Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (25 page)

“Absolutely.  I’ll get him for you,” Pete said.

But before Pete left, Tim said, “And you have to tell the other guys about Brett . . . that he saved us. They need to know.”

Pete nodded and promised Tim that he would.  It wouldn’t be easy, but he would. 

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Just before dawn in Waukesha, Wisconsin, in the backyard of the Evans’ house, George stood facing the east in nothing but his boxers and gym shorts.  Bert Lane watched from her kitchen window fascinated with what he was doing.  She could hear him chanting, and she watched his gentle hand and arm motions.  His eyes were closed in concentration, and she assumed he was praying.  What she wasn’t sure was if he was praying for his family who had been murdered or if this was a morning ritual.  She was curious enough to ask him but not until he was finished.  She didn’t want to interrupt or intrude in any way because there was certainly a reverence in George she had not seen in the many who went to her own church.  At times, she herself included.

She tended to her bacon, turning it over, making sure it wasn’t going to end up like Joan of Ark.  She had cornbread in the oven, which she knew Jon and Jeremy liked with honey, and the twins liked with butter and warm syrup.  Every so often during the week, the twins would appear at her backdoor sniffing the air in an act of what she had referred to as ‘breakfast shopping’ to see if her breakfast was better than the one offered by Jeremy.  Usually they ended up sitting down at the Lane table and packing it away.  She was amazed at how much they could eat. Much like her son Mike had done at their age.

She didn’t think George would come over on his own, so she had decided that when he was finished with his morning prayers, she’d invite him over.  Hopefully, she would have an opportunity to call to him before he disappeared back into the Evans’ house.  And maybe later that morning, she’d get him to help her plant some flowers she had wanted to plant next to the hedge row separating the Lane yard from the Evans yard.

The sun came up, and George was silent for a short time, eyes open with an expression she couldn’t read.  Then, he began chanting again with gestures a bit more animated but not any more loudly than he had done when the sun was still down.              At last he finished, wiped sweat from his face and then sat down on the back step; the same step he sat on just a few hours before. 

He stared off into the yard.  The shadows grew smaller inch by inch, foot by foot and Bert wasn’t sure if he was watching it or just thinking.  Thinking, she decided.  She went to the back door, stuck her head out and softly called to him.

“George, come on over for breakfast.”

At first he didn’t acknowledge her call.  Then he raised his head and turned around at the Evans’ door, and then got up and walked over.

“Ma’am?” George asked shyly.

“I have cornbread and bacon for breakfast and a lot of it, so you have to help eat it.  The twins and Jeremy will be over later, I’m sure, so come on in,” she said opening the door wider.

“I don’t have my sandals or shoes, and I’m not wearing a shirt,” George said, turning a darker shade of red.

“I guess we’ll have to make an exception.” She added with a wink, “Chances are, Billy’ll be over dressed the same way.”    

George came in and stood awkwardly in the entry way, not sure where he should sit or if he should even be there.  He remembered how worried Jeremy was the night before, and he didn’t want to worry him again.  He also didn’t want Jeremy to become angry with him.  He noticed there were six places set at the table, enough for the twins, George, Jeremy, Jon and Bert, as if she had somehow expected everyone to show up.  This was something his grandmother would do. 

He smiled to himself, but remembering the image of his grandmother made him sad, and his smile quickly faded away as quickly as it had appeared.

“Have a seat anywhere.  Jon usually sits there,” she said gesturing to the seat at the end of the table nearest the hallway.  He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Maybe I should let Mr. Jeremy know where I am,” George said shyly.

“A bit early for Jeremy.  We’ll call him in a little bit.  Come on, sit and eat.”

George sat down and waited.  Bert took a bright red hot pad, went to the oven and brought out the cornbread and placed it on a trivet in the center of the table.  She took a knife from a wood block and cut it into good-sized portions.  There was a pitcher of water, a pitcher of juice and a plastic gallon of milk already on the table.  There was butter in a dish along with a plastic squeeze bottle in the shape of a bear filled with honey.

His stomach rumbled.  He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Well, you’re up early,” Jon said as he came into the kitchen.

He put a thick arm around George’s neck and rested a cheek on the top of George’s head in a hug.

“Good morning, George.”

