3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 (14 page)

“So long? You said you wanted to be alone for a while and—”

“You really are clueless.”

Chapter 27

Steve Bolt tried to be as quiet as possible as he shifted around in the car’s trunk. He managed to extract his Buck knife from his boot and cut the zip ties around his ankles. Reversing the blade and severing the wrist bindings had been a challenge that finally succeeded, but only at the cost of a mean gash near his right thumb. The last thing he wanted was for his kidnappers to hear him thumping about. If they thought he could move, they would probably stop, rebind him, and then he’d never get free. And freedom was what he had in mind. As nearly as he could tell, they’d been driving south. He couldn’t be sure, but he knew they’d turned right out of the motel’s parking lot and had stayed on a more or less straight course ever since. Once his hands were free, he managed to twist around so that he could reach the trunk release lanyard. The car accelerated. He’d have to wait until it slowed or stopped. The car swerved left and seemed to be climbing. They must be going east now. East meant the Blue Ridge Mountains. He grabbed the trunk deck from the inside to keep it from flying open, and pulled the lanyard. The latch thunked and the deck lid tugged at his fingertips. The car did not slow—a good sign. He gripped the lid and waited.

Five minutes later the left turn signal started blinking and the car slowed. Bolt prayed for oncoming traffic to force it to stop. His prayers were answered. The car paused momentarily. Then, as it accelerated into another left turn, he rolled out of the trunk and onto the road. He’d been cramped in the confined space so long, his legs refused to respond and he barely regained his footing. He spun around and stared at the car. Without conscious effort, his mind registered both the license plate and the men’s voices.

The car completed its turn and pulled off the road. The doors flew open and two men pushed their way out. In the split second it took for them to focus in on him, his adrenaline kicked in, conquered his stiffness, and he lurched into the woods.

He knew the intersection the instant he tumbled onto the road and thanked a god he rarely acknowledged otherwise for deliverance. He’d just cleared the Rocky Knob entrance onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and landed in the mountains. He was home. Once in the woods, there was no way those men would ever find him. He slipped behind an oak and risked a glance back to the road. Two men stood next to the Lincoln. One had a cell phone to his ear, his arms gesturing wildly. The second jerked out a pistol and snapped off six shots in Bolt’s general direction.

Bolt checked his pockets. He still had most of the two thousand left. He pulled out the credit card and tossed it away. Buffalo Mountain lay just to the south and that meant safety. Over the years it may have been tamed and even civilized, but there were still places in the hollows and coves where a man could hide and where there were people who would help him. With nearly two thousand in cash, he could disappear for months. He grinned and began working his way into the trees. Those men would never track him. Never.

***

No one ever accused Donnie Oldham of being a genius. Next to Hollis, he might appear bright, but compared to, say, a tree stump, he came up short, which would explain why he took off early Sunday morning to use Harris’ credit and bank cards. He figured if he put some distance between Floyd and the cards, he would have a better chance of cashing out. Close to the issuing bank—he’d finally figured out what that meant—the other ATMs would know about the accounts being closed. But further away, they might not have got the word. So he decided to drive to Charlotte.

He arrived downtown at noon. He hoped no one would notice him or his out-of-state tags. The first ATM he saw was one owned by the issuing bank for a VISA card. He knew Hollis said the card should be returned there, but he thought the account had only been shut down for non-bank ATMs and it would work in the ATMs it belonged to. This one ate the card. He stared in disbelief as the message appeared on the little screen informing him to see the bank manager at his earliest convenience. He drove his fist into the screen. It did not break, but something in his hand did. He cursed and shook it and kicked the wall.

He drove around trying to decide what to do next. He continued cursing and pounded on the steering wheel with his good hand. He wished he’d pulled out more money the first time he’d used the cards. At the next ATM he tried a MasterCard. The machine was not one belonging to the issuing bank. It returned the card with the same message Hollis received. He had the same response with the American Express and a second VISA. Finally, he tried the bank card and held his breath. He asked for and received three hundred dollars. He tried again and was rewarded again. When he’d withdrawn twelve hundred dollars the machine asked him to wait. He didn’t. He snatched the card and strode across to his truck. No sense pushing his luck. Tomorrow—no, he’d wait until Wednesday and then he’d try again. In his delight at again having money and prospects, he forgot the pain in his hand. The security camera built into the ATM, however, recorded all four of his withdrawals. He failed to see the black Suburban that drifted up to the ATM just as he turned the corner. Luckily, the occupants of that vehicle did not see him either and would have to wait until the following day when the bank opened to discover that Donald Oldham, not Alexei Kamarov, had withdrawn the funds.

