Psycho Save Us (22 page)

The
computer age and technology had done a lot to inform people, but people like
Basil O’Connor were using it to
rewrite
history.

So,
with some credit history and an education background, Spencer had two new identities
he could choose to disappear into.  One of them was Paul Quinton Ramsay, a
32-year-old man from New Jersey with a credit history and an MBA from DeVry
University.  The other was a little less cultivated, a man named Michael
Frederick Voigt, a 31-year-old from Tuckerville, Georgia.  Voigt had a little
credit history but no education history.

Spencer
kept looking at the Yeti, who shrugged and said, “I gave you one great one, and
one pretty good one.  And, hey, that’s a real charity, man.  You know?  I did
it because you paid everything up front.  Few people trust me with that.”

The
Yeti was big on trust, and Spencer had known that.  That’s how he played him. 
Still, it had been a gamble.  If the Yeti had gotten busted (not likely) or had
moved someplace where Spencer couldn’t find him (more likely), then he would’ve
been out the fifty g’s he’d fronted the tall hairy beast.

“We
square, Spence?  Everything cool?” he asked, in the hopeful manner of a
schoolboy who was offering a gift to a bully he didn’t want a beating from
anymore.

Unfortunately
for the Yeti, this was, to Spencer, another obvious avenue to manipulate him
and keep him honest.  “Yeah,” Spencer sighed, putting the IDs back in the
folder.  “I guess they’ll do.”  But something else was bugging him.  He still
couldn’t say why, but it was.  Maybe it was the way Pat had spoken about those
vor
,
maybe it was just that his interest had been piqued. 
Maybe I’m still pissed
off about Baton Rouge
.  “But this is bullshit an’ you know it,” Spencer
added, taking a step towards him.

The
Yeti took a step back, almost tripping over a stereo speaker.  “Wh-what do you
mean?”

“A
‘charity,’ you called it?” Spencer said.  He shook his head.  “No, man.  That’s
not how this works.  I know how much you charge—”

“Rates go up—”

“Not
with me, they don’t,” Spencer said.  “And don’t give me inflation or cost o’
services fluctuation.  I don’t give a
shit
about economics.  I’ve been
one o’ yer oldest customers.  I’ve brought you other work.  I gave you the
intro to Pat an’ the others, remember?  I’m the whole reason your operation
exists
.”

“Yeah, man.  Hey, chill.  It’s like this, man, I had to—”

“No,
it’s like
this
.  I want a discount.  Cash money.  Now.”

“Man,
you know I don’t deal with cash,” he laughed, shifting his weight.  “All my
shit’s in the Caymans, dig?  I put my shit there because it’s a tax haven.  You
dig, man, right?”

Spencer
had taken two more slow steps towards him.  He’d never hurt the Yeti before and
didn’t plan to, but the Discovery Channel would be interested to know that the
Yeti was a frightened creature when trapped alone in the wild, even when in the
company of familiar animals.  “Alright,” Spencer said.  “Alright, fuck your tax
haven, then.  I need somethin’ else done.”

“Wh-what,
man?”  He was fidgeting.  The Yeti scratched at his skin, his left eye was
twitching and the muscles in his neck started going through spasms again. 
“N-Name it.”

“AXC 371.”

“What?”

“A
license plate number.  I need it looked up.”  He didn’t know why, but something
about the way Pat had talked about them, like he was warning Spencer away. 
Like he was afraid of them himself.  He even said he didn’t want to do work
with Spencer if he was mixed up with the
vory v zakone
.  It was like…

Well…

Like
they’re untouchable
.  Just like the bullies at
Brownfields Elementary School
had once felt.  Just like Miles Hoover, Jr. had once
appeared.  Yes, the
vory v zakone
had a certain amount of clout,
evidently.  And clout and perceived power was something that Spencer Pelletier
inherently felt he needed to test.  The same thing when Brummel had leaned in
and shouted in his ear, “You ain’t
ever
getting out of my prison!  You
understand me, boy!”

The
challenge had been issued.  It practically begged to be done.

