“Suspected terrorists?”
I layered the batter into Kathleen’s brownie pan with a silicone spatula and swirled Addie’s name on top before placing the pan in the oven.
“Apartment owners, business managers, that sort of thing.” I closed the oven door and set the timer for forty minutes.
“What’s in the brownies?” she said.
I felt like saying marijuana, but Kathleen had warned me not to joke with these people. She was in the home stretch of the adoption process and I intended to do all I could to help her.
“You remember the actress, Katharine Hepburn?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“This is her recipe. I found it in an old issue of the Saturday Evening Post.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’d love to have it!”
“Then you shall.”
A home study is a series of meetings you have to go through as part of the approval process for adopting a child. Kathleen had provided all her personal documents, passed the criminal background check, made it through all the appointments and provided personal references. But at least one meeting is required to be in your home, and all who live there (Kathleen) or spend nights there (me) had to be in attendance.
Patty Feldson wasn’t here to do a “white glove” interview. She’d already made a positive determination about Kathleen’s ability to parent. All that remained was to see what sort of person the boyfriend was. She knew, for example, that I had a daughter of my own, who lived with my ex in Darnell, West Virginia. If she’d done any digging she also knew that while I’ve always been emotionally and financially supportive, I hadn’t spent as much father-daughter time with Kimberly as I should have.
Patty moved closer and locked her eyes on mine. Lowering her voice, she said, “There’s a big difference between being a father and a dad.”
Right, I thought. She’s done her research.
“I had to learn that lesson the hard way in my own life,” I said. “And this might sound funny, but Addie’s the one who inspired me to build bridges with Kimberly. We’re closer now than ever before.”
Patty nodded. We were both silent a moment, waiting to see who would speak first. In case you’re keeping score, she did.
“Addie has become a special needs child,” Patty said. “She’s been traumatized physically and mentally and she’s going to need a lot of nurturing.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so, Mr. Creed, because it’s going to put a lot of stress on your relationship with Kathleen. Have you thought about your role in all this—I mean, really thought about it?”
Addie was an amazing kid. Funny, affectionate, brave....Over the past few months she’d become special to both of us. Special wasn’t the right word, she was more than that. Addie had become essential to our lives.
“I love Addie,” I said.
She nodded and paused a few seconds. “I felt you must, Mr. Creed. What you’ve done for her and Kathleen speaks volumes.”
Patty knew I’d recently given Kathleen a million dollars and put another ten million into a trust for Addie. What she didn’t know is that I’d stolen all that money and more, from a West Coast crime boss named Joe DeMeo.
After witnessing another hour of unparalleled domestic harmony, Patty Feldson gathered Addie, the recipe, and half a pan of brownies.
“You’re a shoo-in!” she gushed to Kathleen.
“I’ll see you again tomorrow, darling,” Kathleen said to Addie. Addie swallowed before speaking, to lubricate her throat. We had grown accustomed to the procedure, the result of her vocal chords being permanently damaged by the fi re that nearly took her life.
“At the hospital?” Addie finally said in her raspy, whisper of a voice.
“Uh huh.”
Another round of hugs was in order and then they were gone. I looked at the lovely creature that had defied all the odds and fallen for me.
“This might be the last time she’ll have to leave you,” I said.
Kathleen dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, Donovan.” She put her hand in mine and kissed me gently on the mouth. “For everything,” she added.
Life was good.
An hour later Victor called me on my cell phone. A quadriplegic little person on a ventilator, Victor’s metallic voice was singularly creepy.
“Mis…ter Creed…they took…the…money,” he said.
“The couple from Nashville?”
“Yes, Rob and…Trish.”
“Big surprise, right?”
“When you get…a chance I…would like you to... kill the… Peterson…sis…ters.”
I paused a minute, trying to place them. “They’re in Pennsylvania, right?”
“Yes, in…Camp…town.”
I assumed my best minstrel voice and said, “You mean De Camptown Ladies?”
Victor sighed. “Really…Mis…ter Creed.”
“Hey, show some appreciation! In France I’m considered a comedic genius.”
“You and…Jerry Lewis….So, will you…go to…Camptown and…kill the… Petersons?”
“Doo Dah!” I said.