***

Whaite Billingsly was not a man to use the Lord’s name in vain. He attended the Baptist church out on the highway every Sunday and, when he could, on Wednesday night as well. He didn’t drink, smoke, or chew. In his youth, before he left the mountain, before he’d met Darcie, married, and had children, things were different. On the mountain, drinking came as natural as breathing. A boy became a man when he’d had his first full blown drunk, shot his first buck, and visited one of the Grainger girls. But that was all behind him now. He worked hard, took care of his family, and had a good future.

Head down under the hood of his pickup, he stared in frustration at the engine. Somehow the head bolt had been torqued too tight and he’d sheared it off. Until he could pull the head off the engine, the new gasket would lie useless on the front seat. The moment the socket suddenly gave way with the bolt head in it, he seriously considered leaving the Baptist church for a few minutes and addressing the Almighty in the old mountain way. Instead, he closed his eyes and counted to ten—three times. He’d have to drill out the old bolt, no easy job, and rethread. Then he’d need to visit the parts department at the Ford dealership or hit the junkyard again and pick up a new one. None of that could be done on a Sunday afternoon. He wondered, just for a second, if the Lord would really mind if he were to drink a nice cold beer. He reckoned he wouldn’t, but Pastor Jim would. He used to keep a small stash of bottles, for just such occasions, in a little refrigerator he had in the garage. Now all it held were sodas and the kids’ juice boxes.

His wife called him in for early supper. He’d promised to go with her to the evening service as well. Why not? The truck wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway.

“There’s a man says he’s with Floyd County on the phone for you. Don’t be long. I have to be early to church.”

Whaite filled a water glass, plopped in ice cubes, and went into the front room to take the call.

“I got it,” he yelled, and waited until he heard the click signaling the phone had been hung up in the kitchen. “Hello.”

“Deputy Billingsly, the word on the street is, you’ve been trying to locate Steve Bolt.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Do you know where he is?”

“We located him but we were too late. Somebody found him first and took him.”

“Kidnapped or killed?”

“Kidnapped at least. Can’t say about the other. Judging by the way they went into his hotel room, he could be a dead man by now. If he ain’t, he will be soon.”

“He was my lead in a shooting. Now what do I do?”

“Can’t help you there, partner. You have any other leads?”

“Donnie Oldham, maybe.”

“Well, I can help you with that twerp. I’d like to talk to him myself.”

“Can we meet sometime tomorrow?”

“Sure enough. There’s a beer joint on the main road called The Pub. Donnie drops by there pretty near every day. You meet me there at three. I go on shift then. Somebody there will know where he’s at.”

“Can you give me directions?”

The county man described the location. Whaite retrieved a pencil stub and fumbled for a piece of paper to write on. He pulled a scrap from his pocket, frowned at the numbers on one side—license plate maybe—and wrote the directions on the reverse.

“Three tomorrow—The Pub. Got it. Thanks.” He hung up and headed toward the dining room.

Chapter 28

Monday morning and another week gone. Ike sighed and pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s office. A gust of warm air and Anne Murray’s rendition of “White Christmas” assaulted him. Essie had her CD player going full blast and stood on the booking counter stringing plastic holly and pine fronds over the assignment board. When she bent over to extricate another strand, Ike thought it a good thing she’d decided to wear slacks today instead of her usual miniskirt.

“Morning Ike, Merry Christmas and Happy Cha-nooka.”

“It’s pronounced ‘Hgan-a-kah,’ with a guttural H at the front, but thank you, anyway.”

“Whatever. Sam wants to see you. By the way, where’s my—” Ike put a fresh Krispy Kreme jelly-filled on her desk. “Oh, good, there you go, thank you, too.”

“What’s up with Sam?”

“She’s coping, I reckon. She said she has an idea about the stiff in the morgue. Who is that guy, anyway, and why haven’t we put out the usual—?”

“Keep it under your hat, Essie. It’s very important. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir, boss. Lips sealed and all that, but I still don’t see why—”

“Let it go, Essie.”

“Oh, right. Where you want the mistletoe at?”

“The question is where do
you
want the mistletoe at? I’m not expecting a lot of action, but you surely might.”

Essie did not blush. She nodded, raised one eyebrow, and pursed her lips. “Well, the party’ll be mostly here behind the counter and the punch bowl will be over there, so I reckon it ought to go about here.” She reached up and marked the spot on the ceiling with a pencil she pulled out from behind her ear.