“Good morning, Gran- . . .” he caught himself, hunted for something to say and settled for, “Sir.”

He felt himself turning crimson, even with his naturally copper-colored skin.

“I’ll take that as a wonderful complement, George, because I know how much your grandfather meant to you.  Thank you very much.”

Embarrassed, George smiled at Jon, then at Bert, and waited with his hands in his lap until Jon sat down to eat.

“Pour yourself something to drink, George.  No need to be shy around us,” Bert said.

Bert was loading bacon onto a plate between layers of paper towel to soak up some of the grease, and Jon was at the counter pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“What?’ Bert asked.

“In my family, we wait until our elders . . . my mother, grandfather and grandmother begin to eat before we do.”

“Oh,” Bert said.  “Don’t wait for me or everything will get cold.  Jon, sit your butt down and start eating.  George is hungry.”

George had to smile at the two of them as they made faces at each other, then Jon turned to George and said, “She’s rude this morning, don’t you think?”

Bert snapped him in the butt with a dishtowel, and George laughed as Jon danced away after a ‘yelp’.

He sat down and said, “Do you and your family say ‘grace’?”

George looked confused, not sure what he meant.

“George already said his prayers this morning,” Bert said placing the plate piled with bacon on the table. “That’s what you were doing, right?”

“Yes,” George said simply, offering no further explanation.

“I watched, and I thought it was beautiful,” Bert said. “Do you do that each morning?”

“Yes.”

“I noticed you faced the east.”

George nodded.

“Toward the rising sun.”

She nodded.

“With all the trees, it must be different for you here than in Arizona,” Jon said.

George knew they were curious, and he didn’t mind.  So he explained that each morning ever since he was little, he and his grandfather would ride on horseback up the nearest mesa that overlooked a valley with a winding creek that seldom had water in it.  They would face the east and pray to father sun, honoring him.

His grandfather was a singer, which to the Navaho was similar to a priest or minister to the
biligaana
; someone who wasn’t Navaho, except among his
‘Azee’tsoh dine’e,
which translated to The Big Medicine People Clan, and their neighbors, his grandfather had the reputation of being more similar to an archbishop or cardinal in the Roman Catholic religion.  He knew this because many of his people converted to this faith, something neither he nor his family had done.  But his grandfather was that important.  Slowly, George learned the songs and had hoped to one day become a singer like his grandfather.

Bert exchanged a look with Jon as George reached for a piece of cornbread and then the bottle of honey.  He squeezed a good amount on it, loaded up his fork and took a bite.

“How long will it take you to be a singer?” Jon asked.

George thought about that and didn’t answer right away.  Trouble was, George didn’t know, especially now.  He knew of other singers in his clan, but none well enough for him to ask to teach him.  Maybe this was as far as he was going to get, and maybe he’d never become a singer like his grandfather.

“I don’t know.”

As he reached for bacon, Bert asked, “George, is there going to be a funeral for your family?”

George turned red, and explained that the Navajo didn’t have funerals.  In fact, they seldom if ever talked about the dead, family members or not.  There was too much superstition, especially among the elders.  Because the elders didn’t talk about the deceased, the young didn’t either.

“But,” Bert said, “if they were important to you as they must be, it seems only fitting there should be some sort of memorial.”

George looked at her, smiled and said, “I was thinking about that, but I don’t know how I’ll do it.  Someone needs to say prayers for them.”

He shrugged and ate some bacon.

“Have you thought about where you will live now?” Jon asked.

“I have a cousin . . . Leonard.  He’s in the Tribal Police.  He’s not married, and he lives by himself in a trailer near a creek.”

He didn’t say that with any enthusiasm.  In fact, it was more resignation than enthusiasm.

“Do you think he could help organize your memorial?”

George shook his head.

“He’s superstitious.”

“Hmmn . . . maybe Bert and I can go to Arizona with you.  We’ll help,” Jon said.  “It would be a nice vacation for us.  We’ll ask Jeremy and the twins to come along.  You can show us where you used to live and sort of be a tour guide . . . if you want to, that is.”

Tears filled his eyes.  These people were so kind.  They didn’t even know him, but were willing to help him anyway.  He was very grateful, and a big lump rose in his throat.  He could hardly talk and couldn’t swallow.  He took a drink of ice water.  Thankfully, there was a rap at the backdoor and Randy walked in.

