the CD, then back up, as if wanting as much room between himself and Khan as possible. He slid the CD into the laptop tray.

Benson asked, “How much is Prophesy paying you?”

Khan shook his head slowly. “It is irrelevant.”

Tyler scanned the area looking for Benson’s thug and Ferguson but saw only blackness and an oasis of light below the low wattage bulb at the corner of the building. The wind was picking up, chilling the area and probably bringing a thunder shower.

“Hardly. I’m after damage control at this point, Yusef. Tell me, how much information have you given them?”

Khan pushed up off the cement floor and brushed off his pants. “That also is irrelevant.”

“Not if you want to live it’s not.”

Khan pointed at the gun in Benson’s hand. “You’re probably going to kill me anyway, so why should I give you any information? If I die without you finding out it will be my little victory, you see.”

Tyler rubbed his hands together for warmth and said to Benson, “Look, you have the disk. Let’s get going.”

Benson’s head snapped toward him. “Shut up Mathews. I’ll deal with you when I’m done here.”

Day said, “It’s all here, Mr. Benson. The CD’s full of patient information.” He snapped shut the laptop.

Benson smiled. “Good. Now hand it over to Mathews.”

Clearly puzzled, Day did as instructed.

“Now,” Benson told Day, “move over next to Khan.” He waved the gun barrel in the direction.

“What?” Day glanced nervously at Tyler, then back to Benson.

Benson pointed the gun at Day’s chest. “You’re a Judas. You sold me and Med-InDx out. But instead of thirty pieces of silver, you’ll get what you really deserve.”

Day licked his lips and blinked at Benson. “The hell you talking about, sold you out. I told you about him from the beginning,” with a nod toward Tyler. “I told you everything.”

“Ahhh yes, but you also gave Tyler access to Bernie’s office. You were playing both sides of this equation, to see which side won. You didn’t have any allegiance to me or the Med-InDx. I despise traitors like you.”

Day shook his head. “No, swear to God I didn’t.”

“Oh?” Benson’s voice carried a hard edge. “So you’re a liar and a cheat?” He glanced to his left, said, “Timothy?”

Tyler realized what was about to happen and started to yell a warning to Day but heard a
thump
, like a fist hitting a pillow.

Day jerked backwards as a hole suddenly appeared in his chest directly over his heart. Khan moved like a rabbit to his left, his right hand appearing with his gun. Tyler saw the muzzle flash before hearing the shot. When he looked again Benson was no longer standing.

Several lights suddenly flashed on. All at once three men approached, all wearing windbreakers with FBI in large yellow block letters on the front, their mouths moving but without words, an intense ringing deep inside both ears the only sound Tyler could hear. A moment later bits of their individual words began filtering through the noise. That’s when he recognized Ferguson as one of the men.

For a several seconds Tyler just stood and watched as Benson’s thug kneeled, then lay spread eagle on the black asphalt, an FBI agent training a Glock on him with one hand and a huge flashlight with the other. Then he realized Khan was down on the asphalt in a position too awkward to be intentional. Benson lay on his back gasping for air, rocking his head side to side. Ferguson kneeled next to him, looked him over then waved Tyler over. “Get over here Tyler, this man’s got a bad chest wound.”

Tyler moved over to them. “Not much I can do here. He needs a Medic One unit.” Then he looked more closely at the hole in Benson’s right upper chest. “Awww Jesus, it’s a sucking wound.”

“What’s that mean?”

Tyler reached down, grabbed a fistful of Benson’s hair and pulled his head up so they were looking eye to eye. “Where is she, asshole?”

Benson coughed, gasped for air and barely managed to say, “Fuck you, Mathews.”

Tyler let Benson’s head drop back onto the asphalt. “He kidnapped Nancy.”

Ferguson waved a palm downwards. “No need to shout. I can hear you.”

“What?” The ringing, he realized, was still there, just not as intense.

“You okay?”

“No I’m not okay. Benson has Nancy. He’s hiding her somewhere … a houseboat maybe … on Lake Union. They’ll kill her.”

Ferguson shook his head. “Benson’s in no shape to kill anybody.”

“Not him. Guys like the one over there. They have orders to kill her if anything happens to him,” pointing at Benson who was now losing color. “There was another one of his men back at the car. Did you get him too?”

“What car? We came from over there.” Ferguson pointed to the opposite direction he’d led Benson into the area.

“We need to find Nancy.”

Ferguson jutted his chin toward Benson. “Right now I got my hands full here. Just hang in there. SPD has a response team on the way. They’ll be able to help you.”

Tyler glanced over his shoulder at the dense shadows where the police would be likely to come from and saw no one. A bolt of urgency stabbed his chest. He was losing time. “I don’t have that much time. Besides, you know my situation. They don’t. It’ll take too long to explain.
You
have to help me.” The sense of urgency invaded the pain in his gut. “Now!”

