Taking Stock (29 page)

Trusting Herman was the biggest mistake Brad had ever made. He was so slick and persuasive that Brad never questioned his motives. Herman told him about three companies that were in trouble with the SEC. Brad shorted them and made a killing never realizing that Herman was calmly gathering evidence he’d use to control him later. Brad went along as his conversations were recorded and his stock trading activities monitored. Rather than tip his hand, Herman nudged him forward until Brad had made an illicit fortune that guaranteed his cooperation. Herman persuaded him to take part in a larger scam without resorting to his leverage. Brad followed willingly until the day he realized he had no way out.

That day had come almost two years earlier. Brad had flown into
Switzerland
illegally and was sitting in his Cessna at the edge of a clearing. When the sun rose, he got out of the plane to head into town. As soon as his feet touched the ground, a rifle appeared in the bushes and a border guard named Evan emerged behind it. Only then did Brad realize how helpless he was. He had no link to Herman except a bank account number. Luckily, Evan was alone when he saw the plane. Luckier still, Brad was carrying enough cash to buy his freedom.

He realized too late that he’d been duped. When he got back home, a case was waiting on his kitchen table. The evidence inside had been doctored to indict Brad without any link to Herman. From that day forward he was completely under Herman’s control. Herman could easily send him to jail, but he needed Brad to run the program. He promised to frame
Eric
a if Brad followed orders. When she took the fall, the scam would end and he’d be free. She’d settle into a nine-by-nine cell and he’d settle into a new place with a good woman.

Movement in the aisle caught his attention.

His eyes settled on the flight attendant’s hemline as the lights in the cabin blinked off. She scurried back and forth comforting weary passengers, retrieving empty beverage containers, and delivering pillows and blankets throughout the cabin. He gave a sly smile as she shuttled to the makeshift kitchen. She’d be back.

Several sleepless hours later, Brad disembarked alone scanning the crowd for anyone who might be watching. He looped around the terminal making stops in the restroom and two gift shops. He circled back on himself four or five times until he was certain no one was following. He didn’t recognize either of Herman’s goons in the crowd and no one else in the terminal seemed interested in him. He dropped his overnight bag in front of a payphone. Keeping the arrangements secret was one of the few things Brad and Herman agreed on. Two years had passed and only Marcus, because of his position at the bank, knew how the scheme worked. Brad had added his own helper to make traveling easier, but he only knew that Brad slipped into
Italy
, went to the bank and slipped out again. He hoped Herman’s goons knew just as little.

He removed a small leather notebook from his bag, slipped some change into the phone and dialed. A husky voice answered.

“Cousin Vinny
?
” Brad asked.

“Si.”

“It’s Jean-Claude. Everything ready
?
” Brad asked.

“Si, everything’s fine.”

“Good. See you at the usual time.”

“Ciao.” Vincent hung up. He’d known for weeks that Jean-Claude was coming. The last-minute confirmation assured he’d be waiting.

Brad rushed to the rental counter, eager to get south of town and away from the traffic. He watched tourists tote heavy bags as they stopped to decipher signs. People waited in every available seat and lined the walls in the gate areas. Tourists milled shoulder to shoulder through the wide passageways. He admired the stylish French women as they rushed by, casually glancing at his physique, so powerful and manly compared to the puny Frenchmen they were accustomed to. He strutted down the center of the terminal invigorated by their admiration.

The woman behind the rental counter recognized him as he approached. She clicked rapidly on the keyboard, retrieving his reservation without asking his name. Natalie stood tall and slender behind her computer screen. Wisps of long dark hair gently fluttered in the air currents of the terminal as she hurried through her work.

“Bon Jour, Natalie. How’ve you been
?
”

“Fine, Mr. Foster.”

“I’ll be in the city Saturday. Can I buy you a glass of wine
?
”

“Not this time.” Natalie smiled, but spoke abruptly.

“How about dinner then
?
You could show me around the city.”

“My boyfriend is very jealous. He would not approve.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Natalie walked to the far wall and retrieved two keys.

“What can it hurt
?
It’s only one dinner.”

She avoided eye contact as long as possible. “There you go, Mr. Foster, your car is in stall
one twenty-seven
. Just sign here.”

She held the contract for him. He signed it and she handed him his copy and the keys. “Have a nice trip.”

“Thank you, Natalie.”

Brad hadn’t expected Natalie to agree, but he was compelled to try on every visit. He left the counter, rushed to his car, and drove aggressively through the city streets, darting and turning, choosing his path with the familiarity of a local. The engine shrieked as the car raced around a young girl in a slow moving sedan, leaving the last obstacle to the open countryside in the rearview mirror. Further and further from the city, the traffic thinned. He alternately slowed and raced ahead, allowing cars to pass and accelerating to watch if those that didn’t matched his pace. None of the other drivers seemed interested in him or where he was going.

He pushed the car ahead. He needed rest before the night’s work.

The hills approached and faded as he floated past endless waves of grapevines stretching for the sun. He did his best to focus on the road, but thirty hours without sleep, two of them staring at the painted lines, weighed down his eyelids. The engine slowed as his body relaxed at the controls. The wheel gently vibrated to the hum of the tires. His hazy view of the road flickered and faded to black. His head drooped forward until it nearly touched the small black steering wheel.

