Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (37 page)

She wished she could dial back to last week when she still believed her father was a kind and just man. But she thought Travis was guilty then, and it wasn’t a fair trade-off. She had to face facts. Maybe she never really knew her father. Still, he didn’t deserve this suffering.

From the effort to shuffle two million dollars cash, both Travis and Jack seemed to forget she was in the room. Maybe because she was immobile, Scarson didn’t consider her a threat. And while she couldn’t speak, she could still hear. Silent woman syndrome could be deadly.

Any minute now, Penniski’s vipers were bound to show up and inject some fresh venom. That key on her ring must enable them to hear or do something. But they’d never make it across the empty warehouse floor without alerting Scarson. Maggie had to move.

This warehouse was probably a strategic choice, something Lydia Scarson’s company had up for lease. It was one of a thousand empty in the area and unlikely to find a ready tenant. Against the tracks and in a bad neighborhood, their bodies could remain undiscovered for weeks. Between the gag and Maggie’s aching wrists, fear stepped aside for her swelling rage.

Not out of sight but out of mind, she sat lotus-style on the floor. She pressed down on her right shoe with her left knee and moved her foot forward. Her loafer popped off at the heel. No sudden moves. As it dropped, Maggie cushioned the fall of the Swiss Army knife.

Travis kept the conversation going as long as he could, but Scarson wanted his money. Probably a bath, too, from what Maggie smelled. She had to get moving or risk becoming another stain on this nasty floor.

She maneuvered her shoe against the concrete and walked it back onto her foot. The knife now lay on the floor between her folded legs. The conversation continued without her.

“There’s a little over two million dollars in this account.” Travis pushed back from the table.

“Get it moving, son.”

She saw her brother stiffen at Scarson’s use of that word.

“Both banks are in the Caymans. How long before the money actually moves from one account to the other?”

Scarson said, “Maybe immediately. Maybe hours. You two are staying until the money shows up in my account.”

Maggie inched forward. She trapped the knife with her left bun. A couple of tiny scoots, she pushed the knife behind her toward her bound hands.

The movement caught Scarson’s attention.

Travis glanced at his sister. “Let’s get this over with, Jack.”

Scarson refocused on the computer.

Maggie felt for the knife on the floor behind her back. She wanted the conversation to get a little louder before she opened the blade.

Travis clicked at the keyboard. Maybe he was selecting a still-viable option from his decision matrix. Whatever the hell that was.

Scarson hovered over Travis’ movements like posies during the Great Plague, and he didn’t see Maggie pop open the knife.

She slid the blade under the tie-wrap where it spanned her two wrists. The wrong way around, the knife’s first decisive movement slit her skin. The gag at least suppressed her scream.

With the blade against the tie-wrap, this time, she sliced through the nylon. She tucked the tie-wrap in her back pocket. The knife stayed in her fist, blade open. Level breathing required sustained effort. Maggie was bleeding, furious, and ready for war.

 

 

Chapter Sixty-Seven

 

 

Jack Scarson angled himself toward Maggie and aimed the gun at her chest. While Travis didn’t approve of muzzles pointing at his sister, Scarson’s distraction gave him some room to maneuver. Travis wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. He had to get this money showing in Scarson’s account fast. The way Dad looked, later might be too late.

 

Scarson was on the edge, like a big-wave surfer after a thirty-foot wipeout. Ground and drowned.

Dad told Travis in an email that a big one was coming for him.

Catch a wave, son.

Caught it, Dad. Riding it.

It’s a pounder.

While Scarson seemed a reluctant villain, the lure of easy money often dismantled a man’s integrity. Travis met plenty of those guys during his incarceration. When temptation drifted by, they didn’t carry enough iron in the core to keep them earthbound.

Break a few heads. Grab it and go. What’s yours is now mine. To hell with the road less traveled.

The screen Travis wanted finally loaded. “It’s ready. Type in your account number and hit enter. Then you can check your account to see when it shows up.”

The expression on Scarson’s face flooded with relief, then panic, and finally, excitement. “Stand by your sister. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Travis rose from his chair and backed up to her side. Hair obscured her eyes, but her nostrils flared.