“H-hey,
man, it’s late,” said the Yeti, “a-and I ain’t got that kind of hookup no more—”

“That
nigger that works down at the DMV still hooks you up,” Spencer said, taking a
step over to the Yeti’s computer array and looking over it.  “He gave you that
back door into the DMV’s system.  C’mon, I know that’s how you keep up with the
updates on driver’s license designs and whatnot.  Don’t bullshit a
bullshitter.  You still got that back door, don’t you?”

“Oh…oh,
that
hookup.  Hey, y-yeah, man,” he laughed nervously again.

“Look
it up.  License plate AXC 371.”

The
Yeti hustled over to his computer desk and pushed a few files to the floor, as
well as a copy of
The Making of Citizen Kane
.  “Hey, y-you got it,
m’man.  Coming right up.  AXC 371.  You got it.  Coming riiiiiight up.”

“Oh,
and a cell phone,” Spencer said.  “A prepaid one.  I know you’ve got three or
four of ’em lying around here somewhere.  I want one.”

“H-hey,
you got it, man.  Whatever.”

The
fire trucks had every lane blocked, and the sidewalk was no good because the burning
wreck was on one side and all the rubberneckers were on the other.  Hydraulic
rescue tools (those  Jaws of Life) had been pulled out, and they were all
excited to see a dead body pulled from the car-b-cue.  The air was filled with
the acrid smell of upholstery turned to carbon.  Leon fumed and tried to back
up, but by now half a dozen cars had stacked up behind him.  He put it in
reverse and honked his horn numerous times, rolling down his window and yelling
for those behind to back up.

When
finally he had enough room to get off this street, he had a decision to make. 
He could take Nickel Ferry Road to get there quicker, but there was no way to
Hillside from there and he’d have to leave his car on the sidewalk and run
through a short patch of woods to get to the apartment complex.  If he wanted to
be able to park his car someplace relatively safe and use it to block off the
entrance and Pelletier’s escape, then he’d need to head down to Johnston
Street, take a right onto Perris Way and then another right onto Roundabout
Road (suitably named for this night’s errand).

Leon
had to decide.  It took all of three seconds to opt for Nickel Ferry Road.  He
drove halfway up, parallel with the woods separating Nickel Ferry Road from
Hillside Apartments, then pulled up onto the sidewalk.  Hopefully, he wouldn’t
be sorry he left his car in this neighborhood.

Before
getting out of the sedan, he made sure to take the radio and his cell with him,
of course, so that he could coordinate with the backup which should be on the
way.

As
he shut his door, Leon’s right hand went for his pistol without even thinking. 
He pulled it out and put it at ready-low position, and dashed through the
woods.  If he was just questioning a suspect or a witness in a kidnapping, he
would never have drawn his weapon.  But this was the sick fuck from Baton
Rouge, the one who killed six men in a public park, cut the nuts off one and,
according to one terrified thirteen-year-old, laughed while he shoved them down
the dead man’s throat.

In
all the excitement, he forgot his flashlight.  It wasn’t his only mistake.  In
his hurry, he’d also forgotten to lock his car.

Spencer
clapped Basil companionably on the shoulder as he stepped outside.  “Thanks,
Yeti.”  He had the printout from the DMV’s records in his hand.  He folded it
and placed it inside his hoodie’s pocket.  “You’re a good guy, I don’t care
what others say behind your back.”  Another clap on his arm.  “Just kiddin’,
man.  You’re the best.”

“H-hey,
Spence, man.  Anytime, you know?

The
Yeti smiled big, splitting that beard of his in half.  Many in the world
thought that the Yeti was elusive because he wanted to be left alone.  But
Spencer knew the truth.  The Yeti was alone only because he didn’t know how to
make friends.  He
wanted
friends.  Just like Martin Horowitz had wanted
a friend.  Everybody wanted a friend, Spencer supposed.  Forgers and pedophiles
were no different.  Spencer was happy to oblige them when they showed a use.

“I
appreciate this, Yeti.  You do good work.  Maybe I’ll see ya around?”