Ike headed for Sam’s work area, her cell that housed the array of electronic equipment that both fascinated and frightened him. He stepped through the door. On an ordinary day, she would be hunched forward, eyes glued to one of the screens. Today, she sat sideways in her chair staring at, but apparently not seeing, the stack of files and CDs on her desk.

“Are you okay, Sam?”

“I’m good.”

One look at her red-rimmed eyes and the pile of tissues on the floor next to her made it very clear she wasn’t.

“Essie said you wanted to see me.”

“Um…let me think. Oh yeah, Whaite called in. He has some information on Bolt that didn’t sound good and he’s off.”

“Off? Where and what about Bolt?”

“Whaite switched shifts with Charlie Picket. He said he had a call from a county policeman down in Floyd about Bolt. Appears someone snatched him from a motel. Nobody knows who or why, but they’re betting he’s dead or soon will be.”

“This is getting crazier and crazier. Why would anyone want to torch Bolt’s house, snatch him, and then kill him—if, in fact, that’s what happened. What does he know that is so important?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, speaking of bolts, Whaite’s out looking for a head bolt for his truck. He said he sheared one off yesterday trying to get the head off the V-8. After that, he said he was meeting up with the cop in Willis to track down one of Bolt’s friends. He hopes the guy will start sorting this mess out. So, he won’t be in today at all and he’s driving his Chevelle. He said he’d check in with you if he came up with anything, but otherwise, he’d see you tomorrow.”

“Good. You said you had an idea. You want to share that?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam blew her nose. “Look, I’ve been tracking what we assumed were cash transactions on Harris’, that is, Kamarov’s, various bank and credit cards. Then on Friday or Saturday all but one of them closed out, but before that, they were pumping out money and credit like crazy.”

“And?”

“Two things. Why did they shut him down? Did they finally figure he was not among the living? Except the fact they’re after Bolt suggests they don’t know. Second, some ATMs have security cameras, miniature TVs, built into them. They record every person making a transaction and put a time stamp on it. I thought we might see if we can get a bank or two to let us have a peek at the tape and maybe pull a picture of whoever is doing it and, well, at least have a lead.”

“Cameras. Of course. Good job. Call Whaite and tell him to check that out…” Ike saw the expression on Sam’s face change. “Problem?”

“I thought I might do that.”

Ike studied his resident computer geek and realized he’d grown so used to her working her electronic magic, he’d forgotten he’d first hired her as a working deputy. The computer stuff was supposed to be extra and nowhere near as elaborate as it had become.

“Good idea. I should have thought of it. Thanks. Where did all these transactions take place?”

“They are all over this end of the state, some close by—that is, in the area south of Roanoke—some as far away as Charlotte, North Carolina.”

“You don’t need to go that far. Hit the nearest ones. I think it’s safe to assume that whoever made the withdrawals is the same guy at all of them.”

Sam perked up. He supposed just getting away from the quiet hum of her machinery and a chance to move outdoors would be a welcome change—would help her put Karl out of her mind. She tucked in her uniform blouse, buckled her duty belt, holstered her Glock, and waved good-bye.

“You be sure to tell Essie where you are going and check in.” He felt like a father seeing his daughter off on her first date. “I’m getting old,” he muttered.

***

Andover Crisp added a terrible weekend to a miserable week. His in-laws descended on him unannounced. That included his chronically unemployed brother-in-law, who declared that work, unless it had something to do with the arts, was beneath him. The fact he possessed an extraordinarily limited knowledge about anything artistic accounted for his seeking but never finding gainful employment. Only a modest trust fund and a foolish, indulgent mother kept him from joining the ranks of the homeless—a class of people, he made clear to anyone who would listen, that he despised.

By Sunday night Crisp felt the need to hit the brandy bottle pretty hard. This morning his head felt like a troupe of Kumi-Daiko drummers were rehearsing in it. If that weren’t bad enough, his people in Charlotte had missed Kamarov the day before. He knew he must still be in the area but not moving south as they’d supposed. So what was he up to? Kevin knocked and entered.

“Mr. Crisp, you want the bad news or the really bad news?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The men in Charlotte, the ones who missed Kamarov yesterday, went to the bank, the one he withdrew the money from, and they looked at the surveillance tapes from the ATM. They just sent some stills taken from the tape. Here.” He pushed three grainy photographs across the desk.

“Who? Who is this guy?” Crisp exploded.

“Nobody seems to know.”

He studied the pictures. A man-boy, he would have said, short, small ears, with wispy hair in a forelock, and a blank look on his moon face. He forced himself not to make an odious comparison with the banjo-playing character in
Deliverance.

“God love us, this has to be the guy he hired to watch his stuff.”