Chapter 2
There are no racetracks in Camptown, Pennsylvania, population four hundred seventeen. Nor are there any bars. You want a drink, you head fourteen miles west to Towanda. Closest nightlife is Scranton, fifty miles away.
The little town became famous throughout the world in 1850 after Stephen Foster published his famous song, “De Camptown Races.” The horse race Foster immortalized started in Camptown, ended in Wyalusing, and yes, it was about “five miles long.”
By the time I got my rental car and hit the road I was so hungry I took a chance on a beef burrito at the Horse Head Grill in Factoryville. I should have known better. You want a burrito, go to El Paso, not Factoryville. My lunch tasted like something you’d ladle out of an outhouse pit and serve to the finalists on Survivor.
But I digress.
Camptown is located in Bradford County, where the most recent crime stats showed 248 burglaries, 39 assaults, 24 rapes and two murders. If all went well, the Peterson sisters would double the murder tally in time to make the six o’clock news.
Which I intended to watch.
On a TV.
In a bar.
In Scranton.
“Your destination is one hundred feet on the right,” said the sexy lady’s voice on my navigation system. She led me to a long, white-gravel driveway that I purposely overshot. After driving a couple hundred yards, I turned and approached from the opposite direction, checking for witnesses. Once comfortable with the general layout, I pulled my rental car into the driveway and followed it to the concrete pad where a green 1995 Toyota Corolla was parked.
The Petersons were living in a white double-wide trailer with a brown metal roof. To that they’d added a screened porch that overlooked about two acres of front yard that was few trees and mostly dirt. I parked, cut the power and sat, waiting for dogs. None showed, but I used the time to wonder what the hell I was doing. Years ago I’d been a government assassin for the CIA, and the people I killed had been a threat to national security. When I retired, I took a short break and then began killing terrorists for Homeland Security. But those jobs were infrequent, so I began killing people for mob boss Sal Bonadello on the side. Sal’s victims were always criminals and often murderers, so justifying their deaths hadn’t been a problem.
But at some point I drifted into doing free lance work for Victor, and the types of jobs he was giving me were becoming more and more questionable. This latest series of killings were the result of a proposal Victor had made to my boss at Homeland, to see how far everyday Americans could be trusted. For example, would a couple like Rob and Trish be willing to house a terrorist in return for a specific amount of cash?
The initial results said no.
But would they be willing to allow innocent people to die?
Still no? Hmm. Interesting.
How about anonymous, unpunished murderers?
I put a roll of sealing tape in one of my jacket pockets, and two syringes in the other. The Peterson sisters, like Rob and Trish and half-a-dozen others, had accepted “Rumplestilskin Loans” after being told that by taking the money, an unpunished murderer would die. In Victor’s mind, that made the recipients guilty of conspiracy to murder. Hence, accepting the cash, Rob and Trish were sentencing the Peterson sisters to death by execution. When Callie placed the next suitcase, Rob and Trish would have to die. It was, in all respects, a lethal experiment, and it would continue to be one until the day an applicant refused the money.
I exited the car and climbed the three pre-formed concrete steps in front of the Peterson trailer, thinking, I’ve come a long way from the guy who used to kill to preserve our nation’s freedom.
The Peterson sisters had a tempered glass front door that offered a partial view of the living room. When I knocked on it, the entire front of the trailer shook. Soon a young lady came to the door and peered at me through the glass.
“Elaine?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Donovan Creed, with Homeland Security. May I come in?” I showed her my badge. She had no reason to know that Homeland agents don’t carry badges.
A look of concern crossed her face as she slowly opened the door.
“What is this about, Mr. Creed?”
What, indeed? I wondered. Is this what I’ve been reduced to, a guy who kills civilian men and women who didn’t realize they’d become accessories to murder simply by accepting a sum of money they desperately needed? Was it really a fair experiment?
Elaine Peterson was an attractive, thirty-two year old brunette in the first stage of weight gain. She wore black sweat pants and an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt that probably belonged to her estranged husband, Grady.
“It would save time if I could talk to both of you,” I said. “Is Amber here?”
Not that Amber and Elaine were the most innocent people in town. They had used the bulk of their loan proceeds to buy drugs to resell to local high school kids.
