Rising Phoenix (16 page)

Hobart pulled the handkerchiefs out of their mouths, removed their blindfolds, and stood up, stretching his back. As he was throwing his things into the satchel he looked carefully around the room, making sure that he hadn’t left anything but the syringes with the appropriate fingerprints pressed onto them. Manion’s breathing was becoming increasingly labored as Hobart padded silently out of the living room and through the back door. Each of the syringes had contained enough heroin to kill two, maybe three people.

The dampness of the soil had finally managed to soak through Tek Markus’s jeans, making it impossible to sit still any longer. He lifted himself up a few inches and scooted farther back into the bushes, showering himself with droplets of icy water in the process.

It was too cold to wait any longer. Rico Washington’s mother had left for her night job more than ten minutes ago and Tek was starting to lose the feeling in his hands. He cupped them to his mouth and blew. The gray smoke of his breath slithered through his fingers and disappeared with no effect.

Tek kicked his friend’s leg gently, being careful not to bring down another waterfall. “Put that forty down and let’s get busy, man.”

Twan finished peeling the label off a half-empty beer bottle and then smoothed it back on with his palm.

“Wake up, man. What’s wrong with you?” Tek said.

Twan finally looked up. “This is bullshit, man. Rico ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s okay, you know?”

“That’s easy for you, man. He ain’t been dissin’ you all over the ’hood.”

Twan renewed his attack on the label in silence, but Tek could read his friend’s expression in the twilight. He was in. He might not be happy about it, but he was in.

Rico had started shooting his mouth off about getting revenge a few days after his sister’s funeral. At first, Tek had just ignored it. After all, he hadn’t shot her on purpose; it had been an accident. Besides, Rico was a nobody—by all reports, he didn’t even own a gun.

But now almost two months had gone by and the verbal attacks just kept on coming. If anything, they had become more frequent and bitter. People were starting to ask Tek what he was waiting for. Starting to speculate that he was scared.

Tek grabbed a small tree with his left hand and ’Twan’s arm with his right, and hoisted both of them to their feet.

Twan mumbled something unintelligible, but followed solemnly as Tek made his way to the front door of the small gray house. Tek stopped at the door and looked over at his friend, who was shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other and chewing desperately at his lower lip. Frowning deeply, he knocked on the door and stepped back two paces.

When the door began to open, Tek used the added
distance to build up momentum. He drove his left shoulder hard into the door and managed to wedge a foot inside the house. Grabbing the thin bronze chain stretched tight in the narrow gap between the door and the jamb, he used his foot as a lever until the chain broke free and he was able to slip gracefully into the house. He pulled a machine pistol from his waistband as ’Twan closed the door behind them and circled to the back of the room.

Rico Washington stood three feet in front of him, wide-eyed and wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts and a Georgetown Basketball sweatshirt. At seventeen, he was two years Tek’s senior and a full foot taller. He had started shaving recently and it had raised an uncomfortable-looking rash on his cheeks.

“Whassup, Rico?” Tek said, leveling his machine pistol at the boy’s chest.

Rico backed up a step and looked past Tek. “’Twan—what’s going on, man?”

Tek held the gun steady, but looked back at his friend. ’Twan had both hands thrust into his pockets and had squeezed his body between an empty bookcase and the wall. He was looking at his shoes as though it was the first time he’d ever seen them.

Tek knew now that bringing him along had been a mistake. ’Twan and Rico had grown up two doors from each other. They had been fast friends until about the fifth grade, when ’Twan’s interests had turned to the streets that Rico wanted so much to escape. They hadn’t spoken a full sentence to one another in years, but the memory of their friendship hadn’t completely faded, either.

Tek turned his attention back to Rico, satisfied that ’Twan was not going to interfere one way or the other. “What you thinkin’, dissing me around the ’hood? You lookin’ to die?”

Rico straightened his shoulders and thrust out his chest, trying to use his considerably superior size to psychological advantage. Tek wasn’t impressed. He was used to killing men older and larger than himself. Nobody was bullet-proof.

