Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can! (5 page)

5.

Callie Carpenter.

ANOTHER NAME FOR the list. Dani Ripper.

Callie doubts there’s anything going on between Creed and Dani, but if something
is
, she wouldn’t be the first woman to trust a man more than he deserved.

She hears Creed say, “Dani, I pride myself on always being available for you, but I’m kind of busy right now, unless your life’s in danger.”

What? He’s always available for her? And prides himself on it?

Dani just made the endangered species list.

She hears him say, “I’ll know more when we get there…Willow Lake, Arkansas. An entire neighborhood has just been blown off the map…We don’t know. Are you in danger?”

He covers the phone and asks the pilots how long we have before takeoff. Then says, “I’m on the tarmac, waiting to taxi…”

He’s
on the tarmac? Not he and Callie?

“Just tell me what you need,” Creed says. Dani says something, and Creed responds, “That’s bullshit. We’ve been doing it for years…Homeland Security. CIA. FBI. The Pentagon. It’s not that big a deal…No. these are classified programs…not if we erased them…Is that it?...No problem…You, too.”

He hangs up, looks at Callie, and explains, “Dani had a technical question about erasing photos from cell phones.”

“Photos of what?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

The “You, too.” bothers her. That’s the last thing he said before hanging up. If someone on the other end of the phone ends a call by saying, “I love you,” you’d respond, “I love you, too.”

If you’re free to speak.

But if you’re unable to speak because your girlfriend is sitting next to you in a jet helicopter, you might respond, “You, too.”

No sense asking him about it. If he’s innocent it’ll raise a red flag about her jealousy issues. And if he’s guilty, she’ll just be forcing him to lie. There are easier ways to determine if he and Dani are having an affair.

Torture comes to mind.

6.

Donovan Creed.

WE’RE FLYING TO Willow Lake with two pilots. Since only one is required to fly and land the chopper, I ask the copilot to take aerial photographs of the bomb site. As we approach the blast site, he directs the pilot to make a wide circle high above Leeds Road, then has him come closer, asks him to tilt, then make a tight circle.

After a few minutes, he turns to me and says, “We’re done.”

“Set her down, then,” I say.

The pilot puts the chopper on the center of Leeds Road, midway between ground zero and the police roadblock at Leeds and Route 53.

A young sheriff’s deputy races toward us. When he finally arrives he tries to speak, but can’t catch his breath. He puts his hands on his knees and pants like a dog.

“What’s up, deputy?”

He takes a few more seconds to recover, then says, “Who am I talking to?”

“Donovan Creed.”

“And you are?”

“I just
told
you. Donovan Creed.”

“You can’t be here, sir. This is Leeds Road. The bomb site’s less than half a mile south.” He points, in case I don’t know which direction is south. As if I didn’t survey the entire area before landing.

“Listen, son. We don’t have time for bullshit. We’ve wasted hours obtaining proper clearance.”

“No one told
me
about it.”

“Sort of sad, isn’t it? You do all the work but no one tells you anything? Get on the horn and tell them my name. Then tell me what I need to know. I saw two roadblocks, one on each end of the street.”

“Road, sir.”

“What?”

“We’re on Leeds Road, sir.”

I give him a look. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t fuck with me son. I only saw one person at the blast site. That can’t be right.”

“There’s just the one, sir. Everyone else is outside the roadblock, protecting the integrity of the scene.”

“Integrity of the scene? Where’d you hear that?”

“Agent Phillips. FBI.”

“FBI’s here?”

“No sir, just Agent Phillips. But they’re on the way. With a task force, a federal bomb squad, and all sorts of experts.”

“That’s us.”

“You’re the experts? From
Washington
?”

“That’s right. I expect the president would want me to thank you for your dedication to duty.”

“Wow!”

“Who’s the guy I saw from the air? The one all alone at the blast site?”

“Agent Tyson Phillips, sir. He’s FBI.”

“You say that with reverence in your voice.”

“Well, I mean, it’s the
FBI
!”

“No one shits their pants any quicker.”

“Sir?”

“I know for a fact the FBI doesn’t have a field office in Willow Pointe.”

“Willow Lake, sir.”

“Whatever.”

“Agent Phillips is from Little Rock. He was here, visiting his sister. He’s been fielding questions, videoing the blast site, and live-streaming it to the task force.”

“Live-streaming, huh?”

“Yes, sir. And preserving the scene till the task force arrives.”

“With any luck we’ll be gone before they get here.”

He frowns. “The FBI’s got full jurisdiction, sir. Agent Phillips has papers and everything.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“FBI outranks us on this one. We were
bombed
!”

“What’s this guy’s title?”

“Tyson Phillips? He’s an FBI attorney.”

“Shut
up
!”