“Could be. I hope so.”

He studied the pictures again. “The guy is wearing bib overalls, for crying out loud. Do you believe it? I didn’t know they still made them.” He pushed the photos away. “Kamarov is no dope. He wouldn’t be out in the open if he’s trying to jump ship, and he certainly wouldn’t hit the machines by himself. He’d get someone to do it for him. He sent his factotum, what’s his name?”

“Steve Bolt.”

“Right. This has to be him. Tell them to start an all-out search for a Steve Bolt, ASAP. If we get him, we’ll have Kamarov. You can take that to the bank.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“What? But…”

“If it isn’t Bolt, we’d have to consider another, very different, scenario, I’m afraid.”

Crisp scooted his chair back until it slammed into the credenza behind. He tilted back and closed his eyes and clenched his jaws. He nodded twice, sat back up, and shot forward to the desk.

“You’re right. If this isn’t Bolt, then we have to assume the worst and cut our losses. Tell Ops I want a paper on my desk in an hour.” He sighed and tapped his fist on the smooth mahogany desktop. “Kamarov was our only real asset. If he’s dead, Cutthroat is, too.”

***

Essie Falco was aware of Sam at the counter and looking over her shoulder. Essie was caught up in her copy of
Cat’s Eye
.

Sledge looked at the body in the snow. She was as beautiful in death as in life. He hated destroying beautiful things, but she’d earned her bullet. It reminded him of the time he’d knocked his grandfather’s prized Ming Dynasty vase on the floor. The old man had been furious. If he’d known the vase disaster was due to Scot’s attempt to grab Margie the maid, he’d have killed Scot. Granddad kept the pulchritudinous Margie for himself.

But Kin Tok ee had lured him out to this lonely ski slope so her accomplices could take him down. Well, she learned the hard way that Scot Sledge didn’t go down that easy. The three snowmobiles had caught up with them after they cleared the big mogul run. Scot saw them out of the corner of his eye and had laid down a rooster tail of powder as he cut across in front of the lead machine. Moonlight etched the black tree trunks against a gray starless sky. The gunners in the second unit traced his path with bullets, fresh powder spitting up in little geysers inches from his feet, until, too late, the gun’s trajectory arc caught the men on the snowmobile in front and splattered their custom Columbia white survival jackets with black-red splotches. It was a simple matter, then, to slalom through the dark Austrian pines until the second crashed head-on into the bole of one of the larger ones. Shattered bark and the scent of pine resin filled the air. It reminded Scot of the rosin bag he used when he pitched his no-hitter in the minor leagues. Those were the good days, he recalled nostalgically.

The last pair of Albanians he’d taken out with two quick, and decidedly deadly, over the shoulder shots from the Beretta he kept in his ski boot. How could they know he’d skied the pentathlon in the last winter Olympics on this very course?

But she knew.

Yes, and she knew her buddies didn’t have a chance against him. Yet she’d brought it on anyway. So, why had she gone ahead with this crazy plan? Following orders? Okay, he could see that. It’s what they did in this insane game of dead man’s chess they played. One moment you’re lovers, the next fierce adversaries fighting like bull rhinos to keep the world in balance!

But then she’d pulled the gun!

He reached into the snowbank where her last spasm had caused it to fall and turned it over in his hand. The clip was missing. He ratcheted the receiver back—empty. She’d deliberately goaded him into killing her. Why? He looked at the gun again. A piece of rice paper fell out of the clip channel. The words were Chinese but he could make out the childish scrawl,
Because I love you
.

“Why do they all end up like this?” He studied the pool of blood spreading through the virginally white snow. Her eyes fluttered and she reached for her ear lobe. She said something. Sledge knelt beside her.

“What?”

“Kin Tok ee,” she whispered.

“Yes, yes, I know who you are, Sweetheart. What do you want to tell me?”

“Kin Tok ee.” Her fingers seemed to flicker at her ear and then she was gone.

No more moonlight ski trips for you, kid, he thought brutally. But what was she trying to tell him? Something…but what? And then there was that accent. That was it! She’d been trying to tell him all along but he hadn’t quite figured it out. Tug at the ear lobe—sounds like…Kin Tok ee—sounds like Kentucky, of course. She was trying to tell him that his search would end in Cat’s Eye, Kentucky, the town the Chinese mafia made its own when the tough Mainland Chinese police forced them out of Hong Kong. He pointed his skis downhill. He had a plane to catch.

“Wow,” Essie gushed. “Don’t you just love Scot Sledge? I think this one is the best ever.

Sam smiled. “Best ever.”