Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 (13 page)

“I don’t really like to play the veteran card,” he said.

“It’s our land and our rules. Veterans don’t pay.”

He finally accepted the two twenties and put them in his pocket.

I said, “Feels awkward, right?”

“It does sometimes.”

“Well, then you can understand how I feel when people thank me for stopping a kidnapping. It’s like being applauded for zipping up your fly.”

He laughed quietly. “Interesting way of putting it.”

We spoke for a few more minutes on our way back up to the access road. As with most conversations on war and politics and the armed forces, we resolved nothing, but found that we shared fairly similar worldviews. There was small comfort in the similarity. Which is the most one can realistically hope for regarding matters beyond the reach of individuals.

I walked back to my cabin feeling pleasantly distracted. It was a beautiful morning, and the conversation with Theo Tomac had temporarily taken my mind away from the local bottom feeders I would soon have to confront. The sort of people that offer nothing to society but gladly steal whenever they have the chance.

There was still no word from Kendra when I checked my phone. I sat in my rocker on the porch with a second cup of coffee. Frank took to his usual spot with no coffee. I had just started typing out a text message when something dawned on me.

It was Sunday. My phone’s lock screen confirmed the day and date.

Shit
.

Banks were closed until Tuesday. That meant Kendra wouldn’t be able to get a new car until Tuesday at the earliest. Unless she happened to have a big stack of cash hidden away somewhere.

I backed out of the text and checked the time. Just after 7:00. I called her number. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Her message stated cheerily, “If you know me, you’ll know I hate checking voicemail.”

Double Shit.

I texted,
Call me ASAP
.

Frank was staring at me when I looked up from the phone. Apparently I was putting out bad vibes. My concern was concerning him.

“Relax,” I said.

He did. He knows what it means.

Given my odd employment status, I sometimes get lost within the days of the week. Literally half of those days can pass without me leaving the property. There’s no set time to clock in or out of my responsibilities. I’m not even on call. I’m simply here, melding into my surroundings and my routines. Watching, interacting. Waiting to react. Days blur together. The structure and routines of the world beyond the campground become largely insignificant.

But I couldn’t ignore this.

The way I saw it, there were two options for confronting the Bensons. An all-out blitz, or a more subtle attack. If they called Kendra hoping to cash in on the reward, I could play it cool and simply talk my way into their house and then deal with them from there. It seemed like the safer route, even though it contradicted my generally preferred methods of confronting problems with swift and overwhelming force. I have little experience with formulating and executing intricate plans. The heat of a given moment is where I’ve come to best operate. I’ve had years of practice.

Time was wasting. I couldn’t sit there all morning. So I got up and got a few things together. Then we got in the van and headed out.

19

Willie wasn’t thrilled to see me in his bedroom. Evidently he’d stayed up half the night playing football and executing imaginary terrorists. There were empty bags of chips and empty soda cans on the TV tray beside his fancy gaming chair.

I clapped my hands and saw his eyes open. His mattress creaked as he started to move.

“Do they make these chairs in super sizes?” I asked.

“Frig you,” he mumbled.

“You’re gonna need one if you keep this up.”

“What do you want?”

“Get up,” I said.

He grunted like a bear as he kicked his feet out from the covers and sat up.

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Late,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“I need your help, big boy.”

Instantly his face lit up. He sat up straighter. He was awake, just like that.

“Yeah? My help?”

“Seriously. Get moving. We’ve got asses to kick.”

For a big guy with a rebuilt knee, Willie can move pretty fast when he’s motivated. He got on some cargo shorts and a sweatshirt and met me in the living room in about thirty seconds. It was just the two of us there. Frank was with my parents, and my aunt and uncle were likely at church. Willie looked hopeful. Excited.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

“I need you to drive.”

“You mean …”

“I’m going in alone.”

His shoulders slouched a little.

“I need eyes on the outside. If things go bad, you’ll have to come in and get me out.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“I know you can.”

“You don’t wanna get stuck in there.”

“No way. That’s why I need you.”

He nodded sharply.

I said, “You know the old graveyard on the hill overlooking Bow Street?”

“I know there’s one up there, yeah.”

“It has two entries. One from Bow Street, and the other from a little dirt road near the old drive-in theater.”

“I know where you mean.”

“If things get bad, we’ll head out the dirt road and get to the Saulsbury town line in a hurry. I’d rather get pulled over by Uncle Danny than a Franklin cop.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “You got guns?”

I nodded. “You sure you want to get involved in this?”

“Damn right I do.”

“There’s a chance that something could go wrong.”

“Hell with that. Let’s get it done.”

