Stolen Omnibus – Small Town Abduction (7 page)

“Sheriff?” The intercom buzzed and stopped Jake at the door. “Sheriff, you in there?”

“Go on ahead. I’ll meet you out by the car.” Once Longwood had disappeared, Jake reached for the receiver on the phone. “What’s going on, Jackie?”

“I’ve got the lab on the line for you.” She paused, and Jake heard the dry gulp she took before she spoke the next part. “They have the ballistics report on Deputy Keen.”

“Put ’em through.” A click sounded in Jake’s ear, and he paused a moment before answering. “This is Sheriff Cooley.”

A scratchy voice answered loudly. “Hello, Sheriff! It’s Zeke!”

Jake pulled the phone from his ear and winced. “Yeah, Zeke. What do you have for me?”

“Er, just one second here.” Papers shuffled, and twice it sounded as though Zeke had dropped the phone. “Ah, here it is. Yes, the bullet that killed Deputy Keen had properties that only two bullet manufacturing companies use, and one of them only sells in Texas.”

“And the other?” Jake asked.

“There are a few shops in Bismarck where they’re sold, but that’s about as far as I can pinpoint it for you, Sheriff. Other than the fact that the bullet was armor piercing, there isn’t much else to tell about it. No alterations, nothing.”

“Thanks, Zeke.” Jake hung up the phone and paced the small stretch of floor between the door and his desk. If the perp was smart enough to buy armor-piercing rounds, then they were probably smart enough to buy it from a place that lacked any type of surveillance equipment.

Jake reached for his cell phone and scrolled down the address book until he came across Wheelan Dexter. He clicked the number, and the phone dialed. Three rings later, and he got an answer. “Wheelan, it’s Jake Cooley… Yeah, I’m doing fine. Listen, I need a favor. Do you still have contacts over in Bismarck? Great, see if they can track down anyone selling armor-piercing rounds either legally or illegally. The make of the bullet is Rochet… Thanks.” Jake paused for a second, unsure of how far he was willing to push his professional friendship. “Do you still have your connection with the Feds? I need you to look up a name for me and see what you can find. The individual is Scott Ambers.”

***

The yellow painted lines of the highway started to blur, and Ken shook his head, forcing himself to stay awake. The steering wheel shook a little bit in his hand, which sent small jolts of adrenaline through his body, but what really kept him awake was the man in the passenger seat. “How far out are we going?”

“I’ll let you know when we’re close,” Scott answered.

The past three hours on the road had left both Ken’s mind and ass completely numb. The rolling hills of the landscape never changed, and they had been the only car on the road for the past hour. When he wasn’t trying to keep his eyelids from closing, Ken noticed that every hour Scott received a phone call. He would answer, listen for a few seconds, say nothing, and then hang up. But more disturbing than the phone calls were the pair of gloves that rested over his thigh. They were large, black, and well worn. And Ken hoped he wouldn’t find out what the man used them for.

Ken shifted in his seat and lifted his arm and rested it on the door, where he pressed it against the window. The miles passed, and he was forced to hold the steering wheel at a perfect two and ten to keep them from flying off the road’s shoulder, not that there was anything there but grass—grass and dirt as far as the eye could see. But under all of that nothing was an ocean of oil.

A career in lobbyist politics was probably the only career in the world where you can work in every type of industry, from crops to plastics, and the job never changes. Because despite the product differences, all of the executives wanted the same thing: money.

If money was the root of all evil, then Ken was the gardener that shoveled the shit to make sure everything kept growing. But after nearly a decade of shoveling his own brand Ken couldn’t stand the smell of it anymore. Never in his life did he wish he could quit more than right now.

“Turn right up here.” Scott pointed ahead, and Ken saw a dirt path cut through wild grass that had grown over the sides.

Ken eased off the accelerator, and vibrations ran up through the tires and into the cabin the moment he turned off the paved road. He kept a slow pace, unsure if his luxury sedan would be able to handle the rocky terrain, but when he finally saw a small farmhouse at the end of the path the anxiousness intensified.