Scarson aimed the shotgun at them while he typed awkwardly at the laptop. His index finger pecked the keys one-by-one until he entered the account number.

“Did it go?” Travis asked.

“Yeah.” Scarson’s entry concluded the money transfer. He motioned with the gun. “Get me to the website for my bank. Once I verify the money is there, we can all go home.”

Travis tried not to look for Maggie’s knife. He couldn’t telegraph that news to Scarson. The guy was jumpy. One blast from that shotgun would leave them shredded.

Travis went to the computer and stood. He located the page needed and turned the computer toward Scarson. “It’s all yours.”

The man didn’t seem to hear Travis. Maybe the idea of two million dollars popping up as his bank balance finally sounded possible. Scarson held a lottery ticket with five matching numbers, and he was watching for the sixth. As he pecked each required key, his latex-gloved hand trembled.

Travis stayed near the table, but his presence didn’t rattle Scarson this time. Travis considered trying to take the shotgun, but the muzzle pointed directly at Maggie, and Scarson looked hair-trigger jumpy. His hopes, dreams, and faith condensed to the numbers on a fifteen-inch LCD panel.

Suddenly, the bank balance page loaded. Scarson’s weary eyes sparkled as he scanned for his savior. He raised his face to heaven and briefly closed his eyes. A smile burst over his lips and into a laugh like Dr. Frankenstein’s after juicing the monster. Jack Scarson landed his sixth number.

He lowered the laptop lid and gestured to Travis with the gun. “Get on the floor in front of your sister.”

“We have to get my father down. You said you’d let us leave.”

Scarson’s smile played on his lips. “Get on the floor.” He pulled another tie-wrap from his back pocket. “Move.” He prodded Travis with the gun.

Travis stopped close to Maggie. “You’ve got to let my father down,” he said. “You can’t let him die.”

“I’ve got two million dollars. I can do whatever the hell I want.” Scarson jabbed Travis’ side with the gun. The muzzle caught a sensitive spot between the ribs. His elbow jerked, snapping outward and hitting the gun. The barrel veered toward the racks.

Maggie lunged, jamming the knife into Scarson’s left calf. His scream chattering in pain. He cracked the barrel over her shoulder, sending Maggie into a sprawl. She tried to push herself up again but collapsed with the weapon still in her fist.

Travis rushed. His arms went wide around Scarson. Scarson’s arms spread to keep the gun away from Travis. They crashed against the concrete. As they hit, Scarson’s fist opened. The shotgun bounced onto the floor and skittered down the aisle. Each of them scrambled to reach it before the other. Scarson grabbed it first, but Travis held onto the barrel. They wrestled on the ground, the gun between them. Travis couldn’t pry it out of Scarson’s rubbery grip, but his arms were longer. Travis yanked the gun upward. As soon as the gun was out from between their bodies, Scarson reared back, slamming his forehead into Travis’ solar plexus. The wind sailed from Travis’ lungs. He felt like a deep-sea diver sucking on a dry tank, desperate for a fresh breath.

Scarson stood on his good leg, examining his wound, but couldn’t keep his balance. He limped to the other side of the table and stuffed the laptop in a backpack. He slung it over a shoulder, turned, and leveled the gun at Travis’ head.

Travis struggled to inflate his stinging lungs while Maggie stirred behind Scarson. Being eye-to-eye with the barrel, it was tough not to look at Maggie as she crawled toward Scarson with an open knife. Then Scarson squeezed the trigger.

She thrust the blade forward, ripping the back of Scarson’s heel. The room exploded with concrete and smoke and panic. Heat seared Travis’ upper right arm. Buckshot peppered the wall beside him and mangled the folding card table. The violent blast reverberated his eardrums until he could no longer hear his own screams.

Scarson whipped around to face Maggie. Blood vessels pulsed at the back of his neck in anger. Travis rose to help her. But Scarson pumped a new round into the chamber and lowered the gun to her face. When he tried to steady his stance, the muzzle wobbled.

Maggie sprung to her knees and plunged the blade into his thigh above the knee. He shrieked, the sound piercing the tinny drone in Travis’ ears. Crimson blossomed on Scarson’s jeans. He swung the gun toward Dad and stumbled as he fired. Buckshot blasted the wooden stool into splinters. Dad’s legs thrashed in the empty space. His body twirled and twitched and twisted as he dangled from the rope.