“Sir?”

“Do you mean to stand there and tell me your dynamic Willow Pointe police force is sucking hind tit to an FBI
attorney
?”

“Willow Lake, sir. And yes, they said he’s in charge. I mean, he’s FBI, and all.”

“Did he show you his ankle holster?”

The deputy looks confused. “How’d you know?”

“They’re awfully proud of that ankle holster. Never miss a chance to let you know they’re packing. ”

The deputy looks at Callie and Joe Penny, then back at me. “Who
are
you guys?”

“Homeland Security. And before you go all FBI on me again, you should know that the droppings in my
parakeet
cage outrank Agent Phillips. He and the Feebs can take their photos and soil samples and core borings and all the other cluster fuck bullshit we pay them to do. If they stay out of my way, I’ll even let them take the credit for solving the case. But the three of us are here to determine two things: Was this a terrorist act? And if so, is the country in danger?”

“You think it is?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

He looks like he’s about to trust us. Then a funny look crosses his face. He says, “You’re not reporters, are you?”

“Do we look like reporters?”

“You look like movie stars. You and her, anyway.”

Joe Penny says, “Not me?”

Callie says, “Mr. Creed already told you we’re with Homeland Security. Up to now, we’ve been polite. But you need to let us do our jobs.”

The deputy looks skeptical. “Do you have any credentials?”

I briefly consider killing him, but he’s a young guy, just doing his job. I respect that. But I can tell Callie’s itching to snuff him, so I ask her to show him our paperwork. She does, and he finally turns and starts trotting back to his post. Callie, Joe, and I head south, to the blast site. As we begin picking our way through the rubble, FBI Agent Tyson Phillips shouts, “Halt! Do not take another step!”

Callie says, “I’ll get this.”

She peeks into her handbag, then strolls over to him, shows him our paperwork. Unfortunately, he’s having none of it, so she kicks him in the nuts, clubs the back of his neck, and he goes down face first. She puts a knee in the center of his back, pulls his arms toward her, and handcuffs him with two plastic zip ties. He starts hollering his disapproval, so she rolls him over and knocks him unconscious. Then removes his shoes and socks and stuffs the socks in his mouth and tapes his lips shut. While waiting for him to regain consciousness, she tapes his ankles together.

Then she walks back to where we’re standing and says, “That ought to hold him.”

“What type of tape did you use?”

“Filament.”

Joe says, “Are we gonna get in trouble for this?”

“Probably,” I say. “But it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t going to give us access, and Callie saved him from getting shot.”

“You would’ve
shot
him?”

“He probably would have shot himself, trying to grab his gun. But yeah, I would’ve shot him. If this is the first wave of a terrorist attack we need to put jets in the air. We can’t fuck around with these paper-pushers.”

Joe Penny’s my bomb-builder and expert of choice. But lately I’ve noticed serious flaws in his character, like compassion and empathy. Not to mention he’s questioned my judgment several times on this trip. Worst of all, he’s crushing on Callie, big time.

On the plus side, Joe’s an artist. He builds special-purpose bombs that distract or kill with surgical precision. When it comes to tactical work, he’s the best.

I use other bomb-builders, of course. You know, for mass-murdering. When I need massive explosions, I don’t require a specialist like Joe. I simply look for a guy with goats in his yard.

If Joe wants to keep breathing for an extended period of time he’ll have to find a way to overcome his lust for Callie. In the meantime, he’s on my payroll. In fact, he’s the only munitions expert I keep on salary. The balance of my staff is comprised of assassins and researchers, and I’ve got the best of both.

The assassins are exactly what you’d expect, including Maybe Taylor, who happens to be my daughter. But my research team would surprise you. It’s comprised of three celibate males, Curly, Larry, and C.H., who are, respectively, a midget, a dwarf, and an elf.

These three vertically-challenged geniuses work and live in Geek City, a protected area of the Sensory Resources complex. My offices are in the same complex, different annex. Sensory Resources is a clandestine branch of Homeland Security, whose prime directive is identifying domestic terrorists and killing them before they have a chance to carry out attacks. Ninety-nine percent of our work is done quietly, behind the scenes, so I don’t normally require clearance. When I do, it’s hard to come by, since only a handful of people know about Sensory Resources, and even fewer know I’m the newly-appointed director of the agency. Since we don’t technically exist, we have to pose as Homeland Security bigwigs.

Now, at ground zero, I’m impressed by the extent of the damage. Portions of doors, toilets, appliances, flooring, and sections of staircases are still intact, but nothing—from walls to fireplaces—remains vertical. The target and the surrounding homes are basically rubble.

“I can’t believe no one was killed,” I say.

“What do we know about the survivors?” Callie asks.

“Sheriff Cox will have to brief us.”