Ferguson placed a hand on his shoulder. “Heard you the first time. Fact is I can’t leave right now. Actually, neither can you. You’re a material witness, which means we’re going to have to get a statement from you, and this situation needs to be stabilized.” Ferguson looked at the agent wrapping a plastic tie around the prone thug’s crossed wrists. “Besides, where are they holding her?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it may be a houseboat on Lake Union.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“No!” Frustrated anxiety exploded in Tyler’s chest. “But it’s my only shot. They’ve got her hostage and they’re going to kill her.”

“Fact is, unless you know for certain she’s been kidnapped and where she’s being held, I can’t do anything. And I sure as shit can’t go busting into someone’s house looking for her without an order from a federal judge. So your best shot is to cool your heels until the metro boys get here.”

Unable to ignore Benson any longer, Tyler reached down and tore a large piece of Benson’s shirt off. He wadded it into a ball, muttered, “Shit,” and stuffed it over the hole in Benson’s chest. “Only thing to do for this kind of chest wound is plug it. Here, hold pressure on this until the medics get here.” He pushed Ferguson’s hand over the wad.

“Where the hell you think you’re going?”

“Don’t let up on the pressure or you’ll kill him.”

“Mathews, get the hell back here.”

Tyler knew he couldn’t wait for the Seattle Police. And if he did, what would they do? Probably nothing. At least not in enough time… . He stepped back into darkness, then began to run, picking up momentum as the distance increased from the small oasis of light.

Seconds later he crouched and peered through chain-link fence at Benson’s Mercedes. It remained exactly where they’d parked it but the other car was gone. Tyler sucked a deep breath and started running for the Benz. He threw open the door, and slipped in, pulling it shut behind him and locking it as soon as it slammed. He reached down. Luckily the key was still in the ignition. He revved the powerful engine and backed out of the lot, his right hand fumbling for his cell phone to call Information.

B
ENSON’S MERCEDES CRUNCHED gravel as Tyler drove slowly onto the shoulder of Fairview Avenue. He braked to a stop in the small parking lot of neighborhood grocery store, the glow from the red brake lights reflecting off a window advertising a special on Washington Hill wines. Tyler cut the engine and set the parking brake. He scanned the otherwise empty lot for cars or people, then did the same for the curving asphalt road. He took in a funky waterfront community bathed in cold, violet-tinged, mercury-vapor streetlamps. Across the road, nestled within trees and shrubs, a mini-park hugged thirty feet of shore.

Tyler slipped out and darted into shadows beside the market wall. If Benson was hiding Nancy here, where would guards be posted? At the house or up here near the street? He watched the park for movement. Satisfied, he crossed the street and crouched between cars.

This side of the street was pocketed with shadowy clusters of right-angled parked cars. On the other side vehicles were sandwiched between driveways and NO PARKING signs, or in any available patch of dead dirt. The street remained devoid of traffic, the warm air thick with the humidity of the coming summer thunder storm. Staying on the shoulder, Tyler headed toward the moorage, past a large, blue recycling bin reeking of beer and wine, then a dented green dumpster wafting rotting garbage. Next, a two-car garage. Up ahead, on a patch of shoulder, a darkened BMW 7-series hugged an Alder tree. He moved closer and looked. Couldn’t be positive, but it looked suspiciously like the one he’d spotted outside his apartment. No one inside. He checked the driver’s door. Locked. He palmed the hood. Still warm. He tried to remember the car the thugs drove to the storage area but realized he’d never really gotten a look at it. Overhead came the rumble of distant thunder.

Twenty feet farther, a clump of unruly laurel bushes marked the crest of the blacktop drive curving down into the moorage parking lot. He peered over a dumpster into the shadowy cluster of parked cars, but overgrown shrubs obscured much of the view. From an eight-foot trellis, a 60-watt bulb swarming with gnats cast anemic light on a rusted metal ramp to the narrow pier, the rest of the area in shadows. He’d have to pass through the light to reach the dock. “Shit!” he muttered.

The waxing and waning hum of I-5 traffic gave a background to the occasional lazy waves slapping pilings. Stagnant lake water, creosote, and dust from bone-dry August asphalt hung in the air. A distant siren dopplered and faded. His heart thumped both ears.

A guard would position himself to watch the dock entrance without being seen, he decided. On the other hand, maybe no one was posted at all. Had to chance it.

A final glance toward the street, then Tyler slipped between a Cypress hedge and a weathered wood fence and duck-walked down the drive, each step exposing more of the small shadowy parking lot. The hedge gave out at the edge of the lot. He slipped behind a faded blue Volvo station wagon and waited, eyes adjusting to the lack of streetlights. Ahead, inside the wisteria-entwined trellis, was a set of mailboxes. Cautiously, he approached. Eight mailboxes; hence eight houseboats, maybe four on each side of the dock. Benson’s, it appeared, was number eight. That put it on the right hand side at the end.

Silently, he stepped across the metal ramp onto a poorly illuminated narrow concrete dock. That’s when he noticed a glowing ember at the end of the dock.

The fine hairs between his shoulder blades stood on end. His senses suddenly became more acute, just like in surgery during those awful moments when a complication unravels in your face and every second becomes brutally eternal.