I knew Willie could be trusted. In the sense of family loyalty, certainly. But beyond that he could be counted on to keep his composure in a tense situation. As of late he had been in a rut of depression and junk food, due to the abrupt end of his football dreams. But that wasn’t really him. The flame of his competitive nature was still flickering. The warrior mentality of a star athlete doesn’t fully acknowledge a reconstructed knee until years after the injury, when the arthritis sets in. The compulsion to be a part of a team and to achieve something significant is too deeply ingrained in the athlete to be cast off along with the uniform.

Willie drove my van while I prepared. It gave him something to do, and it really was helpful to me. I had on my black windbreaker. Black gloves. Black Red Sox cap. Black bulletproof vest. The only light color on me was a white painting mask. Not only to hide my face. I hoped it would help soften the blow of the Benson stench. Just recalling it from the night before made me dread entering that place again.

And I had two pistols. My big Smith, for show, and a suppressed Ruger SR22. In all honesty I didn’t think the guns were completely necessary. At least I hoped they weren’t. I viewed them as backup. A security blanket. Just in case I had underestimated the Benson brothers.

I checked my phone again as we crossed the town line. Passed the
Welcome to Franklin
sign. Still no word from Kendra. I sent her a quick text.
Good morning.
Then I put the phone on silent and focused on my plan.

Bow Street was quiet when we turned onto it. We noticed a few kids riding skateboards, but overall there were less people walking on the sidewalk and loitering on porches than I’d seen the previous night. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Working people were catching up on their rest. Night owls and partiers were recovering.

Good news for me.

I took a deep breath as we neared the house. Then another. Willie had the van crawling along. Both of us were scanning all around. There were no vehicles in front of the house. Only one parked up in the driveway near the back of the place. That was what I’d hoped to see. There was likely no company to deal with. Just two oblivious idiots.

My plan was simple. Surprise and dominate. That was it. Now all I had to do was execute it.

Elite soldiers are taught that ninety percent of their challenges are psychological rather than physical. The mind determines success or failure, even before any actions take place. Elite athletes are taught the same principles. Professional motocross racers are trained to visualize themselves getting the perfect start to a race. They anticipate the drop of the gate, and see themselves being a wheel ahead entering the first turn. Then a bike length ahead as they exit the first turn. From then on they can forget the competition behind them, leaving them to squabble among themselves for second place. Those who perfect such methods often find themselves successful.

I knew my target and my goal. I could visualize my way into and around the house. I did not know if I would meet resistance. But I planned on it. I visualized the walk from the road and my entry into the house. Breaking the door in if need be. I saw myself operating with the cool efficiency of Jason Bourne. Dispatching resistance with shocking force. Standing over my defeated opponents. Having complete control of the situation. I saw the whole scene panning out smoothly. Easily. Like a winner.

But that’s not to say that I wasn’t a little nervous. On my home turf, it’s much easier to feel unshakable.

“Ready?” Willie asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pulling the mask up over my nose.

“Hundred percent sure?”

“Yes.”

The van was barely rolling.

“Go. Now,” he said.

I stepped out on my toes. Pushed the door lightly and let it shut with forward momentum. My van kept on moving by. I pushed off my toes as the rear bumper passed me and crossed the road in three strides. Went up the driveway at a fast walk. Like I owned the place and had every right to be there. Like a friend stopping by for a visit. I passed a black SUV. Went up the back steps on my toes. Looked in through hazy glass. Saw nothing as I turned the doorknob in my gloved hand. Felt it give. Heard the door creak and saw it open before me. Through the mask I smelled the terrible stench of that filthy house again.

The door closed behind me.

I was in.

20

The place looked no better in the daylight. It didn’t smell any better either, even with the mask. I was alone in the kitchen, in the sense that there were no other people. But there was plenty of shit to see.

There was trash overflowing from a can set against one wall. The formerly white wall behind it was noticeably darker with yellowed stains around the overstuffed can. Old wall paper was peeling from plaster walls. Dirty dishes were piled in and around the sink. There wasn’t a square inch of open counter space. The peeling linoleum floors were yellow. Empty beer cases were piled against one wall, like a collection. The kitchen table had some assorted junk and mail stacked on it, along with an opened box of Frosted Flakes. Tony the tiger would’ve frowned if he could’ve seen his surroundings.

Through the kitchen I saw a face. It was staring back at me from across the living room. Maybe twenty feet separated us. It was a pudgy male face. Big and round and expressionless. Like it was made of marshmallow. Either his hair was buzzed clean or else he was completely hairless. His entire head seemed to have a uniform color. Like an egg with eyes and a nose and a mouth drawn onto it. No eyebrows to speak of. The rest of him was obscured by the couch. He was looking over his shoulder at me blankly. Beyond him I could see a cartoon playing on the TV.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, chewing.