Joe says, “You’d think the place would be crawling with cops and gawkers by now.”

“This is a small, secluded town. A resort area. Most of these lake homes are vacant. When terrorists attack, people tend to hide till they know it’s safe to come out. The blast occurred hours ago, but if you heard a terrorist bombed a small town in Arkansas, wouldn’t you stay away?”

“Not me!” Joe says.

“Well, me either. But most people would.”

It takes us thirteen minutes to conclude three things: One, the blast was the result of a domestic terrorist attack featuring a two-step bombing. Two, the main target was the second home on the block, which we already know was owned by a man named Jack Russell, the alias of bounty hunter Jack Tallow. Three, Tallow’s lake house had a secret room.

Callie says, “Bingo.”

She holds up a chunk of wood.

“What’s that?”

“Top piece of an interior door.”

“And that’s significant because?”

She smiles. “There’s a phone number written on it.”

“
What
?”
“A phone number. Written by a woman. Now tell me I’m good.”

“You’re
damn
good!”

I pick my way over to her and study the chunk of wood. Joe follows me and says, “Why would someone write a phone number on the top edge of a door?”

“Because no one would think to look for it there.”

“But
you
did.”

“Yeah, but I’m good.”

“How do you know it was written by a woman?”

“It’s distinctively feminine.”

“Maybe Agent Phillips wrote it,” I say.

Callie laughs.

Joe says, “That phone number could be ten years old.”

“It could be an old number,” I say. “But according to Jack’s toilet, the message is less than a year old.”

“You talk to toilets?” Joe says, giving Callie a wink.

There it is again. Like every man on earth, Joe finds Callie impossibly attractive. When men see good-looking women their first thought is
I wonder if she might be interested in me
. Joe’s testing the water. He’s thinking he and Callie are young, I’m older. Maybe that’s an angle he can exploit. Needling the boss a bit, putting me down in front of Callie makes him appear cool. He probably hopes they’ll get some banter going at my expense.

I can’t blame the kid for trying, but Callie’s way out of his league. And if he’s trying to impress her he’s going about it the wrong way, because Callie respects me. By poking fun at me, arguing with me, questioning my judgment, he’s coming dangerously close to disrespecting me. Callie would never tolerate that. It’s the sort of thing that would cause her to rise to my defense. Joe doesn’t get that, but again, he’s young. He might be skilled with conventional explosives, but in my experience nothing’s more combustible than a strong-willed woman. And Callie’s more explosive than any bomb Joe will ever create. I expect she’ll deal with his impertinence, if he crosses the line. In the meantime, maybe I can work in a little bit of teaching.

I say, “All houses talk, Joe. You just have to know how to listen. We stepped over a toilet lid a minute ago.”

“So?”

“Toilet lids are stamped with the date of manufacture.”

“Maybe it was a new toilet lid.”

Callie and I look at each other. She says, “If he’s getting on your nerves, I’ve got plenty of tape left.”

Joe looks at her with wounded surprise.

Callie and I type the phone number into our cell phones and walk to an area free from debris.

“What about Agent Phillips?” Joe says.

“He’ll be fine.”

“Won’t the FBI be pissed when they find him bound and gagged?”

“I hope so.”

I dial my research team at Sensory. Larry, the dwarf answers. I tell him to turn down the music that’s blaring in the background. When he does, I give him the number Callie found on the door and tell him to locate the signal.

Four minutes later he calls me back and says the phone in question is at or beside a hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, less than a mile from the international airport.

“How long has it been there?”

Larry puts me on hold. A few minutes later he puts me on speaker and says, “Nine hours, give or take.”

“And before that?”

“I bet the others fifty dollars you already know.”

“Willow Lake.”

“Come to papa!”

“Not so fast!” C.H. says. “Ask him who it belongs to!”

I say, “Right now all I’ve got is the belief it belongs to a woman.”

“Crap!” Larry says.

In the background I hear C.H. and Curly laughing heartily, which means they’re probably dancing a jig. It’s absurd, I know, but when you’re dealing with the world’s greatest researchers, that’s what you have to do: deal with them.

“Call the hotel,” I say. “Find out who checked in nine hours ago. There won’t be many at that time of the morning, and probably just our lady. I want her name and room number.”

“They won’t want to give us that information.”

“Use your imagination.”

“Can we threaten the front desk lady with bodily harm? Like in the movies?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You won’t scare her. No offense, but you’re elves.”

“One elf. At most.”

“Nevertheless, your voices aren’t threatening. I know you wish they were, but they’re not. On the other hand, you’re government elves. Threaten her with a tax audit. After you get her name and room number, call one of our Memphis agents and have him stand outside her hotel room door. No one leaves the room till I say so.”