Elaine started to turn her head toward the hallway but caught herself. “What’s this about?” she repeated firmly.
“Please,” I said. “Have a seat.” As she started to sit I bolted past her and raced down the hall. She managed to get off a loud scream, but by then I’d opened the master bedroom door and caught the very large Amber cocking a pistol. I lunged at her and managed to knock her off balance. As she struggled to keep from falling, I snatched the gun from her hand and spun around just in time to avoid Elaine’s flying fists. Elaine was too small to hurt me, but I smacked her in the nose anyway, in order to concentrate on Amber. I heard Elaine fall to the floor and figured that was a good place for her to stay while I dealt with her sister.
“What the fuck do you want?” Amber shouted, trying to make her voice bigger than it was.
She was handy, an accomplished bar brawler. At five-ten, two hundred forty pounds, she had some power. But her money punch was thrown in haste, before she’d got her feet under her. I jumped out of the way, set my feet and launched a hard back fist that caught her squarely on the temple. Amber shuddered a moment, then crashed to the floor. Moments later I had both girls face down on the master bedroom floor with their hands taped behind their backs. I rolled them over with my foot and taped their mouths shut.
Then I had a heart attack.
Chapter 3
“There are two types of chest pain to worry about,” Dr. Webber said.
“Hang on a second, Doc,” I said. “I’m putting you on speaker.”
I pressed the button on my cell phone and forced myself to a standing position.
“Okay, go ahead,” I said.
“You sound terrible.”
I felt terrible. Moments earlier I’d crashed to the floor clutching my chest. Amber took that opportunity to flip and flop her enormous body, attempting to cross the floor and crush me like a beached whale flattens a sand castle. Luckily, the crushing pain had already begun to subside, but I was still weak and hurting, and it was a question of multi-task or face lethal consequences. I rolled out of her path while removing the syringe from my pocket. I flicked off the protective plastic and hurled myself toward the fat girl. I had to stretch to reach her, but I made the effort and managed to jab her neck. I don’t know if I had the strength to push in the plunger at that moment, but I didn’t have the angle. Either way, it’s a moot point, because Amber shook her head violently, and the hypodermic dislodged and skittered across the floor.
She tried to make the adjustment to flip-flop back to me, but I climbed on her back and rode her like the wild hog she was. Elaine flailed away, attempting to help her sister, but only succeeded in kicking the syringe back to me. I picked it up and pushed it into Amber’s neck and drove the liquid home.
Then I speed-dialed Darwin, my government facilitator, and asked him to get me a Homeland Security doctor. When Dr. Webber answered, I placed him on speaker phone.
Which brings us back into the moment.
“What are you doing right now?” Dr. Webber said, as Elaine shrieked in the background.
“Just tying up a few loose ends,” I said.
I took the second syringe from my pocket and slammed it into Amber’s sister. She stopped in mid-scream.
I immediately felt a stab of my own, in the center of my chest. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Now, what was that about the two kinds of pain?”
“Okay, well there’s the squeezing kind that feels like you’re squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Except that your heart is the toothpaste.”
I staggered, but remained on my feet. I propped myself against the nearest wall to keep from falling. I still had to wipe down the scene before trying for my car.
The doc continued. “The second kind is like an elephant standing on your chest.”
“Bingo.”
“Okay,” he said, “Don’t panic. It’s important that you lie still. Is anyone with you?”
I looked at the two bodies on the floor. “Only in spirit,” I said.
“Okay, that’s not so good. Do you have any aspirin? If you do, take one. But first, give me your location and I’ll send an ambulance.”
“I can’t do that,” I said.
I ended the call and put my hand in my pocket to feel my lucky silver dollar, the one my grandfather gave me when I was a kid.
“Don’t fail me now,” I said to the coin.
I called Darwin back and told him to send a chopper two miles northeast of Camptown, on 706. “And send someone to take my rental car back to Scranton.”
“This isn’t Sensory business. You’ll have to reimburse the expenses.”
“Of course.”
Sensory Resources is the division of Homeland Security for which I work.
I paused.
“What else?” he said.
“Better send a couple of extra guys. I need them to clean a crime scene for me.” I gave him the details.