Thirty-eight
Sheriff Gene Packerson returned to the substation to
find a message from Orville Kahl requesting that he visit the estate at
his earliest opportunity. A few hours sleep would have to take priority,
and he'd have to postpone the coroner’s briefing on the autopsy of the
freshly uncovered remains of Jake Matthew.
He went home to an empty house. He lay in bed and
listened to the silence. The old house was filled to the brim with
memories and ghosts. At odd times on the edge of sleep, he imagined his
wife asleep at his side. Life goes on long after the joy of living is
gone, went the lyrics to song long burned into his memory, title
forgotten. Without the chiming voices of his two boisterous daughters to
assure him that all was well with the world, he never rested well.
He'd rose after drifting in and out of sleep for
three hours. He'd do his visit with Kahl and try to sleep again later.
Hopefully, a fact-gathering mission would give him an edge over the
outsiders from the state capitol threatening to ride ship-shod over the
department.
He pulled up to the main gate of the Kahl estate just
before dusk. He held his ID before the camera lens and eyed the double
fence stretching off in both directions. If Kahl charged the wire in
between, as Gene suspected was the case, he was flaunting state law with a
dangerous level of impunity.
"Proceed, Sheriff Packerson," a grating voice sounded
from the speaker. "Mr. Kahl is expecting you."
The automated gate swung open. Gene drove slowly to
the house. Automatic rifles slung upside down on the shoulders of the
guards in front of the house alerted him to a federal violation or two to
boot.
What was Kahl protecting with security measures so
stringent? Little about Orville Kahl made clear sense. Gene suspected he
served as a front for shady Asian Rim interests. Someone wanted very
badly for the new microprocessor facility to be built in Spruce Valley.
Gene knew of local commissioners and at least one state representative who
had been either bribed or intimidated into clearing the path for
construction slated to begin within the year. He had no doubt that Kahl's
influence extended to federal levels as well. At one time, Spruce Valley had been
sheltered public land.
A white-coated servant met him at the door,
introduced himself as Silverstone, and escorted him to the one room he had
hoped to see during his first visit to the mansion. The incredible
picture window held his attention from the moment he entered the den. He
strolled directly across the cavernous room and paced from one end to the
other, entranced by the picturesque view of the valley glowing in the dusk
light.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.
Orville Kahl and an Asian girl entered the room. Gene remembered hearing
mention of her name. Kiki. Both individuals were slender, Kiki just
under five feet in high, Orville a giant in comparison, but still six
inches shorter than himself. The two were a study in contrast. Orville
was pale with wispy platinum hair and dull, lifeless eyes. Kiki had a
darker skin tone with pitch black eyes and blue-tinged hair to match cut
Cleopatra-style across the eyebrows.
Orville Kahl's lifestyle didn't seem to be suiting
Kiki. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles. No amount of make-up was
going to hide the bruise on the side of her face. Kahl dismissed the
young woman. She turned away like an automaton, taking no interest in the
newcomer.
Orville Kahl sidestepped to block his approach.
"Sheriff," he said mildly. "How nice of you to accommodate me."
"Kiki's not looking well," Gene said.
"She has a health problem."
Kahl's tone of voice was a warning.
Gene ignored it.
"I take it that explains why Jacqueline was living in
town at the time of her disappearance."
"Jackie was becoming a difficult child," Kahl said.
"I thought the public schools would teach her how to get along with
children her own age. I had no way of knowing she was in any danger."
It was hard to imagine Orville Kahl raising a child
in the fortress-like mansion. He couldn't imagine Kahl genuinely taking
an interest in a child of Jackie's age. It was hard to imagine Kahl
fathering a child at all.
"So, Sheriff. I hear that your department has been
overrun by outsiders. I'm surprised you let it happen."
"It wasn't something I let happen," Gene said. "I
haven't been able to get a handle on any of the disappearances. I don't
think our outsiders will either."
"We both know who the murderer is," Orville Kahl said
bluntly. "You've let yourself be blinded by old loyalties."
"I've seen no convincing evidence that any murders at
all have been committed," he countered.
"Roy Rockingham was murdered,” Kahl said with a
challenging glare. “Do you think me responsible for that? I hear that
two of your deputies, personal enemies of John Hartman, are among the
missing. And I certainly hope that finding my daughter's clothing in John
Hartman's trash qualified as evidence of foul play."
"Rockingham’s death is a matter for the state to
investigate. Ben and Jim may have left the area for personal reasons.
Your daughter's clothing is proof that she wasn't wearing that particular
outfit at the time of its discovery. Is there anything else you’d like to
run past me?”
"I'm sure you've considered every possibility.”
"I have."
"I may have evidence that will narrow those
possibilities considerably and put you back on track, Sheriff. Would you
like to see?"
Gene gave a suspicious nod. "I'd be more than
willing to have a look."
Kahl swing briskly away. "I won't take too much of
your time, Sheriff. I have a short video to show you. Following that, I
have visitors qualified to answer any questions you may have.”
Gene followed Kahl to a television monitor set in a
wall. Kahl fed a tape to a VCR. When Roy Rockingham appeared on the
screen, Gene sidestepped to a couch and took a seat. The camera view was
an elevated one. He looked around the circumference of the ceiling and
took note of more than one close-circuit camera in the room.
Onscreen, Orville Kahl greeted Roy. "Mr.
Rockingham, I'm glad you could accommodate me. Would you like a drink?"