 

 

Chapter Sixty-Eight

 

 

Scarson fell backward from the recoil of the blast. Travis charged, ramming his head into Scarson’s gut. Scarson lost control of the gun and dropped it to the floor. As he scrambled for the door, Maggie pounced on the weapon. She came up with it, ready to fire.

 

But he was already in the doorway. The bright sun flooded her vision with intense light. The door slammed to a close before she could react. She let the shotgun slide to the floor and ran to her father. His skin flushed with scarlet. The sickening noises he made reminded her of a rabid dog.

He weighed too much for her to release him from the noose by herself. Travis said something to her, but the ringing in her head was still too loud to hear him. And he couldn’t help. He cradled an arm full of buckshot and bled onto the concrete like a royal prince.

Panic rapped in her chest. Daddy needed something to stand on to relieve the pressure on his neck. The camp chair was too low and flimsy to provide any support. She dragged the broken card table from the wall and tried to prop it beneath his feet. But the table legs no longer locked into place. The rounded edges of the tabletop prevented it from staying upright on its side. He knocked it over each time his feet flailed. She scanned the empty warehouse for something to save her father.

Fear choked her thinking. She loosed the knot on her gag and slipped it over her head. She spit out the washcloth and wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. If she had tools, she might be able to dismantle a shelf, but that took time. There were other cars in the parking lot. She hated to leave Daddy like this. And Travis. But finding someone outside was her only hope.

Before she reached the door, it opened. The light wasn’t as startling this time, but she blocked the brightness with her arm. Jack Scarson led the way with his hands up. Armed with the backpack and several pistols, Penniski’s men followed.

“My father. Please cut him down!” She barely heard her own words. Penniski’s man-in-charge motioned toward her father. Maggie knew he gave instructions to the others, but she couldn’t discern the words. While one man lifted her father from underneath to ease the tension of the rope, another climbed the pallet rack and removed the noose. They carried her father next to Travis, laying him on the concrete with surprising care.

She fell to his side. A purple stain encircled his throat along with a crusty necklace of dried blood. Bruises covered his face. She pressed gently against his abraded skin and held her breath.

A pulse. But beating rapidly.

She lay her cheek against his lips and felt the warm rush of his frantic exhale, and then released her own.

“Please, call an ambulance.” She placed the washcloth under his head and cut the tie wrap from his wrists.

“Is he okay, Maggie?” Travis grimaced.

Her ears still rang, but she could make out his question. “He’s breathing. How bad is your arm?”

“It hurts. A lot.” He panted. “But I’ll live.”

She turned to the big man. “We need a doctor. Please. Call an ambulance.”

The big man squatted and checked her father’s pulse. “He has a heartbeat.” He stood and placed the laptop on the seat of the camp chair while another man shoved Scarson forward with the gun. “You open the bank account and show me the money. Then we call the ambulance.”

Scarson limped the rest of the distance, glowering at Maggie. His shirt was soaked, and he reeked of desperation. Blood dripped from both his legs, giving her some satisfaction. She didn’t expect that feeling to live long. But she prayed that Daddy would.

“On the floor.” The big man instructed Scarson.

Scarson winced and groaned with every inch as he lowered himself to comply. His expression was tough to read. Pain, certainly, but Maggie suspected it was more than physical. The fire in his eyes was now extinguished.

He logged into his bank account under the threat of two pistols. He tried to hide his typing, but Penniski’s men watched every keystroke. Scarson leaned against the wall for support and glared at Travis. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Two million dollars. It was here. I saw it.” His mouth contorted amid the furrows. His voice screeched. “What did you do with it?”

“There never was any money.” Travis shifted on the floor.

Scarson raised a fist. “But I saw it. Martin said—”

“My father has Alzheimer’s,” Travis yelled. “He thinks he’s Kirk Hammett.”

On some level, the words seemed to sober Scarson. His head dropped to his hands, and Maggie heard him retch. But she kept her sight on the big man.

Did he believe it?

Penniski’s main man swiveled the camp chair toward Travis.