“There you are,” he said punching George in the arm.  “Dad was wondering where you were and figured you’d be over here.”

He sat down next to George without waiting to be invited and loaded up his plate with cornbread and bacon.

“We better eat before Billy comes over or there won’t be any left,” Randy said with a laugh.

George smiled at Randy, then at Bert and Jon, nodding a silent thank you to them.

Billy came running to the door, fumbled with the handle and said, “You guys started without me?”

And just as Bert had suggested, Billy was dressed just as George was: bare feet and no shirt.

“How far behind is Jeremy?” Bert asked.

“Right here,” he said walking through the door. “Mornin’ guys!”

He and Billy sat opposite George and Randy, and finally Bert sat down, and the six of them ate breakfast with talk of Billy’s baseball, flowers to be planted, and the humid weather.  More than anything else, there was laughter.  A lot of laughter.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“He’s awake, and the website is up.  I’m on him.  No sign of the other two yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Morgan.”

“Watch yourself, Chet.”

He clicked off without giving Chet a chance to respond, and Chet went back to monitoring the computer with his back to the front door and out of sight from the elevators.  Summer was seated next to the wall in a booth in the corner of the restaurant not clearly visible from the doorway.  Captain Jack O’Brien of the Waukesha Police Department, not in uniform, still pretending to read the newspaper, was in the lobby with Chet, but at a distance from him.  He sat near the door in a comfortable dark, red leather high-backed chair facing the elevators.

“Mike check,” O’Brien said softly for the fourth time.

“Loud and clear,” Chet responded.  “Summer, you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said tiredly. “Anxious to get this over with.”

The hotel was coming to life.  Two members of the hotel cleaning crew had already come through, one with a dust cloth and the other with a vacuum cleaner.  The hotel smelled of wood and some rather pleasant cleaning spray or polish that O’Brien couldn’t name.  An instrumental version of an Air Supply song played softly in the background.  A TV on mute was tuned to CNN.  They had hoped to contain the media, so the fact that there was no story on the siege that took place in Chicago, Kansas City or Los Angeles was welcomed, especially in the Sheraton in downtown Chicago.

A couple of early birds were lined up at the counter ready to check out instead of using the rapid checkout by phoning the front desk and leaving the keys on the desk inside of the room.  An older couple dressed in summer leisure clothes walked out of the lobby going for an early stroll or perhaps breakfast somewhere other than the hotel.  A very tired looking mom carrying a steaming hot coffee from room service and a Chicago Tribune followed after a boy that looked to be about nine and a girl about seven, both dressed in swimsuits and sandals obviously headed to the pool.  O’Brien didn’t think they’d be lucky to have the pool open at this time in the morning, but it didn’t hurt to try.  Two middle-aged men in suits, one carrying a briefcase came in from the street chatting and walked into the restaurant.

O’Brien looked at his watch and saw that it was two minutes faster than the lobby wall clock, which annoyed him.  Depending upon which one you looked at, it was either 7:02 AM or 7:04 AM, both Central Standard Time.

Any time now.

The Los Angeles and Kansas City sites were all wrapped up, as was the Chicago site.  The kids were safely at hospitals getting checked out, but more importantly, were under guard.  No one was going to hurt those kids ever again.  O’Brien was concerned about the boy who had been shot because Chet had told him that when the boy got to the hospital, he went immediately to surgery.  No word on him yet.

He was pissed and saddened that Paul Gates had lost his life, and that Ronnie Desotel and Fitz had been wounded.  Fitz also went into surgery as soon as he entered the hospital, but he was a tough guy.  It’d take more than one bullet to keep him down for long.  But still, Gates, Fitz and Desotel were his guys, and that kid was, well, a kid.  Shouldn’t have happened. 

He had to control his anger and not let it get the best of him because he had to watch Chet’s and Summer’s back.

Chet rechecked his connection to the hotel’s security cameras.  By using split screen, he could monitor the two floors where the targets were located, the restaurant and the outside camera, which covered the front door, so he could monitor traffic in and out of the hotel.  He spotted one target leaving his room on the fourth floor, walking to the elevators while checking his IPhone.

“About to have company, Jack,” Chet said to O’Brien. “Watch the elevators.”