Gene listened intently as Kahl expertly guided the
gorilla of a man to the subject of his choice. "I hear that you and I
have something in common, Mr. Rockingham. Can I call you Roy?"
Roy looked uncomfortable. "Yes, sir."
"You're aware that my ten-year-old daughter,
Jacqueline, is missing."
Roy Rockingham didn't have the intellectual resources
to anticipate where the conversation would lead. Gene wondered how much
better he'd fare.
"You were an infantryman in the Marine Corps
during Desert Storm, my people tell me. You never saw much action. John
Hartman has a military background as well. It goes further back than your
own, and involves another branch of the Armed Forces, the Army to be
specific. I hear that John Hartman was a highly trained Special Forces
Ranger. Like yourself, though, he saw no actual combat during his six
years of service.
"He must have wanted to though. After he was
discharged, he was recruited by an European-based international
organization putting together so-called antiterrorist strike teams
financed by the Israelis."
Gene looked at Kahl in surprise.
"Information John Hartman failed to share with you,
perhaps?”
The information wasn't entirely new to him. The fact
that Kahl had researched John so thoroughly puzzled him.
Kahl drew closer to the trucker on the television
screen. "One well documented mission involving Mr. Hartman's team
caught my attention. A suspected terrorist, never formally charged with
any crime, was murdered along with his young wife and sixteen-year-old
daughter. It was an especially heinous crime. They were all tortured to
death. The women, of course, were repeatedly raped before their deaths.
John Hartman was part of that operation. He may well have been personally
on hand. He may even have participated."
Gene Packerson rose to his feet. That was certainly
something that John had never mentioned. Kahl paused the image.
"Do you have proof of any of this?"
Gene said.
"Two of John Hartman's former associates arrived
yesterday.”
"They're here? Now?"
“Yes, they are here now.”
Kahl started the tape again.
"Oh, and by the way, the Arab wife and daughter
that John killed were mutilated with combat knives. John and his friends
bet on which of the victims could be kept alive for the longest period of
time. The daughter won."
Roy Rockingham swept a whiskey bottle from the bar.
Glass shattered across the gleaming marble tile. Gene watched Orville
Kahl place a nine millimeter pistol and a clip of ammunition on the bar.
A few minutes later, he watched Roy Rockingham stuff the weapon into his
belt.
"Then you did put him up to it," Gene said.
"You can't have a copy of the tape without a warrant,
Sheriff."
"I can get a warrant, Mr. Kahl.”
"I have many tapes you would have to search through.
You may find a tape of your two favorite deputies providing evidence of
criminal activity within your own department."
"You have your bases covered, then."
"Desperate situations called for desperate measures.”
Kahl reached out and clicked his fingers. The
servant Silverstone stationed just outside the room escorted in two cold,
hard-looking men. They had John's eyes.
"Sheriff, allow me to introduce Neal Blackburn and
Lucas Chambers. Both men were part of the assassination raid I described
to Roy Rockingham. Both will testify that John Hartman participated.”
Neal Blackburn was slim and athletic with slicked
back hair. Gene pegged him as mixed Asian and Caucasian. Lucas Chambers
was Nordic, massively built with long, platinum blonde hair and colorless
eyes like clear ice.
"The trouble I invested locating and hiring these men
is an indication of how dangerous I consider John Hartman to be," Kahl
said. "Stopping him will take men of Mr. Blackburn or Chambers' prowess.”
"Is what I heard on the tape true?"
Gene asked
of the two.
"Hartman's not a team player," Blackburn said, his
voice smooth and soft. "He turned on his own men. Four never made it
back alive. Hartman's behavior put a contract on our heads. Whether he
gets himself killed, or jailed, we'll at least have ours lifted. We're
here for no other reason."
"A contract. A contract for how much?"
"Sir, one quarter million dollars per head."
"You've been fooled by a psychopath, Sheriff," Kahl
suggested.
Gene had no use for Kahl's dubious leap of faith, but
his aging heart was hammering dangerously. "We'll see."
"If not John Hartman, then who?” Kahl said. “The
public loves a mystery, Sheriff, but a man with John's history is all to
capable of disposing of a body without leaving behind a trace. You can
see for yourself that you've misjudged your friend."
On the surface, it seemed that he had no choice but
to agree.
"I have important financial consultations in
progress," Kahl continued. "I don't want these murders to garner any more
detrimental attention than they already have. Either be a part of the
solution, Sheriff, or you become a part of the problem. Your career is
already in jeopardy because of your failure to act. Your department is
under attack and you have done no way to defend yourself. John Hartman is
as much an inconvenience to you as he is to me."
"Inconvenience," Gene said. "Was it inconvenient to
loose a daughter?"
"How I handle my grief over the loss of my daughter,
or express it, is nobody's concern. Likewise, how you handle the
destruction of your own career is entirely yours. Clearly, you're not
going to cooperate with me as forthright as did Mr. Rockingham, but I want
you to give some thought to handling this case more aggressively. I've
seen you in action in the past, Sheriff. You're a man to be reckoned
with, and you're in a better position than most to end this circus quietly
and peacefully."
"And if I fail?" Gene said, reluctant to bow to the
pressure. "Do I go off a cliff into the Pacific ocean?"
"Cooperate with me and I will do everything in my
power to assure your victory in the next election. Fight me and you'll
spend your retirement as a minimum wage rent-a-cop. Without benefits."