Not exactly the reception I was expecting. The Jason Bourne assault tactics would have to wait.

It’s not nice to judge people solely by their appearances. But sometimes it just happens. I judged the marshmallow face to belong to the younger brother, Seth. The follower the old woman had spoken of. At a glance he didn’t appear to have much going on between his ears. Which would amply explain why he was a follower.

I adjusted my plan. I had expected a rude welcoming in response to my intrusion. It hadn’t panned out. So within a few seconds I decided to employ physiological tactics. Confusion can be very useful. Even a Jedi uses mind tricks on occasion.

“How’d it go?” I asked, stepping casually into the living room.

“Huh?” he grunted, chewing.

“Treadstone.”

“What?”

“Operation Treadstone. Was your mission a failure or a success?”

The big marshmallow man stood up slowly. It didn’t worry me, because he had both hands on his bowl of cereal, and his expression was consistently blank. He wasn’t afraid or angry. Just dumb and lost. He looked like a giant loaf of white bread stuffed into a pair of track pants and a T-shirt.

I asked, “Did you meet your objective?”

Silence.

“Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Do you pack a lunch or take the bus?”

Nothing.

“Seth,” I said. “You’re not helping me here.”

Finally he said, “Who are you?”

“Seth.”

“I’m Seth,” he said.

“I know that. Where’s Jason?”

“Jason?”

“What about Jared? Where’s he?”

“Jared? He’s upstairs.”

“Did he get it?”

“Get what?”

“The files. For Treadstone. Matt Damon sent me.”

He had no answers and no clue. So instead of speaking, he took another bite of Frosted Flakes.

I asked, “Who is green and lives in a trash can?”

No answer. He chewed slowly and then said again, “Who are you?” For the first time his egg face took on a hint of an expression. He still wasn’t afraid of me, but he was growing a little wary.

I said, “I need to talk to your brother.”

“He’s in bed.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

It was possible. Maybe he really was recovering from the night before. Or maybe he was waiting upstairs with a loaded .38. No way was I about to go up those stairs and find out.

I said, “Go wake him up. Tell him Jason Bourne is here.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Wake him up.”

“He’ll be mad at me.”

“This is important.”

“Important?”

“Very important. He’s expecting me.”

He set the bowl down on a coffee table and went slowly to the stairs. He took a few steps and stopped again, all the while staring at me. The longer I looked at him, the more he started giving me the creeps. There was something very off about him.

“Go on,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “I need to talk to him.”

To my surprise, he asked, “Did you leave the water on?”

“What water?”

“In the bathroom. Jared said it was me. But I didn’t leave the water on. I never do.”

“Go get him,” I said. “Don’t worry about the water.”

After a moment he resumed climbing the steps and went out of sight. He didn’t stomp for a bigger guy. He was slow and methodical, like he had to concentrate on what he was doing. I could hear him stressing the floorboards above my head.

He was very strange. Maybe he wasn’t all there. But he wasn’t quite as lost as he looked. In a way I was tempted to feel bad for him. But not bad enough to trust him as far as I could throw him.

I shut off the TV and then went quietly to the kitchen. I found an old broom with a sturdy wooden handle. I had to laugh to myself. It didn’t make sense why they kept it around. Obviously they never used it. There were cobwebs on the ceilings and the walls. The floors were gritty and stained, clearly never swept. So why keep the broom?

A rustic decoration? Family heirloom?

Two muffled voices went back and forth above me. The big one had a fittingly deep voice, but he didn’t speak loud. The second voice spoke sharper and quicker and had less depth. Definitely a smaller guy with a more typical manner of speech. I stood still and listened carefully. But I couldn’t understand much.

Moving back into the living room, I positioned myself with my back flat against the wall along the line of the stairs. They would have to lean out and look over the railing to see me as they descended the stairs. It was the best place for me to wait, even though I hated the idea of my windbreaker touching the wall in that place. No amount of cycles through a washing machine could ever give me peace of mind again. I’d have to burn it and get a new one.

Yeah, with your money.

Now the smaller voice grew suddenly louder, angrier. Clearly I heard, “Damn it, Seth!” Then there were louder steps on the floor above me and they started thumping fast down the stairs.

I moved forward, raised the broom and stuck the handle across the stairs about a second before I felt weight hit it and then heard a sort of gasp and then a series of thumps as the smaller brother came tumbling down. He stuck his hand out to catch himself. It didn’t work. Something in his upper hand or his wrist area snapped. I heard it as I heard the air go out of him. Then there was another sound. Something heavy clattering on the floor.