Chet’s cell vibrated. 

“Number two is awake, cell on.  He phoned number three, and he’s close to your position.  Be careful.” Morgan said.

He was anxious, not sure how this was going to play out and wishing he could do more to help.

“Got it, Morgan.  We’re ready.”

Chet sat a little lower in his chair because at any moment, he expected someone to enter the lobby.  He and Summer had already guessed who it would be.

“Game time, folks.  Target just stepped out of the elevators,” O’Brien said.

“Summer, Target One is headed your way in one . . . two . . . now.”

“Gary Sears, aka Victor Bosch . . . the Dark Man,” Summer said quietly.

A man and woman entered the restaurant just a step or two behind Sears/Bosch and took a booth kiddy-corner from him.  The restaurant now held four people besides Summer, including the two men in suits who came in just before the Dark Man and sat in a booth near the door.

A different waiter from the one who was in the restaurant when she and Chet first entered it was on duty and stepped over to Summer offering her a refill on her coffee and very quietly without making eye contact said, “I’m Kevin Thigpen from the Chicago office.  The man and woman in the booth are with me.  Agent Vince Cochrane sent us, and Pete Kelliher said to say hello.  We’re here to assist and support.”

He left as soon as he finished.

“You guys catch that?” Summer asked.

“Copy.  Always nice to have back-up,” O’Brien said quietly.

“Jack, on your six.  Our second guest will be entering the hotel in one . . . two . . . now,” Chet said. “Dapper as usual.” Then Chet added, “Smug son of a bitch.”

O’Brien tensed as the impeccably dressed man walked passed him, but he didn’t even pay Jack any attention as he walked directly into the restaurant.  The well-dressed man walked to the table where Bosch/Sears was seated, and they shook hands, though Bosch/Sears didn’t get up to do so.

“Jack, watch the elevators,” Chet advised. “On one . . . two . . . oops, a stop on two.  Wait a bit . . . wait . . . okay, on one . . . two . . . now.  Everyone present and accounted for.”

The third man entered the restaurant and sat with the other two men at a table towards the back of the room, out of direct line of sight of Summer who also sat in the back but in a booth and not near them.  The waiter/agent went to them and took drink orders; coffee all the way around, along with ice water with lemon for the Dark Man and one guy.  The well-dressed man ordered tomato juice.

The Dark Man reached into his inside breast pocket and took out two thick envelopes and handed one to each man and said, “I appreciate all you’ve done.  Once I close down the operations, we’ll have to lay low before we begin again.  I’m thinking of an extended stay in Amsterdam or Lichtenstein.  I believe I can make some profitable contacts there and . . .
enjoy
myself while doing so, if you know what I mean,” he said with a humorless chuckle.

“You’ll have to shut them down today, though.  They said they’d move on them in two, maybe three days,” the well-dressed man said. “All evidence, and I mean
all
evidence will have to disappear.  That means the kids and the guards.”

“You can’t stall them another day?” the other man asked the well-dressed man.

“Not without arousing suspicion.  Storm isn’t stupid and neither is Kelliher.”

“No, we can’t take the risk,” the Dark Man agreed. “I’m going to visit the Chicago stable and spend some time with my new pony . . . a good, long time with him.”  He took a sip of water and then said, “His name is Stephen, and he came in last night.  You want to see some pictures?”

The well-dressed man waived him off, but the other man asked to see them.  Bosch/Sears handed him his IPhone.

The older man took his time looking at the pictures, and then said, “I have some time before I have to get back to Washington.  I think I’ll go with you.  There are two boys . . . Tim and Brett.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “I like those two boys.”

“Have you heard from Graham yet?” the well-dressed man asked.

“No,” the Dark Man answered looking around the restaurant.  “He said he’d meet us here.”

“Did your nephew tell you how it went in Waukesha?”

The Dark Man answered, “All he said was, ‘Job done.’”

The conversation came in loud and clear.  The powerful microphones and hotel security cameras recorded everything.  Summer thought to herself,
that was who was tying up loose ends
.  Graham Porter, the Dark Man’s nephew.

She asked her partners, “We have enough?”

O’Brien answered, “Chet, you get all of that on tape?”

