Luthecker (44 page)

• • •

Brown finished his breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast, and drank the last of his coffee. He set the dishes in the sink, and wiped his hands with a small towel before setting the cloth down on the counter. It was 8:55am, and the guards would be here for him any moment now. He picked up the television remote and turned CNN off of the flat screen before straightening his jacket and tie, and getting himself mentally ready. As if on cue, he heard the sound of keys being inserted into a lock, and he looked to the large metal door that reminded him he was a prisoner, just as it opened.

• • •

“I am easily wakened by noise.”

“False.”

“I suffer nightmares nearly every night.”

“False.”

The bald-headed, terse looking sexagenarian wearing reading glasses and a white lab coat took his eyes off his questionnaire and looked at Brown. Brown smiled at him.

“Any sleep disturbances I suffer from are because of the drugs you have me on. Go ahead. Check the polygraph.”

The bald-headed man examined Brown a moment longer before he looked over at the needles of the lie detector machinery, and scribbled what he read from them into his notebook.

Brown took a quick look around the observation room, the three concrete walls that were blank, the fourth wall that he sat across from dominated by the mirrored reflection of one-way observation glass. He had a strong idea of who sat on the other side of it observing the petty theatrics currently taking place in the room. He would be speaking with them soon enough, he thought, and there would be much to discuss. His eyes moved to the sensor wires that connected him to the polygraph, and the steel table that sat between himself and the bald-headed man in charge of his final psych eval. The thought of slitting the bald-headed man’s throat briefly entered Brown’s mind.

“A minister can cure disease by praying and putting his hand on your head.” The bald-headed man continued.

“False. Doctor, can we cut to the chase, please.”

“Just answer the questions, true or false.”

“They are the same ones. Every time. I know how this works. I had final approval over the questionnaire. You know who I am.”

“Would you kill your worst enemy if you knew you could get away with it?”

“I fought in Iraq.”

“Do you feel you will be an historically notable person?”

“I am an historically notable person.”

The needles on the polygraph briefly maxing out betrayed Brown’s ice-calm delivery.

“Why don’t you get to what you really want to know?”

The doctor carefully put his notebook aside, and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

“Do you think it’s possible to predict what will happen in the future?”

“False.”

“Do you think, that Alex Luthecker, can predict what will happen in the future?”

Brown examined the man who sat across from him, fighting hard to keep his anger from display. When Brown was free of this annoyance, and back at the helm of Coalition Properties, this man would disappear.

“I think Alex Luthecker is a messed up homeless kid who lives from hand to mouth.” He finally responded. “He’s of above average intellect, but he’s just a kid. He poses no threat, and I have no intentions of trying to capture, kill, or contact him in any way upon my release. Now are we done here?”

The bald-headed man looked to the polygraph. The needles held steady. He then carefully closed his notebook, and looked at Brown. There was no detectable emotion on his face.

“Yes. We are. The guard will escort you back to your cell.”

• • •

Brown sat on the edge of the couch in his cell, and opened the large envelope that held his belongings: His Cartier watch, his wallet, his keys, and his cell phone. He slipped on his watch and pocketed the keys and wallet, before checking to make sure his cell phone was fully charged. As soon as he was out, his first call would be to a certain Senator that owed Brown more than a few favors. There were many favors owed to him by several of the powerful and elite, and Brown had every intention of calling them all in.

Brown’s release was scheduled for 11:30pm, seventeen minutes from now, and would be done discreetly, to avoid any press. The first order of business for Brown would be to schedule a brief vacation at his Aspen Colorado home, in order to wash his psyche from the foul stench of incarceration. He would have preferred his villa in Switzerland, but he was technically on parole, and therefore could not leave the country, at least for the moment. It was in Aspen that he would plan his return.

Brown had every intention of getting back in the game. The conditions of his parole technically forbid his direct employment by Coalition Properties, mostly to protect the reputation of the company. The conditions of his parole did not, however, prevent him from starting a consulting firm that could raise capital, lobby Washington, and in time act as an advisor to The Coalition, eventually controlling its fate, which is exactly what he would do. Brown would be at the head of the table, once again. And when he was, he would spare no expense in hunting down Alex Luthecker.

• • •

The black town car with tinted windows pulled up to the curb just as Brown stepped through the gate and beyond the razor wire fence that surrounded the ominous multiple structures of the prison facility. Relief washed over Brown’s face as he approached the vehicle. Despite experiencing a minimum of hardship during his incarceration, it was still prison, and Brown felt the release of anxiety associated with regaining what he realized is often taken for granted, ones freedom.

He quickly opened the rear passenger door of the car, and climbed inside.

“The airport please.”

Brown had arranged for his Citation 10 to be waiting for him, along with a steak dinner and a 2007 bottle of Scarecrow Cabernet Sauvignon, a favorite of his. He looked forward to relaxing with a decent meal and a dry wine, something he had missed over the passed six months.

The car didn’t move.

“I said the airport—” Brown stopped short as he saw the black suppressor on the end of the gun barrel. He felt the bullet burn his flesh as it struck his chest, a fraction of a second before he heard the muffled whisper of the shot. His lungs seared, and he fought for air, clawing at the back of the driver’s seat, but the air never came. Then everything went black.

Luthecker, Copyright © 2012 Keith Domingue
Domingue, Inc. Publishing, 2012
All Rights Reserved

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover images courtesy of photo 168, Olga Altunina & Dreamstime.com

Cover by Joleene Naylor