Tires churned over the gravel shoulder shaking Brad to life. His eyes widened at the scene ahead. His heart leaped in his chest, the rush of energy shocking every muscle to action. He wrenched the wheel left. A wooden fence flashed into view as the car swerved out of control. He jerked the wheel back. The car hopped and skipped, responding to the frantic gyrations of the steering wheel. Momentum hurled the car over the gritty surface, wheels scrambling to align themselves with the direction of the road which seemed to be ever-changing. He slammed the brakes to the floor, throwing the car into a final skid. Long streaks of warm black rubber swerved sideways to a stop. The car straddled the centerline facing the grassy field beyond the fence. Brad’s pulse thundered. He panted, cursing his carelessness, and thanking God for good luck and fast reflexes.

For the next thirty minutes he drove with a keen thankful-to-be-alive focus on the road. He rolled up a long driveway to a house screened from the road by thick groupings of evergreens. The dilapidated structure was dwarfed by trees that had grown up beside it and a large barn that stood at its back. The house itself was worthless if not for the secluded location. It was far from the nearest town and far enough from the road that Brad had to strain to watch for passing traffic. When he was satisfied no one had followed, he pulled open the wide doors and parked the rental alongside the garage’s permanent resident. He removed a canvas cover to reveal a boxy looking sedan, generously tarnished with dents and scratches. He draped the cover over the rental car, casting a cloud of fine powder into the air. Brad Foster and his sporty rental were about to disappear.

He hopped onto the cracked vinyl seat and turned over the ignition. The machine reluctantly groaned to life, spewing exhaust into the garage. Together with the powdery mist it created an atmosphere that was uninhabitable. Brad left the car to shake off its slumber and trailed through the house checking the doors and opening every window. The house was laden with even more chemicals than the garage, poisoning the air and coating the floorboards with powdery dust. The chemicals were harsh enough to repel any living thing, including Brad. The fumes assailed his eyes and nose as he opened window after window to let in breathable air.

 The house creaked and moaned with every step as he searched for anything out of place. There were no footprints in the powdery residue, not two-legged ones anyway. He pinched the long thin tails of the most recent trespassers and flung their tiny carcasses through an open window. Satisfied the upstairs was safe, he trotted downstairs and out to the garage where he killed the engine and then headed down to the cellar.

The loose dirt crunched as he made his way along the stone foundation toward the switch. A loud clack brought the buzz of electricity and light, exposing tools, scraps of building supplies and other relics piled throughout the small, damp room. A few turns and a click of another switch brought the ancient water pump to life filling the musty air with its rumbling, rattling labor.

Brad walked the narrow path between the piles of clutter and kneeled before an old trunk. Careful not to disturb the cobwebs and dust at its sides, he opened the lid and removed some old clothes. He placed them carefully on the path among the footprints he made with each walk to the water pump. It was the only part of the room that had been disturbed in the last thirty years and he wanted it to continue looking that way.

He lifted out the bottom of the trunk to reveal the dirt floor below and then scraped away the dirt until he struck plywood. Underneath the wood he found a metal surface with a shiny black dial. A proud grin crossed his lips as he marveled at his ingenuity. Buying the house was clever, but hiding everything so well was brilliant. Even if Herman found the house, the contents would be safe.

He removed the notebook from his bag, dialed the numbers and opened the lid to a large metal container buried beneath the cellar floor. The space was neatly packed with all the tools he’d need, including a black .45, which shimmered as he inspected it. He released the clip, checked its contents and slid it back in. He pulled the action back and let it slam forward. The mechanism moved stiffly, having never been fired. Its clip was always loaded when he stored it away. He checked the weapon every time he picked it up, knowing one day it would be the key to his survival.

He holstered the gun and placed it and three spare clips into his bag along with a smooth wallet he removed from the safe.

He stored his own wallet for the duration of his visit.

“Hello, Mr. Jean-Claude Verrier. Nice to see you again,” he said to himself as he neatly replaced the items in the trunk. He left the room looking exactly as it had for the last three decades and walked upstairs to prepare
for breakfast or lunch, he wasn’
t sure which.

Brad fumbled for the alarm clock and silenced it. A rush of cool afternoon air hit when he left the blanket and hurried to pull on his clothes. Still longing for the warm bed, he strapped the holster to his chest and donned a light jacket. The wallet on the nightstand held a shiny identification card with his picture. The name Jean-Claude Verrier was printed boldly along with the address of the rickety house. He pocketed the wallet. For the next day and a half, he would become Jean-Claude Verrier. He stuffed his travel bag inside a battered, oversized briefcase and headed across the back yard to the barn.

Inside, he gathered two heavy ropes that dangled from the rafters and heaved downward with all his weight. The ropes looped through two overhead pulleys and attached to a huge canvas. As it rose, it exposed the huge hole Brad had chain-sawed out of the rear wall. The two-by-six supports he’d added years earlier were now bending under the weight of the roof. There was ample clearance to taxi in and out, but the supports looked as if they’d give way soon.