I tossed the broom and pulled out my .22. Went over and got my first look at the smaller brother. He was wearing a white tank and boxer shorts, and he looked nothing like the big one. Nothing at all. His face was completely different. Aside from being sunken and sharper, the structure and features were nothing alike. And he was very thin. Almost sickly. Nothing but scum and bones.

Weird
.

At the top of the stairs I saw the bigger one. He stood there like Lurch, looking down with no expression. I pointed the gun up at him. It caused no reaction in him. I ignored the creepy feeling he gave me and pointed the gun at the smaller brother. He was groaning in pain.

A .38 revolver lay on the floor a few feet from his head. It had clattered there when he came tumbling down. I dragged it closer with my foot. Bent down and picked it up. Opened the cylinder and let the bullets spill out. It was an old Smith & Wesson in sad shape. The stainless steel was dinged and dull and the wooden grip was chipped and worn. I slid it into a pocket for safe keeping.

I said, “On your feet, Jared.”

“Who are you?” he groaned.

“Bad news. Get up. Now.”

He rolled over stiffly and looked up in my direction for the first time. He saw a suppressed pistol staring him in the face, and I saw the fear and surprise in his expression.

“Get up,” I said.

Without a word he pulled himself up difficultly to a seated positon. Looked down and studied his right hand. He was breathing heavily, wincing. There was a nasty bend in his wrist. The hand was just hanging limp. It probably hurt like hell. Sleepiness and shock were probably all that was keeping him from really freaking out.

“Do you have dogs in the basement?”

He looked up at me, past the gun, and we made eye contact.

“Are you deaf?”

“What do you want?”

“I asked you a question. Do you have dogs?”

“Dude, I never seen you before. I don’t owe you shit. What are doing in my place?”

I leaned in and slapped him suddenly on the ear with my left hand. It was a hard hit that caught him by surprise. His bloodshot eyes squinted and then reopened wide. He must have seen stars.

“I ask the questions. You give straight answers. Got it?”

He nodded slowly.

“Do you have dogs?”

“Yeah.”

“A boxer?”

“No.”

“You’re not lying to me?”

“No, man. No.”

“Lying will result in greater amounts of pain. That’s fair warning.”

“I ain’t lying. I got no boxers, man. Just pits.”

“Do you like pain?”

Now he was looking at the gun again. He didn’t know me and he didn’t know if I was the sort of guy who would use it.

He answered, “No.”

“Then do exactly what I say. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“If you cooperate, I can promise you a shorter stay in the hospital. That’s the best I can offer.”

He looked up at me again, asked, “You gonna kill us?”

I slapped him again. Harder than the first time. It was Kurt Russel’s move from
Tombstone
. It was good for inflicting pain, shock and humiliation, while further confusing the culprit.

“What did I just tell you?”

“Okay,” he panted. “Okay. Sorry.”

To make everything clear for him, I said, “This is a twenty-two loaded with weak shot shells. That’s like a mini shotgun shell, made for killing snakes. It won’t come close to killing you, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’ll just hurt like hell. Okay?”

He nodded.

“And even if I do decide to kill you, I won’t use a gun. I’ll beat you to death. Slowly. And once you’re dead I’ll use your nasty corpse to beat your brother to death. Am I clear?”

“Okay, okay. Clear, clear.”

“Good. Now get on your feet. Then you’re going to call your brother down. Both of you will walk down to the basement without giving me any trouble. Understand?”

“Yeah,” he said, and started slowly getting up.

His right hand was useless. He had to prop himself up with his left hand on the railing. He looked up and spoke to his brother. Told him to come down the stairs and not to start any trouble. His voice was shaking. He wasn’t used to being out of control.

Seth did as he was told. He descended the stairs slowly with absolutely no expression.

I moved back a few paces to give them room at the foot of the stairs. The small one was really hurting and the big one seemed too dumb to act on his own. But even so, I was waiting for the situation to erupt at any moment. Stranger things have happened.

Briefly I looked over at the door to the front porch. The bolt was locked. Then I looked back at the two brothers. They were fixated on me. I opened my windbreaker. Like a gunfighter. Let them see my .500 Magnum. Told them that I would use it if I had to, even though in reality it was the last thing I actually wanted to happen. I was simply employing the additional fear factor of a large weapon.

It seemed to work. Jared responded with a nod. Seth just stood there. He was starting to remind me a bit of Sloth from
The Goonies
. All he lacked was the mismatched eyes and the likable personality.

“Walk slowly,” I said.

Jared started off and his brother went along behind him like a good follower. We marched single file through the living room to the kitchen. I reached over and locked the kitchen door. Then told Jared to proceed down the basement stairs. He opened the basement door with his left hand. Then he looked over at me.

If he was going to try to run, either to get a weapon or to escape, that would’ve been the best time to do it.