“I asked you a question, Rico.”

“You killed my sister, man. You fucking shot her in the head.”

“You’re nothin’, man. Look at you—I kill your sister and you don’t do shit,” Tek yelled back, his voice dripping with hatred and contempt that he didn’t really feel.

Rico stared back at Tek, eyes burning with rage and frustration.

“What’s your sister think of you now, huh? Now that she knows her brother’s too much of a pussy to take out the guy who killed her and just runs on at the mouth instead?”

Rico’s eyes softened perceptibly and he looked away.

It was useless. The spark of anger that Tek had been carefully fanning since breaking through the door just wouldn’t burn. Shooting a boy he hardly knew just for being pissed about the death of his sister was harder than Tek had planned. But it had to be done. Without his reputation, he was nothing.

Tek looked at his right hand. It was still numb from the cold. He couldn’t feel the rough grip of the gun on
his palm, or the cold steel of the trigger under his index finger. The only sensation was a vague burning as the heat of the room seeped into his skin.

He moved his eyes back to Rico and pretended that the finger on the trigger belonged to someone else. The gun jerked twice as the ghost hand tightened and Rico sank to his knees, then pitched forward. Tek jumped to the side, barely avoiding being knocked over by the falling body.

“Oh, fuck man, you killed him,” a very young-sounding voice behind him said.

Tek twirled around on his heels, gun stretched out before him; but it was only ’Twan.

“No shit. Let’s get out of here.”

H
obart was starting to feel as if all he did was travel. He was looking forward to the day the preliminaries would be over.

The sun was rising directly behind him and though it was still low in the sky, he reached for his sunglasses. He had been driving for almost an hour, heading west to Saint Louis. His back was already starting to ache—probably due to the anticipation of being in the same position for the next thirteen hours. Leaning the seat back helped, though it put his arms in an uncomfortable position. Switching back and forth was probably the answer.

This was the part of the operation that put him on edge. Full-page ads explaining the CDFS’s actions would only save those who would be better off dead, and give the FBI another thread to pull on. The Reverend had made his decision, however, and Hobart had given his word.

He had originally thought to just shove cash into three FedEx envelopes and mail them off with the
ad. After some research into the costs of the ads, though, he had reconsidered. It wouldn’t be wise to send the better part of two hundred thousand dollars accompanied only by an anonymous letter. Three ad clerks would most likely be driving Corvettes the next day.

After some thought he had decided that the best bet would be to have cashier’s checks issued and to enclose them with the ad. The problem was that he would have to walk into a bank to get the checks, and that it would take the FBI less than a day to swarm all over the issuing branch. Not a thrilling prospect, but there seemed to be no alternative.

It was almost four o’clock by the time the Gateway Arch began to emerge from the haze. Hobart maneuvered his car through the light traffic for about ten minutes before exiting the freeway. He slowed and swung the Jeep right for no particular reason and continued on until he spotted a small branch bank on his right. He drove for almost another fifteen minutes, finally turning into a strip mall and parking in the sparsely populated lot.

He looked in the rearview mirror and examined his disguise for flaws. He wore a gray wig of slightly long but well-groomed hair, and a closely cropped gray beard. His eyes were tinted blue by contacts and partially hidden by wire-rimmed glasses.

He had darkened his skin somewhat with a foundation and accentuated the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. This, combined with a slightly stooped walk perfected in Warsaw, made him look much older than he actually was. Looking in the mirror with a dispassionate
eye, he guessed mid-fifties. He hoped everyone else would, too.

After putting on a pair of blue leather gloves and a matching topcoat, he grabbed the black satchel lying next to him on the passenger seat and walked quickly back to the main street. It took another fifteen minutes to hail a cab, but mercifully one pulled over just as it began to rain.

“Where to?”

“First Missouri. The one on the corner of Pine.”