A cloud of dust washed over the car from back to front when Ken stopped thirty feet from the front porch. Ken kept his seat belt on, and when he looked over to Scott he watched the brute slip a hand into the right glove. “What are we doing here?”

“When we get inside, don’t do anything. Don’t speak. Don’t get in my way. And do not answer any questions that you’re asked. Got it?” Scott flexed his gloved hand and opened the door.

Ken’s mouth went dry, and he simply nodded. He unbuckled his seat belt and followed, keeping a distance of a few feet between them as they made their way toward the front porch.

A light flicked on in the front window the moment Ken put his foot on the first porch step, and by the time he made it to the second step the door had flung open. An elderly man who had to have been in his seventies stood in the doorway. Dusty, faded overalls hung loose around his body, and white whiskers sprouted randomly from his face like weeds. Thick eyebrows hung over blue eyes that were the only redeeming quality left of his aged features.

“Who the hell are you?” The old man’s voice sounded stronger than the rest of him. Bony, arthritic hands clung to the doorframe, which he had to lean up against to ensure that he didn’t fall over.

When Scott didn’t answer the old man’s question Ken grew nervous. A tight ball formed in his stomach, and he reached for the wedding ring on his finger that wasn’t there.

Scott pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it at the old man’s feet. “We’ve given you enough time, Mr. Lanks. Sign over the land. Today.”

The old man’s face flushed a cherry red. “I told you bastards that I’m not selling! I don’t care how much money you’re trying to offer me! You understand? Get it through that thick skull of yours! I’m never selling!”

A rush of wind blasted Ken in the face when the old man slammed the door shut. He remained still for a moment then took another step up, the wood groaning underneath his weight. “Scott, what the hell is this about?”

But he never got an answer. Scott walked up to the front door and without a word smashed his foot into the old wood, cracking the frame and splintering a quarter of the door off its hinges. From the stairs Ken heard the old man shouting unintelligible words, and then came the screaming. Trembling, Ken took a step. He found himself drawn to the violence, drawn to the pain, drawn by his own curiosity. Muffled groans and heavy thumps sounded from the living room, and when Ken entered the house through the busted-down door he saw Scott hovering over the old man. One hand gripped the geriatric’s collar, and the other was clenched in a fist and raised high in the air. “You gonna sell?”

Completely defenseless, the old man slid his arms lazily at his sides as he lay spread eagle on the floorboards. He lolled his head back and forth, surrounded by splatters of blood. He coughed and hacked. The red marks on his face from where Scott had struck him sharpened in color and formed lumps over his skin.

Ken rushed over and placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder, trying to shield him from harm. But the efforts were quickly thwarted with a backhand across the face that sent him to the floor. His left cheek burned, and he lifted a hand to the growing welt.

Scott yanked Mr. Lanks up by the collar of his shirt and flung him against the wall, where he kept him pinned. The force of the throw knocked a few pictures from the walls, causing them to shatter on the floor. “We’re done trying to hold your hand on this one, geezer. You fucking sell the property, or the next time we go after someone a little more green around the gills.” He thrust his fist into the man’s gut, and Lanks doubled over, falling to the floor. Scott picked up one of the fallen pictures. He knocked away the pieces of broken glass and pulled the paper from its frame. “How old’s your grandson now? Eight? Nine?” He thrust the picture in the old man’s face. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He shrugged. “Well, that’s if they grow up at all.” He tossed the picture aside, and Lanks started to cry.

Ken was still on the floor when Scott walked past, and he kept his head down. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Scott pick up the piece of paper he had tossed at the old man’s feet, which Ken now understood was a land contract.

Scott slammed the paper onto Lank’s chest, which heaved up and down with his sobbing. “Do yourself and your family a favor. Sign it.” Scott stepped over the old man’s body and peeled off his gloves on his exit out the door.

Ken watched the old man cry, partly because he wanted to make sure the old timer was still breathing, but more so because he was afraid to step out that door. It might be him on that floor next, or worse, they could send that monster to
his
family.

But he couldn’t escape now. He was too far down the rabbit hole. Ken stood, still cradling the wound on his cheek, and joined Scott outside. He saw Scott leaned back on his sedan’s hood with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at him.