“Every word.  Summer, we need their cells, especially Bosch’s before he can erase anything.  Text him from Porter’s phone telling him you went to the restroom, and that you’re walking to the restaurant now.  That’ll keep him busy.  I’ll tell you when to move.  Jack, you might want to move into position now, but don’t enter the restaurant until I give the go ahead.”

“Texting now,” Summer said. “Jack, Chet will tell you where the phone is, you get it before Bosch can do anything with it.  Break his fingers if you have to.”

“My pleasure.  Might break ‘em even if I don’t have to,” O’Brien answered.

“Text sent,” Summer said.

Chet watched, and Summer and O’Brien waited impatiently.  Time moved ever so slowly.  The waiter arrived at their table and took orders.  The men ordered off the menu rather than the having the breakfast buffet, during which, the Dark Man checked his IPhone.

“Okay, he checked the text.” Chet announced.

“Let’s move.  Now!” Summer said.

The waiter stood with his back to Summer as she approached the table.  As O’Brien came into the restaurant, she moved across the room in such a way as to appear to head to the doorway.  The waiter blocked the one man’s view of her, and the well-dressed man had his back to her.  This was all good because she was on them and at the table before anyone realized it, taking the three men seated at the table by surprise.

“Hands on the back of your head, Gentlemen,” she announced. “FBI, and I have warrants for your arrest.”

The waiter/agent reached for his .9M Glock under his apron and held it on the three men, as the man and woman from the booth came to assist behind each man.  As Bosch reached for his phone, O’Brien grabbed the man’s hand squeezing tightly, and there was no real struggle as he took the phone and pocketed it.

The two businessmen in the booth towards the front watched in fascination.  When the guns appeared, they left the restaurant on a run.

“Summer, I . . .” the well-dressed man started.

“Save it, Doug.  Whatever you’re about to say is bullshit.”

Deftly, she took his left hand and cuffed it, pulling it behind his back.  As she reached for his right hand, he started to come out of his chair, but she rapped the back of his head with the butt of her gun hard enough to stun him, but not to render him unconscious.  She thought about pistol-whipping him, but didn’t.

“Sit your ass back down and stay there until I tell you to move,” Summer said.

Thatcher Davis hung his head briefly and then raised his ashen face towards her.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

“You’re a piece of shit, Thatcher,” Summer spit. “You were a friend!  I trusted you!”

Bosch took a sip of ice water and then said, “I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll need one.  Kidnapping, child endangerment, pornography, sex with a minor, sodomy, just to name a few of the charges.  Oh, and I forgot . . . murder.”

“We’ll see,” he said smugly. “We’ll see.”

“Yup, and I can’t wait,” Summer said as he was cuffed by the waiter/agent. “And by the way, the kids in Chicago, Kansas City and Los Angeles are all safe.”

She turned to Doug Rawson and smiled wryly.

She turned back to Bosch and said, “Oh, and I almost forgot.  Your nephew . . . Graham Porter . . . isn’t in the restroom, and he’s not in Chicago.  He’s dead, killed by the fourteen year old Indian boy you sent him to kill.”

She waved Porter’s cell at him.

“In about a half an hour, arrest warrants will be served on every participant in this ring.  So yes, you’ll need a very good lawyer, but probably not one of the seven you have in your network.  They’ll need one, too.”

As she stepped around the table towards Thatcher Davis, he snatched up a serrated knife.  The lady agent moved to intercept him, but it was too late.  Davis jammed it into his juggler and blood sprayed and pulsed out of his neck.  His eyes found Summer, who looked impassively at him, then turned away.

The male agent moved to pull out the knife, but O’Brien held the man’s arm preventing him from doing so.  The puzzled agent looked at him.

“Safer to let him bleed to death.”

The two agents took a step or two backward.

The expression on Bosch’s face was that of smug contempt.

He turned to Summer and said, “What do you think you’ll prove by arresting me?  Hmmn?”

Summer didn’t have any intention of responding.

“Don’t you realize that there are other men out there with similar appetites, similar tastes?  Put me away, and someone else will step forward.  Put him away, and another will step forward.  You think you ended this?  You didn’t.  There will always be other men to take my place and other ponies to fulfill their needs.  Whether those beautiful boys know it or not, they like what we do with them.  We fulfill their need as much as they fulfill ours.  It’s reciprocity, that’s all.”