The cabby nodded and eased the car back out into traffic.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

The thin young man behind the teller window didn’t look like a bank employee. His long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail that seemed to go quite a way down his back. Despite his youth, his skin had a ruddy complexion, suggesting that he spent most of his spare time outdoors. The nameplate next to him introduced him as Lance.

“Hi, Lance,” Hobart said, hoisting the satchel into the teller window. “I’d like to get a couple of cashier’s checks made.”

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, you don’t do that here. Our customer service representatives are the ones that take care of cashier’s checks. That lady right there can help you.” He pointed to a graying woman sitting at a neat desk near the front of the building.

“Thanks.” Hobart dragged the satchel off the counter and maneuvered back through the line of people waiting behind him.

“Hi, may I help you?”

“I hope so. Lance over there told me that you were the person to see about having cashier’s checks made.”

“That’s me. My name’s Jennifer. Have a seat.”

“Actually, I have a lot of cash in this bag. Is there an office we might use?”

Jennifer frowned with concentration for a moment. “Maybe. I think that my boss might have taken an early lunch. Why don’t you wait here and let me check.” She dashed around her desk and disappeared around the corner. She reappeared in less than a minute.

“We’re all set. Could you just follow me?” Hobart trailed her around a corner and into a small office alongside the teller line. Jennifer sat behind the desk and motioned to one of the two chairs in front of her.

“If you could tell me the amount of the checks you’d like made, and who they’re to, I can get them going. Did you say that you were going to pay cash for the checks?”

“Yes, if that’s not a problem.”

“Oh no, no problem at all. Now, what do you need?”

“Let’s see. I need one made out to
USA Today.”
Jennifer scribbled on a legal pad. “That one should be in the amount of $57,500.”

She looked up. “You said that you were going to pay for these checks with cash?”

“If it’s not a problem,” Hobart repeated.

She shrugged. “No, I guess not.”

“The second one is to the
Washington Post
in the amount of $53,565. And the last one is to the
LA Times
in the amount of $72,000 even.”

She added the numbers on a calculator on the desk, ripping the tape off when she was done. “Including fees, that will be $183,072.50.”

Hobart tugged at the straps on his bag and began pulling out neatly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Jennifer looked on in amazement.

“There you go. I think it’s all there.”

Jennifer looked around her and picked up an empty cloth bag with the bank’s logo on it. She slid the money off the desk and into the bag and struggled for the door.

“I’ll go get your checks. Would you like a cup of coffee? It might take a few minutes.”

“No, thank you, I’ll just wait.”

She paused at the door. “Oh, could you please get out your driver’s license and Social Security card. The bank is required by law to keep track of large cash transactions.”

“Sure, I’d be happy to.”

When she reappeared she was holding three cashier’s checks. Hobart looked them over while she copied information from his forged driver’s license.

“Look okay?”

“Perfect. Thanks a lot for your help.”

She slid the license back over to him. “Now, Mr. Harrison, if you could just look over the information on this form and sign at the bottom if everything looks accurate.”

He glanced briefly at the form and signed, using his left hand. The signature was completely illegible.

Jennifer stood up and offered her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison. Let us know if we can be of any more help to you.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Back out in the parking lot, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Hobart hurried down the street in the opposite direction of his car, the empty satchel hanging from his shoulder by its long center strap. When he was well out of sight of the bank, he began looking for a cab. It only took about five minutes to get one this time.

The cab driver watched his rearview mirror silently as Hobart piled into the back seat.

“I’m going to the Safeway up a few miles on the right, but I think I’d like to see the Arch first.” The cabby started the meter and made a U-turn in the middle of the street, heading back to the freeway. Hobart relaxed and began going through a mental checklist, distracted only by the sound of western music and the overpowering scent of car air freshener.

His tour around the Arch killed about forty-five minutes, and it was almost five thirty when the cab driver let him off at the Safeway where he had parked his truck. He went in and did a little food shopping, stuffing a cooler full of ice, Pepsi, and deli sandwiches. The shopping trip took fifteen minutes—plenty of time for the cab driver to move on.