“Yeah,
hey, definitely,” he said.  Basil glanced back inside anxiously.  His pipe was
calling.  Human interaction, as much as the Yeti desired it, still agitated him
to no end.  Though he wanted it, there was one thing he wanted more.  “Yo,
p-peace, Spence.”

“Peace
in the Middle East.”

Basil
laughed.  “H-hey, I like that, man.  Peace in the Middle East!  For sure.  And
tell Pat I said hey, if you see him.”

“Cool,
man.  Thanks.”  Spencer offered him his parting smile.  The door shut in his
face, Spencer turned to walk away, and knew something was wrong almost
immediately. 

Someone
in the joint had once called it street sense.  It was the same with another
inmate he’d known named Daniel Patterson, who’d shown keen prison instincts
because he’d been incarcerated since he was fifteen years old.  Patterson
called it the “ebb and flow” feel, the ups and downs, action and reaction.  A
wilderness survival expert Spencer knew years ago called it the “concentric
rings of nature”—a squirrel jumps on a tree and scuttles to the other side, so
you knew that danger was coming from the opposite side of that tree.

Whatever
you wanted to call it, it was there, yelling at him.  And it came to him from
every direction.  The first thing he recognized—without knowing he recognized
it—was that the music had been turned down.  No more loud bass bumping from the
other apartments.  That was especially interesting because the party on the
second storey had been the loudest.  They probably had a bird’s-eye view from
up there.  What had they seen?  What put a damper on the party?

The
second thing he noticed—again, without knowing he noticed it—was that the
Hispanic prostitute was back.  She walked by him quickly, and took something
out of her purse.  She walked casually by a row of bushes and her hand moved. 
Did she drop something?  If so, what for?  What was she ditching, and who was
she hiding it from?

By
the time the third clue came (someone hollering “Five-oh!”), Spencer had
already turned away from the parking lot and was walking into a patch of woods
on the south side of the apartment complex. 

Though
he never saw one of the cars, he spotted flashing blue and red lights from
around a small hill.  The lights quickly switched off.  That was the final
clue.  They were entering without sirens blaring.  The lights had gotten
traffic out of their way, but they’d switched off the lights at this point in
order to serve a clandestine “no-knock” warrant.

Somebody’s
apartment is about to get hit
.  Alarms were going off in
Spencer’s head.

The
forest was nearly pitch-black.  Spencer heard other footsteps around him.  He
saw the silhouette of one fellow rushing out of the woods about forty yards up
from him, his trench coat flapping behind him. 
Big fucker, that one
, he
thought. 
Has to weigh two-forty, two-fifty
.

The
big fellow ran across the parking lot, disappearing behind a few cars.  Now
came the sound of several car doors opening and slamming.  A few men shouting
orders to one another, coordinating an attack.

Definitely
a raid
. 
But on who?

But
Spencer already knew.  Somehow, it all just added up, and the glance back only
confirmed it.  Indeed, they were headed for the building marked
APARTMENTS 0400-0500
.

All
right, so they’re onto me
, he thought calmly.  How they’d gotten
onto him was anybody’s guess, and, as it happened, not very important. 
Could’ve been Pat, could’ve been a witness who saw him hop out of the Tacoma earlier
and then boost the Aerostar, it could’ve been a lot of things.  The important
thing to do now was to walk away normally, no rush, no haste in his step, just
keep moving.

Spencer
took out the piece of paper Basil had given him and reviewed it.

VIN:
WBLLV82746KT77311    Class: Upscale – Near Luxury

Year:
2007    Engine: 5.4L V-8

Make:
Ford    Country of Assembly: USA

Model:
Expedition    Vehicle Age: 5 year(s)

Style/Body:
SUV    Calculated Owners: 1

Registered
To: Brenton Jordan Richards

Mailing
Address:  12 Townsley Drive—Atlanta, GA 30314

He
memorized the information, then tore the paper up and threw the pieces into a
drain at the edge of sidewalk.  Part of him was of a mind to run right now.  Just
boost another car and take off.  They’d probably never catch him.  But if they
pressed Basil—it would be easy with all they would find in his apartment, and
the Yeti had proven he was easily pressed—then it wouldn’t be hard to get the
full story out of him.