Ken approached wearily, mostly keeping his head down. When he stepped to the driver-side door Scott stopped him. Ken lifted his gaze from Scott’s worn black boots to his eyes. “Listen, I—”

The pain started like a small ache in the middle of his stomach but then spread like the rippling waves of a pond when you throw a stone in its calm waters. Ken collapsed to his knees, sucking air and clutching his stomach from the heavy blow.

“You’re not here to negotiate,” Scott said. “You’re not here to help these people pick up the pieces of their shitty lives. You’re here to make sure no one sticks a knife in my back, and to fucking drive.” He reached around to the back of his waistband and pulled a pistol that Ken didn’t even know was there until the cold steel pressed into his forehead. “You pull any shit like that again, and I will bury you out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Ken said, his voice trembling. “I got it.” After the concession the pistol was removed from his forehead, and when he opened his eyes Scott was already at the passenger-side door.

“Let’s go. We’ve got a long day.”

Chapter 6 – 30 Hours Left

“Yes, I understand your position, Senator.” Lena pressed her left palm flush against the desk and looked over to Janine, who had the congressman on the phone. Beyond Janine’s desk was the horde of reporters that had gathered outside for her announcement, which had leaked to the press the moment Carla Knox stepped outside. Once that happened, her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Senators, Congressmen, and fellow members of the state legislature all trying to prevent her from going public. “And I appreciated your support of the bill in my campaigning. But I won’t be changing my mind.”

Lena slowly lowered herself into the chair, hanging up and sliding the cell phone across her desk and out of reach. She gently rubbed her temples, closing her eyes, and tried focusing on anything other than the relentless murmur of chants outside and the phone’s nonstop ringing. “Just unplug it, Janine.”

The assistant froze in mid-reach for the next call. “Mrs. Hayes, with everything that’s going on I don’t think that—”

“If people don’t understand why I’m doing this now, they’re not going to understand after I speak with them.” The calls had been nothing more than a distraction from the looming storm cloud that was the announcement and the repercussions that followed. But somewhere Kaley was afraid, alone, and wondering why someone had taken her and when she could go home. The repercussions could go to hell.

Lena walked to the kitchen. She cradled her forehead gently with the palm of her hand, and her shoulder slammed into the doorframe of the kitchen’s entrance as she walked past. The floor wobbled unevenly, and she clutched the countertops and hung on for dear life as she felt herself sway from side to side. All of the noise from the past two hours had left her head spinning.

A light tickle ran up the back of her skull, and she knew the one thing that would take her away from all of this, the one thing that would truly distract her from her daughter’s disappearance. One little prick of a needle in her arm. She clawed her nails into the blue plastic countertops and felt the sharp crack of one of her nails.

Sweat broke out on her chest, neck, and forehead. Lena backed up until she felt the cool plaster of the wall behind her and focused on slowing her heart rate, and breathing. She slid to the floor and hung her head between her knees.
You want the high, but you don’t need it.
Bullshit. She knew she needed it. That was addiction.

After all of the self-acceptance, forgiveness, and steps she went through in rehab, there was only ever one thing that made it really stick, and that was Gwen. Lena dove into the banks of her memory and opened the vault she kept for moments like these, moments when she knew there wasn’t anything to stop her from letting the beast take control.

The vault’s hinges whined from the weight of the door as Lena pulled it open and peered into the darkness. She took one step forward but then quickly stopped, unsure of whether she would be able to handle seeing it again.

Eventually, Lena leaned forward enough to stumble inside. A faint cry echoed from the depths of the memory. The deeper she walked, the more the memory sharpened. She felt her foot kick something, and when she looked down an empty bottle of vodka rolled across a carpet spotted with stains. When she glanced up she saw herself passed out on the couch on her back, her head tilted to the side and vomit dribbling down her cheek.

More cries echoed in the memory, and she looked over to see Gwen, screaming her head off in the crib across the room. She couldn’t have been older than one at the time. Needles and empty syringes dotted the floor. Lena’s sleeve was rolled up to her shoulder, and the crook of the exposed arm was red and scabbed over. She’d be like that for hours, while Gwen cried for food, cried for her mother, cried for someone to come and take her away.